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RHAEGAR

Rhaegar stood above the broken, bloody form of Robert Baratheon, his distant cousin now a lifeless heap upon the trampled earth. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, steel, and death, yet it was not lost on the prince that if not for Arthur Dayne's insistence—his old friend urging to ride alongside him to the Trident—this rebellion might have seen a different end.

Had it not been Arthur's blade that struck from behind, a cowardly blow to the back of Robert's head, it might have been Rhaegar's own chest shattered beneath his cousin's fury. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine, one that lingered even amid the heat of battle. Rhaegar knew well the dishonor of such an act—Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, reduced to such treachery to protect him. But he could not bring himself to condemn his friend; not when he knew, deep down, that Arthur's desperation had saved him from the crushing might of Robert's warhammer.

Yet as Rhaegar watched the life drain from Robert's eyes, the thrill of survival gave way to something colder, darker. He had once thought that victory would bring him peace. Now, it only left him wondering what honor they had sacrificed to claim it.

He had contested Arthur leaving the Tower of Joy fiercely—how could he not? To pull Arthur away from guarding his two children, Rhaenys and Aegon, was a risk he could scarcely bear. But Dayne had sworn upon Dawn that Gerold Hightower's blade would be defense enough.

And so, reluctantly, Rhaegar had let him ride, watching as Arthur's white cloak billowed like the wings of some great, pale star. Now, with the heir of Storm's End blood staining the riverbanks, the prince could not shake the dread that gnawed at his heart.

His thoughts turned to his children—two dragons, both young and vulnerable. He had entrusted their care to Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Gerold Hightower, the only men he could rely upon in a world that had turned to madness. Varys, that slippery spider, whom he distrusted with every fiber of his being, was the one who orchestrated their swift escape from King's Landing. The decision to trust Varys gnawed at him even now. The walls had been closing in, and his father's madness threatened to engulf them all in dragonfire. Aerys would have burned the city to cinders, children and all, rather than let his enemies take them. His children could not be left to Aerys' whims, and so, under the cover of darkness, they were sent away, to the Tower of Joy, where they would be watched by those Rhaegar could trust most.

Rhaegar's thoughts turned to Elia, the mother of his children. His heart still ached for her, though he could not deny the truth: he had never truly loved her. She had been a duty, a political match forged from necessity, not desire. But in the cold, echoing halls of King's Landing, he had learned something unexpected—what it meant to care for and protect someone who was utterly defenseless.

Elia had always been a target for Aerys' cruel japes. The Mad King took perverse delight in tormenting her, even going so far as to fondle her in front of the court while staring mockingly at Rhaegar, daring him to respond. Elia would remain mute in those moments, her dark eyes defiant, refusing to let a single tear escape. She bore her humiliation in silence, her pride unbroken. She would not give Aerys the satisfaction of seeing her weep.

But in the end, it had not been Aerys' madness that claimed her life—it was the birth of their second child, Aegon. Elia's frail health had never fully recovered after Rhaenys, and Aegon's birth had been too much for her to bear. She had withered in her bed, her breaths shallow and labored, slipping away before Rhaegar's eyes.

Aerys, ever the sadist, had weaponized her death against Rhaegar, taunting him at every opportunity. "She died bringing your wretched son into the world," he would cackle, his voice rising to a fevered pitch, eyes gleaming with madness. "The wife you could not love, taken by the child you did not want." He had never loved Elia in the way a husband should, and her death was a wound that, in truth, had bled more for duty lost than for love. But Aerys, in his twisted, fevered ramblings, was wrong about one thing: Rhaegar had wanted Aegon. His son was no mere accident of duty; Aegon was the continued fulfillment of the prophecy that haunted his ancestral history. The Dragon must have three-heads.

But love had never been his to claim. And now, as he stood on the edge of Trident, with war tearing the realm apart and his children hidden away in some distant tower, he could not help but wonder if he had ever truly known what it meant to love at all.

The embers of war had been kindled long before Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark called their banners. The roots of this conflict lay in the death of Elia, and the cruelty of his father's demand that Rhaegar take another wife. Rhaegar had no desire for marriage, not so suddenly. But as the Crown Prince, he knew he had no choice but to consider his options carefully. His mind turned to Lyanna Stark, the daughter of Rickard Stark, a woman whose name had come to his ears more often than he would have liked. Aerys' command to marry her had come as a shock, but Rhaegar knew the politics behind it. His father had been playing a dangerous game, one Rhaegar had not fully understood until it was too late.

Lyanna Stark. He had seen her once, at the Tourney of Harrenhal, though he had not conversed with her at the time. She had been but a girl then, barely a woman, but there was something about her that had stayed with him. Her beauty was undeniable, wild, untamed in a way that made her seem both alluring and dangerous. Her eyes were the color of blue stormclouds, and her hair was the color of earth after rain. She was no meek maiden to be wed off to some noble lord; she was a wolf, fierce and proud.

Rhaegar had briefly contemplated crowning the Stark maid as his Queen of Love and Beauty during the Tourney of Harrenhal, captivated by her wild spirit and striking beauty. But just as quickly, he crushed the thought, the weight of duty pressing heavy on his shoulders. His second cousin, Robert Baratheon, had been eyeing Lyanna Stark with a hunger that could not be mistaken for mere admiration. Rhaegar could see the desire simmering in Robert's gaze, the way he all but undressed her with his eyes, and the last thing Rhaegar needed was to stoke the fires of jealousy in that temperamental Storm's End lord.

Besides, Elia had been dead for only a few weeks, her death still fresh in the minds of the realm. To even hint at a potential match between House Targaryen and House Stark so soon would ignite a blaze of scandalous whispers. The realm was a powder keg, with every whisper carrying the threat of rebellion, and Rhaegar could not afford to fan the flames. No, he would not make a spectacle of himself or tarnish Elia's memory.

And so, with a steady hand, he placed the crown of blue winter roses upon his mother's brow, declaring her his Queen of Love and Beauty. It was a safe, respectable choice—one that would not stir the viper's nest of courtly intrigue. But as the applause filled the air, Rhaegar could not shake the image of Lyanna's defiant gaze, nor the way Robert's eyes lingered on her. For a moment, he wondered what might have been if he had dared to defy both propriety and his own cautious nature. But that path, he knew, would lead only to chaos.

Unfortunately, Aerys had other plans. His mind, already twisted with paranoia, had witnessed Rickard Stark speaking with Lord Tywin and Lord Hoster Tully at the tourney. To his deluded eyes, it was the beginning of treason. It was no secret that Rickard Stark had been strengthening his alliances across Westeros. His eldest son, Brandon, was set to wed Catelyn Tully, and Eddard Stark had earned the loyalty of many lords in the Vale. But the possibility of an alliance between his two greatest enemies, Tywin Lannister and Rickard Stark, was a weight Aerys' fragile mind could not bear.

After returning to King's Landing, Aerys summoned Rhaegar to his chambers. The King, in his madness, wasted no time before unleashing his fury, shrieking accusations of betrayal. Rhaegar knew from experience that nothing good could come of this confrontation, but the next words that had slipped from his father's lips sent a chill through him: "Traitors! All of them!" Aerys screeched, his voice thin with paranoia, as he raved about the Starks and their supposed plots. "The North never wanted to bend to the Dragon, never wanted to kneel. I will show them who rules this realm." He looked at Rhaegar then, his eyes wild with delusion. "And you—my son—you will help me bring them to heel. Take what is theirs, and they will bow to me. Take away Rickard's daughter, and the Starks will learn their place."

Rhaegar recoiled, knowing that the King's madness would not stop at words. The consequences of his father's decree would be dire—nothing less than a devastating spark that would ignite the flames of rebellion across the realm. For news of Robert Baratheon's betrothal to Lyanna Stark was quickly spreading through the Seven Kingdoms. Details of the betrothal had been ironed out during the later stages of the tourney at Harrenhal. It was there, amidst the feasts and jousts, that Robert had publicly declared his intentions, his deep voice booming across the ruined castle walls, and his bold, unashamed desire to claim Lyanna's hand before all who would listen.

The cold calculation behind the Mad King's decree sent a chill through Rhaegar's heart. This was not born of madness alone. No, someone had whispered this in his ear. Perhaps Varys, that slippery spider, or the Hand of the King, Merryweather, whose ambitions had always run deeper than his loyalty to the crown. Whoever it was, Rhaegar could not say, but the idea had taken root, and now it was a scheme that was already set in motion.

It was a clever ploy—one born out of madness, but of a cunning madness that Rhaegar could not deny. But it was madness nonetheless. Rhaegar had to make a choice. Would he bow to his father's will and marry Lyanna Stark, or would he defy him, even if it meant losing his head? The weight of the crown, the legacy of House Targaryen, and the lives of his children hung in the balance. As the embers of war continued to smolder, Rhaegar knew one thing: the true cost of his kingdom had yet to be revealed.

The bethroed between Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen would crush any potential whispers of rebellion that had swirled around. Whispers had circulated through the Seven Kingdoms for years, ever since King Aerys II had begun his slow descent into madness. The Mad King had grown paranoid, seeing traitors in every corner, and the name that reached his ears most often had been that of Rickard Stark.

Ravens flew across Westeros, carrying the news: Rhaegar Targaryen was to be betrothed to Lyanna Stark, severing the young wolf maid's promised match to Robert Baratheon. Rhaegar knew his cousin Robert well; he was a tempest of fury and passion, more likely to charge headlong into battle than to bend the knee. Yet, to Rhaegar's surprise, Robert did not march on King's Landing. Instead, it was the Starks who came: Brandon, the wild and impetuous heir to Winterfell, and his father, Lord Rickard, who arrived before the Iron Throne with fury and desperation in their eyes.

Rhaegar had been present that day, standing to the right of his father, the Mad King, who lounged atop the Iron Throne like a vulture perched over its meal. Brandon Stark was trembling with barely contained rage, while Rickard's gaze was wary and weary, as if he already knew the fate that awaited them. Brandon had not come to make polite petitions; no, he had come to demand that the marriage pact with the crown be broken. "Lyanna will be no hostage," he shouted, his voice echoing through the hall. "She is no pawn for your games, Aerys."

Aerys' response was a thin, twisted smile, his lips curling in wicked delight as he leaned forward. "So you admit the Starks were plotting to overthrow me?" the king's voice a dry hiss. "Swear your fealty, Stark, and I might show mercy." But mercy was not a word that existed in Aerys' lexicon, and Rhaegar could see it in the gleam of his father's eyes that their fates were already sealed. He watched with dread as the scene unfolded, unable to stop the madness that his father had wrought.

"All of the kingdoms have heard how you tortured Elia Martell with your court games, Aerys. I will not allow my sister to fall into the same fate!" Brandon Stark's voice rang out with fury, his words were as sharp as the steel he drew. Never one to cower, he unsheathed his sword in a flash, the cold steel gleaming in the torchlight. His hands trembled, but it was not fear—only rage, a burning, white-hot rage that consumed him. His eyes never left the Mad King, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

Aerys' gaze flicked over Brandon, amusement dancing in his maddened eyes. "So, the wolf bares his fangs, does he?" Aerys had sneered. "Do you truly think your little blade will change anything, Stark?"

But Brandon did not flinch, his fury only deepening. He would never let his sister fall victim to the twisted whims of the king who had already ruined so many lives. This was no longer about politics. This was about family. And there would be no turning back.

"Bring forth your champion!" the Stark heir bellowed, his voice cracking like thunder. "I will fight any of the King's guards for my sister's freedom!"

Rhaegar's heart sank at those words. Fool, he thought, his stomach tightened with dread. There was only one true champion of Aerys Targaryen, and it was not some knight. His father's thin, spidery fingers drummed eagerly on the jagged arm of the Iron Throne as he issued his command. "Seize him," Aerys said, the words dripped with sick delight.

What had come next was a horror beyond imagining.

Brandon was bound in chains, dragged before the court like a dog, and then suspended above a pit filled with green wildfire. The bitter stench of the noxious substance filled the air, causing the courtiers to cover their noses and avert their eyes. Rhaegar stood frozen, horror coursing through his veins like ice. Rickard Stark tried to reason with the king, to beg for his son's life. He threw himself to the ground, groveling in front of the Iron Throne like a common beggar. But it was already too late.

"Mercy?" Aerys cackled, his laughter was like the scraping of iron on stone. "You shall have your mercy, Stark. If you can simply touch your son as he is lowered into the flames, you both may go free."

The Gold Cloaks forced a noose around Lord Rickard's neck, binding him in place. He was positioned a calculated distance away, just out of reach of his son, who was slowly being lowered into the wildfire pit. The rules of this perverse game were simple and one Rhaegar knew very well: if Rickard could touch any part of Brandon's body before the wildfire consumed him, they would be spared. But it was a lie, a cruel jest from a madman. The noose was designed to tighten the more Rickard struggled, a twisted trick devised to turn the lord's desperation into his death sentence.

Rhaegar watched in silent horror as Lord Rickard strained against the rope, his hands clawing, his face turning crimson as he choked. Brandon screamed as the wildfire began to lick at his legs, his cries turning into a hellish symphony that filled the throne room with echoes of agony. It was the sound of madness, the sound of a family being torn apart in the name of a mad king's delusions.

Rickard's eyes bulged as the noose tightened, and with a sickening crack, the Lord of Winterfell was dead. Brandon's screams became shrieks, and then silence, as the wildfire devoured him, turning his flesh to charred bone.

The stench of burning flesh hung heavy in the air as Aerys laughed, clapping his hands like a gleeful child who had just witnessed a jester's trick. The courtiers stood in stunned silence, some retching on the stone floor, others turning away in disgust, few whispering to themselves as if trying to convince their minds that what they had just witnessed was some twisted nightmare.

But Rhaegar knew better. There would be no waking from this. The blood of the Starks had been spilled, and the Seven Kingdoms would drown in fire and blood because of it. As he looked upon the remains of Rickard and Brandon Stark, Rhaegar could feel the ground beneath him begin to crumble. This was not a single tragedy; it was the spark that would set the realm ablaze.

War was coming, and Rhaegar had known, deep in his heart, that he had already lost.

The throne room was thick with the stench of charred flesh and madness. Rhaegar stood there, frozen, the screams of Brandon Stark still ringing in his ears, the acidic taste of wildfire burning his throat. His father's laughter echoed like the shrill cries of some demonic bird, filling the vaulted halls with a sound that would haunt Rhaegar's dreams. He had pleaded with his father, tried to reason with him as Brandon had been dragged into that pit of green flame, but it had been like speaking to stone. The Mad King had only smiled, the glee of a madman dancing in his eyes.

In that moment, Rhaegar knew it was over—knew that his father's descent into madness had gone beyond the point of no return. He had seen the seeds of this madness before, long ago, when his father had first begun his descent into paranoia, but even he had not thought Aerys would go so far as to kill a warden and his heir in broad daylight. This was a madness that could not be contained, a wildfire that would consume them all.

The farce of a trial was over, and the court stood in stunned silence, too afraid to move, too afraid to speak. Lord Merryweather, the king's Hand, who had repeatedly screamed "End this madness," as Rickard and Brandon were dragged to their cruel endings, was silent for some time, his eyes were glistened with fear. His voice finally cracked with the desperation of a man who knew he was already damned, echoing through the quiet throne room. "You're insane!" he had said quietly at first, his words trembling in the cold air. But then, the weight of it all broke him, and he screamed, "You're truly insane, Aerys!"

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, it seemed as if the entire throne room held its breath, waiting for the Mad King's response But Aerys' smile only widened, his eyes glowing with that sickly light as he leaned forward on the Iron Throne, the jagged swords cutting into his flesh. "Burn him," Aerys said, with the utmost glee in his voice. "Burn the traitor and let his burning flesh light the King's Road. Let his screams be the music of my city."

Lord Merryweather's shrieks echoed as the Gold Cloaks dragged him away, his voice shrill with horror. "You've doomed us all, you madman! The Starks will burn this city to the ground!" But Aerys only watched, pleased with his handiwork, already scheming who next he might throw to the flames.

By dusk, the Mad King had appointed Jon Connington as his new Hand—a decision Rhaegar knew was nothing more than a means to tighten the noose around his own neck. Connington was a fierce and loyal man, but he was no fool; Jon had been brought in to keep the crown prince in line, to ensure that Rhaegar would not waver in his father's quest for blood.

And so, the ravens flew again, this time carrying Aerys' mad proclamations to every corner of the realm. In his own hand, scrawled in wild, uneven letters, the king wrote:

I am the King.

I am the blood of the Dragon.

I demand the heads of all my enemies.

Brandon Stark has confessed to me his crimes. He and his Lord father were burned for their transgressions!

Bring me every Stark head.

Bring me Hoster Tully's head.

Bring me Robert Baratheon's head.

Bring me Jon Arryn's head.

And you will be rewarded with life.

Defy me, and I will burn you all.

Aerys 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.

Rhaegar had read the letter, the parchment trembling in his hands. His father's writing was barely legible, the script jagged and frantic, the scrawlings of a madman trapped within his own mind. It would have been pathetic if it were not so terrifying. Rhaegar did not know whether to laugh or cry as he held the letter. The realm was splitting in half, and his father was stoking the fires.

The ravens' flight brought war, and now, every inch of Westeros was stained with blood and ashes. Lords who had once sworn fealty to House Targaryen turned their banners, and Aerys, in his madness, responded by burning more and more of his subjects. Every day, the city reeked of charred flesh as another so-called traitor was sent to the flames, their screams mingling with the cries of crows that circled the Red Keep like omens of doom.

This madness had driven Rhaegar to the Trident, where he faced his second cousin Robert Baratheon in combat. The realm had been plunged into chaos for the whims of a madman, and Rhaegar found himself fighting a man he had once called kin for reasons he could no longer remember. What was he fighting for? His father's madness? The ashes of a crumbling empire?

Rhaegar had felt the weight of his armor pressing down on him, the crimson rubies on his chestplate glinting in the dimming sun. He had donned it not for glory, but to protect what little remained of his broken house. As he watched Robert charging toward him, his warhammer raised, Rhaegar had wondered if perhaps this would be his final act. Perhaps it was better this way—to die here, on this blood-soaked field, than to watch his father's madness destroy everything he had ever cared for.

He had won battles before, but he was not sure he had ever truly known victory. The echoes of his father's madness had made sure of that. The drums of war beat louder, and the shadow of the dragon loomed over them all.

The clashing of steel and the cries of dying men surrounded them, but for Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen, the battlefield had shrunk to the space between their clattering weapons. Their breaths came ragged, their eyes locked, and both knew what the other did: Rhaegar was losing.

The prince's elegant dance was no match for Robert's raw, unrelenting power. Every strike from that massive Warhammer drove Rhaegar back, the ground beneath his feet seeming to quake with each blow. It was no idle boast that Robert had the strength of a stag—no, he was the storm in human flesh, his hammer gleaming in the dimming light like the sun itself forged the weapon in molten bronze.

Rhaegar's arms ached, his breath was ragged, and with each swing, he knew he was moments from death. As Robert's hammer arced downward once more, aimed squarely for his chest, Rhaegar's defiance faltered. He had accepted it, then—his doom. There was no escaping the fury of Robert's rage. Closing his eyes, he had whispered his final pleas to the Seven: let Aegon and Rhaenys live peaceful lives, let his mad father's reign come to an end…

The world went dark. He had braced for the crushing blow, but instead of cold steel, he felt a warm spray upon his face. The sound that followed was not the crushing of his bones, but a wet, sickening squelch. Rhaegar's eyes flew open to find Robert Baratheon standing still before him, the light in those fiery blue eyes already dimming. And there, piercing through his skull, was a blade as pale as Robert's once shining eyes.

Dawn. The sword of legend. The sword of his friend.

Arthur Dayne stood behind the dying stag, his expression grim, untroubled by the dishonor of a blade driven through a man's face from behind. Robert's once-handsome features were now a ruin of blood and bone, the edge of Dawn protruding grotesquely between his eyes.

Rhaegar's heart twisted with a flood of emotions—relief, horror, shame. He had prayed for salvation, but this was no knightly triumph. It was a coward's kill, a betrayal of everything Arthur had once stood for. Yet Arthur's dark eyes met his, unflinching, and in them, Rhaegar saw a truth as cold and sharp as the blade itself: glory be damned, if it meant his prince could live another day.

But for what? Rhaegar wondered. What future had been bought with Robert's blood?

"Stand, Rhaegar! Rally the men, or we are lost!" Arthur's voice rang out, sharp and urgent, cutting through the haze that clouded the prince's mind. It took a hard shake from the Sword of the Morning to drag Rhaegar from the horror of what had just transpired, but at last, he found his feet. His legs trembled as though they might give way beneath him, but he forced them to hold.

The blood of Robert Baratheon clung to his face like a crimson mask, and with a shaking hand, he wiped it away, smearing it across his once-silver armor. His longsword lay discarded in the muck, its dark steel now mingled with mud and blood. Rhaegar retrieved it, feeling its weight settle in his grip. But the comfort that once came from holding his long-time blade was gone. The world around him was chaos—his men screaming, dying, driven back by the rebel forces surging at their flanks.

They were losing. He had known it from the moment their lines had first clashed, the rebel forces fighting with the desperation of men who had everything to gain. Rhaegar had gambled everything on this day. He thought that if he could fell Robert Baratheon, the rebellion would crumble, the men breaking without their leader to spur them on. Smash the head of the snake, and the body withers, his mad father had shrieked time and time again, perched upon that accursed Iron Throne like some twisted gargoyle. Aerys had taught his son little of worth, but this—this he had learned.

Yet now, as he stared into the blood-soaked morass, Rhaegar wondered if he had been a fool to think the death of one man could turn the tide of this war. The rebels fought like men possessed, and they were winning, driving his loyalists back step by bloody step.

"The line is failing, Rhaegar!" Arthur barked again, his voice harsh with urgency, his pale blade still gleaming wet with Robert's blood. "If we do not press them now, we will be surrounded!"

Rhaegar's voice was barely more than a whisper, swallowed by the clamor of steel and the screams of dying men. "We cannot break their line, Arthur," he said, his words faltering as he looked to the eastern flank where the knights of the Vale rode down his foot soldiers with ruthless precision. "The Stormlands cavalry... the Knights of the Vale... they are too strong." His voice wavered, thick with despair, and he wondered if his friend had even heard him through the din of battle.

Arthur's gaze did not waver, but Rhaegar saw the flicker of something behind his friend's calculating, violet eyes. Doubt, perhaps, or a reluctant acknowledgment that their doom was fast approaching. He had heard Rhaegar's words, and though he said nothing, his silence spoke volumes. Arthur Dayne was no fool. The tide of battle was shifting, their men faltering, their lines breaking like sand before the tide. The loyalist forces were on the brink of collapse, and they both knew it.

For a long moment, the two friends stood amid the chaos, the air thick with the cries of dying men, the clash of steel, and the scent of blood. At last, Arthur shook his head, as if trying to dismiss the grim reality that Rhaegar's whispered admission had revealed. But he did not argue, for there was nothing left to say. They were cornered, backs pressed against the edge of ruin, and honor was a luxury neither could afford.

"I know how we can win this, Arthur," Rhaegar said, his voice low, almost lost amid the cacophony of the battlefield. His tone was steady, but there was a darkness in his eyes, a desperation. "It won't be pretty, and the Gods will curse my name for it, but if it saves my family and stops my father from dragging this realm further into madness, then so be it."

Arthur's breath caught in his throat. The weight of those words hung heavy between them. "What would you have us do?" Arthur asked, though his eyes betrayed him.

Rhaegar's eyes burned with a cold resolve. "Robert's head," he said flatly, lifting his longsword ever so slightly, the dark steel catching the fading light. "I will take it. And I will raise it high for all the rebels to see. Let them know their great stag is dead. It might break them—shatter their will to fight."

Arthur's face paled, his lips pressed into a thin line. For all the battles they had fought together, all the blood they had spilled, this was different. To desecrate the body of a fallen warrior, to parade the head of Robert Baratheon like a prize—it was an act that would stain Rhaegar's soul. The Gods would not forgive it, and neither would men. The whispers of such dishonor would haunt him to his grave, casting a shadow over House Targaryen that might never lift.

Arthur swallowed, his jaw clenched tight. "This... this is no knightly act, Rhaegar," he said quietly, a plea hidden within his words. "The Seven, the old Gods—they will curse you for it."

Rhaegar's laughter was bitter, a hollow sound that held no mirth. "Let them," he said darkly. "What is honor to a corpse? What is honor to fatherless children? If I must be cursed, then let me be cursed, so long as my children get to see another day."

Arthur looked at his prince, the man he had followed into hell and back. There was no turning back now, not from this path. Rhaegar was willing to cast aside his honor, his very soul, if it meant securing a future free from his father's madness.

With a heavy sigh, Arthur nodded, though his eyes was heavy with the weight of it. "Very well," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. "But know this, Rhaegar... there is no undoing what you are about to do. Once you raise that head for all to see, you will have no honor. Not in the eyes of men, and not in the eyes of the Gods."

Rhaegar's gaze was distant, his expression hardened into something unrecognizable. "Honor is a luxury I can no longer afford," he said, and with that, he strode toward Robert's lifeless body, his sword glinting darkly in the dying sunlight.

Arthur only watched as Rhaegar Targaryen, the last sane dragon, began his descent into the darkness.

"Very well, my prince," he said, his voice a whisper amidst the battlefield. "I will ride with you into the storm, and I shall be your shield in the darkness." Rhaegar nodded, a silent gratitude passing between them that needed no words. Arthur, ever loyal, would not abandon him—not now, not when the end seemed so near.

A scream pierced the chaos, a Northern soldier charging at them with a wild battle cry, "The North remembers!" But Arthur's blade was swifter than the man's cry. Dawn cut through the air in a gleaming arc, and the rider fell, lifeless, before he could bring his sword down. Without missing a beat, Arthur took the fallen man's horse, mounting it with the grace and ease of a Dornishman.

What followed was a blur, a nightmare that would haunt Rhaegar's dreams for as long as he drew breath. Robert Baratheon's body lay heavy and still, his once-mighty form brought low. Rhaegar approached, the steel of his longsword held high, shimmering darkly in the fading light. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat echoing like a death knell. One swift swing, clean and precise, severed the head of the fallen stag. The sound of it was sickening, but it was drowned beneath the screams of men and the clash of arms. Rhaegar could not allow himself to feel anything—not regret, not guilt—only the cold, pitiless resolve to end this rebellion.

Blood dripped from the severed head, staining the ground beneath him, but there was no time to dwell on the horror of it. Rhaegar and Arthur turned their horses, spurring them forward through the chaos. They rode as if death itself pursued them, the severed head of Robert Baratheon dangling from the saddlebag of the black destrier, a macabre trophy meant to break the spirit of the rebels. Vale knights, Rivermen, and Northerners alike tried to cut them down, their blades and axes flashing in the fire-lit haze, but none could withstand the fury of Arthur Dayne and the Dragon Prince.

Dawn and Rhaegar's longsword became twin reapers, each swing cutting down men who dared block their path. The loyalist forces were scattered, breaking before the tide of the rebellion, but for a moment, amidst the chaos, Rhaegar and Arthur carved a bloody path to the heart of the battlefield.

They reached a clearing—a small, blood-soaked respite where the battle thinned. Rhaegar knew this was his chance, their last hope to break the rebel lines. He turned to Arthur, his voice raw with urgency. "Arthur, find me a horn. We end this, now."

Dawn flashed from its scabbard as Arthur dismounted his horse. He advanced, daring any man to stand against him. But none were so foolish; even in the chaos, the legend of the Sword of the Morning was enough to freeze men's hearts. With a single, savage look, Arthur drove back those who might have been bold enough to challenge him, threatening to cut down those foolish enough to try.

Arthur's eyes were sharp with purpose as he nodded to Rhaegar. "A horn, my prince. I'll find one," he promised, his voice firm. Without wasting another moment, he sprinted away, cutting through the chaotic throng. The air was thick with the scent of blood and the screams of dying men, as Rhaegar watched Arthur move with the grace of a twinkling star, singularly focused on his task.

The sword of the morning weaved through the muddied battlefield, dodging the wild swings of rebel swordsmen and the thrashing hooves of panicked horses. His cloak, once white, was now streaked with crimson and filth, yet it still marked him as a knight of the Kingsguard, enough to make even the most battle-hardened foes hesitate. Arthur did not slow to engage any of the rebellion forces, Rhaegar was thankful for this—every moment wasted was another loss for the loyalists.

Ahead, the remnants of the Targaryen and Martell forces were still locked in desperate combat, trying to hold the flank. Rhaegar's keen eyes scanned the chaos, seeing Arthur search for anything that could serve their purpose. At last, Arthur spotted it: a battered horn, slung over the shoulder of a fallen Tyrell bannerman. Arthur dove forward, grabbing the bloodied horn from the corpse's grip.

As he turned to race back to Rhaegar, a Northern axeman lunged at him, shouting, "For House Stark!" But Arthur's sword was quicker. Dawn flashed, and the man fell, lifeless, before he could land his blow. Arthur did not linger.

Clutching the horn, Arthur fought his way back toward the heart of the battlefield where Rhaegar awaited. Every second felt like an eternity, the weight of what they were about to do pressing heavily upon his shoulders. Rhaegar's command was clear, and he knew Arthur would not fail him now—not when they stood at the edge of oblivion.

Arthur arrived at Rhaegar's side, breathless, the battered horn in hand. Without a word, he lifted it to his lips. The sound that followed was deep and mournful, like the cry of a wounded dragon. The horn's bellow echoed across the battlefield, cutting through the screams and clashing steel. It was not a call to rally, but a final, desperate plea—a signal to the remnants of their scattered forces.

Rhaegar stood in the clearing, blood-slicked and weary, yet still defiant as the tide of battle surged around him. With Robert's severed head raised high, the prince's voice carried like a thunderclap over the cacophony of war.

"Your leader is dead!" Rhaegar roared, his voice cracking with the weight of desperation. Blood dripped from the grisly trophy in his hand, each drop a cruel punctuation to his words. "Lay down your arms, or be damned like the Stag!"

For a moment, there was silence. Then, like the crash of a wave upon a shore, the loyalists roared as one, a final surge of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. The rebels, disheartened and leaderless, began to waver, their will to fight draining away with every passing second.

Rhaegar did not lower Robert's head as the horn's wail faded into the distance. He kept it held high, his eyes burning with a fury that could have rivaled his father's madness. As the echoes of the horn lingered in the cold air, the battlefield shifted. Here and there, loyalist soldiers who had been on the verge of breaking now turned back to the fight, spurred on by the trophy presented by the crowned prince.

Arthur to his side, blood splattered across his white cloak, eyes dark with unspoken thoughts uttered "It is done, my prince," though there was no triumph in his voice. Only the heavy weight of what they had sacrificed to win this day.

Rhaegar merely nodded, his face a mask of exhaustion and hollow regret. He had preserved his family's fragile hold on the throne, for now, but at a cost that no horn or battlefield triumph could ever cleanse. The weight of what he had done would haunt him for the rest of his days, like a shadow he could never outrun.

As the echo of the horn's mournful cry faded, the battlefield around him was a twisted tapestry of blood and bodies. Rhaegar's eyes flickered over the gathered men—Northern rebels and Stormlanders alike. He could see the hunger in their eyes, the silent calculation behind their stares, as if he were a maiden to be claimed on their wedding night. These men could end this war right here, he thought bitterly. My head would be worth thousands of golden dragons if delivered to a Stark or Baratheon.

But Rhaegar Targaryen was not one to surrender so easily. He was the blood of the dragon, and even if his heart was heavy with doubt, his sword hand remained steady. They may fear Arthur, he thought, glancing at his steadfast friend who stood like a lion guarding its cub, completely uncontested. But they do not fear me. Or perhaps, their greed is stronger than any fear.

A ragged cry rose from the ranks of the rebel soldiers, and the first of them—a Stormlander with desperation in his eyes—charged forward, brandishing a pitifully dull sword. Rhaegar sidestepped the wild swing with fluid grace and drove his longsword through the man's chest, feeling the sickening crunch of ribs as the blade pierced his heart. The stormlander gasped, eyes widening in shock, before he crumpled at Rhaegar's feet.

No sooner had Rhaegar withdrawn his blood-slicked sword than another attacker, this one a grizzled Northman wielding a heavy axe, came barreling toward him, roaring about vengeance for Brandon Stark. The Northerner's swings were wild and undisciplined, fueled more by rage than skill. Rhaegar parried easily, the clash of steel ringing through the air, before a swift upward stroke disarmed the man. With a single, brutal downward strike, Rhaegar split the Northerner's head nearly in two, the blood spraying like mist in the cold air.

But they kept coming. Seeing the folly of attacking one by one, six more soldiers—men of the Riverlands, desperate and driven by the hope of glory—rushed together, their swords glinting in the dying light. They came at him and Arthur from all sides, swinging and screaming in a frenzy, hoping to overwhelm the dragon prince and his sworn shield with sheer numbers.

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed, his mind as sharp as the blade in his hand. Let them come, he thought, his resolve hardening. I am not done yet.

The Riverlanders charged, their swords raised, but they lacked the precision to strike down the prince. Rhaegar's every movement was fluid and deadly—sidestepping, slashing, cutting down one foe after another with ruthless efficiency. This is my everything, he thought grimly as the clang of steel filled the air, I cannot fail my children and the realm now.

With a decisive strike, he cleaved through the first man's defense, sending the soldier crashing to the earth in a heap. Another came from his right, but Rhaegar's longsword met the blow with such force that the Riverlander's weapon splintered, leaving him wide open for the final cut. A third attacked with a vicious downward swing, but Rhaegar's blade intercepted the blow with a parry that sent the soldier tumbling to the ground, his life snuffed out after Rhager plunged his sword into the heart of the now-beaten man.

Minutes passed in a blur—Rhaegar cutting, sidestepping, and slashing with all his strength. The clash of steel rang in his ears, each blow of his sword met with the satisfying thud of a man crumpling to the earth. His arms burned, but he did not stop. He could not stop. Fourteen bodies littered the ground around them before he even had time to catch his breath. Blood and bile soaked his armor, dripping from his brow like sweat. As the adrenaline ebbed away, he realized that the rest of the men—those who had been too hesitant to attack—were now fleeing, the fear of death settling into their bones.

Despite the carnage around them, Arthur had not broken a sweat—his movements as effortless as ever, having cleaved through several knights of the Vale without so much as a hitch in his stride. His white cloak was stained with blood, but there was no sign of the wear that Rhaegar felt in his bones.

"Robert Baratheon is dead. Lay down your swords and you may live to see another day," Rhaegar's voice once again rang out over the battlefield, though he knew the words were a bluff. He did not have the strength to slay the remaining rebellious forces—his men were scattered, broken, and their morale shattered. But still, he pressed on, hoping to sow doubt in the hearts of the rebels.

At first, there was only silence, a hesitant pause, but then—like the first stone of an avalanche—a few Stormlanders dropped their swords. And with that, Rhaegar knew the tide had turned. Slowly, surely, the floodgates opened. The Riverlanders and Knights of the Vale followed suit, their weapons clattering to the blood-soaked earth.

The Northerners, though, were different. They were the last to yield, their loyalty to their own more unshakable than any other. Rhaegar knew that they would not bow easily—not after everything his family had done to them. The Northern force had been a thorn in House Targaryen's side for several moons now, fighting more like savages than the experienced knights expected from a well-fielded Westerosi army. Their tactics were brutal, refined, and unpredictable—striking from the shadows, using the land itself as an ally. They were a reflection of the harshness of their homeland, where only the strong survived, and where the warmth of a fire could not always shield against the unforgiving cold. They fought not for glory, but for revenge, driven by an ancestral fury that Rhaegar could not fully understand. But without the support of the other forces, he could see their resolve faltering. Outnumbered three to one, the Northerners would be hard-pressed to hold their ground much longer.

"Bend the knee," Rhaegar called once more, his voice low but firm, "and all of your crimes will be forgiven. This is a new day in Westeros."

He nodded to Arthur Dayne, silently giving him permission to oversee the treatment of the prisoners after all soldiers eventually discarded their weapons. The Tarly commander, ever stoic, met his gaze, acknowledging their accomplishment on the battlefield today.

Rhaegar's eyes flicked back to the prisoners, where the remaining rebels stood, their hands shaking but their pride still intact.

"Lord Tarly, you will take whatever abled men you can and reinforce our vanguard," Rhaegar said, his voice hardening, as though each word was tempered in ice. "Their strength is spent, but we must make sure the battle is done. Take reinforcements from the reserves. The rebels will not rise again."

"What about our eastern flank, my prince? It's all been decimated," Lord Tarly inquired, his voice flat, betraying no emotion despite the bloodstains that marred his face.

"Once you crush the rebels' vanguard, Lord Tarly, I expect the eastern flank to turn their attention to your forces," Rhaegar replied with calculated precision. "You will have the field advantage at that point, and you will ride your cavalry to crush what remains of the eastern flank."

Lord Tarly simply nodded, understanding the cunning in the Crown Prince's battle strategy. This ploy could only work because we have won the western flank, Rhaegar thought, the strategy forming in his mind like a well-laid Cyvasse. He knew the key to victory was to trap the rebels, to corner them and sever their last line of retreat. The eastern flank was originally lost to the loyalists, but they had the momentum now—and that was all they needed.

With that, Lord Tarly spurred his horse and rode off to carry out his orders, leaving Rhaegar standing amidst the chaos, his mind already moving to the next phase of the battle. The storm was almost over. The rebels would break, and then, at last, peace would return—at a terrible cost.

Rhaegar turned his gaze back to the horizon, knowing that this day—though it had been won—would be remembered for the blood that had been spilled.

With the western flank now secured and under loyalist control, Rhaegar turned his attention to the vanguard of the rebellion, where the Stark and Tully banners still flew defiantly in the biting wind. The storm of battle had begun to slow, but the enemy forces remained a threat.

Rhaegar rode hard once more, the thunder of hooves pounding beneath him as he made his way past the vicious skirmishes that continued to rage along the front line. His mind was focused; he had already secured his victory on the western flank. Now, his eyes were set on the heart of the rebellion. He had to end it. Now.

The Stark and Tully tents loomed ahead of the ongoing fighting in the vanguard, and Rhaegar couldn't help but notice the strangely sparse guard around them. As he dismounted his horse and drew his sword, a cold suspicion crept into his mind. He moved swiftly, his cloak fluttering behind him as he neared the tents.

Slipping into the command tent, he found himself face-to-face with a surprised Hoster Tully, clad in his red and blue armor, and Lord Jon Arryn, his stern face creased in confusion. Both lords immediately unsheathed their swords, but Rhaegar's calm demeanor and the ease with which he held his own sword made it clear to them that they were outmatched.

"How did you pass our vanguard, Dragon spawn?" Hoster spat, his voice full of venom. His ancestral Valyrian steel was pointed directly at Rhaegar, but the prince wasn't intimidated. He could see the flicker of uncertainty in the older man's eyes. Both lords were nearing the end of their fighting primes—Rhaegar knew they were no longer the formidable warriors they once were.

"I did not come to fight," Rhaegar replied, his tone steady as he sheathed his sword. There was no need for bloodshed here. Not yet. "I come with words, not steel."

Hoster sneered, stepping closer, his face flushed with anger. "You come to gloat? To boast of your victory on the western flank?"

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed, and he took a deep breath before speaking. "Lord Eddard Stark is on the battlefield, I presume?" He did not wait for confirmation; he already knew. The Starks were a proud and honorable house, too proud to allow their forces to fight a battle they did not believe in.

"Aye, Rhaegar," Hoster Tully answered, his words thick with bitterness. "He fights for his family, and for the end of 300 years of Targaryen tyranny."

Rhaegar did not flinch. "I have killed Robert Baratheon. Your rebellion is dead." His voice was cold, the words like a hammer striking iron.

For a moment, there was only silence. Hoster's face went pale as the words sank in. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were lost. Jon Arryn muttered a curse under his breath, sheathing his sword back into its scabbard, his brow furrowing as he weighed the truth of the prince's words.

"Another Targaryen lie," Hoster growled, his voice filled with disbelief. "Robert would never fall to the likes of you."

Rhaegar's gaze hardened. "I have Robert Baratheon's head in my saddlebag. Your men on the western flank are surrendering. Your forces are broken." He met Hoster's eyes with an unwavering gaze. "Lord Tarly has taken command of the reserves. They will reinforce the loyalist vanguard and crush what's left of your eastern flank. After that, the battle will be done. Your rebellion will end."

The weight of Rhaegar's words hung heavy in the tent. Hoster Tully's grip on his sword tightened, but there was no denying the truth. Rhaegar could see the resignation in the older man's eyes—he knew the rebellion was doomed, but his pride wouldn't let him accept it just yet.

"You will not leave this tent, my lords," Rhaegar said coldly, not waiting for a response. His mind was already on the battlefield, and his victory was assured. This was the end of the rebellion, and no further blood would be shed here—at least not today.

"My offer is this," Rhaegar said, his voice measured and calm. "Fly the white banners and bend the knee to me, and none of your men need die." He pulled a chair from the corner of the tent and took a seat, his posture regal, his eyes cold with the weight of his words. He was ready to be the king Westeros needed, to bring an end to the bloodshed, even if it meant the rebellion had to bow before him, broken.

Hoster Tully clenched his jaw, his longsword still drawn, eyes flicking between Rhaegar and Lord Arryn. He could see the doubt in the older lord's eyes, the silent calculation. Tully was no fool, but his temper was sharp, and the defeat he had suffered stung like salt in a wound. Still, the choice was clear, and after several seconds of silent, angry glaring, Hoster slowly sheathed his sword. He took his seat next to Jon Arryn, his body tense, as if bracing for an argument that he could not afford to lose.

Rhaegar let out a quiet sigh, rubbing his forehead. How did it ever get to this? he thought, his mind briefly drifting into the bleakness of the situation. The dream of a peaceful Westeros, a united realm—was it even possible now?

"These are my terms," Rhaegar continued, his tone hardening with the gravity of what he was about to propose. "To end this rebellion, I will unseat my father and sit the Iron Throne myself. None of the lords who have rebelled, nor your men, will lose their heads—provided they have not committed heinous crimes against the people of Westeros."

He paused, watching Hoster Tully's expression shift between incredulity and suspicion. "No major lords will lose their seats or their lands. I will honor the integrity of the realm, as best as I can. It is not my wish to see this realm burned to ash."

Rhaegar leaned forward, his voice lowering as he spoke of a matter that he knew would change everything. "Furthermore, I will honor my betrothal and take Lyanna Stark as my wife. She will not be a hostage, nor will she be mistreated. She will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms"

Hoster Tully's jaw tightened once more at the mention of Lyanna Stark, but it was Jon Arryn whose face betrayed a flicker of surprise. His eyes flickered to Rhaegar, searching for any hint of deceit, any sign that the prince might have gone mad. But Rhaegar's gaze was unwavering, his words calculated.

"Why continue this farce of a betrothal to Lyanna Stark?" the ever contemplative Lord of the Vale asked, his voice carrying a weight of both suspicion and disbelief.

Rhaegar did not wish to take Lyanna Stark as his bride either. When he had last seen her, she had been just coming into womanhood—much younger than Rhaegar would have liked. No doubt the she-wolf was a woman grown now, after nearly two years of war. But his martial options were limited. He had the allegiance of House Martell, for their blood would sit on the Iron Throne, but the Baratheons had no eligible lady for him to marry. Tywin's eldest daughter, Cersei, was a viable option that Jon Connington had pushed for, but Rhaegar was inclined to avoid bringing more Lions into his new realm. No, he would have to find another way to appease the old lion. He would not be a prisoner to Tywin Lannister's ambitions, nor would he be trapped in a marriage with Cersei, her cold, calculating green eyes always watching him.

Lyanna Stark, on the other hand, was the logical choice. She would bind the Starks to the Iron Throne, and through them, the Baratheons, Tullys, and Arryns would follow suit—whether to doom or glory.

Rhaegar had discussed this possibility with Jon Connington prior to marching to the Trident.

"Robert will be furious if he knows you plan on keeping your betrothal to Lyanna," Jon had warned, his voice low as they walked through the royal garden beneath the gleaming sun.

That's assuming I can win this war, Rhaegar had thought darkly but said nothing, only sighing.

"I still think Cersei is the best match. Reach out to Tywin Lannister. Inform him you will marry his daughter. That should stir the old lion to march the entire strength of Casterly Rock to crush the rebellion."

Jon spoke the truth, but Rhaegar would not be bound by the Lion. He had no intention of owing Tywin a debt, nor would he marry for an army. His reign, after the rebellion, had to be about more than winning battles—it had to be about peace.

"The North will never bend the knee if I do not marry Lyanna Stark. You know this, Jon. The North effectively controls three other kingdoms. I will not be known as the king who lost the Seven Kingdoms."

"I will marry the girl," Rhaegar had said, ending their discussion, though neither of them was truly convinced.

Rhaegar's mind snapped back to the present, away from the fleeting thoughts of schemes long discussed in the royal gardens of King's Landing. He focused once more on the matter at hand, his eyes narrowing as he addressed Lord Jon Arryn, the tension in the tent thickening.

"The Starks will never accept. Eddard will be more likely to march north and wall up his kingdom, and Lyanna Stark will never agree to marry into the family that killed her brother and father." Lord Arryn's words were as sharp as they were true, and Rhaegar felt them keenly, the weight of reality pressing down on him.

"If the winds are to be believed, Eddard Stark is an honorable man who will see reason. He will want an end to this rebellion, and he will convince his sister to marry me for peace," Rhaegar replied, his tone tinged with a flicker of uncertainty. He knew the words sounded weak even to his own ears, a thin hope stretched too thin, but it was all he had left to cling to.

Jon Arryn did not appear convinced, his stoic expression betraying nothing but quiet skepticism. He nodded slowly, his lips pressed in a tight line as he considered the prince's words. But he said no more on the matter, the silence between them growing heavy with unspoken truths.

The room fell silent, the air thick with the knowledge of what was to come. Each man was lost in his own thoughts, the burden of the decisions weighing on them both. They were not simply navigating political alliances or waging a rebellion; they were fighting for the very soul of the realm. And with every choice made, the stakes grew higher, and the danger more perilous.

Rhaegar stared into the dim light of the tent, knowing that the game they played was one of power, but also of survival—and that the price of failure would be far greater than either of them could afford.

"I am not my father," Rhaegar continued, his voice quieter now, more personal. "No man, woman, or child shall be burned under my reign. The use of wildfire will be banned in Westeros. No lord or knight shall lose their head unjustly without a fair trial. This will be a kingdom of law, not of fear."

He looked between the two men, his gaze piercing. "Accept these terms for peace, and we can all return to our homes without further bloodshed. Decline... and my men will march on your lands and sack your castles once this battle is won."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy. Hoster Tully's face was flushed with anger, but beneath that, there was doubt—doubt that he was unwilling to speak aloud, not yet. Lord Arryn's face remained an unreadable mask, his eyes still trained on Rhaegar, searching for any sign of the madness that had gripped the Targaryens before him.

"Why should we bend the knee to the Mad King's son?" Hoster spat, his voice rising in frustration. "He could very well burn us all, just as his father would. Why should we trust him?". Hoster Tully turned to Jon Arryn for support, hoping the older man would see reason. But Rhaegar could see the conflict in Lord Arryn's eyes. The choice wasn't as simple as Tully made it out to seem. A kingdom built on bloodshed might not last, but a kingdom built on promises might collapse just as quickly.

The weight of history, of their fathers' blood, hung in the air. The rebellion might be almost over, but the war for the soul of Westeros had only just begun.

"We are winning this war, Jon," Hoster Tully said, his voice edged with grim certainty. "This is our first defeat in battle. We cannot lose faith now."

Rhaegar frowned at the admission. Hoster wasn't wrong about the current trajectory of the war, the admission of this fact stung. The loyalist forces were being slaughtered across Westeros, their numbers dwindling as the rebellion gained ground. The Targaryen forces were badly losing this battle—until Arthur Dayne had killed Robert Baratheon. It was a victory, but a hollow one. Would the loss of the Stormlands' heir be enough to break the rebellion's spirit? Rhaegar had to believe it, for the alternative was unthinkable.

At the outset of the war, the rebellion had numbered an impressive 95,000 men: 20,000 Stormlanders, 20,000 Northerners, 15,000 Rivermen, and 40,000 Knights of the Vale. The loyalist forces had been slightly superior, boasting 110,000 men: 70,000 Reachmen, 15,000 Crownlanders, 5,000 men-at-arms from Dragonstone, and 20,000 Dornish spears. Numbers, however, rarely won wars. Men do, Ser Barristan the Bold's words echoed in Rhaegar's mind.

While the loyalists had the advantage on paper, many of House Targaryen's war commanders had underestimated the apathy of their soldiers. They had little loyalty to the crown, and less to a Mad King who had made enemies out of every corner of the realm. The rebellion's forces, driven by passion and revenge, had decimated the Targaryen loyalists at every turn. They fought not out of duty but because of the fire that burned within them—fire that had been stoked by Robert Baratheon's war cries and the vengeful Northerners. The loyalists, however, were merely fighting to survive. They had no love for the Targaryen cause, and no reason to bleed for a king who would gladly burn them all.

Damn that old lion, Tywin Lannister, Rhaegar thought bitterly. If Casterly Rock had joined the war, if Tywin had called his banners, the Baratheon-Stark-Tully-Arryn alliance would have crumbled before it even began. Even Robert Baratheon, with his reckless pride, would have known better than to lead his men into battle against an army that outnumbered his own nearly two to one.

Rhaegar's gaze darkened as he glared at Hoster Tully. "Aye, you were winning this war when the figurehead of your rebellion was rallying men to fight against impossible odds," he said, his voice cold with bitterness. "But now he is dead. How long do you think your men will last, Hoster, without Robert Baratheon charging headfirst into battle? Without him spurring them on, how long before they lose heart?"

Hoster Tully's face tightened with a bitter sigh, conceding the wisdom in Rhaegar's words. Eddard Stark might be a skilled fighter and an honorable man, but he was no leader of soldiers in the same way that Robert had been. Rhaegar knew it—he had seen it on the battlefield.

"What will happen to your father?" Lord Arryn asked bluntly, his tone matter-of-fact. "Surely Lord Stark will want his head for all the crimes committed against his family."

Rhaegar stiffened. The question was too direct, too complex to answer easily. He had little time to contemplate what would happen to Aerys. His focus had been on his children's safety, on securing the Targaryen stronghold, on pushing back the rebellion forces, who seemed as undeterred as ever.

How long could he maintain the peace, and for whom? He had the Iron Throne in his sights, but the cost of claiming it was far steeper than he had ever imagined.

"Please, Rhaegar, listen to me," Jon Connington implored, his voice urgent, his eyes bloodshot from the sleepless night. "Your father is slipping further into madness. Take the crown, take your father's head. Present it to Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, and pray they are merciful"

The sunlight waned as the last of the golden rays flickered across the well-appointed chamber of the Targaryen prince. The shadows stretched long on the stone walls as dusk crept through the Red Keep. Rhaegar, standing at the window, glanced toward the horizon where the sky was beginning to darken.

"Stop this madness, Jon," Rhaegar replied, his voice hard as steel. "I will not be known as a kinslayer, nor a usurper. I will continue to deter my father as best I can, and pray to the Seven that he does not commit any more heinous crimes before the Stranger eventually comes for him."

His hands clenched, his jaw tight with resolve. The Red Keep was full of eyes—spiders as some called them, crawling through the stonewalls—and even here, even in the safety of his chambers, treasonous talk could get them both burned. His father's reach stretched farther than the crown itself.

Jon Connington did not look convinced, his brow furrowed in doubt. He had seen what happened just hours before in the throne room, and the horrors of that moment had left their mark. The scent of burning flesh still hung in the air, clinging to the fabric of the room like a lingering stench, refusing to fade.

A boy, no older than two and ten, had been caught stealing from a baker's shop. Under normal circumstances, such petty theft would have been dealt with swiftly by the lords of Crownlands, a swift punishment of losing a finger, perhaps even a hand. But Aerys Targaryen had decreed that all thefts be reported to him for judgment before the Iron Throne. And the punishment, the only punishment, was always the same: death by fire.

Rhaegar and Jon had tried to intervene, tried to save the boy from his doomed fate. They had begged his father to take the boy's hand, to take his arm, to show mercy in the face of such a minor crime. But Aerys had been immovable, his madness implacable.

"Burn the boy. Burn the boy. Burn the boy!" Aerys had hissed the chant like a song, a mantra even, his voice carrying across the cold stone walls of the throne room. Minor lords looked away in disgust, while the boy's mother screamed for mercy, her voice a shrill wail in the oppressive silence.

The boy, terrified, pleaded for his life, but it was all in vain. He was strapped to the brazier, his flesh exposed to the flames, awaiting the inevitable. The King's Guard stood at attention, impassive, as Rhaegar could do nothing but watch in horror. The fire flared, and the boy's cries were replaced with shrieks of agony as the wildfire consumed him.

Rhaegar could feel the heat of the flames in his chest, a tightness gripping his heart as the boy's screams dwindled into silence. Make it stop, make it stop was all Rhaegar could think, his mind screaming even as his body remained still, paralyzed by the sight.

When it was over, Aerys had spoken coldly, with a cruel satisfaction. "Hang the boy's body in the streets of Flea Bottom. Let them see what happens when someone disobeys their king's command."

The Gold Cloaks had complied, their faces impassive as they pulled the lifeless charred remains from the flames and strung it up for all to see.

"This cannot continue, Rhaegar," Jon said, his voice tight with urgency. "Any day now, Aerys could burn you and your children. He will burn King's Landing to the ground before he lets Robert Baratheon storm the city".

Rhaegar's fist clenched involuntarily, the memory of a conversation with the Lord of Griffin's Roost from over two years ago flooding back to him. Jon's words echoed in his mind with cruel clarity. He was right, Rhaegar thought bitterly. All of this needless bloodshed, all of this could have been avoided if I had been a man of tougher steel.

He chuckled darkly under his breath, the sound bitter and hollow. There was no undoing what the Mad King had done. The crown was as much a burden as it was a prize, and Rhaegar was beginning to wonder if it was worth the cost of what it had already taken from him.

Two years ago, betraying his father had been unthinkable, a betrayal of everything he had been raised to believe. Now, the truth gnawed at him like a festering wound, and Rhaegar knew the time had come. His eyes met Jon Arryn's, steady, unflinching, as he spoke in a voice stripped of any false hope.

"I will not kill my father. I am no kinslayer." His words were firm, yet his heart ached with the weight of the decision that had already begun to shape his destiny. "My father will abdicate the throne, and spend the rest of his days in a cell, where he can no longer burn innocents for his pleasure."

Jon Arryn's frown deepened, his face betraying his disquiet. The stoic lord, who had spent a lifetime in service to the realm, seemed to shrink beneath the gravity of what Rhaegar had just proposed. "Lord Eddard will not be satisfied with this compromise, Prince Rhaegar. Aerys burned his father and his brother in the cruelest way possible. How can you ask him to accept such an offer?"

Rhaegar's gaze softened. The pain that had been haunting him since the day the rebellion began flared again, a deep sense of helplessness mingled with a new, steely resolve. "That is your job, Lord Arryn," he said, his voice cool, the weight of his crown already settling on his brow. "I entrust you to convince Eddard Stark to reach a peaceful agreement. Taking my father's head will not bring back Rickard or Brandon Stark. You must convince him."

Lord Arryn nodded slowly, though his eyes betrayed doubt. He turned toward Hoster Tully, who stood watching the exchange with increasing disbelief.

Hoster's voice cut through the tension like a jagged blade. "You mean for us to bend the knee, end a war that we are winning, and our only consolation prize will be another Targaryen spawn sitting on the Iron Throne?" His words were filled with disdain, the sharpness of his gaze never leaving Rhaegar.

"I am offering all of you a chance to keep your titles, and more importantly, your heads, once I inevitably take the throne." Rhaegar's words were cold, his tone as unforgiving as the steel of his sword. Rhaegar's eyes met Hoster's with cold intensity, knowing full well that the Tully lord would be a problem waiting to happen. I will be watching you closely once I sit upon the Iron Throne, he thought, his mind already calculating the potential uprisings Hoster Tully could cause.

Hoster snorted in disbelief. "And what of the Stormlands? How do you think they'll react when you present Robert's head to them? The Stormlanders, the Baratheon bannermen who fought so fiercely for him—they'll be more likely to declare independence than kneel to a Targaryen."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed, his mind already racing through the intricacies of the war. "The Stormlands are under siege by Mace Tyrell. If the ravens are to be believed, Stannis will not hold out much longer. What do you think will happen when we present Robert's head outside the gates of Storm's End, Hoster?" He leaned forward, his voice low and calculating. "The Stormlanders will abandon Stannis and return to their homes. Your allied forces will not gain those 5,000 abled-bodied men garrisoned at Storm's End. No Stormlands lord will levy a new army for your rebellion. Once the siege is broken, Mace Tyrell will be free to march, bolstering the loyalist ranks and strengthening our position with over 50,000 men."

A long pause hung in the air as Rhaegar's words sank in. Hoster Tully's face twisted in anger, but Rhaegar's resolve was ironclad.

"I swear on my honor, Robert Baratheon's head and bones will be returned to Storm's End for proper burial. Stannis Baratheon will rule the Stormlands." Rhaegar's words were final, his intent clear.

Hoster's lip curled with contempt. "A Targaryen's honor? Worth as much as the encouraging words of a common whore in a tavern." He sneered, his disdain palpable.

Rhaegar's eyes flashed, but he said nothing. The insult stung, but it wasn't worth the fight. Not now. The prize was too great.

Jon Arryn, realizing that their negotiations were going nowhere with Hoster continuing to antagonize the Targaryen prince, rose from his seat. His gaze softened as he extended a hand toward the Crowned Prince.

"We will tentatively accept your terms, Prince Rhaegar," Lord Arryn said, his voice weary but resolute. "I will speak to Lord Stark and discuss the finer points. We must find a solution to this bloodshed, or it will consume us all."

Rhaegar clasped the hand that was offered, though the gesture felt like a farce. The road ahead would not be easy, and the blood of countless men would stain his hands before this war was done. But peace... peace was within his grasp. And he would not let it slip through his fingers.

Rhaegar shook the hand, promising to call for a temporary ceasefire between the warring factions. Hoster Tully, however, refused to acknowledge the Prince of Westeros, scoffing loudly before storming out of the tent, his fury palpable.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of tense negotiations, the lords of Westeros locked in heated arguments long into the night, past the hour of the eel. Hours stretched into the early morning as shouting and glares between the Northern lords and loyalists continued, each man unwilling to yield to the other.

At last, Lord Jon Arryn, ever the diplomat, drew up the peace agreement. Each term, every small detail discussed throughout the long hours, was meticulously outlined. The falcon of Arryn, weary but resolute, sighed as he signed the parchment with his quill, the dim light of the flickering candles casting shadows upon his features.

Rhaegar, unaware of how tightly his chest had clenched, let out a shallow breath when Lord Arryn finished his task. Next came Hoster Tully's reluctant signature, followed by several Stormlands lords, acting in place of the dead Robert Baratheon.

"Will Lord Stark not join us for the signing?" Rhaegar inquired, his voice calm yet heavy with the weight of unspoken history. He turned his gaze toward one of the Northern lords present, a man in gleaming chainmail adorned with the flayed man of House Bolton upon his chestplate.

"No, my prince," the lord replied coldly, his pale eyes piercing as he confirmed Rhaegar's suspicion. "He mourns the loss of his dear friend."

So, Lord Stark refuses to acknowledge the peace agreement, Rhaegar thought, his mind turning. No doubt the Warden of the North could not bear to face the son of the man who nearly wiped out his entire line.

Lord Jon Arryn, overhearing the conversation, stepped in, his voice a calm balm to the tension. "No need to fret, your grace. Lord Eddard Stark has sworn to bend the knee and to respect the betrothal between you and Lyanna Stark. He is not a man to take his word lightly."

Rhaegar nodded, feeling the weight of the man's honor even from across the room. "Very well. If Eddard Stark will sign the parchment and come to King's Landing to swear fealty, I will not press the matter further."

With the peace agreement now signed by the majority of the lords present at the Trident, a raven was dispatched to each of the rebellion's footholds, bearing the seal of House Baratheon, announcing the end of the rebellion and the cessation of all hostilities in the name of the crowned prince and Lord Arryn of the Vale. Several other ravens were sent to loyalist forces, one to Mace Tyrell at Storm's End, ordering the cessation of the siege and the march of his forces to King's Landing.

Although the war had officially ended, and peace had been brokered, the lords in the tent looked upon Rhaegar with distrust, their resentment poorly veiled. Many had questioned Lord Arryn's wisdom in bending the knee when the loyalist forces were reeling on their heels, but the old lord of the Vale had convinced them that victory was a fleeting dream and the cost of further fighting would be too great. They were winning a losing effort, he had claimed, and so the war was brought to an end.

"My prince, it is time," Arthur Dayne's calm voice broke through Rhaegar's thoughts, rousing him from the murky waters of doubt. The Sword of the Morning had returned to his side shortly after word spread of the peace agreement.

Rhaegar nodded wordlessly, his mind still heavy with the glances of the lords, their distrust simmering beneath their measured words. He excused himself from the tent, where the air was suffocating with animosity, not just for him, but for the Targaryen dynasty itself.

"We ride to camp. We will prepare the men to march back to King's Landing," Rhaegar instructed his war council as squires hurriedly readied the horses. "We march at the break of dawn."

As the last remnants of the night ebbed away under the rising sun, Rhaegar looked up at the pale sky, still brimming with stars. The crisp air filled his lungs, a sharp reminder of the journey that lay ahead. He had done what many had deemed impossible—he had ended the civil war. Soon, he would return to his children and end his father's tumultuous reign. His heart stirred at the thought, a fleeting moment of peace before the weight of the throne, and its consequences, awaited him.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he mounted his black steed. He spurred the horse forward, galloping away from the tense camp, toward the tree line and his destiny.

Unbeknownst to Rhaegar, a pair of steel-grey eyes—cold, unforgiving—glared from the shadows of the trees, burning with hatred as they fixed on the back of the Dragon prince's head.

Chapter Text

LYANNA

The spring air was a balm to Lyanna Stark's wolf blood. No longer did she feel the biting chill of the North, but the warm winds of the not-so-distant Narrow Sea. The sun was strong, the scent of saltwater mingling with the earthiness of new grass. It was a feeling of freedom, and yet, it was tempered with the weight of her deeds.

Lyanna had done the impossible. With a force of fewer than a thousand-foot soldiers from various lands sworn to Riverrun, she had successfully sacked The Antlers. The castle had fallen without much resistance after she and her men infiltrated the walls during the hour of the wolf. The men of House Buckwell, those who refused to yield, had been swiftly put to the sword. Lyanna knew that to help bring the Targaryen dynasty to its knees, she would need to cast aside all restraint, to wield ruthlessness as both sword and shield. Mercy had no place in the war she waged.

The Antlers had not been an impossible castle to sack, unlike Casterly Rock or the Eyrie which were renowned to be impregnable, but with the men she had, Lyanna had been skeptical if the deed could be done. The castle's defenses were solid enough, but not invincible—its eighty-foot walls and moat were nothing compared to the fortresses of the Westerlands or the Mountain's peak of House Arryn. Yet, with fewer than a thousand men at her back, Lyanna had wondered if they were truly enough to breach its gates and silence the men of House Buckwell who swore fealty to the Mad King. She had no doubt they could overpower the castle's defenders if they could breach the walls, but could they take it swiftly and without unnecessary bloodshed?

Her mind had raced, calculating every move, every step. The men were loyal to her cause, but many were young, eager, and untested. She would need to lead them with strength, to ensure they did not lose themselves in the heat of battle. Too much depended on this—if they succeeded, it would be one more blow to the Targaryen's fragile rule. If they failed, it could mean disaster for her forces, and the loss of precious time they could ill afford.

The thought of returning to Riverrun in failure was unacceptable. She had made her decision long ago. This war would end on Stark terms. The Antlers, like every town and castle she had claimed on her path, would fall.

Lyanna's first taste of victory had come at Maidenpool. Lord Mooton, sworn to Hoster Tully, had spurned the rebellion, pledging his loyalty to the Mad King in a brazen show of defiance. She had met his scattered forces on the open field, shattered them, and stormed Maidenpool's stout walls, leaving no doubt of her resolve.

She had not relished taking Lord Mooton's head. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, Ned had always said. And so, when the moment came, it was Lyanna who bore the duty. Seven swings of her blade—it took that many before the traitor's head was severed, her steel biting stubbornly through flesh and bone.

Lord Mooton's expression was one of quiet defiance, his body unmoving even as she struck. His death had to be done, had to be final. He had betrayed their cause, and for that, there was no mercy.

Once the fighting was done, the town was put to the sword—a fact that Lyanna would forever regret. She had lost control of her men, and the lesson was clear: Men would not fear you unless you showed them why they should. Those who raped and pillaged Maidenpool were swiftly hanged under Lady Lyanna's command. She did not have the strength to behead a dozen of her men, she had mused darkly. The weight of her duty was heavy, and the truth stung with every passing day. She had led them into battle, into victory, and now she had to lead them through the consequences of their actions. The men had no excuse—there was no justification for their behavior—but their punishment was a burden she had never wished to bear.

A raven was sent to Hoster Tully, informing him of the vacancy in Maidenpool and the unfortunate events that had transpired. His reply was swift: "Fear not, Lady Lyanna. Lord Mooton's cousin will be installed as Lord once we end this rebellion."

Lyanna had grown fond of the Lord of Riverrun. He had almost become a second father to her since the Northerners first set foot in the halls of Riverrun. When Ned Stark first suggested Lyanna ride into battle, many of the lords had scoffed at the idea. A lady of high birth fighting in a rebellion was preposterous. It was a man's war, after all, and women were meant to keep to their sewing and songs, or so the lords said. Robert Baratheon had been livid at the notion, his rage as hot and loud as a forge fire. "You will stay at Riverrun and do as you're told," he had thundered, his voice echoing off the walls. He wanted a queen, soft and sweet, not a disfigured maid with sword-callused hands and a wild wolf's temper. But Lyanna Stark was no songbird to be caged, and no man—least of all Robert—would chain her to a life she did not want.

The words had struck like a lash, but Lyanna Stark did not flinch. Her temper flared, hotter than the summer sun, and before she even knew what she was doing, her fist flew. "I will never be your wife, Robert!" she had roared, her voice fierce as a growl. Her cheeks burned with indignation, and her grey eyes blazed with fury, brighter than any sword's edge. The great stag of Storm's End lay sprawled in the dirt, staring up at her in stunned silence, his pride bleeding into the mud. In that moment, she was no lady at all, but something wild and untamed, and gods help the man who thought to break her.

Hoster Tully had watched the exchange and, to Lyanna's surprise, had treated her with a soldier's respect ever since. When Ned first suggested Lyanna take a sizable force south to raid the Crownlands, Hoster gave his blessing, though the other lords scoffed and regarded Ned as if he had lost his senses.

Though the path had not been easy, Lyanna knew that the rebellion would take far more than bloodshed and battle cries. It would take strength of will and leadership—qualities she was still learning to master. Yet, with each victory, each conquest, she felt herself growing more sure of the role she would play in the fate of Westeros.

Lyanna had always been a gifted swordsman. Growing up without a mother and surrounded by brothers and men-at-arms, she had learned to duel quickly. By the time she was ten and two, she could easily knock Brandon on his ass after only a few minutes of sparring. No man in Winterfell could match her speed or skill with a blade by the time news of the upcoming Tourney at Harrenhal had reached the North.

Her brothers were skeptical, though, especially Ned. They all knew her skill with a blade, but they were still protective, hesitant to see her thrust into a world dominated by men twice her size and with swords twice as long as hers. But Lyanna had never been one to let her sex define her limitations. She had already beaten the best of Winterfell's warriors, and she would prove she was capable of taking on the finest of Westeros knights.

But even her skill with a blade could not shield her from the burdens of war—or from her glaring inexperience in its greater stratagems. Though her sword had struck true, it was her heart that bled most, for each victory carried with it the weight of loss—the loss of her childhood, of her innocence, and of the idealistic girl she had once been.

She had learned that lesson the hard way during the sacking of Maidenpool. So, when she infiltrated The Antlers with only twenty men, Lyanna knew she must be resolute. Her men would respect only the strength she could wield, not the title she bore. When the castle portcullises had finally been drawn up and her men had cheered, shouting "Lady Ravenclaw!," she made her intentions clear. There would be no raping, no looting. Any man who dared defy her command would face her sword.

Lady Ravenclaw, she thought bitterly, her lips curling into a scornful sneer. The name, whispered and passed from campfire to campfire, had become something of a legend among her men and throughout the rebellion forces. A warrior's title, bestowed upon her by those who claimed her hair was as dark as a Raven's feather and her sword as sharp as a Raven's claw. It was a lie, all of it. Most of the men she had killed were lowborn knights or poorly armed infantrymen—nothing to speak of, nothing worth glorifying. Yet the name had taken on a life of its own. "Lady Ravenclaw," they called her, the woman who slayed knights with grace and honor. The whispers echoed all the way to the Dornish Marches.

Despite her doubts, she did not let the legend go to her head. The prisoners she took at The Antlers were kept securely, unharmed. The smallfolk, those who had not yet abandoned their homes to the war, were free to move without fear of violence or pillaging. Lyanna had taken several towns and three castles in the past several moons. The rebellion was spreading, its flames catching on every side, and Lyanna Stark had done her part.

"Surely someone else is more fit for this task, Ned," Lyanna had said, her voice laced with frustration as she regarded her brooding brother. They were deep in conversation ironing out the details of the forces that would raid the Crownlands while the main army continued its war with the loyalists. The burden of such a mission weighed heavy, but Lyanna had never shied from the fight.

"Aye, there probably are more capable men," Ned had answered, his voice low, weary. "But I trust you, Lyanna. I trust you to spare the smallfolk the suffering that others might bring upon them. I will not have Robert's reign start with tales of rapes and pillaging. You have a kind heart. You will protect them."

That had ended the matter. Lyanna had ridden out from Riverrun with two thousand men, and in the months that followed, she had lost over a thousand in battle. Sacking towns and castles was never bloodless, and the cost weighed heavily on her. But she had stayed true to the path she had chosen, even as it grew darker with each passing day.

At first, the men would not obey her, not even sparing her a glance. A woman leading them? The idea was met with muttered derision and outright refusal. Some ignored her commands entirely, treating her as a token figurehead, while others balked at the notion of marching further than the Trident with Lyanna Stark at their helm.

It was Lord Yohn Royce who saved her from being abandoned outright. Riding at her side as second-in-command, his steady voice and iron will brought order to the chaos. When the grumbling reached its peak, Royce had summoned all the men to gather beneath the banners of the wolf, the trout, and the bronze runes of House Royce.

"You are free to leave," he declared, his tone colder than the Vale's winter winds. "But you'll have no escort. The Riverlands are thick with bandits, deserters, and Targaryen loyalists who would sell your head for coin. Should you survive the journey to Riverrun, you may explain to Lord Stark why you disobeyed his orders. And then you'll have two choices: meet ice or take the black."

That had silenced the grumbling, cowing even the boldest dissenters. Yet silence did not mean loyalty, and Lyanna felt the weight of their mistrust with every step southward. They obeyed, but grudgingly, their respect earned not through her name but through blood and toil.

It was not until she fought alongside them—blade flashing under the sun, her voice carrying above the thick of battle—that their contempt began to shift. Each skirmish in the Crownlands brought a hard-won victory, and with every triumph, their loyalty grew. She rode into the fray as their equal, no shield-maiden of songs but a wolf with blood on her hands and fire in her heart.

They began to look at her differently then—not as a Stark, not as a lady, but as a leader. Their trust was slow to grow, like a seed buried in frozen soil, but it was there. And with that trust came admiration, grudging at first, then genuine.

Lyanna knew the road ahead would only grow harder. The weight of the rebellion pressed heavy on her shoulders, the stakes greater with each passing day. But with every victory, she felt the goal draw closer, like a star shining through a storm.

The rebellion would succeed. Robert Baratheon would take the crown from those who had wronged her family. And she would return home—not to a throne or a man's bed, but to the North, far away from the south and its schemes, far away from Robert and his lust-filled eyes.

Lyanna walked into the great hall of Buckwell's estate, sheathing her blood-soaked sword with a practiced flick of her wrist. Her riding leathers and steel breastplate were stained with soot and gore from bosom to heel, the tang of sweat and blood clinging to her skin. A bath, she thought with a weary sigh, would be needed before she presented herself to the smallfolk of The Antlers. It would not do to look like one of Ned's half-mad raiders.

Within the great hall, the crimson dragons of House Targaryen and the golden Antler sigils of House Buckwell were being ripped down and tossed into glowing braziers. In their place rose the snarling grey direwolf of House Stark, its jaws open wide.

House Targaryen, she thought bitterly, her heart hardening. The silver-haired, incestuous vipers who had slaughtered her brother and father. Aerys Targaryen's rule had been unsteady for as long as Lyanna could remember. The first whispers of war had reached the North when Aerys publicly spurned Lord Tywin Lannister by refusing his offer to wed his daughter Cersei to Rhaegar Targaryen. A slight, and a public one at that. "Tywin is too proud a man. He will not forget this," her father had warned when she had asked what it might mean.

To further wound the Lion of Casterly Rock, Aerys sent ravens far and wide, proclaiming that Rhaegar would take Elia Martell to wife instead. Never had Lyanna imagined that she herself would be ensnared in the same pit of politics and petty feuds that Elia Martell once found herself entrapped in.

The memory of Harrenhal flooded her then. Brandon, her father, and she had ridden south for Lord Whent's great tournament. It had been a warm day, and Lyanna had left her wolfskin cloak behind, choosing instead to don a golden gown that clung to her curves. For once, she had felt like a lady, not her brother's sparring partner. But her moment of peace had been shattered when Robert Baratheon came striding toward her, Ned trailing in his shadow.

Robert and Ned had ridden from the Vale, still being fostered by the ever-honorable Jon Arryn. Though Lyanna adored her sweet brother, she found it hard to summon joy at his arrival—not with Robert's boisterous strides leading the way.

Robert. She could still taste the bile that name brought to her lips. Handsome, yes, with his broad shoulders and black stubble beard, but she had heard the tales of his conquests in his chambers and brothels alike. He bedded women as if changing his breeches, fathering bastards across the Vale. A man like him could never be loyal, Lyanna had thought. She saw the lust in his gaze, the way he stared at her as if she were a prize to be won. Ned, ever the honorable fool, had tried to persuade her otherwise.

"He's half in love with you, Lyanna," he had told her in that soft, earnest voice of his. She had nearly laughed in his face. "Half," she had muttered under her breath, "and only half that would last beyond the bedding."

And then there was Harrenhal, the dragon's den itself. Aerys sat hunched upon his makeshift throne like some half-mad crow, eyes flickering with suspicion, while Rhaegar sat next to his father—beautiful, solemn, with eyes that seemed to pierce through flesh and bone. The Prince was beautiful, that much she could not deny, though his blood was tainted with madness.

When Rhaegar Targaryen unseated his final opponent and won the day, the roar of the crowd was deafening. The knights, lords, and ladies alike erupted into jubilant cheers, hailing the silver-haired prince as a champion. But if the crowd was ecstatic, Rhaegar was not. He rode his white stallion to the center of the field, his face a mask of solemnity, as if the victory brought him no joy. There were no triumphant waves or arrogant flourishes, only the quiet dignity that always seemed to shroud him like a cloak.

Lyanna watched from her seat among the northern lords, her heart drumming an uneven beat. It was time—time for the crowned prince to select his Queen of love and beauty, a tradition as old as the tourney itself. She had heard whispers all week, speculations that Rhaegar would present the crown of blue roses to Cersei Lannister, the golden daughter of Tywin Lannister.

But as Rhaegar sat on his horse, there was an air of tension in the arena, as though everyone was holding their breath. His expression remained inscrutable, the cold, quiet demeanor of a man carrying a burden too heavy for others to comprehend. With the wreath of blue winter roses in his hands, Rhaegar scanned the faces in the stands, his eyes moving past the hopeful, the curious, and the eager.

Then, his gaze stopped. The entire world seemed to pause as his dark indigo eyes locked onto hers. Lyanna's breath caught in her throat, her fingers tightening around the slik lining her southern dress. There was something searching in his look, something that seemed to pierce through her as if he could see the wildness and defiance she kept hidden beneath her exterior. The intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down her spine, the crowd around them fading to a distant hum.

Lyanna felt her heart quicken with a mix of emotions she could not name. Was it dread? Excitement? Something she was unwilling to admit even to herself? For a moment, she was seized by the fear that Rhaegar would ride towards her and place the crown of blue roses upon her head. The thought sent a strange thrill through her—a thrill she quickly squashed with every ounce of Stark stubbornness she possessed.

But just as quickly as the moment came, it passed. With a look of resignation, Rhaegar tore his gaze away and turned his horse. The crowd erupted once more as he placed the crown upon his mother's head, declaring her the Queen of Love and Beauty. The Dowager Queen's weary face softened into a rare smile, and for a moment, all the tension in the air seemed to dissipate.

Lyanna let out a shaky breath, relief washing over her. Yet as she glanced down, she couldn't deny the twinge of disappointment that gnawed at her. She had no desire to be part of the games of kings and princes, yet for one wild moment, she had wondered—what if?

Across the field, Cersei Lannister's face was a mask of icy fury, her green eyes blazing as she watched the crown settle on the dowager queen's silvered hair. Lyanna smirked to herself; it seemed the lioness had been hoping her golden beauty would ensnare the prince's favor.

But it was the king's reaction that had drawn Lyanna's eye. Aerys Targaryen's face was twisted in barely contained rage, his violet eyes blazing as he watched his son's every move. His hands clenched around the arms of his seat, knuckles white as bone, and Lyanna could see the cords in his neck straining. Without uttering a word, he rose abruptly, his dark robes swirling around him, and stormed away from the stands with Jaime Lannister trailing behind him like a shadow ready to pounce.

The Mad King's displeasure hung in the air like the scent of wildfire, a forewarning of the storms yet to come.

Lyanna had shivered despite herself. The Mad King was like a storm cloud threatening to burst, and she could sense the tension crackling through the air. Rhaegar, for all his beauty and poise, could not shield the realm from the storm his father's wrath was brewing.

The rest of that day melted away like the last warmth of a dying fire. Lyanna drifted through the feasts, the music, and the merry spectacles with a strange lightness in her chest. She couldn't deny the thrill of it all—the splendor of the South, the lively laughter that echoed in the great hall, and the myriad of knights and ladies dressed in vibrant silks and velvets. For once, the weight of duty and expectations seemed to fall away, leaving her to enjoy the moment.

As the moon rose high above the towering turrets of ruined Harrenhal, casting a silver glow across the castle grounds, Lyanna found herself among the flickering torches and dancing shadows. She laughed with Brandon, enjoying a rare moment of lightheartedness with her brother. Brandon, as brash and charming as ever, twirled her around with wild abandon, his booming laughter filling the air, while Brandon's new friend, Ashara Dayne, watched quietly, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

But just as she began to lose herself in the revelry, her father appeared beside her like a shadow. His presence was as cold and stern as the North, and his expression left little room for argument.

"Lyanna," Rickard Stark said in that commanding tone that brooked no defiance, "come with me."

The smile faded from her lips as quickly as it had come. The tension in her father's voice sent a ripple of unease down her spine. She caught Brandon's eyes for a moment, but he simply shrugged, his earlier mirth tempered with curiosity. Ashara, ever the quiet observer, frowned but said nothing.

Lyanna followed her father out of the bustling hall, her heart beginning to pound. The sounds of laughter and music faded into the distance as they crossed the grounds and made their way toward the privacy of House Stark's tent. The air was thick with the scents of roasted meats and spilled ale, but to Lyanna, it suddenly smelled more like a trap.

When she pushed through the flap of the tent, she came to a halt, her breath catching in her throat. There, standing in the center, was Robert Baratheon, his broad frame filling the small space. He turned to her with a grin so wide it seemed to split his face in two, his eyes gleaming with that same infuriating confidence that always made her bristle. Behind him stood her brother Ned, looking tense and troubled, his gray eyes flicking from Robert to their father.

"What is this?" Lyanna demanded, her voice sharp, her gaze darting between the men.

Rickard Stark gave her a steady, unreadable look, his face as stoic as ever. But it was Robert who spoke, stepping forward with that boisterous enthusiasm she had come to despise.

"We've come to an agreement, Lyanna," Robert announced, his voice booming in the enclosed space. "By the end of the season, you'll be my wife, and we'll wed at Storm's End. I swear, I'll make you the happiest woman in all the Seven Kingdoms."

Lyanna's world tilted, her blood running cold as the meaning of his words sunk in. Wife? The word echoed in her mind like a death sentence. She felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath her feet, leaving her grasping for something to steady herself.

"No," she breathed, shaking her head slowly. Her eyes darted to her father, searching for any sign that this was some cruel jest. But Lord Stark's expression remained as cold and unyielding as the stone walls of Winterfell.

Robert, mistaking her shock for a maiden's shyness, had reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. "There's no need to look so frightened, my lady," he had said with a chuckle. "You'll be a Baratheon soon enough. I'll keep you warm, and together, we'll have sons as strong as bulls."

Lyanna snatched her hand away as if his touch had burned her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, not of sadness but of fury. How dare they decide her fate like this? She had heard the stories of Robert's love affairs, his women, and his bastards. Did they truly think she would happily become another trophy for him to parade around?

"Father, how could you?" Lyanna's voice shook, turning to Rickard. "You would sell me to him? To this—this brute?"

Rickard's expression was a storm of conflict, but his voice was steady when he spoke. "This is for the good of our house, Lyanna. A match with House Baratheon will strengthen our ties and secure our future."

"I don't care about ties and alliances!" she cried. "I will not be some broodmare for Robert Baratheon!"

Robert's grin faltered, replaced with a look of confusion and wounded pride. "Lyanna, you misunderstand—"

"No," she cut him off, her voice rising. "You misunderstand. I will never marry you, Robert. Not now, not ever."

Without another word, she turned on her heel and fled the tent, her breath hitching as tears of anger and betrayal stung her eyes. She could hear Robert's heavy footsteps behind her, along with Ned's softer, more hesitant ones, but she did not stop. She didn't care about the curious stares of the revelers as she ran past them, nor did she care about the chill of the night air biting at her exposed skin.

All she could think of was escaping the suffocating trap her father had laid for her.

If they thought they could cage her like some meek southern lady, they had sorely underestimated the blood of the wolf that ran through her veins.

Winterfell had become a cold and silent place upon their return from Harrenhal. The air between her and her father crackled with tension. Brandon remained aloof, lost in his thoughts, while Ned wore that same sad, pleading look. When a missive arrived, bearing the seal of House Targaryen, everything turned to ash. Aerys demanded the Starks ride south, ordering Lyanna's immediate betrothal to Rhaegar Targaryen. They would marry in the coming moons.

He wants me as a hostage, Lyanna had realized with horror. The parchment dripped with honeyed words of Southerners, but she saw through the ploy. She would be a captive in the Red Keep, a noose around her father's throat to ensure the North's loyalty.

Brandon had been beside himself with fury, vowing to ride to King's Landing and slay Rhaegar and his mad father with his bare hands. "I will not let them take her," he had shouted, slamming his fist against the oaken table. Brandon Stark may not have had much love for the heir of Storm's End, but he was a Stark, bound by the ironclad honor of the North. To the Starks, a betrothal was not merely a romantic promise—it was a solemn pact, a vow as unbreakable as the ancient weirwoods that dotted their homeland.

"He knows, Father," Brandon said sharply, his voice a razor's edge, cutting through the heavy silence that had settled in the chamber.

"Knows what?" Lyanna and Ned spoke in unison, their eyes wide with worry and confusion.

For a moment, their father hesitated, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then, with a bitter curse, Rickard Stark began to unravel the web he had become entangled in. "Many of the great lords of Westeros are growing weary of Aerys' madness," he confessed, his voice low but firm. "The realm cannot endure his cruelty much longer. I have made... preparations."

"What do you mean?" Lyanna asked, her voice trembling despite herself.

Rickard took a deep breath, his gaze flickering between his children. "That is why I betrothed you to Robert Baratheon, Lyanna. Why Brandon is to wed Hoster Tully's daughter, and why Ned remains a ward in the Vale. We need allies—powerful ones—if we are to survive what is coming."

Ned's brows furrowed. "You're saying this was never just about strengthening our house. You mean to... to rebel against the crown?"

Rickard nodded grimly. "Aerys is mad, and if he is not stopped, he will destroy us all. I have spoken to the lords who share our concerns, but without the strength of more powerful houses, our cause is doomed before it begins."

Lyanna's heart pounded in her chest. This was more than she had bargained for. A marriage to Robert Baratheon was one thing, but a rebellion? Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "You've thrown us into a war, Father"

Rickard turned to her, his eyes hard as the winter winds. "There are no choices left, Lyanna. Aerys is mad, and we must protect the North from his madness. I tried to gain Tywin Lannister's support at the Harrenhal, but he's as slippery as a serpent. He revealed nothing."

Brandon leaned forward, his fists clenched on the table, veins bulging against his skin. "If we had Casterly Rock behind us, the success of the rebellion would be assured," Rickard nodded at those words, frustration edging Brandon's words. "But Tywin... he will not commit, even if he hates Aerys. The risk is too great."

"Do you think Tywin would betray us to Aerys?" Ned asked solemnly, the thought sending a chill through the room.

Rickard shook his head slowly. "No. Tywin may hate Aerys, but he is a calculating man. Tywin only looks to further the influence of House Lannister. He would be more inclined to let the realm burn than risk his own neck informing a delusional king of possible treason. If word of this reached Aerys, it came from another bird—one of his countless spies no doubt."

Brandon slammed his fist down on the oak table again, the sound echoing in the small space like a thunderclap. "Then we cannot give Lyanna to the crown!" he bellowed, his face flushed with rage. "They will torture her, Father. Use her against us. I won't allow it."

Rickard looked at his eldest son, the weight of his decisions pressing heavily upon him. "You think I would let that happen, Brandon? This is why we must move carefully, why we need these alliances. If we strike too soon, or too late, it won't just be Lyanna—it will be all of us who pay the price."

Lyanna stood there, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her mind reeling. She had thought the worst of her troubles was an unwanted betrothal, but now... now, they were talking about war, betrayal, and the fall of a dynasty. The stakes were far higher than she could have imagined, and it was clear that her family was already too deep to turn back.

One thing was certain: her fate was no longer her own.

But Rickard had been calm, grim as winter. "Aerys is mad, yes," he said, "but we cannot refuse. To defy the crown outright would mean certain death. We must ride south and delay this betrothal for a few moons. Brandon, you will come with me. Ned and Lyanna will remain here, a Stark must always be in Winterfell."

In hindsight, Lyanna could almost laugh at the bitter irony. Allowing Brandon to ride to King's Landing, hot-headed as he was, had been her father's fatal mistake. Had it been Ned, perhaps he would not have challenged the Mad King so openly. But Brandon, her fiery, loyal brother, had not cowered. He had the wolf's blood, and it had led him to his doom.

When the raven arrived bearing tidings, Lyanna had eagerly broken the seal, her hands shaking with anticipation. But the words within had shattered her world: Brandon and their father were dead—killed in a twisted spectacle that defied all notions of honor or mercy.

The sender of the parchment had chosen to remain anonymous, the seal bearing no sigil, the handwriting unfamiliar. Yet, its contents were all too vivid, the details too precise to dismiss as mere rumor or exaggeration. Whoever had sent it had a purpose beyond simply informing the Starks of their kin's gruesome deaths. It was meant to enrage, to incite... and it had succeeded.

Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, had been forced to watch in torment as his son, Brandon, was slowly lowered into a pit of wildfire, flames licking hungrily at his boots. The Mad King's twisted game had no mercy—Rickard was bound in chains, suspended above the floor. They said he strangled himself to death in a futile effort to save his son, his last breaths spent in a silent scream, the veins on his neck bulging as the ropes cut deeper. It was a death fit for a madman's court, and it shattered the North beyond repair.

It was a sick game devised by the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, to taunt a father's love and watch it twist into agony. The cold-blooded cruelty described on the parchment made Lyanna's vision blur with tears of rage. The screams that tore from her throat echoed through the castle, her fury and sorrow too great to be contained. She was a whirlwind of grief, knocking over anything within reach as if destroying Winterfell's ancient stonework could somehow alleviate the pain tearing at her heart.

Ned had read the same letter with a stillness that spoke of his growing resolve. While Lyanna raged, his face grew harder, more steeled with each gruesome detail. When the second raven arrived, bearing the unmistakable handwriting of King Aerys himself, demanding the heads of every Stark and Baratheon loyalist, it was the final insult.

The Mad King had sealed his fate.

Ned, grim and determined, wasted no time. He called for Maester Luwin to send ravens to every corner of the North. Banners were raised, swords sharpened, and oaths sworn anew. The North would march. Winterfell's courtyard, once filled with the quiet sounds of training and the laughter of children, became a hive of activity as the great houses of the North answered the call to arms. House Manderly, House Bolton, House Karstark, and even the savage Skagosi sent their forces south.

Lyanna had stood beside her brother as he planned their next steps, her heart still raw but now burning with purpose. The Targaryens had taken her father and brother, and they would pay for their cruelty with fire and blood. She would ride alongside Ned, not as a lady of Winterfell but as a warrior of House Stark, her blade thirsting for the blood of the dragon that had scorched her family.

The rebellion was no longer a matter of political maneuvering or uneasy alliances. For Lyanna Stark, it had become deeply personal. She would see the Targaryen dynasty fall, no matter the cost.

Lyanna's mind drifted back to the present, back to the seat of House Buckwell. The air within the castle still held the scent of sweat, blood, and the foul tang of burning wood. After ensuring the towns and keep were secure, she had taken a moment to clean herself off. The cold water did little to soothe her aching limbs, but it washed away the grime of battle.

She stood before the cracked mirror in the lord's chamber, combing her raven hair with her fingers in a futile attempt to tame the wild tangles. In frustration, she let out a sharp huff and let her now short hair hang loosely. She had shorn her locks after crossing the Twins, forsaking her long, flowing hair for something more fitting a warrior. Now, her dark strands fell just above her shoulders, framing her face like the shadow of a raven's wing.

After washing, Lyanna turned her attention to her sword—a sturdy blade that had tasted blood many times since this rebellion began. She wiped the steel clean with a rag, her movements methodical, almost ritualistic, before sharpening the edges with a whetstone. The rhythmic scrape of stone on steel was a comfort to her now, a sound that meant survival. Satisfied, she sheathed the sword with a soft sigh and descended the stairwell to the great hall across the yard.

The hall was filled with men and women—soldiers bearing the direwolf of House Stark, bannermen loyal to House Tully, and smallfolk from the surrounding lands seeking refuge and news. The Stark banners hung proudly along the walls, and Lyanna could not help but feel a swell of pride in her chest as she took in the sight.

Stepping up to the raised dais, she turned to face the crowd. She could feel their eyes upon her, could sense the anticipation crackling in the air like the charge before a storm. Raising her voice to carry over the murmur of the hall, she began, "Men of House Tully and House Stark."

All eyes turned to her, the great hall falling into a hush.

"I bring you here today after yet another of House Targaryen's bannermen has fallen to our blades," she declared, her voice strong and clear. "But let this be known—this will not be the last of the Targaryen strongholds to fall! They are dragons only in name. It is we who wield the fire and fury now."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall, but Lyanna was not finished. She unsheathed her sword, holding it aloft, the steel glinting in the torchlight. "They will sing of our victories throughout Westeros," she shouted, her eyes blazing. "We will be known as the force that shook the Targaryen dynasty to its very core, that freed this realm from a tyrant's grasp!"

The men roared their approval, fists thundering against breastplates and tables alike. Lyanna's heart pounded as she looked over them, her blade still raised high. She had grown used to this feeling, this rush that came with rousing men to fight. She had never imagined herself in such a role, but the war had forged her anew. The girl who had once dreamt of running away from home, was now a warrior, a leader of men.

And as the cheers grew louder, she knew she could not stop now. For her family. For the North. For all those who had suffered under the dragon's fire. This was a battle they would see to the end, or die trying.

After her rousing speech, the men of House Stark and their allies raised their long swords high, their voices unified in a powerful chant: "The North remembers! Justice for Westeros!" The air seemed to vibrate with their fervor, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the great hall. Lyanna could feel the fire of their spirit, a fire that mirrored her own. She had always been an excellent sword wielder, but now, as she stood before them, she saw that she was no longer just a sword in battle. She was their leader, their guiding wolf.

Her men looked to her with respect, admiration, and most of all, loyalty. But as she surveyed the room, her gaze shifted to the faces of the men loyal to House Buckwell and those still clinging to the Targaryen banner. There was a coldness in their eyes, a distrust that she could not ignore. Some of them looked upon her with barely concealed disdain, others with outright hatred.

She pressed on, not allowing the looks to shake her resolve. "To the loyalists of House Buckwell and House Targaryen, I say to you: your men will not lose their heads if they do not raise their swords against the men we leave to garrison. We seek justice, not conquest. To the commoners of The Antlers, I pledge to you that none of our forces will harm your farms or homes. We do not fight to destroy—we fight to restore."

Her words fell like a heavy weight in the room, and she could see the flicker of uncertainty in the eyes of some, the faintest signs of doubt. It was a dangerous time, and even the smallest spark of suspicion could ignite a fire that would consume them all. But Lyanna was no stranger to danger. She had weathered worse, and she would not falter now.

But as she finished, there was something that lingered in her chest—a sense of disheartenment. The faces of those sworn to House Targaryen, and even some of the common folk, bore thinly veiled suspicion and distrust. It was something she could not ignore. They had come to her with hatred in their hearts, as if they believed the rebellion was little more than a ploy for power.

"Eat, dance, and enjoy the rest of the night," she said, her voice softer now, yet still strong. "This feast is for all. Tonight, we celebrate unity. Together, we will forge a new future for these lands, and for the realm."

With that, she turned and left the hall, the sounds of music and laughter ringing in her ears as she walked away. She knew that the path ahead would not be easy, and there would be many who would never accept her family's cause. But as she stepped into the cool night air, she felt the weight of the Starks legacy, the strength of the North in her blood, and the fire of the men who followed her. The rebellion would not be won with words alone. It would take steel, blood, and sacrifice. But it was a fight she was ready to lead, to the bitter end if need be.

The commoners had all left, their faces pale with fear, for the tensions between the loyalists and the rebels threatened to boil over. They had no wish to be caught in the crossfire of a brawl that seemed all too likely. The loyalists, true to their nature, did not partake in the festivities. They lingered near the walls, their eyes cold and suspicious, speaking in hushed tones amongst themselves as they watched the revelry from afar, each man with his own thoughts of what the future might hold.

As she made her way back to her chambers, she allowed herself a brief moment of respite, watching as the flickering light of the feast reflected off the distant walls. The laughter inside would fade, the songs would stop, and tomorrow the war would begin anew. But tonight—tonight they were united, even if it was only for a fleeting moment. And that, Lyanna knew, was a victory in itself..

Sleep had been elusive, as it often was in these troubled times. Lyanna's dreams were a tangle of memories and horrors. She had dreamed of her father and brothers, chasing her through Winterfell's cold halls, their laughter echoing in her ears as she shrieked with joy. It was a dream that twisted at her heart, a fleeting glimpse of the past that seemed both comforting and cruel.

She awoke in a cold sweat, frustration and confusion swirling in her chest, only for a hurried knock to pull her from her thoughts.

"You may enter," Lyanna called out, hastily pulling her chestplate straight as she gathered herself.

"News, my lady, bearing Baratheon sigil."

Her heart skipped a beat. There were two possible meanings behind this letter: news of victory at the Trident, or word that one of the towns she had seized had fallen back into Targaryen hands.

But nothing could have prepared her for the third option.

The parchment was long, its contents detailed and signed by several lords of the rebellion, each mark sealing a fate Lyanna could not have anticipated. And one signature, that of Rhaegar Targaryen, stood out like a dark stain. With a frown, she read the letter slowly, confusion twisting into disbelief with each word.

The rebellion was over. They had surrendered. Robert was dead. The rebellion's figurehead, her hopes, and thirst for revenge. Dead. The rebellion forces had been crushed at the Trident after a turning of the tide led by the crown Prince. All lands and castles sacked during the rebellion were now to be returned to the "rightful rulers".

Lyanna's hands trembled as she threw the letter across the room, her fury rising like a snowstorm. They had to bend the knee to the Mad King. How could they?

Lord Arryn had crumbled. He had chosen to bow before the throne, to surrender their rebellion without a fight. He was a coward. She could feel the rage rising in her throat.

The letter made no mention of Eddard Stark's fate. Nothing of her brother, nothing of the future of the North. The only instruction it gave was that representatives from the North were to ride south to King's Landing and swear fealty to the King of the Seven Kingdoms. A vague command. A feeble gesture at unity when they were nothing more than pawns in the hands of the Targaryen dynasty. Lyanna's lips curled into a bitter sneer.

Intentionally vague, she thought, her mind whirling. Was this some play by Rhaegar? Was he trying to distance himself from the bloodshed, offering a semblance of peace while plotting something darker in the shadows? Perhaps he would take the throne for himself, to sit in Aerys' place, his claim wrapped in the same twisted bloodline that had already driven the realm to madness.

The silence on the page felt like a threat, but Lyanna would not be cowed. She would not bend. She could not—no matter what the mad king or his incestuous spawn wanted. They had slaughtered her family and now they expected her to surrender?

She slammed her fist onto the desk, feeling the sharp edge of the oak table cut into her skin as the parchment lay forgotten on the floor. No. She would not give up, not now, not ever. The North had always remembered, and she would ensure the Targaryens would never forget the power of the rebellion they had crushed beneath their feet. If Jon Arryn thought he could end it with a letter, he was wrong. Lyanna would make sure of that.

Lyanna's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she stared down at her feet. Her breath came in slow, measured gasps, every word on the parchment had stoked the fire inside her. I will not bend the knee. She had never bent, not to her father's expectations of marriage, not to the constraints of tradition, and certainly not to a bloodthirsty mad king. She would not start now.

"Fire and blood," she repeated, her voice steady but filled with resolve. It would be her words now. Not Rhaegar's. Not Aerys'. Her own. She would make them fear her name, just as they feared The Black Dread, just as the Andals feared the First Men. The rebellion was far from over. They had crushed the loyalists' forces, sacked castles, and laid waste to their towns. Why should this cease now? Their victories had been hard-won, but they had been theirs. She could not let that hard work go to waste. She could not let the Targaryens take it all from them in one swift move.

The silence, though, gnawed at her. It was wrong. Why had they surrendered so quickly? Why had Jon Arryn, who had fought so fiercely beside Robert, now chosen to end the rebellion without so much as a final word from the remaining leaders? She had expected more—more threats, more demands, a clear path forward. But all she had was a letter, and in its emptiness, Lyanna felt the growing pressure of something far darker than she could fully understand.

Her gut told her that something had shifted. The sudden halt in the fighting, the lack of further communication, the absence of ravens bearing instructions—it was too clean, too perfect. What aren't they telling us? The thought circled like a vulture above her mind. Lyanna had never been one to trust easily, and now, more than ever, she knew she couldn't trust the silence. But she could trust her sword. She had trained for this. She had always known how to fight, and she would fight her way to the truth.

But first, there would be more battles. She would continue to march south, raise her men once more—and when the time was right, when the silence broke, she would kill the Dragon.

"Gather 'round," she commanded, her voice cutting through the din like a sharp blade, after her men had spent their energy for the day training in the yard. The men slowly drew closer, the laughter dying down as they saw the hard set of her jaw. She held up the parchment, its wax seal already broken.

"There's been news," she began, her voice carrying over the rustle of the camp. "The rebellion... it seems it may be crumbling before us. Word from the Trident demands our surrender." Her voice did not waver, though she felt the weight of the words like a stone pressing on her chest.

A murmur rippled through the assembled men. Some faces grew dark with disbelief, others simply looked bewildered.

"They say Robert Baratheon is dead, and Jon Arryn himself has bent the knee," she continued, the words bitter on her tongue. "The lords of the Vale and Storm's End have yielded. The Riverlands will soon follow suit," Lyanna's voice was steady, though a cold rage simmered beneath the surface. "They command us to lay down our swords, return the lands we've taken, and bend the knee to the Mad King."

The silence that followed was thick, the air heavy with the unspoken fury and confusion. Lyanna's fingers tightened around the parchment until her knuckles turned white. Lyanna spotted Yohn Royce standing apart, away from the training yard and her men. Clad head to toe in his gleaming bronze armor, he cut an imposing figure, his fifty sworn knights gathered close by. A deep frown etched across his face betrayed his discontent.

Lyanna stood tall before her men, her gaze unwavering as she watched their faces flicker with doubt. She could see the fear in some of their eyes—fear not just of the Targaryens, but of the uncertainty that hung in the air like a stormcloud. The rebellion had lost its backbone with Robert dead and Jon Arryn's surrender. It was a bitter blow, but she would not allow it to break them.

"But I tell you this," she spat, her eyes flashing like the edge of a northern blade. "We will not bend. We will not yield. The North remembers, and we will show them what it means to face wolves in their den."

"Gather your swords," she exclaimed, her voice carrying the weight of a commander who would not yield. "We march at dusk. We will reach Sow's Horn by dawn tomorrow."

Yohn Royce turned, his knights following his lead with practiced precision. Lyanna cursed under her breath, the weight of the loss settling on her. She had lost a great commander today. Before making the proclamation, she had been certain that the Bronze Yohn would march back to the Riverlands, likely to join his liege lord, Jon Arryn, and return to the Vale. The lord of Runestone was nothing if not honorable, and he would not forsake his allegiance to House Arryn.

There were murmurs of approval from her more fervent men, the ones who had followed her through thick and thin, who believed in the fire of the North. Their raised swords and axes were a show of defiance, of continued loyalty to her cause. But in the shadows, there were those whose resolve was already beginning to crumble. They had expected victory to be handed to them. They had hoped Robert's rebellion would sweep through the land like a flood, but now it was a trickle, and they were caught in the undertow.

Lyanna's eyes swept over the gathered men, noting the divided expressions. Fear and uncertainty. But they would follow her. She would make sure of it.

"House Hogg will be the next of many Targaryen bannermen to fall to our swords," she declared, her voice steady, with just the right amount of fury. "The Targaryens will have to meet our terms, or we will burn the Crownlands to the ground."

She knew she was bluffing—she would not burn the innocent smallfolk's homes and farmlands. She would not become what they were fighting against. But the loyalist forces didn't need to know that. Fear could drive men to table to bargain. And right now, she needed their fear, for that was all she had.

The hesitant men exchanged glances, but a few raised their swords in agreement, their wariness softened by the conviction in her words. The others—those who had fought with Robert, who had fought with Jon Arryn—remained still, their fear palpable.

Lyanna clenched her fists, feeling the weight of the sword at her side, its hilt familiar and cold. Tomorrow, she thought, we continue this matter what those old lords had to say, no matter what they thought of her defiance, Lyanna would lead them forward. She would see this through to the end.

When she turned to leave, she felt the gaze of her men following her, their doubts still there, but their loyalty unbroken—for now. She had won this round, but tomorrow would be the true test. Would they stand with her when the dawn broke, when Sow's Horn loomed ahead, or would they falter?

She would make sure they didn't.

Chapter Text

RHAEGAR

It was the hour of the bat, and the night cloaked the world in shadows as Prince Rhaegar urged his horse onward, flanked by his two sworn swords, Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. They had left the bulk of their army behind in their slow march toward King's Landing. Rhaegar's patience had run thin; he would not let the realm suffer another day under his father's madness.

They rode hard through the Crownlands, now mostly held by the Wolves of Winterfell and the Trout of Riverrun. The air was thick with the scent of spring grass and the distant smoke of sacked villages. It was here, amidst the broken lands, that the name "Lady Ravenclaw" haunted Rhaegar's ears like a whispered omen. He had dismissed it once, over a year ago, when word came that Maidenpool had been savagely sacked and its women and children put to the sword. But now, as he rode through lands scarred by her forces, the name was spoken more often, with equal measures of fear and admiration.

Rhaegar's mind flashed back to the conversation with Jon Arryn, just before the signing of the peace agreement. The cool evening air had carried the weight of unspoken words, as if both men knew the consequences of what was about to unfold, but neither dared to voice it aloud. Jon had been calm, ever the pragmatist, as he laid out his thoughts. "I do not trust you, Rhaegar," he'd said, his voice low, a touch of something unreadable in his eyes. "But the realm—" He paused, as if weighing each word carefully. "The realm needs peace. We can't afford to let it burn any longer. Robert's death has left a hole, and I fear the wrong hands may fill it."

Reluctantly, Jon had chosen to support Rhaegar, turning away from the rebellion and backing him to overthrow his father. "I am not interested in revenge," he had told Rhaegar. "I just want a peaceful realm ruled by a just king. Whether that had been you, Rhaegar, or Robert Baratheon." He paused, reflecting on the weight of the choice, his voice lowering as he continued, "Ned is a good man, and he will be a great lord of Winterfell, but he would never sit the Iron Throne. Robert was our choice for king, but now he's dead. Stannis... Stannis is too rigid. The realm would be divided under his reign." Rhaeger watched as the Lord of the Vale shuddered at the thought of what might come next, then whispered with quiet urgency, "If the rebellion were to succeed without Robert, Tywin Lannister and his children could very well seize the throne in the chaos. Their army, untouched by the bloodshed that has ravaged the realm, would be a force none could stand against. The Lions would be unchallenged."

Jon Arryn, his now secret conspirator, had promised to muster 10,000 knights of the Vale to bolster Rhaegar's forces in their hidden conspiracy to overthrow the Mad King. But Hoster Tully would not commit to the cause, and Eddard Stark... Eddard Stark was nowhere to be found. Rumors had reached Rhaegar through Ser Barristan that Stark had crossed swords with the King's Guard in a fit of fury. It had not ended well for the Stark.

Ser Barristan, ever honorable, recounted how he had faced Eddard in single combat, seeking only to wound and subdue. "The man fought like a wolf cornered," Barristan had said, his voice low and filled with a hint of regret. "I cut him lightly, hoping to force him to yield, but he would not relent. I had no choice but to leave him with a deep gash in his leg to save his life."

The wound had festered, or so Rhaegar had heard from the whispers of maesters and ravens. But it would not cause the Lord of Winterfell to lose his leg entirely. A permanent limp, yes, and perhaps a cane for the rest of his days, the maester had warned the crown prince. That was a bitter consequence, Rhaegar knew, one that would surely leave a stain on his hoped-for reign. A crippled Stark, one who would forever curse his name.

"Off to a peaceful start, indeed," Rhaegar thought bitterly, shaking off the creeping dread that clung to him like a shadow. The thought troubled Rhaegar as they galloped through the darkened fields. He respected Eddard Stark's honor, even if their paths had diverged. But now, all his thoughts turned to King's Landing and the throne that had poisoned his father's mind. Rhaegar's destiny was drawing closer, and he knew that to unseat the Mad King, he would need every ally—and every enemy subdued. He forced his mind away from thoughts of the North, away from the consequences of his actions. Eddard Stark was but one man; there were more pressing matters at hand.

As they galloped further down the King's Road, Rhaegar's eyes fell upon another charred town in the distance. It was yet another settlement reduced to rubble and ash, its once-bustling streets now eerily silent. The sigils of House Stark and House Tully fluttered on makeshift banners amidst the ruins.

Lady Ravenclaw. The name was whispered with both reverence and dread wherever he rode, as if it were a spell conjuring both admiration and fear. As they entered the smoldering remains of the town, Rhaegar Targaryen let out a sigh of relief. There were no bodies dangling from trees, no weeping mothers searching for lost children. Though the town had been looted and scorched, it was damage that time—and gold—could mend.

Perhaps, Rhaegar thought, this Lady Ravenclaw was not as monstrous as the tales suggested. He had seen firsthand the atrocities that lesser forces committed when given free rein: the pillaging, the unspeakable cruelty, the disregard for innocent lives. Yet this enigmatic hooded figure seemed to operate with a strange sort of honor, leaving behind ruined stone but not the bodies of the helpless.

Beaten loyalist soldiers, their eyes hollow with defeat, had spoken of her with a mix of awe and terror. They spun stories of a slender, fierce maid, no older than Rhaegar himself, who wielded her blade as if it were an extension of her will. They claimed she could slice through a ring of knights with ease, that she had bested the finest swordsmen of the Reach, the proud Tyrells, as though they were clumsy squires.

Some accounts seemed fanciful—tales of Lady Ravenclaw cutting down swathes of armored men, dancing through the battlefield with a grace no warrior could hope to match. But enough voices had repeated these stories to give Rhaegar pause. Perhaps she was not just a myth conjured by frightened soldiers. Perhaps she was a force to be reckoned with.

And that worried him.

As much as he loathed to admit it, Rhaegar was not eager to cross swords with this northern warrior. His forces were stretched thin, and every skirmish drained precious strength when they were so close to their true goal: King's Landing. He could not afford to waste lives and energy in pointless battles over the rubble of the Crownlands. No, he would let Ravenclaw have her fleeting victories.

"Let her run wild for now," Rhaegar mused, spurring his horse onward. "When the throne is mine, there will be a reckoning."

Someone, eventually, would answer for the sacking of Maidenpool.

"What do you think, Arthur?" Rhaegar asked as they listened to yet another grisly account of Lady Ravenclaw's deeds. A Targaryen soldier, trembling with the memory, described her as a monster—scarred beyond recognition, her face hideous, her lips cracked and pale, her hair black as night. The soldier claimed she chopped off her men's hands for disobedience and had an unholy rage that left no survivors in her wake.

Arthur Dayne, ever unflappable, smirked, his interest piqued. "Rubbish, my prince," he said, though there was a spark of something in his amethyst eyes. "But I'll admit, I'd love to cross swords with her. Let's see if this Northerner can stand against Dawn." His gaze flicked to his sheathed ancestral steel, his pride evident.

Barristan Selmy snorted, unimpressed. No doubt the older knight had heard more than his share of boasts and tales of splendid duels. Glory and sport had lost their appeal to Barristan the Bold, Rhaegar knew, replaced with the heavy weight of duty. Still, Barristan listened silently as they rode through the night, the stars overhead their only witnesses.

By the time dawn broke, they had reached the broken remnants of a Stark-Tully camp near The Antlers. The camp stood abandoned, its ashes cold and the silence heavy, save for the hushed whispers of peasants passing through, recounting the bloody deeds done just days before. Tales of Lady Ravenclaw and her men breaching the walls of The Antlers in the dead of night had spread far and wide. They spoke of blood spilled in sacrifice to the Old Gods, of fires lit as offerings. It was all so preposterous that Rhaegar couldn't suppress a small scoff as they left the ruin.

Rhaegar and his escort took a swift detour, riding toward The Antlers to verify the rumors that had been swirling like smoke in the air. "We will only survey the scene and leave," he had ordered his Kingsguard, "We will not engage the Stark forces manning the castle walls."

The truth of the smallfolk's raving proved less fantastical but no less unsettling. Stark and Tully's banners fluttered in the morning breeze, their vibrant sigils stark against the blackened remnants of what had once been House Buckwell's stronghold. The crimson dragon of House Targaryen's banner lay smoldering in the dirt outside the walls, its once proud colors reduced to ash, scattered across the stones like forgotten promises. Stark and Tully men lined the walls, grim-faced and silent, no more than nine, by Rhaegar's reckoning. It mattered not. He had no mind to halt and retake the castle, not this day. To breach those thick walls would be a slow and costly endeavor, and the Starks held the height, their advantage clear.

If human sacrifices had been made here, they were not to the Old Gods or any Gods for that matter. As Rhaegar dismounted, his gaze swept over the destruction outside the castle gates. The stories, with their half-truths and embellishments, mattered little now. One truth stood clear: Lady Ravenclaw had left her mark, a scar upon the land that would not be easily forgotten. Yet, as he studied the scene, there were no bodies—no men, women, or children mutilated upon the ground. No signs of human sacrifice or torture.

Yes, this Ravenclaw figure intrigued Rhaegar deeply. His sword hand twitched involuntarily, betraying a flicker of excitement. Still, he reminded himself sternly that he had no time for foolish duels against northern savages, however skilled or infamous they might be. The Antlers, stripped of all value and abandoned by their rightful occupants, was a haunting sight. He would pass judgment on the warlord once he took the crown, he was not seeking glory in a pointless duel with a woman.

Yet, something about the scene gnawed at him. Everywhere else they had passed on their march south still bore the unmistakable signs of Stark forces: Northmen patrolling the walls, Riverrun banners snapping in the wind, marketplaces teeming beneath northern rule. But here, at The Antlers, there was an unsettling emptiness. Rhaegar could not understand why Lady Ravenclaw had left such a prominent stronghold so poorly manned. Unless...

A sudden realization struck him. She means to take the majority of her forces south!To another castle, perhaps. Or worse, to King's Landing itself—marching her thousand men to burn Flea Bottom to the ground.

Pushing the unease aside, Rhaegar turned his small party back to the King's Road. The bulk of his army, once trailing far behind during his frequent stops, was beginning to catch up. He vowed to ride hard to King's Landing without further delay. "No more stops," he muttered to himself. "We'll reach the capital by tomorrow."

The day passed uneventfully. There were no signs of Ravenclaw or her men—no looted towns, no burned banners. For a fleeting moment, Rhaegar allowed himself to hope she had heeded the peace parchment and withdrawn her forces back to Riverrun. That hope shattered as they approached the Ivy Inn, nestled along the King's Road.

Panic greeted them. Fleeing men and women raced past, shouting of attackers scaling the walls of the nearby castle.

"Ravenclaw," Rhaegar muttered, his jaw tightening as his violet eyes darted toward Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy. The two knights exchanged a grim glance before nodding solemnly. They all knew what had to be done.

For what kind of king would Rhaegar be if he allowed the castles of his own bannermen to fall while he rode past, pretending ignorance?

His stomach twisted. He hated the delay, hated the distraction. But this had to end. And it had to end now.

Arthur Dayne rode beside the crown prince, barely containing his excitement, his violet eyes bright with anticipation. His sword hand twitched, eager for a clash worthy of Dawn. "A fine day for a battle," he remarked, his voice carrying a rare edge of enthusiasm as they galloped from the Ivy Inn toward Sow's Horn.

"Sow's Horn won't fall," Barristan Selmy stated, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. Despite the noise of battle growing louder as they neared the castle, the legendary knight's confidence was unshaken.

Rhaegar wasn't so convinced. This Ravenclaw had taken every castle and town in her path with alarming ease, if the scattered witnesses were to be believed. He cursed under his breath. Had the ravens not reached this faction of the rebellion, or were they simply defying their liege lords and continuing the pillaging of the Crownlands unchecked?

The sight that greeted them in the surrounding farmland was, at least, a small relief. There were no smoldering ruins, no signs of looting or scorched fields. "It seems they're focused on taking the castle itself," Barristan observed, gesturing toward the formidable walls of Sow's Horn.

Rhaegar's sharp eyes followed the veteran knight's hand. Hundreds of men, carrying Stark and Tully banners, were assailing the walls of Sow's Horn with siege towers. The castle stood proud, its towering hundred-foot-high walls and eight-foot-thick stone bristling with defenders. Foolish, Rhaegar thought. Sow's Horn is one of the strongest keeps in the Crownlands. Cunning alone won't bring it down.

"We should wait," Rhaegar said, his voice tight with frustration. "Let our forces catch up before we engage. We can trap them against the castle walls and crush them." His words carried the weight of command, though his displeasure was evident.

This was not the battle he wanted. Every hour spent here was an hour lost on the road to King's Landing. His father's madness still festered on the Iron Throne, and Rhaegar's impatience gnawed at him like a wolf in his belly. Who knew what fresh horrors Aerys had wrought in his absence?

Rhaegar sighed, the weight of inevitability settling heavily on his shoulders. He knew he was about to lose men—men he would need for the greater battle at King's Landing. Yet there was no avoiding it.

After an hour, as a significant portion of the Targaryen infantry finally caught up, the heavy cavalrymen were still lagging behind. Their armor weighed them down, and their large horses struggled to maintain speed on the uneven terrain of the King's Road. Despite their impressive strength and imposing presence on the battlefield, the heavy cavalry was at a disadvantage in this scenario, where agility and speed were paramount. The infantry had managed to keep a steady pace, outdistancing their mounted counterparts. He resigned himself to the grim task ahead.

"Form ranks!" Rhaegar barked, his voice cutting through the clamor of the battlefield. "Bolster the lines! Shields and spears at the ready!" His commands were sharp and decisive. The soldiers scrambled into formation, their discipline hard-earned through months of service. They would break the rebel forces on the walls of Sow's Horn.

A single cry rose from the Targaryen infantry, and then a thousand voices roared in unison as they charged toward the castle walls, a wave of steel and fire intent on crushing the rebels where they stood.

But the crushing blow Rhaegar envisioned never came.

A horn sounded atop the siege towers, cutting through the thick of battle. The Stark banners above swayed defiantly in the breeze as their forces turned to face the oncoming charge. They braced themselves with grim determination, their lines holding firm against the Targaryen onslaught.

Rhaegar cursed under his breath. The rebels did not crumble as he had hoped. Instead, they met his soldiers head-on, fighting with a tenacity born of desperation and pride. Steel rang against steel, and blood stained the ground as the two armies clashed.

For every inch of ground Rhaegar's men gained, they paid in blood. The Stark loyalists fought like wolves cornered, their ferocity unmatched. They slashed, bit, and clawed at the Targaryen lines, their resilience unnerving.

Rhaegar's brow furrowed as he surveyed the chaos. For every two rebels that fell, one of his men died alongside them. The losses were unsustainable.

He clenched his fists in frustration. This battle needed to end swiftly, yet the rebels showed no signs of breaking. His soldiers might force them against the castle walls eventually, but at what cost? Every man lost here weakened his strength for the looming confrontation at King's Landing—a confrontation where his father's abdication might hinge on a show of unyielding power.

Rhaegar's violet eyes burned with determination. The Mad King's reign would end, but first, this field of death had to be won.

The battle teetered on a knife's edge for several minutes. The battle was slowly turning in favor of the Targaryen loyalists. Their forces had nearly achieved victory, his men pressing the rebels hard against the castle walls, when the unthinkable happened. The portcullis of Sow's Horn groaned and began to rise.

Rhaegar's brow furrowed in confusion. Why would Lord Hogg, a loyal bannerman, order the gates opened when victory was so near? His answer came swiftly. It was not Lord Hogg's doing. Stark and Tully infiltrators had breached the castle's defenses, overpowering the house guards and seizing control of the gates.

The tide of battle shifted back in favor of the Stark-Tully forces. Rebel forces surged into the courtyard, reinforcements pouring through the open gates. If the rebels took the castle entirely, they could fortify its defenses, forcing Rhaegar into a protracted siege he could ill afford. The hundreds of loyalist lives already lost would be for nothing.

Rhaegar's teeth clenched in frustration. He would not lose this battle.

"With me!" he barked to Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne. For the first time in this battle, Rhaegar charged into the thick of the fray, his short silver hair gleaming like a banner in the sun. Axes and swords swung wildly around him, but he pressed on, weaving through the chaos with the precision of a trained knight.

The castle gates loomed ahead, rebels swarming through and cutting down the last defenders within. Rhaegar drove his horse hard, barely slowing as he dismounted inside the courtyard, his sword flashing in the afternoon light. Ser Barristan and Arthur followed, forming a protective circle around their prince.

"I can handle these men," Rhaegar growled over the cacophony of battle, his voice firm and unyielding. "Go secure the portcullis and lower it. Seal this castle. The rebels will be crushed on the castle walls without an escape route. I will find Ravenclaw and end this madness myself."

Ser Barristan hesitated, his eyes narrowing with concern. The Kingsguard's oath bound him to protect Rhaegar, and abandoning his post felt like a betrayal. But Arthur, knowing Rhaegar well and accustomed to him fighting his own battles, did not hesitate. With a swift motion, he unsheathed Dawn, its blade catching the light, and readied himself to charge forward. While Barristan wrestled with his duty, Arthur's eyes remained on the fight ahead—his loyalty unwavering, trusting in Rhaegar's ability to handle what came next.

"With me!" Arthur called to Barristan as he sprinted toward the chains that controlled the portcullis, his sword cutting through any rebel foolish enough to bar his path. After a tense moment, Barristan nodded and followed, his blade carving a path through the chaos.

Rhaegar watched them go, his grip tightening on his sword. The rebels still flooded into the courtyard, but he felt no fear.

"I am no stranger to blood," Rhaegar muttered, slashing deeper into the courtyard where the chaos raged hottest. His violet eyes searched for a glimpse of the figure who had so thoroughly upended his plans—Lady Ravenclaw.

The clash of steel and the shrieks of dying men began to fade as Rhaegar sprinted toward the sept of House Hogg, his every sense honed on the shadow ahead. He had faced death many times before, yet this—this elusive figure cloaked in defiance—stirred something dark within him. It was not merely her brutality that called to him, but the strange magnetism of her rebellion, a challenge unlike any he had ever known.

Inside the sept, he found several Tully and Northern men forcing themselves upon a weeping woman. So, Lady Ravenclaw is losing control of her men, Rhaegar thought with bitterness, his gaze hardening.

"It's the dragon spawn!" One of the men shouted, pointing a gloved finger at Rhaegar after the crown prince made his presence known by crashing through the sept's dark oak doors.

The men, for a moment distracted by the sight of him, forgot the lady they had intended to dishonor. They turned instead, their growls echoing like wolves on a hunt, charging toward Rhaegar with bloodlust in their eyes. "Die!" they howled, but they were no match for him. The first two, reckless in their fury, fell to his blade with swift precision.

The remaining Rivermen and the last Northerner hesitated, eyes darting for an escape that never came. They charged, axes and spears raised, but Rhaegar danced through their attacks like a feline, sidestepping, slashing, parrying with the deadly rhythm of a knight. He even used his fist to crush the nose of one who had foolishly tried to flee behind Rhaeger, the banner of House Manderly etched on his armor.

The fight was over in moments. The sept floor, once holy, now soaked with blood, the stone greedily drinking it in as if a babe at its mother's teats.

"Hide, my lady. Find shelter. Stay hidden," Rhaegar urged the woman, helping her to her feet. She was too shaken to speak, her eyes wide with terror. A nasty gash marred her thigh, the wound surely a foreshadowing of the men's cruel intentions. Rhaegar's stomach twisted in revulsion. She nodded mutely, her only thought to flee, and she scurried away, disappearing into the shadows of the sept.

Rhaegar burst through the sept's arched doorway, his blade already in motion. Three men stood before him—two with the sigils of House Frey etched onto their steel armor, and one bearing the sun of winter, the sigil of House Karstark. With a single, fluid motion, Rhaegar cut through them. The first man, a Frey, felt the bite of Rhaegar's sword as it cleaved through his midsection, spilling his entrails onto the cold stone floor. The second Frey barely had time to react before Rhaegar's sword took his head clean off. The Karstark man, too slow to defend, met the same fate—his lifeless body collapsing as his head tumbled from his shoulders. Rhaegar wiped his blade, ready to sheath it, but before he could, the high-pitched cry of a young girl echoed through the air. His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the sound, his heart racing.

Rhaegar's breath caught as Lady Ravenclaw's form shifted in the midst of the carnage. Her hooded figure, draped in dark green, stood as an ominous silhouette against the blood-soaked ground. The courtyard, a sea of red, reflected the faint, dying light of the day, casting the scene in a chilling, almost otherworldly glow. She made no move at first, her back still turned to him, her cloak stirring lightly in the breeze. For a fleeting moment, Rhaegar considered that she might surrender—that the war had drained even her resolve. Then, with a swift motion, she turned, and the gleam of steel caught his eye.

Rhaegar froze as the woman's dagger pressed tightly against the throat of a sobbing young girl. The child, no older than ten, trembled in her captor's grasp, her round, tear-streaked face pale with terror. Blood beaded where the dagger bit into her throat.

"So, you've come for my head," the woman said, her voice low and venomous, laced with an icy calm that belied the chaos around them.

Rhaegar slowly lowered his longsword, holding it loosely in his hand to show he meant no immediate harm. Blood dripped from its tip, staining the earth beneath him.

"This is madness," he said, his voice ringing out with authority and frustration. "Leave the girl be. This does not have to end in innocent blood."

The woman's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Doesn't it? You and your kind have done it before."

She adjusted her grip on the girl, the dagger pressing slightly deeper. The child whimpered, tears wetting her cheeks. Her small hands clutched at the woman's arm, too weak to resist.

Rhaegar's violet eyes locked onto the woman's face, or what little of it he could see beneath her dark green hood. She was young—far younger than he had imagined for someone commanding such fear—and her lips, though shadowed, twisted with fury and defiance.

"You call yourself a liberator," Rhaegar began, his voice softening as he sought to diffuse the tension. "Yet here you are, hiding behind the life of an innocent. Is this the honor you claim to fight with?"

The words struck a chord; he saw it in the faint flicker of hesitation in her grip. But it passed as quickly as it came.

"Honor?" she spat, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Honor died the day the Mad King roasted Lord Rickard Stark and his son alive in the throne room. The flames that consumed them were the final death knell of any noble cause in this land. You speak of honor as if it still means something, but all that remains is ash and blood."

Rhaegar's jaw tightened. He took a cautious step forward, his sword still lowered. "I am not my father. I fight to end this madness, not perpetuate it. Let the girl go, and I will hear your grievances. You have my word."

The woman laughed bitterly. "Your word? The word of a dragon? Forgive me if I do not place much faith in it."

Despite her words, her grip on the girl seemed to falter slightly. Rhaegar saw his chance. He took another step forward, careful not to startle her.

"Let her go," he said, his voice low and steady. "Whatever vengeance you seek, it is with me. Not her."

"I should slit her throat now and paint the stonewalls with her blood. Would that bring your father to me? Would it make him wet with desire?"

"Stop!" Rhaegar's voice rang out, firmer now, the shock beginning to ebb. "The girl is innocent. She is no part of your quarrel."

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The woman's grip flickered again, this time with something that might have been doubt. But the dagger remained poised, the girl's life hanging by a thread.

Ravenclaw eventually discarded the young girl to the floor, tossing her out of harm's way with a swift, careless motion before reaching down to grasp a loose blade on the ground. Her fingers curled around the hilt, and with a flick of her wrist, she brandished it like an extension of herself. Now armed with two weapons—a slender dagger and a true longsword—she stood poised and ready, a force to be reckoned with.

She had discarded her hood entirely, the fabric tumbled away like a dark shadow retreating before the sunlight. Beneath, she wore only a chestplate emblazoned with the Stark sigil, the plain blue shirt underneath visible at the neckline. Her leather riding breeches clung to her legs, sturdy and practical for the battlefield. Her narrow, sharp features were now fully exposed, illuminated in the flickering shadows, and her steel-blue eyes burned with a ferocity that matched the flames licking at the walls. In that moment, she was no longer just a shadow of legend; she was a living tempest, fierce and untamed, ready to claim the battlefield as her own.

Rhaegar stood frozen, the weight of the revelation crashing over him like a storm. The figure before him—Lady Ravenclaw, the scourge of the Crownlands, the terror of Targaryen forces—was none other than Lyanna Stark! The woman who had once haunted him, not in nightmares, but in fleeting dreams of peace and beauty amidst the chaos.

Her face, now unhidden, was a mask of fury, framed by dark-brown locks that spilled unevenly around her collarbone. Her striking blue-grey eyes, once capable of disarming even the hardest of hearts, burned with madness. Yet, beneath the fire, Rhaegar saw something else—pain, loss, a wounded spirit driven to the brink.

She was a woman now. No longer could Rhaegar find in her face the youthful innocence of the girl who had sat at the Tourney of Harrenhal, unimpressed by the spectacle, her eyes scanning the knights as though they were mere distractions. The fire in her eyes now was something far fiercer. Lyanna Stark had changed, and Rhaegar was keenly aware of it.

Even with soot and blood smeared across her face, there was no denying the woman she had become. Rhager's thoughts betrayed him, flickering momentarily to something he knew was dangerous to entertain. She was beautiful—more so than he remembered. Her face was heart-shaped, with plump, red lips and high cheekbones that cut through the grimness of the battlefield like a delicate sculpture. Her hair, tangled and wild, framed her face like a crown of chaos, a perfect, untamed chaos.

The softness of her arms, once delicate and slender, had been replaced by the subtle yet undeniable lines of corded muscle, the mark of a warrior. Every movement she made now carried the quiet strength of someone who had fought, bled, and survived. It only added to the allure, something raw and captivating.

Rhaegar could almost hear the whispers in the halls of court, the awe in men's voices as they spoke of her. She would drive them mad, he knew. No man could stand in her presence without feeling that pull, that intoxicating blend of grace and defiance. And as she stood before him now, ready to strike, Rhaegar realized that Lyanna Stark was no longer just a figure of legend—she was a force in her own right, one that even a crown prince might find difficult to resist.

"Lyanna Stark…" he whispered, almost to himself, the name a bitter taste on his tongue. His grip tightened on his sword, though it still pointed harmlessly toward the ground. How had it come to this? How had the spirited girl of Winterfell become this vengeful specter, a force of nature more dangerous than any knight or bandit?

Rhaegar could not deny the atrocities committed in his family's name, could not erase the bloodshed that had driven Lyanna to this point. But he could not let her madness consume them, nor could he let her leave this castle.

"I am not my father," Rhaegar said firmly, his voice steady now. "I fight to stop his madness, Lyanna. I fight for a better realm, for a realm where no child must suffer. But that world cannot be built on more bloodshed."

The courtyard stood frozen, the air thick with anticipation. The distant clash of steel and shouts from the ongoing battle outside seemed like a world away, leaving only the charged silence between Rhaegar and Lyanna.

Her gaze locked with his, burning with a fury that seemed to cut deeper than any blade could. For a fleeting moment, Rhaegar thought that his flowery words, his attempt to sway her, might be enough to make her reconsider. Perhaps he could reach her, quell her thirst for vengeance with the right argument, the right appeal to reason.

But no. Her defiance burned hotter. The vengeance that had stirred in his chest turned to ice as she spoke, her voice low and cold, yet full of venom.

"Only one of us leaves this alley alive, Dragon."

And in that instant, Rhaegar knew her choice.

Her words cut through the heavy air, sharper than the dagger and sword she gripped in both hands, the two blades gleaming with deadly promise. There was no trace of hesitation in her stance—Lyanna Stark was ready to fight to the death.

The last of Rhaegar's resolve hardened. There would be no negotiation, not today. Only the clash of steel and the test of wills between two warriors who could not, and would not, back down.

He readied his own blade, the weight of it familiar in his hand, the fiery determination in his heart mirroring the storm raging in hers. He would not yield. Not to the past that haunted them both.

With a sharp breath, Lyanna lunged first. She would be the one to start their dance.

Rhaegar barely had time to adjust his blade before Lyanna was upon him, her speed startling him. She moved with the grace and deadly precision of a demon unleashed. Her blade came at him like a flash of lightning, a thrust aimed at his chest, fury and desperation fuelling the strike. The speed behind it was overwhelming, and for a moment, Rhaegar thought he might not be fast enough to react.

But instincts honed from years of combat kicked in. He sidestepped just in time, the edge of Lyanna's blade grazing the air where his ribs had been a heartbeat ago. The force of the thrust carried her forward, but Lyanna was already spinning, her second blade a blur of motion as she adjusted, seeking another opening.

Her speed was unnerving, unlike any fighter Rhaegar had faced before. It was as if she had become the embodiment of lightning itself—unpredictable, relentless, and unyielding. The comparison to Jaime Lannister, renowned for his quickness and deadly precision, flashed through his mind. Though Lyanna lacked the physical strength and technical mastery of the young Lion, her speed was every bit as lethal. Rhaegar quickly shoved the thought aside. This was no time for distractions.

Lyanna's eyes never left his, a wild intensity in her gaze that only sharpened with each failed attempt to land a blow. She was relentless, a flurry of motion, her blades cutting through the air in a deadly dance.

Rhaegar silently gave thanks to the Gods that he had cast aside his leg armor, wearing only his riding breeches and his castle-forged chestplate. He could scarcely imagine how he would have kept pace with her fury had he been fully encased in armor. As it was, he wore nothing but his chestplate and steel boots, the weight of them a mere fraction of the burden a full suit would have been.

Rhaegar raised his sword, parrying her strike with a heavy clang of steel against steel. The force of it sent a tremor through his arm, but he held his ground. She was wickedly quick, but lacked the raw strength of a man forged for war. He had faced foes twice his size before; this would be no different.

Yet, as the fight raged on, Rhaegar began to realize that this was more than just a duel. This was a reckoning. A clash not just of steel, but of wills. And he was starting to understand the true depth of the woman who stood before him—Lyanna Stark, a force of nature, with a heart as fierce and untamed as the land she came from.

She was not holding back. Her movements were a blur, her dual blades weaving a deadly dance of strikes and feints, each one aimed with purpose. To kill him! This wasn't the reckless fury of a common soldier—this was trained skill, honed by someone who had been fighting in the yard for far too long.

"Lyanna, stop this madness!" Rhaegar shouted, deflecting another rapid series of strikes. His voice carried a mix of urgency and fear. "You do not have to die here. Winterfell will need your guidance—your family needs you alive!"

"My family?" Lyanna hissed, her voice dripping with venom. Her blades clashed against his, the sound echoing in the narrow alley. "My family would have lived if your father hadn't burned them alive! And how does the crown prince respond to our cries for justice? He marches his banners into the Riverlands, slaughtering anyone who dares defy him!" Lyanna roared, redoubling her offensive onslaught, her fury fueling each strike.

Her words struck harder than her blades, but Rhaegar steadied himself. He had to end this, not with violence but with reason. Yet, she gave him no time, her blades flashing like silver lightning.

"You think I'm blind to the past, Lyanna?" Rhaegar snarled, his voice a mix of regret and steel. "I did not march into the Riverlands for conquest. I did it to secure the realm, to stop the flames of war that Robert Baratheon and his allies were spreading. You think I wanted this?" He parried another strike, his muscles straining against the force of her blows. "Your family is not the only one that suffered."

"Lies again!" Lyanna snapped, sidestepping his strike and spinning into a slash that grazed his exposed shoulder. "Do you think I haven't heard promises before? You want peace, dragonspawn? Earn it!"

Her relentless attacks were taking their toll, but Rhaegar's resolve hardened. He could not kill her, the North would never bend the knee if he did. He needed to disarm her, to stop her without taking her life.

They exchanged blows, the clash of steel and the rhythm of the duel filling the air, the kind of combat that would be sung of by bards for generations to come. For a brief moment, their faces were inches apart, her ragged breath mingling with his.

Rhaegar's sword came down in a calculated arc, his eyes searching for an opening. Lyanna, crouched low and quick, attempted to slash at his legs, but Rhaegar anticipated the move. He adjusted his strike, not aiming for her head, but instead driving the blade into her left shoulder muscle with a sickening squelch. The sound of metal meeting flesh rang out, and he expected her to yield, as most knights would have in the face of such a brutal wound.

But Lyanna was no knight.

She refused to scream as the blade cut deep into her shoulder. Instead, she gritted her teeth, her face contorted with fierce resolve, and in a fluid motion, she slipped away from the sword's dangerous bite. Rhaegar was caught off guard, his mind racing to adjust.

Her eyes, burning with defiance and danger, locked with his, a silent acknowledgment that she had gained the upper hand for a fleeting moment. Seizing the opportunity, Lyanna swung the small blade she carried with terrifying precision, slashing deep into Rhaegar's thigh. The blood gushed from the wound, and for a brief second, his balance faltered.

But Rhaegar was no green boy. He dodged Lyanna's follow-up strike—a blow meant to end his life—and staggered back, now coated in mud, his anger igniting. His grip tightened around the hilt of his great sword, and the warrior within him stirred. The hesitation he had once shown in this battle was gone. He would no longer hold back.

If Lyanna noticed the change in his demeanor, she gave no sign of it. Her blades were already in position, poised for another assault.

Rhaegar didn't counterattack immediately, and this only seemed to fuel her resolve. She pressed forward, her movements swift and deadly, striking with the ferocity of vengeance itself—one last push to break him.

Focusing on her rhythm, Rhaegar bided his time, parrying each strike with precision. Lyanna's speed was extraordinary, but speed could be countered. When she lunged for his throat, her movements fueled by unyielding rage, Rhaegar pivoted and brought his hilt crashing down on her wrist.

Her blade clattered to the ground, and before she could recover, Rhaegar swept her legs out from under her. Lyanna hit the ground hard, but even then, she didn't surrender. She reached for her second blade, but Rhaegar's boot came down on her hand, pinning it to the dirt.

"Enough!" Rhaegar shouted, his voice firm but pained. "This ends now, Lyanna."

She glared up at him, her eyes still aflame. "Kill me," she spat. "Or I'll come for you again. You'll never know peace, Targaryen."

Rhaegar shook his head, his expression softening. "I won't kill you, Lyanna. I won't become the monster you think I am."

For the first time, her expression faltered. The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by confusion and, perhaps, a flicker of something else—exhaustion, despair.

"I do not want your death," Rhaegar continued, his voice steady. "I want your strength. I want you to help me end this madness, to help me build a better realm."

Lyanna's lips parted, but no words came. The weight of his words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken truths. For a moment, neither of them moved, the chaos of the battle beyond the alleyway fading into a distant hum.

Rhaegar removed his boot from her hand and extended his own. "Please," he said, his violet eyes meeting hers. "Let us forge a new Westeros."

Lyanna would never yield. The way her eyes danced with barely contained madness told Rhaegar all he needed to know. She was a force of nature, unstoppable, relentless.

With what little strength she had left, Lyanna lunged at his leg, grabbing hold of it with a ferocity that caught the crown prince off guard. The sudden pull threw him off balance, and before he could react, he found himself crashing down on top of her. The weight of the fall momentarily stunned them both, but Lyanna wasted no time, her hand already reaching for her blade, aiming to bury it deep into Rhaegar's neck.

But Rhaegar was quick. He knew exactly what she would do.

As her hand gripped the hilt of the blade, he was faster. In one swift motion, he grabbed her wrist and yanked the weapon from her grasp before she could strike. With a surge of strength, he threw the blade as far away as possible, sending it skittering across the muddy ground.

For a moment, they lay there, breathless and tangled, both of them aware that the battle was nearing its end. With Lyanna's weapon out of reach, Rhaegar's chances of ending the duel without bloodshed had grown infinitely better.

She was a sight to behold pinned under him—beautiful and terrifying, like a snowstorm made flesh.

Rhaegar felt the sheer wildness of Lyanna Stark beneath him as she thrashed, screaming with a feral rage that seemed more animal than human. Her teeth snapped at the air, her body twisting and writhing as if she were a cornered wolf determined to fight to the bitter end.

"Stop this madness!" Rhaegar growled, his own strength waning as he struggled to hold her down. His bloodied thigh throbbed, and the sharp sting on his shoulder from the earlier stab wound made every movement excruciating.

As Rhaegar's forearm pressed down on Lyanna's throat, choking her into submission with every ounce of his strength, she struggled beneath him, her body writhing in desperation. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the pressure on her windpipe making every second feel like an eternity. Her eyes were wild with fury, but there was a glimmer of something else too—something primal, something that told Rhaegar she was not going to go down without one last, brutal attempt.

With a quick, frantic motion, Lyanna's hand shot out to the ground, her fingers scraping through the mud, searching for anything she could use to strike back. She had found it: a jagged glass shard, its edges glinting in the dim light, covered in dirt and blood from the chaos of the battlefield.

In a flash, she drove it up with all her remaining strength, stabbing the shard deep into Rhaegar's exposed belly, just beneath his chestplate. The sudden shock of pain hit him like a hammer, and Rhaegar's breath caught in his throat as the glass twisted inside him. He grunted, his grip faltering for a moment as he felt the sting of the shard tear through his flesh. Blood surged from the wound, warm and thick, coating Lyanna's exposed stomach.

Rhaegar's vision blurred with pain, his head swimming as the blood loss quickly took its toll. But he wasn't about to be taken down by the Stark woman—not now, not after everything. Fury mixed with agony as he roared, his anger and frustration boiling over.

With a primal cry, he wrenched her hand away from the glass, his strength taking hold as he pinned her wrist to the ground. His anger surged as he slammed her arm down, over and over, until he heard the sickening crack of bone breaking. Lyanna's face twisted in pain, but she still refused to scream, her jaw clenched tight as blood seeped from the corners of her mouth. Her eyes burned with hatred, but Rhaegar could see the desperation behind them. She had nothing left.

But he did.

Weak and dizzy from the blood loss, Rhaegar knew he had to end this. If he didn't, Lyanna would find another way to finish him off. With his free hand, he grabbed the hilt of his sword, raising it high. The weight of the weapon felt distant in his hands, his vision swimming. He could barely stay conscious, but there was no time to falter. He brought the base of the hilt down with all his remaining strength, slamming it against Lyanna's head with a sickening crack.

Her body went limp beneath him, the fire in her eyes extinguished. Rhaegar could feel his own strength failing, the world spinning wildly as his head grew heavier. He rolled off of her, his breathing shallow and labored, his own wounds starting to take their toll. He didn't care about the battle anymore. His body was giving out, his mind slipping from his grasp.

Lyanna lay motionless beside him, unconscious, blood trickling from the wound in her head. Rhaegar's chest heaved with exhaustion, and he closed his eyes, unable to keep the world around him from fading to black.

Unbeknownst to the prince, the battle outside had reached its end. The castle's portcullis, once raised in defiance, was lowered by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne, their swords still bloodied from the clash. The rebels, no longer able to fight or flee, had surrendered. The white banner was raised, signaling the end of the battle—though for Rhaegar, the true war had just begun.

Chapter Text

JAIME

Flea Bottom reeked of piss and dung, the foul stench of humanity mingling with the heavy promise of war coming to their doorsteps. The alleys were clogged with filth, yet the streets themselves were eerily bare, save for the ragged figures of the desperate fleeing their doomed city. King's Landing had always been a city of contrasts—the splendor of the Red Keep perched high above the slums, as if mocking the wretches below—but now, even the golden spires seemed tarnished by the weight of their impending doom.

Jaime Lannister's steed navigated through the muck-strewn streets, his white cloak trailing perilously close to the filth. He cursed under his breath, though not for the first time that day. It had been Aerys, in all his madness, who had insisted on this absurd venture. The King had demanded his Kingsguard and dozens of the cities Gold Cloak, escort him into the heart of Flea Bottom.

The Mad King, as Jaime had come to think of him more often than not, had spoken of treason again, his voice quivering with fervor. He claimed his dragon dreams had shown him the truth—visions of Wolves, Stags, and Trouts stalking through the cobbled maze of Flea Bottom, their shadowy forms cornering a mighty dragon in the filth and grime of the streets. Jaime had stood motionless as Aerys recounted the dream to the small council, his tone veering from a whisper to a near-scream.

"In my dream, I was the dragon!" Aerys had hissed, his eyes glinting with fevered light. "The wolves snapped at my flanks, the trouts darted in to slash at my belly, and the stag came with its antlers, driving them deep into my breast. They thought me beaten, broken—but they did not know what they faced. I rose," he said, his voice climbing to a triumphant crescendo. "I spread my great black wings, blotting out the sun! Fire and blood poured from my maw, and the wolf burned, the trout flopped and sizzled, and the stag was naught but a charred carcass. I was reborn in flame, and they perished!"

The King's laughter had filled the chamber then, an unholy sound that echoed off the stone walls. Jaime had stood silent, his face a mask of neutrality, as the Mad King described the carnage with almost childlike glee. None dared to speak, not with the King seated before them, his violet eyes alight with madness. Once, they might have argued or pleaded for reason, but those days were long gone.

To speak to the King was to tempt his flames.

Now, as they trudged through the fetid streets of Flea Bottom, Jaime could see how Aerys' dream had consumed him. Every darkened corner, every suspicious face seemed to confirm his delusions. The common folk scattered as the King's retinue passed, their faces etched with fear. Yet in Aerys' mind, every fleeing soul was a traitor, a conspirator plotting to fell the dragon.

Jaime had heard the orders Aerys had given before they set out: the gates were to be barred, the people contained. If the wolves, trouts, and stags would come for him, they would find a city packed with bodies—human shields to slow their advance. That was the King's plan, his grand design to halt Robert's rebels. He would line the gates and streets with his own people, pawns in his delusion. And when the flames consumed them, when their screams rose to the heavens, Aerys would be born anew, a dragon to smite his enemies and claim his vengeance.

But Jaime knew the truth. The King's vision wasn't one of salvation—it was a prophecy of annihilation. Aerys didn't see ash and ruin; he saw glory. If he believed himself the dragon reborn, then he would burn them all to prove it.

As they moved deeper into the bowels of the city, Jaime's hand drifted instinctively to the hilt of his sword. The common folk scattered at their approach, wary of both the King's madness and the swords of his protectors.

"Poor wretches," Jaime thought grimly, watching a mother clutching her barefoot children as she darted into an alley. They fled the city in droves, fearing the wolves and stags that howled in the distance. But they did not know the truth. It was no rebel army that would be their end—it was the madman clad in silk and red velvet riding at Jaime's side. Aerys had no intention of sparing his subjects. To him, they were fodder, nothing more—a living wall to be thrown against his enemies when the gates fell.

The King's ranting filled the air, unbidden. "Close the gates!" he cried. "Let no one leave! The people are mine! Their flesh, their bones, their very blood—mine to command!" His command was shrill, a blade cutting through the heavy air.

Jaime clenched his jaw. He had known what Aerys intended the moment the order had been given to shut the gates. No one would escape now, not the beggars, not the merchants, not the whores. The city was a trap, and its people were its bait.

And yet, Jaime rode on, his white cloak as sullied as his honor, following the will of a king who would gladly burn them all.

The memory came unbidden, as vivid and sharp as the blade at Jaime's hip.

It was in the small council chamber, months before the streets of Flea Bottom had filled with the stench of despair and death. Jaime had stood behind the Mad King then, a silent sentinel cloaked in white and gold, his armor gleaming in the dim torchlight. The air in the chamber had been thick with tension, laced with the sour tang of spilled wine and lingering wildfire.

He could still see it: Qarlton Chelsted, the King's fanatical follower, pale and trembling with rage as he delivered the grim tidings. "Your Grace," Chelsted had said, his voice quivering with anger. "The Martell-Targaryen forces… they have been crushed at the Battle of the Bells. Robert Baratheon… he escaped."

Aerys' rage had erupted like wildfire. His goblet, brimming with red wine, flew from his hand, shattering against the stone wall in an explosion of crimson droplets. "Burn them!" he had screamed, his voice raw with fury. "Burn them all! Wolves, Falcons, Stags, Trouts—traitors, every one of them! Let them die screaming, their banners consumed by fire!"

Jaime had remained still, his face a mask of neutrality, watching the unfolding chaos with the detachment of a man who had seen too much already. Aerys turned his wrath on Jon Connington, the disgraced Hand of the King.

"Connington failed me!" Aerys had hissed, his eyes blazing. "A traitor, like all the rest! Drag him to King's Landing! Let him be paraded as a coward, then burned alive by my champion!"

No one had dared to argue, though Jaime had seen the unease in the eyes of the small council. Then Aerys' tone shifted, his fury softening into an unsettling sweetness as his gaze landed on Qarlton Chelsted.

"You," Aerys had said, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "You are my most faithful servant. You will be my Hand. You will see to it that my enemies burn, won't you?"

Chelsted had dropped to one knee with practiced ease, his forehead nearly brushing the stone floor. "It would be my greatest honor, Your Grace," he had murmured, his voice trembling with devotion. "Your justice will be swift. Fire and blood will cleanse the realm of treachery."

Jaime had watched, his lips tightening into a grim line. Aerys' choice of Qarlton Chelsted as Hand was no surprise; the man was as mad as the King himself, though he wore his madness with a veneer of control. Chelsted worshipped Aerys with a fervor that bordered on the grotesque, his loyalty as blind as it was dangerous. Jaime could still picture them in his mind's eye: the two of them, heads bent close together, whispering of flames and traitors in dark corners of the Red Keep.

The memory left a bitter taste in Jaime's mouth. He had known then, as he knew now, that their whispers would soon grow into shrills demanding blood.

The sun dipped low over the Narrow Sea, its golden light streaking across the city as Jaime and the royal retinue continued their exhaustive search through Flea Bottom. From dawn to dusk, they had scoured the streets and alleys, the King driven by his unrelenting paranoia. "Traitors," Aerys muttered under his breath, "spies in the shadows, whispering Stark treachery." Jaime doubted they would find any such thing. The Starks did not dabble in the craft of covert arts; their honor demanded they face their enemies head-on.

As the group wound their way through the dismal streets, they came upon a brothel, its weathered façade marked by a crude sign that read A Maiden's Pleasure. The sign swung lazily in the evening breeze, its paint cracked and faded.

"Stop here," Aerys commanded abruptly, his voice cutting through the silence of the city. The order was met with confused glances from the Gold Cloaks and King's Guard alike, but no one dared question him. The King dismounted, his movements frenetic, almost manic. He stared at the brothel with a gleam in his eye that Jaime recognized all too well—an unsettling mixture of excitement and madness.

"It's here," Aerys muttered. "The blood of the dragon tells me… it is here."

The brothel's creaking door swung open under Aerys' hand, and Jaime followed, his sword hand resting uneasily on the hilt of his blade. The interior smelled of flowers and stale perfume, a cloying aroma that clung to the air. Though the brothel no longer bustled with activity, it was not as abandoned as Jaime had expected. A handful of women lounged on silk-draped beds, their languid postures betraying their boredom.

When the King entered, however, they scrambled to their feet, the loose silks of their clothing slipping suggestively over their bodies. The King's Guard remained stone-faced, but Jaime noted the hungry gazes of the Gold Cloaks, their discipline faltering in the face of temptation.

It was not the Gold Cloaks who would act, though—it was Aerys. His gaze swept the room, and Jaime saw the shift in his expression, the precarious balance between lust and madness. The King's eyes landed on a woman with flowing metallic silver hair and dark steel eyes, her beauty almost ethereal.

"You," Aerys barked, pointing a trembling finger at her. She stepped forward confidently, her smile one of knowing charm. Jaime considered her for a moment. A Blackfyre descendant, perhaps? Or the bastard daughter of some Targaryen noble.

"Yes, my King," she purred, her voice smooth and honeyed. She moved with deliberate grace, clearly aware of her beauty and intent on using it to her advantage.

But Aerys was not a man swayed by mortal lust. His desires were twisted, shaped by his fractured mind and his unquenchable paranoia. When the woman drew close, Aerys' hand shot out with sudden violence, closing around her throat. She gasped, a sound of shock that quickly turned to a strangled cry.

"You were in my dream," Aerys hissed, his grip tightening. His eyes glazed over, that familiar glint of insanity overtaking him. "You, with your silver hair and traitor's eyes. Telling the Starks our secrets. You would see the dragon fall, wouldn't you? But the dragon does not fall. The dragon rises."

The woman's initial confidence gave way to panic. "Your Grace?" she stammered, her voice trembling as her hands clawed at his grip. "I—I don't understand—"

Jaime's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his instincts screaming at him to act. But he held back, his body a taut line of tension. To interfere would mean death—or worse, fire. He glanced at the other King's Guard, but they remained still, their faces masks of impassive obedience.

The woman's panic grew as Aerys' grip did not relent, and Jaime knew that what came next would not be sweet love-making. It would be madness, unbridled and cruel.

"Kill the rest of the whores. I must teach this one what it means to cross the dragon," Aerys commanded, his voice a rasping growl, sharp with menace and a promise of madness.

Jaime did not move. None of the King's Guard did—it was not their place to act unless the King himself was threatened. But the Gold Cloaks, only moments ago leering at the women with hunger in their eyes, now looked to one another in stunned hesitation. The weight of the order hung heavy in the air, freezing them in their tracks.

The uneasy silence broke when one of the Gold Cloaks, his hands trembling, unsheathed his sword. His blade came down in a brutal downward swing, splitting the skull of a young Dornish woman. Blood sprayed across the fine fur carpets, splattering the cobblestone walls. The remaining women screamed in terror, scattering like frightened deer, but the sight of blood seemed to ignite the rest of the Gold Cloaks. One by one, they drew their swords and descended upon the fleeing women.

Jaime stood unmoving, his face an impassive mask, but his stomach churned. The massacre unfolded before him, a symphony of screams and steel. Blood pooled on the floor, dark and glistening in the flickering light of the torches. It was over quickly, the screams silenced, the women's lives snuffed out at the whim of a madman.

Aerys surveyed the scene with a twisted smile of satisfaction. His eyes gleamed as he turned to the silver-haired woman, her body trembling, her grey steel eyes wide with terror. "You, my dear," he said with sickening sweetness, gripping her hair and dragging her forward, "will learn the price of treason."

He hauled her into one of the pleasure rooms, pulling the silk curtains shut behind him. Jaime shifted uncomfortably in his place, his hand placed on the hilt of his sword. He knew what came next—knew it all too well.

The screams began soon after. High, desperate, and filled with a pain that Jaime could not bring himself to imagine. Aerys' voice rose above them, incoherent and deranged, a vile litany of accusations and delusions. "Stark eyes," he shrieked, "traitors in Targaryen blood! Summerhall! Summerhall!" The words twisted and tangled, senseless fragments of the chaos in the King's mind.

The Gold Cloaks, unaccustomed to such hideous displays of brutality, exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes flickering toward the curtained room. But none dared intervene. Jaime's gaze remained fixed forward, his expression stoic, though a cold fury churned beneath his calm exterior. The screams of the woman clawed at his resolve, but he knew better than to act. This was the King's will, and the King's Guard were sworn to obey.

When the screams subsided, replaced by muffled sobs, Jaime exhaled slowly through his nose. He had seen horrors in his young life, but few left him as hollow as this. There were fates worse than death, he knew. And tonight, that truth hung heavy in the bloodstained air.

Jaime had nearly broken once. It was his first week in the White Cloak, a position he had hoped for with boyish eagerness. At the time, he had seen it as an escape from the burdens of being Tywin Lannister's heir—a chance to be a knight, to fight, and to serve a king in the stories. He had not realized how bitter the cost of those stories could be.

That night, Jaime had been assigned to the night watch outside Queen Rhaella's chambers. The novelty of the White Cloak still clung to him then, its weight a symbol of pride and purpose. He had stood tall and vigilant, imagining himself a stalwart protector of the realm. But the illusion shattered when King Aerys appeared at the far end of the hall.

Aerys' eyes gleamed with an unsettling combination of anger and disdain as he strode toward the queen's chambers. Even then, Jaime had heard whispers of the king's cruelty—dark tales dismissed by the crown as exaggerations by those who resented House Targaryen. Yet, the vacant, fevered look in Aerys' eyes as he passed confirmed what Jaime had been too young and too foolish to accept.

Aerys did not knock. He shoved open the door, his voice a growl of incoherent fury as he disappeared into the chamber. At first, Jaime stood still, unsure of what to do. Then he heard it—the muffled sound of Queen Rhaella's protests, rising to cries, then screams.

Jaime's hand went to his sword, drawing it halfway from its scabbard. His pulse thundered in his ears, his training and instincts warring with the oaths he had sworn. This is wrong. I am a knight. It is my duty to protect her.

He was one step from the door when Ser Jonothor Darry's hand clamped onto his arm.

"No," Darry said, his voice flat and cold. He pushed Jaime's sword back into its sheath with a firm, practiced motion.

"But why? It is our duty to protect the queen," Jaime whispered fiercely, his voice trembling with indignation and youthful righteousness.

"Aye, but not from him," Darry replied, his gaze hard as steel. He stepped back to his post on the other side of the door, his expression unmoved even as Rhaella's screams echoed through the hall.

Jaime froze, his hand falling limp at his side. He remained rooted in place, listening to the cries that no knight should ever ignore. Aerys' voice grew louder, his ranting incomprehensible, punctuated by the queen's sobs. Jaime wanted to move, wanted to act, but his legs felt like stone.

When the door finally opened, Aerys emerged with the air of a man who had tired of a task, his expression vacant, already detached from the horrors he had inflicted. "Come, Ser Jonothor," the king said dismissively, and Darry followed without hesitation.

Jaime did not look at Rhaella as she wept softly within the chamber. He could not bear the sight of his failure. Instead, he closed the door and resumed his watch, the coward that he was.

By morning, Queen Rhaella was regal as ever, issuing commands about Flea Bottom's orphan crisis as though nothing had happened. But Jaime saw it—the faint marks on her collarbone, dark and barely hidden by the fine fabric of her gown. The scars of the night were there, even if she hid them well.

The nightly visits became a grim routine. Each time, Jaime stood outside the door, his anger growing heavier, harder to contain, though he learned to keep it from his face. The boy who had donned the White Cloak with dreams of honor was gone, replaced by a man who understood the bitter truth of his oaths.

Jaime's thoughts returned to the present as Aerys emerged from the pleasure room, his robes hastily adjusted, his expression one of unsettling satisfaction. The Mad King's pale lips curled into a grotesque grin as he glanced back at the room, the muffled sobs of the silver-haired woman barely audible now.

"Darry," Aerys barked, his tone laced with a venomous glee. "Take the traitor. Slit her throat and feed her to the fish. I will have no Northern blood sullying my city."

History never changes, Jaime thought darkly. Ser Jonothor Darry, ever the dutiful shadow of the Mad King, stepped forward without hesitation. There was no horror in Darry's eyes, no flicker of sick gratification, only the cold resolve of a man resigned to his duty.

Ser Darry would always be there to clean up Aerys' sexual depravities, his sword as much a tool for silencing witnesses as it was for protecting the realm. Jaime had seen it before—Darry dragging broken women to their deaths, their lives snuffed out to preserve the king's delusions. The grim ritual had become routine, an unspoken task that neither knights nor lords acknowledged aloud.

It was a grotesque cycle Jaime had grown to hate, but one he was powerless to break. Darry bore it without question, his loyalty to House Targaryen an unshakable chain that bound him to Aerys' depravity. Jaime wondered how much longer Darry could endure it—or if, perhaps, the older knight had ceased to feel anything at all.

The silver-haired woman was dragged from the pleasure room, her broken body a portrait of Aerys' cruelty. Bite marks marred her pale skin, her right arm hung limp, blackened with bruises from whatever punishment the king had inflicted. Her eyes, once filled with the confidence she had used to lure men, were now hollow, staring through the world as though it no longer existed. She was naked, stripped of her dignity, as Darry led her outside. Jaime knew the deed would be done by the bay, where the city's filth met the water.

Aerys turned to Jaime, his wild eyes glinting with a deranged triumph. "You see, Ser Jaime," he said, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth, "your father may think I'm mad, but I have found the traitor. I gave the bastard Stark bitch the seed of the dragon. Cleansed her of her sins in the eyes of the Seven. The dragon dreams reveal all to me."

The king's voice grew more frenzied with each word, his twisted smile spreading as he recounted his depravity. Jaime felt his stomach churn, a bitter bile rising in his throat, but his face remained impassive. Any sign of disgust, even a flicker, could mean death by fire.

"She got what was coming," Jaime said evenly, forcing his voice to remain steady. "The Targaryen blood in her could not mask the treachery of her Stark lineage."

The words felt like ash in his mouth, but they had the desired effect. Aerys' laughter rang out, manic and unhinged, as he reveled in the illusion of his righteousness.

Inside, Jaime bitterly laughed. The idea of a Stark bastard so far south was absurd, a fabrication born of Aerys' paranoia and the poison of his so-called dragon dreams. Jaime swallowed the bitter laugh threatening to escape, burying it alongside the ever-mounting disgust he felt for himself.

This is what the White Cloak has brought me, he thought grimly. Not honor, not glory. Only silence in the face of horror.

Aerys was going to leave, return to the Red Keep and sulk, Jaime thought, but no, the Mad King had other plans.

He stared at the inside of the brothel for a few moments, his mind lost in the twisted labyrinth of his own delusions. Then, with a flicker of some half-formed thought, he beckoned the Gold Cloaks forward. Some of the King's Guard stiffened at the proximity of the Gold Cloaks to the King, distrust hanging in the air, but Aerys waved them closer, oblivious to the tension around him.

In a maddening whisper, as though the Stark army was already at the city gates and would hear him, he whispered to the Gold Cloaks, "Burn this brothel to the ground. Matter of fact, burn this square to the ground. Let the rats come running out of their hiding places. I will be known as the dragon that cleansed this land of its sins."

The Gold Cloaks, once bold in their drunken swagger, now stood solemn, their faces hollowed by the weight of yet another of King Aerys' commands. They nodded without hesitation, their movements mechanical as they grabbed wooden planks and set them ablaze. The flames flickered wildly, casting eerie shadows across the cobblestone floor. With torches raised high, ready to obey their king's whim, they prepared to carry out the madness.

Aerys, his face a twisted mask of excitement, turned toward Jaime and the other King's Guards. "Escort me back to the Red Keep. I want to see the cleansing from my chambers," he commanded, his voice a cold hiss that seemed to grate on the ears. Jaime had no doubt the sight of flames would excite him, that it would fuel the madness, a perverse kind of pleasure in watching a part of Flea Bottom burn.

As the Kingsguard galloped in tight formation, their white cloaks snapping in the wind, Jaime could hear the screams. They pierced through the clatter of hooves and the clang of armor, rising like a chorus of despair. Women, children, men—all trapped in homes that had been set ablaze by the spreading chaos.

Jaime didn't dare look back. He couldn't. He feared that if he did, the sight of such brutality would be the final thread that snapped his sanity. The King's madness had already poisoned the city, and Jaime knew—he feared—that Aerys was beginning to poison him as well.

The screams did not fade; they only grew louder, echoing in his ears like an accusation. Yet the King rode ahead, oblivious or indifferent, his mind already consumed with grander fires to come.

When they reached the Red Keep, Aerys sprang up the flight of steps to his chambers, the excitement in his eyes more akin to a child on his way to a tourney than a king about to witness the destruction of a portion of his city. He was eager to feast on the chaos he'd wrought, to watch the flames consume the poor district while he indulged in his madness. The madness that only he could see as justice.

Jaime, dismissed from the king's presence, stood in the hallway as Ser Jonothor Darry returned, his hands still stained with the blood of the woman he had executed at Aerys' command. Darry's face remained impassive, betraying no emotion as he passed by.

Tonight, Jaime's duty was the same. He was to guard Queen Rhaella's chambers. A prayer to the Seven fell from his lips, though he knew it was in vain. He prayed that Aerys' dark lust would be sated for the night, that Rhaella might get even the smallest reprieve from his madness, if only for a few hours.

Rhaella entered her chambers shortly after, a sad smile tugging at her lips despite the weariness in her eyes. She was heavy with child, swollen with her third pregnancy, and yet still somehow carried herself with grace. "The city is ablaze tonight, Ser Jaime," she murmured softly, her voice thick with resignation.

Jaime nodded, his face etched with sorrow. "Aye, my Queen," he answered quietly.

She closed the door softly behind her, retreating into the quiet sanctuary of her chambers. Jaime remained at his post, the sounds of Aerys' maniacal laughter and the distant screams of Flea Bottom's inhabitants echoing through the walls of the Red Keep. It was a sound that would haunt him long after the flames were gone.

Two weeks had passed before the ravens came from the Trident, bearing news that troubled Jaime Lannister. The rebellion, it seemed, was over. The Targaryens would live to see another day.

Rhaegar Targaryen had managed a decisive victory, breaking the rebel forces at last after a string of five crushing defeats. Worse still, Robert Baratheon, the rebellion's figurehead, was dead, slain in the chaos of battle. Without him, the rebellion had no spine. The realm's great houses—Arryn, Tully, Stark, and what remained of Baratheon—had bent the knee. The war was over.

The parchment bearing the news came signed by Rhaegar himself, addressed to his father, the king. In measured tones, it spoke of peace. It advised against sending forces beyond King's Landing, warning of potential invasions. Jaime, no commander of armies, could read the truth beneath the prince's careful words. Rhaegar was stalling, feeding his father's delusions to keep him and those loyal to the King pinned within the capital's walls. The last thing anyone needed was Aerys unleashing his madness on the Riverlands or the Stormlands in an act of vengeance.

The parchment was read aloud in the Small Council chamber, and Aerys was beside himself with glee. He clapped his hands like a child, his laughter shrill and grating. "They cannot stand in the face of a dragon!" he screeched, his words twisted with a triumph that was not his own.

Fool, Jaime thought bitterly. It was your son, not you, who won this war.

Rhaegar Targaryen. The man Jaime admired. Noble, just, and one of the finest swordsmen Jaime had ever crossed steel with—Rhaegar was everything Aerys was not. Jaime had once pleaded with the prince to let him ride out and fight at his side when the war began.

"No," Rhaegar had said, his tone firm but not unkind. "Do not ever speak of this again. If my father hears of it, he will have your head, and Tywin will march on King's Landing without hesitation. You're a fine swordsman, Jaime. Perhaps the finest I've seen. But here, you are not a knight. You are a hostage." The words had stung, but Jaime had understood.

Jaime suspected Rhaegar would take the crown if he could end the rebellion. But now, with victory won, Jaime wondered if Rhaegar had the men to do what must be done. The rebellion had been a bloody affair, the sort of war that left its mark not just on the battlefield but on the hearts of men. For every soldier lost in Robert's camp, two had fallen under Rhaegar's banners. It was a victory paid for in blood, and the scars ran deep.

"My son did not do half badly," Aerys mused aloud in the council chamber, a rare flicker of clarity piercing the haze of his insanity. "I thought him dead by now. Weakling that he is, soft as a maid. Never took what was his with fire and blood."

Aerys' madness flared again as quickly as it had faded. "But we will not listen to my son's decrees!" he declared, pounding his fists on the armrests of his chair. "No surrenders, only fire and blood! I'll have the Stark's snowy lands burned, the Tullys drowned, the Arryn's wings clipped, and the Baratheons flayed. Their castles will be torn down, their names erased. I'll name new lords for every house that rebelled!"

His gaze snapped to Jaime, and there was venom in his smile. "Then I'll march to Casterly Rock. I'll take Tywin's head for his insolence, and your sister—" Aerys' lips curled cruelly. "Cersei Lannister will be my men's consolation prize. The whore of Casterly Rock, they'll call her."

Aerys leaned closer, watching Jaime's face, searching for a crack, a flicker of outrage. Jaime gave him nothing. His golden face remained cold, his eyes hard as the steel of his sword. This seemed to bore the king, who waved him off with a distracted gesture.

Aerys' momentary lucidity flickered back like a guttering candle. "Mace Tyrell," he spat, his face twisting with contempt. "That bumbling fool nearly cost us the war. Instead of bolstering my forces to crush the rebellion outright, he squandered time and men laying siege to Storm's End for over a year! A year!" Aerys' fist slammed against the armrest. "I should burn him for that incompetence."

The council sat in uneasy silence, their gazes carefully averted. Aerys' temper was too volatile to interrupt. His thoughts leapt to new vindictive heights, and his tone became dreamlike. "But no, I'll let him prove his worth. I'll summon his forces to King's Landing to march against our enemies. We will not listen to my son's decrees. There will be no peace, no submission. Only fire and blood."

The king's ramblings turned back to the war-torn Crownlands, the region he believed could still yield an army strong enough to capture enemy lands. Aerys' delusions were as grand as they were impossible. Most of the Crownlands lay in ruin, its towns and keeps sacked by Lady Ravenclaw and her marauding forces. Though her name was whispered in the capital, her deeds were loudly proclaimed in the sept of Baelor. Moving with a speed and cunning that outpaced the royal army, she had left ash and devastation in her wake.

He spoke of summoning reinforcements from the Reach and Dorne, convinced that his loyal bannermen would flock to his cause. Jaime doubted it. The Crownlands were broken, their lords defeated or disillusioned. The Reach and Dorne had their own battles to win. The king's vision of resurgence was little more than the desperate dream of a man blind to the reality of his diminishing power.

"Lady Ravenclaw," Aerys sneered, his lips curling into a thin line. "A woman playing at war. I'll burn her alive, hang her charred skin over the gates of her own castle. But first…" His eyes glimmered with a manic light as he looked to Jaime once again. "We'll deal with Tywin. I'll march on Casterly Rock myself when this is done."

Outside the council chamber, the city was already showing signs of unrest. Since the burning of Flea Bottom, the air in King's Landing had grown tense, thick with smoke and whispered dissent. The streets were restless, the people emboldened by desperation. Riots and looting had begun to creep closer to the Red Keep. Cracks were forming in the city's fragile order, and even the Gold Cloaks could not hope to keep them contained for long.

At first, it was murmured prayers for justice, hushed words exchanged in the shadows. Then the prayers turned to curses, and the whispers became shouts. By now, looting and riots had broken out in the poorer districts, spreading like wildfire. Angry mobs had taken to the streets, smashing carts, breaking into storehouses, and setting small fires of their own as if trying to answer the king's flames with their own rebellion.

The Gold Cloaks were overwhelmed, too few, and too demoralized to quell the unrest. They patrolled with visible reluctance, their spears more often used to keep the angry mobs at bay than to restore order. Many simply turned a blind eye, unwilling to risk their lives for a king who thought of them as expendable.

The unrest had even begun creeping inside the Red Keep. On the previous night, Jaime had heard the distant sounds of shouting and breaking glass drifting through the Keep's high windows. Some whispered of an organized uprising, though Jaime doubted the people could rally behind any single leader. Their anger was too scattered, too raw. But the cracks were forming, and he knew they would only widen with time.

Still, Aerys remained blind to it all, or worse, he welcomed it. To him, the growing chaos was just another excuse to stoke his beloved flames. "Let them rise," he had said with a mad glint in his eye. "Let the rats come out of their holes, so I may cleanse them with dragonfire."

As the small council shifted to the matter of imposing punitive taxes on the Crownlands' lords—those who had failed to protect their holdings—Aerys abruptly changed the subject, his face twisting with rage. "And what of Rhaegar's wretched children?" he spat, his voice rising to a shrill crescendo. "Surely they can return to the capital now. The rebellion is over!"

Jaime stood rigid, though he had been quietly relieved when he first learned Rhaegar had sent his children far from King's Landing. It was another brilliant ploy from the Crown Prince, a decision that spared them from the Mad King's wrath. Varys, of course, had orchestrated the escape. There was no doubt about that. The spymaster had vanished the very night Aegon and Rhaenys were spirited away from the Red Keep. Aerys' fury had been boundless, his screams of treachery echoing through the halls as he declared his son a failure unworthy of the dragon's name. A hefty bounty now hung over Varys's head.

"It was the right move," Arthur Dayne had whispered to Jaime the next evening, his voice low and laced with grim certainty. "The children have no mother to shield them, and their grandmother can scarcely protect herself. They would be at the mercy of the king's whims."

Jaime had nodded, knowing Sir Arthur spoke the truth. Aerys' hatred for Elia Martell and her children had been no secret. They were too Dornish, too unworthy in his eyes to carry the dragon's blood. The safety of Aegon and Rhaenys lay far from the Red Keep, far from the unpredictable whims of their grandsire.

Now, as Aerys railed about his "traitorous" son and "disloyal" heirs, Jaime wondered how long it would be before the king's paranoia turned elsewhere. The rebellion may have been over, but the real battle—the one within Aerys' own mind—was far from finished.

Lord Chelsted, the ever-loyal Hand of the King, merely shrugged as he responded to Aerys' outburst. "Prince Rhaegar has hidden them well, Your Grace. Perhaps in Dorne, though the Martells reveal nothing. Or maybe across the Narrow Sea, somewhere in Essos. Without a Master of Whisperers, it's impossible to say."

His words carried a measured calm, but Jaime noticed the faint weariness in Chelsted's tone. The Hand's pragmatism defused the king's ire for the moment, and Aerys' mind, ever restless, flitted to another subject before long. The council meeting dragged on, with the Mad King alternating between fits of shrill laughter and sudden bursts of fury as more ravens were read aloud. The news of the rebellion's aftermath seemed to delight and enrage him in equal measure, and each new raven read was met with an unpredictable reaction.

Later that day, Aerys summoned the commander of the Gold Cloaks with a sudden declaration. "I will ride through King's Landing," he proclaimed, his voice echoing through the Red Keep. "A royal parade to celebrate the death of Robert Baratheon! The people will shower us with flowers and praises as we proclaim the usurper's end!"

Jaime exchanged a glance with Ser Jonothor Darry, who stood as impassive as ever, though his silence spoke volumes. Aerys' perception of the city was a delusion. Flea Bottom had been simmering with unrest since the burning of the square two weeks ago. Any such parade would be met with anything but celebration, but no one dared to challenge the king's decree.

And so, preparations began for the "royal parade," though Jaime felt the pit of unease in his stomach deepen. He had seen too much of Aerys' madness to believe this could end in anything but chaos.

The royal procession wound its way through King's Landing, descending into the labyrinthine streets of Flea Bottom. The bustling crowds thinned, replaced by sullen, silent onlookers. The air reeked of waste and smoke, but the stench of resentment was stronger still. Ragged faces stared at the Targaryen escort with hateful gazes, their contempt unmasked.

Aerys, ever blind to the mood of his people, sat atop his horse with an unsettling grin, waving at the gathered poor as though they adored him. His violet robe shimmered in the pale sunlight, but there was no cheer in the streets, no voices raised in gratitude. The king's wave met only unbroken silence.

Behind him, Queen Rhaella endured the farce in pained silence, her swollen belly making every bump of the carriage a torment. She had not protested when Aerys demanded she join this parade, though her pale face betrayed her suffering. Jaime knew the queen had learned long ago that defiance only fed the king's rage.

Jaime rode a few paces behind the royal carriage, his senses on edge. Something was wrong; the air felt heavy with unspoken tension. He scanned the streets, noting the absence of usual Flea Bottom activity. The chaotic noise of the slums—the cries of merchants, the clamor of children—was replaced by an unnatural quiet.

When they turned a narrow corner, the truth of it struck Jaime like a dagger. The road ahead was empty, abandoned save for discarded rags and broken barrels. His hand instinctively went to his sword. He caught sight of the Gold Cloak commander at the front of the procession, his raised hand signaling the column to halt.

But they were too late.

From the shadowed alleys and rooftops, men poured forth like a flood, their armor mismatched and poorly made, their weapons crude but sharp. They screamed as they charged, their war cries echoing off the narrow walls. Jaime's sharp eyes counted dozens, maybe a hundred, as they closed in from every side.

Chaos erupted. Horses reared and whinnied, hooves striking the cobblestones in panic. Jaime unsheathed his blade, the steel catching the dim light as he spurred his mount into motion. Aerys, frozen in disbelief, sat atop his horse unmoving, his mad smile replaced by a stunned shock.

The first rebel slammed into the royal guards, and blood spilled on the muddy streets of Flea Bottom.

Jaime recognized the men immediately—Flea Bottom folk, driven by desperation and fury. As he struck down three assailants charging toward the queen's carriage, their cries filled the air.

"Death to the Dragon!" one screamed.
"For Flea Bottom!" bellowed another, their voices raw with anguish.

The Gold Cloaks, many of whom were more accustomed to the lax discipline of patrolling the city's taverns and alleys, were caught completely unprepared. In the chaos, the front lines were overwhelmed, their formation shattered as the peasant mob surged forward. The Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks fell swiftly, his head severed and held aloft like a grim standard, spurring the attackers into a bloodthirsty frenzy.

Jaime fought tirelessly, his sword flashing in the dim light as he cut through the untrained but numerous rebels. Blood sprayed, soaking his gilded armor, painting him in the anguish of a city pushed to the brink. He lost count of the lives he took—fifteen, perhaps more—before the tide began to ebb. The last of the attackers, realizing their rebellion had failed, scattered into the alleys like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

By the end, Jaime stood amidst the carnage, his sword gleaming red, his stomach heavy with disgust. The blood of peasants, driven to this madness by the king's cruelty, coated his boots. For the hundredth time since donning the white cloak, Jaime cursed himself for what he had become.

"We ride back to the Red Keep now," Ser Jonothor Darry commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos. Ser Jonothor had assumed control of the battered Gold Cloaks, rallying what few men remained to form a protective cordon around the king and queen.

Jaime approached Queen Rhaella's carriage, peering inside to check on her. She sat silently, her face pale but resolute. Her eyes, tired and unflinching, met Jaime's.

"I am fine, Ser Jaime," she said softly.

Jaime nodded and remounted his horse, riding close to the carriage with his sword still drawn. The surviving guardsmen formed a tight, defensive line around them as they began the desperate ride back.

When Darry suggested placing Aerys in a carriage for safety, the king erupted. "I will not hide like a coward!" Aerys shrieked, his voice cracking with rage. "I am the king! They will burn for this—all of them will burn!"

His ranting ceased abruptly as a volley of arrows rained down upon them from the rooftops. Makeshift archers, men with crude bows and burning vengeance in their eyes, unleashed their fury. The arrows fell like deadly rain, piercing shields and flesh alike.

"Ride!" Darry commanded, his shield raised to shield the king from the assault. The formation tightened, the horses driven hard as men fell behind them, crying out in pain. Jaime's sword stayed in his hand, ready to fend off any new attackers, but the relentless pace was their only salvation.

"Why aren't you killing them?!" Aerys screeched as they passed the edge of Flea Bottom, arrows still whistling past them from behind.

By the time they reached the gates of the Red Keep under the full moon, the city itself seemed alive with chaos. Fires burned in the distance, and the Gold Cloaks stationed at the gates whispered of looting and unrest spreading through King's Landing.

Jaime escorted Queen Rhaella within the safety of the castle walls, his bloodstained hands gripping his sword tightly. Aerys dismounted, his face twisted in rage, his body trembling with fury.

"Burn them!" he screamed as he stormed toward the throne room. "Burn them all! The commoners, the rebels—every last one of them! I will not suffer treachery in my city!"

Jaime followed in silence, his stomach churning. The Red Keep was safe—for now—but the city was aflame, and its king was madder than ever.

"Lord Chelsted!" Aerys shrieked, his voice echoing like the screech of a dying hawk through the grand hall of the throne room. His face was a mask of crimson fury, veins bulging at his temples. "Find the Pyromancers! Bring them to me at once! We cleanse this city with the Dragon's justice—tomorrow!"

The king's trembling hands gripped the armrests of the Iron Throne, and the jagged blades of Aegon the Conqueror's chair bit into his flesh. Blood trickled down his fingers and dripped onto the cold stone floor, yet Aerys seemed oblivious to the pain, lost in the tempest of his rage.

Jaime stood beneath the looming shadow of the throne, silent and unmoving. He had seen the king enraged before, but never like this—not when Lord Tywin refused to call his banners, not even when Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark raised their armies. This fury was different, hotter, more unhinged, and more dangerous.

Aerys' bloodied hand slammed against the throne's arm, leaving a smear of red on the dulled steel. "They dare rise against me? Against their rightful king? They will burn for their insolence!" he hissed, his voice cracking with each syllable.

Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the Hand of the King, stepped forward hesitantly, his face pale but composed. "Your Grace," he began cautiously, "we must consider the consequences. The people—"

"Silence!" Aerys roared, his eyes wild with madness. "The people are traitors, each and every one of them! They dare strike at me, their king, the blood of the dragon? I will see their corpses smoldering in the streets! Bring the Pyromancers!"

Chelsted may have been a sadist, reveling in the madness that bound him to Aerys, their shared love for fire and destruction fueling each other. But even the Hand of the King knew a full onslaught on the smallfolk of Flea bottom was a step too far. The consequences were too great, even for someone like Chelsted. Yet, he said nothing, his silence betraying his internal struggle.

"Do you defy me, Lord Chelsted?" Aerys spat, rising from the throne. The movement caused more blades to bite into his skin, fresh rivulets of blood staining his robes. "Perhaps it is you who wishes to burn next!"

The throne room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the king's labored breathing. Jaime's hand tightened on the pommel of his sword, though he made no move to draw it. He could feel the madness radiating from the throne like heat from a forge, and he knew then that Aerys was beyond any semblance of reason.

Lord Chelsted bowed stiffly, his expression grim. "As you command, Your Grace."

The Hand of the King turned and walked from the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Aerys slumped back into the Iron Throne, his rage replaced with a sickly grin. Blood stained his teeth as he chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down Jaime's spine.

"Tomorrow, the Dragon's fire will purify this city," Aerys whispered, his voice barely audible. "And I shall rule over their ashes."

"I have called a small council meeting, Your Grace," Lord Chelsted had returned an hour later, his voice strained, though he hid it well. Even the ever-loyal Hand of the King seemed taken aback by Aerys' madness.

The pyromancers, summoned at Aerys' command, huddled in the shadows of the throne room, whispering in their usual low tones, their faces obscured by the flickering torchlight.

Inside the small council room, Aerys' rage was palpable. He threw parchments across the table, scattering them like feathers in the wind, and hurled lit candles with careless abandon, their flames dancing wildly as they clattered across the floor.

"Flea Bottom must be put to the sword for their transgressions against His Grace," Chelsted said bluntly, his words cold and final. He's finally on board, Jaime thought darkly. Yet, despite the familiar venom in Chelsted's voice, something was missing—there was no gleam of fanaticism in his eyes, no hint of the sadistic pleasure that often accompanied the Hand's words. For the first time, it seemed, even Lord Chelsted understood the depth of the madness in the king's orders.

Aerys, his fury still simmering beneath the surface, nodded in agreement, his eyes flickering with the same madness that had overtaken him in recent days. His smile was twisted, but there was something almost satisfied about it, as though he had been waiting for this moment to feel in control again. Rebirth through destruction, Jaime thought, but it made no sense.

Aerys wiped his hands across his sunken cheeks, smearing the grime of the day's chaos across his pallid skin. His long, cracked nails left bloody trails as they scraped over his face, but the Mad King paid it no mind. His violet eyes burned with a feverish intensity, gazing at something only he could see—a vision of fire and glory, perhaps, or a nightmare of his own making.

"Aye, Lord Hand," Aerys rasped, a twisted satisfaction curling his lips. "Make the preparations. Tomorrow, the city will burn in my fury. It will be reborn, like fire from ash."

Jaime's stomach turned at the words. What was Aerys planning? To burn the Flea Bottom? The people would surely rise up. He glanced at Lewyn Martell, his white cloak untouched by the chaos outside, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, Jaime saw the same concern in the Martell's gaze. But there was nothing they could do—not here, not now.

The meeting dragged on, filled with more cryptic declarations from Aerys and shared looks between Chelsted and the king—words only they seemed to understand. Finally, the king's madness seemed to subside, and with a satisfied, almost gleeful smile, he rose from his chair.

Jaime followed behind, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Aerys' demeanor had shifted in the space of moments, from fiery rage to a disturbing contentment. The king was waiting for the moment when he could let his madness loose without restraint.

Something was wrong. Jaime could feel it in his bones.

The very next day, the day Aerys had promised would be the ultimate reckoning for the city, arrived. Jaime stood by the window of the Red Keep, staring out at the crystal-clear blue skies, so eerily serene in contrast to the bloodshed that the king was about to unleash. It's as if the Gods themselves mock us, Jaime thought bitterly, his mind heavy with foreboding. Aerys had promised destruction, and Flea Bottom was set to be his target.

Jaime donned his white cloak and hurried to the throne room, where Ser Lewyn Martell stood in quiet conversation with the new Gold Cloak commander. As Jaime took his place beside the king, Lord Qarlton burst into the room, interrupting the current planning with a message that made every eye in the throne room turn.

"My lord," Qarlton gasped, his voice tight with urgency. "A raven comes from outriders near the Iron gates—knights loyal to House Targaryen. Tywin has called his banners and has been marching toward King's Landing for the past three weeks, bringing the might of Casterly Rock with him. The bulk of his forces are only a few hours march from King's Landing walls"

Aerys, for once, was silent, his hand paused mid-air. His eyes narrowed as he processed the news. Father has finally made his move, Jaime thought, but Aerys was too far gone to see the nuance. He simply spoke with a venomous sneer, his voice filled with mad certainty.

"Tywin means to take my throne," Aerys muttered, his lips curling into a twisted smile. "No worries, he won't have a city to take."

The words rang with madness, and the air in the room thickened as everyone waited for the king to continue, explaining the cryptic words. But it was Grand Maester Pycell, the ever-loyal sycophant of House Lannister, who spoke next, his voice trembling with false reverence.

"Your grace, Tywin would not betray you," Pycell's words were pleading, though they were laced with a sense of calculated urgency. "He is loyal to House Targaryen. He may believe Robert won at the Trident, he comes to provide us with the men we so direly need in this time of crisis. Lord Tywin would never let the city fall to Northern savages and Robert's men."

Jaime furrowed his brow, his instincts bristling with suspicion. Pycell is lying, he thought, feeling the weight of deception in the air. Pycell's loyalty had never been to Aerys or even House Targaryen—his allegiance was to Tywin, to Casterly Rock. So why was he now so eager to convince Aerys that Tywin was still loyal?

"Tywin is a traitor who will lose his head," Aerys muttered dismissively as his voice held no real concern, only a twisted satisfaction in the chaos he anticipated. "But so be it. Let him into the city. We will need his men anyway once we start our campaign to burn the lands of our enemies."

Jaime watched the exchange with growing unease, feeling a knot of tension tighten in his chest. Pycell was playing a dangerous game, convincing Aerys that Tywin still stood by him when in reality, the Lannisters had long been preparing to take what they could for themselves. And yet, Aerys' mind had become so warped, so consumed by his own delusions, that he failed to see the truth behind Pycell's manipulation.

Lord Qarlton looked ready to protest, his brow furrowing as he clearly weighed the Grand Maester's plea. His lips parted, perhaps to speak, to offer a rebuttal, but Aerys was beyond reason. His mind was set. His enemies must burn, and if Lannister forces could help him achieve that, so be it.

"Enough," Aerys snapped, waving his hand dismissively before Qarlton could protest. "We will allow Tywin's men in the city."

Pycell's face was a mask of sickly relief, but even his eyes betrayed a certain wariness, as though he knew the danger of playing into Aerys' delusions.

With a wave, Aerys silenced the chattering throne room. "Withdraw my men from Flea Bottom," he ordered curtly to the newly appointed Gold Cloak commander. "Tywin will march through Visenya Hill, Flea Bottom will be mine to deal with." A dangerous glint danced in the king's eyes, and his lips curled into a thin, satisfied smile as he spoke.

Jaime's pulse quickened at the command. Withdraw the men? That made no sense. What could the king be thinking? If they pulled all the Gold Cloaks back, the city would be left vulnerable, its streets ripe for chaos. Jaime's suspicions deepened. Aerys has lost it completely.

His confusion was answered when the Gold Cloak commander departed, and the Pyromancers—those treacherous, mad men—were ushered into the throne room. The air was thick with tension, as though every soul in the room held its breath, waiting for the storm to break. Aerys stood at the heart of it all, his eyes alight with a sick, gleaming anticipation, his voice quivering with a twisted thrill.

"Is it ready?" he asked, the words dripping from his lips like honey, laced with cruel delight as he turned to the pyromancers.

Jaime understood the grim truth. Flea Bottom would be put to the sword, the entire wretched slums—its walls, its streets, its very soul—would be reduced to nothing. All in the name of vengeance, madness, and a king who no longer cared for anything but the destruction of his enemies and his kingdom alike.

Jaime's heart sank, his stomach turning over in dread. There was no stopping this now—not with the pyromancers already at their command. Perhaps the pyromancers would use fire contraptions as a decoy, a smokescreen for a full assault to scour the slums clean of rebellion, killing anyone who still lingered. Jaime prayed this was the truth of it.

"Yes, my king," the elder pyromancer said, his voice thick with sick glee. "The city will light up with beautiful spectacles, just as you command." His face was scarred with a nasty burn, and his eyes gleamed with a madness Jaime had seen before—a madness that reminded him all too well of the moments when Aerys would toy with his life for his own twisted amusement.

Jaime stood there for what felt like hours, his mind racing as the preparations for the "fireworks" pressed on, each moment dragging them inexorably closer to the point of no return.

The door to the throne room groaned open, and Lord Qarlton entered once more, his face pale and drawn, as though he had aged years in the few short hours since first learning of the Lannisters' march. "Your Grace," he began, his voice quivering with urgency, "Tywin's forces are near Visenya's Hill. Something was indeed wrong—I knew it!"

The weight of his words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. "The Lannister forces are slaughtering what's left of the Gold Cloaks and Targaryen loyalists throughout the city. They mean to sack the capital!" His tone cracked with panic, each syllable driving home the grim reality.

Jaime froze, why would his father sack King's landing when Rhager had won the war? Surely ravens would have reached the Lannister camps by now.

Jaime watched as Aerys paused, his wild eyes darting about the room. Then, a grotesque smile split the king's face, his expression shifting from confusion to elation. "Good," Aerys hissed, his voice dripping with malice. "Let the lions come. They will see the true fury of the dragon before the end."

Aerys leaped off his jagged Iron Throne, his robes fluttering like dark wings as he stormed out of the throne room. Jaime followed swiftly, his mind racing, trying to piece together the madness that was unfolding before him. As they stepped out onto the balcony, the city stretched out below them, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun.

Jaime's gaze snapped to the banners fluttering in the wind. The proud sigils of House Lannister, crimson and gold, rippled ominously over the streets. His heart clenched as he counted maybe—twenty thousand men, already inside King's Landing. His father's army was here, and they had no intention of retreating.

The sight made Jaime's stomach churn. Father is already inside the city... His mind raced with the implications. His lord father had brought an overwhelming force into King's Landing, but why? To seize the Red Keep? To take the throne? Or something far worse?

Aerys, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, stared out at the chaos with fevered eyes. The mad king's thoughts were already elsewhere, lost in delusions of grandeur. Jaime watched him, torn between the man who had once been a king and the monster who had consumed him. Would Tywin be able to stop Aerys before everything was put to the sword? Would there be anything left to save?

If Tywin seized the throne, surely Rhaegar would be furious. The Prince had the backing of three kingdoms behind him—how could Tywin possibly stand against that? Tywin had no allies, no army to match what Rhaegar had already gathered. The Lannister army might be formidable, but Rhaegar's mustered forces would be infinitely stronger.

Jaime's thoughts were interrupted as Aerys began shouting, his words incomprehensible, swirling together into a whirlwind of madness. "Summerhall... ice and fire... Aegon's dreams... wildfire…" The king babbled like a madman, his eyes wide and frantic, his mind lost in visions of destruction. There was no sense to his words, only the ramblings of a man who knew his time was running out and was bent on dragging everyone down with him.

The gold cloaks, barely numbering a thousand men, had no chance against the Lannisters. If Jaime's father intended to take the Red Keep, he would have no resistance.

The throne room was empty now, stripped of the lords and highborns who once crowded its walls at the King's demand to witness his farcical trials. Only Jaime, the three pyromancers, and Aerys himself remained.

The Mad King had dismissed the remaining Kingsguard, insisting that only the heir of Tywin Lannister accompany him to his destiny. The rest were ordered to man the walls, a futile gesture in Jaime's mind. Aerys had also commanded that the Red Keep's gates remain shut until the Lannisters stood at the threshold. Only then would the gates be opened, unleashing a doomed charge as his men fought to the death against Tywin's forces.

The commander of the Gold Cloaks had begged Aerys to reconsider, urging him to use the formidable defenses of the Red Keep to withstand a siege. But the king would hear none of it.

"I am the blood of the dragon!" Aerys shrieked, his pale face flushing an unnatural red. "The dragon will not cower before a lion! We fight to the death!"

Aerys paced the throne room like a caged beast, his steps frantic and uneven. His shrill voice echoed against the cold stone as he barked orders to the pyromancers. "It is almost time to burn them all!" he cried, his eyes wild with fevered conviction. "I'll burn anew in the flames of wildfire, be reborn a dragon! First Casterly Rock, then Winterfell—they will all burn! Everything will burn!"

Jaime's blood ran cold as the pieces of Aerys' madness fell into place. The king's ranting, the frantic preparations, the cryptic orders—it all made a horrific kind of sense now. Aerys had no intention of sending his men into Flea Bottom to root out rebellion. There would be no precise strike, no calculated retribution.

The Mad King intended to unleash wildfire across all of King's Landing. Every street, every home, every life within the city walls would be reduced to ash and molten ruin. He would destroy the capital, collapsing it in on itself in a cataclysm of fire and fury.

And Aerys? The King didn't care that he would burn along with it. No, he welcomed it. The flames were not his enemy—they were his destiny. He would be consumed and reborn, a dragon made flesh, as his deluded visions promised.

Fool, Jaime thought bitterly, the word echoing in his mind like a curse. When Aerys spoke of burning his enemies, he hadn't been speaking in metaphor, in the lofty rhetoric of kings. No, the Mad King meant it literally—fire, death, and ash.

"There will be no Iron Throne, Tywin!" Aerys screamed to no one in particular. "You'll sit on ash and rubble!" He giggled madly, his voice high-pitched and hysterical as the pyromancers began scurrying about, readying themselves for a horse ride, no doubt.

Jaime stood frozen, his heart hammering in his chest. Aerys had lost all reason, and the entire city—the gleaming gold capital—was about to burn.

Jaime sprang into action, his heart pounding. This madness had gone too far. He would not stand by and let Aerys burn King's Landing to the ground. Hundreds of thousands of innocent lives would not be lost for a madman's delusions. Jaime had already lost his honor long ago, so what was one more stain on his bloodied cloak? One more betrayal to set things right.

Without hesitation, he drew his sword and cut down the two pyromancers who were nearest to him. Their eyes, wild with madness and fanatical devotion to their work, went out in an instant as Jaime's blade found its mark. Their deaths were swift, and they made no sound, their twisted smiles vanishing as they crumpled to the floor.

The third pyromancer, however, was more cunning. He had thrown his companion at Jaime, buying himself a moment to flee. Jaime cursed under his breath, his gaze shifting to Aerys. The king was watching him now, his eyes burning with rage, yet there was no fear in them. He charged at Jaime with a small dagger clutched in his hand, hidden among the folds of his many robes.

Jaime sidestepped easily, grabbing the king's arm and knocking him to the floor. The dagger went skittering across the stone as Aerys tumbled forward. Jaime pressed his advantage, knocking the king's weapon from his grasp with a swift kick, his sword drawn and ready.

"It doesn't matter, Jaime," Aerys spat, his face smeared with blood and twisted into a deranged grin. "The city will burn, and I will rise anew!" His voice was shrill, echoing in the throne room.

Jaime's breath caught in his throat as he looked down at the madman, still writhing on the floor, smiling as if he welcomed the end.

Aerys scrambled to his feet, moving with surprising agility for someone so deranged. He darted toward the pyromancer who had fled into the shadows of the throne room, ready to issue the order that would doom the city.

Jaime, unwilling to let the king give the command, sprinted after him. The two figures moved like shadows through the darkened hall, Aerys at the head, Jaime in pursuit.

With one final burst of speed, Jaime caught up to the king. Without hesitation, he plunged his sword into Aerys' back. The mad king did not scream, nor did he even flinch. He merely grunted, his breath shallow, his lips curving into that same sickening smile.

"Burn them all," Aerys rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "Burn them all... my champion..." His last words trailed off into a breathless laugh, directed at the fleeing pyromancer.

Jaime stood frozen, the weight of what he had just done settling over him like a dark cloud. His sword still lodged in Aerys' back, he cursed softly, knowing that the king's final order had already been given. The city was already doomed.

As the life drained from Aerys' eyes, Jaime let his body slump to the cold stone floor with a thud. For the first time in years, the mad king seemed peaceful. Only in death could he find that elusive peace.

He turned sharply, his boots echoing in the empty hall as he strode toward the throne room doors, the weight of urgency heavy on his shoulders. There was no time to waste. The last pyromancer was still free, and the city was hanging by a thread. Jaime pushed through the soldiers who were hurriedly arming themselves within the Red Keep, their faces tense and wide-eyed with fear, preparing for a suicidal charge against the Lions of Casterly Rock. He shoved past his brothers in arms, past the King's guard, to the gates of the Red Keep. His heart sank. The pyromancer had found a secret way out. Jaime had seen him slip through the shadows, and now, he could see the man's retreating figure just beyond the gates, riding toward the city.

"The gates are sealed for now, Ser Jaime. King's orders," the newly appointed Gold Cloaks commander said, his voice laced with uncertainty. But then his eyes caught Jaime's figure—the blood smeared across his armor, splattered across his face like a grim banner.

"Ser Jaime?" the commander repeated, his tone hesitant, wavering between deference and suspicion.

Jaime did not hesitate. "The king is dead," he snarled, his eyes flashing with a fury that could not be contained. "Killed by that fleeing man." He pointed, his arm stiff with the weight of his words, to the distant brown horse galloping toward Flea Bottom.

A murmur rippled through the men, disbelief flickering across their faces. Jaime could feel the hesitation, the doubt, but he had no time for it. He stepped forward, and without another word, the gold cloak stepped aside, allowing Jaime to pass. Only the death of the King could open those gates.

Once outside the Red Keep, Jaime raced through the courtyard, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He seized the reins of a horse from a young squire, whose face was pale and wide-eyed. With a swift motion, he swung into the saddle, unsheathing his bloodied sword as it gleamed in the dwindling sunlight. "Get inside, lad," Jaime called to the boy. "War is at our door."

He spurred the horse into motion, galloping out of the gates, the wind whipping through his hair. Behind him, the sounds of the Red Keep seemed to fade into the distance, swallowed by the urgency of the chase. Flea Bottom was ahead, and the pyromancer had a head start. The city lay in the distance, a maze of darkened streets and crumbling buildings, but Jaime pushed on, faster, faster.

They rode for what seemed like hours, but soon the chase would end. The pyromancer's horse, spooked and wild, stumbled over a corpse left in the street, its hooves crashing into the stone before it fell onto its side. The pyromancer scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with panic, and then, he ran.

Jaime's mouth went dry, his teeth gritted. "You can't run forever!" he shouted, his voice hard as steel. He kicked his horse forward, eyes narrowing in pursuit, sword drawn and ready.

The pyromancer skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, hands raised in a last, desperate gesture of surrender. His back was pressed against a decaying building, a cart laden with wildfire jars behind him—hidden, deadly.

"It's too late, Lannister," the pyromancer hissed, his voice a strange mixture of exhilaration and fear. "The king's command has been given. You think you can stop it now?"

Jaime's jaw tightened. His sword was steady in his hand, his heart cold. "I've already killed two of you. You're next."

The pyromancer's grin widened, his eyes wild. "You think killing us will stop it? Three caches across the city, each of us were prepared to die for the flames. It was the king's final command. Alas, only Flea Bottom will burn, but it is enough. A cleansing fire to purge this land of its sins."

Jaime's heart skipped a beat. Three caches? The magnitude of the destruction the pyromancers had planned was staggering. He could still hear Aerys' voice echoing in his mind: Burn them all.

Jaime's eyes went wide as the pyromancer flicked a spark to the fuse. "No!" Jaime shouted, but it was too late. The fuse was already burning, and the green fire began to curl around the barrels of wildfire, dancing with an almost predatory hunger.

"You'll never stop it," the pyromancer sneered, his voice trailing off as he stumbled back against the crates.

Jaime could feel the heat in the air, the terrifying heat of wildfire beginning to spark around him. But he wasn't finished yet. With a guttural roar, he lunged forward, stabbing the pyromancer in the stomach, the sword sinking deep into his gut.

The man's eyes widened in shock, but before he could speak, Jaime twisted the blade, tearing it free. The pyromancer crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around him, his eyes still wide with madness.

Jaime wiped his blade clean as quickly as he could, his mind racing. The fuse was still burning. He had to act. He turned, sprinting toward the barrels, knowing the flames would soon take over. If he didn't stop it now, everything would be lost.

With a growl, Jaime tore a nearby sack of sand from its perch against the wall. Its weight was reassuring in his grip, its grains coarse and cool against his skin. He hefted it quickly, tearing it open with his hand as he dashed toward the creeping flames. The fire danced and hissed, alive with hunger, licking ever closer to the barrels. The fuse sparked like a serpent's tail, trailing toward catastrophe.

"Not so fast," Jaime muttered through gritted teeth.

He tipped the sack and poured the sand over the fuse. It sputtered and spat as the grains smothered the flames, slowing their advance. The fire did not die entirely—it flickered stubbornly, curling through the gaps in the sand, but its pace faltered, crawling instead of racing. The foul scent of burning still filled the air, mingling with the earthy tang of heated sand, but Jaime pressed on, spreading more and more of the coarse grains along the fuse's length.

When the sack was empty, he dropped it with a curse, stomping down on the scattered embers to smother any stray sparks. His hands thudded against his thighs as he stepped back, chest heaving. The fuse smoldered faintly beneath its sandy covering, like a beast lurking just out of sight, but for now, it was tamed.

Jaime turned toward the barrels and the jars of wildfire that gleamed with an eerie, taunting light. The green liquid within seemed to shimmer, waiting for its moment of ruin. He ran a hand through his damp hair, his fingers trembling. The spark was slowed, but not stopped. It still crept forward beneath the sand, inch by inch, an ever-present threat.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to think. I've bought us time, but how much? An hour? Less?

"Not today," he muttered, though his words sounded hollow against the oppressive silence. Around him, the jars of wildfire seemed to mock him, daring him to find a way to snuff the danger out entirely, or watch the city burn.

His trick would not hold, he knew. The sand would slow the fuse, but it would not stop it. The fire would find its way, as it always did, creeping beneath the grains, seeking air, hungry for destruction. It was a fragile reprieve, a fleeting moment borrowed from a ticking doom.

But if he could just save one life, maybe two—he had to. He had to.

With a curse, Jaime turned and ran to his steed, leaping into the saddle with practiced ease. He galloped through the winding streets of Flea Bottom, shouting desperately for anyone who could hear. "Run! Seek shelter! Wildfire is here, it will explode!" His voice rang out, but the common folk who had gathered barely stirred at first.

"Run! The wildfire's here! The king means to burn everything!" The words echoed in the streets, but still, the people were too stunned to move. Then, the dam broke, and the mass exodus began. Mothers clutched babes to their chests, men grabbed whatever possessions they could carry, and whores pulled at the silken threads of their gowns, clutching them tightly as they ran. Thousands surged towards the Iron Gates.

Jaime spurred his horse to the front of the line, pushing through the chaos until he reached the Gold Cloaks stationed at the gates, their swords and spears raised, trying to maintain order.

"Open the gates now! It is your King's command," Jaime lied, barking at the two Gold Cloaks blocking the path, their faces a mix of fear and disbelief.

"The King said these gates remain closed, Ser Jaime. Let Tywin and his men go through Visenya Hill, his grace commanded" one of the guards stammered, still unsure of how to respond.

Jaime had no time to waste. The cries of the crowd behind him were growing louder, and the pressing weight of panic threatened to crush him. Without another word, he leapt from his steed, his sword flashing with deadly precision. He cut down the first Gold Cloak with a swift strike, his blade moving so fast the other spearmen had no chance to react before his own head was split open. The boy he killed could have been no older than ten and four—his youth gnawed at Jaime's conscience, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Disgusted with himself, he wiped the blood from his blade and, with the help of three burly men—likely blacksmiths or laborers—he opened the Iron Gates.

"Move, move!" Jaime shouted, his voice barely carrying over the clamor of thousands flooding out of the gates. Hundreds rushed through, trampling those smaller and less fortunate in their wake. The surge was relentless—those who made it out of the gates leaped into the Blackwater Bay, others scrambling desperately for nearby ships. A few ran toward the distant shore, seeking the first patch of safety they could find.

For what felt like hours, thousands of smallfolks continued pouring through the gates. Men, women, and children stumbled forward, their cries rising into the air, a chorus of fear and despair. Jaime watched them pour out, their hurried steps kicking up dust, their ragged breaths filling the chaos settling in the thick air. He dared to hope, for just a moment, that his gamble had paid off. That the wildfire would not ignite, that Aerys' final vengeance would remain unkindled.

But hope, like wildfire, was a fleeting thing.

The explosion came with a deafening roar. The earth itself seemed to tremble beneath him, and the shockwave hit like a fist. Jaime was thrown from his saddle, his body flung forward into the Blackwater Bay with a sickening splash. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and he sank beneath the surface, the dark waters swallowing him whole.

Through the haze of smoke and fire, Jaime's vision blurred. He could hear distant screams, the frantic cries of those who were still inside the city's walls. His body was too heavy, his limbs too sluggish. The world spun around him as he sank deeper, and his mind scattered like the embers in the wind.

The fire roared in his ears, and his thoughts grew hazy. A fitting end for a Kingslayer, he thought bitterly as the cold darkness crept in, swallowing him whole.

Chapter Text

LYANNA

The blinding light seared through the gloom of the cell, and Lyanna squinted against the assault. Her eyes, unaccustomed to the sun after days—weeks?—in shadow, burned with the intrusion. She hissed low, wolf-like, as she raised a shackled hand to shield her face. The chains, heavy and rusting, clinked as she moved, biting anew into the raw flesh of her ruined wrists.

The sound of boots on stone heralded the arrival of her visitor. She sighed as the figure emerged from the light, a gaunt man in faded grey robes. Sow’s Horn maester. Not for the first time, his eyes swept over her with thinly veiled disdain, lips pressed into a bloodless line. Yet, duty compelled him, and duty he would fulfill, however grudgingly.

“News from the Riverlands?” Lyanna asked, her voice low and hoarse from disuse. It was the same question she posed every day he came, though the answer—or lack thereof—never changed.

The maester gave her the same curt silence, his glare a silent rebuke. He motioned for the guards to unlock the cell, and they moved briskly, checking the chains that bound her wrists before allowing him entry. Lyanna’s lips twisted bitterly as the iron was tugged and tested. As if I’d use these small hands to strangle him, she thought, though the idea was not without appeal.

“What of my men? Are they safe?” she pressed, her voice hardening.

His fingers prodded the edges of the healing gashes that marred her arms, smearing a pungent salve over the angry red lines. “These wounds will heal well enough,” he muttered, his tone flat, almost dismissive. “In time, you will not even see a scar.”

The maester’s eyes did not rise to meet hers. His hands moved instead to the wound at her shoulder blade, where Rhaegar’s sword had bitten deep. He peeled back the bandage with care, revealing flesh stitched together with coarse thread. The sight should have revolted her, but she found she could only feel the weight of it, the ache that lived beneath her skin.

“This one will leave a mark,” he continued, spreading the salve thickly. “But there’s no sign of infection. The scar may even fade, eventually.” He pressed a clean cloth over the wound and secured it with steady fingers.

Lyanna scoffed softly, her lips curling into a bitter smile. “No scars,” she repeated, her voice dripping with irony. “Isn’t that the dream of every prisoner?”

The maester didn’t look up, didn’t respond, his focus entirely on his work. To him, she was just another body, another task to complete before moving on. But as his hands moved to the next gash, she couldn’t help but think that scars weren’t always on the skin. Some wounds ran deeper, carving themselves into bone, into the soul. And those, she knew, never truly healed.

When he reached to examine her left wrist, his lips thinned further.

“These bones…” he muttered, as if to himself. “They will likely never mend properly. You may lose some function in this wrist.”

Lyanna let out a sharp breath, though her expression remained unchanged. She didn’t care. As long as her sword hand held true, the rest of her body could rot. Her focus was singular, her purpose unshaken. She’d survive. She’d recover.

Her fingers curled instinctively, testing their strength. When she looked up, her grey eyes burned with a cold fire.

As the maester packed his vials and tools, his gaze lingered a moment too long. Perhaps he saw something in her expression, a shadow of the wolf, prowling just beneath the surface. Whatever it was, he quickly looked away, muttering a curt farewell before retreating from the damp cell.

Lyanna watched him leave, the door slamming shut and plunging her once again into the suffocating dark. Her hands ached, her body protested, but her resolve remained steadfast. She would endure. For her men. For Ned.

When Lyanna first awoke after her fight with Rhaegar, her body had throbbed with pain, a dull and insistent ache that flared as she shifted on the rough stone floor. The iron tang of blood lingered in the air, and the chill of the dungeon seeped into her bones. It was only when her eyes adjusted to the dim light that she saw him—the ever-smug Ser Arthur Dayne, standing just beyond the bars. His expression was calm, composed, as if her capture was nothing more than a minor inconvenience in his otherwise perfect day.

“So,” she murmured, her throat raw, “I’m a prisoner.”

The Sword of the Morning inclined his head, his smirk cutting deeper than his famous blade ever could.

She sighed and slumped back against the cold wall, her thoughts racing. No doubt her men had been crushed, their blood likely staining the walls of Sow’s Horn. Her plan had failed, unraveling spectacularly, and now she lay here—beaten, broken, and bereft of her forces. She cursed silently. It had all gone wrong.

It was Thorin’s fault, Lyanna had decided bitterly, her fury burning as hot as the torch Ser Arthur Dayne held. Thorin of House Bole, her newly appointed commander, had proven every bit the oaf she had suspected him to be. His reckless bravado had cost her men dearly.

“We’ll use siege towers to take the walls,” he had proclaimed, his dull eyes alight with excitement as he tore into a chicken leg, grease dripping from his fingers. It had sounded so assured then, so simple in his coarse, blustering tone. Yet, when the assault began, the folly of his plan became painfully clear. The siege towers moved sluggishly, hampered by the muddy ground and relentless volleys of arrows raining down from Sow’s Horns’ walls. Her men were slaughtered in droves, scrambling and dying for a futile cause.

When the battle turned grim and progress stalled, Lyanna had taken matters into her own hands. She had spent precious moments surveying the castle walls from the shadow of a crumbling outpost, her breath steady despite the weight of exhaustion. The outer defenses, bristling with archers, had loomed high and unyielding, a wall of stone and steel. But as her gaze had swept the perimeter, she had spotted it: a narrow section, half-hidden by creeping ivy, where the stones had shifted and left a jagged gap. It had been tight, barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Not ideal, but it would have to do.

A trio of guards had patrolled nearby, their eyes squinting against the afternoon glare, scanning but not truly seeing. Most of the garrison had been drawn to the walls, their focus fixed on the siege towers creeping closer, their shadows long on the bloodied earth. These three had remained behind, perhaps anticipating a stealthy assault, but their watch had been lax, more habit than true vigilance.

Lyanna had assessed the rhythm of their patrol—slow, predictable. She had signaled her men with a curt nod, her fingers brushing the hilt of her blade. They had moved as one, silent and sure-footed, their steps muffled by soft grass and churned soil. The air had felt heavy, thick with dust and tension, every breath a conscious effort.

The guards had never stood a chance.

Lyanna’s sword had flashed in the sunlight, slicing across the first man’s throat before he could utter a sound. He had staggered forward, choking on his own blood, as her men had descended on the others. The second soldier had managed to draw his sword, but not quickly enough. A blade had sunk into his gut, and he had crumpled with a groan. The third had fumbled for his horn, panic in his eyes, but a dagger had found his heart before he could sound the alarm.

The bodies had fallen quietly, their deaths swallowed by the cries of the distant battle.

Lyanna had crouched beside the nearest corpse, wiping her blade on his tunic. She had given her men a brief, steadying glance before slipping through the gap in the wall. One by one, they had followed, slipping into the castle’s shadowed depths like wolves stalking prey.

She could still hear Thorin’s derision from the war council days before. “House Hogg’s men will expect an infiltration,” he had said, his voice laced with condescension. “It’s foolishness to waste soldiers on such a doomed venture. We should focus all our strength on the walls, She-wolf, not sneaking about like common thieves.”

But Thorin hadn’t been the one wading through blood and mud, scaling the walls as men died around him. And Thorin hadn’t been the one inside the castle, blade in hand, carving a path through House Hogg’s defenses. No, that had been her. Thorin might bear the title of commander, but it was Lyanna Stark who had made the desperate choices when his stupidity left them faltering, and it was her men who had paid the price for his folly.

Thorin would not hold that rank much longer, she had decided. Perhaps she’d send him back North, where his blunders would cost fewer lives—or none at all, if the Gods were kind.

“If I’d had Yohn Royce’s command,” she muttered to herself, venom lacing her words, “we might not have lost the day.” But the Bronze Yohn had abandoned her cause, riding back to Riverrun like the loyal dog he was.

The memory of that day burned hot in Lyanna's mind, sharper than any blade. The battle had turned from grim to disastrous once inside the castle walls. A soldier loyal to House Hogg, sprawled against the stone, blood seeping from a gash in his chest, had smiled at her through teeth stained red.

"Prince Rhaegar’s forces are here," he croaked, his voice a mockery even as his life slipped away. "They’re slaughtering your men on the walls. It’s over." He laughed then, a wet, gurgling sound that dissolved into a bloody cough before his head lolled forward.

Lyanna had gone cold. The fire in her veins from earlier dimmed into something colder, sharper—an icy clarity born of desperation. Without a word, she and a handful of her men carved a path through the chaos in the courtyard, racing to the top of the castle walls to survey the battlefield.

Her breath caught, and she saw her own shock mirrored in the pale faces of her men. The scene below was a slaughter. Her forces, pressed tight against the castle walls, were caught in a storm of arrows and boiling oil raining down from above. From the hills beyond, Targaryen infantry surged like a wave, their armor glinting in the failing light. Her men were trapped, pinned between the castle and the advancing forces.

They were caught on both sides.

Lyanna wasn’t a seasoned war commander, but even she knew what this meant. Their rout was inevitable. They had not anticipated Prince Rhaegar and his forces reaching Sow’s Horn so quickly. Every raven she’d received had placed the prince far to the north, still days away from reaching Sow’s Horn. She had believed there was time—time to claim the castle, fortify its defenses, and ready for a siege.

She had been wrong.

She’d misjudged their speed, their resolve, and their distance. The Crown Prince had moved with the urgency of a wildfire, his forces sweeping south like an unstoppable tide. Her men had paid the price for her mistake.

Her mind raced as the weight of the battle pressed down on her. The plan to take Lord Hogg prisoner and force a surrender was no longer viable. If they waited any longer, there would be no army left to command. Lyanna could see only one way to salvage what remained of her forces.

“We open the gates,” she said, her voice steady despite the chaos around her. Her men turned to her in disbelief.

“Open the gates?” one of them echoed, wide-eyed.

“Open them,” Lyanna snapped. “We’ll give our men an exit, draw them inside the walls to regroup. We’ll hold the courtyard and force the enemy to fight for every inch they take. It will be bloody, and there will be losses, but we’ll save who we can.”

It was a gamble, and she knew it. The smallfolk inside the castle would be caught in the fray, and their blood would stain the stones before this was over. But she could see no other way. If they stayed as they were, her forces would be annihilated, scattered to the winds.

"Better bloody than butchered," she muttered, gripping her sword tighter. "Move. Now."

When Lyanna and her men fought their way to the chains and hauled the portcullis skyward, the effort cost them dearly. The clash in the gatehouse had been a bloody, desperate affair, each swing of the sword met with stubborn resistance. But at last, the rusted iron groaned upward, and her forces poured through the gates in a tide of battered, bloodied men. Desperation gleamed in their eyes; some could barely stand.

“Regroup!” Lyanna’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “We stand our ground here!”

Her orders were echoed by her captains, their voices carrying over the chaos. For a moment, the strategy held. Her forces recovered, forming a ragged defensive line at the gates. They held firm against the trickle of Targaryen loyalists who surged forward, trying to breach the entry. Arrows flew and blades clashed, but her men stood their ground. Slowly, it seemed, the tide was turning. Hope flickered in her chest like a fragile flame.

The loyalists were bloodied, faltering in their attempts to break the defensive line at the gates. Her soldiers pressed their advantage, and more of the men surged through the narrow opening, abandoning the gore-slicked castle walls for the relative safety of the courtyard’s defensive line. Lyanna dared to believe, for a moment, that the worst might be over.

Her hopes shattered like glass at the frantic arrival of a young Umber squire. His armor was smeared with blood, though she doubted it was his own, and his face was pale with panic. He skidded to a halt before her, breathless and wide-eyed.

“My lady!” he gasped, voice high with urgency. “Some of the men—they’ve broken the line! They’ve turned to pillaging! They’re despoiling the smallfolk inside the sept!”

Lyanna’s stomach churned, fury sparking to life. She had no time to demand why or how; the truth was plain enough. Discipline had fractured under the strain of battle. 

Not again, she had thought. Not another Maidenpool.

Driven by fury, she’d abandoned the fray at the gates, her blood roaring in her ears as she sprinted deeper into the castle. The clash of steel and the cries of the dying faded to a distant clamor behind her. Every pounding step hardened her resolve, each heartbeat a drumbeat of defiance. If blood must be spilled, let it be for honor. But the madness at Maidenpool —her men’s madness—would not taint their cause again. She would see to that, even if it cost her life.

The air within the castle was thick with the stink of fear and death. Shadows danced on stone walls, cast by guttering torches and the orange glow of distant flames. Among the scattered debris, her gaze caught a flash of green— a discarded hood, ragged at the edges. A fleeing commoner’s, most likely.

Lyanna snatched it up, her fingers brushing cold, damp fabric. No time to consider whose it had been. She tugged it over her breastplate, the green folds hanging low and uneven, pooling over her wrists. A lady in a commoner’s garb. No matter. Stealth would serve her better than a blade now. Let them see a peasant, not a wolf.

Hiding her blade beneath the folds, she pressed on, each step lighter, quieter. Her breath came shallow, controlled, as she slipped through the darkened corridors. Ahead, a door creaked open, the faint murmur of cries spilling out. Lyanna’s grip tightened on her hilt, and she felt the weight of her name, her blood, her duty pressing against her chest.

When she reached the sept, she shoved the heavy doors open with a resounding crash, expecting to find her men pillaging and despoiling as the squire had claimed.

But what she found froze her in place.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood serene and terrible, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light, his blade still wet with the blood of her men. Around him lay the broken bodies of her soldiers, scattered like fallen leaves. 

He hadn’t noticed her. That much was clear. Lyanna turned and ran, her heart pounding in her chest. She needed time—just a moment to think, to act, to survive. In the chaos of the sacking, she spotted a young girl, wide-eyed and frozen amidst the carnage. Lyanna hated herself for what she was about to do, but desperation clawed at her. She grabbed the girl, pulling her close, and pressed the edge of her dagger to the child’s throat.

“Shhh. I won’t hurt you,” she whispered, her voice low and urgent. “Just play along.”

The girl’s gaze flicked to the wolf sigil half-hidden beneath Lyanna’s loose hood. Recognition bloomed, and with it, panic. Before Lyanna could stop her, the girl screamed, the sound piercing through the thick of the battle. Instinctively, Lyanna pressed the blade closer to silence her, the sharp edge grazing the girl’s skin.

Then she heard it—the deliberate, steady sound of boots on stone. Her blood turned to ice.

She turned her head slowly and saw him. The Dragon Prince. The man who had brought ruin upon her friends and family on the battlefield, whose father had set the events of her life spiraling into chaos and bloodshed. Rhaegar Targaryen stood there, his silver hair streaked with grime and gore, his chestplate stained crimson. His violet eyes, so calm and detached, locked onto hers.

Rage surged within her, a tide of bile and fury that threatened to choke her. Her vision blurred with it, and for a moment, she wasn’t herself. She felt the dagger press harder against the girl’s throat. A part of her—small, dark, and vengeful—whispered that she could do it. She could take this innocent life, shatter the calm façade of the Crown Prince, make him feel her wrath.

But another voice, louder, cut through her haze. Lyanna Stark did not harm the innocent.

After much pointless back-and-forth with the prince, Lyanna’s patience snapped. His words were calm, measured—infuriatingly so—each one dripping with the entitlement and righteousness that had brought her world to ruin. She met his steady gaze with burning hatred, her fingers tightening on the dagger still pressed to the trembling girl’s throat.

But she couldn’t do it.

With a sharp intake of breath, Lyanna released the girl, shoving her away with enough force to send her sprawling to the bloodied ground. The child scrambled to her feet and fled, vanishing into the chaos. Lyanna barely noticed, her focus narrowing to the prince before her.

If anyone deserves my wrath, it’s him.

Her hands tightened around the hilt of her blade. She could feel the weight of it, the cold steel an extension of her fury. She raised her sword and dagger, her movements fluid and precise, her breathing steady despite the storm raging in her chest.

Without a word, she attacked. If she was to die today, it would be with her blade aimed for his heart, her fury burning brighter than any fear of death.

Lyanna had discarded her hood moments before, baring her face and the partial armor that clung to her bruised body. She wanted him to see her, to know exactly who had come for him, the woman his family had wronged beyond repair. Recognition flickered across Rhaegar’s face, the crack in his composure brief but telling. Shock, not fear. He knew her.

“Lyanna Stark,” he whispered, the name barely audible over the chaos around them.

There seemed to be no more words after that. Their blades spoke instead, clashing in a furious rhythm. Lyanna fought with the unrelenting fury of a storm, and for moments at a time, she had the upper hand. She could see it in his face, the flicker of shock as he struggled to keep up with her relentless speed. Yet Rhaegar countered with skill and determination, each swing of his sword reclaiming momentum until they were locked in a brutal stalemate.

He’s holding back, Lyanna had thought bitterly, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword. The way he had moved, the measured precision of his strikes, it hadn’t been the frenzy of a man fighting for his life. It had been control, restraint, as if he wielded his blade like a musician playing a harp, careful not to unleash its full fury.

Rhaegar brought down his blade with a cruel swing, narrowly missing her head before it sank deep into her shoulder. She did not scream. Instead, she gritted her teeth, enduring the sharp pain as the blade tore through muscle and sinew.

With a ferocity that seemed to come from the depths of her rage, she wrenched herself free, pulling away from him as the blade ripped from her flesh. He barely had time to recover. His guard was down, and her next strike came faster than he could parry.

When her blade finally found purchase, slashing across his thigh, she saw the prince stagger as blood darkened his riding pants. A dark satisfaction surged through her as she caught the flicker of pain breaking through his composure. She had struck him, wounded him, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe she could end his life. Lyanna didn’t hesitate. She brought down her longsword with devilish speed, a strike meant to cleave his head in half. But Rhaegar was fast—faster than she had expected. He rolled out of harm’s way, the blade narrowly missing its mark and slamming into the blood-slick mud.

It was then that she saw it: the change in his eyes.

Near-death had awakened the dragon within him, and it burned bright and violent in his gaze.

No holding back now, Lyanna thought darkly.

The tide of the battle shifted rapidly. Rhaegar’s strikes grew harder, faster, each blow forcing her backward. She felt her strength waning, her movements slowing, until she found herself sprawled on her back in the mud. His steel boot pressed lightly, almost mockingly, against her hand, pinning her weapon beneath it.

But Lyanna Stark would not yield.

She thrashed and clawed, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as Rhaegar’s forearm moved to her throat. His pressure tightened, intent clear. Stars danced in her vision, but she refused to let darkness claim her without leaving her mark. Her hands frantically searched the muddy ground until her fingers closed around a jagged shard of glass.

With the last of her strength, she drove the shard into his belly, twisting it savagely.

Lyanna would make him suffer before she died. 

Blood flowed freely, staining her hand and his armor, and for the first time, she saw him falter. He didn’t scream—Rhaegar Targaryen was too proud for that—but his grunt of pain was raw, animalistic. His eyes flared with violent determination, and Lyanna knew she was dead.

He grabbed her hands, wrenching them from the shard with brutal force. Before she could react, he slammed her wrist repeatedly into the ground. The sharp crack of bone breaking echoed through the chaos. Unimaginable pain shot through her, leaving her breathless, but she clenched her teeth against the scream clawing its way up her throat.

She would not give him the satisfaction.

Her wrist throbbed in agony, bone and flesh protesting the repeated blows, but she held her gaze steady. She would not give him the pleasure of hearing her scream, nor the satisfaction of seeing her beg for her life.

She stared back at him, her breaths shallow, chest heaving, but still defiant.

And then, with a swift, cruel motion, he brought the hilt of his blade down on the side of her head.

It struck with brutal force, and everything went black. The world dissolved into a blur of pain, then nothing at all.

Her mind drifted from the lost battle to her conversation with Ser Arthur Dayne, a man as immediately recognizable as any in the realm. Dark hair, striking violet eyes, the unmistakable mark of House Dayne, a bloodline as ancient as it was proud.

"You know Rhaegar lives," he had taunted, the words sinking like a blade into her gut. Lyanna's heart dropped, heavy with the realization that her chance to strike a blow to the loyalists had slipped through her fingers. She had hoped, foolishly, that she had killed Rhaegar, and in doing so weakened the forces loyal to the crown, might even break the peace talks Jon Arryn was desperately trying to push forward. But now... now it had all failed.

Her head throbbed with the aftermath of the fight, each pulse a reminder of the blood and pain that had coursed through her veins. Ser Arthur’s voice broke through the haze, steady and clinical, as he informed her that Rhaegar’s wounds were not fatal. His breath was shallow, his body unmoving. Though he had not stirred all day, his life was still tethered to him, stubbornly clinging to the edge of consciousness.

So I've been out for an entire day, Lyanna had mused darkly, the bitterness souring her tongue.

“Hopefully, the Stranger takes him and he does not wake,” she spat, blood still lingering in her mouth from the previous day’s struggle.

Arthur Dayne simply laughed, a laugh as cold as the steel of his sword. "I doubt it, my lady. Prince Rhaegar is too important for the stability of the realm. The Seven are not cruel."

Mirth twinkled in his violet eyes, amusement at her pain, no doubt. Lyanna’s fists clenched in frustration.

"Maybe one day, we can cross blades, Lady Lyanna," he said, his voice light, yet dangerous. "I would love to test that wolf blood of yours."

The words stung, sharp as any wound. Anger flared in her chest, hot and wild. She slammed her fists against the bars, demanding Arthur open the gates. Let him face her as a man, one-on-one. But deep down, Lyanna knew it was a fool’s wish. She couldn’t even defeat Rhaegar in single combat. Against a legendary swordsman like Ser Arthur Dayne, she stood no chance. It was madness. Her wrist was ruined, shattered beyond repair. She would not last a second, she knew.

But she would never bow. Not to Rhaegar, not to Arthur Dayne. The wolf blood ran hot in her veins, and she would die fighting before giving them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

She had not seen the mocking face of Ser Arthur Dayne since her first day in the cell. It had only been the maester’s visits and the maids bringing her food, and for that, she was thankful. The thought of stabbing out those pretty violet eyes of Dayne’s with her fork was a tempting one.

The days bled into one another, mundane and repetitive. Eat, piss, shit, be inspected by the maester, sleep. A dull cycle fit for a prisoner, not for the blood of the wolf. Yet, even in this stagnation, something unexpected came one day, shattering the monotony.

A red-haired, red-bearded man barged into the prison, fury blazing in his eyes. His mouth trembled with barely contained rage. Lyanna stood tall, eyes narrowing, uncertain whether this was an assassin sent by Rhaegar’s loyalists. But no, this man did not have the build of a sly assassin. He was bulky, a warrior by the looks of him.

"You!" the man shouted, voice thick with anger. "You dare raise your sword against the crown prince!"

His spit sprayed across the bars of her cell.

Lyanna scoffed, her lips curling into a sneer. “And who are you, my lord? One of Rhaegar’s war commanders, perhaps? Or a minor lord of some unknown land?”

The man’s fury only deepened at her words, his nostrils flaring as his face turned a deeper shade of red. He gripped the bars of her cell so tightly his knuckles whitened, the iron creaking faintly under the strain.

"I am Lord Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the cold stone walls. "Sworn liege to the Crown Prince and true servant of House Targaryen. And you, Stark—" He jabbed a thick finger in her direction. "You are nothing but a traitor and a savage!"

It hit her like a slap. Jon Connington. Of course. His fiery red hair and beard should have been a clue. She had heard his name more than once in war councils, Robert Baratheon’s voice booming with disdain when he spoke of the man.

She let out a loud belly laugh, the sound echoing in the cold stone walls of the cell. “You’re the man who refused to fight Robert in single combat?” she taunted. “You let your men be slaughtered at Stoney Sept and fled like a coward. No wonder the Mad King stripped you of your lands and titles.”

Her words were venom, each one twisting in his gut like a blade.

Connington’s face turned crimson with rage. "I have come here to warn you, Stark. If Rhaegar does not wake and succumbs to his wounds, I promise on your Old Gods, you will die a painful death."

With that, the Lord of Griffin’s Roost sneered at her, spun on his heel, and stormed out of the prison, leaving Lyanna standing there, the fury of his words hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

Hours passed in the dim silence of her cell, marked only by the distant drip of water and the occasional skittering of rats along the stone floor. Lyanna sat cross-legged on the cold ground, idly toying with the fork they’d left her from her last meal. The tines were dull, no good for stabbing, but she ran her thumb along the edge regardless, imagining the feel of Ser Arthur Dayne’s smug face beneath it.

In her boredom, she found herself humming an old tune, one she and Benjen used to sing when they were children, running wild in the woods of Winterfell. The melody faltered as she remembered the way her brother’s laughter had echoed off the trees. How far away that life seemed now. She clenched her jaw and forced the tune from her lips again, louder this time, as if to drown out the ache that threatened to creep in.

The silence of the dungeons was eventually broken by the clang of boots on stone. Lyanna’s ears pricked at the sound, her body stiffening as the noise grew louder. Keys jingled, and then the door to her cell creaked open. Two guards stood there, their faces shadowed beneath helmets, crimson and black cloaks draped over their shoulders, the colors of House Targaryen.

“On your feet, Stark,” one commanded, his voice cold and sharp as steel.

Lyanna rose slowly, her wrists still tender and raw beneath the shackles they’d left her with. She met the guards’ gazes with unflinching defiance, her lips curling into a faint sneer. They wouldn’t see fear in her, no matter what came next. Rough hands seized her arms, the iron shackles clattering to the floor as they were removed. In their place came coarse ropes, the fibers biting into her raw skin with every tug. The guards’ grip was firm, and they said nothing more as they dragged her from the cell.

The winding stone corridors felt endless, lit dimly by the wavering flames of distant torches. The air smelled of damp and decay, heavy and suffocating. Lyanna’s boots scraped against the floor as they pulled her along, her mind racing. This was it. Surely, they were leading her to the castle grounds for beheading. Surely, this meant Rhaegar was dead. The thought sent a shiver of satisfaction through her, even as dread coiled in her belly.

When they emerged into the night air, she blinked against the sudden glow of candlelight. The square was alight, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows against the castle walls. Men-at-arms stood in rows along the center, their torches held high. Banners flew in the still night, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen alongside the gleaming pink swine of House Hogg. The men’s faces were set in grim lines, their glares cold and unyielding as they fixed on the center of the castle grounds.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she took in the scene. The raised platform in the center. The way the crowd’s murmurs stilled as she was hauled forward. This is it, she thought. They mean to behead me. Good. Let it mean Rhaegar is dead.

She straightened her back, her bound hands clenching into fists as she walked toward her fate, her steps steady and unyielding despite the chill that crept up her spine.

Lyanna was not taken to the square after all. Instead, as the guards dragged her forward, she caught sight of the executions. Men knelt on the blood-streaked ground, their heads forced low, the executioner’s blade gleaming in the torchlight. The first head rolled with a sickening thud, and a murmur rippled through the watching crowd. Bandits, likely, Lyanna thought, taking in their ragged armor and the hard lines etched into their faces. War always brought bandits.

Lyanna frowned, her mind racing. This wasn’t for her. Not for her execution, at least. 

Her path veered from the scaffold, and soon she found herself ushered inside the main hall of House Hogg. The contrast was jarring. The air here buzzed with activity, the mingling of voices and clattering objects filling the space. Squires scurried about, clutching parchments or tending to weapons, while handmaids flitted past, their arms burdened with fabric and platters. The savory tang of roasting meat wafted in from a distant kitchen, though Lyanna’s stomach churned too much to care.

Her eyes darted to the freshly hung banners adorning the stone walls, the crimson and black of House Targaryen vivid against the drab interior. The three-headed dragon loomed above the bustling oak tables, a silent reminder of who ruled these lands. Something was happening. She could feel it—a tension in the air, a purpose behind the hurried movements of the servants and soldiers alike.

She was ushered past the throng of servants without ceremony, their frantic preparations a blur of motion and sound. Trays of roasted meats gleamed under torchlight, goblets were polished to a fine shine, and garlands were draped across the beams of the hall, filling the air with the faint scent of crushed herbs. It was a feast they prepared for, though for what purpose Lyanna could not yet divine. The guard at her back gave her a rough shove, forcing her forward through the chaos, her wrists aching from the bite of the rough ropes.

They came to an oak door at the end of the great hall, the wood worn and dark with age. Without pause, it was thrown open, and she was thrust inside. The cold air of the stairwell that followed pricked at her skin, the winding ascent cruel on her ankles, already sore from days of pacing her cell. She climbed in silence, swallowing her pain, her fury her only armor. Each step was a reminder of her captivity, the ache in her limbs a drumbeat of defiance.

At the top of the stairs, they entered a corridor lined with heavy doors, the walls dimly lit by a single flickering torch. Her captor shoved her again, sending her stumbling into the first room on the left. She fell hard to her knees, the stone biting against her exposed hands. Anger surged hot in her chest, and she twisted to glare up at the man. His scowl met hers, the pink swine sewn boldly onto his chest. She held his gaze with burning defiance, her silent promise as sharp as a dagger: If I ever have the chance, I will slit your throat.

“On your feet, Stark,” he growled.

“That's enough, Ser,” came a voice from within the shadows of the room, low and rasping.

Lyanna froze, her breath caught in her throat. That voice—it was a phantom, clawing its way out of the deepest pit of her memories. Her stomach turned, bile rising as the shadows shifted, and a figure stepped into the faint light.

Her heart pounded as she straightened, forcing herself to stand, her chin high and her eyes burning with defiance. She would not cower. Not now, not ever.

The man stepped closer, and the light revealed him. Violet eyes, pale skin, and hair like spun silk, though his face bore a haggardness she had not remembered. The scent of milk of the poppy lingered on him, clinging to his clothes like a ghost.

Rhaegar Targaryen. He lived.

The sight of him struck her like a physical blow, the weight of her failure crashing down on her chest. Her mind raced with curses, with hate, but outwardly she betrayed nothing. Her storm-grey eyes met his, cold and unyielding as steel.

“Lady Lyanna,” Rhaegar said, bowing slightly at the waist.

Lyanna’s mouth fell open, caught between disbelief and fury. Was this mockery? She nearly laughed, but the sound died in her throat. His face betrayed no signs of cruelty, no glint of jest in those violet eyes. If anything, he looked solemn.

She scoffed instead, a cold sound that echoed in the stillness of the room. “My lord,” she replied, her tone clipped and cool, deliberately withholding the proper deference. The omission did not escape him; a flicker of amusement briefly lit his gaze, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“Imprisoning a lady in a cell for over a week, treating her like a common thief, denying her even the smallest decency... and yet you have the audacity to courtesy before me?” Her voice remained measured, steady as stone. She would not let Rhaegar Targaryen, prince or no, see any crack in her composure.

Rhaegar inclined his head slightly, a tremor visible in his hand as he used it to steady himself while stepping closer. The light of the torches illuminated him fully now, and Lyanna stiffened. His face was pale and gaunt, his lips cracked, and those beautiful solemn eyes duller than she remembered. Fresh bandages wrapped his shoulder and abdomen, the white cloth stark against his wan skin.

For a moment, guilt flared within her—a quick, sharp pang that cut deep—but she buried it as swiftly as it came. He was her enemy. Remember that, she told herself.

“You did nearly kill the crown prince,” Rhaegar said lightly, his voice tinged with a teasing lilt. “Some of my men would have seen you hanged for it. Lucky for you, I’ve woken.”

Lyanna pressed her lips together, refusing to rise to the bait. Her fingers itched to lash out, to strike the faint smirk from his face, but she held firm. She would not play his game. Her silence, cold and unyielding, spoke louder than any words could.

She took a step forward, arms bound tight against her sides. The dim candlelight flickered as she moved, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Targaryen guards tensed, their hands moving to hilts, half-drawing steel as she drew closer to the silver-haired prince.

Rhaegar Targaryen’s violet eyes met hers, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his sharp features. The smirk faltered, slipping away as her face came fully into view. For a moment, the air between them seemed to still, heavy with unspoken tension.

He inclined his head, a command as clear as any shout. His hand rose next, palm outward, and the men, reading both gestures, hesitated before sliding their blades back into their scabbards

“Has Lady Lyanna been harmed?” Rhaegar’s voice was soft, yet laced with steel, each word deliberate. His gaze swept over her, cold and assessing. Fury simmered beneath the measured calm, a storm barely held in check. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances before shaking their heads, their faces blanching.

“She is the Lady of Winterfell,” Rhaegar continued, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “And she will be treated as such.”

With a snap of his fingers, he beckoned the nearest guard. “Fetch the maids. See to it that Lady Lyanna Stark is cleaned and cared for.” His gaze returned to her, softer now but no less intense. “Remove her bindings. I will not have her as a prisoner any longer.”

The soldiers hesitated, their glances shifting to Rhaegar as if he had grown three heads. Lyanna could see it plainly—the confusion, the silent plea in their eyes. This is the woman who tried to kill you, their looks seemed to say. But none dared voice their thoughts. They bowed their heads instead, cutting the bindings from her wrist, and retreating quickly to their duties, leaving only the tense silence in their wake.

Rhaegar’s face, illuminated by the candlelight, was inscrutable. Yet there was something in his expression—remorse, perhaps, or guilt—that unsettled her. The kingly air he projected did little to mask the weariness in his eyes.

Lyanna’s mind raced. Why was he doing this? She was the enemy, a Stark, a wolf among dragons. Surely, he didn’t believe for a moment that she wouldn’t drive a knife into his throat the first chance she got.

And yet, as she rubbed her aching wrists, unbounded for the first time in perhaps weeks, she found herself wondering whether he truly expected otherwise. 

Lyanna’s frown deepened, her anger bubbling over. “What are you doing?” she spat, the words sharp, confusion and fury entwined in her voice.

For a moment, Rhaegar said nothing. He merely stared at her, his violet eyes unreadable. Then, with a weary sigh, he sank onto the lord’s bed, the weight of the world in his every movement. His hands rose to his face, fingers pressing against his temples as if to ward off an unseen burden.

“What a mess my father has created,” he muttered, voice low, the words more to himself than to her. His shoulders slumped, a man crumbling under the weight of his name.

Lyanna felt her confusion burn away, replaced by the familiar, hot surge of her wolf’s blood. Her nostrils flared, her fists clenching at her sides. “It was not your mad father who rode through the Riverlands, killing Northerners,” she snarled, her voice sharp and unyielding. “Nor was it your father who broke the Stormlands and left them in ruin.”

Her words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike, but Rhaegar did not flinch. He lifted his head slowly, hands falling away from his face. His gaze was solemn, heavy with something that looked like regret.

“War is never so black and white, Lady Lyanna,” he said quietly. “You should know that, given you and your men have scorched much of the Crownlands to the ground.” The final words struck like a lash, cold and stinging, leaving no room for retort.

“Stop calling me that!” she all but shouted, her voice echoing off the stone walls. The title felt like a chain, binding her to a role she had never asked for. She was more than a name, more than a daughter of Winterfell. And she would not let him forget it.

Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his violet eyes.

“Pardon, my lady?” he said, his tone polite but measured.

“Stop calling me Lady Lyanna,” she snapped, her voice sharp. “You called me Lyanna on the battlefield—do not minimize me here, in this castle.” Her gaze hardened as she glared at him. Lady Lyanna was, without doubt, a way for the incestuous spawn of House Targaryen to remind her of her place in the world.

Rhaegar bit his bottom lip, a flicker of frustration crossing his face before he sighed. “I meant no disrespect, my lady,” he said, his voice calm, though there was a hint of effort in his words. “It is only proper that I call you Lady Lyanna. When I called you by your first name on the battlefield, I was… overwhelmed by the heat of battle. I lost my courtesy.”

His tone was polite, and there was no sign of malice in his voice or on his face.

Lyanna simply stamped her foot in frustration and pouted in her standing spot. She would not let Rhaegar’s polite, princely act break her resolve.

Before their quarrel over titles could deepen, the oak doors flew open with a resounding crash. Jon Connington stormed in, his boots echoing across the stone floor, anger etched into every line of his face.

Lyanna's mood shifted in an instant, from bad to dark, like a storm cloud sweeping across the sky. Lord Connington shared her expression, his gaze locked on her with barely concealed hatred, his eyes burning with a fury that made her skin prickle.

“I heard of your plan to free Lyanna Stark,” Jon Connington said, his voice laced with contempt. He didn’t even acknowledge Lyanna’s presence in the room, as if she were no more than a piece of furniture.

Lyanna scoffed, her hands instinctively reaching for her sword, but she cursed under her breath when she realized it was not there. She might need to defend herself from Jon Connington’s wrath, after all.

“I will not allow this Stark to run rampant around these castle grounds after all of her crimes, and how she nearly killed you, Rhaegar!” Jon’s voice rose, his fury spilling over as he shouted. The words hit Lyanna like a slap, and she flinched at the sheer loudness of his voice, her teeth gritting.

She was stunned by the way the Lord of Griffin’s Roost spoke to the crown prince—blatantly disrespectful, unafraid, as if Rhaegar’s station meant nothing. Yet Rhaegar didn’t seem angered by the tone, only mildly annoyed.

“Jon,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I will not have the future…” Rhaegar paused, his eyes flicking to Lyanna for just a moment, and then continued, “Lady of Winterfell treated as a common prisoner. There will be no discussion.”

He said it with the weight of finality as if the matter were already decided.

Jon Connington’s face flushed red with rage, his fists clenched at his sides. He finally turned his gaze to Lyanna, his eyes filled with disdain, as though she were the source of all his anger.

“Then you are a fool, Rhaegar,” he spat, his words dripping with venom.

“Remember your place, Jon,” Rhaegar’s voice dropped, a warning lacing the words. His face darkened ever so slightly, the first crack in his composed exterior.

Jon Connington grunted, his expression a mixture of frustration and anger, and stormed out of the room without so much as a glance at Lyanna. The heavy door slammed behind him, echoing through the stone halls, leaving the room in a tense silence.

Lyanna stood frozen for a heartbeat, her fingers curling instinctively, aching for the sword that was no longer at her hip. Her gaze snapped to Rhaegar, sharp and unyielding, as if daring him to meet it. His cool, detached expression only frayed her patience further.

“You are soft, Targaryen. Too soft.” The words dripped with scorn, her voice low but laced with mockery. “You’d let him speak to you like that?”

Each word hung in the air, a challenge as much as an accusation.

Rhaegar’s gaze didn’t waver, though a flicker of something passed across his face. He took a slow breath, his lips pressing together. “If I’d risen to every provocation, Lyanna, I’d be no better than my father.” His voice was calm, but there was steel in it now, just beneath the surface. “I chose my battles, and Connington was not worth the time.”

Lyanna scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest, anger simmering underneath as she struggled to get a rise out of him, but before she could respond, a soft knock echoed through the stone walls. The door creaked open, and two maids stepped inside, their heads lowered in deference to the prince.

“My prince,” one of them began, addressing Rhaegar, “we’ve come to escort Lady Lyanna to her chambers for a bath.”

Lyanna turned her gaze back to Rhaegar, giving him a bitter smile. “Well, I suppose that’s all I’m good for now, isn’t it?” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just a bath and some scraps of courtesy."

Rhaegar did not respond. He merely sighed, the sound barely audible, before turning away. His steps were slow and deliberate as he crossed the chamber toward the lord’s table, where dim candlelight flickered over scattered parchments. Lyanna’s sharp gaze did not miss the way his hand drifted to his thigh, where her blade had struck true. A pang of guilt flickered in her chest, quick and unwelcome. She crushed it beneath the weight of her pride.

Chin lifted defiantly, she turned on her heel, allowing herself to be escorted across the hall. Soldiers lined the walls, hands resting on sword hilts, eyes watchful and ready. They’ll strike me down the moment I make a move, Lyanna thought bitterly. They’ll take my head without a second’s hesitation.

“This way, m’lady,” one of the maids said softly, motioning ahead. Lyanna’s brows drew together at the familiar gruff accent of the North in the girl’s voice. A Northerner this far south? She said nothing but filed the thought away.

Inside the chambers, the sweet scent of lavender and fresh wood assaulted her senses as a fire crackled warmly in the hearth. The room was grand, decorated with the three-headed dragon next to the pink swine sigils. Despite the beauty, Lyanna couldn’t help but feel a sense of cold detachment. These chambers must be for one of the heirs, or maybe someone else of high station, she thought briefly, but pushed the thought aside. There were more pressing matters at hand.

She tensed at their first touch, instinctively pulling away as they reached to remove her armor, unused to such attention. But when their hands persisted, she forced herself to remain still, swallowing the discomfort that threatened to rise.

“I am more than capable of undressing myself,” Lyanna said, voice clipped, her patience fraying, after some time. The maids bowed quickly, retreating to prepare the bath.

Once undressed, Lyanna wrapped her arms around herself, hands crossing over her chest, legs drawn tight. Shame burned in her cheeks, but the maids paid her no mind as they ushered her toward the steaming bath. She sank into the water, biting back a sigh of relief as the heat seeped into her bones. It was the first hot bath she’d had since crossing the Twins, and for a moment, the tension in her body eased.

The maids worked in silence, scrubbing away the grime of travel and battle. They massaged her skin, kneading out knots she hadn’t realized were there, and applied fragrant oils that made her smell more like a lady of court than a warrior. Lyanna endured it all, her mind elsewhere—on her men, on escape.

When the bath was done, they brought her before the bed, where two dresses lay waiting.

“Pick one, m’lady,” the shy maid whispered, eyes averted. “Lady Hogg chose them for you.”

Lyanna’s jaw clenched. Fury simmered beneath her skin. She had half a mind to storm out of the castle naked, consequences be damned. The dresses were beautiful—soft silks and fine embroidery—but they were not for her. They were for a courtly lady, one seeking favor or a betrothal.

She would not be humiliated.

Frowning, Lyanna chose the lighter gown—gold and white, simple but elegant. She refused to wear the black and crimson dress, low-cut and stunning, that had been laid out before her. She would not dress in the colors of her enemies. Not now. Not ever.

Once clothed, the maids worked quickly, braiding what little hair they could into a Southern style, leaving the rest to fall loose where it defied them. They adorned her with jewelry and dusted her skin with scented powders.

When they finished, the maids stepped back, their eyes gleaming with pride as they admired their work.

“M’lady, you are truly a beauty fit for the South,” one of them said in awe, voice soft with admiration. “Any man would be lucky to call you wife.”

Lyanna’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Instead, she grunted in irritation before stomping out of the bedchamber, her steps heavy as she made her way into the adjoining privy. There, she found a tarnished mirror, and the reflection that stared back at her startled her.

The gold and white dress clung to her curves, hanging lower than she would have liked, exposing more of her cleavage than she had intended. Her face, once gaunt from hunger and hardship of war, now had a faint color to it, a glow she couldn’t deny. Her hair, though short and wild, had been expertly braided. For the first time, Lyanna saw herself in ways people would describe her—as beautiful. Men had often told her she was beautiful, while women, with jealousy veiled behind their compliments, had said the same. But Lyanna knew the men wanted to despoil her, so she never put much stock in their words. As for the women, she was unsure whether their praise was genuine or simply born of envy.

She had never considered herself a great beauty, not like Cersei Lannister, Ashara Dayne, or Catelyn Tully—Ned Stark’s wife. They were women who seemed born for courts and crowns, their beauty an asset in a world that valued such things. But Lyanna? She was a Stark of Winterfell, raised among snow and stone, with little use for charms or soft words.

She clenched her jaw, turning her head to hide the throbbing pain in her wrist. The maids had wrapped it expertly, concealing the bruising, but she could still feel the ache from the wounds she had sustained.

A soft voice interrupted her thoughts. “M’lady, it’s time to go to the mess hall. The prince is requesting your presence.”

Lyanna cursed under her breath. She was in no mood for this. But there was no choice. The iron grip of necessity had her by the throat, and she had to endure. Her steps were heavy as she stalked out of the privy, the maids trailing behind her like a pair of hounds, their eyes glinting with eager anticipation.

As she made her way through the halls of House Hogg, a knot of dread and anticipation twisted in her stomach, as though she were a sheep being led to slaughter.

The soldiers who had once lined the walls were nowhere to be seen. Rhaegar’s chamber door stood ajar, empty. Lyanna continued without faltering, the only company a lone soldier carrying a spear, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He was her escort, though it would have been more honest to call him a jailer.

When they reached the mess hall, the sight of it stunned her. It was crowded, alive with noise and laughter, as if a battle had never been fought here only days ago. The great hall—once a place of blood and death—was now filled with merrymaking, the air thick with the stench of roasted meat and ale.

The dais was raised, and upon it, Rhaegar sat like a king, his noble profile chiseled and regal. To his left sat Jon Connington, his eyes still burning with the quiet indignation of someone who had been wronged, and to his right, Lord Hogg—stuffing his face with food and grinning like a bloated fool.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, stood beside the prince, ever watchful, his gleaming armor like a beacon among the less shining ranks. Ser Barristan the Bold, his hair greying but his stance unwavering, stood further down, his gaze scanning the crowd, ever vigilant for the slightest hint of treachery.

Lyanna tried to slip quietly into a shadowed corner, but it did not last long. Her presence did not go unnoticed for long. When Rhaegar stood, the hall fell into a sudden, unnatural hush.

The hall was thick with murmurs, the air heavy with anticipation as Rhaegar stood, his violet eyes scanning the room. He took a moment, his gaze lingering on the gathered nobles, before he raised his hand in a quiet but commanding gesture. The noise in the hall died down, replaced by a tense silence, broken only by the clink of silver goblets as they were set aside.

“Peace,” Rhaegar began, his voice calm but firm, resonating through the stone walls. “It is a rare and precious thing, broken not through the shedding of blood, but through the act of pride. The winds of war have blown across these lands for too long. It is time to silence the swords and heal the wounds.”

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. The nobles shifted in their seats, some with approval, others with resentment, but all listening intently.

“The North and the Crownlands are no longer enemies,” Rhaegar continued, his gaze briefly falling on Lyanna, who stood quietly in the corner. “The blood of the Starks has been shed by my father, through an act of unspeakable cruelty. Yet, despite all that has passed, they seek peace. A peace that we shall honor As we move forward, we must remember that it is not the victor, but the vanquished who are the true measure of a kingdom’s strength. We ask them to bend the knee not as conquerors, but as champions of peace.”

With a final, almost imperceptible glance at Lyanna, he turned toward the gathered men, his declaration now ringing through the hall like a bell tolling the end of an era.

“Lady Lyanna Stark is no longer a prisoner,” Rhaegar declared, his tone unyielding, his words like the stroke of a sword. “She shall be a guest of House Targaryen and House Hogg.”

The announcement was met with a chorus of indignation, glares of hatred pointed directly at Lyanna. She held her ground, meeting the eyes of those who watched her with open disdain. The air grew thick with venom.

Jon Connington’s voice rang out, booming and sharp. He slammed his goblet down onto the oak table, causing it to reverberate. “Silence!” he bellowed. “Your prince is speaking!”

The murmurs of discontent simmered into a heavy silence, replaced by quieter, more venomous whispers. “Butcher,” “Northern savage,” “whore”—the insults floated through the air, thinly veiled beneath the surface. Lyanna ignored them all, her chin high as she met the hatred with cold, unflinching eyes.

Rhaegar cleared his throat, his next words more measured. “Her men are freed as well. Decreed by me. As you may well know, this war is over. The Northerners are no longer our enemies. The rebel forces will be allowed to return to their camps in the Riverlands.”

The hall was deathly still, the tension thick enough to cut through with a knife. Rhaegar’s words were meant to bring peace, but Lyanna knew that the war was not truly over, not in the hearts of these men. It was a fragile peace at best.

“But first,” Rhaegar continued, his tone now almost jovial, “we feast, to commemorate the peace throughout the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lyanna blinked, taken aback. She hadn’t expected this—not this leniency, not the freeing of her men. His words hung in the air, and for a moment, she could only stare at him, her thoughts churning.

He truly believes the rebellion is over, she thought, bitterness rising in her throat like bile. Does he have no idea how much we despise his family?

“Come, Lyanna Stark,” Rhaegar said, extending a hand toward her, almost mockingly. “Let us unite these lands.”

Her heart thundered in her chest. The room seemed to narrow, the walls closing in around her. She could have fled. The doors to the hall were still open. But she knew the soldiers would be on her in a heartbeat. And besides, where could she go?

Her legs carried her, unwillingly, to the dais, where a chair had been placed beside Rhaegar. Lord Hogg was pushed aside with clear resentment on his face, but there was little he could do about it.

As Lyanna ascended the steps to the dais, she could feel the weight of every eye upon her—those of the crownlands, those of her enemies, all watching her with varying degrees of loathing and curiosity. She climbed to the seat and took her place beside Rhaegar, the air heavy with unspoken tension.

Rhaegar’s violet eyes met hers, and for a brief moment, she saw something in them, something she couldn’t quite place. It was not disdain, not exactly. But neither was it warmth. He merely stared at her, as though seeing her for the first time, and said nothing. He waited for her to sit, then followed suit.

“Let us feast!” Rhaegar’s voice rang out, and the hall erupted into a new round of cheers, as if the weight of the world had been lifted.

The feasting men and women may have forgotten, lost in their drunken revelry, but Lord Hogg did not. His eyes burned with clear contempt as they fixed on Lyanna. Whether it was because she had displaced him from his place at the crown prince’s side or because she had slaughtered so many of his men and nearly taken his castle, she could not say. But she suspected it was the latter. There was no forgiving the blood she had spilled within his walls, no matter how much wine was poured or how many toasts were made.

"You look beautiful, Lady Lyanna," Rhaegar whispered, leaning toward her as he took a sip from his goblet.

Lyanna did not answer, merely narrowed her eyes, her lips tight. He may have looked regal in his red doublet, his features sharpening as though the life had returned to him, but she would not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him.

She sat stiffly in her chair as the feast was brought before her, untouched. She knew that this gathering was not just to celebrate the end of the rebellion, but to mark Rhaegar’s return from his long slumber.

“The Seven have blessed this day,” they shouted, raising their goblets in unison. They were fools, all of them, and Lyanna Stark could not help but despise them for it.

Across the table, Lord Hogg leaned forward, his jowls trembling with disdain as he tore into a leg of chicken, greasy juices slicking his beard. “Will you not eat, my lady?” he sneered, his voice thick and slurred. “Perhaps the fare is too delicate for your savage northern palate.” He chuckled, bits of meat tumbling from his mouth as he spoke, his eyes gleaming with crude amusement.

Lyanna didn’t even spare him a glance. She simply took a slow sip from her goblet, her gaze fixed firmly ahead, as if the man didn’t exist.

Lord Hogg’s smirk faltered, his jaw twitching with irritation. He snorted in frustration, the sound ugly and guttural. With a grunt, he shoved his chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. His steps were heavy, uneven, as he lumbered off towards his drunken men, muttering curses beneath his breath.

Lyanna allowed herself a brief smile, her lips curling ever so slightly. She had won this round.

The evening dragged on, a blur of music and wine-fueled dancing. Rhaegar sat at the high table, his plate barely touched, his attention divided between whispered conversations with Jon Connington and the distant strains of the lively tunes. When at last he rose, the hall quieted.

Rhaegar looked over the crowd, each movement of his eyes deliberate, the hall falling into a hush as though the very air had stilled in reverence. His violet gaze swept across the gathered lords and ladies, lingering on no one yet seeing everything. For a moment, he stood silent, letting the anticipation thicken like smoke.

“We have bled enough,” he began, his voice low but carrying. “The fields have drunk deeply of sorrow, and too many songs now end in lament. But tonight—” His gaze softened, almost wistful. “Tonight is a song of peace.”

“House Targaryen and House Hogg banners will fly high on the walls of Sow’s Horn for generations to come,” he continued. “A symbol of unity. And now, I will ride to King’s Landing to restore peace to all of the Seven Kingdoms. Let tonight be a beginning, not an end.”

The hall erupted in cheers, louder this time, a fervor born from hope. Goblets clashed in toasts, and voices raised in jubilation. Rhaegar’s expression remained composed, but there was a faint, fleeting shadow in his eyes—a man who knew the price of peace.

As he descended from the dais, Lyanna alone noticed the faltering in his step, the slight limp he carried with quiet dignity. His hand hovered near the table, seeking balance, a motion so subtle it escaped the revelers’ notice.

Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, and Jon Connington flanked him, silent and vigilant, their presence a reminder that even peace had its protectors. They moved as shadows in his wake, ever watchful, ever ready.

Soon after, a pair of maidservants appeared at Lyanna’s side, bowing low before guiding her away from the hall. The stares of men followed her, lustful and hostile in equal measure. She kept her chin high, ignoring the whispered jests and leering eyes.

Once inside her chambers, the maids set to work, unfastening the simple gown she wore and undoing the intricate braids in her hair. The jewelry was stripped away, piece by piece, until she stood bare before them. They slipped a thin nightgown over her shoulders, the fabric so sheer it did little to shield her from the chill.

“Rest well, my lady,” one of the maids murmured, bowing deeply before retreating out of the chamber. 

Alone at last, Lyanna exhaled, the tension melting from her shoulders. She moved to the candle beside her bed, its flame flickering faintly before she snuffed it out with a whisper of breath. Darkness enveloped the room, cool and absolute.

Lyanna sank into the featherbed, pulling the covers tight around her. The world outside the castle walls seemed distant now, a forgotten dream. She closed her eyes, letting sleep take her.

But even in the quiet, she felt the weight of what was to come.

The next morning, Lyanna woke from the deepest, most restful sleep she’d had in moons. It was the knocking at the door that roused her. She stretched, pulling herself upright, and made sure she was decent before calling out, “Come in.”

The same maids from the night before entered, their eyes sharp with purpose. “My lady, Prince Rhaegar rides out with his men to King’s Landing. You will be accompanying him.” Their tone left little room for argument. They laid out freshly polished riding boots, a well-fitted riding jerkin, and a simple tunic, the fabrics clean and crisp.

Her heart quickened, her mind racing. So, this is my fate, the thought lingered, sour and unbidden. Lyanna had known, deep down, that Rhaegar would not allow her to return to Riverrun with her men. She was a highborn lady, and her submission would be crucial to his claim of peace. Perhaps he means to hold me as a hostage, she mused, the thought as cold as the winds of the North.

“I will need my armor,” she said curtly.

One of the maids offered a polite, practiced smile. “The armor is no longer necessary, my lady. It is safe, but you must dress appropriately.”

Lyanna clenched her jaw but said no more. She let them dress her in the riding clothes, hating how soft and vulnerable they felt against her skin. Her hair was braided simply, and once ready, the maids led her from the chamber.

Two Targaryen guards stood outside, their crimson cloaks trailing the cold cobblestone of the keep. Whether they were there to protect her or ensure her compliance, Lyanna couldn’t be sure. The latter thought sent a shiver down her spine.

The maids bade her farewell with low curtsies, disappearing down the hall. I will likely never see them again, Lyanna thought grimly as the guards fell into step beside her, flanking her like prison wardens.

They passed through the now-empty great hall and into the bustling courtyard. Squires hurried to ready horses, and soldiers checked their weapons, their movements brisk and efficient. At the head of the assembly, Rhaegar sat astride a magnificent brown steed, his silver hair gleaming in the sunlight. He was clad in full armor, a prince of legend brought to life.

Lyanna’s gaze shifted to her men. Perhaps five hundred remained, huddled on the opposite side of the courtyard, surrounded by Targaryen soldiers. Their faces were hollow, gaunt from imprisonment and months of war. Their clothes hung loose and filthy, and their eyes dull from defeat. 

I will not leave them without a word. Straightening her spine, Lyanna turned to the guards. “Take me to the Crown Prince.”

They said nothing, only exchanging glances. But Lyanna would not be ignored. She raised her voice, sharp and commanding. “The prince will not be pleased if you treat the Lady of Winterfell with disrespect. Or perhaps you’d like me to shout loud enough for him to hear?”

Reluctantly, the guards grunted and gestured for her to follow, hands resting on their sword hilts as if she were some dangerous beast to be contained.

When they reached Rhaegar, he was deep in conversation with Lord Hogg, but he noticed her at once. His gaze, cool and assessing, flicked over her before he frowned, irritation creasing his otherwise perfect features. Lyanna noticed the slight tinge of color returning to his face, his weakness from the day before slowly fading as he sat tall in his saddle, regal and untouchable.

“Yes, Lady Lyanna?” His tone was measured, though the sigh that followed betrayed his weariness. His silver hair glinted in the rising light, a crown of shadow and flame.

Lyanna’s jaw tightened, but her voice remained steady. “I wish to speak to my men before they depart. They fought and bled for my family. I will not abandon them without a word.”

Rhaegar tilted his head, regarding her with a flicker of something unreadable. Confusion? Pity? Whatever it was, it vanished like mist on the rills. He inclined his head, a gesture of reluctant consent. He sighed once more, then nodded. “Very well,” he said before resuming his tense discussion with the Lord of Sow’s Horn. 

With what little pride she had left, Lyanna inclined her head before turning sharply and storming toward her men, her steps quick and resolute. I am still a Stark of Winterfell, she reminded herself. And I will not be silenced. 

The sight that greeted her was grim. Once, they had been a thousand strong marching on Sow’s Horn. Now, only a few hundred remained, their faces hollowed by loss and weariness. The banners of the direwolf and trout hung limp in the damp air, tattered reminders of what had been.

Lyanna swallowed hard, tasting ash and regret. Her men had trusted her, followed her into a campaign that had bled them dry. Should she have yielded when peace was demanded by Jon Arryn? Should she have led them back to the Riverlands instead of continuing deeper into the Crownlands? It mattered not now. The choice had been made, and the dead would not rise for her second thoughts.

She took a breath, steeling herself. “You have fought bravely,” she began, her voice cutting through the crackling of sharpening swords and restless horses. “For House Stark. For House Tully. For justice.”

The words echoed in the warm morning air, but they felt hollow in her chest. Lyanna clenched her fists at her sides, willing the ache away. She would not let more of her men die for a dead rebellion. No more. 

Some lifted their heads at her words, but most stared at the ground, shadows cast long over faces too young to bear such grief.

“We have lost.” The words felt like stone in her mouth. “We marched against the dragon and were beaten back. Your brothers, sons, and fathers bled for this cause. And now, we bow our heads—not in shame, but in honor. Remember this.”

She paused, letting her gaze sweep over them. “We will return to our homes, heads held high. The bards will sing of us. The maesters will write of what we did here. We stood for something. But now, peace is demanded, and we must give it. For now.”

Her final words rang hollow in the air, falling into a silence that stretched painfully. Lyanna raised a fist, defiant, but the gesture met only stony faces and downcast eyes.

A bitter laugh clawed at her throat. One defeat, and their trust was shattered. Trust forged in blood and conquest, lost to a single day of ruin. Rhaegar had suffered worse, yet his men rallied to him still. Why not her?

The answer was clear in their eyes: she was a Stark, yes, but also a young girl to many of them, a maid from Winterfell playing at war.

Lyanna gulped, her throat tight, and averted her gaze from the accusing stares of her men. These were soldiers forged in fire, victorious in battle after battle across the Crownlands. They had been invincible once, or so it had seemed. But this defeat was bitter, a taste they could neither swallow nor spit out, and it lingered like ash on their tongues. The loss had broken more than their bodies; it had shattered their belief in her.

A prickling heat burned behind her eyes, but Lyanna blinked it away. She would not weep. Not here. Not now. Tears would not mend what had been lost. She drew a deep breath, forcing the tightness in her throat to loosen, and turned on her heel.

Before she had taken more than a few steps, a voice, familiar and laced with barely restrained anger, sliced through the clamor of the courtyard. “Will you not be riding with us, Lady Lyanna?”

She stopped, the words striking like a blow. Lyanna turned slowly, her gaze locking on Thorin. His face was battered and bruised, cuts lining his jaw like the marks of a butcher’s blade. But it was his eyes—hard, unforgiving—that made her blood run hot. He lived, she thought bitterly. Of course, he lived.

The titles did not escape Lyanna either. Lady Lyanna. A formality, cold and distant. Once, they had called her Lady Ravenclaw or She-Wolf, names spoken with pride and fierce loyalty. But now? Now, she was merely the maid of Winterfell again, a girl weighed down by a name that no longer commanded respect, only expectation.

Her lips twisted into a bitter scoff. Let them strip her of titles, of respect. It changed nothing. She held Thorin’s gaze, her eyes hard and unyielding, a silent challenge in the cold morning light. He would find no apology there.

Contempt curled in her gut. His face told a tale of blame, a story in which she was the villain. But Lyanna knew the truth. It was Thorin’s plan, reckless and stupid, that had led them here. She wanted to laugh, to scream, to curse him for his hypocrisy. Instead, she scoffed, her lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“No, Thorin,” she said, her voice sharp enough to cut through ice. “I will ride to King’s Landing with the prince’s retinue. At his command.” Her tone dripped with disdain. “No doubt to bend the knee and swear fealty to his mad father.”

Thorin’s eyes flickered, but he held his tongue. He gave a curt nod, sharp and dismissive, before spurring his horse forward to the head of the column. The men followed in somber silence, their horses plodding in a grim procession, while Targaryen soldiers flanked them on either side, silent sentinels of their defeat. 

Not one man looked back.

Lyanna watched them ride through the gates of Sow’s Horn, their banners limp, their heads bowed. A hollow ache bloomed in her chest. Betrayal. Loss. The weight of it pressed down on her like the cold northern winds.

She sighed, the sound soft and bitter, and began the long walk across the square. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of failure pressing down on her shoulders. The eyes of House Hogg’s men bored into her back, a silent verdict passed without a word.

Her boots scraped against the cobblestones as she reached her mount.The royal entourage was nearly ready. As she swung into the saddle, Rhaegar caught her eye. He nodded once, a gesture that carried more command than camaraderie.

Then, he began to speak. Of peace. Of prosperity. Of summers yet to come. His voice was melodic, weaving promises from the air. But Lyanna heard none of it. Her ears rang with the echoes of defeat, the whispers of her men’s contempt.

And so, they rode south. The gates of Sow’s Horn closed behind them, the road stretching ahead, long and unforgiving. Smallfolk lined the King’s Road, their eyes sharp with hatred, their whispers cutting through the air like knives as they fixed their gaze upon Lyanna’s mount. She could feel their condemnation seeping into her bones.

Meanwhile, they showered the crown prince with flowers, their smiles wide, their waves eager, completely blind to the bloodshed that had brought them here. Their adoration was a cruel mockery.

Flanked by Ser Barristan Selmy and several of House Targaryen’s guards, Lyanna kept her gaze forward. Rhaegar rode at the front, Ser Arthur Dayne at his side, their armor gleaming in the unforgiving sun. They rode for hours, the heat relentless, the silence oppressive.

Lyanna felt each mile as a weight upon her shoulders. She was no longer the wolf leading the pack but a lone shadow in the dragon’s wake.

They rode hard through the Crownlands, drawing closer to King’s Landing, but something was wrong. Lyanna felt it as they pushed deeper along the King’s Road. Rhaegar knew it too, his once lax posture now stiffened, his eyes scanning the horizon with a sharpness that had not been there before. Ser Arthur Dayne had drawn his sword, its gleam catching the fading light, as they rode in silence, the atmosphere heavy with unease.

Lyanna glanced at Ser Barristan Selmy, whose normally impassive face was betraying every thought. Apprehension was clear in his eyes, a rare crack in the usually unshakable knight's composure.

Is a force laying siege to King’s Landing? she thought briefly, but quickly discarded the idea. The rebellion was over. What reason would any lord have to challenge the crown now?

Yet as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Lyanna knew something had occurred in King’s Landing. Hours earlier, they had encountered a steady stream of common folk walking along the King’s Road, their faces sunken, eyes wide with fear—clearly fleeing from something. But now, the crowd had swollen into the thousands, each face grim, the air thick with panic.

Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan had moved into position, flanking Rhaegar on either side, their vigilance heightened, watching every shadow and rustling leaf. Lyanna had been assigned three additional Targaryen soldiers, riding close by to guard her. Perhaps they feared she might flee in the growing chaos, or perhaps they had come to protect her from the threat of the surging crowd.

Rhaegar had also demanded Lyanna wear a breastplate for protection after encountering a group of ragged men, their eyes gleaming with hunger, not for food but for the sight of her. They ignored the royal escort, their gaze fixed on Lyanna with a lustful intensity that made her skin crawl. 

She recoiled at first, her eyes narrowing when she saw the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on the armor’s center. The sight of it stirred something bitter and foul within her, but she pushed it down. This was not the time for petty disputes. Survival, not honor, was her concern now.

When she had asked for her own chestplate, the soldiers had shrugged indifferently. "Not sure what happened to it, my lady," one had said, his voice flat, offering no explanation or concern. Lyanna held her tongue, but the bitter taste of helplessness lingered in her mouth, sour and thick.

Their pace slowed as they neared the vast throng of refugees, eyes flicking nervously to the trees lining the road, ever watchful for hidden assassins or thieves. Lyanna caught fragments of the common folk’s mutterings—whispers thick with dread. One man spoke in hushed tones of a golden knight who had saved the city, opening the gates for the Lions to enter. Another murmured that the Mad King had unleashed wildfire, burning the streets to cleanse them of wolves and stags alike. Others spoke of Queen Rhaella seizing the throne from her husband, Aerys. That in the ensuing battle, Aerys had turned into a dragon, burning down the Red Keep. Lyanna scoffed at these tales. They were nothing more than fanciful stories spun in the heat of panic.

The royal procession did not halt until a small force bearing the Targaryen sigil rode up from King’s Landing. Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur Dayne immediately stiffened, their hands instinctively moving to their weapons, prepared to defend their king. But the riders dismounted without a sound, their steps silent as shadows. One of them knelt, presenting a parchment to Rhaegar with solemn reverence. The air seemed to thicken with tension, as if the very earth awaited the king’s command.

Rhaegar took the letter, reading it with furrowed brow, before shaking his head, his face tight with displeasure. He dismounted his steed and began to pace, his boots striking the earth with a rhythm of frustration.

After several long moments, he stopped and sighed heavily. “We will make camp in the woods,” he said, his voice heavy with command. “I will not have our men riding through thousands of smallfolk in the dead of night. We do not know who is friend or foe, and we would be overrun on these roads.”

A look passed between Jon Connington and Arthur Dayne, their faces set with the same grim understanding. Without a word, they nodded, and the forces turned off the King’s Road, riding into the forest. They eventually found a clearing to make camp, and within moments, the forest was alive with the sound of tents being erected and soldiers taking their positions. The King Guards circled the perimeter, hands on the hilts of their swords, their eyes scanning the shadows.

The camp was alive with movement, men shouting orders, horses neighing, tension thickening the air, pressing down like the oppressive heat before a thunderstorm. Rhaegar had called for a war council as soon as the lord’s tent was raised. She had watched from the tree lines as Jon Connington had leaned in close to the Prince, speaking in hushed tones, before they both entered the tent, followed by Lord Hogg, who had traveled south with them. Lyanna shifted uncomfortably, her thighs sore from hours in the saddle. She tended to her horse, securing it beneath the flickering light of the fire. The Dornish soldier beside her stood vigilant, his dark armor gleaming beneath the firelight. The watchful eyes of her three Targaryen guards never strayed too far from her, though she had no thought of fleeing. She had never been this far south before, and in the blanket of night, the dense woods would swallow her whole if she tried.

The Dornish soldier had told her they were near Hayford’s Castle, but what did that matter now? The forest, the fire, and the men in their armor—they all seemed to blur together, drowning her in a sense of impending danger.

She stared into the flames, the crackling fire doing little to quiet the storm rising inside her chest. The shouting inside the lord’s tent grew loud, a raised voice, sharp and angry. What was happening? What had they uncovered? She couldn’t say, but something in the air was wrong—so wrong.

Then, a soldier emerged from the tent, his form blocking the warmth of the fire. Lyanna tensed, ready to snap at him for blocking her view of the flames, but the words caught in her throat when he spoke.

“My Lady, the Prince has requested your presence in the war council.”

The words landed like a sudden blow. Lyanna froze, caught off guard by the suddenness of the summons. She hadn’t expected this, not at all. She didn’t reply, merely nodded, her mouth dry. She followed him into the tent. The heat of the air hit her immediately, the scent of brewing soup mixing with the sharp, piney smell of the forest outside. The air was thick with it—something foreign, something uneasy.

Inside, the atmosphere was stifling, the tension hanging heavy in the air like a sword poised to fall. Rhaegar sat in the center, his dark eyes unreadable, though Lyanna swore she saw something flicker behind them. Jon Connington and Lord Hogg stood at his side, their faces grim, their words low, as if the very walls of the tent could hear too much. Lyanna swallowed, the sense that something was about to break growing sharper with each breath. The walls themselves seemed to hold a secret—a secret no one was yet ready to speak aloud.

“Lady Lyanna.” Rhaegar rose from his seat, a scattered array of parchment strewn across the table before him, each page heavy with the weight of decisions yet to be made.

“Prince Rhaegar, you have requested me?” Lyanna said meekly, lowering her eyes in a practiced display of humility. It was not the time to anger the crown prince, not when she was his hostage, though the thought twisted her stomach. She did not yet know if he shared his father’s penchant for cruelty, for burning his subjects in the name of his delusions.

Rhaegar hesitated, a flicker of amusement passing across his face before he spoke again, his tone measured but strained. “As you are of high birth, and we are to be... close allies with House Stark in the coming moons, I think it appropriate for you to understand the events unfolding in the realm.” He paused, biting his tongue as if reconsidering his words. “You should know what is happening.”

Lyanna said nothing, merely tilting her head. This was strange, why would the crown prince want a lady of Winterfell involved in the politics of the realm? She could only guess at his motives, but it was clear she wasn’t being given a choice.

She made no move to speak, her exit blocked by the soldiers surrounding the tent. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixed upon her, the lords and soldiers silently watching, searching for any sign of weakness, any crack in her composure. But Lyanna would not give them that satisfaction. She merely bowed her head in acknowledgment before taking a seat, as if this were a courtesy she owed them.

Her gaze flicked around the tent, noting the disdain in the eyes of Lord Hogg and Jon Connington, their faces hard and unforgiving. Arthur Dayne, standing behind Rhaegar, seemed amused by the spectacle, while Ser Barristan Selmy remained a stoic, unmoving presence, his expression unreadable.

Rhaegar cleared his throat, bringing the tent’s focus back to him. “I have deemed it important to inform our allies of affairs that will directly affect them.” His gaze locked on Jon Connington for a moment, the challenge in his eyes clear before he looked back to Lyanna.

“My lady, we have received a parchment and a raven detailing some recent events that have transpired in King’s Landing.” He glanced at the parchments with a quiet sigh before returning his gaze to Lyanna. “King Aerys is dead. Slain by his own pyromancers.”

Lyanna’s breath caught in her throat. The man who had destroyed her family, who had threatened to burn Winterfell to the ground—the madman who had plunged the Seven Kingdoms into war—was dead. Was it truly over? She dared to hope, but the emptiness in Rhaegar’s eyes told her he was not lying.

He continued, his voice steady but with an edge that betrayed his emotions."My mother, Queen Rhaella, has written to me, informing me that she holds control of the Seven Kingdoms for now. She would not allow the realm to fall into the hands of more ambitious lords. She has acted as my regent in my absence, awaiting my return to King’s Landing."

Lyanna’s mind whirled. So the whispers were true, at least in part. She shivered, wondering what else the smallfolk had gotten right.

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing briefly with anger before he spoke again. “It seems my mother has been in private cahoots with Tywin Lannister for the past few moons. He was to march to King’s Landing under the guise of offering aid... and sack the city. His goal was to dispose of those fiercely loyal to my father and to take the Red Keep, imprisoning Aerys for his crimes.”

Rhaegar’s distaste was palpable, his lip curling ever so slightly, but Lyanna found herself admiring his mother’s pragmatism. Before the battle at the Trident, the loyalists had been on the brink of ruin, with many doubting they could win the war at all. It was wise for Queen Rhaella to prepare a backup plan, even if it meant bending the crown’s authority. Survival often required such hard choices. Perhaps it was not the entire Targaryen bloodline that had been tainted by madness. Lyanna clung to the hope that, for the safety of the North, there might yet be reason among the chaos.

Rhaegar finished, still staring at Lyanna. “I will be crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms in the coming moons. Your lord brother, and all the Northern lords, will be in attendance. They will swear fealty to the crown, and I will personally see to it that those who wronged your family are punished.”

He continued, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips, momentarily breaking the dark tension. “I was planning on taking the crown from my father anyway. He has plunged this realm into madness for too long. My mother... she was the braver of the two of us and acted first, though it was irresponsible.” He muttered the last part under his breath, as though regretting the confession.

Rhaegar’s face, once pale from his critical wounds, was now flushed with color. His eyes softened as he turned to Lyanna, a look of pleading in them. “I wish for us to forget any animosity between us. I am not your enemy, and you are not mine. We begin anew, with a united realm.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with hope. His gaze shone with a glimmer of optimism.

Lyanna nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Of course, your grace.” But inwardly, she scoffed. Rhaegar truly believes he can win me over with promises of peace and flowery words? She was no fool. The pain of her family’s destruction ran too deep to be undone by a few kind gestures.

Jon Connington cleared his throat, his voice cold and cutting. His face remained etched with anger as his gaze shifted from Lyanna to Rhaegar. “There’s still the matter of Flea Bottom, your grace. Your father did something despicable there—burned it to the ground perhaps, though we do not yet know the full extent of the damage.”

Rhaegar nodded, his expression hardening. “We can only pray to the Seven that enough of the smallfolk were able to flee before my father’s wildfire consumed them all.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, heavy with the unspoken weight of the devastation.

Lord Hogg spoke next, his voice low but urgent. “What of your mother and Lord Tywin? Surely, there must be some form of punishment for them. This is treason. The Lord of Casterly Rock marched on King’s Landing, and your mother... she conspired against the crown. No matter how deranged your father had become, treason is treason.”

There was a brief silence as the words hung in the air, a tension settling over the gathered lords. Lyanna understood immediately, the topic they had been avoiding had now come to the forefront.

Lyanna couldn’t help but smile inwardly. Lord Hogg had misspoken, his words coming out sharper than intended. She could sense the discomfort in the air, the uncertainty of how to deal with treachery within the royal family. She knew they were all treading carefully now, unsure of where their allegiances might truly lie.

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “You speak the truth,” he muttered, “but this... this is a delicate matter. My mother acted as she did to save the realm, though her actions may have been rash.”

"Rash!" Lord Hogg all but shouted, his voice rising with anger. "The queen is a traitor to House Targaryen!" He continued raving, his words tumbling out in a reckless rush, stupidly unaware of how much deeper he was digging himself into the pit.

Jon Connington’s eyes flashed dangerously. Without a second’s hesitation, he rose from his seat, his anger coiling like a snake ready to strike. He circled around Rhaegar, his fury palpable, and in an instant, his fist connected with Lord Hogg’s mouth with a brutal thud.

"You will not speak of King Rhaegar’s mother in such a callous tone, Lord!" Connington bellowed, his face flushed with rage. His red beard quivered with each word, the fury of a man loyal to his king and his bloodline.

Lord Hogg staggered back, his mouth bleeding freely, stunned by the force of the blow. He gaped in shock, clutching his face as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Blood dripped from his lip, staining his fingers, but his anger was far from spent. The room fell into an uneasy silence, everyone watching as the tension in the air thickened, the lines drawn more clearly than ever.

Rhaegar sighed deeply, a long, exasperated sound, rubbing his forehead as if the whole situation was wearing on him. He raised a hand, signaling for his men. “Take Lord Hogg outside,” he commanded, his tone heavy with exhaustion. “Get him to a maester for mending.”

Jon Connington returned to his seat, his knuckles stained red from the blow, his breath steadying as Rhaegar’s gaze found his. A brief but silent understanding passed between them.

“I will decide my mother’s and Lord Tywin’s fate when I am crowned king,” Rhaegar said quietly, the words laced with a quiet, simmering anger. “Not a moment before, Lord Hogg.”

The Lord of Sow’s Horn, now muttering curses under his breath, nodded begrudgingly, his pride shattered along with his jaw. He took a shaky step forward, wincing at the pain, before soldiers moved to escort him out of the tent, his humiliation complete.

The meeting continued as Rhaegar laid out the plans for the smallfolk fleeing from King’s Landing and the bandits who had turned the city into a wild, lawless place. Those who had survived the “cleansing” were easy prey for the roving gangs of thieves, and Rhaegar spoke in clipped tones, detailing how they would meet up with gathering loyalists along the King’s Road. 

With the strategy in place, the meeting broke. Lyanna was the first to leave, her mind spinning with everything that had been revealed. Lyanna made her way from the tent, her footsteps muffled in the soft earth. The cool night air was a stark contrast to the heated tensions she had just witnessed, and for a moment, the silence seemed to wrap around her like a cloak. Two men from House Targaryen stood guard outside her tent, their eyes following her every move. They gave no words of greeting, only nods of acknowledgment, ever watchful, as she passed.

Inside her tent, the atmosphere was far less suffocating. She sank into the furs laid out on the ground, trying to find some semblance of comfort in a world that had turned increasingly foreign. The weight of exhaustion pulled at her, but sleep did not come easily.

As she lay there, the familiar sound of the wind rustling outside seemed to beckon her into slumber. Her dreams began to unfold in fragments, disjointed and fleeting, yet vivid. The snow fell thickly, blanketing the land in white, a frozen world that felt as if it had been suspended in time. She could see the towering walls of Winterfell in the distance, the ramparts now covered in frost, and the echoes of her childhood seemed to rise around her like the whispers of a forgotten world.

In the heart of the snowstorm, her brother Ned appeared, young again, laughing as he played beneath the blanketed sun. The warmth of the moment wrapped around her like a comforting embrace, and for a brief instant, the weight of her present worries lifted. But the peace did not last.

From the shadows of the crypts, where the Stark ancestors lay, a figure emerged, a boy with dark hair and dark eyes, staring at her from across the cold stone floor. He was not someone she recognized, yet his gaze was familiar in a way that unsettled her. He seemed to be watching her, waiting, as if he knew something she did not. His presence felt like a whisper of something forgotten, a warning, or perhaps an omen.

Lyanna woke with a start, her heart pounding in her chest, the remnants of the dream still clinging to her mind. The taste of something bitter—something that felt like both the past and the future, lingered on her tongue. She couldn’t shake the sensation, as though something was slipping through her fingers, just out of reach.

With a frustrated sigh, she shook off thoughts of the dream. She needed to focus. She needed to move forward. She swung her legs off the side of the bedroll and stood, stretching her stiff muscles. 

As she stepped out of the tent, two new soldiers of House Targaryen stood stationed at the entrance, their eyes sharp and watchful. Their presence, as always, reminded her that she was no longer free, not really. But she was alive, and she would continue to be, if only for a little longer.

The light of dawn filtered through the trees, casting long, pale beams onto the forest floor. She squinted against the bright sunlight, her eyes stinging, before she made her way to the nearby river. The water was cold and clear, and she dipped her hands into the stream, splashing her face. The chill helped clear the fog from her mind, but the unease—the sense of foreboding—still clung to her. The soldiers stood nearby, silent, ever watchful, their eyes following her movements with precision.

Once finished cleaning her face, Lyanna made her way back toward the camp, where the men were already preparing to depart. The sounds of the camp breaking down—fire extinguished, tents packed up, horses saddled—filled the air. The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, strapping on armor, sharpening their swords and axes, each of them looking like the warriors they were trained to be.

Lyanna mounted her horse, adjusting the reins with a steady hand. Her eyes scanned the camp, noting the tense energy in the air as the men readied themselves for the journey to King’s Landing. She knew they would be on the move again soon, and she would have to keep her wits sharp.

Flanked by the soldiers, Lyanna rode at the center of the procession, the rhythmic thud of hooves against the earth carrying them ever closer to the capital. The King's Road stretched ahead, a twisting path of dust and hardship that seemed endless. She could feel the weight of every mile, each one heavy with the promise of chaos yet to come. The world outside the forest had changed, and now they were riding straight into the heart of it.

As they traveled, they passed more and more of the fleeing smallfolk. Their faces were hollow, eyes empty with despair, as though they had been stripped of all hope. Some carried lifeless babes in their arms, their faces grim and unyielding. Others fled with nothing but their meager possessions clutched in their hands. The road was littered with the bodies of those who had not been quick enough, the old and the infirm, children and women. Some were clearly victims of a struggle, their clothes torn and their faces bruised. Others, Lyanna saw with a sickening jolt, bore the unmistakable burn marks of flames. The Mad King had burned Flea Bottom. The thought passed through her mind like a jagged shard of ice.

The royal procession moved steadily on, and though no one dared approach the Targaryen banner, Lyanna could feel the eyes of the smallfolk on them. Their gaze was filled with mistrust, with hate, and for the first time, it was not directed at her but at Rhaegar’s forces. She might have laughed at the irony of it, but instead, she felt a deep sense of empathy for the common folk. Their pain was palpable, and it weighed on her.

As they neared King's Landing, Lyanna’s eyes fixed on the gleaming, imposing silhouette of the Red Keep, towering above the city—untouched, unharmed. The sunlight reflected off its walls, mocking them. The sight made her stomach churn. 

She could smell it now, an acidic, almost suffocating scent that filled the air.

Wildfire. 

The very stench of it burned into her mind, evoking images of her father and brother, their final moments consumed by that same maddening fire. She did not know how she could picture it, but she could almost hear their screams, feel their pain, as if the flames of the past had reached through time to scorch her soul. This was the poison her family had tasted before their lives were violently snatched away by the Mad King’s madness. Rage stirred in her, hot and fierce, ready to explode—but she forced it down, suppressing the fury that threatened to boil over.

The closer they rode to the city, the more foul the smell became, thick and suffocating, crawling into her lungs. Many of the soldiers in the front covered their faces with cloth, but Rhaegar sat tall in his saddle, breathing it in, unfazed.

This is your father’s doing, a wave of bitterness washed over Lyanna. She looked at Rhaegar, who remained unshaken by the devastation around them. His face was unreadable, but she could sense the quiet weight of the moment settling on him.

The Dornish soldier, who had been with Lyanna since the forest, murmured to himself, his voice tinged with disbelief. "The Iron Gates... they are gone..." His words seemed to hang in the air, an odd mixture of shock and reverence.

They had now reached the twisted remnants of the road, what the soldiers called the Rosby Roads, and Lyanna’s gaze swept over the landscape, trying to make sense of the scene. She had heard stories of these roads—of the bustling trade and foot traffic, the heralding banners of House Targaryen flying high along the path, leading into the gates of King’s Landing. But all of it was gone now. What she saw was a broken, lifeless stretch of earth, marked by the scorched remains of structures and the jagged ruins of walls that had once stood proud.

Lyanna frowned, catching his words, but their true meaning didn’t strike her until they reached the Iron Gates. As they passed through, a chill settled over her, a sense that something was terribly wrong. She had never ventured this far south before, but even she could see that this was no ordinary sight. What should have been a bustling road now lay abandoned, its streets eerily silent, the air thick with an unnatural stillness. The familiar hum of life had vanished, leaving only the echoes of what had once been.

Lyanna’s gaze shifted past the Iron Gates, piercing through the thick smoke that hung heavy in the air. As her eyes adjusted, the true horror of what lay beyond came into view.

In place of Flea Bottom was a massive crater, a gaping wound in the heart of the city, still smoldering with fire. The air was thick with smoke, and the crackling of the fire filled her ears as she took in the devastation. Some stone buildings clung to the edges of the crater, but they were unstable, broken, and crumbling, like everything else in sight. There was nothing left of the once-thriving district but ash and charred remnants of what had been homes and shops.

The cacophony of the men’s reactions broke out immediately. Some cursed loudly, their voices thick with disbelief, others stood frozen, unable to comprehend the sheer scale of the devastation. The smell of burnt flesh and smoldering stone hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the innocent lives lost.

"Gods, what madness is this?" Jon Connington spat, his hand shaking as he took in the sight. "How could anyone—how could he—do this?" His voice trembled, a mix of anger and confusion.

Another man, his face twisted in a grimace, muttered, "There were children in there... families. They didn’t deserve this." His gaze shifted from the ruins to the men around him, as if seeking answers that weren’t there.

Lyanna’s heart pounded in her chest. She had known that Aerys Targaryen was cruel, but this—this was something different. These were not soldiers on a battlefield or traitorous lords. These were families. Children. The helpless victims of a king’s madness.

She had seen the horrors of war before, but nothing had prepared her for this. The stench of burned flesh and charred bones assaulted her senses, and everywhere she looked, there were remnants of life—children, fathers—burned beyond recognition, scattered like refuse across the ground. The destruction was total, and the scale of it was beyond anything she could have imagined. This was the work of the Mad King, and it filled her with a disgust she could not put into words.

Some of the soldiers began to retreat from the scene, turning their horses away from the stench, but Lyanna could not bring herself to move. She remained frozen in place, her eyes locked on the carnage before her.

Rhaegar, too, did not move at first. He simply stared down at the wreckage, his face draining of all color. Slowly, he dismounted, his movements slow, deliberate. He walked toward the edge of the crater, as though drawn by an invisible force.

“We must head back,” Jon Connington’s voice broke the silence, his tone sharp and filled with urgency. “We’ll take Rosby Roads and head through the King’s Gate. This is where the bulk of the Lannister forces marched through.” His words seemed to hang in the air, but Rhaegar did not acknowledge them.

Lyanna watched as the men nodded, some already turning their horses around, ready to gallop out of what remained of Flea Bottom, away from the destruction. But Rhaegar remained still. His shoulders sagged, his face unreadable, but there was something there—something in the slump of his form—that made Lyanna’s heart tighten.

Then, slowly, as if the weight of the destruction before him was too much to bear, Rhaegar sank to his knees. His hands, trembling, reached up to his face, as if he could wipe away the horrors he had witnessed. His shoulders hunched, and for a long moment, he seemed as though he were trying to hold himself together, as though the king within him still fought against the man he had become.

But the grief, the shame, the crushing weight of it all was too much. It overtook him. The proud and once unyielding Targaryen crumbled in the face of the devastation, his hands falling to his sides.

Then he wept.

Chapter Text

RHAELLA

The Great Sept of Baelor loomed ahead, its white walls luminant atop Visenya’s Hill, untouched by the madness that had consumed the city below. There, the High Septon awaited to grant his blessing. Not for a coronation, but for something lesser. The blessing of a Queen Regent, a temporary mantle, a borrowed crown. The weight in Rhaella’s chest twisted deeper. She had worn real crowns before, felt their metal bite into her brow, their jewels whisper of legacy and power. This role was lighter in name but heavier in truth. A regent’s rule was a shadow of a reign, cast only until a child came of age or a war was won. And Rhaella knew shadows all too well.

She had no choice. Queens rarely did. The ritual would be pomp and vain, filled with incense and hollow vows. Words to bind a broken realm with the frailest of threads. It had to be done properly , with all the gilded pretense of stability, so the lords might sleep a little easier in their beds. So the smallfolk could cling to the illusion that someone held the reins of power, however loosely.

Duty demanded it. Duty, that iron word, sharper than any blade, heavier than any crown. The realm was shattered, a thousand splintered pieces scattered across a map soaked in blood. Someone had to hold them together, if only barely, until her son returned to mend what was broken. If he returned. Rhaella dared not speak that fear aloud, dared not let it crack the mask she wore. Queens did not weep, not where others could see.

A throne built on ashes, a realm in ruins. What could Rhaegar truly offer to mend such wreckage? Songs and prophecies would not serve him now. The people needed wood and bread, not harp strings and riddles. Yet they would look to him all the same, as they had once looked to her, with eyes full of desperate hope. Fools, she thought. Or perhaps it was hope itself that was the greatest fool of all.

Her rule would be brief, she prayed. Yet as the weight settled on her shoulders—heavier than the crown she had worn, heavier than a dead husband’s legacy—the burden already felt eternal.

Rhaella peeked out of the carriage, her fingers trembling as she drew back the velvet curtain. The sun glared against the horizon, turning the distant smoke into a shifting veil of grey and crimson. Flea Bottom lay beneath it, smothered, the life choked out of it like a guttering candle. The hovels and crooked alleys had once teemed with the breath of the city’s poorest—sharp cries, rough laughter, the scrape of knives in dark corners. Now there was nothing. No shouts, no footsteps, not even the ragged gasps of the dying.

Only silence. Thick, unnatural. The air itself felt wounded, gasping beneath the pall of smoke. The stillness was broken only by the faint caw of crows, black specks swirling above the ruins, waiting for flesh. They always come for the feast, resentfulness swept through her mind. And we have given them one.

The stillness unsettled her. A graveyard cloaked in ash. A fitting metaphor, she thought grimly, for the realm her son would inherit.

She sat back in the swaying carriage, her hand drifting to the curve of her belly, where life stirred beneath her touch. The weight of the child was an anchor, every jolt of the road a painful reminder of how near her time was. Each movement sent a ripple of pain through her, a small punishment for the life she carried. Soon, she would birth this child into a world shattered by fire and blood, into a kingdom that seemed to crumble more with every passing hour.

What is a name, in the face of such ruin? Yet even this uncertainty tore at her. She had not yet decided. A name was more than a word; it was a legacy, a prophecy, a chain forged before birth. Aerys had insisted— no , demanded—that it be Aegon. His eyes, wild with fevered certainty, had blazed as he spoke of it. In his dragon dreams, he had seen the child, their child, and in the twisting visions of a mad king, the babe was always a boy. Aegon, he had hissed, his breath sour with wine and bitterness. Aegon, to rule them all. Aegon, to bring fire and glory. Aegon, to remake the realm in flame.

Aerys had screamed again and again, his eyes wide with feverish resolve, the whites of his robe streaked with red, his hands trembling with rage as he struck her. “Aegon, the Conqueror reborn! He will take the throne from that soft, simpering weakling Rhaegar.” His spittle flecked her skin, hot and foul, mingling with her tears. Each blow was a declaration, a twisted vow that the world would bow to his will, even if he had to shatter it to make it so.

Rhaella, bruised and trembling, tried to reason with him, even as the blows rained down. “Rhaegar has already named his son Aegon,” she cried, her voice cracked, tasting the copper tang of her own blood. Her words rose above the sounds of his fury—the heavy slap of flesh on flesh, the crack of her head against stone. But her pleas were swallowed whole. Reason had no place in the halls of madness, and Aerys heard nothing beyond the twisted echo of his own rage.

His eyes were twin coals, fever-bright and pitiless. He refused to listen, lost to the darkness that devoured him, his mind a rotting fruit clinging stubbornly to the withered branch of sanity. The child in her belly, an innocent yet unborn, was no babe to him, but a weapon. A symbol of vengeance sharpened by paranoia, one he could wield against phantoms that plagued only his mind.

“I will have no Dornish blood sit on my Iron Throne!” Aerys had shrieked, his voice rising to a shrill, inhuman pitch, like metal scraping against stone. His words slithered through the chambers of the Red Keep, carried by winds that reeked of smoke and despair.

He had made his intentions clear. The echoes of his wrath were still carved into her bones, his madness scrawled in bruises across her skin. He would disown Rhaegar, strip away his birthright, cast aside a son who was light where Aerys was shadow, reason where he was madness. Her gentle, melancholy Rhaegar, who could weave the pain of a kingdom into tavern songs, who spoke of prophecy and honor, who wore his sorrow like a cloak—he was to be denied, his line wiped clean like chalk from slate.

Aerys would crown their unborn child instead, a babe destined to inherit a throne draped in cobwebs and soaked in blood. It was madness, through and through. Rhaegar, mild of temper and wise in counsel, would have been the king to mend the realm, to stitch together what war and mistrust had torn apart. Not another conqueror, not another tyrant, but a healer, a poet king.

But Aerys saw only shadows, each one cast longer and darker by the fires in his mind. And shadows, Rhaella knew, could not be reasoned with.

As for Viserys… Aerys had barely spared the boy a glance. His disdain was palpable, a cold shadow that clung to her second son like frost on withered leaves. To Aerys, Viserys was an afterthought, a whisper of failure, a reminder of promises unfulfilled. He refused to acknowledge the boy as his own, as though by denying him, he could erase his existence, purge his bloodline of imperfection.

Viserys, with his silver curls and wide, wary eyes, had learned young how to shrink from the world, how to disappear beneath his mother’s cloak. His laughter was a rare and brittle thing, snuffed out by the chill of a father’s scorn. How long before he, too, was consumed by the fire or the madness? How long before the shadow took him whole?

Rhaella’s hand drifted to the curve of her womb, her fingers brushing the silk of her gown, trembling like leaves in a storm. She began to hum a soft lullaby, a melody that seemed older than the stones of the Red Keep, one her own mother had sung to her in gentler days. The notes were thin and fragile, like threads of spider silk, barely audible above the creak of the carriage wheels. A lullaby for a princess. A song of warmth and safety, of love untainted by power and ambition.

“Please,” she whispered into the suffocating stillness, her breath misting the air. “Let it be a girl.”

Not for the child’s sake, but for her own sanity. A daughter would not be pulled apart by the claws of destiny, would not be sharpened into a blade to cut down brothers and fathers. A daughter would not be paraded before the realm, a crown dangling above her head like a noose. A daughter could be soft, hidden away from the cruel machinations of lords and the madness of kings.

A daughter would be hers , and hers alone. Unclaimed by thrones, untouched by swords, unsullied by the endless, gnawing hunger for power that devoured men from the inside out. A daughter might still know peace, if such a thing could still be found in this world of shadows and ruin.

But as the wheels turned and the smoke of the burning city reached her nose, she wondered if her child’s peace was yet another dream—fragile, hollow, already turning to ash.

Two days. It had been two days since Aerys unleashed his fury upon Flea Bottom, since his madness spilled out in green fire and screams, and two days since he met his end in the Red Keep, a king brought low by a blade in the dark. Stabbed from behind, they whispered—a fitting death for a man who trusted no one, who saw daggers in every shadow. His blood was long dry now, but the echoes of his sickening laughter still seemed to linger in the stone.

Two days since Tywin Lannister’s forces had flooded the Red Keep, the lion’s banners snapping in the smoke-clogged air, crimson and gold against the gray ruin of the city. They came with arrows and steel, merciless in their charge. 

And two days since Jaime Lannister vanished from sight, his fate shrouded in the same smoke that veiled the sun. Though in truth, Rhaella doubted he still drew breath. If the wildfire hadn’t devoured him, its green tendrils consuming flesh and bone alike, then surely the wreckage of the city had. Crumbled walls, smoldering debris, shattered beams—death lurked in every corner of the ruin Aerys had left behind.

The streets of King’s Landing thrummed with a cacophony of noise; the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the wailing of infants, and the hurried footsteps of those fleeing or returning home. Market vendors shouted themselves hoarse, bartering over salt fish and shriveled apples, their voices cracked with desperation. The air was thick with the stench of smoke, sweat, and rot—a pungent blend that clung to the nostrils and refused to let go. It all stood in stark contrast to the eerie stillness that had settled over Flea Bottom, where the silence seemed heavier than the filth.

Rhaella’s carriage rattled through the chaos, her only protection the few remaining Gold Cloaks who had neither fled nor turned their cloaks during the battle with the Lions. They were the last, tattered remnants of the city’s once-proud defense, though their presence offered little solace. The King’s Guard, however, were gone. All of them. Those stationed in the Red Keep had fallen defending their king, standing resolute even in the face of certain doom.

Twenty thousand Lannister forces had charged upon the Red Keep, and Rhaella had watched it unfold from her chamber windows, expecting only a day or two of resistance at most. She had not anticipated a prolonged siege, she had known Aerys too well for that. No, she had expected him to do something rash, something desperate, like unleashing wildfire on the soldiers below. 

It was a thought she had shared in her parchments to Tywin Lannister, the ink trembling beneath her fingers as she wrote. She had warned him of Aerys' worsening madness, the unpredictable storms that churned behind his eyes, and the dangerous path he was set upon. Those still loyal to her within the Red Keep would open the gates, she had told him, though she knew it would take time—at least a day, perhaps two—before the Lannister forces could breach the formidable walls.

But instead of any calculated defense, the gates had simply been raised, and the Lannisters had charged in without hesitation, meeting the Gold Cloaks head-on in the open courtyard.

It was a slaughter—whether born from stupidity or cruelty, Rhaella could not say—but Aerys had condemned his men to death. The few Gold Cloaks who survived the initial charge of Lannister cavalry had either fled or dropped their weapons and groveled for mercy. They were never meant for war, not against armored knights. Their purpose was to keep unruly peasants in check, to break commoners, not to stand on a battlefield. Aerys, in his arrogance or indifference, had ignored this truth—or perhaps, he simply did not care. His vanity and delusions had doomed them all.

The King’s Guard did not go down so easily though. Rhaella had heard as much when the Red Keep fell to the Lions of Casterly Rock. Ser Darry’s final stand was one of the few glimmers of defiance in the rout occurring within those crimson-streaked halls. The stoic, unyielding knight had cut down fourteen Lannister men before fate struck a cruel blow—a squire’s arrow, loosed in desperation, found its mark. Not a knight’s blade nor a lord’s spear, but a simple shaft brought him to his knees. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and glistening on the cold stone as he gasped for breath, each ragged inhalation a futile struggle against the inevitability of death. Even in that moment, he did not yield. But the Red Keep had no mercy left to give.

Ser Lewyn Martell, the man whose faith in Aerys had dimmed with each passing day, fought with honor until the very end. Rhaella had seen it in his eyes once—the dullness creeping in, the weariness that came from knowing the king he served had long since lost his way. Still, he did not forsake his duty. Ser Lewyn fought with two blades twirling in the air, a deadly dance of steel that struck fear into his enemies. He killed scores of Lannister men in the thick of the fight, each swing a testament to his skill, but with every blow he took, his strength waned.

And then came Ser Gregor Clegane.

The Mountain, a beast of a man, his raw strength overwhelming, caught Lewyn off guard with a savage lunge. They exchanged sword blows for a time, and Ser Lewyn was the more skilled swordsman—his strikes sharp, his footwork precise—but the Mountain did not fight with honor. He fought to kill, to maim, to break.

A dirty move, but it was the Mountain's way. She had heard the whispers, the rumors that slithered through the halls of the Red Keep like serpents. How he had hurled his own men at Ser Lewyn, forcing the Kingsguard to turn his attention just long enough. It had been all the Mountain needed. With a brutal swing, two heavy blows had landed on Lewyn's chest, sending him crashing to the ground, breath knocked from his lungs. Ser Lewyn had struggled for air, his back pressed to the dirt as he fought to remove the crushed breastplate that kept him pinned, helpless.

But Clegane was not done.

The stories painted it all too vividly in her mind. The Mountain had loomed over Ser Lewyn, a shadow blotting out the sky, his hatred so thick it seemed to choke the very air. The Mountain had seized him by the hair—those iron hands like steel vices—and with deliberate malice, gouged the Martell’s eyes from their sockets.

The thought of it made Rhaella shudder, a cold dread creeping up her spine. And then, the final, horrific act. With a brutal squeeze, the Mountain had crushed Lewyn’s head in his grip, the sound of it echoing in her mind, though she had never heard it herself. The last of the Martell’s light had gone out in that moment, snuffed out like a candle in the dark.

The Mountain had been injured, yet even as blood dripped from the ragged wounds that marred his flesh, he stood unyielding, a towering figure of fury. It was said that even the blood loss could not bring him down, that his rage alone kept him upright. Grand Maester Pycelle, his voice trembling though he tried to mask it, assured all that the beast would live. But in the wake of such destruction, it hardly seemed like a blessing. To those who still had enough sense to fear, the thought of him walking the earth again—alive, breathing—was no comfort at all. It was a curse, one that would see more blood spilled before the end.

Then there was Ser Oswell Whent, a man whose loyalty and commitment to duty had never faltered, even as the realm tore itself apart. He fought with the same ferocity that had defined his service, carving a bloody path through the Lannister ranks. Rhaella had been told that Ser Oswell had nearly reached Tywin Lannister himself, a man so close to his quarry that the very air seemed to hum with the promise of vengeance. But fate, ever cruel, had different plans.

In that final, desperate moment, as Ser Oswell closed in on Tywin, a spear was jabbed into the back of his neck, thrust by some nameless boy from the Westerlands, barely more than a lad with no understanding of the weight of his actions. The spear found its mark, and Ser Oswell fell, his loyalty unacknowledged in his final breath. The blood soaked into the dirt, but the name of Ser Oswell Whent was lost to the winds, swallowed by the chaos.

And so, no King’s Guards remained in King’s Landing.

Jaime Lannister, likely dead. The rumors were thick with whispers, though none dared to speak the truth aloud. Ser Gerold Hightower had gone south, perhaps to protect her grandchildren—Rhaella suspected, though she could not know for certain.

The two finest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy, had ridden north with Rhaegar at the onset of the rebellion. Loyal as ever, the pair had stood beside her son through battle after battle, their swords vibrant in the sunlight as they protected him with a devotion that bordered on the divine. 

Now, it was just her and the remnants of the Gold Cloaks. They were not the elite warriors she had once been surrounded by, but they were armored, well-equipped, and could perhaps hold their own in the face of an attack. It was all she had left, and it would have to do.

Tywin Lannister had offered to escort her through the streets of King’s Landing with his personal forces, seasoned knights at his side. But Rhaella had swiftly declined. She did not trust the old lion of Casterly Rock. They may have acted together to dispose of Aerys, but she knew his ambition—Tywin was driven by the hunger for Lannister power, not loyalty to the realm. She would not be his pawn.

To her surprise, the streets of King’s Landing were not empty as she had feared. She had expected silence, the city mostly abandoned as people fled after the devastation in Flea Bottom. Instead, the streets were alive with movement. The air felt heavy with dread as the smallfolk streamed through the streets, their faces dull and weary, many making their way toward the Sept of Baelor for prayer.

Rhaella's procession halted outside the Sept of Baelor, the Gold Cloaks swiftly forming a protective ring around her carriage. Angry glares were cast her way, the resentment of the people palpable, their eyes sharp with distrust. She stepped out, her crimson and black gown catching the light, shimmering like a dark jewel beneath the sun’s harsh gaze. Rhaella straightened, smoothing the fabric with a practiced hand, her gaze unwavering as she lifted her chin. She could not show weakness, not now. Aerys had ravaged the people's faith in the Iron Throne, and she, as regent, would have to restore what little trust remained. If she faltered, Rhaeger’s reign would be an unstable one.

Once inside the Sept of Baelor, Rhaella paused for a moment, allowing the familiar grandeur of the space to wash over her. Though she had been here many times before, the vast, hallowed beauty of the sept never failed to stir something deep within her. The vibrant seven-pointed star above caught the light, casting soft glimmers on the perfect marble floors beneath her feet. The air was thick with the scent of incense, mingling with the coolness of the lofty, sacred space. It was a place of solace, a place for the dead and the living alike, though today it felt heavy with the weight of anger and loss.

Her eyes, however, were drawn not to the splendor of the sept, but to the solemn, furious faces of the septons lining the walls. Their simple robes did little to mask the burning hatred in their eyes as they lit candles for the dead of Flea Bottom. Their glares followed her every step as she moved down the aisle, their judgment as sharp as any sword. Each footfall echoed in the silence, a reminder of the fragile position she now held.

Rhaella squared her shoulders, refusing to let the weight of their eyes bend her will. She had borne too much, endured too many cruelties, to let their fury break her now. She would not let them see her falter, not even as their judgment pressed down like the heat of a thousand suns. Her spine straightened, her head held high, a queen’s pride in every step. Beneath the surface, she trembled, but she would not show it. In this moment, in their gaze, she stood with a strength she could not display elsewhere, her resolve as unyielding as the walls of the Red Keep itself.

Rhaella reached the raised altar, where the High Septon knelt in silent prayer. His voice was soft, barely more than a murmur, the words lost to the echoing stillness of the Great Sept. She could hear him praying for Flea Bottom, for the end of the rebellion, for the kingdom’s salvation, and for retribution. His prayers seemed endless, a litany that could have gone on for hours. And yet, they did little to ease the crushing weight in her chest. She had long since learned that the gods had little mercy for the broken, no matter how fervently one begged. There was no comfort to be found in their hollow promises. The pain of the realm, the suffering of the people, was beyond their reach.

When he finished, he blew out the candle, his movements deliberate, and rose to his full height. His gaze was unreadable, offering no clear signs of hate or fear—only the calm neutrality of a man who understood politics. He bowed, as was customary, to the dowager queen. His eyes lingered on her, assessing her carefully, but betraying nothing. He was not a devoted man of faith in the same sense that others might be, but a man who played the game of thrones.

“You have come to be blessed in the eyes of the Seven, Queen Rhaella,” the High Septon said, his voice low and measured. “This will not be a grand affair, but a simple blessing. You will be righteous in the eyes of the Father, and then you can assume your rightful place as Queen Regent.”

Rhaella inclined her head politely, her gaze fixed on the High Septon as he droned on about the need for her to heal the realm, how the righteous were always favored in the eyes of the gods. His words were soft but insistent, the weight of his piety pressing down on her like a suffocating cloak. She could feel the eyes of the other septons upon her, their silent judgment hanging in the air like a heavy fog. It was as if the very stones of the Sept were watching, whispering their disapproval through the cold, empty halls. She drowned out the babbling of the High Septon, each word a distant murmur, as her mind wandered far from the sanctity of the moment. 

Without hesitation, Rhaella lowered herself to her knees before the altar, her movements smooth and measured, though every fiber of her being screamed to flee from the weight of it all. The High Septon, oblivious to the storm within her, moved to perform the simple ritual, his hands steady as he muttered his prayers. The Gold Cloaks, ever watchful, stiffened at the proximity of the Septon, their hands twitching near their swords, but they did not draw them. The tension in the air was palpable, thick as smoke, yet Rhaella held her composure. There was no choice, no escape from the role she had been forced to play. She would show strength, even if every ounce of her was filled with doubt, every step forward an effort to mask the tremors within. The game had already begun, and she would not let them see her falter.

It did not take long for the High Septon to perform the blessing. His words were impressive, but cold and distant—an empty formality, but they would suffice. Once he finished, Rhaella stood, offering her thanks with the practiced grace she had learned over the years. She promised to pray to the Crone for wisdom in her reign, though the words felt hollow, even to her.

With a swift movement, she turned on her heels, walking with purpose down the finely decorated aisle, feeling the weight of the hateful glares bore into her back. The judgment of the septons, the lingering resentment of the people—she could feel it all. But there was no time for fear, no time for self-doubt. She had to show strength. She had to survive.

Once outside the Sept of Baelor, the Gold Cloaks closed ranks around her, their heavy armor clinking like a shield against the whispers that followed in their wake. The steps of the Sept had become a gathering of peasants and merchants, all clamoring to enter, to pray for the hour, their faces a mixture of reverence and resentment. As they shuffled past, their eyes followed Rhaella—some filled with open hatred, others with curiosity or pity, their voices low but sharp. “Targaryen madness,” one muttered, as though the words themselves could burn her, and another spoke of Robert Baratheon as their savior. The words cut deep, like daggers aimed at her heart, but Rhaella steeled herself against them. She could not afford to show weakness, not here, not now.

She sighed, stepping into the carriage with a quiet grace, the weight of the day pressing heavily upon her shoulders. The Gold Cloaks took their positions around her carriage, their gauntleted hands resting on their swords as they mounted their steeds. Their presence was a wall of cold metal and discipline, a stark contrast to the murmurs of the smallfolk who gathered at the gates of the Sept, eager to enter for the hour of prayer. The bells tolled loudly, their mournful chimes echoing through the streets, marking the sacred time of devotion. Each peal seemed to deepen the stillness in her chest, reminding her of the fragile balance she now carried. The burden of her responsibilities felt even heavier now, yet there was no going back. She had done it. The High Septon had blessed her rule, her regency had officially begun.

As the carriage rolled back toward the Red Keep, Rhaella's hand rested lightly on her abdomen, the weight of her impending motherhood pressing down on her as heavily as the responsibility now placed upon her shoulders. She had secured her position, but now the true test awaited—restoring order to the fractured heart of the realm. King's Landing was on the brink, a powder keg waiting for another spark, and she was the one who had to keep it from exploding. How long could she hold back the tide of rebellion before it consumed them all?

Only days before, the royal procession had been met with chaos. Aerys, deluded by his own madness, had believed that the smallfolk adored him, that the victory at the Trident would have them singing his praises. He had paraded through the city, through Flea Bottom, as though a conqueror, promising to present Robert Baratheon's head as a trophy to the people. But instead of cheers, they had met him with cold, hostile glares, and before long, those glares turned into weapons.

The madness of the King had blinded him to the simmering anger beneath the surface. A hundred armed peasants—no more than a ragtag mob—had descended upon the procession, intent on killing both Aerys and Rhaella. The King's Guard, along with the Gold Cloaks, had fought valiantly to repel them, but the cost had been steep. Blood had been spilled, and lives lost. The memory of the carnage haunted Rhaella, the screams of the dead still echoing in her mind.

She swore that this would never happen again. Not while she was regent. Rhaella would not give the smallfolk a reason to turn their angry shouts into blades once again. The fear that gripped her was deeper now, for she knew—deep in her bones—that another such assault could very well be her last.

As the carriage rattled through the gates of the Red Keep, Rhaella’s gaze fell upon the sea of Lannister men lining the walls, their spears and swords at the ready. The tension in the air was palpable, a silent promise of violence if provoked. The sight churned something dark in her stomach. Surrounded by Lions. The very thought of it filled her with a quiet fury.

But what choice did she have? The remaining Gold Cloaks were few—barely a hundred, most of them scattered and shaken from the battle for the Red Keep. The bulk of the Targaryen forces, once lining the walls of King’s Landing, were north with Rhaegar, leaving them exposed and vulnerable.

The Lannisters had suffered little loss in the charge at the gates of the Red Keep. Estimates suggested a loss of no more than a hundred men, while the Gold Cloaks, poorly prepared and fewer in number, had been decimated. Nearly half of their forces had been lost in that futile stand. And now, this was the price they paid for Aerys’ madness, reliance on men who had no loyalty to House Targaryen, but to their own ambition.

Once inside the Red Keep, Rhaella was guided up the imposing flight of stairs, her steps slow and deliberate. Flanked by Lannister guards on either side, she was led toward the Small Council chamber. The Gold Cloaks, her supposed protectors, had been left outside to bolster the gates. Within the Red Keep itself, only lions prowled. They would not harm her here , or so she prayed.

Each step felt heavier, as though the weight of her burden dragged at her feet. When she finally reached the small council chamber, she found it sparsely filled. The small council was smaller than it had ever been. Varys, the Master of Whisperers, had vanished moons ago, slipping away shortly after Rhaenys and Aegon were spirited out of King’s Landing. Aerys’ mind may have been broken, but he had not been blind to the betrayal.

Rhaegar. His own son. 

Rhaella did not blame her Rhaeger for keeping his plans shrouded from her, for Aerys's cruelty was boundless, and if her own flesh were to be torn apart under the lash, she feared what truths her screams might betray. Her husband’s paranoia had festered into madness; trust had become an illusion, shattered by the sound of steel on bone and the scent of burning flesh.

Aerys had railed against treachery, his voice a jagged blade that echoed through the blackened halls of the Red Keep. The fits of rage came like storms, sudden and violent, shaking the air with their fury. He cursed Rhaegar, his own blood, as a traitor and a usurper, and he spat venom at those “Dornish half-breeds,” his eyes alight with the promise of fire. He swore that the babes’ cries would be drowned by the roar of flames, that their flesh would char and peel beneath dragonfire, and that all would see the price of defiance. His oaths twisted the air, thick with the stench of madness.

Varys, ever the slipperiest of spiders, felt the danger in the air like a spider senses a web’s trembling threads. He was gone before the last echo of Aerys’s rage faded, his footsteps vanishing into the shadows. The king’s bounty for the eunuch’s head was whispered in every tavern from King's Landing to Braavos; gold enough to make beggars into lords, gold enough to tempt even the most cautious of hunters.

One of them—a sellsword from Essos with gleaming bronze teeth and hair streaked with yellow—stood before the Iron Throne, presenting a sack in his outstretched hands. With a flourish, he pulled from it a head, bloodless and pale. He claimed it was Varys, the Spider. His voice brimmed with confidence, each word heavy with expectation.

Rhaella, standing beside Aerys, knew better. The features were all wrong—the skin too rough, weathered by years the eunuch had never lived. There were faint traces of a receding hairline, something Varys, ever clean-shaven, would never possess. This was not the master of whispers. More likely, the head of some unfortunate smallfolk, plucked from the shadowed streets of Essos and butchered for the promise of coins.

The sellsword’s grin was smug, bronze teeth glinting in the torchlight, his chest puffed out as though he’d fooled the king. But Aerys, whether caught in the throes of madness or one of his rare moments of clarity, saw through the ruse. His lips twisted into a cruel, serpentine smile.

“How lovely,” Aerys drawled, his voice sickly sweet, laced with venom. “You bring me the head of the eunuch. Prove your triumph. Eat it."

The words hung in the air, cold and sharp as a blade. A collective gasp rippled through the highborns lining the throne room, their shock palpable. The sellsword’s grin crumbled, his confidence melting away as his eyes widened in disbelief. He staggered back a step, the color draining from his face like water from a punctured cask.

“Your Grace?” he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I said,” Aerys hissed, his voice quivering with twisted delight, “eat the eunuch’s head. If it is truly his, you’ll sprout a second cock. Isn’t that the tale they whisper in your foreign lands?” His eyes danced with a sickly fire, reveling in the grotesque spectacle he was about to unleash.

Rhaella’s gaze flickered to Aerys. For a moment, behind the wild glint in his eyes, she caught a flicker of clarity. He knew. He knew it wasn’t Varys, and this was his way of punishing the deception, cruel and theatrical as always.

The sellsword remained frozen, his bravado shattered. The throne room was silent save for Aerys’ chuckle, soft and sinister, echoing off the stone walls. Rhaella, her face a mask of calm, braced herself for what was to come. She had seen it too many times before—this slow, inevitable descent into horror.

The sellsword shook his head, his face crumbling into pure terror. “This is madness! I will not eat a man’s head!” he shouted, his voice breaking with desperation. He stumbled back, the severed head slipping from his grasp and thudding to the marble floor. The Gold Cloaks were on him in an instant, seizing his arms as he thrashed and kicked, forcing him to his knees.

Aerys leaned forward on the Iron Throne, his cruel smile stretching wider. His voice, low and sharp, cut through the chaos. “Hold him,” he commanded, savoring every word. The sellsword’s pleas echoed through the hall as he struggled against his captors.

“Your Grace, forgive me!” the man cried, his face slick with sweat and dread. “This is not Lord Varys’ head! Just a man from Lys! Please! I beg you—spare me! I’ll do anything!” He wailed, his confession echoing against the cold, unyielding walls of the throne room.

Aerys threw his head back and laughed, a chilling sound that filled the hall with its jagged edges. Rhaella flinched, the noise grating against her nerves. She knew what would follow—she always did.

The sellsword was dragged out of the throne room, his screams reverberating through the Red Keep’s stone corridors. In the Red Keep’s square, the Gold Cloaks forced him to the ground, pinning him in place as Aerys watched from the balcony above, eyes gleaming with sadistic delight.

“Feed him,” the king commanded, his voice ringing out like a death knell. His body swayed on his feet, teetering between madness and anticipation, his eyes wild with an almost feverish hunger. Each word was a twisted order, spoken with a grim satisfaction as though he reveled in the suffering that was to come.

The man fought, but there was no escape. His head was shoved forward, mouth forced open as he bit into the mangled flesh of the dead Lys man. He gagged and choked, blood splattering his tunic with each bite, staining the ground beneath him.

Rhaella turned away, nausea coiling in her gut like a nest of vipers. She had seen enough. Aerys’ laughter was a thing of nightmares, wild and sharp-edged, a blend of cruelty and delirium that scraped like steel against stone. His lips curled back, revealing teeth stained red with spittle as he clutched his sides, his frail body convulsing under the weight of his mirth. Spittle flew from his mouth in sprays of crimson and foam, yet the grin on his face did not falter, did not crack. It only stretched wider, a grotesque mask that barely seemed human. He coughed and sputtered between fits of hysterics, but the light in his eyes burned ever brighter. It was a manic, fevered glow, as if a fire had been lit behind those orbs of molten violet. 

“See! See! You’ll grow a second cock!” Aerys shrieked, his voice cracking with delirium, and he clapped his hands together as though he were a boy who had just discovered a cruel new game. The sound of his laughter, unchecked and violent, filled the courtyard, bouncing off the walls like an unstoppable force.

The Gold Cloaks stood stiffly, their faces pale, some visibly sickened. Even the remaining King’s Guard—hardened men, unshaken by the horrors of war—looked stunned. None dared speak or move.

Rhaella turned back to the grotesque spectacle, her stomach churning as the sellsword gagged and retched. His body convulsed as he choked down flesh mixed with bile, his eyes wide with terror. Finally, he could take no more. He shook his head, lips clamped shut in insubordination.

Aerys’ smile twisted into a sneer. “Enough,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of the earlier jollity. He waved a hand, and the Gold Cloaks obeyed without hesitation. One swift motion—a glint of steel—and the sellsword’s life ended, his blood pooling darkly on the cobblestones.

His body was hung from the battlements, a grotesque monument to the folly of deception. Flies danced around the hollowed sockets where his eyes had been, the stench of rot clinging to the stone like a curse. The winds from Blackwater Bay tugged at his limbs, making him sway like a marionette whose strings had been cut. After that day, no man dared bring another head before the king. The Spider, ever cunning, remained a ghost—slipping through the fractures of a realm splitting apart, his whispers fading to echoes amidst the rising storm.

Within the small council chamber, the air itself seemed hollow, as if the very walls mourned the absence of authority. The room, once a crucible of power, now felt like a tomb. Dust gathered in the carved crevices of the long oak table, and the tapestries swayed gently, untouched by breeze or purpose.

Many chairs sat empty, their polished wood reflecting the dying light. Many seats remained empty: the Master of Coin, the Master of Laws, the Master of Ships—all gone. Some had fled to their holdings, preparing for war; others had simply vanished, seeking refuge from the storm that loomed over Westeros.

As for the Hand of the King, that sycophant Lord Qarlton Chester, he was nowhere to be found. The coward had vanished, no doubt retreating to whatever dark corner of King’s Landing he had chosen to cower in ever since the Lannister forces had occupied its walls. 

Rhaella’s eyes flicked briefly to the empty space where the Lord Hand, Chester should have been, but the sight only brought more bile to her throat. That man, so eager to flatter and kiss the king's ring, now hid in the shadows, too afraid to show his face. Aerys needed him, craved his obedience, yet the man who once lavished his king with servile praise had disappeared, as though the Lannister invasion had been the final signal for his own retreat into cowardice.

Rhaella made a mental note to aid Rhaegar in appointing new Small Council members, once he returned. If he returned.

Grand Maester Pycelle sat at his usual place, his hands folded piously, a faint, self-satisfied smile curling his lips. His robes draped over his arms, giving him the appearance of a man at prayer. Across from him, Tywin Lannister sat rigid and silent. His face betrayed nothing, a cold mask as he sifted through a litter of parchments, his eyes never rising to meet anyone else’s.

The room was silent save for the rustle of paper, the crackle of distant flames. Rhaella took her seat, her back straight, her gaze steady. Whatever lay ahead, she would endure. She had no choice.

“My Queen,” Tywin began, his voice as cold and calculating as ever, “the blessing of the High Septon is well and good, but it is not enough. We must secure the loyalty of the other great houses. And more than that, we need to restore the trust of the people. This realm is fractured, its wounds still fresh from Aerys’ madness.”

Rhaella met his gaze, her expression unwavering. She had learned to read the man before her, even if he never revealed his true thoughts. There was power in silence, in the way he watched every word and movement, measuring their weight. But she would not be cowed.

“I am aware of the fractures, Lord Tywin,” she said, her voice even and clear, each word a measured blade. “That is why I wrote to you and asked for your men to dispose of my husband.”

His eyes narrowed, and though his lips did not twitch, she could feel the sharpness of his attention, like a dagger brushing against her skin. The silence between them was a living thing, stretching taut and thin, each second daring her to waver.

But she stood firm. “The crown is in a fragile state,” she continued, her voice a cool current beneath the storm, “but I will not see it slip from our grasp. I will not allow this realm to fall into further chaos.” She drew a slow breath, steadying herself, as though the very words were a weight she must bear. “Restoring peace in King’s Landing will be our first step.”

When Aerys himself had sent direct demands, ordering Tywin to march his forces to meet the rebels, the Lannister had ignored them without a single word from the Westerlands. The entire region had been sealed off, its borders guarded by armies ready to repel any signs of war from spreading into their lands. Tywin’s refusal to commit was not a simple act of self preservation, it was a calculated silence. The Westerlands were closed off, a fortress of their own making, and Aerys' roar for Twyin’s head fell on deaf ears. The lord of Casterly Rock cared little for Aerys’ demands, and with each passing day, his grip on the realm loosened further, as the Westerlands remained a quiet, defiant bulwark against the fires of war ravaging the rest of the kingdoms.

Rhaella acted. Desperation had long since tempered into cold resolve, and so she turned to the tricks she had learned from Varys, from whispers that slithered through the shadows like serpents. His little birds—some with eyes wide with terror, others with fingers nimble and quick—had been her only hope. The messages had been carefully crafted, broken into pieces to ensure no one could trace them. Delivered by ragged urchins and hollow-eyed servants, they made their slow, perilous journey westward to Casterly Rock.

She did not expect a swift response. In truth, she did not expect success at all. Hope, she knew, was a frail and brittle thing, easily shattered. But necessity made gamblers of even the most cautious souls, and if anyone could be made to reason with, it was Tywin Lannister.

Her son, Rhaegar, had refused to move against Aerys. She could see the conflict in him, torn between his duties to his family and to the realm. She sympathized with him, understood his hesitations. But she could not afford to indulge his indecision. The rebellion was growing more chaotic with every day, with every battle lost, and Rhaella knew it would soon spiral beyond their control.

Aerys was an anchor dragging them down into ruin, his madness and bloodthirstiness suffocating everything around them. She had long believed that Rhaegar would be the one to rid the realm of him, but his inaction, his reluctance to choose the crown over his conscience, was their undoing.

So, for the first time in years, Rhaella made a decision on her own. No counsel whispered in her ear, no mad king's gaze bore down upon her. The rebellion needed to end, and the path to peace was clear—Aerys must be removed. Stripped of his crown, of his power. She hoped, perhaps foolishly, that once he was shackled and handed over, the rebels would see reason. That they would accept a ceasefire, allow the blood to dry and the swords to rest. That Rhaegar, her son, could ascend the throne without the realm drowning in further slaughter.

It was wishful thinking, a fragile hope standing on splintered legs, but what else was left to her? With each passing day the realm cracked further beneath Rhaeger’s failures on the battlefield, and she could feel the strain as one might feel a fracture in the bone—sharp, unavoidable, a precursor to shattering. The whispers spoke of doom, of dragons burning in their own fire, of a dynasty on the brink of ruin. But she refused to believe that all was lost, not yet.

Men like Tywin Lannister were predictable, at least in his ambitions. He cared little for wealth, women, or war—those things were fleeting. What Tywin sought was power, and with it, a legacy that would echo through the ages. What better way to secure that legacy than to place his blood on the Iron Throne?

He had tried once before, in the years when Aerys was still only veering toward madness. Tywin had sought to marry his daughter, Cersei, to Rhaegar Targaryen, a union that would have secured his family's standing for generations. But Aerys, ever cruel, had denied the request—viciously, without hesitation—choosing instead to marry Rhaegar to Elia Martell, a match that was less politically advantageous. From that moment on, the relationship between the Westerlands and the throne had been irreparably fractured.

Rhaella, ever the pragmatist, did what needed to be done. She made the tentative offer, extending Rhaegar’s hand to Cersei Lannister in exchange for Tywin’s support in taking the Red Keep. The price was steep, but it was a price the crown had to pay. The question was: would Rhaegar? Rhaella was not so sure. She knew her son held the Lannisters in low regard, and the thought of such a union would surely be repugnant to him. His pride, his sense of duty to his family, and his idealism all worked against it. She could not be certain he would agree to it, even if it meant the survival of the realm—or of their house. Rhaella had no illusions about his feelings on the matter, but the rebellion was gaining ground, and choices were running thin. 

She would also secure Tywin’s beloved heir, Jaime, by convincing Rhaegar to relinquish him from his vows. It was a delicate maneuver, one that played to Tywin’s insatiable desperate need to see his heir returned to him.

Rhaella made no promises when she sent her carefully fragmented parchments to Tywin Lannister. The words she penned were cautious, veiled in subtlety—she could only assure him that she would do what she could to sway Rhaegar to accept their agreement. After all, Rhaegar would soon be king. But Tywin, ever the ambitious man, had no need for sweet words or assurances. He understood the game too well: if Rhaegar sat on the Iron Throne and took Cersei as queen, a Lannister would have the chance for the Iron Throne. That was the lure Tywin could not resist.

Rhaella had made it clear enough that Aegon would remain heir to the Iron Throne, but she knew, deep down, that Tywin cared little for the boy’s future. The lord of Casterly Rock was not one to care for the fickle tides of succession when greater power was within his grasp. He would find a way to place his own flesh and blood on the throne. 

His gaze, Rhaella was certain, was not solely on the Iron Throne, but on his lost son, Jaime. To have Jaime back, to see the prodigal heir return, was a prize too tempting for any man, even a man as ruthless as Tywin, to ignore.

She hoped he would come. Ambition had no limits. And she had made it easy for him, dangling the future of the realm in front of him like a baited trap. The Lannisters had always been willing to betray, to bend and break with loyalty for the promise of greater power. Yet, as Rhaella sat in the dim light of the Small council chamber, she couldn't help but wonder how long it would take for Tywin to turn on her once he had what he wanted. Would he betray them all the moment he had Jaime back? Or would he claim the Iron Throne for his own bloodline, as she feared he might? Only time would tell, but for now, he was their ally, and the only one who could help her secure the throne for Rhaegar.

At first, the ploy had been difficult. Rhaella had to rely on sellswords and mercenaries to eliminate any potential scouts in the surrounding Crownlands, ensuring that Tywin’s movements remained undetected. For a time, it worked. His march from Casterly Rock to the Crownlands went unnoticed for weeks, until he was nearly at the gates of King’s Landing.

Rhaella, in her moments of doubt, found herself disgusted by the depths to which she had sunk. She had hired common thugs and assassins, men with no loyalty or honor, to silence scouts who might have reported Tywin's movements. Innocent lives had been lost in the process, but she reminded herself of the greater goal. The survival of House Targaryen, peace in the realm, and her family; it was the price she had to pay.

Pycelle, ever the opportunist, cleared his throat, his voice a quivering echo of his eagerness. “Your Grace, if I may, the people of King’s Landing—indeed, the entire realm—are on edge. They are watching, waiting for signs of strength, of stability. The High Septon’s blessing was a necessary first step, but we must act swiftly if we are to secure the capital. I advise that we close the gates of the city, at least for the time being, until we know who is coming and going. We must also assess the damage done in Flea Bottom, before the unrest spreads further.”

She raised her chin slightly, her voice calm but resolute. “Close the gates. But allow those who wish to leave the city to do so. I will not be known as the regent who turned her back on her people. We will not lock them in like cattle.”

Her gaze swept across the room, unblinking, holding Pycelle’s and any others who might dare suggest otherwise. “Once we have counted the number of souls within the city, we will restore order to the streets. After King’s Landing is secure, we will turn our focus to Flea Bottom. Assess the damage and make do with what we can. Only then will we move to secure the King’s Road, and rid it of the bandits and thieves who plague it.”

When news of Rhaegar’s triumph at the Trident reached Rhaella, she had paused, the quill hovering in her grasp. A single bead of ink bloomed on the parchment before her, smudging the careful script. She was drafting yet another letter to Tywin Lannister, a missive thick with half-truths and veiled intentions. They had been ironing out the grim details of what might come: a siege of King’s Landing and Aerys’ penchant for wildfire, that deadly obsession used to smite his enemies. 

She thought then, Do I still need the might of Casterly Rock?

The rebellion, it seemed, was broken. Rhaeger’s letter, precise and measured as his sword strokes, promised peace. Jon Arryn had bent to diplomacy, the figurehead of the rebellion—Robert Baratheon was dead, and Eddard Stark, ever the honorable wolf, had drawn back his banners. The rebel forces were scattered, their cause lost. Rhaegar would march south and sack King’s Landing. He would finally do what must be done. Aerys would abdicate, or be made to.

But Rhaella, seated beneath the flickering light of the torches, knew her husband too well. The Mad King would never yield his throne, not even to his own blood—the son he had come to loathe more with every passing defeat on the battlefield. Aerys’ madness had festered into something darker, more unyielding. He would bolt the gates of King’s Landing, command the wildfire caches be lit beneath the very stones of the Red Keep, and consign Aegon’s Hill to ash rather than bow to a son he believed a traitor.

It would be slaughter, fire, and ruin. Targaryen loyalists would burn as wildfire consumed them, green flames devouring flesh and stone alike. But even in her darkest imaginings, Rhaella had not foreseen the full scope of Aerys’ madness. She had expected flames, expected death, but not this. Not the attempt to collapse the entire city, its very foundations shattered beneath an inferno of wildfire.

Even if Rhaegar breached King’s Landing’s walls, it would come at a terrible cost. Blood of their blood, the last loyal men of House Targaryen, would stain the streets of their own capital. Sons fiercely devoted to the dragon, cut down by wildfire and arrows alike, all for a throne mired in madness.

No , Rhaella had thought grimly. Better to have Tywin’s men at the ready, to let the untouched armies of the Westerlands spill their blood instead. She would not wager Rhaegar’s life on the whims of a mad king.

She had learned long ago that even dragons can burn.

Rhaella looked across the great oak table at Tywin, her gaze steady but tinged with simmering rage. His face, as cold and unreadable as stone, held no mirth, and his sharp green eyes shone with frustration. The news of Jaime Lannister’s likely demise in Flea Bottom had been met with barely contained fury. The ever-composed Tywin had grunted at first, a sound of restrained annoyance, before his features twisted in anger, and he cursed Aerys’ name aloud.

It was not a pretty sight. Tywin Lannister, usually the model of control, had screamed for the Mountain, demanding the brute lead a force into the burning district of Flea Bottom to search for his son.

Jaime was not found. But Tywin refused to believe his son had perished in such an undignified manner. No body had been discovered, though Rhaella doubted it ever would be. The entire district had been consumed by wildfire, reduced to smoldering ruin. Bodies had been turned to ash, leaving only charred bones behind.

They believed two pyromancers had killed Aerys, and that Jaime had slain them in turn. One had managed to escape, and Jaime had ridden after him through the streets of King’s Landing, intent on stopping him before the wildfire was lit. Rhaella had heard the tale, whispered in the shadow of the city’s fall. But she knew the truth, or at least, the truth she believed to be so.

The pyromancers were fanatics, bound to Aerys in their twisted devotion. They saw him as one of the gods of the seven—no, they would not have raised a hand against him. It was far more likely that Jaime Lannister had killed the pyromancers, and Aerys himself, before chasing down the last zealot who believed in the king's cause.

But Rhaella had no proof, only suspicion—a cold, unshakable certainty born from seeing the glint of disgust in Jaime’s eyes, barely concealed behind his boyish features, on those wretched nights when Aerys stormed into her chambers unbidden. Yet she dared not speak of it. To voice such thoughts would invite Tywin’s wrath and fan the flames of the growing reverence for Jaime Lannister, the golden boy turned hero in the eyes of the smallfolk. Rhaella could not be the one to stain the legacy of the young Lion of Casterly Rock—not when her own house teetered on the edge of ruin.

Still, she did not hate Jaime. He had done the realm a great service, ridding them of a king who had taken so many innocent lives. Jaime had acted where others faltered, where even Rhaegar, with all his songs and prophecy, had failed. And in the end, it would be the people who remembered him. 

Pycelle, the bumbling fool, had recounted the tale as though it were some heroic legend, trying in vain to reassure Tywin that his son’s name would be remembered in the White Books. Bards would sing of the Young Lion of Casterly Rock and his valiant deeds. But Tywin had no interest in honor or songs. He wanted his heir. And now, it seemed, he was likely dead.

“When will King Rhaegar return to King’s Landing?” Tywin asked sharply, his voice slicing through the Grand Maester’s report on the number of wounded afflicted by the wildfire explosion, now being treated in every available holding throughout the city—many abandoned by their owners. The Gold Cloaks had knocked on doors in the more affluent districts, and when there was no response, they simply broke them down, turning the homes or shops into makeshift clinics for the injured. This had been Rhaella’s directive in the wake of the explosion, ignoring Pycelle’s ramblings about merchants and nobles returning to find their homes ransacked.

Rhaella cared little for the complaints of the more fortunate. They had abandoned the city at the first hint of war, fleeing to their estates or elsewhere. Why should they be allowed to return so easily now?

Rhaella sighed. “Perhaps, in the coming week, we may find hope. But as of now, I have heard nothing from Rhaegar since his victory at the Trident. He spoke of riding south with a sizable force as soon as possible. I have not informed him of our plan to remove Aerys. The last thing we need is to cause him further distraction.”

She met the eyes of Twyin, her voice steady despite the weight of the decision she had yet to make. “I will send a force to meet him at Hayford Castle. There, we will present him with a letter outlining all that has transpired. The plan we’ve set in motion, the delicate balance we must now maintain."

Tywin merely nodded, his mind, no doubt, already working on how best to secure the marriage for Cersei. Even without his heir, he would find a way to ensure the Lannister name remained strong. With his son lost, Rhaegar would be the only prize.

"Your Grace," Pycelle said, his voice insipid, devoid of true concern, "I think it is crucial we consider how we will manage the growing number of injured we recover with each passing hour."

"The numbers are staggering," he continued, his voice thin and tremulous. "Estimates put the loss of life near ten thousand, with thousands more injured, each hour bringing in more of the broken and the dying. The scale of the devastation is beyond what any of us could have imagined." He paused, as if weighing the weight of his words, though there was little true understanding in his eyes.

Rhaella shook her head, the weight of it sinking in like a stone. Bile rose in her throat as she thought, The numbers are rising rapidly. Just yesterday, Pycelle had estimated perhaps five thousand dead, but they had overestimated the full extent of the smallfolk's escape in the past few moons. The common folk, those without wealth or means, had been trapped within the city when the rebellion erupted. They were the ones who could not afford to flee, with no place to run and no coin to ride north or cross the Narrow Sea.

Though many had fled Flea Bottom as the rebellion dragged on, spurred by the inevitable Targaryen defeat with each loyalist loss, they had fled with nothing. Forced to run for their lives with only the clothes on their backs, they were desperate to escape the chaos. But many never made it far. The roads became littered with the dead—robbed, defiled, and murdered. Victims not only of the rebellion but of the lawlessness that had overtaken the Crownlands. And Aerys, as always, cared little for the suffering of his people. He did nothing when informed of the rising banditry along the King’s Road, his madness blinding him to the plight of those who had once worshipped him as their king. To him, their deaths were mere inconveniences, unworthy of his attention. 

Then came whispers of Lady Ravenclaw’s forces—harbingers of chaos and terror. With every tale of villages razed and travelers waylaid, the exodus slowed, until it ceased altogether. The smallfolk no longer fled; there was nowhere left to run.

Nearly half a million souls lived in King’s Landing, even with thousands fleeing each day. Aerys had intended to snuff out all those lives with a single, cruel command, and the thought made Rhaella shudder. Earlier that morning, the Gold Cloaks had discovered hundreds of wildfire caches, strategically placed in two separate locations within the city and beneath the ground—enough to reduce all of King’s Landing to rubble, Red Keep, and all. The Iron Throne would have melted into a molten mass of steel.

“Though I suspect, Your Grace, those numbers will rise exponentially once the smoke fully clears,” Pycelle continued, his tone matter-of-fact, his eyes focused elsewhere. “We are still unsure how many remained in Flea Bottom at the time of the explosion, perhaps as many as one hundred thousand, but records for that district have always been scarce. I have sent ravens to Oldtown for assistance; they may have more accurate figures. It will also be impossible to say how many fled Flea Bottom before Aerys gave the order to close the gates permanently.”

Tywin clicked his teeth, a faint but unmistakable sign of his displeasure. He cared little for the predicament of Flea Bottom or the smallfolk's suffering; such matters were beneath him. Rhaella, sensing his disinterest, shifted the conversation toward the broader aftermath of the war.

Their discussions stretched deep into the evening, shadows lengthening as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. The dying light from the Narrow Sea cast dark reflections across the room, turning the polished surface of the council table into a pool of shadow.

“Thank you, my lords. We have made good progress today,” Rhaella said, her voice hoarse from hours of debate. Rising from her seat, she offered a slight inclination of her head before turning to leave. As she stepped out of the chamber, two Lannister guards fell into step behind her, their crimson cloaks gliding against the stone floor with each measured stride.

Tywin gave a curt nod, barely glancing up, as Pycelle rose awkwardly to pay his respects. The dowager queen’s departure did not halt Tywin’s work; he returned to his writing, drafting yet another series of ravens to be dispatched across the realm.

Back in her chambers, Rhaella sighed, the weight of the day pressing down upon her. She undressed in silence and slipped into bed, her mind restless despite her exhaustion.

The days that followed were relentless. Rhaella found herself seated on the Iron Throne, dispensing justice to those who had exploited the chaos of war. Bandits were condemned to the Black Cells or promised exile to the Wall once the rebellion’s final embers had cooled. Petty disputes between minor Crownlands lords consumed what little remained of her patience. Many who suffered under the marauding forces of Lady Ravenclaw’s men now clamored for compensation, eager to reclaim what they had lost in the name of the crown.

Through it all, Rhaella endured, the burden of rule heavier than any cruelty Aerys had ever inflicted upon her. He had wielded pain like a weapon; she bore hers in silence, each judgment passed a weight pressing harder upon her shoulders.

After grueling days spent dispensing justice from the Iron Throne, Rhaella summoned her remaining guards. “Prepare to leave,” she commanded. “We ride to Flea Bottom. Bring the Gold Cloaks—and leave the Lannisters behind. I will have no lions prowling at my back through the dangers of this city.”

The newly appointed Commander of the Gold Cloaks, a hard-eyed man with the look of one who had seen too much and lived through worse, nodded sharply. Without a word, he turned on his heel and began issuing orders to his men, his voice carrying down the hall in clipped tones.

The Lannister guards stiffened but made no protest. Even Tywin's men knew better than to question the will of the Queen regent. Rhaella, for her part, did not spare them a glance. They belonged to Tywin, and Tywin belonged to himself alone. She would not place her trust, or her safety, in their hands.

The smoke that had strangled Flea Bottom for the past week still lingered, coiling above the district like a pall of mourning. She had hoped it would have dispersed by now, but Flea Bottom was as stubborn in its ruin as its people had been in life. 

Rhaella would be the one to give the final command. The task ahead was daunting: clearing the rubble, restoring what little could be salvaged, and breathing life into a place nearly consumed by flame. The journey would be grueling, but it was necessary. Flea Bottom had long been forgotten, neglected by kings and queens alike.

Not this time.

This was not merely a queen's duty, but a mother's penance. And Rhaella would see it through.

And so they set out, the procession winding through the streets of King’s Landing. The Gold Cloaks rode in practiced formation around Rhaella’s carriage, their movements cautious, treating her as if she were spun from glass. They all knew her belly was swollen, heavy with the child she would soon deliver. Every jolt of the wheels, every uneven cobblestone, seemed to heighten their wariness.

The streets were more crowded than they had been in weeks. News of the rebellion’s end and Aerys Targaryen’s death had spread, coaxing the city’s scattered inhabitants back to their homes. People lined the roads, their faces hollow with the lingering echoes of fear and starvation, but there was something else too: hope, fragile and flickering, like a candle in the wind.

By the time they reached Flea Bottom, the sun was dipping below the horizon, its last light staining the sky in shades of blood and ash. Rhaella knew she had to be quick. The streets were no place for a queen after dark—not anymore. She stepped from the carriage, pressing her cloak to her nose, the fabric a meager barrier against the harsh stench of smoke and wildfire that lingered in the air, choking the very breath from her lungs. The Gold Cloaks flanked her on all sides, swords drawn, eyes wide and watchful for any threat lurking in the shadows.

Rhaella ignored their vigilance, focusing only on what lay ahead. The air grew thicker as they pushed through the lingering smoke. And then, at last, they reached it: the edge of the great crater where Flea Bottom had once stood. From this vantage, she could see it all too clearly—the desolation, the yawning emptiness where the district had been. The smoke parted in the center of the vast hole, a grim reminder of the devastation, leaving behind only the stark, raw earth, untouched by life.

She stopped abruptly, the sight before her driving the air from her lungs. Her knees buckled, but she did not fall. A strangled cry clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it down.

This is what my son and my own cowardice have wrought, the guilt gnawed at her, threatening to tear her heart apart. Tens of thousands dead. She pressed the fabric of her cloak tighter against her nose, but it did little to block out the stench of death and charred flesh.

At the heart of the crater, green flames still licked hungrily at the rubble, casting eerie shadows in the gathering dusk. No one could have survived this. The destruction was absolute.

Rhaella’s heart clenched, a tangle of emotions warring within her: disgust, shame, perhaps even self-loathing? She could not tell where one ended and the other began. Her eyes prickled with tears, though she could not say if it was the sulfuric air that stung or the weight of her own failure—failure to act sooner, to rid the realm of Aerys before his madness consumed them all. 

The Gold Cloak commander stood beside her, his face drawn and hollow. His eyes, empty and distant, mirrored the devastation before them.

“My lord,” Rhaella said, her voice steady despite the storm roiling within her. “You will inform the men-at-task to pull back once we are back to the Red Keep. The rubble is not yet ready to be touched. We will return in a week’s time to see if the flames have cooled.”

“Yes, my queen,” the Gold Cloak commander replied, his tone as hollow as his gaze. He bowed, a stiff, mechanical movement, then turned on his heel and began the long trek back toward the waiting carriage, his footsteps echoing against the charred stones.

Rhaella followed, but before she could reach the carriage, her stomach heaved violently. She collapsed to her knees, retching onto the scorched cobblestones. The taste of bile burned her throat, sharp and bitter. Was it the child? The stench of death and fire? Or perhaps it was the weight of her failure that weighed upon her like a stone in her gut. She did not know.

“My queen! Are you alright?” one of the Gold Cloaks cried, stepping forward in alarm, his hand outstretched as if to catch her, but Rhaella waved him off, too ashamed to be seen thus.

Rhaella held up a hand to silence him, breathing deeply through her mouth as she steadied herself. She accepted the handkerchief he offered and wiped her mouth with trembling fingers.

“I am fine, ser,” she said, though the words rang hollow, even to her own ears. “Just the usual childbearing sickness.”

As she settled back into the carriage, the concerned gazes of the Gold Cloaks followed her every move. Her stomach twisted painfully, a reminder of the destruction she had witnessed, and of the burden she carried. Life lost, and a life yet to be born, she thought with bitter clarity,  her hand instinctively rubbing the swollen curve of her belly. The stark contrast of it all did not escape her, the cruel irony of bringing life into a world so steeped in death and ruin.

They rode hard through the deepening night, the streets of King’s Landing growing more crowded with each passing hour. Faces grim and silent, torchlight casting their long shadows upon the walls, their eyes hard with the strain of the city’s new reality. The Gold Cloaks were tense, their mounts jittery under the pressure, but they made it back to the Red Keep without incident, just as the hour of the eel drew near.

Rhaella was assisted out of the carriage, but she waved off the Gold Cloaks, unwilling to show even the slightest hint of frailty. She waddled toward the keep, each step heavy with the weight of her own body, the life inside her stirring, yet a silent reminder of all that had been lost. The Lannister soldiers, ever watchful and silent, shadowed her on all sides. She did not have the strength to argue; she was beyond the point of protest, her heart and mind too burdened with the day's events.

Once inside the familiar comfort of her chambers, Rhaella collapsed onto her feather bed, the soft pillows unable to ease the hard weight pressing on her chest. The maids, startled by her sudden arrival, curtsied quickly before retreating from the room, their faces flushed with unease. Rhaella lay still in the silence, the chaos of the day slowly sinking into her bones, the scent of ash and death still clinging to her like smoke.

It was then, alone in her chambers, that the full weight of everything crushed down upon her. Rhaella had known the destruction was catastrophic, but seeing it firsthand brought a new and bitter sense of shame, making her feel the wide scale of the devastation. She wept, her sobs racking her frame, tears soaking into the sheets beneath her. She had not cried so freely in years— not since Aerys had forced himself upon her , when they were both still young, ruling a kingdom they could not yet fathom. The memory of those days, the cruelty of his touch, the hollow promises of affection—came flooding back, mingling with the horrors of the present, as if both the past and the present conspired against her.

She cried for the shattered remnants of Flea Bottom, for the lives lost in a blast that none would survive. She cried for the guilt that churned in her belly, for the times she had failed to act, to stop the madness of Aerys before it was too late. She cried for Rhaegar, for Viserys, for the dynasty that now seemed as fragile as a dying ember. And she cried for herself, for the woman she had become, caught between the dying embers of a ruined past and the unknown future still unfolding before her.

Tomorrow, she told herself, would bring new hope. Tomorrow, Rhaegar would return, as the ravens had promised. But even as she clung to that fragile hope, she knew in her heart that the silence that had followed those messages was more telling than any word that might come. Days had passed without a single raven. The worry gnawed at her, the fear that the rebellion had not been truly put to rest, that Rhaegar, her son, her hope, was far from safe.

She had whispered a prayer to the Seven, the words bitter on her tongue. Please, she had begged , let him be safe. Let my son live. But no answer came. She cried harder, for the pain of it all, for the weight of a future she could no longer control, and for the haunting uncertainty that pressed on her heart.

She cried herself to sleep.

The days that followed felt like a blur to Rhaella. Mentally drained since witnessing the aftermath of the wildfire that shattered Flea Bottom, each new report from Pycelle seemed to chip away at whatever resolve she had left. The death toll climbed steadily, now numbering near forty thousand, though countless had managed to escape.

“Still no signs of my son,” Tywin said, his tongue clicking in frustration as he sifted through more parchments. The Lord of Casterly Rock was a man of sharp intellect and cold calculation, but in this, his delusions were almost laughable.

“Cersei is riding with five thousand Lannister men to King’s Landing, along with Ser Kevan,” Tywin's voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a subtle testing of her resolve. “They will be arriving for Rhaegar’s coronation.”

His gaze settled on Rhaella, sharp and unyielding, the weight of his expectation hanging in the air like a blade poised to fall. The question was unspoken, yet it echoed through the vaulted halls of the Red Keep, whispered behind every heavy door, lurking in the shadowed corners of every chamber. Where was Rhaegar?

Rhaella’s eyes betrayed nothing, but in her heart, a chill had crept in.

Rhaella sighed, weary beyond measure. “Lord Tywin, I know no more than you,” Rhaella said, her voice strained. “It has been nearly ten days since Rhaegar sent word he was riding south, and there has been no word since. We have no master of whispers to uncover his movements.”

She held her tongue, keeping the dark suspicion gnawing at her heart locked away—that Rhaegar might be dead. The flicker of dread passed across her face for but a heartbeat, yet Tywin’s eyes were sharp as a hawk’s. She shuddered inwardly, knowing what the man might do if he ever learned that the revered Rhaegar was dead. Tywin Lannister was no man to waste an opportunity. He was a lion, patient and ruthless, and Viserys was still a boy—a boy with silken hair and fragile bones.

A boy-king would be a feast for such a lion. And Tywin’s teeth were sharp.

He could do it, she knew it. The truth of it settled heavily in her chest, a weight too dark and suffocating to bear. Tywin had thousands of men stationed within the Red Keep, and over ten thousand scattered across King’s Landing. A siege would be bloody, a war of attrition that could stretch for years. No lord would challenge him directly. Who would stand to restore the Targaryens? The Starks, Baratheons, Arryns, and Tullys would never back Tywin’s claim, but neither would they rise against him—too bitter over the Targaryens’ rule, too worn from the wars that had shattered the realm. The Tyrells' loyalty was ever in question, and any shift in alliances, especially through marriage, could swing their favor one way or another.

But did the Tyrell’s loyalty even matter? The rebellion had shown that numbers meant little when strategy and ruthlessness held sway. Mace Tyrell was a fool, a man who never seemed to know when to fight or when to retreat, and his forces, soft as maids, lacked the bite of true warriors. They had the numbers, but no will.

That left Dorne. The Martells dream of their blood—Aegon VI—sitting the Iron Throne, but the rebellion had broken their forces. They had lost more than ten thousand men in the war, and now, they might muster no more than half that. Too few, far too few, to challenge the might of the Lannisters. Their thirst for vengeance might burn, but it would not be enough to face Tywin’s overwhelming power.

Rhaella swallowed hard, the enormity of the situation pressing in on her. If there was a chance to stop Tywin’s ambition, she would have to play the game carefully, appease him, keep his eyes diverted from the Iron Throne—for the Targaryens could not survive another war, not now, not like this.

“My son is an honorable king,” Rhaella said smoothly, her voice steady, though her heart raced beneath her calm exterior. “He is likely reclaiming castles in the Crownlands that were sacked and burned. Foolish, but honorable.”

Tywin did not seem convinced, but he said nothing. His cold eyes lingered on her for a moment, searching for any crack in her facade, but he let the matter go. There was little to be gained from pressing further, at least for now. He turned back to his parchments, his mind already on other matters.

Before Pycelle could begin his daily litany of death tolls, two soldiers of House Lannister entered the small council chamber, flanking a squire adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on his ill-fitted armor. The young man knelt before Rhaella, his head bowed in respect.

"My queen," he said, his voice steady. "Your parchment was finally delivered to His Grace, Rhaegar Targaryen. We found his forces on the King's Road, north of Hayford’s Castle. He is but a day's march away now, with a sizable force made up of hundreds of Crownlands men."

Relief flooded Rhaella's chest, and she had to fight the urge to leap from her chair and kiss the boy for his news. Instead, she kept her composure, forcing any smile from her face. The mother is merciful , she thought, the words a quiet prayer in her mind. Her son lived, and soon he would take the throne. A new day was coming to Westeros.

Pycelle looked pleased enough, his thin lips curling into a rare smile, though Tywin remained indifferent, his eyes cold and calculating.

"I give you thanks," Rhaella said, her voice warm and measured. "You have done your duty to House Targaryen." The squire beamed at the queen's praise, his chest swelling with pride. He bowed deeply once more before rising and, with a gesture from Tywin, was swiftly escorted out of the small council chamber.

“Excellent news, Your Grace,” Pycelle intoned, his voice tinged with eagerness, though his wrinkled hands trembled. “We should prepare immediately for His Grace’s arrival. The city is still rife with thieves and violence. We should accelerate our containment plan and secure the streets of King’s Landing as soon as possible.”

He spoke the truth of it, and the cold weight of it pressed on her chest. Rhaella did not want Rhaegar riding his army through a city filled with chaos and murderers. She would not risk a silent, stray arrow ending his life before the crown could rest upon his brow.

She stood in the council chamber, her fingers lightly grazing the surface of the table. The wood was polished and smooth beneath her touch, but she felt only the jagged edges of her worry.

“Indeed,” she said, her voice steady despite the tempest raging within. “We will prepare immediately. There is little time to waste.” She turned her gaze on Pycelle, cool as a morning wind. “Inform the Gold Cloaks that the containment plan is to be advanced. They will work without rest until every street in King’s Landing is secured.”

Pycelle bowed, the chains of his office rattling like old bones. “It shall be done, Your Grace.”

She watched him shuffle away, her thoughts a murky river of fear and resolve. The city must be held together, no matter how fragile its seams. For Rhaegar. For the realm.

Her eyes swept over the table, her gaze falling on Tywin Lannister, who said nothing but watched her with that calculating stare. She knew he was already thinking of the political opportunities his son’s arrival could provide.

Without another word, Rhaella made for the chamber doors, the soft rustling of her gown the only sound in the stillness. The weight of the coming days bore down on her like a heavy cloak, and the matters of locating Lord Chelsted faded like mist before the sun. Even the whereabouts of Jaime Lannister, the boy knight with golden hair and charming eyes, seemed a distant worry. Such distractions were thorns along the path she dared not tread.

The chamber doors swung open with a creak, and her attendants, ever at the ready, fell into step behind her, eager to carry out her will. They were informed of the gravity of the moment; their queen’s task was far greater than any politicking or courtly maneuvering. Her mind was set, and her eyes, resolute, spoke the silent command to prepare.

Outside, the air was thick with the urgency of preparation as word spread throughout the city. Servants scurried in all directions, their footsteps quick and frantic, while commanders barked orders to secure the roads and ready King’s Landing for Rhaegar’s arrival. Rhaella’s heart raced in time with the hurried movements around her. Each step felt like it carried the weight of the realm itself, and she could almost hear the echoes of her house's past—both its glory and its failures.

She had spent hours overseeing every detail, from the final repairs to the sigils that would mark Rhaegar’s return to the Red Keep, to ensuring that the feast would reflect both the grandeur of the Targaryen dynasty and the hope for a new beginning.

She had ordered the banners to be sewn with the utmost care: one hundred three-headed dragon sigils to drape the walls, some gilded with gold thread, others large enough to serve as tapestries, to be hung in the halls leading to the throne room. Every detail was chosen to remind the people of the Targaryen dynasty’s strength and glory, a reminder of what had been lost, and what could be regained. The walls were scoured, cleaned, and redecorated with rich tapestries of crimson and black. The stench of the past, the scent of destruction and decay, was swept away, as if each breath she took might hold the promise of something better.

The city had been scarred by madness, theft, and ruin, but Rhaella would not allow her son to return to a city plunged in chaos. She would give him a kingdom worthy of his return; a kingdom that still bore the Targaryen name, still stood under the banner of the dragon. 

By evening, the preparations were nearly complete. The air hung thick with the scent of torch smoke and fear. The Gold Cloaks had done their duty with ruthless efficiency, sweeping through the streets like a cold wind, dragging dissenters from their shadows and barring entry to all but those they deemed loyal. The gates groaned closed to the undesirables, the city’s walls now as much a cage as a shield.

The newly appointed Gold Cloak commander, a man with eyes like flint and a mouth set in a grim line, delivered his report. His words were clipped, devoid of embellishment. The King’s Road and every approach to the gates of King’s Landing were now under their watchful eyes, the cloaks of gold gleaming like a promise—or a threat.

“No man will pass without our leave, Your Grace,” he vowed.

They would open the gates again for one reason only: the return of Rhaegar and his forces. Until then, the city would remain locked tight, a stone trap for any who dared to challenge the crown’s will.

Rhaella could hardly bring herself to sleep, the anticipation keeping her awake. She stayed in her chamber, standing before the window, gazing out over the city she had once loved. The streets were now filled with the hum of activity. Lannister soldiers made their final rounds, ensuring the safety of King’s Landing. The city was tense, but beneath it all, there was a stirring hope—one she hadn’t felt in years.

The next morning, the air was dense with anticipation, thick as fog rolling in from Blackwater Bay. Rhaella awoke to the mournful cry of horns and the rhythmic thunder of boots against cobblestone. The sound pulsed through the Red Keep, a heartbeat of iron and leather. Her heart fluttered in her chest, a moth caught in a web of hope and dread.

She rose and crossed the cold stone floor, the chill seeping through the thin silk of her nightgown. With steady hands, she drew the heavy curtains aside. The morning light spilled into the chamber, pale and washed-out, as if the sun itself feared to shine too brightly on this day.

A column of soldiers, more than five thousand strong, poured through the city’s gates, the thud of boots a relentless drumbeat. Their armor caught the early light and flared like a thousand shards of mirrored glass, blinding and beautiful. Banners fluttered high, the lion of Lannister crimson and gold beside the dragon of Targaryen, black and red. 

Rhaella's chest swelled with pride, though it was a pride tempered by fear. Her eyes darted across the front ranks, hungry, desperate, seeking him. The sea of soldiers seemed endless, but then she saw it—a glimmer of silver, bright as molten light in the morning sun.

There he was, at the head of the force, his figure half-obscured by distance and the shifting throng of men. His face remained a blur, lost to the distance, but there was no mistaking that hair. It was cut short but like liquid starlight, a beacon of silver that outshone every polished blade and gilded banner. His crimson cloak billowed behind him, a streak of fire against the gleaming steel.

He rode with a grace that was unmistakable, a bearing forged by both blood and destiny. Even from afar, she could feel his presence—that quiet command, that simmering strength beneath the surface. The sight of him was enough. Her son. Her Rhaegar.

Her fingers tightened on the stone of the window ledge, knuckles pale as bone. He was here, and yet so far away, an untouchable figure who belonged now to the realm and to war. The morning sun flared brighter, glinting off his silver hair like a crown of light. Her heart swelled and broke all at once.

Flanking him were two white cloaks, and Rhaella knew who they were without needing to see their faces. Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne, both of them had fought at Rhaegar’s side through the majority of the rebellion. The thought of them standing beside her son brought her a bittersweet comfort.

But then her gaze shifted to the distance, and a cold wave of dread washed over her. She saw the sigil of House Arryn—its banner fluttering in the wind—and panic gripped her heart. Knights of the Vale were arriving in force. She estimated nearly a thousand of them, each bearing the falcon of the Eyrie . Her mind raced as she tried to understand what this meant. Was this a trap? Were the knights of the Vale here to turn their cloaks once again and capture Rhaegar before he could lay claim to the throne?

Rhaella’s breath came in short, ragged gasps as the truth settled cold and unforgiving in her mind. The words struck like a hammer against glass, splintering her thoughts into jagged shards. Rhaegar had killed Robert Baratheon. Lord Arryn’s beloved ward, the boy who was as much a son to him as any born of his blood. There would be no forgiveness for this. Not from Jon Arryn, nor the lords of the Vale. 

It had to be an attack. Retaliation would come swift and merciless.

Heart pounding in her chest, Rhaella’s hands trembled with anxiety as she struggled to dress. She tore the silk sleeping gown from her body with ungraceful haste, the fabric slipping from her skin like water. Her fingers fumbled as she pulled on a dark velvet gown, its texture cold and unyielding against her sensitive skin. The urgency of her movements was a storm in itself, and she cinched the bodice tight, the laces biting into her ribs as if to remind her of the weight she carried.

Her cloak was next, the heavy folds falling across her shoulders with barely a thought, draped like a mantle of responsibility. In the mirror’s reflection, she saw her hands work quickly, braiding her hair with a skill born of years of practice, but the motion felt foreign today, frantic. A thin dust of powder swept across her face, her fingers steadying, for a fleeting moment, as she made sure her appearance would withstand whatever awaited her outside the door.

She could feel the eyes of the maids as they stood frozen in the corner, watching her, but there was no time for questions or reassurances. She moved quickly, ignoring the worried glances of the soldiers stationed by her door. Their eyes followed her, but none dared speak. Their fear was as palpable as her own.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Rhaella rushed from her chambers, her cloak billowing behind her like a dark shadow, the edges trailing across the stone floor. Her breath was shallow, rapid, as though the very air of the Red Keep was too thick to breathe. Her mind raced with the possibilities of what was transpiring, as her heart thudded heavily against her chest, each beat a drum of foreboding.

She stumbled into the Red Keep’s square, her hand instinctively clutching her swollen belly, a gesture of both protection and desperation. The weight of her growing child seemed heavier with each step, as if it too shared in the unease that gripped her. The square, usually a place of relative calm, was alive with noise. The sharp sound of hooves echoed off the stone, men hurrying to mount their horses, shouting orders, the air thick with the urgency of soldiers preparing for battle.

"Lord Tywin," Rhaella gasped, her voice shaky, each word carrying the weight of the fear that gripped her. A cold sweat beaded on her forehead as she struggled to steady herself, her hands pressing instinctively to her side, the nerves taut beneath her skin.

Tywin turned slowly to face her, his sharp, steely gaze cutting through her with the precision of a blade. For a brief moment, she caught the flash of irritation in his eyes, a silent rebuke as if her presence were a nuisance. His jaw tightened, and he muttered, "You’ve seen them too," his voice low and clipped, carrying the weight of unspoken truths that pressed like a vice around them.

She watched, silent and still, as his hand gripped the chestplate with such force that his knuckles turned white, the raw power in his posture sending a tremor through her. "Curse that Jon Arryn," he spat, his tone venomous, the words sharp as a dagger. His brow furrowed, a stormcloud gathering across his face as his eyes narrowed, his mind clearly turning to darker thoughts. "What game is he playing now?"

Rhaella’s heart plunged into her stomach, the weight of the situation settling like a stone in her chest. She nodded, though the fear gnawed at her insides. "I spotted at least a thousand Vale riders outside the gates of King’s Landing. They were riding hard, as if they mean to reach us in the coming hours." Her voice faltered, and she shook her head, unable to fully grasp the enormity of what she had seen. "How did Rhaegar’s scouts miss such a force?" The question hung in the air, unanswered, as the dread within her grew, thickening like the heavy, stifling air before a storm.

Tywin mounted his war steed with the grace of a predator, his red cloak flaring out behind him like the bloodstained banner of a fallen king. His gaze, cold and unyielding, locked onto Rhaella as he settled in the saddle. "I do not know what game Jon Arryn is playing, Your Grace," he said, his voice calm, but the fire that burned in his eyes betrayed the fury simmering just beneath the surface. "But if he thinks that a mere thousand knights from the Vale can breach the Red Keep, he is gravely mistaken. Twenty thousand Lannisters and the legions of Targaryen men are not so easily undone. The Red Keep will not fall to the whims of a fool."

The words rang with deadly certainty, and Rhaella could see the dark promise in them. Tywin’s hand tightened around the reins, his posture straightening as he prepared to ride. "I’ll put an end to his folly," he declared, his voice as sharp as Valyrian steel.

With a sharp flick of the reins, Tywin spurred his horse into motion, his voice rising in commanding shouts that echoed through the square. His men sprang to action, scrambling to prepare for the coming skirmish.

Behind him, the Mountain loomed like a shadow, his hulking figure a terrifying presence. His eyes shined with bloodlust, his sword already drawn and eager for the chaos to come. His massive form followed closely in Tywin’s wake, the anticipation of carnage hung in the air like the silence before the clash of steel, heavy and charged with impending violence.

Rhaella watched them go, a chill crawling down her spine. Tywin was right—no matter how formidable the knights of the Vale were, it was madness to believe such a small force could sack King’s Landing. And yet, something gnawed at her, an unease that Tywin’s confidence could not quell. Something was amiss.

By the time Tywin’s five thousand men rode out of the Red Keep, another ten thousand were already patrolling the streets of King’s Landing. Only a few thousand Lannister soldiers remained to guard the Red Keep, and a hundred or so Gold Cloaks were left to hold the castle walls. The air grew thick with tension, as if the storm had already begun to gather on the horizon.

They stood in tense anticipation, waiting for the first horns of battle to echo through the warm morning air, but they never came. No cries of war, no clash of steel rang out across the city. After some time, the soldiers surrounding Rhaella exchanged uneasy glances, their confusion growing with each passing moment.

The silence stretched on, heavy with anticipation, before a distant horn blew—a deep, mournful sound that echoed through the stillness of the morning. The gates of the Red Keep creaked open, and the Lannisters began to return. They rode in, not bloodied as Rhaella had feared, but grim-faced and weary. Behind them, Rhaegar’s forces followed, the Targaryen banners flying high, the fiery three-headed dragon on a black field, a reminder of the ancient house now rising once more.

Rhaegar rode at the head of his men, the Targaryen forces a blend of seasoned soldiers and Crownlands men, their banners flying proudly with the sigil of their house. His face was grim, solemn, the weight of the march pressing down upon him like the storm clouds gathering overhead. Behind him, his King’s Guard followed, their eyes vigilant, but dull with exhaustion. They were soldiers, seasoned and loyal, but even their gaze seemed to reflect the heavy toll of the long road ahead.

Beside him, a lord of the Vale rode with the unmistakable banner of House Arryn—its falcon proud and unyielding, fluttering alongside the dragon and the lion. The sight was enough to make Rhaella’s heart stutter in her chest. The lion, the dragon, and the falcon… they flew as one.

Had Jon Arryn committed his men to Rhaegar’s cause? But why? Jon Arryn had fought with as much resolve as the Starks or the Baratheons in the war. His loyalty had always been to Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark—so why now, after all this time, was he riding alongside the very men who had once killed his men on the battlefield?

Rhaegar’s mount came to a halt in front of Rhaella, and she froze in place. For a long moment, it was as though time itself had stilled, the world holding its breath as dowager queen and king stood on opposite sides of a chasm neither could bridge. His pale, gaunt face, the eyes once bright with youthful fire now dull and sunken, met hers. The years had carved lines into him, and his body, once lithe and slender, was now taut with muscle, hardened by the unforgiving toll of war. He was no longer the young man she had sent off to battle, the crown prince filled with dreams of prophecy. He was a king now—a king who had borne the weight of the realm's bloodshed and who carried that weight in the hollows of his eyes.

Rhaella’s breath caught in her chest as she took him in. This was not the son she had known, the son she had held as a child. The man before her was a stranger—a king forged in fire and sorrow.

He dismounted with a stiffness that betrayed the cost of war, his body no longer fluid in its movements. He limped slightly, though Rhaella chose not to acknowledge it, her eyes fixed on him as if by sheer will she could restore the son she had lost. He closed the distance between them, and for a long moment, neither spoke. Rhaella felt a cold weight settle in her chest, her heart torn between the desperate wish to rush into his arms and the chilling fear that the man before her was no longer the young prince she had seen off to war. 

“Mother,” Rhaegar’s voice broke the silence, soft yet carrying the unmistakable authority of a king. It was the voice of a man forged by suffering, tempered by the crown he now wore. "It has been... too long."

Rhaella nodded, the ache in her chest growing as she slowly bent to one knee before him. Her lips trembled as the words fought their way out. “You’ve changed, my son,” she whispered, her voice heavy with the unspoken grief of years lost.

Rhaegar stiffened at the sight of her kneeling, his discomfort evident. He reached out, his hand gentle but firm as he urged her to rise. "So have you, Mother," he said, his gaze flickering to the crown upon her head, an uncomfortable reminder of the roles they both now wore—roles they had never sought, yet were bound to nonetheless. Neither of them was what they had once been.

Rhaella hesitated, then slowly straightened, her eyes searching his face for any trace of the child she had once held in her arms. But there was little left of that boy—only the cold, distant king who stood before her now.

Rhaella hesitated, then slowly took a step toward him, her voice faltering. "I never wanted this for you, Rhaegar. I never wanted you to have to take your father’s throne, or go to war."

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened, his face darkening. "Neither did I," he murmured, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon, as though seeking some shred of peace that might ease the storm within him. But it was not there. Not now, not ever.

She reached out, her trembling hands resting lightly on his arm. "You are still my son," she whispered, but the words felt hollow, as though the bond they once shared had been worn thin by time and suffering.

For a brief moment, Rhaegar’s gaze softened, a flicker of the boy she had raised shining through the king he had become. But it was fleeting, quickly swallowed by the weight of the crown that now defined him. "I know, Mother," he said quietly, his voice almost distant. "But I am no longer the man you remember."

And in that instant, Rhaella understood—her son was beyond her reach, carried away by the very throne he had inherited and by the war that had shaped him into something else. The mother she had once been, the queen she had tried to be, could never bring him back.

She stopped their conversation there, inclining her head slightly, her gaze flicking to the gathering crowd of lords and soldiers who had dismounted to observe. The weight of their attention pressed down on her, and she knew she could not afford to let Rhaegar appear vulnerable in front of them. Not now, not when his kingship was still young, and his power still fragile in their eyes.

"We welcome you home, my king," Rhaella said, her voice ringing out clear and regal, meant for all to hear. Her head remained bowed, embodying the queen she was with quiet, commanding grace. She could feel Rhaegar’s weary gaze upon her, but he said nothing, his silence speaking volumes as he understood exactly what she sought to convey.

It did not take long for the entire castle grounds to fall to one knee, the air thick with the weight of the moment. Lords, knights, and soldiers alike bent in reverence to the new king of Westeros, their loyalty now sworn to the man who had returned victorious from the war, bearing the heavy crown that was rightfully his. The ground seemed to tremble with the force of their submission, a new reign forged in blood and fire.

“Rise, lords, ladies, knights, soldiers, and all who live in the realm,” Rhaegar’s voice rang out, strong and clear. We begin a new realm today,” Rhaegar proclaimed, his voice steady and unwavering. “I will rebuild the bridges my father burned. In this realm, all will prosper—both the prosperous and the penniless, alike.” His words were met with a rousing cheer from the men.

Rhaegar’s gaze shifted toward Jon Connington, who stood nearby, his posture proud and unwavering. Rhaella couldn’t help but roll her eyes inwardly. Though she respected Lord Connington’s unwavering loyalty to her son, she had little patience for his impulsive nature. I must find a way to deter Rhaegar from naming Connington Hand of the King, she decided, her mind already working through the delicate task of steering her son away from such a choice.

“Come, Connington,” Rhaegar commanded, his tone both decisive and calm. “See that the men are settled throughout King’s Landing. Ensure they are fed and bathed.” The ever-loyal lord bowed his head deeply, pride gleaming in his eyes as he met the king’s gaze, then turned, mounted his horse with practiced ease, and motioned for the men to follow. The soldiers obeyed without hesitation, forming ranks as they began to move out of the Red Keep. The sound of hooves echoed across the courtyard as Connington led them through the gates, his figure resolute against the backdrop of the bustling city. The gathering Arryns, who were slowly filtering into the Red Keep, however, remained where they stood, their tired eyes lingering on the exchange, their expressions unreadable.

“Mother, call a small council meeting with all the lords present. We have much to discuss,” Rhaegar whispered, his voice soft but firm. “But before that, I would have you join me in my chambers to discuss more delicate matters.” His words lingered in the air, carrying with them the weight of responsibility and the unspoken tension between them.

Rhaella nodded dutifully, then turned to make the necessary arrangements. Rhaegar, in the meantime, had already begun speaking with Lord Tywin, the two of them deep in conversation, their words masked by the noise of the gathering. The watching men and lords subtly shifted, their movements measured, as they pretended to be absorbed in their tasks. Rhaella felt the weight of their gaze upon her, knowing full well the scrutiny that followed her every step.

Rhaella moved swiftly through the Red Keep, her mind already burdened with the weight of what was to come. She issued her orders with practiced precision, instructing the maids and servants to prepare the small council chambers for the gathering of dozens of lords, their presence now essential for the stability of the realm. Extra oak chairs were needed—more than usual, to accommodate those who had arrived. She reminded them to notify every lord currently within the Keep, to ensure they were assembled by afternoon. The servants nodded in unison, their movements swift as they scurried off to carry out their tasks.

With that duty settled, Rhaella’s steps took on a heavier cadence as she made her way toward the king’s chambers. The halls stretched before her like an endless labyrinth, her thoughts scattered and weighed down by a thousand concerns. She could feel the cold stone beneath her feet, the chill of the Keep creeping into her bones as she walked in silence, her breath barely audible in the stillness of the corridors.

Her mind wandered as she approached the door, and with little more than a thought, she swung it open, stepping inside without hesitation.

As her foot crossed the threshold, a sharp pang of discomfort shot through Rhaella’s chest, seizing her breath in a tight grip. The room, with its cold stone walls and dark, oppressive air, seemed to close in around her, dragging her back into memories she had fought so hard to bury. In an instant, the past surged forward—Aerys’ cruel words, his temper, the torment he had inflicted upon her, the way the very walls of the chamber seemed to echo with his malice.

The sight of it—the heavy tapestries, the furniture, the bed—was too much, too familiar. The room was unchanged, a haunting mirror of the past, suffocating her with its grim recollections. She had forgotten, in her haste, to prepare it for Rhaegar, to make it a space that would be his and his alone, one that would wipe away every trace of Aerys’ shadow.

Her breath caught, her chest tightening painfully. The bile rose in her throat, bitter and sharp, as though the very air had turned sour. Her mind screamed for escape, and without a second thought, Rhaella stumbled back, her steps frantic, her pulse pounding in her ears.

So she did what she always did—she ran. 

Her feet carried her down the cold, dimly lit corridor, her breath coming in ragged gasps, each step a frantic escape from the suffocating grip of her memories. Her hand shook as she slammed the heavy oak door behind her, the sound of it echoing through the silence like a final, desperate plea. She stood there, in the heart of the Red Keep, but it felt as though the walls themselves were closing in around her. The stone floor beneath her feet was cold, yet she felt the heat of panic rise in her chest, tightening around her lungs as if the air itself had turned to lead.

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision, the ache of her past threatening to overwhelm her. The weight of everything—Aerys, the years of pain, the fear—pressed down on her with a ferocity she could not outrun. The agony of it all seemed to choke her, squeezing the life out of her with each unsteady breath.

And then, through the fog of her disorientation, she heard his voice.

“Mother!” Rhaegar’s voice broke through the haze, sharp and urgent, louder than she had ever heard it before. She turned, her vision still blurred, and there he was—Rhaegar, his silver hair gleaming like a beacon, flanked by two soldiers who hesitated at the edge of the corridor, unsure of their place.

Rhaegar’s eyes swept over her with an intensity that made her heart lurch. Panic flashed across his features as he saw the state she was in. His steps faltered, and for a moment, his hands hovered in the air, uncertain whether to draw her close or step back. The raw concern in his gaze sent another tremor through her, the vulnerability in him striking a chord she couldn’t ignore.

“What’s happening? Are you ill? Is it the child?” His voice was filled with fear, desperation in every syllable.

Her fingers clutched at her throat, her skin cold and clammy as she fought for air, but the breath refused to come. Panic surged within her, a desperate, suffocating tide that seemed to close around her throat, strangling her voice. She could not speak, could not make the words escape, only shake her head in helpless frustration. The memories swarmed her mind, relentless and sharp, and the flood of them consumed her every thought.

Rhaella held up a trembling hand, a gesture of reassurance, but it was weak, too weak to comfort him. Her voice was trapped, stifled by the crushing weight of her past, and the tightness in her chest only deepened. The hall spun around her, the walls pressing in with the suffocating presence of all she had endured.

Rhaegar’s brow furrowed with deep concern as he stepped closer. His sharp eyes searched her face, catching the tremors in her hands, the way she fought to keep her breath steady. Without a second thought, he dismissed the guards with a brisk motion, his voice low but commanding. The soldiers hesitated only for a moment before stepping back, their uncertain gazes flicking between mother and son.

He gently helped her to her feet, his hand steady as he guided her toward the king’s chamber, but Rhaella’s body recoiled. A sickening twist of dread curled in her stomach at the sight of the familiar door. She shook her head, the nausea rising, her breath quickening as she fought to steady herself. The room—the very walls, the furniture—felt tainted, soaked in memories she could never rid herself of. It was Aerys’ kingdom, his tyranny, and she could feel his presence in every corner.

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he saw the struggle in her face. He didn’t need words to understand. The truth of the room, the horrors that had been borne here—he knew it all too well. The weight of the past, the ghosts of his father’s cruelty, seemed to hang heavy in the air. His gaze flashed, not with anger toward her, but with disgust at what had been done to her within these walls, at the suffering she had endured. The silent screams that clung to the very stones of the chamber were not lost on him.

Without hesitation, he took her hand, his fingers wrapping around hers with quiet strength, and led her away. The echo of their footsteps reverberated through the hall, the sound ringing in the silence, but neither of them looked back at the cursed room they had just left behind.

Rhaegar said nothing for a moment, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with quiet determination as he guided her further down the hall. “Come, Mother,” he said, his grip firm yet tender, the warmth of his touch a balm against the cold chill of the past. “There are other rooms, other places where you can ease.”

And with that, he guided her away from the shadows of the past, as if walking toward the future, one step at a time.

“Have the king’s chamber stripped to its core and redone,” Rhaegar commanded sharply as they reached the base of the stairs. His voice brooked no argument, his anger barely contained. “Clean every surface, remove everything. I want no trace of Aerys’ presence left in that room. Not a single sign.”

The servants froze at the sudden outburst, their eyes wide with shock, unsure whether to speak or remain silent in the face of such authority. They glanced at one another, the weight of his command sinking in, and then, almost instinctively, they bowed deeply.

“Yes, my king,” they murmured in unison, their voices hushed and trembling, the tension thick in the air. The respect—and fear—was palpable as they hurried to obey. Without another word, they scattered, moving with swift urgency, eager to carry out Rhaegar's orders. Their footsteps echoed in the hall as they disappeared, the silence that followed a stark contrast to the storm of anger that had just passed through the corridors.

Once inside an unfamiliar chamber, Rhaella was gently guided to the bed, her legs unsteady beneath her, still trembling from the aftershocks of the moment. She sat, trying to steady her breath, her hands resting in her lap as she fought to regain control. The room was quiet, its unfamiliarity adding to the disorientation that lingered like a fog in her mind.

The guards, who had followed them closely, hesitated at the threshold, their presence no longer needed. With a sharp, commanding glance, Rhaegar dismissed them, and they withdrew without a word. The door closed behind them with a soft but firm click, the finality of it echoing in the silence of the room.

Rhaegar stood for a moment, his eyes never leaving her as he leaned against the door. His expression, once stern and unyielding, now softened with the weight of his concern. He was careful in his movements, his usual strength tempered by a gentleness that only seemed to grow as he watched her, as though any wrong move might shatter the fragile stillness between them.

As Rhaella took a few deep breaths, her throat began to loosen, the tightness easing as the ghost of Aerys’ hands around her neck—pressing her into submission—began to dissipate. Her eyes slowly focused once again, and she noticed Rhaegar pacing the room, his face contorted with fury. His hands were rubbing his forehead in frustration, and he muttered curses under his breath, directed at his late father.

Rhaegar’s voice faltered, raw and laced with a bitter anguish that shook him to his core. “How could I have let this madness continue for so long?”  the words hung heavy in the air, the weight of years of silence crushing him. “I should have killed him when I knew he forced himself on you, Mother.” His voice was rising with each word, and the anger was nearly spilling over.

The anger, long suppressed, began to boil beneath the surface, his voice rising with the fury of unspoken years. “I should’ve been the one to end it, Mother. I should’ve been the one to kill him, not some nameless pyromancer, not some coward who hid behind a stranger’s hands. It should have been me—my hands around his throat, not anyone else’s.”

His chest heaved, and the guilt, thick and suffocating, crept into his words, twisting them. “I am a failure. Unworthy of this crown, unworthy of the name Targaryen. I couldn’t even protect you from him… my own mother. And now, I carry the weight of that cowardice, of a thousand missed opportunities, on my soul.” His eyes, usually so fierce, were clouded with regret and pain as he fell silent, his hands shaking at his sides.

“Rhaegar, stop!” Rhaella’s voice cut through the air, sharp and sudden, louder than she had intended, but it had the desired effect. His pacing faltered, his steps halting as if the words themselves had struck him like a blow. He turned toward her, and in that instant, his eyes were a mirror to the turmoil that raged within him—a mixture of shame, sorrow, and an unbearable guilt that seemed to crush the very life from him. The fire that had once blazed in his gaze dimmed, replaced by a quiet despair that was even more painful to witness.

“I am relieved you did not have to bear the name of kinslayer, Rhaegar,” Rhaella said, her voice quiet but firm, the weight of her words carrying more than just consolation. Her hand rested gently on his arm, a simple touch that spoke of years of pain and understanding. “No sin is more unforgivable in the eyes of the Seven.”

Rhaegar opened his mouth to respond, but she silenced him with a gentle gesture. “I am fine, son,” she continued, her voice growing steadier, more composed. “Memories... that’s all they are now. Memories.”

She paused, her gaze lingering on him, a storm of pride and sorrow in her eyes, as if she could see both the man he had become and the boy he still was. “You are king now,” she said, her voice low, but carrying the weight of both command and motherly care. “You must reign with a steady hand. Your heart is yours to bear, but the realm… the realm requires your mind, your resolve. You must keep your emotions in check, for it is your duty.”

Rhaegar nodded slowly, his face drawn with the weight of his emotions, as if each passing moment added more to the burden he already carried. He sank heavily into a chair beside her, his hands rising to press against his face, fingers digging into his skin as if trying to steady himself. His shoulders slumped beneath the weight of it all—of the choices, the losses, the crown that he had never truly wanted but could not cast aside. The silence between them was thick with the unspoken, the air heavy with everything they had both endured.

After a long, taut silence, Rhaella’s voice finally broke through, calm but carrying an undercurrent of quiet urgency. “Tell me, Rhaegar," she said softly, her gaze steady but laced with concern. "What has happened these past moons? You have been gone, and I—” Her words faltered for a moment, but she regained her composure, her heart thudding in her chest as she braced herself. “I need to understand. You owe me that much.”

Rhaegar winced at the weight of her words, his eyes hardening as the memory surged back, unbidden. He began recounting the events at the Trident, his voice trembling with the weight of it all. "The battle... we were losing, badly. It seemed like everything was slipping away. I... I had no choice but to seek out Robert Baratheon and end this rebellion. But our duel, it was going badly for me. I had the speed, grace, and skill to beat him, but his raw strength was too much." He paused, his eyes clouded with the memory, and for a moment, his voice dropped to a near whisper. "For a moment, I thought I was dead."

But then Rhaegar revealed the truth: it was not he who had killed Robert, but Arthur Dayne. His voice softened, the weight of the revelation heavy on his tongue. "It was Arthur. He struck Robert down, his sword finding the back of Robert’s head. It was over in an instant."

Rhaella listened in silence, her face an unyielding mask of stone, but inside, her heart twisted in knots. Every word Rhaegar spoke, every detail he recounted, sent a ripple of fear through her. She realized, with a chill that gripped her chest, just how close she had come to losing her firstborn son—and with him, the Targaryen lineage.

Rhaegar spoke of Arthur Dayne’s actions as though they were an act of cowardice, but Rhaella did not see it that way. To her, it was not cowardice, but survival. Arthur Dayne had done what was necessary to ensure the prince lived, to preserve the bloodline and, in turn, the future of their family. It was not an act of shame—it was the only choice in that moment.

Rhaegar continued, his voice heavy with shame as he recounted the next part of the tale. “I desecrated Robert’s corpse,” he confessed, his eyes downcast. “Took his head... paraded it before the rebel forces. I thought it would break their spirit. I thought it would turn the tide.” He paused, his fingers trembling as the gravity of his actions seemed to settle in. “And it worked. The rebellion faltered. The battle turned.”

There was a long silence before he spoke again, his voice quieter, more weary. “Eventually, I negotiated a peace treaty with Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully. The war was over... but at such a cost.”

He fell silent again, his gaze unfocused as his mind seemed to wander back to that grim moment. Rhaella watched him closely, sensing there was something he wasn’t saying—something about Eddard Stark, the man who had played a pivotal role in the rebellion, yet was never mentioned. She knew Rhaegar well enough to know that the omission was intentional, a lingering wound that he wasn’t ready to confront.

Rhaella didn’t press him. Instead, she gave him the space to speak his truth, understanding the weight that rested on his shoulders, and the scars that only he truly carried.

“Lyanna Stark is here,” Rhaegar said bluntly, averting his eyes as if the words were harder to bear than the silence between them.

Rhaella’s heart beat heavy in her chest, and her breath caught in her throat as Rhaegar spoke. Lyanna Stark is here. The words hit her like an icy gust of wind, and her mind raced, scrambling to find sense in what Rhaegar was saying. Was Lyanna Stark carrying his child, the result of a single night—one born not of strategy, but of raw desire, a reckless act in the Riverlands while the realm teetered on the edge of ruin? Or was it something darker still? Had Rhaegar… had he taken her? Kidnapped her, to answer for the North’s defiance? 

No, Rhaegar couldn’t have...

She imagined the worst—Rhaegar, her son, falling into the same madness that had once gripped his father. The thought was a shadow that seemed to stretch endlessly, darkening everything in its wake. But even as it took root in her mind, she knew it didn’t fit. This was not the Rhaegar she had raised. Not the boy she had held in her arms, filled with such hope for the future.

Her voice broke through the heavy silence, trembling like a fragile thing caught in a storm. “Eddard Stark will be furious.” She swallowed hard, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “You have his sister in the capital.”

The weight of her own words hung between them, a stark reminder of the precarious position they found themselves in. Rhaella’s thoughts swirled, her fear clawing at her. A mistake now, a single misstep, and the peace could unravel, dragging them all into the abyss.

Rhaegar’s gaze fell, his eyes avoiding hers as he spoke, his tone almost apologetic, as though the words themselves weighed heavy on him. “I did not have a choice, Mother. She left me no choice. It was part of the agreement, part of the peace.”

The words made her stomach lurch, a sickening coil of dread twisting within her. Peace agreement? Her mind seized on the term, yet it only deepened the pit in her gut. What had Rhaegar and Jon Arryn agreed to in the Riverlands? What had been decided there that now placed Lyanna Stark in the heart of King’s Landing?

“What did you do?” Rhaella’s voice cracked, a sharp edge of fear cutting through her words. The control she had always clung to slipped away, and she felt herself unraveling in front of him, unable to stem the tide of panic that surged within her.

Rhaegar’s shoulders tensed. He exhaled slowly, his fingers threading through his ear-length silver hair in a nervous, almost helpless gesture. “I will honor my betrothal, Mother. I am to marry Lyanna Stark. The union will take place in the coming moons.”

The words struck her like a slap, cold and unforgiving. Marriage? Rhaella’s mind reeled, struggling to grasp even the edges of understanding. The last time she had seen Lyanna Stark at the Tourney at Harrenhal, the girl had been no more than ten and five—beautiful, yes, but not yet a woman. A girl caught in the wake of the rebellion, a casualty of the war between her family and the Targaryens.

Now, Rhaegar wished to honor a betrothal the Mad King had made in his delusions. Was this some twisted jeer at the Starks, claiming Lyanna as a war prize, a trophy of conquest? Or—worse yet—were Rhaella’s suspicions true? Was Lyanna Stark carrying his child?

Rhaella’s stomach churned. Twyin Lannister would be furious. He had marched to war for two things: the promise of Cersei’s marriage to Rhaegar and the release of Jaime from his vows to the King’s Guard. If their marriage were not to happen, all of that would be lost—his pride, his schemes, and perhaps his patience. Rhaella wouldn’t be surprised if Tywin himself set fire to the city when he heard the news.

She had to act hastily, had to find a way to stay ahead of the storm before it tore everything apart.

The questions burned in Rhaella’s mind, but her throat tightened, choking on the words she could scarcely bring herself to ask. “Why?” Her voice was soft, hesitant, as if afraid to hear the answer.

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on him, his shoulders tense. "The North," he began, his gaze distant, "would never accept our rule. Not without Lyanna Stark. House Stark may bend the knee for the moment, but the North remembers, Mother. They’ll never forget the wrongs we’ve done to them. Even if they submit for now, the seeds of rebellion have been planted.” 

He shook his head, frustration flickering in his eyes. "The North has no reason to bend the knee. They have everything they need to stand on their own, to declare their independence, and they could do it easily enough. They might even drag the Riverlands with them. Jon Arryn might not follow, but the chaos that would follow... it would be unlike anything we’ve seen."

His gaze turned sharper, more focused. "And who can say how Dorne or the Iron Islands would react? One call for independence, and the whole realm could unravel." He paused, his voice heavy with the weight of his thoughts. "We cannot risk that, not now. Not with everything at stake."

Rhaella listened in silence, her heart sinking with each word Rhaegar spoke. His logic, though maddening, was undeniable. The stability of the realm hung in the balance, and a united North and the South might be the only way to preserve peace. But the cost— the cost —was something Rhaella could not yet accept.

“Lyanna allows me to unite the North and the South once and for all,” Rhaegar continued, his voice steady but tinged with the weight of what was to come. “Our children may not sit the Iron Throne, but they will bind the realm together—North and South, East and West. They will be the thread that ties it all.”

For a brief moment, a bitter amusement flickered in his gaze, a dark shadow crossing his features. His lips twisted into a smile, but it was a smile that held no warmth, no comfort. "I suppose," he murmured, "I’ll get my prophecy of Ice and Fire after all." 

Rhaella sat in stunned silence, her mind trying to piece together what her son was saying. Unite the realm. It was a noble cause, she knew, but would it even work? Was Lyanna Stark truly a willing participant in this arrangement? And even if she was, would she ever accept Rhaegar as her husband? Would she ever accept the Targaryen crown?

Rhaella doubted as much. Lyanna likely hated the Targaryens as much as Eddard Stark did—and with good reason. Rhaegar would never win her affection. Rhaella knew that, and the thought of it chilled her. The marriage would be for naught, a mirage in the desert of politics.

“It will be a loveless marriage, Rhaegar,” she said quietly, the words heavy with despair. “She will hate you with every passing minute. You will likely never fill her belly with a babe.”

Rhaegar met her gaze, a sad smile tugging at his lips, though it was hollow. “I am the king, Mother,” he said softly, but with a firmness that betrayed the weight of his decision. “I cannot marry for love. I must marry for duty. As for children… we will get there when we get there. But I will not force myself on her.” His voice hardened as he added, “I will not become my father.”

The words stung, but Rhaella knew it was true. Rhaegar would sacrifice his own peace for the sake of the realm’s peace, just as Aegon the conqueror had once done before him.

"Did Eddard Stark even agree to this?" Rhaella’s voice trembled, the disbelief clear in her tone as if she could scarcely believe what she was hearing.

Rhaegar’s gaze remained unyielding, though his jaw tightened as though holding back the weight of unspoken truths. "Though Lord Stark was not present at the signing of the peace accord, Jon Arryn gave his word. He assured me that Ned would honor it, that he would not stand against the betrothal." His words hung in the air, heavy with the knowledge of fragile alliances and the precarious nature of their plans.

Rhaella’s heart tightened at her son’s words, a knot of unease settling deep within her. She knew better than to underestimate the Starks. No family could simply forget the slaughter of their kin, no matter how many battles were lost or won.

Rhaegar’s voice, though steady, seemed to carry the weight of his own uncertainty. “Eddard Stark is an honorable man, and a warrior, no doubt,” he said, his gaze distant as if weighing the potential threat in the North. “But he is no commander of armies. Robert Baratheon, that was the true force behind the rebellion. I cannot see the North rising again, not even with the Riverlands firmly on their side.”

Rhaegar turned to his mother, his expression heavy with unspoken words. His gaze, darker than before, flickered with a mix of dread and resolve. "There is more to Lyanna Stark," he said, his voice strained as though each word cost him. He paused, as if struggling to find the right moment to reveal the truth, before muttering a curse under his breath. "We defeated her forces at Sow's Horn. She was attempting to sack the castle."

Rhaella blinked, the absurdity of it hitting her like a blow. For a moment, she wanted to laugh, convinced this had to be some jest. But Rhaegar’s face was grim, his expression betraying no mirth.

“What?” she stammered, the words barely a whisper. “Sacking a castle—you don’t mean...?”

Rhaegar nodded, and Rhaella’s suspicion solidified into cold, unyielding truth. A chill washed over her, sinking deep into her bones. She felt a dark, bitter laugh threatening to escape her throat, but she swallowed it down.

Lyanna Stark. The warrior who had razed much of the Crownlands in defiance. The Lady Ravenclaw , they called her—a name earned in blood and steel. And now, Rhaegar meant to wed her. A savage warlord forged in the chaos of conquest, not a queen bred for courts and crowns.

"By the gods," Rhaella whispered, her voice trembling, a mixture of awe and concern threading through the words. Her gaze fixed on him, her heart a tumult of emotions. "And now? What comes of this?"

Rhaegar's silence hung heavy in the air, but it was enough to send a chill down her spine.

Her hand moved instinctively to his, her fingers trembling as she grasped him. "Rhaegar, you cannot marry her," she whispered, a quiet desperation in her voice. "Please, heed me. Think of the consequences, of the bloodshed this will bring."

Her legs buckled beneath her, and she crumpled to her knees, clutching at his with a grip that bordered on frantic. Desperation bled into her every movement, her heart thudding in her chest like a war drum. "This will destroy us," she whispered, her voice thick with fear, the weight of the words pressing down on her like stone. She leaned forward, her forehead touching his knee, her hands trembling against the fabric of his cloak. "It will destroy you, Rhaegar."

“She will slit your throat in the dead of night. Has she harmed you!?” Rhaella all but shouted, her voice sharp with fear, rising above the suffocating tension. Her eyes scanned Rhaegar’s face—pale, drawn, haunted—and then dropped to his hand, resting on his thigh, fingers digging into the flesh as if to quiet a pain that refused to fade.

A cold dread curled in her stomach, spreading through her veins like ice, as the pieces began to fall into place. Each one fitting together far too easily, the dreadful truth rising like a shadow in her mind.

"It all makes sense now," she whispered, her voice trembling, the words bitter as they left her lips. Horror twisted her features, her heart beating wildly in her chest. "What happened, Rhaegar?"

Rhaegar flinched, his gaze dropping to the cold stone floor as though the weight of his own words had grown too heavy to bear. He paused, his chest rising with a shuddering breath before he spoke again, the confession slow, each syllable dragging behind it like a stone in the dark.

“Lyanna and I dueled in the castle,” he began, his voice tight, barely more than a whisper. “I held back, of course,” he added, a fleeting attempt at justification, but it sounded hollow in the stillness. “But I lost control... I think I ruined her wrist,” he admitted, his voice faltering, each word more difficult than the last. 

He swallowed hard, the tremor in his words betraying him. “Though she did more damage than I anticipated,” he continued, his voice quieter, tinged with a grim acceptance. “She cut deep into my thigh... and drove a shard of glass into my exposed belly.”

Rhaella’s breath hitched, her chest tightening as if the air itself had been stolen from her. Her hand gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white with the force of her trembling.

"I was unconscious for days," Rhaegar continued, his voice hollow, distant as though the very memory pained him. "Barely hanging on..." He winced, the flicker of shame in his violet eyes unmistakable as he glanced away.

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of what he had just said, and Rhaella’s heart sank, her thoughts swirling in a fog of disbelief and fear.

“Rhaegar, you mustn’t wed her!” she cried, her voice fracturing under the weight of panic. She surged to her feet, hands trembling as they reached toward him, beseeching. “She is dangerous! Can’t you see? She has already shown you the depths of her cruelty, how much pain she can inflict!” Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush, a jagged edge of fear splintering her carefully held composure. The firelight danced across her stricken face, casting her dread into stark relief.

If Lyanna Stark had managed to injure Rhaegar—a warrior trained from boyhood—she was no mere maid. She was a threat. Rhaella could not allow such a dangerous woman to run wild in the Red Keep, not with Viserys and her unborn child at her mercy.

“She will not harm anyone, Mother,” Rhaegar replied with forced conviction, his voice firm, though the words felt hollow as they left his lips. His violet eyes, however, betrayed him—betrayed the doubt he could not quite suppress. “She will come around... at least in not trying to kill me.”

The silence stretched between them, long and brittle, like a taut bowstring pulled to its breaking point.

Rhaella’s gaze hardened, and she took a step forward, her voice softer but no less urgent. “If not for your own safety, Rhaegar,” she began, her words edged with a quiet desperation, “then for the realm’s. The lords of the Crownlands will never accept Lyanna Stark as queen. They will see her as a threat, a Northern savage... a harbinger of chaos. Please, reconsider.” Rhaella’s voice softened, but the plea in it was unmistakable.

“They are the Crownlands, Mother,” Rhaegar said, his voice cold and unyielding, as though he were discussing strategy on a battlefield, not the lives of men and women. “They are my vassals, and they will bend the knee to their king. I have six other kingdoms to consider—above all, the North. The Crownlands will follow House Targaryen, as they always have.”

He paused, his gaze turning steely, his eyes dark with resolve. “I’ve sworn the lords and their men to secrecy. Though I expect the truth of Lady Ravenclaw’s identity will leak in time, it will matter little once the marriage is sealed. By then, it will be done."

Rhaella scoffed, a bitter sound escaping her lips. Did Rhaegar truly think he could tame a warrior-woman? The very idea was laughable, a child’s fantasy dressed in royal finery.

Rhaegar’s eyes flicked toward her, but if he sensed her disbelief, he gave no sign.

Rhaegar sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion and something else—resignation, perhaps. Rising to his feet, he gently brushed Rhaella’s hand aside and moved to the table near the hearth, lowering himself into the chair with a grace that belied the tension in his frame.

“I have missed you, Mother,” he said quietly, his voice edged with a weariness that seemed to have settled deep within him. There was no warmth in the words, only the faint echo of a sentiment lost in the weight of his troubles. “But I did not come to speak of the Starks.”

“The men... especially Lord Hogg... were livid when word spread of your dealings with Tywin Lannister,” Rhaegar continued, his voice tightening with the weight of his words. “Hogg called you a traitor, openly and without fear.” His jaw clenched, a faint tremor of frustration passing through him. “Connington shut him down swiftly, but the damage is done. The men heard his words, and I fear they carry more weight than they should. There are whispers, Mother. Whispers that will not fade easily.”

The unspoken question hung heavily between them, as suffocating as the thick silence that filled the room. How much longer could they rely on the loyalty of their men, with the stain of Rhaella’s perceived betrayal casting its long shadow over them? 

Rhaegar’s gaze hardened, his voice cool and controlled, yet carrying an edge of sharpness. “So, Mother,” he began, his words slow and deliberate, “why did you send for Tywin Lannister’s forces to march on King’s Landing? And what, precisely, did you offer the old lion to make him finally stir from his rock?”

Rhaella clicked her teeth in irritation. She had known this moment would come, but she hadn't expected it to be so soon. She lowered her gaze to her hands, fingers twisting together as the words she dreaded leaving her mouth took shape.

"I was tasked with persuading you to release Jaime from his oath to the Kingsguard," she said, her tone measured, yet the weight of her words hung heavy in the air. "In return, Tywin would come to King’s Landing, feigning loyalty to Aerys as the war slipped further into ruin. But his true intent was to sack the city, to force Aerys from the throne. It was the only course left to us, with the tides of war turning so bitter against our favor."

Her eyes briefly flickered to Rhaegar, watching his reaction, but she held her ground, knowing full well the gamble she had taken.

Rhaegar's face twisted in disbelief, his gaze hardening as his brow furrowed deeper. He shook his head slowly, his voice low and filled with incredulity. “That’s it?” he asked, his tone thick with shock. “The promise of fifty thousand Lannister men for Jaime Lannister?” He paused, eyes narrowing as if trying to unravel her words. 

Rhaella took a steadying breath, already knowing the storm her words would stir. She raised her chin, though the cold fear creeping into her chest threatened to undo her composure. “I offered your hand in marriage to Cersei Lannister,” she said, her voice steady but laced with a heavy finality, as though she had just condemned them both.

Rhaegar's face went pale, his expression stupefied as if the very air had been sucked from the room. His eyes widened in disbelief, and the words tore from him like a storm. “What?!” His voice cracked the silence, sharp as steel, and it echoed through the chamber, carrying the weight of his fury.

Rhaella flinched, shrinking back as though the force of his shout had struck her. But she held her ground, her gaze steady despite the tremor that stirred within her. She had braced for this, for the inevitable wrath, and yet the weight of it was still unbearable.

“Mother!” Rhaegar snarled, his voice dripping with disgust. “You know my thoughts on the Lannisters!”

Rhaella's gaze remained unyielding, though her voice trembled, each word burdensome with her decisions. “I had no choice, Rhaegar!” she shouted, her voice cracking through the tension between them, a desperate cry against the storm of his anger. “You were not here, fighting a losing war, losing every battle. What else could I do? Your father, he was slipping deeper into madness. I feared he would burn the Red Keep to the ground, taking hundreds with him, destroying the Targaryen line, and plunging the realm into chaos. But in the end..." She swallowed, her throat tight. "Aerys did much worse.”

Rhaegar flinched at her words, his face darkening, but he remained silent, his gaze falling to the floor.

“You did not act, Rhaegar, but I did,” Rhaella pressed, the bitterness thickening in her voice. She saw the sharp flicker of shame in his eyes, the weight of her accusation sinking into him like a stone dropped into still water.

Rhaegar’s response was low, almost a growl. “It didn’t matter, did it?” His words were heavy with regret, each syllable carrying the unbearable weight of failure. “Aerys destroyed Flea Bottom with wildfire, burned it to the ground. Ten thousand, maybe more, dead.”

Rhaella’s stomach tightened at the thought, the image of the destruction and the lives lost clawing at her insides. But she steeled herself, forcing the grief away, for the truth of it was something she could not allow herself to be consumed by—not now.

“I will not put aside Lyanna Stark for Cersei Lannister,” Rhaegar said, almost to himself, his words tinged with finality. “Though I suspect the Starks would be pleased with this… I have more pressing matters than Tywin’s ambitions.”

Rhaella's voice was steady, but there was an undeniable edge of dread. “Jaime is dead, Rhaegar. If you are to reject the marriage now, I fear what Tywin Lannister will do.”

Rhaegar’s face tightened, his shoulders stiffening as if bracing against an invisible blow. “Dead?” he repeated, the word heavy in his mouth. The air between them thickened with the weight of loss, and Rhaella could see the battle within him—a mix of grief, anger, and disbelief.

She nodded slowly, her voice soft yet firm. “No body was found, but the flames left nothing behind. I saw with my own eyes what Aerys had wrought. No one could have survived it.”

Rhaegar’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching as the words sank in. “How did it happen?” His voice was a low growl, barely controlled.

Rhaella drew in a slow, steadying breath, her gaze distant as she prepared to recount the tale. “The smallfolk speak of a golden King’s Guard, one who rode through King’s Landing, calling for the people to flee their homes. He opened the Iron Gates to let them out. It could only have been Jaime.” She paused, the words pressing on her chest. “He saved thousands, but in doing so, he sealed his own fate. His life was the price for their escape.”

Rhaegar’s face remained stoic, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of regret. His hands clenched into fists, the grief of the loss fully sinking in. He cursed, “I liked the boy—excellent fighter, would be on par with Barristan Selmy and Arthur in a few years. Dammit.”

Rhaella's voice was low, yet unwavering, as though the weight of the truth could not be ignored. “I believe Jaime killed Aerys,” she said, her eyes dark with the thought. “Aerys had frequent meetings with his pyromancers, his madness growing more erratic with each passing day. He had plans to burn King’s Landing to the ground, to destroy it all. Jaime... Jaime stopped him before the order could be given. He killed Aerys, and the two pyromancers with him, though one managed to escape. But of course, it is all speculation.” She met Rhaegar’s gaze, the shadows of doubt and truth mingling in her eyes.

Rhaegar's brow furrowed, his mind turning over the possibilities. "It never made sense for the pyromancers to kill Aerys," he murmured, as though trying to untangle a knot that wouldn't loosen.

Rhaella gave a quiet shrug, her gaze steady and unflinching. "No, it did not," she replied, her voice cool, carrying the weight of a truth neither of them could fully bear.

Rhaegar nodded slowly, his thoughts turning inward. "Do not tell anyone," she continued, her voice lower now, tinged with caution. "Tywin is already going to be furious. We don’t need another reason to provoke him." She hesitated for a moment before adding, her tone sharp yet resigned, "Though I suspect many are starting to see the truth for themselves."

“ Kingslayer ,” Rhaegar muttered, almost testing the weight of the word on his tongue, before shaking his head in frustration. “Jaime was a hero—he saved countless lives while I did nothing for years.”

After a long moment, Rhaegar shifted, the tension in his shoulders loosening as he seemed to pull himself from the abyss of self-doubt. “Gerald Hightower will return to King’s Landing in the coming days,” Rhaegar announced, his tone lighter now, though his thoughts still lingered in darker corners. A faint, almost wistful smile tugged at his lips. “He’s been guarding Aegon and Rhaenys in the Tower of Joy for over a year now.” He leaned back in his seat, the corners of his mouth twitching in something between nostalgia and sorrow. “They’re likely wild by now, larger than I could have ever imagined.”

So she was right, Rhaella thought, her gaze fixed ahead, her mind churning with old doubts and truths. Hightower had been the one to protect her grandchildren, as she had always feared—and hoped.

Rhaella's thoughts lingered on her grandchildren, her heart heavy with both pride and fear, when Rhaegar's voice cut through the silence, sharp and unsettling. He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that betrayed his usual composure. “Your apparent treason is not being taken lightly, Mother. Some are quietly calling for your head.” Before Rhaella could speak, Rhaegar raised his hand, silencing her.

“I will not allow it,” Rhaegar said firmly, his voice steady despite the tension that filled the room. “But I cannot allow you to stay in King’s Landing right now. Your presence here would only remind them of your involvement in this conspiracy. You will have you go to Dragonstone for a few moons—give birth, take care of Viserys—and perhaps in a year’s time, you can return. By then, people will have other matters to focus on, not a dowager queen.”

Rhaella took a deep breath, frustration and relief settling over her like a shroud. She had hoped for something else, but reality allowed little room for hope. “When will I be leaving, Your Grace?” she asked, her tone clipped, the formality like a barrier against her despair.

Rhaegar sighed, a curse slipping from his lips as his fingers pressed against his temples. The weight of the crown already seemed to bear down on him. “Mother, please. I do not want this.” He paused, his voice low, almost pleading. “You will leave in the coming weeks. You may return for my coronation and wedding, but after that, you must return to Dragonstone until the time is right.”

Her heart twisted, but she lifted her chin, cold dignity masking her pain. “Very well,” she said quietly, her voice edged with regal acceptance. “I will go, but know that my loyalty remains with you, Rhaegar.”

Rhaegar’s shoulders sagged, the burden of command carved deep into his frame. He stood, his movements slow and heavy, and walked to the chamber door. “Very well, Mother. Attend the small council meeting; let it be your final act as queen regent. I am thankful for the peace you restored in King’s Landing.” His eyes darkened, shadows of regret and resolve warring within them. “And thank you for devising the plan to clear the ruin and ash from Flea Bottom,” Rhaegar said, his voice low, weighted with sorrow. “It will take years to make the district habitable again… longer still to mend the broken faith of the people.”

The memory of Flea Bottom’s devastation rose in her mind — the smoke, the stillness, the charred ruins — and her stomach churned. She swallowed hard and nodded, words failing her.

Rhaegar opened the door, the creak of the oak door cutting through the quiet. Outside, soldiers fell into step beside him, their armor catching the torchlight in cold, hard gleams. An escort fit for a king, she thought, pride mixing with a cold thread of fear.

When the door closed behind him, silence descended. The fire crackled in the hearth, its flickering light casting restless shadows on the walls. Alone with her thoughts, Rhaella felt the weight of the world pressing down, relentless and cold.

Her mind was a storm of worry: temporary exile to Dragonstone, fear for Rhaegar’s safety, the fragile realm teetering on chaos, and the life she carried within her. She pushed the anxieties deep down, smoothing the fabric of her gown with steady hands. Rising to her feet, she steeled herself and donned a mask of regal composure.

Outside her chambers, Targaryen guards flanked her, silent and stern. She moved forward, her steps slow, burdened by the weight of her unborn child. Rhaella gave a silent prayer to the Mother above, thankful that lions no longer prowled at her heels.

The Red Keep was alive with movement, lively in a way she had not seen since before the Tourney at Harrenhal. Maids hurried with linens, servants carried trays of food, knights polished their steel, and lords spoke in low, urgent tones. Squires darted between them all, eyes bright with the thrill of duty.

A new day was being declared in Westeros, and here, within these walls of crimson stone, the realm was preparing to turn once more.

Rhaella did not make it far before a sizable Targaryen force came into view, their crimson cloaks rippling like banners of blood. They stood in tight formation, surrounding a young woman clad in travel-worn riding leathers. The chestplate she wore bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, a sigil that looked both out of place and disturbingly fitting on her slight frame.

Rhaella’s gaze slid over the girl at first, dismissing her as some minor noble’s daughter who had stumbled into matters beyond her rank.

“Lady Lyanna, the Tower of the Hand is on the left,” one of the guards announced, his voice cold and unyielding, echoing through the hall like a blade against stone. “By order of King Rhaegar, your accommodations will be the finest the Red Keep can offer.”

The woman scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter. Defiance curled through her like a drawn bowstring, taut with unspoken words. Her shoulders squared, her chin lifted, yet still she held her tongue.

Rhaella’s steps faltered, recognition striking like ice water down her spine. Lyanna Stark. The woman who had nearly slain her son, the wolf who had set the Crownlands ablaze. Her name was a curse whispered in shadowed corners, a storm that threatened to shatter the realm.

A chill settled in her chest, bitter as a winter wind. This was no mere highborn lady, no hapless maiden swept up in the tides of fate. The defiance in her posture spoke of stubborn will, of fury tempered into steel. Rhaella did not need to hear her speak to know that Lyanna Stark was a storm contained within flesh.

Drawing a steadying breath, Rhaella stepped forward, her movements smooth and deliberate. The guards immediately parted and bowed, their voices blending into a unified murmur: “Your Grace.”

Lyanna Stark lifted her gaze, recognition sparking in her storm-grey eyes. They locked with Rhaella’s, smoldering with an intensity she barely bothered to conceal. After a tense heartbeat, Lyanna bowed her head, a gesture of respect that felt brittle, a mask worn for propriety’s sake.

Rhaella’s lips curled ever so slightly, a silent scoff hidden beneath the queenly mask she wore. A wolf pretending at civility, she thought. But a wolf’s nature cannot be tamed.

There was no denying the daughter of Winterfell’s beauty. Even beneath the grime of travel and the weight of weather-worn leathers and armor, she was striking. Her dark hair, hacked short and left to its own wild will, framed a face that defied refinement—a beauty unshaped by courtly grace or gilded vanity. Her eyes, grey as a storm-tossed sea and edged with a steely blue, held a dangerous gleam, fierce and untamed.

Her features were sharp yet balanced, with high cheekbones and lips full enough to seem almost soft, though they pressed into a line of stubborn resolve. The strength in her frame was lean and unapologetic, the bearing of a woman who knew the bite of steel and the thunder of hooves. A beauty that men would kill for, Rhaella thought bitterly, and kingdoms might bleed for.

Now she understood the fevered obsession of Robert Baratheon’s, the way his infatuation clung to him like a curse. But the woman before her was no trophy to be seized, no fleeting conquest to boast of over ale and firelight. No, this was a storm made flesh, wild and unrelenting. A wolf in woman’s guise, with eyes that gleamed like steel and a spirit that could never be broken.

The Stark’s cold stare barely concealed the tempest of fury beneath. Her eyes, sharp as ice, locked with Rhaella's, accepting yet unyielding. As the guards parted, making way for the dowager queen, Lyanna stiffened, her hands instinctively going to her sides—no doubt searching for a weapon that was no longer there. Rhaella smirked inwardly; the girl had spirit, and her unarmed stance suggested more defiance than fear.

Rhaella stopped in front of the maid of Winterfell, her gaze sweeping over the woman who would one day stand beside her son. Lyanna did not break eye contact. She did not kneel, nor did she falter. She simply stared, challenging to the last, and Rhaella could not help but admire, even as it unsettled her.

Rhaella’s voice was cool and controlled as she spoke, her words carefully measured. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Lyanna Stark.”

Lyanna said nothing, her defiance plain in her silence. Rhaella did not falter, pressing on with her next words, her tone sharpening slightly.

“I know the realm has suffered under my husband’s reign, your family perhaps the most,” she said, her eyes fixed on the Stark woman. “I offer my sincerest apologies on behalf of House Targaryen, though I know words may do little to heal the wounds caused.”

Lyanna remained unmoved, her expression as cold as the north winds. Rhaella’s eyes narrowed, but she continued with unwavering resolve.

“The realm will prosper under King Rhaegar’s reign,” she declared, her voice steady and sure, each word carrying the weight of prophecy. “The days of cruelty will end, and justice, long denied, will take its rightful place.”

Lyanna’s eyes flickered, though she kept her silence. Her stoic expression said more than words ever could. Rhaella pressed forward, her gaze steady as she took another step closer.

“My son deems it vital to unite our two houses—for the good of the realm,” Rhaella continued, her voice hardening with purpose. “King Rhaeger aims to strengthen the bonds between House Stark and House Targaryen, for the future of Westeros.”

A flicker of confusion crossed Lyanna’s sharp grey eyes, her head tilting slightly, as if Rhaella’s words had failed to make sense.

Rhaella suppressed a curse, her composure unbroken. Rhaegar had not told her , she realized, shaking her head inwardly.

“In the peace agreement, Lady Lyanna,” Rhaella clarified, her voice steady and measured, “Rhaegar has crafted a plan to unite our houses through favorable trade and future diplomatic measures.” She spoke the words with practiced ease, weaving a lie with the same skill she had mastered in her youth.

The confusion slowly ebbed from Lyanna’s eyes, replaced by a guarded wariness, but it was quickly masked. Yet, there was no hiding the faint trace of disdain in her gaze as she responded, her voice laced with careful formality, “Of course, Your Grace. King Rhaegar is ever the kind and generous ruler. Under his reign, the realm shall know peace and prosperity.”

Rhaella smiled faintly, a small, knowing nod, before turning away. As she walked, she could feel the weight of Lyanna’s cold stare piercing her back, sharp as a blade.

The tension in the air followed her as she made her way through the Red Keep, her steps measured and dignified. The sun blazed high in the sky, casting a harsh midday light through the narrow windows of the corridors. The hallways were bustling with servants, guards, and lords, but Rhaella remained untouched by the noise, her mind elsewhere, her thoughts tangled in the web of politics and alliances that now surrounded her.

At last, she reached the small council chamber. The heavy oaken door groaned on its hinges as it opened, the sound like a reluctant confession. The chamber within was cloaked in shadow, the scant light of midday spilling in through narrow windows, slashing golden lines across the cold stone floor. Dust motes drifted in the beams, slow and aimless, as if time itself hesitated to move forward.

She paused, drawing in a breath to steady her heart, the air thick with the scent of parchment, wax, and old secrets. This was a room where fates were decided, where whispers carried the weight of armies and crowns. With a final glance at the waning light behind her, she stepped inside, the door closing softly at her back, sealing her in. 

Inside the small council chamber, the air was thick with chatter and the clatter of voices. Lords leaned over the oak table, speaking in heated tones, each trying to outshout the other. Their words blended into a cacophony of conflicting interests, none of them noticing Rhaella’s entrance.

Her eyes swept over the room, noting the familiar faces. Lord Tywin Lannister sat at the far end of the table, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. His silence was louder than any of the arguments being tossed about.

To his left was a man bearing the pink hog on a black field, his chestplate gleaming, though more from the sweat of the hour than the polish of wealth. Lord Hogg, no doubt , his armor scuffed and dented, yet still bearing the semblance of nobility, despite his house’s modest means. Rhaella’s gaze shifted across the scene, briefly landing on Grand Maester Pycelle, his quill scratching furiously across the parchment as though his words could silence the bedlam around him. And in the corner, silent as ever, stood the High Septon, hands folded in prayer or contemplation—his silence as potent as any decree, his very presence a reminder that the faith could bend kings and queens to its will, should it so desire.

Jon Connington, the former Hand of the King, sat at the head of the table, his weight pressing down on the ancient oak as if the very wood might give way under the burden of his frustration. His brow furrowed in concentration, eyes sharp as he listened to the bickering of the council. His mouth was a tight line, the only sign of his thoughts, as the arguments swirled around him.

Minor lords from the Crownlands filled the scattered seats around the chamber, their faces etched with impatience and thinly veiled distrust. They spoke in clipped tones, their words more like veiled jabs than earnest counsel. The air was thick with the usual political maneuvering, each lord trying to edge his way into favor or steer the conversation to his own advantage. Through it all, Rhaella’s gaze remained fixed on Connington. She studied his every movement, every glance, seeking to divine some hidden truth from his unyielding exterior.

He still thinks he is Hand of the King, Rhaella contemplated, a grim smile tugging at her lips. I will make sure that changes, if it’s the last thing I do here. Jon Connington's fierce loyalty to Rhaegar, while admirable, could very well be their undoing. She knew that better than anyone, loyalty was a double-edged sword.

Rhaella had witnessed it before, during Aerys' reign, when Connington's unchecked anger had nearly cost him his head—and Rhaegar’s as well. His stubbornness, his impulsiveness, had been a danger to both himself and those around him. 

In the far corner, two remaining King's guard stood in quiet conversation, their voices too low to carry. Their silence, unlike the noise around them, seemed deliberate, as if the very act of speaking could shatter something delicate. Light streamed through the high windows, catching on their armor as they spoke in whispered tones.

The fevered discussions within the chamber ceased abruptly as Rhaegar entered, a kingly air about him. His armor had been replaced by a simple yet regal Targaryen gown of crimson and black, the fabric sweeping gracefully with each step. Though he still walked with a limp, it was less pronounced now, a subtle improvement since the morning.

"Mother," Rhaegar greeted, his voice steady and composed as he made his way toward her. He inclined his head with a slight gesture of respect, the weight of his station evident in the respectful nod. The silence in the chamber deepened, each lord watching intently, their own ambitions momentarily forgotten in the presence of the Targaryen prince.

Rhaella rose smoothly, her movements deliberate and measured, before bowing with practiced grace. "Your Grace," she responded, her voice steady, betraying no hint of the turmoil beneath her calm exterior.

The chamber hushed, a current of reverence sweeping through it as the new King of the Seven Kingdoms took his rightful seat at the head of the small council table. Jon Connington relinquished his former place, stepping aside with a measured grace, his fiery head bowed low in solemn deference.

With a nod that seemed to weigh kingdoms, the king gestured to Rhaella. She moved forward, her composure unbroken, the echoes of her soft footsteps muffled by the thick Myrish carpets. She took the seat beside the king—a subtle gesture, yet one that resounded louder than a ringing anvil in the silent hall. The air crackled with an unspoken truth: Queen Rhaella was untouchable. 

Jon Connington settled himself on the king's other side, his eyes flicking from Rhaella to the councilors, reading the room as a seasoned general reads the battlefield. His scarred hands lay flat upon the table, steady and sure, as if to remind all present that loyalty forged in fire does not waver. The delicate game of thrones had begun again, but for this moment, the silence held—each breath a vow of allegiance, each gaze a cautious promise of what was yet to come.

Rhaegar's voice rang out, clear and measured, yet heavy with the mantle of kingship as he convened the council. He looked upon the assembled lords, his gaze calm, his words honed like a blade.

"Lord Jon Arryn," Rhaegar began, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of a king, "pledged to send thousands of knights from the Vale south to aid me in claiming the throne. That was his price for peace." He allowed a brief silence to stretch, letting the words settle on the lords assembled in the chamber.

"Lord Arryn is a reasonable man," Rhaegar continued, his tone measured. "One who seeks to see the realm free from war and bloodshed. He knew, as we all did, that without Robert Baratheon, their cause was doomed. Jon Arryn did not hate me—no, not truly. He merely sought the removal of Aerys, and that was all. His heart was never with rebellion, only with peace."

Rhaegar's lips curled into a bitter, almost wistful smile. "I thought him a liar, a man of treachery. But in the end, he kept his word. He sent his knights, just as he promised. So, we will keep ours." His gaze swept across the room, eyes cold and unwavering. "I have sworn not to seek retribution against any of the rebels," Rhaegar said, his voice firm. "They will retain their lands and castles, provided they uphold the peace."

"Those who took up arms against us will be granted pardon," Rhaegar declared, his voice edged with the cold steel of finality.

A silence settled over the room, heavy and brittle as glass. No cheers rose to meet the king’s mercy, no hands clapped in approval. Instead, the chamber breathed with hushed whispers and furtive glances, each one a silent protest. Some lords shook their heads, their disbelief plain upon their furrowed brows; others stared at the flagstones, as if seeking answers in the cracks of the stone rather than in the eyes of their king.

Beside him, Rhaella felt her heart quicken with disquiet, the stillness wrapping itself around her like a shroud. The air was thick with doubt, a fog of unease that clung to skin and soul alike. Mercy, she knew, was a gamble. And gamblers often lost.

It was a decision that did not sit well with her. She knew the weight of it; the kingdom was fragile, and pardoning the rebels could be seen as a sign of weakness. Yet, Rhaegar had made his choice. And now, there was nothing to do but watch the outcome unfold.

"We will see the lords of the rebellion come to King's Landing within the week," Rhaegar continued, his tone firm. "They will swear fealty to me, as it should be. The realm will be united, though it is not without cost." Rhaeger’s gaze swept the council before pausing briefly on Lord Tywin, whose face remained a mask of cold, golden indifference.

"We must also turn our eyes to Flea Bottom," Rhaegar continued. "The wildfire caches have been unearthed and removed. But the streets are still choked with rubble; that too must be cleared. Makeshift homes will need to be rebuilt, and the roads and Crownlands secured. The smallfolk who fled in terror must be given a path back to their homes, or what remains of them. We cannot let the filth of the past fester, nor let despair linger like a plague. The realm’s foundations lie in its people."

A murmur rippled through the room, uneasy and subdued. Some lords shifted uncomfortably, the cost of such tasks pressing against their notions of war and victory. Yet Rhaegar’s words left no room for hesitation—the king had spoken, and his vision for peace carried the weight of a crown.

The discussion moved on, but Rhaegar's words were not finished. "In the coming weeks, I will form a new small council. It will have expanded roles, new responsibilities. I will decide who belongs there. You will all have a hand in shaping this kingdom, whether you desire it or not."

The minor lords shifted in their seats, eyes glinting like coins freshly struck, their ambition thinly veiled behind masks of feigned deference. They cast glances about the chamber, no doubt weighing allegiances, measuring rivals, and calculating who might rise in the new order—and how best to claw their way into Rhaegar’s favor. The air buzzed with whispers, a low, restless murmur of schemes half-formed and alliances yet to be forged.

But a single glance from Rhaegar stilled the noise, as a sudden frost stills a restless river.

"What of our search for Qarlton Chelsted, Lord Connington?" Rhaegar asked, his voice cold and steady as the walls of Winterfell. The absence of Chelsted’s titles was no slip of the tongue; it was a blade turned toward a man who was not there to feel the cut. Rhaella caught the slight, the judgment buried beneath a thin veneer of civility, and she knew the others had caught it too.

Jon Connington cleared his throat, the sound rough and low, as the eyes of the chamber fell upon him. “Nothing yet, Your Grace,” he said, his voice grim as a the breeze of the morning. “It seems the Hand of the King has fled the city. We’ve had the Gold Cloaks scour every tavern, every brothel, every hovel where the desperate might hide. We found no trace of him.”

He paused, his jaw tight with frustration. “The Narrow Sea has been blockaded for moons now, the war saw to that—but there are always cracks to slip through. He may have found one, much as Varys did.”

A ripple of unease passed through the lords who knew of the sadistic sycophant that was Qarlton Chelsted. Rhaella cursed under her breath. The former Lord Hand may have escaped justice, but his role in feeding Aerys’ madness had not gone unnoticed. The thought of his freedom, after all the destruction he’d left in his wake, was a bitter, choking thing.

He paused, eyes sweeping over the room, before his gaze fixed on a familiar face. "As for Lyanna Stark," he said, his voice measured, "As you may have heard, she is here in the capital." The words hung in the air, met with confusion, suspicion, and barely-veiled anger. "But know this," he continued, raising his hands in a gesture as subtle as a whisper, yet commanding as a king's edict. The ripple of murmurs ceased, swallowed by the silence his will demanded. "You may be angry. You may not understand. But she is here. That is all there is to say on the matter—for now."

The room fell quiet again, the weight of his words settling on the councilors like a stone. No one dared to challenge him, not yet. The shadow of Aerys Targaryen’s madness still lingered in the minds of those who had seen it firsthand, and in the whispers of those who had only heard the tales. His fires were gone, but the fear of them still smoldered in the hearts of men.

Then Rhaegar turned his attention to Lord Tywin, who had remained silent for much of the council’s deliberations. “Lord Tywin's march on King’s Landing,” Rhaegar said, his voice cool and deliberate, “and the clandestine arrangements with Queen Rhaella were bold—brazen, even—but they were necessary. As your king, I will not see Queen Rhaella or Lord Tywin brought to trial for these deeds. We all knew what Aerys was. We all knew what he was capable of.”

No voice rose in dissent. No challenge stirred the air. Shame had done its work, a silent scourge that left the room hollow and heavy. The lords seated around the table wore the weight of their complicity like a chain. They had all watched Aerys’s madness spread like wildfire, choosing cowardice over confrontation, averting their eyes as the flames of madness licked higher. Even her son stood idle.

Only Tywin had dared act, his motives cloaked in the cold steel of ambition. Yet the council knew nothing of the shadows behind his deeds, and Rhaella doubted they ever would. Some truths were too perilous to speak aloud, too bitter to taste.

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed, flicking briefly to Rhaella. “As for my mother, she will be sent to Dragonstone. That shall be her penance for betraying the crown—for defying her husband, King Aerys, and weaving conspiracies in the dark.”. He paused, the silence taut as a drawn bowstring. His eyes, though steeled with resolve, flickered with something unspoken, a fracture in the mask he wore. The words tasted of ash, and she knew he did not believe them. Not truly. “This is not open for debate. I will hear no more talk of the Queen’s treason. Her banishment to Dragonstone will stand as her only punishment.”

Rhaeger’s gaze struck Lord Hogg like a hammer, forcing the man to shrink back into his chair, his thin lips a tight line, the bruises on his face still dark, remnants of a split lip patched over with salves. A minor lord, insignificant in the grander schemes of kings and realms, yet still capable of stirring trouble . Rhaella felt the tremor of unease within her, a silent warning that even the meekest could raise a firestorm when given the right spark.

With the matter of treason settled, the meeting pressed on, the councilors exchanging furtive glances, yet offering no resistance. The new king had spoken, and they knew better than to challenge him now. The weight of his words hung in the air, a quiet command that brooked no defiance. Even the boldest among them knew their place.

Before anyone could break the silence, a sharp rap of gauntleted fists on the chamber door echoed through the room. The sound cleaved the stillness, and every eye turned toward the entrance. Rhaegar’s gaze narrowed, keen as a drawn blade. With a swift flick of his hand, he gave the signal.

The doors swung open with a low groan, the hinges protesting the weight of the moment. Two Targaryen soldiers stepped in first, their crimson cloaks like twin tongues of flame. Behind them came the gleam of gold—a group of Lannister men, their polished armor catching the light and throwing it back like the flash of a predator’s eye.

"The Northern forces are almost at King’s Landing, Stark banners flying high," one soldier announced, his voice tight with panic as he bowed low before his king. The words hung in the air like an omen, and the room seemed to hold its breath. "Thousands of Tully and Arryn men ride alongside them. Scouts report ten thousand Northern soldiers, ten thousand Riverlanders, and countless knights from the Vale marching toward the capital."

A cold silence swept over the council, as the weight of the news sank in.

Rhaegar’s gaze was unwavering, but his hand clenched into a fist at the table. Beside him, Rhaella felt a knot of unease tighten in her chest. The sight of the banners, so boldly flying, was a challenge none could ignore.

"If they mean peace," Jon Connington spat, his face flushing red with a mix of fear and anger, "why are Eddard Stark, Hoster Tully, and Jon Arryn bringing such a formidable force south?"

The room seemed to stiffen, the question hanging like a blade over all present. Connington’s anger was palpable, his voice thick with suspicion—but the truth of it lingered unanswered in the heavy air.

A flurry of voices erupted as the lords scrambled to make sense of the news, accusations of treachery filling the air. Shouts of betrayal and panic reverberated through the chamber, but Rhaegar remained still, raising his hands to silence them.

Jon Connington, his brow furrowed and his voice thick with concern, was the first to speak. "We must bar the gates, Your Grace. The insurgents cannot be trusted."

But Rhaegar’s voice, calm and unwavering, sliced through the rising discord like a blade through cloth. "I trust that Eddard Stark will bend the knee without resistance," he said, his tone steady and absolute, as if his word alone could still the storm. "Jon Arryn has no cause to turn against us now. We will not shut the city to them. Open the gates and let them in."

His command was final, a decree that left no room for doubt. The murmurs faded, replaced by a tense stillness. The lords exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared speak against the king’s will.

"Give the orders to open the gates," Rhaegar once again commanded sharply, his voice cutting through the tension like a sword through the air. "Prepare to receive the Northerners. They’ve come to bend the knee. Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully are likely among them."

He paused, eyes briefly flicking to the assembled lords before continuing with measured confidence, "As for Storm’s End, Stannis Baratheon will bend the knee once Mace Tyrell’s men have departed. In time, all will follow."

His words, calm but firm, carried the weight of inevitability. The room stilled, as though the very stones of the Red Keep held their breath, waiting for the ripple of obedience to spread.

The murmurs faded into a heavy silence, the weight of Rhaegar's words settling like a stormcloud over the room. The lords exchanged uneasy glances, each man aware of the gravity of the moment—this would be the turning point in the kingdom's fate.

Rhaegar, ever composed, gave a final nod and rose from his seat, the meeting at an end. The lords and soldiers began to disperse, each tasked with seeing the realm united once more. As Rhaegar departed the small council chamber, Tywin remained seated, his piercing gaze taking in the spectacle with a quiet, calculating demeanor. The room slowly began to empty, but Tywin’s attention never wavered, his mind already turning over the events and the shifting tides. Rhaella would have to handle him—fix the mess she created—before she departed for Dragonstone. 

As Rhaella exited the council chamber, a weight settled on her heart, heavy with the knowledge that this might be the last time she would sit among them. The faces of the lords, their whispered words, the quiet undercurrent of tension—it all felt distant now. Her footsteps echoed through the halls, each one bringing her closer to her chambers, to a solitude that matched the certainty building within her.

Once inside her chamber, Rhaella stood before the mirror, her fingers brushing gently over the swell of her abdomen, feeling the faint stir of life within. The movement, soft yet undeniable, caused her heart to swell with quiet tenderness. Her gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, she closed her eyes, allowing the thought of her unborn child to fill her with a protective warmth. 

A girl, she was certain of it. Aerys had been wrong—this child would not be a boy. If it were truly a girl, Rhaella knew she would need to choose a name fit for a princess. 

"Rhaenys," Rhaella whispered, testing the name, but it did not sit right. It felt too soft, not the strength she sought.

"Baela," she tried next, but it too fell flat, lacking the power she desired.

Her fingers drifted over her belly as she thought of a name that would carry the weight of her dreams for the child. Then, the name came to her, like a whispered truth.

"Daenerys," she breathed, the name fitting perfectly. Yes, it was a name worthy of a princess. The name rolled off her tongue beautifully, with a strength that matched the legacy she hoped to pass on. A smile curved her lips, and her heart swelled with certainty as she tried the name again, feeling its power grow with each utterance. "Daenerys Targaryen." 

Chapter Text

EDDARD

The ride through the Crownlands was a hard one, the weight of defeat pressing as heavily as the steel on their backs. Ned Stark rode at the head of the company, despite the muttered protests of his bannermen and Jon Arryn's quiet counsel. But Ned no longer cared for his own safety. He had failed Robert, failed Lyanna, failed Winterfell, and perhaps, the realm itself. What did his life matter now?

They had left the Riverlands two weeks after Rhaegar’s forces had marched away, the air thick with what had been lost. The northern forces had begun their long march home, their banners furled, their men silent, as if the very earth beneath them felt the sting of the peace that had been made. The bulk of his men had been dismissed, their swords sheathed for now, the fire of rebellion quenched by the terms of a fragile accord.

Lord Manderly, stout and resolute, had taken command of the northern return, leading the forces back to the farthest reaches of the North, where the winds howled and the memories of war could be buried beneath the snow. 

Hoster Tully had entrusted command of his forces to Ser Danwell Frey, the third son of Lord Walder Frey—a decision born more of necessity than faith. The Freys were many, their banners numerous, and their oaths often spoken with smiles that never touched their eyes. Yet the riverlords needed their numbers. 

The Vale knights had ridden back to their lands, their banners hanging low, with the returned Yohn Royce at the fore, his grim expression matching the somber mood of the men who had fought for their cause. 

The bitter taste of compromise still lingered in Ned’s mouth, like ashes that refused to wash away. A peace accord with the Targaryens—after all that had happened, after all that had been lost—felt like betrayal. Yet Ned had agreed. He saw no other path forward, though the decision curdled in his gut like spoiled milk.

Someone he could call a second father, his mentor, Jon Arryn, had brokered the terms, much to Hoster Tully's chagrin. Jon had argued that they were winning a lost war, that if they continued, the battle at the Trident would be the first of many losses to come. That they should yield now, before the realm shattered into a thousand splinters. Ned had wanted to rage against such words. Good, he had thought at the time. Let the realm fracture, let Aerys’ madness consume the Targaryen line like fire through dry brush. But when the fury ebbed, when the silence of his own thoughts returned, he paused. The truth, harsh and unyielding, stood before him: Jon Arryn was right. And Ned’s honor—that ever-present, unrelenting honor—would always be his undoing.  

Robert was dead. Slain on the battlefield, his head severed and paraded like a trophy by the crown prince. The warhammer that had once shattered armor and bone lay abandoned in the muck, its master reduced to a grisly banner for Targaryen vengeance. Rhaegar’s scheme had carried the day not with honor, but with cold brutality, a stroke of fate as sharp and merciless as Valyrian steel.

The strength of the Stormlands had died with Robert’s roar. The men who had once followed him with unshakeable hearts had faltered, their banners drooping like wilted flowers in the rain. Their morale was shattered, their resolve leaking out as surely as their lifeblood on the trampled fields.

With Robert gone, the rebellion's fire gutted and choked on its own smoke. Victory, once assured, had become a distant, dying hope—a flickering candle in a vast and howling dark. Whispers spread through the camps like a plague: of betrayals yet to come, of vengeance yet to fall, of Balerion who had awakened to scorch the world anew. Fear had become the enemy, and fear was a more ruthless killer than any blade.

Ned spurred his horse harder, the hooves pounding against the dirt like a drumbeat of war. The cool air lashed at his face, sharp as a blade, but he hardly noticed. Robert’s laugh echoed in his ears—wild, unrestrained, fierce as the storms that battered the cliffs of Storm’s End.

But the sound was only a memory now, a phantom fading into the wind. The gods had taken Robert’s fire, and in its place, they had left only cold ashes and shadows.

He would bend the knee now, for Winterfell, for the North, for his people. The land that had been his to protect since his father and Brandon were cruelly taken away. The heaviness of that duty pressed upon him like the snowdrifts that buried the hills in winter’s grasp, cold and unyielding. It was not out of love for the Targaryen crown, nor out of loyalty to a mad king, but for the North—for the Stark name, for the legacy of those who had come before him.

Ned had watched the exchange in the dark, just outside the war tent, the murmur of voices drifting through the canvas walls like ghosts of the dying cause. Jon Arryn’s calm, measured tones carried the weight of reason, each word a hammer blow forging the peace that was being shaped within. The Stormlands had bent the knee, their spirits shattered along with their banners. Ned knew that the rebellion's fate had been written the moment Robert's lifeless body was left in the mud. The fire had gone out; all that remained was smoke and ruin.

The scrape of his whetstone against the Valyrian steel of Ice was a cruel, relentless rhythm. Each slow stroke carved deeper into his thoughts, sharpening not only the blade but the fury that simmered beneath the cold mask of his grief. The anger was a low fire, banked but not extinguished. The steel in his hand felt like a truth that would never yield, a promise that could not be broken.

His thigh had throbbed beneath the rough bandages, the wound bleeding slow and stubborn, a testament to the duel that haunted him. Ser Barristan Selmy—the finest knight of the Kingsguard, the embodiment of the old ideals Ned had once believed in — had left his mark. A scar of duty clashed against a scar of rebellion. The pain was a reminder, a gnawing whisper that honor and victory did not always ride together.

He had refused the ministrations of squires and healers. The ache, the sting of torn flesh, was his penance. He bore it like a badge of guilt, a wound carved by destiny itself. The realm would heal, they said. Peace would be bought, they promised. But Ned Stark knew that peace, like wounds, left scars—and some wounds festered unseen.

Ned had scoured the battlefield for Rhaegar, his eyes burning with fury and his heart pounding like a war drum. Word of Robert’s death at the hands of the dragon had spread like wildfire, leaving men shaken and uncertain, their whispers turning to dread. Through the smoke and the blood-soaked haze, he had seen it—the glint of white armor, the Kingsguard cloak billowing behind him like a specter. Arthur Dayne , he had thought, his breath coming in quick, jagged bursts. If the Sword of the Morning was here, Rhaegar could not be far behind.

Ned had been ready to die in that moment, to hurl himself into the fire and drag the dragon with him, to end the Targaryen line once and for all. For no one would rally behind Aerys, nor the babe-king Aegon. The realm would burn, but in its ashes, there would be no more Targaryens to rule. No more madness, no more bloodshed. The thought of it was sweet, a grim resolution to the horrors that had consumed the land.

But it had not been Dayne.

Ser Barristan Selmy had turned to face him, the pommel of his sword catching the light, his expression a mask of calm, almost of pity. Ned had roared and charged, grief and wrath guiding his hand, but Barristan had sidestepped his strikes with the ease of a man swatting away a child’s tantrum. His sword, a blur of cold steel, had danced around Ned’s clumsy rage.

Ned had swung wildly, desperate to land a blow, to spill blood, to give his fury form. But Selmy’s blade had kissed his defenses apart. A precise slash here, a parry there, each strike not meant to teach. The steel rang, sharp and unforgiving, as Barristan’s patience seemed endless. He did not move to kill, but to disarm, to humble the Lord of Winterfell who was too full of anger to see the futility of his assault.

“Your anger blinds you, Lord Stark,” Barristan had said, his voice even, though his eyes betrayed a shadow of sorrow. “Striking me down will not win you this day.”

The words had stoked Ned’s rage to a white-hot blaze. He had lunged, but Barristan had been quicker. His sword arced low, a movement too fluid for Ned’s bloodied mind to track. Ned barely felt the steel bite through the air before it met his leg, the cold steel sinking into flesh with surgical precision. It was only when his leg gave way beneath him that he understood the full measure of the blow.

A deep slash, clean and merciless, had sent him sprawling to the muddy earth. The pain was immediate and blinding, an inferno that shot through his leg, stealing the breath from his lungs. He gasped, eyes wide in shock, hands scrambling against the wet earth as he tried to push himself up. The blood flowed freely, soaking his breeches, mixing with the muck beneath him.

Barristan had stepped back, his breastplate glinting, untouched by Ned’s blood. He had not pressed the advantage; there had been no need. The fight was over, and they both had known it. The Kingsguard knight had given him one last, regretful look before turning back to the fray, a white shadow lost amidst the carnage.

Ned’s hands had clenched in the dirt as the battle raged on around him. The screams of men, the clash of steel, the roar of war—it had all seemed distant, muffled by the weight of his own failure. He had failed Robert. He had failed Lyanna. He had failed Winterfell, and the very honor that defined him. The thought was a poison in his veins, twisting every breath. He had come to end the Targaryens, to avenge his murdered kin, yet here he knelt—broken, unarmed, and caked in mud. A shadow of the man he had once been, grasping at the earth as if it might hold him together.

It was Howland Reed who found him amidst the chaos, the quiet, steady figure pulling him from the fray. Howland was no warrior, not like the others, but his loyalty was unshakable. Howland had refused to let Ned ride to the Trident without a sword by his side, and when Ned’s strength had failed him, Howland’s was the hand that pulled him from the chaos.

Reed dragged him through the routing battle, through the carnage and confusion, and towards a camp tent that seemed to appear out of nowhere, as if the world itself had split in two. It all blurred together for Ned—the sound of his own ragged breath, the warmth of blood seeping through his clothes, and the dull, thudding ache of his leg. He was no longer sure if he thanked Howland or cursed him. In fact, Ned was pretty certain he had screamed at Howland, begged him to leave him in the battle, to let him die with honor and a blade in his hand. Foolish words, but grief clouded his mind, grief and a hunger for something he could no longer define.

The maesters had said the wound might leave him with a limp for the rest of his days. A small price to pay, Ned thought bitterly. A reminder of his folly, carved into flesh. The pain was nothing compared to the weight in his chest, the hollow space where honor had once lived. His leg would heal—perhaps—but there was no healing the wound inside him. The wound of loss. The wound of failure.

Howland had stayed by his side, a silent witness to the grim reality of what had become of Ned Stark. And as the days wore on, as the pain in his leg began to dull into something more manageable, another truth had settled in: there was no redemption in the war, no victory to be won. Only the long, weary road back to a place he wasn’t sure he could return to.

The North, Winterfell—those were the only things that kept him tethered. He could still fight for them, still stand for them.

And so, as the voices in the war tent had dwindled into silence, and Rhaegar and his men rode from the pavilion with the kind of pride that only victory could give, Ned had fixed his gaze on the back of the prince’s silver hair, burning him with a stare that would have struck down a lesser man. He would have his revenge, he swore then. The thought was as fierce as the steel of his sword, but it was cold, too, a stone lodged deep in his chest.

Yet, as the days wore on and they rode further into the Crownlands, the weight of the truth pressed upon him. Revenge may never come. What was a wolf to a dragon? The question gnawed at him like a wound that refused to heal, the reality of his situation sinking deeper with every mile they traveled.

“Ned, stop,” Jon Arryn’s voice called after him, laced with a rare note of pleading that cut through the cold air. But Ned did not heed him. His horse’s hooves pounded the earth as he urged it faster, a blur of motion against the grey landscape. He had been avoiding Jon ever since they left the Trident, but even now, Ned was not sure why. Jon had only ever acted in the best interest of the rebellion. He had brokered the peace accord, and Ned had agreed, though it had left a bitter taste in his mouth, as if he had swallowed ash.

Still, there was a nagging thought at the back of his mind, a suspicion that clung to him like a thorn— had Jon manipulated him? The thought passed quickly, but it lingered, stubborn as ever. No, Jon would never do that. Or would he? The more he thought about it, the more it gnawed at him, the words of peace taking on a different light. 

Ned growled softly, urging his horse on, seeking to outrun the dark thoughts that tugged at him. The wind whipped at his face as he rode harder, the rhythm of his steed's galloping hooves the only thing that made sense.

His thoughts were cut short as his mind drifted back to that day—when Jon Arryn and Hoster had found him in the makeshift clinic, the blood of others still drying on Ned’s plate armor. His hands trembled as he wiped at his face, desperate to scrub away the grime. The stench of battle clung to him like a second skin—thick, suffocating. He had barely registered Jon and Hoster pushing through the tent flaps, their arrival cutting through the haze of pain and fury.

"Robert is dead, Ned," Jon said abruptly, his voice quiet but firm—words that had made Ned’s chest tighten. "Our rebellion is over. The Stormlands are leaderless. Without them, we don’t have the men to win this war—not even a stalemate. We must seek peace before more of our men die."

Ned had been still, his mind a blur of rage. At first, he had refused, his throat tight with grief, curses spilling from his lips like poison. The Targaryens, the dragons—how could he surrender to them? But Jon pressed on, his voice harder, sharper, each word cutting deeper.

“Will you watch Winterfell burn, Ned?” Jon had demanded, his voice cutting through the air, sharp as a sword’s edge. “Will you let your sister die for a cause already lost!? Her luck will run out soon enough, and you know it!” Jon had raised his voice, the words ringing out like a bell tolling the end of all hope. The healers, startled by the sudden fury, had flinched, quickly retreating from the heated exchange, casting fearful glances toward Lord Tully, who had waved them off with a curt gesture.

The words had stung, cutting through Ned’s fury like a knife. His sister, Winterfell, his house—all of it was in peril. Could he really allow the war to continue knowing that? Could he truly risk it all, knowing what it might cost?

“Rhaegar is not mad like his father. He sees reason. He might even be a just king,” Jon reasoned, though the words seemed to sour in his mouth as he spoke them.

“Just!?” Ned had spat, his voice rising with the fury of a gale. “That man desecrated Robert’s body—paraded his head like some perverse trophy! He is no better than the creatures that haunt the darkest corners of Essos.”

“Is he not the same prince who did nothing while my father and brother were tortured and burned in Aery’s court? He could not even defy his mad father. That man has no sense of justice. He is a coward wearing a crown!”

Jon had flinched, visibly struck by the harshness in Ned’s voice, but it hadn’t stopped him. Hoster Tully had nodded in agreement, his face bearing a quiet, but unmistakable fury.

“The Riverlands stands behind you in whatever you decide, Ned,” Hoster had said, his voice a steady anchor in the rising tension, and Ned had felt a knot twist in his chest. It was the loyalty of a father, even though Ned had never been able to truly accept it.

Ned had been ashamed of his marriage to Catelyn Tully. She had been beautiful, more than any woman he had ever seen—dark red hair, those piercing blue eyes—but there had been no love, not even lust between them. He had always seen marriage as little more than a duty, and he carried that same conviction when he finally wed. 

Lady Catelyn had been kind enough, but it had been a union of convenience, nothing more. When they married in the sept of Riverrun, he had felt no fire of passion, only the knowledge that another pawn had been placed in the game.

Their wedding had been loud, full of cheering and laughter, with Lyanna’s approving smile cutting through the crowd like a shard of ice. But when the bedding ceremony had come, Ned had refused. He had seen it in Catelyn’s eyes—the flicker of embarrassment, the shadow of something unspoken. He knew the infatuation she still carried for Brandon. It had felt wrong, as though he were dishonoring his brother’s memory. He couldn’t lay with a woman who had loved his dead brother, not while that ghost lingered between them.

And so, he had turned her away. Briskly. It had been rude, he knew. He had seen the tears well in her eyes, the hurt, but he couldn’t help it. He had promised himself that after the war, after everything, he might be a husband to her. But, a year had passed, and the marriage still lay barren. He had not seen her in moons. He hoped she did not hate him, though a part of him feared that she did.

And yet, the loyalty of Hoster Tully remained steadfast. The Riverlands stood behind him, and for that, Ned was both grateful and ashamed. The burden of it was unbearable.

Jon Arryn’s voice was strained, his patience wearing thin. “What of Benjen? He holds Winterfell now, but how long do you think he can keep it? The Targaryens will turn their eyes north once the Stormlands bend the knee. Rhaegar will have the full might of the Reach at his back. I love you as a son, Ned, and I’ve bled for this cause, but I cannot march my men north. The Vale lords may stand with me now, but if they hear we could have peace…they’ll refuse to march north. Do you think ten thousand Rivermen and ten thousand Northerners can hold against a full-scale invasion from land and sea?”

Jon’s hands had gripped his greying hair, tugging at the thick strands in frustration, his eyes wide with exasperation. He looked as though the heavens themselves had conspired against him, and the desperation in his gaze spoke of a man driven to the brink. The burden was too heavy to bear alone, yet he carried it still, desperate to make Ned see reason.

Ned’s lips had tightened into a thin line, his pride and thirst for vengeance gnawing at him like a festering wound. The truth had cut deeper than he cared to admit, but he refused to yield, even as it twisted within him, sharp and relentless. His honor, his family’s name, it all demanded retribution, and the weight of it had anchored him firmly to his resolve, no matter how the realm around him unraveled.

“We will reinforce Moat Cailin before the Targaryens can march north,” Ned had said, his voice thick with determination. “The North will not fall. They do not have dragons.”

Jon’s eyes had flashed with disbelief. “What of the Riverlands, Ned? Even if you hold the North—which is doubtful, given the state of Moat Cailin—the Riverlands will continue to burn. They have no natural defenses. Would you allow your wife’s lands to be consumed in flames for nothing more than pride and vengeance?”

The words had hit hard, fury rising within him like a Dothraki charge on the horizon. He stood on an uneven foot, his hand shooting out toward Jon, but the sharp stab of pain from his ruined thigh stopped him cold. He staggered forward, attempting to swing at Jon’s head with all the force he could muster, but the injury was too much. His leg gave way beneath him, and he missed entirely, crashing to the ground with a thud. Blood soaked through the bandages on his thigh, the pain radiating through him like wildfire.

Jon and Hoster were at his side in an instant, cursing as they pulled him back to the bed. Ned’s frustration, his pride, and his rage was palpable in the tense air between them.

A maester was called as Ned could feel the disappointment in Jon’s gaze, and it shattered something deep inside him. His pride, once a fortress, cracked like brittle stone under the pressure. In that moment, his anger began to fade, replaced by the cold, unyielding truth Jon had spoken. He knew Jon was right. The North had to bend or drown in blood. The cost of stubbornness, of pride, was too high. The rebellion was over, and the war had already claimed too much.

Ned’s voice had been cold, stripped of all warmth, when he finally spoke. “Very well, Jon. What were the terms of peace?”

Hoster had cursed under his breath, his face flushed with frustration, before storming out of the tent. His footsteps heavy, as if he had hoped Ned might choose war over bitter surrender. Jon’s expression had softened at the sight of the old lord’s departure, and for a fleeting moment, there had been something almost gentle in his eyes. 

“I knew you would come around,” Jon had said quietly, his voice tinged with something akin to relief. “Rhaegar has promised to dispose of his father. Aerys will no longer sit the Iron Throne.” Ned’s stomach had churned at the thought, the mere idea of the mad king's legacy still clinging to the realm, but before he could speak, Jon had raised a hand.

“Rhaegar refuses to kill him,” Jon had continued, his voice heavy with reluctance. “He intends to lock Aerys away for the rest of his days. I think I can convince him to hand Aerys over to us, so you may have your justice.”

Ned had clenched his fists, anger rising within him like a fire on the verge of consuming everything. Aerys was all that mattered now. If he could not bring down the entire Targaryen dynasty, he would take the head of the Mad King himself. That, at least, would be enough.

“Rhaegar will sit the Iron Throne,” Jon said, his voice firm, though tinged with an underlying sorrow. “He has sworn to rule with justice, Ned. And none of the lords who rose against the crown will lose their heads—so long as they lay down their swords.”

Ned had nodded, his mind already resigned to the terms. If Aerys was gone, perhaps it would be enough.

Jon had pursed his lips, his gaze flickering with uncertainty before he spoke again, as though weighing his next words carefully. The silence stretched between them, thick with the gravity of the moment. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, almost fearful. 

“He wants Lyanna Stark,” Jon muttered, his voice low and almost reluctant.

Ned went rigid, his breath catching in his chest. His blood ran cold, and for a heartbeat, time itself seemed to slow. “What? ” he demanded, his voice sharp as the edge of a drawn blade, disbelief twisting each word.

Jon moved quickly to restrain him as Ned tried to sit up, fury flashing in his eyes. “He means to take her, Jon,” Ned spat, his voice rising with anger. “Parade her through the Red Keep like a whore, a broodmare for his pleasure. I won’t allow it. He might torture her, twist her mind until she’s broken!”

Jon’s voice had been sharp, his tone like the crack of a whip, as he sought to steady Ned. “Stop, Ned. Rhaegar is no fool. He knows the realm hangs by a thread. He would not lay a finger on your sister, not without sparking another rebellion. What he wants is to honor the betrothal Aerys set in motion between the two great houses. With Robert dead, there’s no contention left. It may seem madness, but it’s a wise move—peace deeper than mere words and ink. It ties House Stark to House Targaryen. A Stark may never sit the Iron Throne, but their children will be princes and princesses.”

Ned's voice was low, barely above a growl, each word dripping with a fury that matched the cold fire in his eyes. "You think I care for thrones and marriages, Jon?" he had hissed, the very thought of it twisting his insides . "I will not put my sister in that vipers' nest. I won't risk her in that place." His fists tightened, the rage that burned within him making his words sharp, unyielding as steel.

“Ned, you’ve already put her in harm’s way, despite my protests,” Jon had said, his voice low and steady, though the anger simmered beneath. “You sent her with two thousand men, to raid and burn the Crownlands, even though she had no more experience in war than a child. She might be skillful with a sword, but she’s no commander. Do you truly believe it’s swordplay that kept her alive? It’s luck, Ned. Just luck. A heartbeat’s difference, and she could’ve been torn apart by the men you put under her command.”

Ned lowered his eyes, shame burned through him, hot and bitter. Ordering the campaign in the Crownlands had been reckless, driven by anger and the desire for retribution. Lyanna had shared that same rage, and together they had acted without thought. But Jon’s words had pierced through him like an arrow—he had been right. It had been reckless, dangerous.

“And look what happened at Maidenpool,” Jon pressed, his voice cold and steady . “They say Lyanna’s men raped and pillaged the entire town. This is not what we were fighting for, Ned. You’ve already put her in harm’s way!”

The truth had settled over Ned like a dark cloud, suffocating the rage that had still burned within him. He had acted in fury, but now he saw the cost of that wrath—the cost to Lyanna.

“She will hate it, Jon. She’ll hate me forever,” Ned had said, his voice hoarse, his hands trembling as if the very thought of it made his bones ache. “How could I sell my own sister to Rhaegar Targaryen? How could I—”

Jon’s gaze grim, his voice heavy with reluctant truth. “It must be done, Ned. Rhaegar has made it clear this is non-negotiable. He does not trust the North to stay placated if he does not secure the alliance with a marriage. This is the price for peace, no matter how vile it seems.” Ned had clenched his fists, his heart sinking further with every word Jon spoke. He had known it might come to sacrifices, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear.

So, Ned had agreed. The words had tasted like cinders in his mouth, but he had spoken them all the same. He would ride to King’s Landing and bend the knee to Rhaegar, no matter the resentfulness that rose in his throat. He would give Lyanna’s hand to the Targaryen prince for the sake of peace, and he would not raise an army against the crown. His oath had been made, and Ned would not break it. 

He had refused to meet with the other lords in the war tent the night the peace accords were signed. The very thought of facing Rhaegar, of standing in the same room as the man whose father had taken everything from him, set his blood alight with unspent rage. He could not trust himself not to drive Ice through the Targaryen prince if given the chance. So, instead of attending, he had sent Roose Bolton in his place, the leech lord’s cold, pitiless eyes and even colder words a fitting substitute for Ned’s own burning fury.

As for Jon Arryn, he had promised to lend a thousand knights of the Vale to Rhaegar’s cause in sacking King’s Landing. The thought of it churned Ned’s gut. For peace, he could endure, but sending men to fight for the Targaryens, to strike at the heart of the city that had brought so much pain—this, this felt like a betrayal.

A thousand knights of the Vale had ridden out from the Trident, trailing not far behind Rhaegar’s host, with the once-shamed Lord Lyn Corbray now leading their vanguard. Ravens had flown to every ally, bearing words of peace—orders to lay down swords and end the bloodshed. Mace Tyrell had been commanded to lift the siege at Storm’s End and march the banners of Highgarden to King’s Landing. As for Stannis Baratheon, newly made Lord of Storm’s End, he was to ride for the capital and bend the knee, swearing fealty to the Iron Throne.

As for Lyanna, Jon had penned a letter meant for her hand alone, mindful of the stubbornness that ran in her blood. He knew the fire that burned within her, but he needed her to grasp the weight of what was at stake. Ned had offered to write the words himself, but Jon refused, insisting it was his duty to make her see reason. Lyanna had always been strong-willed, and Jon feared that her pride might drive her down a road paved with more blood and ruin.

They were uncertain of her whereabouts. Some, like Hoster Tully, speculated that she had taken her forces to The Antlers , while others whispered of the more ambitious target, Sow’s Horn . Yet, all knew that those castles were well-defended, with strong garrisons that would be nearly impossible for Lyanna to breach with the forces at her disposal. So, in the end, they had opted to send ravens—impersonal missives to every castle in the Crownlands, urging the end of the rebellion and calling for the dropping of arms. There would be no more fighting; no more blood. Peace was to be their final, fragile hope.

But news of Lyanna’s exploits came in the days that followed—whispers at first, which quickly turned into loud, wild tales. Lyanna’s forces had sacked The Antlers , some claimed, and others said she had ridden a beast as fierce as any dragon, a wolf-demon that tore through men and women alike. The stories grew wilder still: some claimed that her soldiers had stormed the castle, slaughtering everyone—babes in arms, women, men—before feasting on their flesh like ravenous wildlings. Jon Arryn had simply frowned as he prepared a parchment to send to his loyal lord, Yohn Royce.

The days that followed brought even stranger rumors. Lady Ravenclaw , they said, had sacked Sow’s Horn , defeating Rhaegar’s forces in a rout so complete that even the smallfolk insisted it was nothing short of miraculous. Jon Arryn’s frown deepened, his concern clear. Ned could not help but feel a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had known his sister’s strength, but these tales seemed beyond reason.

Then came a small force of knights from the Vale, their cloaks pristine and armor gleaming in the pale sunlight. Lord Yohn Royce dismounted his horse, his face grave as he presented himself to Jon Arryn. Once the men were settled, an assembly was held. Royce spoke of Lyanna’s refusal to heed the call for peace. She was marching through the Crownlands, burning every land in her wake. He spoke of how he could no longer ride by her side, how she was slipping into madness. They had taken The Antlers , but at a hefty cost. “Sow’s Horn… She’ll never take it. She’s doomed one thousand men to die, and herself along with them.” Lyanna’s forces would march on Sow’s Horn, and the whispers from the smallfolk were proven true.

“Dammit, why does she never listen?” Jon Arryn cursed, his face darkening. “We ride to Sow’s Horn at once and put an end to this madness.”

Jon Arryn turned to Ned, but Ned had ignored him, as he had been doing for the past several days, his thoughts elsewhere. The lord of the Eyrie simply sighed.

And so they set out. Perhaps two thousand northern men rode behind Ned, with another four thousand Riverlanders and a thousand knights of the Vale. But their numbers grew the deeper they rode into the Crownlands, picking up wandering knights and men-at-arms loyal to Stark or Tully—those who would rather ride south with their lords than return home to the war-torn lands. The forces marched on, numbering close to ten thousand men. 

Ned’s mind snapped back to the present as his horse reared, its hooves skidding on the muddy road. A smoldering ruin lay before them, charred timbers collapsing in on themselves, smoke curling into the grey sky. The harsh stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils. His mount let out a sharp, uneasy whinny.

“Halt!” Ned’s voice rang out over the thudding hooves and the distant rumble of thunder. His words carried like the crack of a whip, and the column behind him ground to a slow, uneasy stop. The banners of the North and the Riverlands fluttered in the chill wind, their edges singed by the ash in the air.

Men shifted in their saddles, faces grim and wary, hands tightening on reins and sword hilts. The storm was coming, in more ways than one.

They had finally reached the crossroads between Sow’s Horn and the Kingsroad, where Lyanna’s forces had last been seen. "We find another route to Sow’s Horn," Ned said to the soldiers who had pulled up behind him. They nodded, faces grim, and wheeled their horses to relay the orders to the rest of the riding force.

The road to Sow’s Horn was blocked by fiery rubble—charred wood, broken wagons, the blackened bones of men and beasts. They would need to find another way. Ned decided on a detour through the thick forest, a short ride to Sow’s Horn from there. The sun hung low in the sky, the afternoon fading into evening, as Ned rode in silence, lost in his thoughts. Excitement and angst gnawed at him. Had Lyanna done the impossible and taken Sow’s Horn? Had Rhaegar fallen in the aftermath, his silver hair tangled in the mud of the battlefield?

But when they arrived at Sow’s Horn , a chill crept into Ned’s bones. The castle walls were streaked with blood, the heavy castle portcullis splintered and smashed. The surrounding town lay in ruin—smoke curling from charred hovels, fields trampled and scorched, the air heavy with the stink of death and despair.

Siege towers loomed against the battlements, abandoned now, their wood blackened and twisted. Targaryen banners snapped in the wind atop the walls, red dragons on black silk, their presence a cruel message. The Starks did not rule here. This was no victory for the North. Unlike the banners that flew over The Antlers —a mingling of direwolf and trout—here, the dragons reigned.

Ned’s jaw clenched. The smallfolk’s tales had been wrong. The Starks had not won this battle. Rhaegar had.

The cold in his chest spread, icy fingers gripping his heart as he spurred his horse harder, up to the ruined walls of Sow’s Horn. Was Lyanna dead already, her head stuffed in a box, sent north to mock them? Or did she languish in the black cells of King’s Landing? 

Jon Arryn had been right. Ned had made a grave mistake, putting Lyanna in harm’s way, handing her an army she had no business leading.

The sun was setting, the crimson hues staining the sky, and all Ned could see was the red of dying light—or perhaps, the red of his own failure, bleeding out into the dusk. It had been his choice, his pride, that had led them to this, and now there was no undoing it. 

Ned dismounted his steed, his boots sinking into the wet earth as he walked among the dead laid out on the mud-slicked floor beneath the blood-stained castle walls. He ignored the archers stationed on the parapets, their crossbows trained on him. 

As he stepped through the sea of bodies, his stomach twisted in knots, the familiar gnaw of fear gripping his heart for what he might find. Hundreds of Stark and Tully men lay cold and still, their hands still clutching weapons as if they had been ready to strike even in death. Among them, the sigils of House Mormont and House Piper stood out, their banners clenched tightly, their owners’ faces locked in eternal terror. The stench of decay clung to the air, thick and rancid—they had begun to rot, their corpses no longer just dead but decomposing, a cruel reminder of the cost of war.

In a far corner of the castle walls, Ned glimpsed commoners and servants hauling bodies onto carts, wheeling them away for proper burial. He whispered a prayer to the old gods that Lyanna was not among them, that she was not buried beneath the mound of dead he stepped over.

As Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn finally caught up to him, their horses’ hooves squelching in the blood-soaked ground, the splintered wooden castle portcullis groaned open. From within the castle, a group of knights rode out, their shields emblazoned with a pink hog on a black field.

Tully men and knights of the Vale, who had come with Hoster and Jon, drew their swords in unison. So did Ned, the weight of Ice cold and familiar in his grip, its edge a reminder of all that had been lost.

The knights halted before them, dismounting their horses with deliberate slowness. They did not draw their swords, but stood with cold eyes and cruel smiles. One of them stepped forward, his gait measured, his presence a shadow that stretched across the bloodied earth.

"The Targaryens have won the day," he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "The wolves are sent back to their frozen dens, the fish to their muddy rivers. You should leave, my lords, with your tails between your legs."

Another knight laughed, a harsh, grating sound that seemed to scrape at the very air. "A pity you came all this way, savage northerners, just to see your banners trampled into the dirt."

Ned's hand tightened around the hilt of Ice , rage boiling up inside him. The desire to silence their laughter with steel surged through him. His knuckles whitened as he prepared to answer in kind.

But before he could speak, Jon Arryn's hand settled firmly on his shoulder. "Not now, Ned," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "You'd do well to remember, peace is fragile. Bloodshed now would undo what we have agreed to preserve."

Laughter, distant and mocking, rang in Ned's ears, yet it was the silence in his chest that crushed him. Fury seethed beneath his skin, but the truth of defeat anchored him where he stood.

He forced the words through gritted teeth, his voice thick with restraint. "What of Lyanna, Jon? And her men—where are they?"

The knight in the front shrugged, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "Slaughtered on the wall, her men were. Caught between our archers and the Targaryen infantry charging at them."

His smile grew as he continued to mock them, his words dripping with malice. “I daresay they died like dogs. You should be proud, wolves, that your men died as bravely as they did.”

“She was a feisty one, they say. The Stark bitch tried to duel Prince Rhaegar, but lost miserably." Another knight threw his head back and cackled, his expression dripping with mockery.  "Locked in a cell, that one was. Shame, they say she was a great beauty, would have loved to shove my cock—"

Ned’s fury snapped, he did not let him finish the sentence. Without a word, he seized the knight by the collar of his armor, jerking him forward, and slammed his head into his own. The sickening crack of bone echoed, and blood dripped from the man’s mouth as he staggered backward, collapsing to the ground with a sharp gasp.

The other Sow’s Horn knights drew their weapons in unison, their hands trembling with anticipation as they pointed them at Ned’s men. The air thickened with tension, both sides poised to spill blood.

"You will take me to Lyanna Stark, now!" Ned bellowed, his voice thick with fury, as he loomed over the knight sprawled on the bloodied, mud-slicked ground, his hand pressed to his face, the red stain spreading across the earth beneath him.

The knight's smile never wavered, blood staining his teeth as he spoke, his voice laced with derision. "They’ve already gone, you fool. A few days past, Prince Rhaegar and his men rode out to King’s Landing. He took the Stark bitch as his prize. She should’ve been ours to do with as we pleased, after she dared to attack our home. But alas, the prince would not permit it."

The knight’s grin widened as he staggered to his feet, his companions lifting him with swords still drawn, their eyes never leaving Ned’s men. “The ones craven enough to survive or flee? Sent crawling back to the Riverlands like whipped dogs, tails between their legs. Not a shred of fight left in them.” He let out a low, cruel laugh, the sound thick with ridicule and pain.

After a few terse exchanges, a rider emerged from the open gates, the banner of the pink hog snapping sharply in the wind. He reined his horse to a halt, the clatter of hooves cutting through the tension, silencing the jeering men. They immediately fell quiet, eyes lowering in deference to the rider’s presence.

Ned regarded the rider, his eyes narrowing as he studied him, sensing the silent strength in his every movement. The man dismounted with practiced ease, removing his helm and giving a curt nod to the knights bearing the pink hog sigil on their breastplates.

"Sheathe your swords," he commanded, his voice calm yet firm. The knights obeyed at once, the tension easing as steel slid back into scabbards.

Ned’s men followed suit, their swords returning to their sheaths, while Hoster Tully motioned for his men to mount, ready to ride. Jon Arryn, ever the diplomat, had not unsheathed his sword—Ned found himself thinking bitterly, almost unconsciously.

The rider turned to Ned, bowing his head slightly. "My apologies, my lord," he said. "I assume you are Lord Stark?" Ned nodded in reply. "Forgive the behavior of my men. They have forgotten their place."

The burly man shot his men a sharp glare, his eyes flashing with displeasure. He was older than Jon Arryn or Hoster Tully, his grey hair and beard framing a face lined with age and wisdom. His sharp green eyes shone with the kind of experience that came from a lifetime of leadership, and though his features were now weathered by time, they had once been handsome. A man of strength and intellect, even in his years.

Ned’s gaze remained fixed on the older man as he replied stiffly, "Where is the lord of this castle?"

The rider’s expression darkened as he answered. "Lord Hogg has gone to King’s Landing with the Crown Prince and his forces. Lyanna Stark, who was our prisoner, has been freed and allowed to ride with Prince Rhaegar as an honorary subject. She will not be harmed, you have my word."

Ned snorted, the sound bitter and dismissive. He had no faith in the words of some Crownlands man, nor in the honor of a Targaryen.

He glanced around, his gaze sweeping over the castle before returning to Ned. “I am the Castellan of Sow’s Horn. I would offer you lord's hospitality… but Lady Hogg is within, and the heir to House Hogg with her. Though the rebellion has ended, she will not welcome outsiders into her halls—not after the carnage a Stark wrought here mere weeks ago.”

Ned, though still seething with the bitter remnants of his anger, lowered his gaze. Shame, not pride, filled his chest. “I see. Then we will be on our way,” he muttered, his voice low and rough as gravel. His eyes found the knight he had struck, the man’s fingers still pressed to his bloodied face, crimson seeping through the cracks between them. A cold, silent glare passed between them, heavy as a drawn blade.

Without another word, Ned nodded to the castellan as he turned away, the knights falling into formation behind him. They rode back to the safety of Sow’s Horn’s walls, hooves thudding dully against the earth. The man Ned had struck still clutched his bloodied face, his eyes dark with resentment, edged with a cruel, taunting glimmer. He mounted his horse with a wince, but his gaze never left Ned, a silent promise of grudges yet to be settled.

Ned watched them vanish behind the portcullis as it clanged shut, the sound harsh and final, sealing them within cold iron and stone. He swung into his saddle alongside the others, the last thud of the gates falling onto the thick brown earth, its echo lingering in the desolate air like a mourner’s sigh.

“I suppose we ride to King’s Landing now,” Jon murmured beside him. “Rhaegar will be waiting for us. Perhaps he has dealt with his father.”

Ned grunted in response, his face set in cold indignation. No more words passed between them as they turned their mounts away from Sow’s Horn. Behind them, servants continued shoveling dirt over the carnage littering the walls, the stink of death thick in the air.

They rode through scorched farmland, the earth blackened and desolate, as if the land itself had been burned to the bone. They could not head back, for the King’s Road lay blocked by great heaps of debris, the remnants of a war that had claimed more than just men.

Lord Mallister, ever the strategist, turned his gaze toward the thick woods that lay to the south of Sow’s Horn. The trees, twisted and blackened by fire, stood like sentinels guarding a forgotten way. The forest was their only option now.

"We will have to go through the trees," Jason Mallister's voice rang out, quiet but firm. "It’ll take time, and we’ll be slowed by the undergrowth. A day, maybe two, before the bulk of the army can catch up to those of us who make it through first."

Hoster Tully’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the forest, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The path was narrow and treacherous, the air thick with the smell of smoke and decay. It was not the ideal route for an army, but there was no choice. "We’ll lose time," Tully sighed, his voice gruff with resignation. "But better to lose time than not pass at all."

"Indeed," Lord Mallister agreed, his gaze flicking over the dense thicket. "We’ll move quickly, but carefully. We may be many, but we will make our way through." He spurred his horse forward, the animal's hooves crunching over the dry, charred ground as they ventured deeper into the forest.

The trees closed in around them, their gnarled branches twisting like the fingers of the dead. The scent of burnt wood and ash hung heavy in the air, clinging to their cloaks and armor. The forest seemed to stretch endlessly before them, its dark depths offering no promise of respite. It would take longer to navigate this path, but in the end, it was the only way forward. The bulk of their forces would follow, crawling through the woods like ants behind them, slow but certain.

Ned Stark, Hoster Tully, and Jon Arryn, along with their personal men-at-arms, were the first to make it through the dense thicket. Their horses moved with practiced ease, cutting through the undergrowth, while the soldiers behind them struggled to keep pace. The trees whispered their secrets as they passed, shadows shifting among the twisted branches.

The bulk of the army, though, remained behind, the sound of their movement muffled by the thick, choking fog of smoke that hung low over the land. Each step was a struggle, each passing moment another reminder of the toll of this war. There was no turning back now.

The deeper they traveled through the Crownlands, the more wandering smallfolk they encountered. At first, it was a trickle—refugees they had seen as far back as Harrenhal, dismissed then as simple folks fleeing bandits. But now, the trickle had become a flood, a steady stream that could no longer be ignored. This was no mere exodus from pillaged crownlands villages. Something was terribly wrong, and King's Landing was at the heart of it.

The smallfolk spoke of dragons burning King’s Landing to the ground. Ned could not tell if their words were meant literally or as desperate flights of fancy. He wasn’t sure which frightened him more, with Lyanna caught in the dragon’s jaws either way.

When they reached the bustling village of Brindlewood, it was clear something was amiss. The village teemed with far more people than it ever should. Even Ned knew a southern village had no business holding so many. Thousands clogged the muddy paths—most of them ragged, malnourished, and gaunt. Some bore the marks of beatings, faces mottled with bruises and cuts. Children huddled together, their eyes wild with fear. Cries echoed from shadowed alleys, while hollow faces stared blankly into the fading light.

“Should we stop or keep riding, Ned?” Hoster Tully implored, his voice muffled behind the cloth pressed to his nose to block out the stench.

Ned looked to the sky. The sun was all but gone, a sliver of pale gold against the gathering black. To ride through the night would mean facing the unseen dangers of the King’s Road. To stop meant lingering in a village teetering on the edge of chaos.

Both choices were perilous, but only one was clear.

“We ride,” Ned said, his voice resolute. Jon turned, his eyes sparking with the start of an argument. But he swallowed his words, his jaw tightening as he relented. The silence between them spoke louder than any quarrel.

“Better to take our chances on the road,” Ned continued. “If we ride hard, we can rest when morning light finds us. Staying here, trapped with frightened smallfolk and whatever terror drives them, is a fool’s gamble.”

Hoster nodded, his mouth a grim line of agreement. The hooves of their horses thudded against the dirt, louder now in the thickening dark. They pushed on, the shadows closing in behind them.

They rode through the night, their formation tight along the King’s Road, moving as a single mass of steel and shadow. The thundering of thousands of soldiers behind them reverberated through the earth, a relentless tide of iron and muscle that seemed to swallow the very road itself. The smallfolk, their faces drawn tight with fear and desperation, hurried northward, their eyes wide and flickering toward the riders. They cast furtive glances but kept their distance, knowing better than to offer a word. No one dared speak, not even the ones with rough faces and the look of bandits. They knew better than to test a force so well-armored and well-armed.

The road stretched on under the dark sky, the only sound the steady rhythm of hooves and the occasional creak of armor. The cool night air cut through them like a blade, but they pressed on, their destination looming ever closer. It was not until the first light of dawn began to bleed through the thick treeline that they finally came to a halt. The men dismounted with a groan, weary from their long ride, and made camp as the sun's first rays reached across the land.

Lord Umber, the gigantic, loud man who had been itching for a fight ever since their march began, murmured under his breath, his eyes scanning the horizon like a wolf searching for prey. It had been weeks since he'd last tasted battle, and the restlessness in his voice betrayed his anticipation. "It’s close now," he grunted, his voice thick with the promise of violence. His gaze shifted toward the far-off outline of the Red Keep, barely visible on the horizon. "The dragon's pit," he spat, his lips curling in distaste. "That wretched city is not so far. I can smell 'em."

The smallfolk, clustered together near the camp, talked in hushed tones, their words drifting through the air more clearly now that they were closer to King's Landing. The murmur of their voices, once indistinct, became sharper, more urgent. They spoke of what had happened in the capital. It had been over two weeks since King Aerys had unleashed his wrath upon Flea Bottom, his desperate act of madness with the wildfire still fresh in their memories. The city, it seemed, was teetering on the edge of destruction, with Aerys' madness threatening to take them all down with him.

Jon Arryn could barely stomach the words. His face paled at the mention of wildfire, the horror of it etched on his features. Hoster Tully cursed under his breath and muttered thanks to the gods that Aerys was dead—if the smallfolk were to be believed.

Ned Stark, however, had no such comfort. His face was set in a grim line as he listened to the merchant recounting the tale in exchange for a pouch of coins. The merchant's voice cracked with fear as he spoke of the horror and ruin, his words carrying the stench of desperation. But for Ned, the price had been too high—justice had slipped through his fingers yet again. He would not be the one to take Aerys' head, and it gnawed at him. The justice he had longed for, the act of ending the tyrant's reign—quenching his thirst for revenge—had come from another hand.

He turned away from the merchant, his hands clenched into fists, his gaze distant and hollow. Ned Stark’s heart felt like a weight in his chest, the bitter taste of failure souring his thoughts. He would return home empty-handed, his honor in tatters, his head bowed not in victory, but in defeat.

He had lost Lyanna, the sister he had promised to protect. Not to death, but to a marriage that had been nothing more than a bargain for peace—a peace that had come at the cost of his soul. Rhaegar had taken her, and Ned had let it happen, trading her freedom for the chance to end the bloodshed between their houses. Peace was the price, and Lyanna had paid it..

He had not taken Rhaegar’s head, nor Aerys’s, the kings who had torn the realm apart, nor had he been the one to end the Targaryen dynasty as he had once hoped. Robert was dead, and in the end, Ned could not save him, nor could he save the realm from its own self-destruction. He had been a soldier, a lord, a brother—but in the end, what had he truly accomplished?

Ned pushed down the gnawing self-hate, the bitterness that threatened to swallow him whole. This was not the justice he had imagined, the kind of justice that would make sense of all the suffering, the kind that would bring closure to the past. No, this was a bitter, jagged pill, one he could not swallow without feeling its sharp edges tear at him.

They broke camp by the afternoon, having allowed the remainder of the army, still trailing behind, to catch up. With the full force now assembled, they resumed their march, the final leg of their journey to King’s Landing. The air was thick with anticipation, each step bringing them closer to the city that had been at the heart of so many wars and betrayals.

As they neared the outskirts of King’s Landing, the first signs of the city’s disarray became clear. The smell of smoke lingered in the air, a pungent reminder of the destruction that had already claimed the city. From the horizon, rising tendrils of smoke could be seen curling into the sky, the cinders of rubble still smoldering. The stench of burning bodies mixed with the odorous smoke, a grim indicator of the aftermath of whatever had unfolded within those walls.

The bells of the city began to toll, a deep, mournful sound that echoed through the air. The gates of the city would likely close soon, Ned realized. Roose Bolton spoke at his side. "They'll close the gates, my lord. Likely fearing an invasion," he said in his cold, measured tone.

Ned nodded, his thoughts darkening. Rhaegar and his advisors, knowing full well the size and strength of the force they had brought south, would surely seal the gates against them, mistrusting their intentions.

Jon Arryn clicked his tongue in frustration. "We should have left the remaining men behind, back in the Riverlands. Bringing nearly ten thousand men combined... It was not wise. The crown may see it as an act of aggression."

But when they reached the banks of the gates, to their surprise, they were wide open. Men from both House Lannister and House Targaryen stood at attention, spears raised to the sky, swords still sheathed. It was not the reception of an incoming besieged city, but a welcoming party.

Ned’s mind was racing. Why allow the gates to stay open? He understood, then, as the realization dawned. Rhaegar was king now, and this was his show of peace—his declaration that he held the city firmly in his grasp. He would not fear their arrival. He would greet them like honored guests.

Hoster Tully’s voice cut through the moment of realization, loud with concern. "Why are there so many Lannister men here?" His eyes narrowed, following the banners flying high above the city walls. The golden lion of House Lannister waved proudly, alongside the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The sight sent a chill through the camp.

Jason Mallister mumbled under his breath, his eyes scanning the men gathered around the gates. "Lannister men seem to outnumber the Targaryens two to one in their own city..."

Ned’s gaze followed Mallister’s, his stomach tightening at the sight. There were indeed more Lannister soldiers than Targaryen ones, and the sight was unsettling. What had transpired within these walls? How had the balance of power shifted so? As they marched forward into the city, Ned’s mind whirled with questions, the answers still hidden behind the gates of the Red Keep.

Oddly enough, as they galloped through the streets of King’s Landing, Ned noticed a curious sight—merchants and smallfolk were returning to their keeps. The Blackwater Rush outside the gates was alive with activity, a stark contrast to the devastation that had marked their journey south. Many who had likely fled at the first sign of war were making their way back in droves, crossing the Narrow Sea from distant shores, eager to return home now that the worst of the fighting seemed to have passed. Others made their trek along Ned’s forces, pushing carts laden with their possessions or carrying bundles on their backs.

Ned's gaze shifted over the procession, and he couldn’t help but feel a pang of bittersweet realization. The fortunate are returning. Those who had the means—the wealth, the connections—had been able to escape the worst of the conflict. They now came back to the city they once called home, eager to reclaim what they had lost in the chaos of war.

It was a stark reminder of the imbalance that lay at the heart of the realm. For every merchant, every fortunate soul returning to the relative safety of King’s Landing, there were thousands of common folk who had been left to bear the brunt of the war, who had lost homes, families, and livelihoods. These were the people who would never be able to make such a return, who had no possessions to speak of but the tattered clothes on their backs.

They continued the ride through the winding streets of King’s Landing. Smallfolk scurried away, slipping into narrow alleys and dark doorways to avoid the marching rebel forces. Targaryen and Lannister men lined the streets, eyes sharp and hands near their blades, though none moved to draw.

Jon Arryn had ordered a peaceful march—swords sheathed, banners lowered—and the command had been passed through their ranks. Yet the air was thick with tension, each hoofbeat and footfall echoing like a drumbeat of unease.

The pace slowed as they wound deeper into the city’s cobbled streets. The stench of rot and refuse hung heavy in the morning air, clinging like a curse. Yet, as they climbed toward the more affluent districts beneath Aegon’s Hill, the filth thinned, and the streets widened, paved with smoother stone.

Ahead, the gates of the Red Keep loomed, dark and foreboding. Crimson banners snapped in the wind atop the battlements, their dragons twisting and writhing as if alive, guarding secrets that lay within.

Ned’s hands trembled with anticipation. His sister lay somewhere within those walls, and dread clawed at his gut. He prayed to the old gods that she was unharmed, that the Targaryens had not turned their wrath upon her.

The gates of the Red Keep yawned wide, and a dozen Targaryen guards in polished armor flanked the entrance. At their head stood Jon Connington, his fiery red hair and beard a beacon against the blue morning sky. His face wore a perpetual frown, and contempt simmered in his pale blue eyes.

Ned knew him well enough—they had crossed blades at the Battle of the Bells in Stoney Sept. He remembered Connington as the man who had fled from Robert’s hammer when the duel turned against him. A coward, Ned thought, who abandoned his pride and his honor once death came knocking. Connington’s retreat had let Robert escape their trap, and the realm had whispered that the Mad King stripped the hand of the king of lands and titles, demanding his head in payment for his failure.

Yet here he stood, a man who had lost everything, still clinging to the embers of duty.

"Lord Stark. Lord Arryn. Lord Tully." Jon Connington inclined his head respectfully, but his eyes betrayed him, cold and wary beneath his fiery brow.

"You are welcome in King’s Landing and shall be granted hospitality within the city, by decree of King Rhaegar," he announced, his voice carrying across the ranks for all to hear.

But there was a tightness to his jaw, a simmering tension barely concealed. He glanced at the host behind them—thousands of men, bristling with steel. His tone faltered, the script slipping through his fingers.

"Though you come here with an army at your back, with no clear intentions, and your purpose... hostile —"

That word snapped like a blade. Ned saw it for what it was. These were not the king’s words. They belonged to Jon Connington alone.

"Usurpers, the lot of you," Connighton whispered, his voice a low hiss, barely audible to those in the front of the line. He had mumbled it, just loud enough for Ned, Jon, and Hoster to hear, as if he sought to provoke them without anyone else knowing.

Ned’s fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword, but he said nothing. Connighton cleared his throat, the sound like the scrape of a blade drawn too soon. His gaze was hard, unwavering, as he prepared to continue before either Ned or Hoster could react with the fury that boiled beneath their skin.

Ned’s insides seethed. Usurper? The word sliced through him like a dagger. How dare Connighton call him that? Did the man forget the fires of his father's and brother's blood staining the soil, the horror of the Mad King's twisted righteousness? All Ned had ever sought was retribution, to bring justice in the name of House Stark. Yet here, Connighton dared to call him a usurper— him , who had done nothing but defend his honor, his house, and his land.

The storm inside him threatened to break free, but Ned swallowed it down, steadying his breath. Let the traitor speak. Let him say his piece. They all would answer when the time was right.

"King Rhaegar will expect all present lords to bend the knee and swear fealty. Until then, your forces will remain stationed outside King's Landing... all of them. Only the lords will be granted residence within the Red Keep."

Ned's voice cut through the tension. "When will I see my sister?"

The question hung in the air like a sword about to fall. Connighton’s lips tightened, his brow furrowing as though the thought of Lyanna Stark brought him no small discomfort. Jon Connighton bit the inside of his cheek, a fleeting flicker of unease betraying his calm exterior. "She is being treated fairly, as befits a woman of her station, in the Tower of the Hand."

Ned gave the signal, a single sharp gesture of his hand. At once, Lord Umber and Lord Bolton moved with practiced precision, taking command of the northern forces. The soldiers fell into formation, ready to march. Umber's deep voice rang out, and the men began to file toward the city gates, their heavy boots striking the ground in unison. They would camp outside King's Landing, just as they were ordered, watching over the roads and ensuring the men did not turn to banditry. Bolton’s grim, calculating eyes scanned the crowd, directing his men with chilling efficiency.

Hoster Tully, though reluctant, handed control of his forces over to Jonos Bracken, much to the visible displeasure of Lord Blackwood, who muttered something under his breath that only the closest heard. Bracken did not notice, or chose not to, as he barked orders, marshaling his troops with little fanfare. The knights of the Vale were given to a minor lord, one of the many names that had risen from the valley in recent years, his grim face set in absolute determination.

And with that, thousands of men turned, their steps heavy on the cobblestones as they began their march back outside the city’s walls, their soldiers trailing behind like shadows. The silence was broken only by the sounds of their marching boots and the occasional command.

As Ned and the other lords were escorted towards the Red Keep, the soldiers within the gates were tense, their gazes wary, as if watching for a threat that might come from any direction. The guards inside the Keep eyed them as they approached, their movements stiff, their hands near their swords, their eyes glinting with suspicion.

Connighton led them inside the castle, his posture rigid, his steps heavy as he guided them through the great halls. Not a word passed his lips; his silence was a cloak as thick as the stone walls around them. The tension in the air was palpable, thick with the unspoken tension between the men.

Once deep inside the Red Keep, it was Hoster Tully who broke the silence, his voice low, but full of anger. "They mean for our men to act as protection from bandits and to restore order to the outskirts of King's Landing," he hissed, his eyes narrowing with a bitter understanding. "We are nothing more than Rhaegar's puppets."

Ned’s jaw tightened. He had already considered the truth of it. Rhaegar had enough men to secure King’s Landing, enough to ensure his throne remained solid within the city’s walls, but it was the roads outside, the land beyond, that remained vulnerable. The Tullys, Starks, and Knights of the Vale would provide the strength needed to keep those roads safe, their ten thousand men offering the king the protection he needed. It was a silent deal, one the forces themselves weren’t even aware they were part of. It stuck in Ned’s throat like a bitter poison, but there was little else they could do now.

"We have nearly ten thousand men," Hoster continued, his voice rising with frustration. "Rhaegar has enough men to guard the walls, but not the roads. Now we provide him with that."

Ned’s eyes hardened, his grip on his sword tightening as he digested his words. Hoster was right, and the harsh reality of it all gnawed at him. He was here, in King's Landing, playing the king’s game, with no other choice but to comply. This was no longer about justice or honor—it was about the North’s survival.

The air in the Red Keep was heavy with apprehension, every step echoing against cold stone walls as they were marched through halls lined with watchful soldiers. The men flanking them were stiff, their hands resting too easily on the hilts of their swords. Eyes followed the Northern and Riverlands lords with barely concealed disdain, though none dared speak outright. It was clear they were unwelcome.

Jon Connington stopped abruptly at the fork of a hallway, his expression cold as a snowstorm. “You’ll be escorted to separate quarters,” he said, his voice carrying just enough authority to remind them who held power here. “And you will relinquish your weapons.”

The lords exchanged looks, anger and disbelief written on their faces. Hoster Tully’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he unbuckled his sword belt and handed it over to a waiting soldier without a word. Jon Arryn followed suit, though his hand lingered on the hilt for a moment too long, as if saying goodbye to an old friend.

Ned, however, hesitated. His hand tightened on the hilt of Ice , the weight of the greatsword a familiar comfort. He met Connington’s gaze, his jaw clenched. “This sword belongs to House Stark,” he said. “I’ll not part with it.”

Connington sneered. “No one is asking for you to forgo your sword, Stark. Only to hold it for safekeeping. You never know who might try to stab King Rhaeger in the back.” His tone was thick with accusation, the implication hanging in the air like smoke. Ned’s blood burned, but he forced himself to remain still.

Reluctantly, he unsheathed Ice . Its blade glinted in the dim torchlight, as though it resented being handed over. He passed it to a Lannister soldier, the man’s smug smirk enough to set Ned’s teeth on edge.

“They’ll be returned to you once you leave the Red Keep,” Connington added, his voice almost mocking. “You have my word.”

Jon Arryn gave Ned a nod as he was led away, but Ned ignored him, his gaze hard. Tension flickered between them, unspoken and sharp. Hoster Tully clapped a heavy hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Keep your wits about you,” he said gruffly before following his escort down another corridor.

Connington gestured for Ned to follow, and they walked in silence through the labyrinthine halls of the castle. The Red Keep was alive with activity—servants darting through passageways, arms full of linens and platters, their faces flushed from exertion. Others were scrubbing walls and floors, their hands raw and red. Everywhere Ned looked, Targaryen banners were being hung, the three-headed dragon glaring down from crimson fields.

The further they walked, the more the air changed, carrying with it the scent of roasting meats and spiced wine. Servants rushed by, their steps quick and deliberate, murmuring about preparations for a grand feast.

At last, Connington stopped before a chamber. He pushed the door open, revealing a room that was both lavish and unsettling. The stone walls were damp with moisture, but they were adorned with fine tapestries and gilded candelabras. A fire crackled in the hearth, but it did little to chase away the chill.

As Connington stepped aside, Ned entered slowly, his instincts prickling. The door shut behind him with a finality that set his nerves on edge. He turned, realizing it was only him and Connington left in the chamber.

Ned’s hand moved instinctively to his hip, seeking the familiar weight of Ice . His fingers brushed empty air, and the absence struck him like a blow. He squared his shoulders, his face betraying nothing, but inside he cursed himself for giving up the blade.

Connington’s lips curled into a thin smile, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Make yourself comfortable, Stark,” he said, his tone as sharp as any Valyrian steel. “You’ll be summoned when the king is ready.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and exited, leaving Ned alone in the dim, cold room.

Ned sat in the chamber, the silence closing around him like a steel trap. The damp air clung to his skin, thick with the mingled scents of cold stone and the faint mustiness of aging tapestries. The flicker of torchlight cast long shadows on the walls, making the room feel smaller, as though the very castle conspired to crush him. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Dark thoughts swirled through his mind, each one sharper and more bitter than the last, like the edge of a blade honed to kill.

His fingers brushed absently over the wound on his thigh, a deep gash left by the blade of the false knight. The flesh around it still ached, a constant throb that kept pace with the beat of his heart. Ned grimaced, knowing the bandage needed changing, but the thought of exposing it again filled him with a reluctant weariness. The wound was a reminder, not just of the battle, but of how precariously the line between life and death could be crossed.

It was in this very castle, just two years past, that his father and Brandon had met their cruel ends—strangled and burned, their deaths a macabre spectacle for a mad king's twisted amusement. The thought seared through him, a pain that time had failed to dull. He could almost feel their echo of defiant cries, the hollow emptiness left by the wildfire’s rath. 

And Robert... gods, Robert. His bones were left to rot on some nameless field, his entire body would never return to Storm's End. No cairn, no tomb, just memories scattered to the wind. They would send Robert's head back to his family, a cruel mockery of the burial he deserved. The thought turned Ned's stomach, a sickness churning within him. A warrior of Robert's stature deserved more than a head in the ground.

He gritted his teeth, his jaw aching from the pressure. Anger, grief, and regret tangled together, a black storm in his mind. His fingers twitched at his empty hip where Ice should have been, a cruel reminder that his power was not his own here.

A sharp knock shattered the silence.

Before he could rise, the door swung open, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges. Several Targaryen soldiers entered, their armor clinking softly as they flanked a figure Ned would have known anywhere.

Lyanna.

Her raven-dark curls spilled around her face, longer than he remembered, her head bowed as she struggled against the firm grip of one of the soldiers. Her eyes were downcast, her hand swatting irritably at the man holding her arm. They pushed her forward, and when she looked up, her gaze met Ned's.

She gasped. “Ned.”

The word was a whisper, a thread of desperate hope. She broke free of the soldiers, shoving past them with a strength that belied her slender frame. She flung herself into his arms, and he caught her, enveloping her in a fierce embrace.

Ned's arms tightened around her, his heart pounding against his ribs. Duty, war, vengeance—all of it melted away. She smelled of salt air and southern spices, of windswept freedom and quiet suffering. He felt her shoulders shake as she wept into his chest. His own eyes burned, but he blinked the tears away, swallowing the ache in his throat.

Memories rushed over him: Brandon's laughter, his father's steady voice, the safety of Winterfell in simpler times. The world had been smaller then, less cruel. But that world was gone, and all that was left was this—his sister’s trembling frame in his arms.

“Let me look at you, Lya,” Ned murmured, his voice laced with emotion.

“I’m fine, Ned,” Lyanna insisted, her voice trembling like a hammer on the verge of snapping. She hastily wiped at her tears, her fingers trembling as they brushed her cheeks. Her attempt at composure was thin, a fragile mask that could shatter at any moment.

Ned studied her, his grey eyes narrowing. “You do not look fine,” he said softly, his voice laden with both concern and the weight of their shared grief.

Lyanna turned her face away, her jaw tightening. “I’m alive,” she murmured. “That’s enough.”

“It isn’t,” Ned replied, stepping closer. “Not for me.”

He needed to see for himself. Needed to know if Rhaegar—or any other monster—had harmed her. He took a step back, his eyes scanning her face. Gaunt from hunger, perhaps, but not broken. Her cheeks were pale, but there were no bruises. Her eyes, though dulled, still held a spark of the wild Lyanna he knew. She was taller, the girl he remembered now hardened into a woman shaped by war and death.

Regret stabbed at him, cold and sharp. He had let her lead men to war, let his own anger blind him to the risk. What had he done?

Her hair was longer now, falling to her shoulder blades in unruly waves. Once, she had kept it cut just below her ears, a symbol of her defiance. Now, though still short by southern standards, it marked the passage of time, of hardship endured.

Then he saw it—the bandage on her shoulder.

Ned’s jaw clenched tighter as he lightly touched the bandage on her shoulder, his fingers grazing the edge of the cloth. “How did you get this, Lya?” he demanded, his voice rising with a sharpness he rarely allowed himself.

“It’s nothing,” Lyanna said quickly, averting her gaze. “A soldier at Sow’s Horn caught me off guard, sunk his blade deep in my shoulder.”

His stomach twisted with guilt. He had failed her. The girl who had once raced him through the snowdrifts of Winterfell was now standing before him, scared and broken, inside and out.

Then his eyes fell to her wrist, wrapped in a crude bandage, the skin beneath mottled with deep bruises. His rage flared like a struck match.

“Who?” he barked, his voice low and dangerous. He grabbed her wrist gently but firmly, his thumb brushing the discolored skin. She winced, but whether from his touch or his anger, he couldn’t tell.

Lyanna looked at him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears, silently pleading for him to drop the subject. But Ned would not follow. 

“Out,” Ned said to the Targaryen soldiers standing near the door, his voice cold as the FrostFangs.

They hesitated, glancing at one another, unsure.

“Let them be,” their commander finally shrugged. Reluctantly, the soldiers filed out, their armor clinking softly with each step. The door closed behind them with a hollow thud, leaving Ned and Lyanna alone.

Silence settled again, heavy and suffocating. Ned turned back to his sister, his eyes dark with unspoken fury.

“Who did this to you, Lya?” he asked again, his voice a whisper now, but no less fierce.

Lyanna met his gaze, her tears catching the dim light, but she said nothing. And in that silence, Ned’s rage turned cold and sharp, like a blade honed for vengeance. His hands tightened into fists at his sides, the rage simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. Whoever had done this—whoever had dared to harm his sister—would pay. Of that, he was certain.

"Rhaegar," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked away, her fingers clutching the edge of her sleeve as if to ground herself. "I lied, Ned," she admitted, her voice trembling. "Rhaegar... he was the one who cut into my shoulder. Not some lowborn soldier of House Hogg."

Ned flinched at the name, as if it were a physical blow. His breath hitched, and for a moment, his vision blurred with red-hot anger. But as the word settled in the room, the sharpness of his rage dulled, replaced by a cold resolve. Perhaps true justice was beyond his grasp, but he would ensure Rhaegar Targaryen felt the weight of his presence in King’s Landing. If nothing else, he would make the man regret every breath they shared beneath this cursed roof.

Ned bit the inside of his cheek, the sharp sting barely keeping his rising anger in check. Before he could unleash a tirade about flattening Rhaegar’s nose—or worse—Lyanna’s voice broke through, cutting off his thoughts.

Her words came in halting bursts, filled with loathing and remorse, each confession more painful than the last. She spoke of how she had defied Jon Arryn’s order for a cessation of violence, her pride blinding her to the consequences. She had rallied her men and led them in a reckless assault on Sow’s Horn, driven by fury and the misguided belief that she could bring the Crownlands to a heel with one decisive blow.

She recounted the disaster that followed—how hundreds of men had fallen under her command, their blood spilled for nothing more than her thirst for revenge. She spoke of the square in Sow’s Horn, where she had faced Rhaegar himself, desperate to bring the conflict to a close. Lyanna had attacked him with all the ferocity she could muster, even going so far as to shove a glass shard into his exposed belly.

But Rhaegar had been stronger, faster, and precise. She described the moment he fractured her wrist with repetitive brutal strikes, his rage palpable and unforgiving. The shame in her voice was unmistakable as she spoke of her capture, of how she was a prisoner first in Sow’s Horn and now in King’s Landing.

“They call me free, but it’s only in name,” she murmured, her voice laced with defeat.

Ned’s fists clenched at his sides as rage and mortification churned within him, an unrelenting storm. He listened, his heart sinking with each word. She had been out there, fighting, suffering, while he had stayed behind, trusting Jon Arryn’s diplomacy to forge peace.

Her voice grew quieter as she spoke of her months in the Crownlands, sacking castles, forcing lords into submission, and losing pieces of herself with every battle. Each sentence seemed to weigh heavier on her, and her steel eyes dulled with each admission.

“I thought I could make it right, Ned,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I thought I could fix everything. But I only made it worse.”

Ned stared at her, the fire of his anger now tempered by guilt and sorrow. She had taken on burdens no one should have to bear, and he had failed her. He had failed to protect her, and now they both carried the weight of those failures.

"I do not know why Rhaegar is so insistent on keeping me here in King’s Landing," Lyanna complained resentfully. "He should have left me at Sow’s Horn for their justice. Or maybe," she added, a mirthless smile breaking across her face, "he fears that if the lords of the Crownlands take my head, the North will rebel again."

Her words twisted something inside Ned, but before he could answer, she went on.

"I nearly killed him—Rhaegar, I mean." Her voice dropped, brittle and sharp, as if the words alone might shatter the walls of the Red Keep. "They say he was in a fevered sleep for days after I almost gutted him like a pig."

Ned’s breath caught. He wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or terror-stricken. Lyanna, killing the crown prince—now king—would have lost her head, without question.

But it muddied the waters. Lyanna surely despised Rhaegar for what he was—a Targaryen, a dragon wrapped in silk and lies. And now, to learn that Rhaegar might despise her just as fiercely? Ned swallowed, the taste unpleasant. He prayed the new king would not mistreat her once they were wed, but prayers felt like fragile things in a world ruled by dragons.

The thought chilled him to the bone. He would not see Lyanna reduced to another Elia Martell—mocked, tormented, and paraded like a broken thing for the court’s amusement while the king looked on, smiling. Even in the high halls of the Eyrie, far from King’s Landing, Ned had heard the stories carried on cold mountain winds. Tales of Aerys’s cruelties were many, but those that spoke of the princess of Dorne lingered longest. They said the Mad King had delighted in her shame, in the tears she dared not shed, and the fear she dared not show.

No, Ned vowed. Lyanna would never suffer such a fate—not while he still drew breath.

"Others take me," he muttered under his breath.

Clearly, Lyanna had no idea what was coming. Whether Rhaegar had avoided telling her or simply lacked the courage, Ned couldn’t say. And while he couldn’t entirely blame the man—Lyanna’s temper was as sharp as her tongue and as wild as her spirit—there was no avoiding it now.

Ned took a steadying breath, but it did little to calm the anxiousness in his chest. The words felt like stones in his mouth, heavy and jagged, yet they had to be spoken. Better she heard it from him than from the king’s men. Better it came from her brother than her captor.

"Lyanna, there’s something I need to tell you," Ned said at last, his voice weary as he motioned for her to sit beside him.

Her brow furrowed, eyes searching his face, trying to read the man she had known for so long. "What is it, Ned? Is it Catelyn? Or—Benjen?" Her voice trembled, betraying her unease.

Ned shook his head, the motion slow and deliberate, as if each word he spoke weighed more than the last. "No. It’s neither of them."

For a long moment, the silence between them stretched. Ned could feel his throat tightening, a strange mix of dread and resolve coiling within him. The words he had rehearsed in his mind felt foreign, unwilling to take form. But he had given his word—sworn an oath to a man whose name he could not forget.

"Lya... peace with the crown came at a price. A heavy one." Ned’s voice was low, as though the words themselves weighed him down. He took another breath, forcing his heart to steady. "Jon Arryn was convinced we could not win this war. I myself am now certain there was no way we could have overcome such odds after losing the Stormlands." His gaze darkened, his mind revisiting the crushing defeat. "The terms for peace were simple—we would not rise again, and none of us would lose our heads."

Lyanna’s face remained a mask, her eyes fixed on his with an intensity that cut deeper than any blade. But Ned could see it—the faint tension in her shoulders, the subtle tightening of her fists.

"But Rhaegar does not trust us," he pressed on, his voice rougher now. "Not fully. He demanded more."

Her eyes narrowed, knife-like and cold. "What does that mean?" she asked, her voice steady but beneath it, there was a tremor—a crack in the stone she had always been.

Ned clenched his jaw, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. He forced the words out, each one like a stone lodged in his chest. "He’s asked for your hand in marriage." He hesitated, then added, "Or rather, he means to honor the betrothal Aerys set in place all those moons ago."

Silence fell like a heavy cloak between them. The air grew thick with it, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

When Ned dared to look up, Lyanna’s mouth hung slightly open, her gaze distant, as though the world around her had turned to ash. Her eyes were bright with something he couldn’t quite place; fear, anger, betrayal. Perhaps all of them, tangled into one.

But Ned could not bear it. He dropped his gaze to the cold stone floor once again, his heart hammering in his chest as if it might break through. He waited for the thunderstorm to come, the words or the blows that would follow. The truth had been spoken. Now, the weight of it would crush them both.

"I agreed to these terms, Lya," he said quietly, his voice raw with contrition. "I am so sorry, but I saw no other way. Rhaegar would not budge on this. We cannot continue this war without the might of the Stormlands behind us, and with the Tyrells now free to march, all hope is lost." His words hung in the air like a noose tightening around his neck.

Ned rubbed the back of his head, the motion awkward, pathetic, as he nervously chuckled, watching Lyanna. She didn’t respond. The tension in the room swelled, her silence more deafening than any cry of rage.

Suddenly, she sprang to her feet, her movement sharp and swift, like a deluge breaking loose. She started pacing the room, her brow furrowed, etched in frustration, her fists clenched at her sides. Her face was flushed with anger, the veins standing out along her neck. Her eyes burned with a fire he had not seen in years—the same fire she had carried with her when she rode out from Riverrun, her men trailing behind her. A fire that had always been fierce and unyielding.

"How could you, Ned?" Her voice was cold, almost detached, as though each word was a blade she was cutting into him with. It sent a chill down his spine. Lyanna, the girl he had always known to be passionate and wild, was now a stranger before him—calm, collected, and so very cold.

"I am to marry a Targaryen," she whispered, her voice carrying disbelief, "the old gods are cruel. Cruel, I say."

Ned flinched, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. He had sold his sister to Rhaegar, for better or worse, and now he had to live with the consequences of that choice. It was a betrayal he could never take back, no matter how many times he apologized.

"However Lyanna, he has harmed you," Ned's voice tinged with desperation. "That was not part of the agreement. I believe I can get Rhaegar to back off, or expose him as a man who strikes women. He would be shamed, and you could be free."

Lyanna stopped pacing abruptly, a sharp snort escaping her lips as she ran a hand through her unruly hair, her vexation evident. "No, Ned," she said, her voice low but firm, almost as if she were speaking to a child. "You do not know Rhaegar at all. I’ve spent a week with the man. I don’t know him well, but I do know he is stubborn, and he has a twisted sense of honor like us Starks. He will not go back on his word, no matter what you say."

Ned was silent for a moment, her words sinking in. He watched her, his heart aching as she muttered obscenities under her breath, her brows drawn tight with irritation. Then, after what seemed an eternity of pacing, she finally sank heavily into the seat beside him.

"I will marry him," she said quietly, almost as if she were speaking to the gods themselves, too softly for any living soul to hear.

Ned blinked in bafflement, his mouth falling open. "Wait, what?" His voice cracked, his shock evident. He had half-expected Lyanna to draw a knife and thrust it into his throat once she learned of his dealings, but the fire had left her. All that remained was a weary acceptance. Her shoulders sagged, her face a picture of defeat.

Before Ned could muster another word, before he could beg her to fight, to find some way to resist, Lyanna held up her hands, stopping him cold.

"No, Ned. I will not repeat the same mistakes I made two years ago," Lyanna said, her voice trembling as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. One broke free, rolling down her cheek. "If I had married Robert Baratheon when Father made the betrothal all those moons ago, after the tourney at Harrenhal, I would have been under his protection. Aerys may have been mad, but even he could not have annulled the marriage between Robert and I, in favor of Rhaegar. This is all my fault, Ned. Mine. If I had not been a stubborn, foolish girl who dreamed of being a knight or traveling to Essos, Brandon and Father would still be alive. They would not have ridden to King’s Landing for my honor."

Her voice splintered as she spoke, the weight of her words nearly suffocating. Lyanna was all but sobbing now, her head falling into Ned’s lap as her body shook violently. The tremors in her chest made it impossible for her to catch her breath, each sob a raw testament to the burden she had carried in silence for so long.

Ned froze, his heart shattering as he processed her confession. Did Lyanna truly believe that her choices had led to all this madness? The bloodshed, the devastation, the destruction of their family? His chest tightened as he realized the depth of her self-loathing.

No, he thought, this was not her fault. She was just a girl, caught in the web of their father’s machinations, Brandon’s impulsiveness, and the madness of a Targaryen King. 

Ned’s mind, however, turned inward, and he was confronted with the guilt of his own actions. He had pushed Robert to meet Lyanna, despite knowing who Robert truly was—kind, yes, but also a man of the battlefield, a whoremonger at heart. Lyanna would have despised him, and Ned knew that in his heart, but he had ignored it. He had been selfish, wanting Robert to be more than just a friend, wanting him to be his brother in a way that transcended mere friendship.

He gently soothed her back, his voice soft but firm as he whispered assurances. "This is not your fault, Lyanna. It is Aerys’ fault. It is the fault of that mad king and his incestuous family. Not yours."

But Lyanna wasn’t listening. She was lost in her own sorrow, her thoughts unraveling with every word.

"That is why I was so adamant about riding south, Ned," she continued, her voice low, almost to herself. "On leading my own men. I had to rectify my wrongs. Not only avenge father and Brandon, but wash my hands of their blood with even more blood. Ridiculous, I know."

Her words stung, each one a confession of guilt and sorrow that she had carried for too long. Ned swallowed hard, holding her tighter, trying to anchor her in the present, in the reality where none of this was her fault.

And so Lyanna stayed there in Ned’s lap for what felt like an eternity, her body trembling in the aftermath of her grief. Slowly, the sobs subsided, and the silence stretched long between them. Then, there came a raspy knock at the door, a sound that seemed to jar the air with its abruptness. Lyanna wiped at her eyes with his handkerchief, hastily composing herself as Ned rose to his feet. The door opened.

Hoster Tully entered, his fine southern tunic and silk making him appear every bit the lord of Riverrun, now free of his armor. Clean-shaven and freshly groomed, he looked the very picture of a nobleman. His eyes softened when they landed on Lyanna, seeing the traces of her tears.

"Ned, it is time," Hoster said, his voice firm yet gentle, the enormity of duty pressing on him. "The king is riding back to the Red Keep now. He will be preparing for the swearing of fealty in the coming hour. Prepare, my boy."

Ned nodded, his throat tight, but before he could respond, Hoster’s gaze turned to Lyanna. He stepped toward her, his arms opening in comfort. "Come here, my child," he said, embracing her warmly, his rough hands gentle as he patted her back. "It will be alright."

Lyanna clung to him for a moment, the comfort of his presence soothing her as she fought to regain her composure. It was clear that she had come to respect Lord Hoster deeply during their brief time together at Riverrun, and in return, he had grown fond of her, seeing in her the strength and sorrow of the Starks.

"It’s good to see you alive and well," Hoster said softly, stepping back to study her. "Look at you, a woman grown." His words, though simple, broke the tension in the room, and Lyanna allowed herself a small smile.

Ned watched the exchange quietly, grateful for the warmth that Hoster had given her in this dark hour.

"Very well, I will be on my way," Hoster said, giving Lyanna one last reassuring look before turning to Ned. "Please, get ready. Dress appropriately. The king expects all of us."

As he left the room, it was Lyanna who spoke next, her voice steady but tinged with the same cold fierceness she had shown in the past. "And that is why I will marry Rhaegar, Ned. For family, for duty, for honor."

Her words were heavy, the repetition of House Tully’s vows ringing in the air. Ned stepped closer, pulling her into a warm embrace. His hand stroked her hair, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the turmoil she had been through.

" The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives ," Ned whispered into her hair, the words more of a mantra than anything else, a reminder of what they both carried, and what they both stood to lose.

Lyanna pulled back slightly, her expression serious. "I will not harm him, Ned. I swear it, as long as he does not attempt to harm me. The war is over, I have no reason to kill him now." Her voice hardened, as if to seal the oath. "I will open my legs for him, please him as a wife should, wear the stupid crown… but I swear it, Ned. I will never bear his children."

Her words hung in the air, a finality in them that chilled Ned’s bones. He looked into her eyes, the fierce determination in them unmistakable. She had made her peace with this, but in a way that was her own, a way that allowed her to endure.

Ned would not argue with her; she was already giving up so much for their house. How could he demand she carry Rhaegar’s children? The thought of it stirred something dark in his chest, but he suppressed it. She had made a sacrifice, one far greater than most could fathom. Her resolve was steel now, tempered by the weight of the realm she had been asked to bear.

"I will not have my children tainted with madness," Lyanna whispered, her voice so soft, yet laden with an unyielding conviction that struck deep in Ned’s heart. He nodded, the silence between them speaking volumes.

"Whatever you choose, Lyanna," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "just know you would be a great mother."

Her smile was sad, tinged with something he couldn’t name, before she turned away, slipping out of the chamber with the grace of someone who had resigned herself to an unwelcome fate. As she passed through the doorway, the guards stationed outside snapped to attention and flanked her, her presence as commanding as it was sorrowful. She was already on her way to her chambers, to dress in splendid attire fit for a Queen. 

Ned sighed as the sound of her footsteps faded down the corridor. It felt as though a piece of him had walked out the door with her. The chamber seemed unnaturally still without her presence, and as he exhaled slowly, the maids entered, bustling in a flurry of movement. They made quick work of stripping him of his dirty armor, their hands gentle but firm as they led him to a hot bath. The steam filled the room, a momentary comfort before the weight of the day crashed down once more.

After the bath, they dressed him in a fine doublet, his northern ruggedness replaced with southern finery. The dark fabric was rich, embroidered with the sigil of House Stark in gold thread, yet it felt foreign to him—too soft, too... southern. They finished him off with fine boots and trousers, his reflection in the mirror showing him not as a Stark of Winterfell but as a man who belonged to this gilded court of kings and intrigues. He barely recognized the man staring back at him.

Ned was escorted out of the chamber shortly thereafter, flanked by a dozen Lannister and Targaryen men. They were there, no doubt, to ensure that he wouldn’t do anything rash, to keep him in check or to project some semblance of control over his movements. Ned could not decide which. He had no love for the Targaryens, nor any great affection for the Lannister men who surrounded him like hawks eyeing a wounded deer. They did not know him, and they did not understand what he carried.

Ned, Hoster, and Jon Arryn stood at the threshold of the throne room, the heavy wooden doors groaning open as they were granted entry. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to them, the importance of their entrance not lost on Ned. Rhaegar Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, an image of regal composure as he listened to a debriefing. The hush that followed was punctuated by the sharp, uncomfortable whispers of the highborn gathered within the throne room. Their gazes varied—some filled with hatred, others with curiosity or excitement, each one dissecting the scene before them with a practiced eye.

Ned’s heart clenched as his gaze swept over the room, taking in the walls scarred by Aerys’ madness. The charred cobblestone floor and walls were a testament to the violence and chaos that had erupted here. This is where Aerys’ madness claimed my father and brother, Ned thought angrily. The Targaryen king may have changed, but the stain of madness still lingered, stubborn and impossible to erase.

"You stand in front of King Rhaegar of House Targaryen," a herald's voice boomed, pulling Ned from his thoughts. "The First of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

The words seemed hollow to Ned. He knew the titles, knew the man sitting on the throne, but it was not the same. Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully wasted no time, both of them dropping to one knee in a show of respect. But Ned remained standing, his posture rigid, unyielding. His gaze locked with Rhaegar’s, a mixture of apprehension and defiance on his face. This was the man who killed his best friend on the battlefield, the man who had fought against his house Stark, and the man who was now poised to take his sister.

Rhaegar’s regal presence was undeniable. His violet eyes gleamed with a calm intensity, framed by his silver hair and sharp features. Next to him, the dowager Queen Rhaella stood, her presence almost as imposing as his own. Her cold violet eyes met Ned’s, studying him with an air of detached judgment, her hand resting lightly on the Iron Throne. Let them pass their judgment, Ned thought darkly. They do not know what true loss is.

The tension in the throne room thickened as the whispers among the highborn died down, all of them now watching the silent confrontation. The king’s guards, stationed at the base of the Iron Throne, had their hands on their swords, a clear signal that any misstep would not be tolerated.

Ned’s fists clenched at his sides. He could feel his anger rising, the weight of history pressing against him. Ned had promised himself that he would remain calm, that he would bend the knee and be done with it. But here, in this moment, standing before Rhaegar and the dowager queen, it was all he could do not to let the fury spill out.

The Iron Throne, the seat of power, seemed to mock him as it shimmered in the torchlight. He could not bring himself to kneel before the family that had brought so much death to his own. 

The room seemed to hold its breath, the moment stretched taut with tension. Rhaegar’s violet eyes did not leave Ned’s, and for a moment, it felt as though time itself had paused.

They are all monsters, Ned decided. No better than the mad king they had overthrown. The thought plagued him as he stood before the Iron Throne, his mind a tangled web of anger and misery. His family, his home, had been torn apart by the whims of these people. Rhaegar, with his eyes full of cold beauty, and the rest of them, all of them—no better than the others Old Nan would speak of, those twisted and cruel figures of the past.

But then, near the edge of the throne, he caught her gaze—Lyanna’s eyes, dark with pain yet filled with something else. Pleading, soft, and yet resolute. She knew. She always knew. The war was over. The North had lost. Fighting now would only bring more death, more blood spilled in vain. Lyanna had seen it firsthand—the slaughter at Sow’s Horn, her men cut down on the walls due to her stubbornness. She had accepted the bitter truth, and now Ned had to as well.

He did not want to kneel. His pride, his fury, screamed at him to stand tall, to refuse the crown’s power, to spit in its face. But Lyanna’s silent plea—her soft, invisible command—was enough to break him. He bent his knee before the throne, slowly, painfully, as his ruined thigh ached with the movement. The room, tense and suffocating, seemed to hold its breath. The moment stretched as he kneeled. 

The tension in the throne room released like a held breath, the lords who had been watching him, waiting for him to submit, let out a collective sigh. The guards who had stood with their hands on their swords relaxed, their grip loosening. Even Rhaegar seemed to soften, his posture easing as he allowed himself what might be the closest thing to a smile—a thing so thin and practiced it could hardly be called kindness.

I will not be fooled, Ned thought, feeling the coldness of the moment settle into him.

And yet, he had bent the knee. The war was over. They had lost.

“Rise, my lords,” Rhaegar called out, his voice ringing across the room, deep and resonant. “For it is a new day in Westeros. Madness will no longer rule these lands, but prosperity and peace.”

The words hung in the air like a taunt, and before Ned could even process them, the lords in the room erupted into cheers. Their voices were like a great wave, rising and crashing in exultation. They were free of Aerys’ madness, they believed. They would have their peace, even if it was built on the backs of the dead.

All those who had risen against the crown, Rhaegar declared, would not see punishment. “This is my edict,” he said, his voice unwavering, and all in attendance knew it was final. There would be no further war, no more bloodshed. The North had bowed, the stormlands would kneel, and the war was truly over.

The thought twisted Ned’s gut. He had bent the knee, but that did not mean he would forgive. The war was over, yes, but that did not erase the blood spilled, the lives lost. It did not bring back Brandon or his father. It did not make the price of peace any easier to bear. Yet he stood there, as the court cheered around him.

The Warden of the North had knelt, and the war was done. But Ned could not shake the feeling that something darker had been born in that moment, something that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Peace, they called it. 

Ned rose steadily with the help of Hoster Tully, ignoring the hand offered by Jon Arryn. Jon’s eyes lingered on him, a sad, silent understanding passing between them. He did not need Jon’s pity now. His eyes turned piercing as he glanced toward the throne, where Rhaegar sat. The strain in the throne room was slowly easing. 

At the base of the Iron Throne, Ned’s gaze lingered on Arthur Dayne, standing tall and proud, his dark features calm and composed, but it was Barristan Selmy who caught his attention. The old knight, he once so revered, was now a target for Ned’s cold fury. He could not suppress the hatred that flooded his chest. Barristan Selmy, the man who had sworn to protect the kingdom, had followed the Targaryens blindly, standing by as the realm burned. The anger was sharp, biting, and venomous, as his ruined leg throbbed with pain. 

Barristan, sensing the heat of Ned’s glare, averted his eyes, a look of shame flickering on his weathered face. Ned could not allow himself to act rashly, not here. Not now. The silence between them stretched long as they were ushered to the side of the throne room, away from the eye of the king.

The words from Rhaegar floated over the room, silken and smooth, each one of them meant to placate the highborn of Westeros. The rebellion was done, the North had bent the knee, and now there would be peace. At least, that was what Rhaegar promised. There was no talk of punishment, no mention of justice for the men who had ravaged the Seven Kingdoms. Just a façade of reconciliation.

Ned could not suppress the sneer that curled on his lips when Rhaegar mentioned Stannis Baratheon and his new lordship of Storm’s End. His thoughts returned to the bloody conflict, the lives lost, and the promises made. And then came the next matter: the fate of Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Aerys’ former hand.

The man was dragged before them, his face bruised and bloodied, clothes tattered, his once-proud figure now broken and disheveled. He screeched with madness, spitting vile words as he was forced to his knees. "You hypocrite," Chelsted sneered, eyes wide with hatred and fear, pointed directly at Rhaegar. "How dare you pass judgment now. When your father burned alive those who were traitors, you said nothing. Now you want to be the judge?"

Ned’s gaze hardened. Chelsted’s words cut deeper than the man could have known. He is right, Ned thought resentfully, though he would never voice it. Aerys Targaryen had been a monster, but it had been Rhaeger’s inaction that had set the stage for all that followed. 

Chelsted spat at Rhaegar, and the sound echoed through the chamber. Gasps filled the room, and before anyone could react, a member of the gold cloaks smashed the butt of his sword into the man’s mouth, sending blood splattering across the floor. The audience recoiled, but Rhaegar held up a hand, silencing them.

Ned watched, stoic, as the man was forced to the ground. The accusations were clear, damning. Conspiring with Aerys. Orchestrating the wildfire plot that had nearly destroyed King’s Landing, that had leveled Flea Bottom, with tens of thousands of souls lost. 

Chelsted’s words grew more incoherent, maddened by pain and the brokenness of his mind. "Stupid boy," he spat, through broken teeth. "Your father was right. You’re a weakling. Not fit for the throne. You will doom the Targaryen dynasty."

The words hung in the air, and many in the room, including Ned, felt the tremor of truth in them. Rhaegar’s eyes darkened, his hand rising to give the final command.

"Take him," Rhaegar declared coldly. "He will meet the executioner's blade on the morrow for his crimes."

As the traitor was dragged away, screaming of fire and justice, his maniacal laughter echoed off the walls of the throne room. It sent a chill down Ned’s spine, and the taste of madness lingered in his mouth like embers of a dying flame.

"And that is all for now, my lady, lords," Rhaegar said, his voice smooth, practiced. "We will convene on the morrow. As for our guest..." His eyes shifted to Ned’s party, an unreadable glint in his gaze. "We will be holding a feast tonight to celebrate peace in the realm once more."

Ned’s stomach churned at the thought of the feast. A celebration of what? The end of a war that had cost so much? The peace Rhaegar promised felt fragile, built on nothing more than the broken trust of a kingdom in ruin.

With that, Rhaegar rose from the Iron Throne and strode out of the throne room. The court bowed their heads in reverence as he passed. Most did. But Ned and a few others remained head held high, their gazes fixed on the departing king, their faces unmoved.

The throne room slowly thinned out as lords and ladies made their way outside, some murmuring in low voices, others laughing too loud, their joy forced and brittle. Servants bustled about, gathering banners and sweeping the stone floors, their footsteps echoing through the vast chamber. The Iron Throne loomed above it all, sharp and jagged, as if it could still taste the blood of the men who had died for it. Ned lingered near the base of the dais, his eyes fixed on the cruel spikes of the throne.

Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn had already excused themselves, each with promises to see him at the feast. Ned had let them go without a word, his thoughts too heavy to entertain conversation. Lyanna had slipped away as well, escorted by her new shadow of guards, her head held high but her shoulders taut.

The sound of footsteps drew Ned’s attention. Ser Barristan Selmy stood nearby, polished plate glinting in the dim light. Barristan the Bold, they called him. Bold , Ned's stomach turned. How many good men died under the watchful gaze of this bold man?

"Lord Stark," Selmy said, his voice even, polite. Too polite.

"Selmy." Ned’s voice was colder than a winter's wind, pointedly leaving off the ser—a deliberate slight. Bitterness churned in his chest, not just for the man’s loyalty to Aerys Targaryens but for the mercy he had shown on the battlefield. Mercy that had left Ned bloodied and broken and his pride gutted. Mercy that felt more like humiliation.

A pause stretched between them, rigid as a bowstring. Selmy shifted, but his hand stayed well away from the greatsword strapped on his hip.

"You think me a monster," Barristan Selmy said at last, his voice low. "I know. I would think the same in your place."

"You were there," Ned said sharply. "You stood beside him while Aerys’ tortured my father and brother. Innocent men. And you call yourself a knight."

Selmy flinched at the words, but his face remained a mask. "I stood where honor bound me to stand. As do you now, I think."

"Honor." Ned spat the word. "A pretty thing men hide behind when their hands are red with blood."

Selmy opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. Instead, he gave a short nod and turned on his heel, leaving Ned to his anger.

The room felt colder after that. Ned stalked toward one of the great windows, the stained glass casting red and gold streaks across the stone floor. The city stretched out before him, jagged rooftops and winding alleys, the scars of wildfire still plain to see. Smoke still rose from the ruins of Flea Bottom, and Ned thought he could almost hear the cries of the dying carried on the wind.

Where the slums should have been teeming with life, there yawned a gaping wound in the earth, scorched and broken, its edges still smoldering. Madness , Ned thought, his jaw tightening as he turned away. Madness and ruin.

"You should go," a voice said behind him. Ned turned to see Maester Pycelle shuffling toward him, his chains rattling with each step. "The feast will start soon. You do not want to offend the king."

"Let him be offended," Ned sneered. "It will not be the first time."

Pycelle gave a wheezing chuckle that quickly turned into a cough. "You are your father’s son, Stark. But be careful. Winter may come, but dragons breathe fire."

Ned said nothing. Instead, he turned back to the window, letting Pycelle shuffle away.

Minutes stretched into an hour, and still, Ned did not move. The city dimmed as the sun dipped below the horizon, and the shadows crept longer across the floor. At last, a pair of Lannister guards entered, resplendent in crimson and gold, and told him the feast was ready to begin.

Ned took one last look at the Iron Throne. He thought of the men who had died for it, the men who would die still. Then he turned and walked toward the hall, his steps heavy as iron.

Ned found Lyanna waiting just outside the great hall. She had changed from the somber gown she’d worn earlier into something even finer—black velvet trimmed with grey fur, the direwolf of Stark embroidered in silver thread at her sleeves. A heavy silver pendant hung at her throat, carved into the shape of a wolf’s head, and her dark hair had been braided and bound with strands of silver ribbon. She was beautiful, yes, but there was no softness in her now. Her eyes were cold steel, and Ned knew at once that this was armor—no less than the plate and mail he had left behind in the Riverlands.

“Are you sure about this?” Ned asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.

Lyanna looped her arm through his and squeezed it just once. “For family, for duty, for honor,” she said, repeating the words she had clung to since they had left the ashes of war behind. Her voice betrayed nothing.

Ned said no more. He simply led her inside.

The great hall was warm, bright with torchlight and the glow of a hundred candles. The long tables groaned under the weight of food—roasted boar, spiced sausages, honeyed hams—and the air was filled with the scents of meat and fresh-baked bread. Black and crimson banners hung from the rafters, dragons snarling down at the assembled lords and ladies. Targaryen wealth was on full display.

At the far end of the hall, Rhaegar sat at the high table atop the dais, a golden crown resting lightly on his silver hair. When his eyes found Lyanna, he rose, moving swiftly down the steps as the hall fell quiet.

Ned frowned but said nothing as Rhaegar stopped before them and extended his hand to Lyanna. His sister hesitated only a moment before she let go of Ned’s arm and placed her hand in Rhaegar’s.

The king led her back up the dais, and Ned saw the way the lords and ladies of the hall whispered and glanced at one another, some confused, others eager for gossip. Rhaegar looked pale, nervous even, but Lyanna’s face betrayed nothing as she took the seat he offered beside him. She did not look back at Ned.

The feast resumed soon after, the noise of conversation and clattering dishes filling the hall once more. Ned was directed to a seat farther down the hall, near Lord Umber and Lord Karstark. The Northerners were loud and merry, eating their fill and laughing with one another. Ned could not blame them. For the first time in moons, they could eat without fear that it might be their last meal. They had earned this respite.

But Ned’s own plate remained untouched. He would not eat Targaryen food. He drank water instead, cold and bitter as his mood, and cast glances toward the high table.

Lyanna was not eating either.

The hall roared with laughter and cheer, but Ned heard none of it. His eyes strayed once more to Lyanna, sitting beside her silver-haired captor. She was the picture of a queen, regal and cold, but Ned knew better. He saw the way her fingers twisted in her lap and how she kept her gaze fixed forward.

For family. For duty. For honor.

Ned clenched his jaw and looked away.

Rhaegar rose after a long moment, his silver hair gleaming in the flickering torchlight. He raised his goblet, and the hum of conversation dwindled as all eyes turned toward him. “My lords,” he began, his voice steady, yet heavy with the weight of the festives. “Tonight, we honor the sacrifices that brought an end to this war, and we look to the peace that now begins to settle over the realm. May it endure through the generations.” The hall erupted into polite cheers, though Ned’s hands remained motionless on the table.

Rhaegar’s gaze swept the room, pausing just long enough on each face. “To ensure this peace, I have appointed a new Small Council, men who will guide us through these uncertain times.” The first name, as expected, drew no surprise. “Lord Tywin Lannister shall serve as Hand of the King.”

The golden lion rose from his seat, his presence commanding, his cold green eyes sweeping the hall as he ascended the dais. His face, ever unreadable, betrayed no emotion as the brooch of the Hand of the King was pinned to his chest. The hall offered scattered applause, polite but strained. Tywin bowed his head in what could only be called false humility, and Ned saw it for what it was—calculation. He took his place near Rhaegar, and the applause quickly faded.

The Northerners gathered near Ned whispered of Tywin’s heir, Jaime, who had supposedly perished saving the poor of Flea Bottom. Ned doubted it. The Lannisters were ambitious first and foremost, their wealth and power their only gods. Tywin’s rise could not bode well for the realm.

Ned’s eyes flicked to Jon Connington, who stood stiff behind Rhaegar, his lips pressed tightly together, a trace of displeasure poorly concealed on his face. Queen Rhaella, seated at the end of the high table, masked her reaction better. Ned did not miss the slight smile she quickly concealed behind her goblet.

Rhaegar continued. “Lord Varys shall return as Master of Whisperers, once he returns to King’s Landing. Grand Maester Pycelle will remain in his post.” Neither name stirred much reaction; both men had survived more kings than most in the hall.

“Ser Barristan Selmy shall be appointed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.” Barristan straightened at the sound of his name, his white cloak billowing as he bowed. The hall erupted into loud applause. Ned did not clap. His stomach twisted at the sight of Selmy, the man who had wounded him in battle, showing mercy when Ned had expected no such thing. Mercy or no, Ned’s pride still smarted from that day.

“Lord Mace Tyrell will take the position of Master of Ships upon his arrival in King’s Landing.” Rhaegar’s voice rang clear, but Ned’s attention faltered. The Tyrells had long been steadfast allies of House Targaryen, their loyalty unwavering, their ambition ever-present. It was no surprise that they were now being rewarded.

“Two new positions shall be added,” Rhaegar declared, bringing the room’s attention back to him. “Master of War will be Prince Oberyn Martell.” A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd, but no one seemed surprised. The Martells, after all, needed placating now that Rhaegar was planning to marry a daughter of a great house, whose heir could challenge Aegon’s claim. “The second new position will be Master of Agriculture, and it will be held by Ser Brynden Tully.” Hoster Tully cast Ned a sharp glance, one heavy with both guilt and unease. Ned suspected that Hoster had known of this appointment but had kept it from him. Politics, as Ned well understood, often required that one's enemies be kept close.

And then came the shock. “Master of Coin will be Lord Jon Arryn.”

The hall fell silent. Ned’s blood ran cold. Jon Arryn rose, his face impassive, but Ned saw the tension in his shoulders. At first, there was no applause, only the soft clinking of cups from the Vale lords. Slowly, polite claps began, though the sound was hollow. Jon bowed low, but Ned’s fists clenched beneath the table. Betrayal burned in his chest. Was this Jon’s price for peace—power, influence, and a place on the Small Council?

Rhaegar’s voice droned on, praising Jon Arryn’s honor and dedication to the realm, but Ned barely heard a word. His vision blurred with fury. The final appointment, Jon Connington as Master of Laws, passed unnoticed as Ned fought the urge to rise and confront his former mentor.

Before Ned could act on his rising anger, Rhaegar cleared his throat, and the hall fell silent once more.

“I know the horrors my father wrought upon this realm and its great houses,” Rhaegar said, his voice heavy with solemnity. “House Targaryen has a debt to repay, and I will see it paid. The realm requires unity. Thus, I have deemed it essential to unite House Stark and House Targaryen.”

The words struck the room like a blow to the chest. A murmur rippled through the crowd, hushed and uncertain. Some looked bewildered, while others, their gazes flickering toward Lyanna seated beside Rhaegar, wore expressions of open shock.

“Lyanna Stark will be my queen and my wife.”

The hall erupted once more, this time in a swell of murmured conversations. The Crownland lords muttered darkly, while those from the Reach and Stormlands observed with unreadable faces. Ned’s gaze snapped to Lyanna. Her expression was a mask of calm, but her hands, pale and trembling, gripped the edge of her chair.

Tywin’s expression darkened, but he held his tongue. Rhaella’s face soured, though she quickly masked her distaste with another sip of wine. Jon Connington’s smile faltered, but he quickly regained his composure.

“We will marry in the coming weeks,” Rhaegar announced as the hall settled. “Let us feast now and enjoy our time together.”

Rhaegar lifted his goblet and drank, and the hall followed in kind, though the majority of the Northerners did not.

The feast lingered on, though its warmth had dimmed. Goblets clinked, and laughter swelled in forced bursts, but the weight of Rhaegar’s words hung over the hall like storm clouds refusing to break. When at last the king rose, the room quieted once more. He departed with his small council trailing behind him, their faces grim beneath the flicker of torchlight.

Lyanna was led away soon after, her escort a pair of white-cloaked Kingsguard. She moved without protest, her steps steady, but Ned saw the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her fingers twisted the folds of her gown.

Ned lingered only long enough to avoid notice, then slipped from the hall. The corridor beyond was cooler, the air less heavy. He walked in silence, boots striking stone as he climbed the winding steps to his chamber.

Tomorrow, he would leave this city of secrets and return to Riverrun. Back to Catelyn. Back to duty.

He sat upon the edge of his bed, staring into the dying embers of the hearth. Catelyn had been patient, kind, and loyal, even as war and grief pulled him away. She deserved better. He would be a husband to her in truth, not just in name. He would fill her belly with a child—his heir. 

Yet even as he swore it, Ned’s thoughts drifted to Lyanna. To the look in her eyes as she left the hall. To the blood and fire that now bound her to a man she could not love.

The next morning, Ned Stark found Lyanna in the shaded gardens of the Red Keep. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the red-stone paths. She stood beneath a weeping willow, its branches trailing like fingers, brushing against her shoulders as though offering comfort. When she saw him, she stepped forward and embraced him tightly.

"You must promise to return for my wedding, Ned," she said, her voice soft but trembling at the words.

Ned held her, feeling how small she seemed in his arms despite her fierce spirit. "I will return, Lyanna," he said, his voice steady, though his heart was not. "Winterfell will always be your home, and I will see to it that you come back to visit."

She pulled away, just enough to look him in the eye. "Promise me, Ned" she whispered, her hands gripping his tunic. "Promise me you’ll make him let me return, even if it’s only for a time."

"I promise," Ned said, and the words felt heavier than they should have.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The sounds of the castle filtered in—the clang of distant hammers, the chatter of guards, the call of gulls beyond the walls—but here, in the garden, it seemed as though the world had gone still.

When Lyanna finally stepped back, she straightened her shoulders, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Go now," she said. "Before I make you stay."

Ned gave her one last look, memorizing the shape of her face, the way her dark hair tumbled widely, so similar to Brandon. Then he turned and left her standing beneath the willow, her fingers brushing its leaves as though she might anchor herself there.

He found the halls busier than before, servants and courtiers moving with renewed purpose as preparations for Rhaegar’s coronation took shape. But Ned had no interest in attending, nor did any of the Northerners or Hoster Tully. Their thoughts were elsewhere. Ned had promises yet to keep and a long road ahead of him.

Ned’s mind churned with the lingering uncertainty of the past days, but when he spotted Jon Arryn speaking with Tywin Lannister, his stride faltered. The sight of the two men together made his jaw tighten, and a sour taste filled his mouth. Tywin Lannister, ever the calculating lion, nodded and departed, leaving Jon to follow after Ned, his footsteps slow but determined, as if the conversation had already begun in Jon’s mind.

“Ned, we should talk,” Jon said, his tone measured, careful, as though he sought to placate a storm that already brewed within the Stark lord.

“There is nothing to talk about,” Ned replied, his voice as cold as winter’s wind. He did not slow his pace, the distance between them growing as he walked with the authority of a man who knew the answers to his own questions.

“Ned, you might think—”

Ned cut him off, his words sharp as steel. "What was it for, Jon?" He spun on his heel, his eyes flashing with a fury that even the calm of the Red Keep could not smother. "Was it really for peace, or did Rhaegar promise you a seat on the small council to convince me to bend the knee and end the war?" His voice carried venom, each syllable laced with distrust, his gaze unwavering.

Jon Arryn’s face shifted, as if the weight of the accusation had struck him harder than any blade. He opened his mouth to respond, but Ned’s icy stare silenced him. The truth, or the lack of it, hung between them like a shadow too dark to ignore.

Jon Arryn’s lips pressed into a tight line, his brow furrowing at Ned’s words. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Ned,” he said, his voice steady but edged with frustration. “I did not learn of Rhaegar’s intentions until a day ago. I sought peace for our people, not titles.”

Ned’s gaze hardened, the coldness of his tone unwavering. “Peace?” he scoffed. “Or was it a seat on the Small Council you truly wanted?” 

Jon’s expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of pain crossing his face, quickly masked by resolve. “You may hate me for betraying Robert or our rebellion, but I fight for the living, not the dead. I am not some man driven by ambition—I am trapped here, as much a prisoner as any council member.”

Ned’s lips twisted into a bitter snarl. He turned away, his anger burning deep within him, the words unspoken but understood between them. He didn’t need to hear more. Jon’s sigh was the only answer he received before Ned continued on his way.

Outside the Red Keep, Ned was handed back his weapons, as were his men. He inspected Ice , turning the greatsword in his hands to search for any sign of damage. Satisfied, he sheathed the blade and moved to mount his horse, but paused. The clatter of approaching footsteps drew him from his reverie. When he turned, Rhaegar Targaryen dismounted his horse and stood before him, flanked by two white-cloaked knights of the Kingsguard.

“Lord Stark,” Rhaegar said, inclining his head with an air of polished courtesy.

Ned’s mouth tightened, but he pushed down the disdain that surged in him. He bowed stiffly, his voice low and controlled. “Your Grace.”

Rhaegar’s eyes lingered on him, searching, weighing. “I take it neither you nor Lord Tully will be attending my coronation?” His voice carried a trace of amusement, though it faded as quickly as it came. Ned and Hoster both shook their heads.

“Then I trust I will see you in the coming moons for the royal wedding?” Rhaegar asked, his tone courteous, yet edged with something harder beneath the surface.

Ned didn’t answer immediately, only nodding curtly. His silence spoke volumes—he had no intention of staying in King’s Landing for any longer than needed. But what could he say?

Rhaegar studied him, the corner of his mouth curving into a small, knowing smile. “Very well, Lord Stark,” he continued. “I would have offered you a position on the Small Council, but I know how stubborn you Starks can be.”

The smile didn’t reach Rhaegar’s eyes, while Ned’s expression remained unyielding, a stone mask. He could feel the cold resentfulness in his chest rise again, but he fought it down.

“If you dare harm her...” Ned’s voice was a quiet threat, low and deadly, carrying the weight of his promise to protect his sister.

The two Kingsguard immediately tensed, their hands hovering near their sword hilts, ready to react. Rhaegar raised a hand, a signal that sent them stepping back, though their eyes remained sharp, wary of the tension that had settled between the two men.

Rhaegar’s gaze met Ned’s with something unreadable behind his eyes. There was a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or just a careful control—but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the familiar detachment of the crown.

“I will not harm her, Lord Stark,” Rhaegar said, his voice firm, though there was an undercurrent of something deeper, a sincerity that rang faintly in his words. “On whatever honor remains on House Targayren’s name, Lyanna Stark will be safe in King’s Landing.”

Ned’s jaw tightened, but he gave a single nod, the threat still hanging between them. He didn’t trust Rhaegar—not now, not ever—but for the moment, it had to be enough.

With a final, cold look, Ned mounted his horse and galloped away, his northern lords falling in behind him as they rode their horses. Rhaegar stood in silence, watching them go, Ned’s retinue trailing behind him.

As they galloped away from the Red Keep, the banners of House Stark flapped in the wind, the direwolf sigil proudly flying high. The road ahead stretched long, winding through the capital and beyond, like a hailstorm on the horizon. 

King’s Landing, despite the early hour, was alive. It teemed with the clamor of merchants peddling their goods, the scent of freshly baked bread mingling with the less pleasant odors of the city. Beggars crowded the streets, their outstretched hands a silent plea. The Northern lords moved through the city like a living tide, iron-shod hooves ringing against the cobblestones, drowning out the noise of the crowded streets.

The riders fell into line with the quiet discipline of the North, the ground trembling beneath their iron-shod hooves. Hoster Tully and his riverlords rode at Ned’s side, their steeds steady and their faces resolute. Behind them, the ranks grew thicker, swelling as they moved toward the gates. The sight of their banners—the direwolf of House Stark, the trout of House Tully—flapping in the cold wind brought a grim sense of unity, a brotherhood forged in the harshness of the land.

The men of the Vale, under Lord Corbay’s command, began to break away from the column. Their march would take them home, back to the sweeping heights of the Vale where their own troubles awaited. The Northern host, however, pressed onward, the bulk of their force remaining under Ned’s command, marching towards Riverrun. 

After a second day of marching, the Northern column pressed on through the afternoon light. The rhythmic pounding of hooves on the King's Road was the only sound, save for the occasional rustling of the wind through the trees. But then, as they neared a bend in the road, Ned's attention was caught by a figure ahead—a man standing by a cart, his hands gripping his dark hair in frustration. 

The man’s face was young but rugged, his eyes sharp and dangerous. He had the look of a sellsword, his clothes rough and torn, his sword clearly not one meant for a common merchant. It was an expensive blade, gleaming despite the dirt and sweat of the road. Definitely a sellsword, Ned decided.

"Can ye help me with this cart?" the man called out, his voice rough and strained, thick with the accent of a commoner. "One o' the wheels come off, m'lords."

Lord Karstark and Lord Bolton exchanged looks, clearly wanting to press on, but Ned considered the situation for a moment. The King's Road was no place for a man to travel alone, especially in these times. He knew the dangers that lurked. 

After a moment's deliberation, he turned to his companions. "We will help him," Ned said firmly. "It won't take long, and it's the right thing to do."

Reluctantly, Karstark and Bolton dismounted, though their glances still lingered toward the horizon. Together, they and a few of the northern and riverland men lifted the cart and set the wheel back in place.

"Many thanks, m'lords," the man said, his grin wide but unsettling, like a predator stalking its prey. "I’d offer you some coin for your trouble, but ye all look like men who aren’t in need of such things," he added, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, a flicker of something wicked in them.

Before Ned could reply, a voice from within the cart rang out, smooth but edged with impatience.

“Bronn, who’s that with you?”

The men around Ned tensed, hands drifting toward their sword hilts, but the man named Bronn merely gave a lazy smirk and waved a hand dismissively.

"Relax, m’lords," he said with a laugh, his voice dripping with mockery. "No need to unsheath your steel. We’re all friends here, now."

The man inside the cart stirred, groaning softly as he emerged, leaning heavily on the cart’s frame for support. His face was gaunt, hollowed by hunger or war, and his chest heaved with each labored breath. Burn marks marred his arms and chest, remnants of some terrible fire or battle. His golden hair, once bright, now lay streaked with dirt and matted with sweat, falling in tangled strands around his face.

Despite his ragged state, there was no mistaking the arrogance in his eyes—a gleam of something dangerous, something proud. He was clad in a thin black cloak, threadbare and hanging loosely from his frame, like the last shred of dignity he had left.

“You’re awake,” Bronn said, a trace of amusement in his voice. The man only nodded in response, his breath ragged.

The man’s sharp green eyes flicked to Ned, and a smirk tugged at his lips, though it quickly faltered as he coughed, each movement clearly causing him pain. “Seems so,” he rasped, his voice hoarse but still holding that regal, unwavering arrogance.

He lifted his head slightly, a crooked, weary smile forming on his lips. Though the effort seemed to cause him discomfort, he pressed on. “Eddard Stark, I presume?” His voice, though weak and strained, still carried that unmistakable haughtiness. “I’d bow, but...” He gestured to the burns on his arms, “...you’ll forgive me if I keep my feet.”

The man knew his name. Ned did not rise to the bait. He said nothing.

The Northern host stirred, uneasy murmurs running through the ranks. Lord Karstark’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword, and Greatjon Umber looked ready to charge. The tension was palpable, the men sensing something dangerous, something wrong.

“And you are?” Ned asked, his voice sharp despite the surprise nagging at him.

“Jaime Lannister,” the man replied, his smirk returning, though it was tinged with exhaustion. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Stark.”

Ned stilled, and around him, his men did the same. Some cursed under their breath, bewilderment and confusion flickering through their faces. “Impossible,” the Greatjon roared. “No man survives an explosion like that.”

But Ned knew, deep down, that it was true. The golden hair, the green eyes—there was no mistaking the bloodline.

Bolton was the first to ask the question that lingered unspoken. “How did you survive? The smallfolk say you were in Flea Bottom, helping lead people out. I saw the ruins with my own eyes—no one could have lived through that.”

Jaime turned his head slightly toward Bolton, his sharp green eyes narrowing as he considered the question. “The Blackwater,” he said, his voice raspy but steady. “I was just outside Flea Bottom, heading back in when the blast came. The force of it threw me from my horse—straight into the bay.” He coughed violently, doubling over before bracing himself against the cart. After a moment, he straightened, his expression tight with the effort. “Woke up a day later, saved by a sellsword. 

“We’ve been traveling these perilous roads ever since.” Jaime’s lips twisted into something that might have been a smirk, though it lacked any real mirth. “Bronn here claims he’s lost and does not know where to head next. Not that it matters—everyone we’ve encountered has either turned us away or pretended not to see us. Fear, most likely.”

He let out a rough laugh, and Bronn, leaning against the cart with a smirk, joined in.

“Spotted his body in the river, half-dead, face-up like a bloated fish,” Bronn added, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “Didn’t know it was Jaime fookin’ Lannister till I dragged him out,” Bronn said with a crooked grin. “Figured I’d strip him—take the sword, the coins, the armor. Thought I’d make a tidy profit off the corpse. But then I saw that golden hair, that pretty face, and the lion of Casterly Rock blazoned on his breastplate. Only ever heard of one Lannister in the Kingsguard, and that was Tywin’s whelp.”

Jaime snorted, a humorless sound, shaking his head. “Not the way I’d want to be found. But there you have it.”

Ned remained silent, his eyes hard, still wary, his hand near his sword. His thoughts churned, struggling to make sense of the absurdity laid before him.

Lord Bolton, ever calm and disquietingly polite, broke the silence with his soft voice. “And why,” he asked, his tone colder than usual, “would a sellsword trouble himself to save Ser Jaime Lannister?”

The question hung in the air, as Bronn’s grin widened, baring a row of yellowed teeth.

“Because, m'lord, they say his father shits gold!”

Chapter Text

LYANNA 

The winds off the Narrow Sea tangled through Lyanna’s hair, leaving it damp with salt and mist. The day was warm—warmer than any she had known in Winterfell, where snow fell as often as rain. She tugged absently at her braids, the intricate twists and loops woven by her handmaidens now loosening in the sea breeze. Strands of dark hair came free, whipping across her face like threads of silk. She brushed them aside, her fingers tracing the patterns of the plaits as though unraveling them might untangle her thoughts.

The gulls cried above, their sharp voices cutting through the rolling crash of waves below. Lyanna was faced toward the shore, her feet sinking slightly into the soft earth. The sea stretched endlessly before her, a rippling sheet of silver and blue that shimmered beneath the afternoon sun. It was beautiful, she supposed, in its own strange way—wild and restless, like the songs of the bards. Yet it felt foreign, too, like the heat that clung to her skin and the scents of salt and brine that hung heavy in the air.

Her loyal guards stood nearby, swords at their sides, eyes sharp as hounds on the hunt. Among them, Ser Arthur Dayne stood tallest, his presence as immovable as the pale stone of Starfall. Dawn hung at his hip, the fabled blade forged from the heart of a fallen star, and though its pommel remained bound in leather, Lyanna could feel the silent promise it carried.

Yet she hated his ever-watchful gaze, the way he hovered at the edge of every step she took, silent and unyielding. A shadow carved in steel.

“Must you stand so close?” she asked, her voice sharp as the salt air.

Ser Arthur did not flinch. “It is my duty, my lady.”

Lyanna’s lips pressed into a tight line, her frustration spilling over into her words. “And what do you fear, Ser Arthur? That the waves might rise up and drag me to sea? Or that I might grow wings and fly beyond your reach?”

It had been a month since Ned rode back to the Riverlands, a month since she had been trapped in this wretched, cursed city, surrounded by dragons and lions. Her only respite was the steady, reassuring presence of Jon Arryn.

“The sea is not the only danger,” he said, his voice calm, though his eyes flicked past her shoulder toward the horizon. Ever vigilant. Always looking. Lyanna crossed her arms, stepping closer as if to test his resolve.

“I do not need a nursemaid,” she said sharply, her voice low but pointed, like a blade sliding through silk.

“No, my lady,” Arthur replied, unruffled, his gaze steady on hers. “You need a sword. And King’s Landing is rife with thieves and bandits who would see you as easy prey.”

She tugged again at her braid, more out of habit than frustration, though the latter was never far from her heart when it came to Ser Arthur. Rhaegar had assigned him as her sworn sword after Ned departed for the North, a gesture meant to honor her—or perhaps to cage her. The Sword of the Morning, they called him. The greatest swordsman to ever live, some said. Lyanna had no doubt of it. She had seen him spar with men twice his size and disarm them with the grace and precision of a dancer, their every strike turned aside as if it were nothing.

And yet, even with the greatest of swords at her side, Lyanna found no defense against the stares. They followed her wherever she walked—cold, watchful, and brimming with judgment. The men of the Crownlands eyed her as if she were a wolf set loose in their den, wild and dangerous. The dowager queen regarded her with distrust, her thin lips forever pressed into disapproval. Tywin Lannister’s gaze was worse—calculating, sharp as a blade poised to strike. And Jon Connington’s? His eyes held something darker, something unreadable, as if he weighed her worth and found it lacking. 

It made no difference whose eyes they were. They all burned the same—full of suspicion, contempt, and promises unspoken but understood. She was a prisoner in all but name, and the walls of the Red Keep loomed taller with each passing day.

The corridors of the keep seemed narrower than when she first arrived, the shadows darker. The tapestries and banners of House Targaryen hung high above her, their crimson and black designs a constant reminder of the dragons that once ruled the skies. 

The lions, golden and proud, prowled in every corner, their sigils stitched into the fabric of courtly life, as if the Lannisters themselves owned more than the gold they boasted.

Jon Arryn had cautioned her to keep her head down and her words measured. “These are still dangerous times,” he had said, his voice low and grave. “You are a wolf among lions and dragons. Do not let them hear you howl.”

Yet here she remained, a hostage in all but name, bound by duty and honor. And so she steeled herself, her heart as cold and unyielding as the winter winds that howled beyond the Wall. She would endure. She must.

"If only I had my sword returned to me, then I could protect myself. Who would dare face Lady Ravenclaw ?" Lyanna’s voice was low, but there was a tinge of jest in it, though the fire in her eyes told another story.

"Not a chance, my lady," Arthur replied, his tone firm as ever.

Lyanna huffed and turned away, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her fingers twitched, aching for the familiar grip of a blade. The moniker had swept through King’s Landing like wildfire— Lady Ravenclaw, the scourge of the Crownlands. Rumors of her exploits spread with eager tongues, whispered in markets and taverns, echoed in shadowed halls and dim alleys. They said she had been seen riding through the Kingswood, cutting down bandits and thieves with ruthless precision. A she-wolf cloaked in shadow, they called her.

Rhaegar had cursed when he first heard the tales. He had paced before the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes dark and brooding as he demanded to know how the stories had slipped beyond the Keep. No matter how he tried to quash the gossip, it clung to her like smoke—insidious, lingering, impossible to banish.

The smallfolk despised her, muttering about the wild she-wolf who defied their southern ways, even as the nobles sharpened their knives, their eyes gleaming with barely concealed malice. How could he marry her now? they whispered in shadowed corners. How could the newly crowned king take a bride who had become the scorn of the Crownlands, a wolf in a dragon’s lair?

Lyanna flexed her wrist—the one Pycelle had once believed beyond saving—and felt a flicker of strength returning. She rotated it slowly, up and down, testing the muscles with cautious determination. The grand maester had since revised his grim pronouncements, now declaring she might fully regain its use in time.

Her shoulder wound was mending just as well. She brushed her fingers over the bandaged skin, feeling the faint tug of healing flesh beneath. No sharp pain answered her touch, only the tightness of recovery. Pycelle had assured her that only a scar would remain, a testament to what she had endured, with no lasting harm to her strength.

And yet, Rhaegar still treated her like a child—caged, guarded, watched. She could not even step beyond the gates without half the Gold Cloaks in tow. Her sword hand itched for a fight, her body for motion. Instead, she was left pacing within stone walls, simmering like a pot ready to boil over.

Their last argument had nearly shattered them both. She remembered the rage in his voice, the fire in his eyes when she confronted him in his chambers after a long, grueling small council meeting. She wanted freedom, but he demanded safety. They had shouted until the walls themselves seemed to tremble.

“You can’t keep me locked away like some prize to be guarded!” Lyanna’s voice rang out sharp and defiant, echoing off the stone walls of Rhaegar’s chambers. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, trembling with fury. “I am not one of your soldiers, Rhaegar. You cannot order me to stay put!”

Rhaegar stood by the hearth, his hands braced against the mantel as though he might shatter it under his grip. The firelight danced across his sculpted face, casting sharp shadows that matched the ferocity in his eyes. “You think this is about locking you away?” he bit out, his voice low and taut. “Do you have any idea what would happen if something were to befall you? If you—”

“If I died?” Lyanna cut in, her voice cracking like splintered steel. “Is that it? Are you so afraid my death will cause the realm to splinter into two?!”

His head snapped up, and for a moment, the anger seemed to drain out of him, replaced by something raw and wounded. “Yes,” he admitted. The word fell between them like a stone, heavy and unrelenting. “Yes, I am.”

Lyanna let out a sharp, mirthless laugh, but it died as quickly as it came, leaving only bitterness in its wake. She turned away, pacing toward the narrow window that overlooked the courtyard below. The sea of banners there—dragons, lions, and wolves alike—seemed as distant as the North itself.

“Wake up, Rhaegar.” Her voice was sharp with derision. “The realm is already shattered beyond repair. You’re fighting to save a corpse and dressing it in silk to hide the rot.”

And then—she flinched at the memory—Rhaegar had thrown his goblet across the room. It had shattered against the stone, red wine bleeding down the wall like spilled blood.

He had gone pale the moment it left his hand. Lyanna hadn’t moved, but something in her face must have betrayed her, because his anger drained away as quickly as it had come. He looked as though he’d been struck himself, his mouth set in a thin, hard line.

Defeated, he’d turned away from her, shoulders slumping. “You may leave the Red Keep,” he had said at last, the words hollow, “but not without guards.”

It was a victory, but a bitter one. The full escort trailed her now wherever she went, and Arthur Dayne stood at its head like a living wall of steel. Lyanna glanced at him again, but the Sword of the Morning gave nothing away, his expression carved from stone.

She clenched her fists, resisting the urge to argue with him yet again. Her time would come. The itching in her palm told her so.

"It is time we return to the Red Keep, my lady," Arthur said, his voice calm but brooking no argument. "The Lannisters will be waiting. Cersei and Ser Kevan will surely want their future queen in attendance for this arrival."

Lyanna let out a huff, her fingers tightening briefly around the pendant at her throat—a slender wolf of black iron, hung upon a thin silver chain. It was a Stark’s sigil, sharp and unyielding, yet small enough to be hidden beneath the high collar of her gown. She had worn it since leaving Winterfell, a talisman of home and all she had lost.

She cast one last, lingering look at the rising tides of the Narrow Sea, where the sunlight danced across the crests like shards of glass. The vibrant golden roses of House Tyrell and the burgundy grapes of House Redwyne flapped proudly on the masts of dozens of warships, their sails swelling in the breeze. They had arrived days ago, a show of strength and wealth that made the docks groan under their weight.

The journey back to the Red Keep had been uneventful, but even in the calm streets of King’s Landing, Lyanna could feel the tension in the air, thick and electric, as if a storm was waiting to break. Once inside her chambers, maids hurried to attend to her, as she attempted to dismiss them with a curt word, determined not to show any sign of fragility. Still, she could not avoid what was coming. She allowed them to help her out of her riding breeches, the rough fabric quickly replaced by the soft silks of an elegant gown—a gown that seemed to mock her very soul. Black and crimson, the colors of House Targaryen, the house she had learned to despise.

When first presented with the crimson and black gown, Lyanna had protested vehemently, the sight of the fabric turning her stomach, as bile rose in her throat. But the maids were insistent, their eyes unwavering as they claimed there were no other gowns fit for court. Lyanna suspected their words were a lie, though she could not bring herself to question why. A part of her believed they were testing her, seeing how far they could push before she would break.

But Lyanna had never been one to break. Not even when her men turned their backs on her. She relented, though every moment spent in those colors felt like a betrayal. And since that day, the maids had made it their mission to ensure she wore the crimson and black of House Targaryen, as though to strip away the last remnants of her defiance.

Once dressed, she gathered her strength and walked with purpose to the throne room. Jon Arryn was there, waiting for her by the entrance. He had always been a man of few words, yet there was something in his eyes that Lyanna trusted—a quiet understanding, a bond forged through shared silence. He offered her a faint smile, and she returned it, though it was a smile tinged with sadness.

"Hope all is well, Lady Lyanna," Jon said softly, his voice carrying unspoken words.

She nodded, the smile fading from her lips. "The Blackwater Bay is teeming with life," she replied, her voice low, as though speaking too loudly would disturb the fragile peace she had glimpsed. "As if untouched by war."

Jon nodded in silence, his expression unreadable. There was little need for further words. Lyanna knew the dangers of speaking too much in the Red Keep—every utterance could be twisted, every glance weighed for meaning.

“How is your wife, Lysa, doing?” Lyanna asked, breaking the silence that hung between them.

Jon stiffened at the name, and a shadow of gloominess crossed his aging face. "She despises me, I suspect," he said quietly, his voice tinged with a weariness that betrayed his effort to remain composed. His hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing it in a manner that seemed more reflexive than conscious.

He spoke again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Truth be told, we’ve only lain together once. I had hoped to fill her belly with a babe, but alas... it was to no avail.” His face reddened at the admission, his shame evident, though his eyes remained guarded, betraying none of the deeper pain he felt.

"King Rhaegar wishes to bring her to King's Landing," Jon continued, his voice low and heavy with reluctance. "It may be for the best... for both of us. She was given the distance she needed, and now..." He trailed off, as if the words he sought had already slipped from him. "Perhaps it is better that way, after all."

Jon’s gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers clenching around the fabric of his tunic. "I wanted... I wanted it to be different, Lyanna. I wanted her to bear me a child, to be something more than just a political alliance." He swallowed hard, as though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. "But it seems the gods have other plans."

Lyanna nodded slowly, her gaze distant as her thoughts wandered to the countless women she had known—those who had been wed for duty's sake, their hearts bound not by love, but by responsibilities. They had given themselves to causes, to crowns, to lands, and in return, they had seen their joy wither under the unrelenting demands of duty. She knew, too well, that her own marriage would be no different. Duty had claimed her heart long ago, and it would leave little room for anything else.

"Enough of these dour talks," Jon Arryn said, a kind smile breaking across his weathered face. His voice, though carried the strain of years of hardship, had a warmth to it that cut through the apprehension of the air. "Let us speak of something lighter, for a change. There is no use in dwelling on the shadows when the sun still shines." He motioned toward the sky, as if to beckon the light back into their conversation. And so, they spoke of their homes, of the passing seasons, of memories both sweet and joyous, as they made their way toward the throne room.

Together, they crossed the threshold, their footsteps echoing off the cold stone floor of the vast hall. The throne room, filled with the quiet hum of whispered ambitions and delicate power plays, seemed to close around them, the very air stiff with the presence of courtiers who saw themselves above all others. Yet, Lyanna had learned long ago not to fear them. The whispers and sidelong glances of the nobles were as insubstantial as the gowns they wore. Not even the Iron Throne, gleaming cold and sharp in the center of the room, could unseat her resolve. It might be a symbol of power, but it held no sway over her. 

Jon and Lyanna stood near the edge of the hall, shrouded in the shadows where secrets were often whispered, their eyes drawn toward the Iron Throne. Lyanna’s gaze, however, remained fixed on the throne, where the ever-beautiful Rhaegar sat regally, his presence commanding the throne room.

Then, the sound of trumpets filled the air, loud and proud, heralding the arrival of the Lannisters. The doors to the throne room jarred open, and in strode Tywin Lannister, his head held high with pride, his red and gold armor glowing in the torchlight. The banner of House Lannister fluttered behind him, casting a long shadow across the room.

Lyanna’s sharp eyes caught sight of a man with golden hair, tentative in his movements, following closely behind Tywin. His armor and jewelry were fine, but it was the woman beside him who commanded Lyanna’s full attention. Cersei Lannister—undeniably beautiful, so much so that Lyanna found herself unsure if she had ever seen a woman as striking. Perhaps only Ashara Dayne could rival her in beauty, but even that was a distant thought.

Cersei’s long golden hair cascaded down her back, luminescent like threads of sunlight, her neck adorned with brilliant jewels. Her golden gown dipped low across her bosom, a subtle yet bold declaration of her allure. As she walked with the air of one accustomed to power, Lyanna caught a flash of something dark, something dangerous, hidden behind the woman’s façade of piety. It was in her eyes—green as jade, cold and calculating, betraying a mind far more ruthless than her beauty suggested.

"May I present, Ser Kevan of House Lannister and Cersei of House Lannister," a voice boomed loudly, the announcer’s words echoing through the hall as the golden retinue bowed before the throne.

Rhaegar’s face remained passive, betraying nothing as he regarded the Lannisters, his gaze as cool and composed as ever. Lyanna’s lips thinned slightly as she watched, knowing full well that the game was about to take an even more dangerous turn.

"I welcome you to King’s Landing, Ser Kevan, Cersei Lannister," Rhaegar said, his voice smooth and composed. "We are forever thankful to House Lannister for helping rid the realm of madness. A feast shall be held to celebrate House Lannister," he continued, as the room broke into polite applause.

The Lannisters bowed, their reverence carefully practiced, false humility evident in their gestures. After a time spent discussing updates from across the Crownlands, including the gradual cleanup of Flea Bottom, Rhaegar allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

"I have two pieces of good news, my lords and ladies," Rhaegar declared, rising from the Iron Throne.

"The Dowager Queen has given birth to a daughter," he continued, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords and ladies. "She has named her Daenerys Targaryen. Stormborn, they call her!"

The room erupted in cheers at the news, but Lyanna’s heart sank. Great, more Targaryens being born into this realm, she thought bitterly. Each time one is born, the gods flip a coin , the notion souring her mind. But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she felt a pang of remorse. This child’s story had not yet been written, and she was blameless in its unfolding.

The second piece of news arrived with even greater excitement. "Some moons ago, I entrusted my children to Ser Gerold Hightower for their safety," Rhaegar announced, his voice rising with pride. "Now that the war has passed, my children—your future king and princess—have returned to us. They arrived early this very morning."

Rhaegar’s face beamed with joy, his smile widening as the cheers in the hall grew louder.

As the assembly adjourned, the highborn departed the throne room in high spirits, their voices echoing with lighthearted chatter. Lyanna followed Jon Arryn toward the doors but could not shake the intensity of Rhaegar’s stare on the back of her neck. She turned sharply, catching him in the act. He quickly looked away, adjusting the crown atop his silver hair and clearing his throat as if to cover his embarrassment. Rising from the throne, Rhaegar exited through a side passage, flanked by two members of the diminished Kingsguard.

"They say Rhaegar is seeking new Kingsguard knights," Jon Arryn murmured as they walked side by side.

Lyanna nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "It was always going to come to this," she said softly. "The rebellion cost us all dearly—no one more than the Kingsguard."

Jon glanced at her, his tone low. "The small council is urging Rhaegar to appoint men from the North and Riverlands. They think it will mend old wounds... and bind the realm together."

Lyanna said nothing, though the thought gnawed at her. Could Rhaegar’s court truly mend the fractures carved by war? Unlikely , she mused, her thoughts dark and sour. Wounds like these fester—they do not heal with words and titles.

They lingered in the Maidenvault Gardens for a time, the warm sun spilling over the polished stone paths and vibrant blooms. The scent of lavender and roses filled the air, yet Lyanna found no comfort in it. Too warm, too noisy, she thought, tugging idly at the silver pendant around her neck. Even here, surrounded by beauty, she felt out of place.

Her gaze shifted, catching a flash of gold. Cersei Lannister. The Lioness of the Rock, her golden hair twinkling in the sunlight, moved with a practiced grace that commanded attention. Her golden gown trailing behind her like molten gold. She was flanked by a small retinue of Lannister guards, their armor polished to a high shine.

Cersei passed without so much as a glance in their direction, her head held high, eyes fixed forward. Lyanna’s fingers curled into a fist at her side. Of course, she thought. A lion does not lower its gaze for wolves.

Lyanna frowned, irritation prickling at her.

Later, they returned to the Great Hall for the feast. Lyanna was seated beside Rhaegar, who offered her a small, warm smile. She ignored him, focusing instead on the grand spectacle unfolding before her. Across the hall, Tywin, Ser Kevan, and Cersei were seated, the Lannisters praised as heroes of the realm. The feast was lavish, with dishes from across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Entertainers from Essos performed fiery displays, their flames dancing in mesmerizing patterns, while bards filled the air with song.

But as the music shifted from The Rains of Castamere , Lyanna stiffened. The bards began to play “Brave Danny Flint,” a northern ballad she had known since childhood. It was a beautiful melody, but the tragic tale it told felt painfully out of place amidst the revelry. Her chest tightened, a mix of anger and unease rising like a storm in her gut.

She pushed back her chair abruptly, the scraping of wood against stone drawing curious glances. "I need to be excused," she said, her voice tight, as if she were struggling to swallow a bitter grape.

Rhaegar frowned but nodded, motioning for Ser Barristan to escort her. Lyanna left the Great Hall, her footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors of the Red Keep as the sounds of feasting and laughter faded behind her.

Her thoughts churned as she walked. Why had the song unsettled her so? Was it the court’s attempt to weave northern traditions into this southern tapestry—a hollow gesture of unity? Or worse, was it a calculated effort to make her feel welcome as their future queen? The very notion grated at her.

Lyanna didn’t need their pity, and the pretense of inclusion only fueled her frustration. She pressed on through the dim halls, seeking solace in the quiet away from the pageantry of a realm she could not belong to.

Barristan Selmy walked in silence, the faint clink of his armor echoing through the quiet halls, yet he offered no words to fill the heavy stillness. Their solemn march through the winding corridors of the Red Keep was abruptly interrupted by the heavy, purposeful tread of soldiers. Around the corner came Cersei Lannister, her green eyes blazing with fury. The anger that radiated from her was palpable, and her voice rang out, sharp and unrestrained:

“It should have been me! I was meant to be his queen!”

Cersei spat, her words trembling with a mix of rage and desperation. “Father promised me!”

Lyanna halted in her tracks, startled by the raw venom in Cersei’s tone. The lioness of the Rock was upon her in an instant, her men halting as she locked eyes with Lyanna. For a fleeting moment, fury blazed in Cersei’s gaze, but it quickly melted away, replaced by a carefully practiced mask of humility. False piety cloaked the rage that had just moments before erupted. 

“My lady,” Cersei said, her head inclining ever so slightly, though her voice was as cold as ice.

Lyanna’s mind swirled with a thousand thoughts, each one too sharp to hold, too dangerous to voice. But her lips could form only the simplest reply: “Lady Cersei.” Her feet, as if guided by instinct, moved of their own accord, carrying her swiftly away from the lioness. 

The farther Lyanna walked, the clearer the puzzle became in her mind. Tywin Lannister had not marched his banners south out of honor, nor out of any true desire to end Aerys’s reign, as the tales had been told. No, a deal had been struck—one brokered between House Lannister and Rhaegar’s forces. Cersei had likely been promised to Rhaegar in exchange for Lannister soldiers to secure victory in the final days of the war.

It explained so much: Jaime Lannister’s unexplained pursuit through King’s Landing, Tywin’s barely concealed vexation whenever Lyanna crossed his path, the cold glances and the simmering resentment that had never fully hidden itself. And Cersei’s sudden arrival in King’s Landing, having left Casterly Rock well before news of Aerys’s death could have even reached the Westerlands.

Lyanna let out a dry laugh, tinged with unpleasantness. Here she was, fated to marry a Targaryen King against her will, while Cersei Lannister would do anything—everything—to claim that same fate. The gods had a cruel sense of humor. 

Lyanna did not have the energy to do anything else for the night. She walked to her chamber, her steps light against the cobblestone floor. She gave Ser Barristan Selmy a curt nod, her voice low but sincere as she thanked him for escorting her safely.

He returned the nod, his expression unchanged, ever the loyal knight. “It was my duty, my lady,” he said quietly.

With that, she entered her chamber, the door closing softly behind her. The flickering candlelight cast long, trembling shadows across the stone walls. For a fleeting moment, the warmth of the room felt like an intrusion, a mockery of the stillness she sought. She had not come here to find comfort—only a moment of respite, though she doubted even that would be granted tonight.

The next morning, Lyanna was jolted awake by a sharp, raspy knock on her chamber door. Her heart raced as the sound broke through the lingering haze of her dream.

“Come in,” she called, her voice still thick with sleep.

The door creaked open, and three maids bustled in, their faces alight with excitement.

“Lady Lyanna, we must get you ready! There is good news!” one of the maids gushed, her voice high with enthusiasm. “Ser Jaime Lannister has returned! He lives!” The others tittered, their laughter filling the air.

Lyanna’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What?” she muttered, her thoughts racing. The very notion seemed impossible. She had seen the aftermath of Aerys’s madness, the carnage wrought by his twisted mind. No one could have survived—no one, save for those few who had fled before the blast.

She felt a coldness settle over her, as if the very air in the room had shifted.

“Get me ready,” she said, her voice firmer now. She stood quickly, the news both intriguing and frightening. This would be a day to remember. A day full of surprises, and perhaps even more questions than answers.

Once she was ready, Lyanna demanded to be escorted to the throne room where court was to be held. As she made her way through the corridors, the sounds of a cheering crowd grew louder. Flowers were tossed into the air, their petals drifting on the wind, and the people’s cheers rang through the streets of King’s Landing. Jaime Lannister had returned to a hero’s welcome, having slain the traitors who killed Aerys the second of his name and saved countless souls in Flea Bottom. A highborn risking his neck for the wellbeing of the smallfolk—such deeds would surely ensure that Jaime’s name was inscribed forever in the White Book.

So the stories were indeed true, Lyanna mused—at least, the smallfolk believed them to be. Jaime was their savior.

Inside the throne room, Lyanna’s eyes fell upon him—the famed Jaime Lannister, kneeling before the Iron Throne. His golden hair, still damp from a recent bath, shimmered in the torchlight. He wore a fine garment that hung loosely about his form, his posture regal yet relaxed. He looked every bit the lion he was reputed to be, but there was something more in his eyes—something unreadable that tugged at Lyanna’s curiosity.

Dangerous and sincere all at once, it was a combination that confused her, a conflict of dualities she couldn’t quite unravel. There was a coldness, yes, but also a flicker of something else, a depth that seemed to hint at untold stories.

She walked beside Ser Brynden Tully, who gave her a warm smile, his eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “Curious times, indeed,” he said with a wry smirk. “Tywin finally gets his heir back, after all this time.”

Lyanna gave him a small nod, her gaze still lingering on Jaime. She could see the way the light seemed to catch in his eyes, the sharpness of his features, though they were as gaunt as any commoners. There was no denying the man’s beauty, a beauty that mirrored his sister, Cersei, in the sharpness of his features and the cutting emerald eyes that seemed to pierce everything it gazed upon.

"Rise, Ser Jaime, welcome back to King’s Landing," Rhaegar’s voice rang out, deep and authoritative from the Iron Throne. "We are pleased to see you alive and well, and thank you…" His voice trailed off as he turned his gaze to the man standing beside Jaime.

The man with dark hair, a devilish smirk playing on his lips, stepped forward. “The name is Bronn, your grace,” he said, his voice full of irreverence. The smirk never left his face as he finally kneeled beside Jaime.

The crowd erupted into murmurs, shocked by Bronn’s brass attitude towards the king. Yet Rhaegar, either not noticing or not caring about the display, nodded thoughtfully.

“You will be rewarded very handsomely, Bronn of…” Rhaegar’s words faltered, his gaze briefly on the man who now knelt beside Jaime, as if trying to recall the right title. But Rhaeger seemed unsure, and Lyanna did not blame him. The man had no apparent title—he looked every bit the sellsword he likely was.

Rhaegar’s eyes shifted to Tywin, who stood nearby, the shimmering Hand of the King pin on his breast catching the light. Tywin leaned in, speaking low into Rhaegar’s ear, his voice too soft for anyone else to hear. The king nodded in acknowledgment, his face a mask of unreadable calm.

“Bronn, it seems unlikely you hold any lands to your name,” Rhaegar said, his tone measured, but there was a hint of intrigue in his voice. “Nonetheless, that will change soon.”

The man’s smile grew wider at Rhaegar’s words, and he bowed his head in acknowledgment, elation whirling in his eyes. Rhaegar’s gaze then shifted to Jaime, his expression indecipherable, as if awaiting his next move.

“Ser Jaime will be allowed to return to Casterly Rock, where he will take up his position as Lord Tywin’s heir. He will rule in his father’s stead, as Tywin is now Hand of the King”, the murmurs rippling through the throne room as Rhaeger delivered the edict. 

Lord Tywin remained silent, but Lyanna could see it in his eyes—something rare. Gone was the cold, calculating gaze he usually wore. Instead, there was something akin to pride, though she couldn't be sure.

Ser Jaime, clearly caught off guard, straightened up, his expression wide with surprise. "I will be doing no such thing, Your Grace." His challenge hung in the air, cutting through the murmurs like an axe. The gasp that followed rippled through the room, even Lyanna’s posture stiffening. Bold, she thought.

Tywin’s gaze darkened, but he held his tongue. His eyes snapped to Rhaegar, but he refrained from speaking. 

Rhaegar, unruffled, remained calm on the throne. He flexed his right hand, rubbing his thigh absently as though easing away his pain. "What do you mean, Ser Jaime?" he asked, his voice peaceful but edged with curiosity.

Jaime straightened, meeting the king’s gaze with unwavering resolve. "Respectfully, Your Grace, I am a knight. Knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne himself. I defeated the Smiling Knight and earned my place on the Kingsguard. I will not leave your side, Your Grace, for this is my duty. I served your father, now let me serve you."

The throne room fell into a thick silence, save for the faint sound of a silent cough from Tywin. Whether it was one of shock or barely contained anger, Lyanna could not tell.

She snorted softly, her disdain for Jaime’s words barely contained. Did he truly believe the Kingsguard was a position of honor? It was meant for the greatest swordsmen, not the most virtuous. All of the Kingsguard had stood by and watched as Aerys burned the realm. Not very honorable, in Lyanna’s estimation.

Rhaegar pressed his lips together, the faintest furrow creasing his brow—not in anger, but in earnest confusion. "You speak of duty, Ser Jaime, yet you defy your king’s decree. Explain yourself."

Jaime straightened, shoulders squared, his clipped golden hair catching the torchlight that illuminated the room. Across the throne room, Cersei lingered by a stone pillar, her face a mask of pride, but her eyes betrayed something darker—anger, perhaps, or something sharper still. Lyanna Stark stood farther back, watching Cersei with a carefully blank expression, though she did not miss the flicker of emotion in her gaze.

"My vows were to protect the realm—and its king. I mean to honor them,” Jaime said, the edge in his voice cutting through the throne room. 

Rhaegar regarded him in silence for a long moment before finally nodding. "Very well. We will speak of this further."

Tywin Lannister stood as still as a statue, but Lyanna saw the vein in his neck pulsing, taut and ready to burst. His emerald eyes burned, sharp as a lion’s, and for a moment she thought he might unsheathe his word and strike Jaime dead with a crude swing. Twice now she had seen the Warden of the West crack beneath his polished veneer, and it unsettled her more than any cold glare ever could.

Jaime dipped his head in acknowledgment, though there was little humility in the gesture. He turned on his heel, the sound of his boots echoing as he strode toward the door. 

Bronn paused just long enough to shoot Lyanna a grin, all sharp teeth and insolence. She met his gaze and held it, her face as cold and unyielding as the Wall. Men had looked at her like that before—hungry, bold, and careless—and she had learned long ago how to stare them down without a word.

When the Lannister heir left the throne room, limping heavily as he clutched his sides, the low murmur of the highborns who had been watching erupted once again into a flood of speculation and hushed conversations.

Ser Brynden Tully did not speak, but simply raised an eyebrow and gave Lyanna a knowing smirk. She hid her smile, but it tugged at the corner of her lips nonetheless. "Looks like Rhaegar's dreams of perpetual peace are not as clear-cut as he had hoped," she murmured under her breath, though she suspected the words were more for herself than for anyone else.

The room stilled when Stannis Baratheon entered, his arrival heralded by the fluttering of Baratheon banners, their dark colors defiant against the crimson standards of the Targaryens. The courtiers, who had been brimming with whispered gossip, fell silent as the new Lord of Storm's End walked towards the throne, his head held high, though his scraggly frame betrayed the hardship he had experienced.

Lyanna examined his figure, noting the sharpness of his features, the hollowness beneath his eyes. There were rumors that Stannis had been forced to eat rats within the walls of Storm's End, when the Reach had starved them out—whispers too grim to believe entirely, yet seeing the thinness of the man before her made her wonder. The truth of those rumors remained uncertain, but the coldness in his expression told a different story altogether.

Rhaegar stiffened atop the Iron Throne as Stannis approached, the two Kingsguard standing at the base of the dais, their posture rigid, their hands hovering near their swords as though anticipating trouble. It was to be expected, Lyanna thought. Rhaegar had slain Stannis’s brother on the battlefield, and though the easing tensions between them had been known, it was still a raw wound.

But then, to Lyanna’s surprise, Stannis bowed with little resistance, his voice ringing out in a tone of absolute honor. "It is my duty to protect the Stormlands now," he said with a firm, unwavering resolve. The Baratheon banners unfurled behind him, and it was hard to deny the strength in the man’s words—even if his gaunt frame seemed to betray him. 

Rhaegar stood from the throne and descended the steps, the Kingsguard following his every move with rigid precision, hands gripping the pommel of their swords. But when Rhaegar placed a hand on Stannis’s shoulder, Lyanna could see the tension leave the Kingsguard, even if the moment still felt uneasy.

“Rise, Lord Stannis Baratheon, as the new Lord of Storm's End,” Rhaegar commanded.

Stannis did so without hesitation, though his eyes remained hard—either with hatred or the promise of revenge, Lyanna couldn’t say. His bow was brief, but his hardened gaze spoke volumes. The lords and ladies in attendance cheered, the sound of unity echoing through the hall. House Baratheon and House Targaryen, no longer enemies. The cheers filled the space, though Lyanna felt little of the joy that others seemed to find in the spectacle.

Beside her, Ser Brynden Tully clapped slowly, almost mockingly, his voice low as he leaned toward her. “Stannis is a hard man,” he whispered, “He will rule the Stormlands with an iron fist. He never did care much for the way Robert sullied the name of House Baratheon. He’ll stay loyal to the crown, I suspect.”

Lyanna nodded, but a chill crawled down her spine as she looked at the thin, steely man who stood before them. He was handsome, in his own way, she could admit—though not nearly as dashing as Robert had been on first impression. Yet there was something about him, something cold and calculating, that unsettled her.

Rhaegar’s voice rang out again, slicing through the cheers. He raised his left hand, his right still resting on Stannis’s shoulder. "To further unite the realm, Stannis Baratheon will be betrothed to Lady Cersei of House Lannister," he announced, his words hanging in the air like a challenge. "A union that will unite two great houses."

If Rhaegar had expected a roar of approval, or even a murmur of excitement, he was sorely mistaken. The room fell into a heavy silence. Not a cough, not a breath was heard. The broad smile that had been gracing Rhaegar’s face faltered, and his expression shifted—curiosity, confusion, perhaps even the faintest hint of annoyance, crept across his features as he surveyed the royal court.

Brynden Tully did not look taken aback—nor did Tywin Lannister or Jon Arryn. They remained composed, their expressions carefully schooled, as if the announcement had been expected all along.

"You knew," Lyanna said, her voice edged with quiet accusation.

Brynden shot her a sidelong glance and gave a slight nod, his smirk faint but unmistakable. "All of the small council knew days ago," he admitted, his tone carrying no apology. "Tywin was resistant, of course—for reasons that are his own—but he was eventually persuaded to see reason." Brynden leaned in slightly, lowering his voice though his words carried no real secrecy. "Marrying his daughter to the Lord of Storm's End isn’t exactly a poor match for House Lannister. But knowing Tywin, I’d wager he had his sights set on something far more ambitious. Something that’s no longer possible."

He smirked again, the hint of amusement in his eyes daring her to rise to the bait. Lyanna bit her lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction. 

Across the chamber, Cersei Lannister stood rigid, her emerald eyes ablaze with fury. Her perfectly sculpted features, so often the mask of composure, were marred by the faintest tremor in her jaw. A flush of red crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks like wildfire threatening to spread. Yet she did not speak. She did not move.

Lyanna watched her closely, noting the way her teeth worried at her lower lip—hard enough, it seemed, to draw blood. She knew. Of course, she knew. The daughter of Tywin Lannister would not be left ignorant of such schemes. No, Cersei had been told, perhaps even prepared for this moment, yet the look in her eyes betrayed the truth. Prepared or not, she had not accepted it.

Lyanna almost pitied her, almost . But she knew better than to pity a lioness. Cersei’s silence was not submission—it was a Squall gathering strength. And when it broke, gods help them all.

Stannis bowed again, stiff and unyielding, yet there was no trace of joy in the gesture. Most men would have smiled at the prospect of wedding such a beautiful woman—and a Lannister, no less—but Stannis looked as though he had been handed a death sentence. His face was a mask of stone, hard and unreadable, but his eyes betrayed him. There was no hunger there, no triumph. Only cold resignation.

Lyanna studied him in silence, her thoughts dark. It will be a loveless marriage .

Rhaegar shifted away from Stannis, clearly unsettled by the lack of enthusiasm. His smile, so bright at the announcement, faltered. He stepped back, his movements rigid, and cleared his throat in the uneasy quiet. The king looked suddenly smaller beneath the watching stares.

Stannis left the audience hall without ceremony, his men trailing behind him like shadows. Their heavy boots echoed against the stone floor, fading as the doors groaned shut. Yet the silent chatters lingered, harsh and uneasy, as though the air itself had yet to recover.

Lyanna remained rooted in place, her hands clasped tightly before her to keep them from trembling. The lords and ladies around her whispered in low voices, their words too faint to catch but heavy with speculation. She felt their eyes, sharp as daggers, but it was Rhaegar's gaze that burned the most.

When he stepped toward her, she braced herself. He moved slowly, deliberately, with the grace of a man who had been born to rule. His silver hair shined beneath the torchlight, and his violet eyes never left hers.

Then, to her astonishment, he extended his hand.

Lyanna stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. For weeks, he had kept her at a distance, treating her presence as no more than a duty. And now, this—this sudden, public display of unity? Her fingers twitched at her side, and she had half a mind to scoff and turn her back on him.

But she didn’t.

You promised Ned , she reminded herself bitterly. No trouble for the North.

She had clung to the hope that Rhaegar would tire of her after the bedding. Perhaps he’d grow angry when he realized she hadn’t quickened with child. She would be careful, taking moon tea after his visits, though even that required caution. Grand Maester Pycelle’s loyalties were clearly bound to Tywin Lannister, and she dared not trust him fully. She would need to find moon tea from another source, and the thought left a hollow pit in her stomach.

Even so, Lyanna knew better than to provoke Rhaegar here, in the sight of the court.

So she relented, placing her hand in his. Whether it was the plea she thought she glimpsed in his eyes or the way the torchlight cast shadows across his sculpted features, she couldn’t say. But she let him draw her forward, looping her arm through his as the murmur of voices broke into open chatter.

Rhaegar smiled at her—a soft, disarming smile that might have melted a softer heart.

Lyanna did not smile back.

She stood rigid at his side, her arm a weight on his, and as the courtiers whispered and watched, she wondered not for the first time if she’d made a mistake coming here.

Her eyes flickered across the royal hall, examining faces she had already learned to be wary of. Varys, the Spider, lingered near the edge of the hall, his smile as soft and unreadable as silk. He knew too much already.

Varys had returned from whatever shadowed lands he had scurried off to after Aerys had demanded his head. His absence had been brief, yet long enough to stoke rumors—whispers of exile, of secret bargains, and darker still, of alliances forged in the dark corners of the Free Cities.

His return had not been met with cheers. There had been no horns sounded nor banners raised in welcome. He had slipped back into the Red Keep like a shadow, unnoticed by most but not by the men who mattered.

The small council had restored him promptly to his role as Master of Whispers, as if his absence had been no more than a passing inconvenience. Yet Lyanna could see it clearly—the unease in the lords’ eyes when they crossed his path, the way even the knights of the Kingsguard kept their distance, as though wary of what secrets might cling to his robes.

And now he stood there, as if he had never left at all, his hands folded and his gaze sharp despite the softness of his smile. Lyanna suppressed a shiver.

He always knew the darkest secrets of court. And that made him dangerous.

Once outside the throne room and free of lingering gazes, Lyanna yanked her arm away from Rhaegar as though burned by fire. A flash of hurt shimmered across his features, quick as summer lightning, but he said nothing. Instead, he averted his eyes, jaws tightening.

“Why?” Lyanna demanded, her voice sharp.

Rhaegar did not answer at first. He only closed his eyes, bracing himself, as if steeling for an explosive argument.

“We are to be wedded in the coming weeks, my lady,” he said at last, his voice calm but strained. “It is only proper that we show unity before the court and put an end to whispers of our... mutual distaste.” He paused, a shadow of irritation passing over him. “Already, tales of how you bested me at the siege of Sow’s Horn are spreading. I suppose you find them amusing.” He scoffed, as if the very notion of losing to her offended him.

Lyanna felt the black rage rise in her, hot and unbidden. “I do not wield a greatsword as well as I do two small daggers,” she snapped, stepping closer. “Had I been armed properly, you’d be dead, and we would not be having this conversation.”

Her words dripped venom, and Rhaegar’s lips twitched—as though he meant to keep his composure but failed. The corner of his mouth curved into a smirk.

“You fight well,” he admitted, though the words carried more mockery than praise. “But I was hardly trying. If you recall, my lady, you could scarcely land a blow.”

The wolf blood stirred in her veins, too strong to be tamed. She moved before she could stop herself.

Rhaegar let out a sharp gasp and stumbled back, clutching his thigh where her knee had struck—precisely where her blade had bitten him weeks ago. He sagged against the wall, hair falling loose over his eyes as he swept it back with one hand.

“Are you a child?” he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice low but seething. Pain and anger flared in his violet eyes as he pushed himself upright.

Had he been another man, Lyanna thought, he might have struck her then and there. But Rhaegar’s temper, sharp as it could be, never seemed to rule him.

Not yet, at least.

Lyanna clenched and unclenched her healing left hand, the faint throb a bitter reminder of Rhaegar’s fury. Her right hand itched for the hilt of a blade, to feel steel and certainty and to purge the Targaryens from this realm. 

Family. Duty. Honor. The words rang in her ears, sharp as bells, and she cursed them under her breath.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” Her voice came softer now, though her heart still burned hot. “I forgot myself. My savage northern blood took hold of me.” She reached out, offering her arm to help him rise.

If the innocent look she summoned was meant to reassure him, it failed. Rhaegar took her hand but stood warily, his violet eyes flickering with doubt as if bracing for another strike.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, brushing off his doublet and running a hand through his silver hair. “Your moods shift like the tides of the Narrow Sea.” His frown deepened, though it softened with a sigh. “And yet… you are no savage.”

The kingly mask slid back into place, his composure smoothing out like beaten gold. Lyanna found herself almost regretting it—missing, just for a moment, the wild and unkempt man who had provoked her so easily.

“There will be a procession through King’s Landing tomorrow,” he said at last, avoiding her gaze. “I would very much like it if you attended, as the future queen of the realm.”

“A procession?” Lyanna’s voice cut sharp. “Flea Bottom is a pile of cinders, and you want a procession? Have you no shame?”

That earned his eyes again, hard and piercing.

“You think this was my idea?” Rhaegar’s voice dipped low, tinged with frostiness. “I wanted no part of this charade. But the small council is convinced it will quell the unrest that grips the city.” He shook his head, tension tightening his jaw. “Do they not remember what happened to Aerys when he rode through King’s Landing? He was attacked!”

“But alas,” Rhaegar continued, his tone resigned, “I will heed their counsel. They speak of hope—a new king, a new queen, a new direction for the realm.” His voice hardened. “And we will announce the Seven-Year Plan to rebuild Flea Bottom. Brick by brick, we will mend this city’s wounds.”

He looked at her then, searching her face, but Lyanna said nothing. She held his gaze until he turned away, and only then did she let her shoulders loosen.

“I will do as my king commands," she said, bowing with a false reverence that dripped with insincerity. It was a poor imitation of courtly grace, and she knew it. The flicker of irritation that crossed Rhaegar's face was almost satisfying, but he mastered it quickly, his expression shifting into something indecipherable.

"Very well," he said at last, his voice cool but not unkind. "Good night, my lady."

"Good night, Your Grace," Lyanna replied, her tone measured but her pulse still pounding, her hand still itching for a blade—for another fight.

The ride through King’s Landing was a dull affair. Lyanna found her mind wandering, the rhythmic movement of the horse lulling her into drowsiness despite the warnings of the King’s guard and Rhaegar himself to remain vigilant. Her eyes fluttered, the heat of the day and the pitiless silence of the procession nearly overwhelming her.

At the head of the procession were three Kingsguard, their white cloaks fluttering behind them like banners of the old days. Jaime Lannister, the youngest of them, rode with an air of arrogance that seemed to taint the very breeze. He had somehow convinced his father, Tywin Lannister, to back off, and now, with the authority of the Kingsguard once again draped upon him, he rode proudly ahead of the king’s retinue. Lyanna couldn't help but wonder how he'd managed to talk Tywin down—whether it had been through a silver tongue or threats, she would never know. 

Jaime's appearance wasn’t what she had expected under the protection of armor. Though his swordsmanship was renowned throughout the realm, the man before her seemed far from the paragon of the knightly ideal. His frame was too frail, his movements slightly unsteady, as if the rigors of the long journey on the King's Road had taken a toll. Yet despite this, his name alone—Jaime Lannister—seemed to cast a spell over the city. The golden lion's reputation ran so deep that no one dared question his reinstatement to the Kingsguard. 

Rhaegar rode beside her in full Targaryen armor, the silver gleam of his chestplate reflecting the sunlight with an almost unsettling brilliance. The sword at his side seemed more like a symbol of conquest than a weapon of defense. The king looked every bit the conqueror—distant, unreachable, and swathed in the force of a thousand decisions.

Lyanna's own armor felt heavy beneath her gown. The breastplate chafed against her skin, the daggers sheathed at her sides reminding her of the precarious position she found herself in. There had been a bit of argument when the guards suggested she should not be armed at all, but Rhaegar had insisted, his voice final and unwavering.

They think me mad, Lyanna thought, the dark humor of it cutting through her thoughts . They think I would stab Rhaegar in the neck right here, in front of all to see. Though the idea was tempting—nothing more satisfying than ending it all with one clean strike—she knew better. She cared only for the safety of the North now, not for petty revenge or the penance she once sought. The days of personal grudges and anger had passed; the looming threat to her home overshadowed any lingering desires for retribution.

The Lannister forces trailed not far behind, a crimson tide of banners and polished steel. At their head rode Tywin Lannister, regal and unyielding atop his destrier, his golden armor catching the sunlight like a second crown. To his right loomed Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, a towering shadow of menace, while Ser Kevan Lannister kept a steadier, more measured presence at his brother’s side. Together, they were an unspoken warning—wealth, power, and brute force united under the lion’s banner. 

Trailing the soldiers was a gilded carriage, resplendent in red and gold, its polished surface glowing in the unforgiving sunlight. Within it sat Cersei Lannister, draped in silk and jewels, the very image of regal beauty and cold ambition. Her golden hair cascaded down her shoulders in waves, her sharp green eyes peering through the small window at the city rising before them. Even confined to her carriage, Cersei commanded attention, her presence as striking as the lions emblazoned across her house sigil.

The royal procession wound its way through the twisting streets of King’s Landing, the city's contradictions laid bare beneath the midday sun. The wealth and splendor of the noble districts gave way to shadows and soot as they neared the remnants of Flea Bottom—a place that no longer existed except as a graveyard of ash and ruin.

Beyond the devastation, the Dragonpit loomed in the distance—or what was left of it. Once a mighty symbol of Targaryen dominion, it now stood all but destroyed, its dome shattered, its pillars toppled and broken. The explosion that had consumed Flea Bottom had not spared the ancient structure. Its walls were blackened and scorched, entire sections reduced to rubble, leaving only jagged remnants clawing at the sky like the ribs of some long-dead beast. 

No longer a fortress, it was a ruin—a grave for the dragons that once roared within its halls. Against the smoldering remains of Flea Bottom, it seemed less a monument to power and more a warning, a ghost of dragons mocking the dwindling might of House Targaryen. Where fire had once been a weapon of their dominion, now it was their undoing.

The streets were lined with thousands of silent faces, their glares heavy with resentment. It mattered little to them whether it was Aerys or Rhaegar who sat the Iron throne—a Targaryen was a Targaryen. Lyanna had overheard grim estimates: seventy thousand dead in Flea Bottom, with another ten thousand or so having fled, many saved by Jaime Lannister’s desperate efforts.

Rhaegar sat stiffly in his saddle, his violet eyes flitting once toward the ruins. For a fleeting moment, shame flickered across his face before he forced his gaze back to the road ahead.

As the procession climbed toward the more affluent districts of Visenya’s Hill, the mood shifted. The streets swelled with cheering crowds, their praises ringing out as flowers rained down upon the royal party. Yet Lyanna’s sharp eyes caught the cracks beneath the gilded display. The smiles were strained, the shouts too eager. Beneath the garlands and finery, many faces bore grime and hatred, their eyes dark with something no spectacle could wash away.

The horses neighed, their nerves frayed by the press of bodies. The Gold Cloaks at the front unsheathed their swords, the first to feel the danger before Rhaegar’s cry split the air. “They’re encircling us!”

The streets descended into chaos. The Gold Cloaks and King’s Guard dismounted in a flurry of steel, swords flashing as they tried to force their way through the clamoring throng. The air was filled with shouts and curses, the crowd pressing in like a living thing. A trumpet’s blare cut through the confusion, sharp as a dagger’s point, and the crowd parted—reluctantly, like a beast shaking off its skin. From the gap, a wave of armed men surged forward, their banner tattered but their resolve unbroken. Their cries for justice echoed like thunder, rattling the very stones beneath their feet.

“Not again!” a Gold Cloak lieutenant bellowed, his terror palpable as he rallied his men to encircle the king and queen-to-be. The Gold cloaks formed a protective ring around Rhaegar and Lyanna as the mob surged forward, weapons flashing in the sunlight.

The King’s Guard held the line at the front, slashing and hacking with precision, but the threat was all-encompassing. Rhaegar seemed composed, even resolute, as he drew his greatsword. Lyanna caught his glance, his voice oddly steady amid the chaos. “I advise you arm yourself, my lady. You may get a chance to test that hand of yours afterall.”

Lyanna’s mind raced. Her shoulder and wrist still throbbed from old wounds, and she hadn’t practiced in weeks, but there was no room for hesitation. This was survival. The mob didn’t see her as an enemy of House Targaryen—they saw her as the future queen of the realm, a target for their wrath.

As Rhaegar donned his helmet, Lyanna unsheathed her daggers, her grip firm despite the ache in her hand. If she was to fight, she would fight like a Stark.

She cursed herself for the stifling gown that clung to her like a shroud. There was no time for regret. The press of bodies against the gold cloaks grew heavier, the clash of steel echoing off the stone walls as screams rang out. Blood slicked the cobblestones, and the scent of fire and fear mingled in the air.

The Kingsguard had fallen back, abandoning the vanguard to the gold cloaks. But the city watch, for all their numbers, lacked the swordsmanship of decorated knights. They buckled beneath the assault of the mob, their ranks crumbling like sand before a tide. The horde roared, surging forward, and Lyanna saw their eyes—wild and hungry, the eyes of men who had nothing left to lose.

“Your Grace,” Ser Arthur Dayne said, his white cloak streaked with red, his blade dark with blood, “we must turn back. We cannot carve a path forward, but we can turn and flee. Let the gold cloaks hold the line.”

Rhaegar’s face was grim beneath the shadow of his helm. “The gold cloaks will not hold long enough for our entire retinue to turn and flee,” he said. “And I will not cower behind stone walls. We fight here.” He turned to Arthur Dayne, his voice harder. “Take Lady Lyanna and see her safely back. That is your charge.”

Dayne hesitated, his sword still in hand, his eyes shifting toward the broken line ahead. He gave a curt nod but said nothing.

Jaime Lannister rode hard to join them, his golden hair damp with sweat and streaked with grime. 

Jaime Lannister dismounted and raced up beside Ser Arthur Dayne, gasping for air, his golden hair matted with sweat. “These men,” he shouted over the cries and clashing steel, “they’ve learned from last time. This isn't some half-baked skirmish—it's a full-scale assault! They’re breaking the line in two!”

He paled as he spoke his next words. “They rally under the banner of the Kingswood Brotherhood. They claim they’ve come to smite the Targaryen tyrants.”

Barristan Selmy cursed under his breath at the infamous name, his sword slick with blood. The procession buckled, driven farther back as Gold Cloaks crumpled to the ground, cut down like stalks of grain beneath a reaper’s blade.

“This is a pincer movement,” Selmy growled, eyes frantically surveying the scene unfolding. “They’re herding us into the alley to be slaughtered like cattle!”

Tywin Lannister arrived at the head of his household guard, his golden armor untarnished and his face set like carved stone. “Where is Cersei?” Jaime demanded, and for the first time, Lyanna saw fear crack through his arrogant facade.

“She is safe,” Tywin said, though irritation was present in his voice upon hearing his daughter’s name. “She was taken back to Aegon’s High Hill with Ser Gregor. The Mountain will see her protected.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but it was Tywin who spoke again. “Lord Stannis will see her safely to the Red Keep from there.”

Lyanna saw the relief in Jaime’s eyes, quickly masked by discontentment. She ground her teeth as understanding dawned. Tywin had demanded to ride at the rear of the procession—he had known. King’s Landing was a powder keg, and Tywin had likely expected this assault once news of the procession spread, just as it had when Aerys faced the mob.

An icy look passed between Jaime and Tywin, but no words were exchanged. Something had happened between them, Lyanna knew, and it went deeper than just Jaime’s refusal to be heir of Casterly Rock. 

Tywin’s cold eyes swept the chaos before him, calculating. Then he turned sharply, raising his voice above the cries of battle. “To the king!” he shouted. “Cover our flanks! Protect the king!”

His knights answered with a thunderous bellow, the clash of spears against stone reverberating like the drumbeat of war as they fell into formation. Rhaegar's greatsword caught the dim light, its edge shimmering as he turned to Lyanna, his violet eyes shadowed with grim purpose.

Now, with two layers of defense—the Lannisters forming the outer ring and the Gold Cloaks reinforcing the core—they stood braced against the onslaught, ready to meet death or deliver it.

“Be prepared to fight to the death,” Rhaegar said to her, his voice steady despite the frenzy that raged around them. “Ser Arthur Dayne will see you back to the Red Keep, but who knows what lies behind us.” His eyes lingered on her for a moment, searching, before hardening with resolve. "Whatever happens, my lady, do not look back," Rhaegar said, his voice low but unyielding. "Ride hard for the Red Keep. Even if Ser Arthur falls behind, you do not stop. Do you understand?"

Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat a war drum echoing the dread that gnawed at her. She tightened her grip on the daggers and nodded, her injured wrist throbbing in protest, but she ignored the pain. This was no tourney, no game of honor bound by rules and chivalry.

The mob didn’t care who she was or what she had done to bring the Targaryens low. To them, she was nothing but a symbol—a would-be dragon queen—and dragons were meant to burn.

“Come, my lady, let us—” Arthur Dayne could not finish his sentence as a whistling bolt struck him near the base of his collarbone, just below the gap where his helmet and armor exposed the skin. Blood sprayed across Lyanna’s face as the famed knight staggered, a sharp gasp escaping him. He collapsed to his knees, clutching the wound as he choked on air, struggling to stay upright. The gurgling sound of his breath echoed through the cries as he fought to maintain consciousness, his strength waning.

Rhaegar cursed and leapt from his horse, as everything seemed to move in slow motion for Lyanna. One moment, she was atop her horse, and the next, she was pulled down by Rhaegar, her body hitting the dirt as more bolts whistled past them, their sharp heads cutting the air. The sounds of falling bodies filled the space, the cries of Lannister soldiers and gold cloaks echoing all around them.

“Stay behind your shields!” Rhaegar shouted as he wrenched a crimson shield from the lifeless grip of a fallen Lannister man, its lion sigil smeared with blood. "Prepare to run!"

“They’ve got crossbows!” Jaime yelled, his voice feverish with disbelief as his sword cut through the air, deflecting a whistling bolt that flew dangerously close. “Fucking crossbows!”

Lyanna wiped Arthur Dayne’s blood from her face with her sleeve, her heart racing as she was dragged near the mouth of a narrow alley, away from the dozen or so men stationed on the rooftops. They had been lying in wait, and now the battle was upon them.

“Take Arthur, get him out of here!” Rhaegar shouted a command at Ser Barristan, his eyes fierce. “I will find another way out.”

Selmy hesitated, his brow furrowing as if the very thought of leaving Rhaegar’s side was a betrayal. His hand instinctively reached for his sword hilt, his loyalty to his king unshakable. But Rhaegar was swift. He seized the old knight by the collar of his armor, his grip unrelenting, and turned his violet eyes toward the struggling Arthur Dayne, still on the ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“That is an order from your king,” Rhaegar growled, his voice fierce but controlled. He pointed toward Arthur, still writhing in pain, his helmet discarded beside him. “Take as many men as you need. Make sure he stays alive.” Ser Barristan Selmy inclined his head, his expression grim, before turning to join the tumult. His boots clattered against the stone as he made his way back into the fray, the chaos unfolding around him. 

Jaime’s voice rang out, sharp and frantic amidst the deafening clash of steel. “What about Lady Lyanna, your grace?”

“I will keep her near me,” Rhaegar said, his tone unwavering, despite the dire situation. “These bandits will think Ser Barristan is escorting me back to the Red Keep. They may follow after him. It’s safer if we go unnoticed. You will come with me, Ser Jaime. This battle is lost.”

Jaime nodded, the arrogance long gone from his face, replaced by absolute resolve. As he sheathed his sword, he pushed through the wounded men, sprinting out of the alleyway and toward the battle raging in the streets.

Lyanna could hear the sharp, deadly hum of the crossbow bolts as they whizzed past, finding their marks in men who were already buckling under the assault. The Gold Cloaks were disorganized, scattered by the overwhelming onslaught. Jaime’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise with determination.

“Form up! Create a diversion!” he barked, his words biting through the confusion. “Give Ser Barristan the chance to get Arthur on that horse. Now!”

The remaining Gold Cloaks, though battered and wary, obeyed his command without question. They scattered, along with the Lannister forces as they rushed to form a makeshift line, their shields raised and weapons at the ready.

Lyanna couldn't say for certain if Ser Arthur Dayne would survive, but Ser Barristan remained unwavering. He secured the Sword of the Morning on the horse, and with a sharp flick of his reins, urged his steed around, galloping back the way they came. He cut through anyone who dared approach, his blade flashing in the luminescent light, while the remaining Gold Cloaks and Lannister men followed in their wake, a wall of iron and blood.

Jaime Lannister dashed back into the alley, his movements swift and erratic as he weaved through the deadly fire of crossbow bolts. The sharp hiss of the quarrels whizzing past him seemed almost to echo in the air as he skidded to a halt, breath ragged and uneven, one hand clutching his side. His armor, stained with the grime and blood of battle, creaked with each breath. He nodded sharply to Rhaegar, a silent acknowledgment. Rhaegar returned the gesture, his violet eyes sharp, but his expression unreadable.

The diversion worked flawlessly. The bolts from the rooftops ceased their relentless barrage, and the air grew quieter, save for the clatter of booted feet as men scrambled to follow Ser Barristan's retreating group. Shouts rang out through the smoke-choked streets, orders and commands to redirect the enemy’s attention, to chase after the fleeing knights and their charge. The clamor of war shifted—suddenly, the streets were less crowded with enemies and more filled with the sounds of distant pursuit. The alley, once filled with the cries of battle, fell eerily quiet, save for the labored breathing of Rhaegar, Lyanna, Jaime, and the wounded men who had taken shelter in the shadows.

Rhaegar pressed a finger to Lyanna’s lips, signaling for silence. She obeyed, watching as the enemy soldiers searched the area, looting the bodies of fallen gold cloaks and Targaryen men alike. The gold cloaks had been thoroughly embarrassed, shattered by the assault. The royal procession, once grand and regal, had become a symbol of retreat. A man, whom Lyanna assumed to be the commander of the brigands, passed by, his eyes scanning the fallen soldiers. He gave a slight nod to his men, who bowed in respect as he walked among them, slapping them on the back in approval.

Rhaegar and Jaime exchanged a glance—silent, but charged with unspoken meaning. The remnants of battle lingered around them, the smell of gore and dust mingling in the streets. It took some minutes for the last of the men to disappear down the road, leaving behind a field of bodies. The once-celebratory streets now felt like a graveyard.

As the men who had assailed them moved further into the city, securing the roads, the smallfolk who had earlier thrown flowers at their procession came crawling from their hiding places. They moved with a sense of apathy, as though the blood spilled in the streets was nothing more than a passing inconvenience. Lyanna could feel the sting of their indifference as Rhaegar’s hand left her lips, though her heart was still thundering in her chest.

Rhaegar tugged her forward, pulling her through the alleyways. The pace was frantic now—each turn, each narrow passage a desperate attempt to flee. Jaime followed behind them, his eyes pacing back and forth, constantly on the lookout, as if expecting the enemy to spring up from every shadow.

A sharp voice cut through the silence as they passed another alleyway. 

"Look what we 'ave 'ere,"  a man snickered from a darkened corner. His face was young, twisted with malice, and his teeth were yellowed and crooked. The smell of him—sour, rancid—filled the air. Lyanna’s stomach turned "I'll be damned. This is the king 'imself, isn’t it? No bastard in all o' King's Landing with hair as silver as his, or eyes as purple as that." The man’s gaze shifted towards her, leering with hunger, his voice dripping with scorn. "An’ this must be 'is lady wife—the Stark bitch."

Lyanna’s heart skipped a beat as dread coiled around her like a noose. She instinctively gripped for her daggers, her wrist throbbing as she kneaded the hilts. The man’s smile widened as his eyes flicked to her.

"Aye," he said, his grin stretchin' wide as he leered at her. "She's as pretty as they say. I’ll 'ave some fun with this one. But someone’s willin' to pay dearly for ye head, girl. Gold enough to fill a dozen coffers, just for yer pretty head.”

“Men, they’re here! The king an’ his bitch!” he shouted. The shadows seemed to shift, and a handful of rough-looking figures appeared, creeping from doorways and crumbling buildings, some with swords, others with crude knives or pitchforks. Their eyes shined with a combination of hunger and madness. "Guess it's our luck, innit? The king an' the Stark bitch. Let’s take his head an’ give it to Godry! He’ll reward us proper, he will! Give the Stark’s head to whoever offers the most!”

Rhaegar’s face tightened, and the grip on his greatsword hardened. His voice was a low growl, cold as the mountains of the Eyrie. “You do not have to die today.” He twirled the greatsword in his hands, the blade catching a glimmer of light, before he pointed it at the man who had spoken. “But if you wish to, I am more than happy to oblige.”

The bandit’s grin faltered for a moment before returning, more vicious than before. “You think ye can take on twenty men with just one knight at yer side?” he sneered, his voice laced with contempt. “Yer bloody mad, Targaryen. Yield now, and maybe we won’t have our fun with yer lady ‘fore we finish with ye.”

The man's words hung in the air like poison. Lyanna felt her stomach twist, but she stood firm, even as the bandits closed in. She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears, but she managed to force herself to speak, her voice wavering only slightly.

“Wait,” she said, her voice steady, buying herself a moment. “Who is this Godry? And who are you men with? If someone is offering gold for my head, I can triple it! Winterfell has coin enough to make it worth your while.”

Rhaegar’s face was stone, but Jaime’s hardening expression faltered for a moment. They both had already shifted into fighting stances, ready for the inevitable clash, but Lyanna needed to understand who these men were, what they sought.

The bandit gave her a lopsided smile, the sort of grin that made her skin crawl. “A curious one, aren’t we?” he said with a low chuckle. “No worries, my lady, we’ll be very acquainted soon enough. I’ll tell ye then.” He winked, and Lyanna sneered, disgusted by the threat that lingered behind his words.

“Enough talking,” Rhaegar snapped, his voice a whip crack. In a single fluid motion, he swung his greatsword with lethal intent, aiming for the bandit’s gut.

But the bandit was quicker than she’d expected. He sidestepped the blow, grinning as the blade missed by a hair. “Tsk, tsk, Your Grace,” he mocked, his sword flicking toward Rhaegar in a counterstrike. “Not playing fair now, are we?”

“You think you can take on all o’ us, Targaryen dog?” His face twisted with rage as he barely managed to parry Rhaegar’s next advance. “You’re just another dead king, and that Stark bitch will make a pretty corpse, too.”

Lyanna’s blood boiled. The man’s voice grated against her nerves, and she felt the sting of his words like a slap. She was going to move toward him, to silence him with her daggers, but then she saw it—Rhaegar’s eyes narrowing, his lip curling into a small, almost imperceptible smile.

The man was too busy gloating, too full of himself, too certain of his victory to notice. He side-stepped Rhaegar, laughing.

“Come on, Your Grace,” he jeered. “What’s a Targaryen without his dragons? Without his army? Just another man—no better than me. You won’t be able to save yer little Stark bitch.”

His words were barely out of his mouth when Rhaegar lunged forward, a single step forward and then— wham —his sword swung with deadly force. The man’s mockery faltered as Rhaegar’s greatsword sliced through the air like a striking serpent, catching the man across the chest. It was a move so swift, so precise, that the man did not have time to react. His eyes went wide with realization as Rhaegar’s sword cleaved through his ribs, splitting his heart in two.

The man never even had the chance to finish his sentence. He dropped to his knees, his body convulsing for a brief moment before he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

The moment the lifeless body of the jeering brigand hit the ground, the chaos erupted. A guttural roar of rage swept through the group of men, their eyes alight with fury. The sound of weapons being raised was deafening, the metallic screech of blades leaving their scabbards sending a wave of dread through the street. They were coming for them now, a pack of wolves scenting blood, their faces twisted with rage and hate. Lyanna’s heart pounded in her chest as the first man lunged toward Rhaegar, his weapon a crude, jagged sword, the type wielded by men with nothing to their name. Rhaegar barely moved, the greatsword in his hand flashing like lightning, slicing through the air with deadly accuracy. The man’s sword was cleaved in two, his body following shortly after, collapsing in a heap as Rhaegar’s blade carved a clean path through his ribs. Another man came at him from the left, but Rhaegar sidestepped, his eyes cold, his every movement fluid and exact. He swung his blade, and the man’s scream was cut off as his head rolled across the cobblestones. Jaime, too, was a blur of motion, his sword flashing with lethal grace. He cut through one man after another, each strike faster and more brutal than the last. The Lannister heir’s skills were no exaggeration, Lyanna realized—an unstoppable force paired with remarkable speed. His eyes, normally sharp with arrogance, were now wide with the desperation of survival. Every strike was born of pure instinct, each movement designed to kill. His armor was now stained with blood, but there was no slowing down. Another man fell before him, the sound of his blood spilling on the cobblestones almost lost in the cacophony of the battle. Lyanna’s mind screamed at her to move, to fight, but the gown was a prison. The screams of men, the clash of steel—every sound felt like it was drowning her. She had to move.

Jaime, his back to her, was momentarily exposed. His sword, still lodged in the skull of a man he had just killed, was stuck fast, leaving him vulnerable. The next moment, a man, a grim-faced figure wielding a short blade, came rushing at Jaime from behind. His dagger gleamed with death in the dim light, poised to strike at the back of Jaime’s head.

Lyanna’s instincts snapped into place. She didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. She whirled, dagger already in her hand. Her body moved faster than she could process, the steel cutting through the air with a hiss, finding its mark in the man’s back. He gasped, staggered, but before he could recover, Lyanna twisted her dagger, pulling it free in one swift motion. He collapsed, silent in his fall, before he could even scream.

Jaime looked at her with confusion, his mind still reeling from the moment, but his eyes shimmered with something between disbelief and gratitude. But the brief pause in the chaos had drawn the attention of the remaining men. One of them, a brutal-looking thug, turned on Lyanna, eyes full of venom. He let out a howl of fury, swinging his sword at her in an arc that was meant to split her in two.

But Lyanna was no novice. Years of training, of surviving the violent, unpredictable Crownlands, had honed her into something much sharper than the men before her. With a quick step to the side, she narrowly avoided the strike, feeling the wind of the blade as it passed. In the same motion, she drew another dagger, slashing it across the man’s throat in a fluid arc. His eyes widened in surprise before he crumpled, clutching at the gaping wound.

The battle continued to rage around her, but Lyanna felt a strange calmness settle over her. She could feel the heaviness of the gown, dragging her down, restricting her movement. No longer willing to be encumbered by its silken threads, she yanked the dagger and began to slice at the fabric, the sharp blade tearing through the fine silk with ease. The gown fell away in tatters, exposing the hidden leather armor beneath. Now she was free—free to dance.

She didn’t wait for anyone’s approval, didn’t need Jaime or Rhaegar’s protection. The streets had become a blur of motion—men rushing at her, weapons raised, blood in the air. Lyanna moved like a shadow, a whisper of death in the madness. One man came at her with a club, but she was faster. Her dagger found his side in a heartbeat, and he fell, gurgling on his own blood.

Rhaegar shouted her name, but she was already lost in the heat of battle, the adrenaline surging through her veins. She fought without thinking, the years of training with her brothers, her experience with her own men, guiding her every move. A man tried to strike from her left, but she anticipated his move, stepping just outside his reach. She pivoted, driving her dagger into his ribs, feeling the warmth of his blood splatter against her hands.

“Keep moving!,” she heard Rhaegar bark from across the street. “Ser Jaime, push forward!”

The alley was narrow, the walls pressing close, but Lyanna’s moves were swift and lethal. Her daggers flashed in the light, twin streaks of silver as she drove them into the chest of the halfwitted men who came at her. He grunted, stumbling back, but she was already moving, pulling one blade free and raking it across his throat. Blood sprayed, hot and crimson, but she did not flinch.

Another man lunged, his blade slicing through the air with deadly intent. Lyanna ducked low, spinning beneath his wild strike. Her daggers flashed—a quick slice to the back of his knee, followed by a brutal thrust to his neck. The man crumpled with a strangled cry, blood pooling beneath him. But before she could turn, a third figure loomed out of the dust, faster than the rest, an axe raised high and aimed to split her skull.

Lyanna’s daggers were still slick with blood, her stance unbalanced. She had no time to react.

A longsword arced into view, intercepting the axe mid-swing with a sharp, jarring clash. Sparks flew as steel met steel, the force of the impact sending the brigand staggering back. The axe slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground.

Rhaegar moved past her with the quiet confidence of a man who knew his skill. His blade sang as it cut through the air, striking with purpose.

Lyanna pushed herself to her feet, the daggers in her hands like a wolf’s bared teeth. Her breath came hard and fast, but her stance was steady, the fire in her eyes matching the sparks flying from Rhaegar’s sword.

For a moment, their eyes met—no words, only understanding. Then they moved as one.

Another man swung at Rhaegar, but Lyanna was already there, darting to his blind side. Her dagger slipped between the plates of his armor, finding the soft flesh beneath. He reeled, and Rhaegar finished him off, his sword taking his head off, clean.

Another assailant rushed forward, but Lyanna was faster. She parried his strike, knocking his blade aside as Rhaegar pivoted, trapping the man’s arm with his own and leaving his ribs exposed. Lyanna did not hesitate. Her dagger plunged into the opening, and the man gasped, collapsing at their feet.

The alley fell silent, save for the ragged breathing of the fallen and the drip of blood on stone. Lyanna turned, her daggers slick with crimson blood. Rhaegar stood beside her, sword still raised, but his eyes lingered on her—piercing, assessing.

“You fight like a demon,” he said, his voice short-winded.

Lyanna wiped one dagger clean on her sleeve, the other still gripped tight. “And you do not fight half bad for a King.”

Something passed over his face—admiration, perhaps, or irritation at her jab. But then he stepped back, lowering his blade.

Jaime dispatched the last man with a fluid, practiced motion, his sword singing through the air before it sank into the thug’s gut. With a heavy sigh, he lowered his blade, putting a hand on his knee as he caught his breath. His chest heaved, but the relief of victory washed over him like a tide, even as his mind still processed the carnage.

Rhaegar, too, wiped the sweat from his brow, his hand brushing across his face as he sheathed his sword. He stood for a moment, hands resting on his hips, catching his breath in the eerie quiet that had descended. Lyanna, in contrast, was entirely unaffected by the madness. The fight had sparked something inside her, a fire she hadn’t felt in moons. Her breath came steady, her gaze sharp as ever. She was alive again, as if the battle had breathed new life into her very soul.

Jaime, still trying to make sense of the scene he had just witnessed, looked at her with a mixture of disbelief and awe. "What was that?" he said, his voice still rough from exertion, as his gaze moved between her and the bloodied corpses around them. "I’d heard rumors about Lady Ravenclaw and your swordsmanship, but I thought they were just exaggerations, tales to inspire fear." His eyes widened, a look of genuine shock. "Your speed... it’s terrifying."

Lyanna wiped the blood from her blades, a small shrug of her shoulders the only response she gave. Her demeanor remained calm, as though the entire fight had been little more than a distraction.

Rhaegar, however, narrowed his eyes, his attention now solely on Lyanna. "I thought the maesters said you may never fight well again," he questioned, his voice tinged with something Lyanna couldn’t quite read.

Another casual shrug from her. "This is the first time I’ve wielded blades since our duel, and it seems I am still able," she said, her voice even, as if she hadn’t just been in the middle of a bloody fight for her life.

Rhaegar’s expression softened as something flashing in his eyes, but it was gone before Lyanna could grasp it. He cleared his throat and nodded. "We should head to the Red Keep now," he said, his tone turning more pragmatic. "Stay disguised. It might be safer now."

With no more words, they moved quickly through the alleyways, covering their faces as they navigated the winding streets. The sounds of their clash had drawn attention, and as they escaped the gathering crowd, Lyanna could see curious eyes peeking from windows and doors. The whispers had begun.

Jaime had ditched his white cloak—too conspicuous in such a moment—and Rhaegar followed suit, shedding his red cloak as well. They moved in the shadows now, careful, each step calculated as they made their way through the maze of King's Landing’s winding backstreets.

As they threaded their way through the labyrinth of alleys, Jaime moved ahead, sword bared, his steps quick but measured. Rhaegar and Lyanna followed close, their breaths shallow, each footfall swallowed by the hush of damp stone and rotting wood. Somewhere beyond the alleyways, the cries of the hunt carried—harsh voices barking orders, the scrape of boots against cobblestones.

They came to a fork where the alley split like a serpent’s tongue, one path plunging deeper into shadow, the other veering toward the faint glimmer of torchlight. Jaime slowed, raising a hand to halt them. His gaze swept the narrowing paths before glancing back to Rhaegar.

“Four men on the prowl,” Jaime said, his voice low but edged with urgency. “I’ll draw them away.”

“No,” Rhaegar snapped, his brow knotted with defiance. “We stay together—”

“There’s no time for that, Your Grace,” Jaime cut in, voice steady. His eyes swept the alley, catching every movement in the shadows. “If we are clustered, they’ll run us down. You take Lady Lyanna and head left to the Red Keep. I’ll give them something to chase.”

Lyanna opened her mouth to protest, but Rhaegar was already nodding, though reluctantly. “Don’t get yourself killed, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime smirked, the faintest trace of his usual arrogance penetrating through the tension. “I’ll be fine. Just make you reach the Red Keep, your grace.”

And with that, he turned and ran down the right alleyway, his footsteps echoing as he shouted, “Over here!” The voices of their pursuers erupted in response, followed by the clatter of boots giving chase.

Rhaegar wasted no time. He grabbed Lyanna’s hand and pulled her down the left alley, their movements rapid yet silent. They weaved through the streets, ducking under broken beams and stepping over piles of rubble. The city around them felt like a labyrinth of smoke and death, the smell of fire still clinging to the air.

Finally, they found an abandoned cellar beneath what had once been a tavern, its entrance hidden behind a collapsed wooden cart. Rhaegar yanked open the door and ushered Lyanna inside before closing it behind them. The space was damp and smelled of mildew, but it was a shelter.

Lyanna leaned against the wall, her pulse slowing as the silence pressed in around them. Rhaegar stood near the door, sword still in hand, his eyes darting as he listened for any sounds outside.

“Do you think he made it?” she asked after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look at her. “Ser Jaime can handle himself, even frail, he's more than a match for most."

Lyanna stepped closer, her voice more firm now. “And what about you? You’re bleeding.”

Rhaegar finally turned to her, glancing down at the shallow cut along his forearm. She could tell he hadn’t even noticed it until she pointed it out. “It’s nothing,” he said, brushing it off.

She frowned but let it go. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant shouts and clatter of boots above.

"You handled yourself well today, Lyanna," Rhaegar said, his voice steady but edged with something softer. "Dare I say your skills have even improved. Perhaps one day, we’ll have our rematch. This time, I’ll even let you choose the blade.”

Lyanna scoffed, her eyes narrowing as she wiped the sweat from her brow. “Is now really the time for jests, your grace?” she shot back, though the faintest flicker of amusement danced across her face.

Lyanna studied him—the King of Westeros, though he no longer bore the regal aura of prophecy that had often surrounded him. The dirt streaking across his sharp features, the blood staining his armor, made him seem smaller, more human, more vulnerable. It was the weariness in his eyes, however, that unsettled her most.

“Do you ever regret it?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, sharper than she intended.

Rhaegar turned to her, his violet eyes dark in the dim light. “What?” His voice was low, expectant, as if unsure what to make of her question.

“Not stopping Aerys when his madness took hold,” Lyanna pressed, her voice not relenting. “Not taking the crown by force when you had the chance.”

Something passed through Rhaegar's gaze, but he didn’t respond immediately. He ran a hand over his bloodied armor, clearly lost in thought.

“I did what I thought was right,” he said finally, his voice distant. “I believed the crown was meant to pass on its own, not through bloodshed. I couldn’t—”

Lyanna’s lips curled into a thin, icy smile. “Couldn’t what? Couldn't stop him before he burned the city to the ground, before the madness claimed everything? You could have saved countless lives. You could’ve stopped the war before it bled into every corner of this kingdom.”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed, the tension in his posture tightening. “You think I didn’t try? I wanted to save this realm. But sometimes, inaction is the only action.”

“And you let the fire burn us all,” Lyanna snapped back, her voice rising now. “You let your father kill the innocents in the name of peace, and for what? To try and restore some kind of broken order that never existed in the first place?”

Lyanna’s eyes burned with frustration. “You let your family’s madness reign longer than it should have. And now, here we are—after all the destruction, after all the pain, and you’re still clinging to the hope that you can bring about peace!”

“Oh, spare me your self-righteousness, Stark!” Rhaegar’s voice rang out, sharp as a whip. “Do you think yourself any better than me?” His words echoed off the damp stone walls, daring a retort.

Lyanna’s breath quickened, her chest tight with anger. Her grey eyes, cold and storm-dark, locked with his amethyst stare. “You burned the Crownlands to ash—for what? Revenge?” His voice rose, reverberating off the stone fixature. “Do not speak to me of peace, Stark. Not when your men looted and butchered innocents in your house's name.”

Rhaegar opened his mouth to continue the verbal assault, but Lyanna cut him off with an embittered laugh, low and withdrawn.

“You,” she spat, stepping closer, her finger stabbing hard against his armored chest. “You stood and watched while my father and brother burned! You let Aerys torment your wife, let his madness fester and spread like rot. And you—.” Her breath hitched, but she pushed on, her words as cutting as blades. “You did nothing.”

Rhaegar flinched as though struck, but Lyanna pressed on, relentless.

“You’re no king, Rhaegar. If the gods had any mercy, Robert would have taken your head at the Trident and mounted it on a spike.”

The words lashed at him. He staggered as though she had drawn blood, but when he spoke, his voice was low and venomous.

Rhaegar’s voice turned to a low snarl, each word dripping with scorn. “If Robert was the man you claim, why did you not accept the offered hand? Your gallant stag. Was he too drunk for your liking? Too busy rutting in brothels? Or did you simply prefer stringing him along like all the others?”

Lyanna’s pulse roared in her ears, deafening.

Rhaegar stepped even closer, his violet eyes hard as cut amethyst. His voice was low, heavy with scorn. “Perhaps if you weren’t so proud, so childish, you would have wed Robert.” He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek. “My father would not have set his sights on the wolf maid.”

His lips curled, and the next words fell like poisoned knives. “Perhaps your kin would still be breathing.”

Blood pounded in Lyanna’s head. Her vision swam red. Her fingers found the dagger at her hip, curling tight around its hilt.

“I hate you,” she spat, her voice raw and trembling with fury. “I should have opened your throat on the Kingsroad and left you bleeding in the dust.”

Rhaegar’s laugh came sharp and hollow, like the scrape of steel on stone. “You?” His violet eyes gleamed with disdain. “You couldn’t even hold your blade steady, remember?”

The dagger flashed between them, its edge kissing his throat. A single bead of blood bloomed red against pale skin.

Rhaegar did not flinch. He only stared at her, unblinking.

“Go on, then,” he whispered, his voice like smoke curling through the air. “Do it, Lyanna. Put an end to this. Unleash that wolf’s blood of yours.” His lips curled into a frosty smile. “Do us both a favor.”

Her breath came fast. Her grip on the dagger tightened as her thoughts raced. She could kill him here and now, leave his body in the cellar, blame it on the bandits. No one would ever know. But her hand faltered.

She lowered the blade slowly, it was a risk she was not willing to take.

Rhaegar grunted, but his eyes never left hers. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured.

Lyanna stepped back, her pulse still thundering in her ears. She would not give him the satisfaction of a reply.

A sudden, sharp knock on the cellar door shattered the tension. The sound was followed by a hoarse, quavering voice. “Who’s down there? Bandits, is it? I’ll fetch the City Watch—they’ll see you get the King’s justice!”

Rhaegar’s hand shot out, covering Lyanna’s mouth before she could shout. His breath was hot against her ear as he whispered, “We do not know who we can trust. On my count, we run. North, and don’t look back.”

Lyanna begrudgingly gave a tight nod, her pulse pounding in her ears.

“One...two...three!”

With a grunt, Rhaegar drove his shoulder into the door. It splintered open, sending the old man on the other side sprawling. His yelp of surprise quickly turned into a bellow. “Osfryd ! Osfryd ! They’re here!”

The two bolted, swallowed by the chaos of the city. The waning afternoon light cast long shadows as they wove through narrow alleys, dodging carts and sidestepping startled townsfolk.

They stumbled upon a knot of grubby boys crouched near a crumbling wall, their dice clattering against the stones. Rhaegar’s hand dipped into his belt, and two golden dragons flashed in the fading light before clinking onto the cobblestones.

“You didn’t see us,” he said, low and sharp. His eyes snapped to their cloaks. “Your hoods—now.”

The boys' eyes darted between the coin and the strangers. Recognition dawned, and one of them mumbled, “Your Grace,” before snatching up the gold and shoving their ragged cloaks forward with trembling hands.

Lyanna yanked one over her armor. It hung tight across her shoulders, but it would do. Rhaegar scowled as he pulled the tattered hood low, the cloth too short to mask his height. 

“Seven hells,” he muttered, shoving errant strands beneath the hood. “It’ll have to do.”

Lyanna’s gaze snapped over her shoulder. The shouts of guards rang closer now, echoing through the alleyways like hunting horns.

“We need to move,” she hissed, already stepping past him. “Now.”

They melted into the crowded streets, the shadow of the Red Keep looming above like a vulture over its prey. Dodging patrols and wary of prying eyes, they slipped into a noisy tavern. The air was filled with the scent of sour ale, roasting meat, and the sweat of too many bodies crammed into too small a space. Refuge came in the anonymity of the throng, a brief reprieve before the danger resumed.

By dusk, they reached the Red Keep without further interruption. The city, alive with restless energy, seemed to watch them from every shadow. Torches flared in the alleys, their light casting twisted shapes on the cobblestones. Still, no words passed between them. The silence was heavy, colder than the evening air.

At the gate, the guards moved to block their path, hands on sword hilts. Their shouts rang out, demanding names and intentions. Rhaegar answered with action, sweeping back his cloak to reveal his unmistakable silver hair. Recognition dawned on their faces like the rising sun; they fell to one knee, their voices a trembling chorus: "Your Grace."

Lyanna, standing just behind him, cast off her own hood. Her fingers combed through her unkempt hair as her sharp gaze met theirs. The guards hesitated, their deference shifting to unease under the intensity of her glare. One man, who had risen at Rhaegar’s gesture, faltered as his eyes met hers.

The pair was swiftly escorted through the Red Keep. Servants scrambled to bow as they passed, their words a frantic mixture of relief and inquisitions: "Your Grace, do you need anything? Are you hurt?" Lyanna ignored them, her jaw tight, her eyes fixed forward.

Jon Connington met them in the corridor, his face flushed and damp with sweat. "Your Grace," he began, his voice catching as he bowed deeply. "We feared something had happened. Word reached us… bandits, they said."

Rhaegar dismissed the concern with a flick of his hand. "Where is Ser Arthur Dayne? Is he alive?"

Connington’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Barely," he admitted, his voice low. "But breathing. The small council has convened. The city is on full lock down. Those who dared to attack you will be brought to justice, I swear it."

"And Ser Jaime?" Lyanna’s voice cut through the exchange, sharp and demanding. She stepped forward, her brow furrowed with concern.

Rhaegar did not acknowledge her, his gaze fixed elsewhere, but Jon Connington stole a glance her way. His expression was a mask of formality, yet his eyes betrayed his disdain. "A retinue of men has been sent to search for him. Lord Tywin has ordered a hundred Lannister soldiers to comb the streets. He refuses to lose his son again."

"See that Lady Lyanna is escorted to her chambers," Rhaegar ordered abruptly. His tone was icy, his gaze fixed beyond her. "Ensure she has everything she needs."

Lyanna’s nostrils flared at the dismissal, but she held her tongue. Turning on her heel, she strode away, the guards and servants trailing behind her, struggling to match her furious pace.

Once within the confines of her chamber, she let out a bitter laugh. Not only was she doomed to wed a man whose name she despised, but one who clearly despised her in turn.

The irony of it all was too sharp to ignore. The city alight with chaos, but all Lyanna Stark wanted was rest—to let time bleed away like water through her fingers.

King's Landing was alive beneath her, golden in the morning light, as false and treacherous as pyrite. From this height, King’s Landing seemed almost tranquil, its rooftops awash in dawn’s pale glow. Yet Lyanna Stark knew better. Beneath the stillness, the city seethed. Shadows pooled in alleyways, and daggers whispered against whetstones.

It had been more than a moon since the royal procession had been set upon. The attackers called themselves the Kingwood Brotherhood—rebels, outlaws, risen from the ashes of old names and forgotten loyalties. Their leader, Godfry, was a name spoken in Varys’s silken tones, but little else was known. Rumors bred like rats in the gutters.

Lyanna was not certain why Rhaegar still allowed her to attend the small council meetings. They had not spoken since their quarrel—vicious words that had cut deeper than any blade. And yet, he had not sent her away. Perhaps he feared what the court would whisper if he cast her aside too soon. Or perhaps he simply did not care.

Jon Connington wanted blood. “Root them out,” he had said, voice as hard as iron. “Door to door, tavern to tavern. Burn out the rot before it spreads.” Tywin Lannister had inclined his head in approval, his sharp green eyes glittering in the torchlight, but Rhaegar refused. “No,” the king had said, his voice calm but unyielding. “ I will not turn my city into a battlefield.”

It was Jon Arryn who swayed the others in the end, his measured words carrying more reason than Connington’s fury or Tywin’s cold pragmatism. Scouting measures would continue, but no blood would be spilled—yet.

Jaime Lannister had returned the day after Lyanna and Rhaegar found their way back to the Red Keep, his armor stained red. He had demanded to see the King and Lady Stark at once, and only when his sharp eyes fell upon them in the courtyard did he seem to breathe again. If Tywin Lannister felt relief at his son’s safety, he did not show it.

Jaime had demanded to know where Cersei was, only to be informed that she would not return to King’s Landing. She was bound for Storm’s End, to wed Stannis Baratheon. She had raged against it, but Tywin's will was as unyielding as stone.

Then Ashara Dayne had come, trailing behind the royal children like a champion. She was beautiful, dark-haired and violet-eyed, with a grace that drew every gaze in the hall. Yet it was the child at her side who set tongues wagging. A bastard. 

The girl could not have been more than two, all dark curls and eyes like amethysts. No husband had come with Ashara, and the whispers followed her as surely as her shadow. Whore. Mistress. Dornish filth.

Lyanna might have pitied her, once. Instead, she felt only shameful relief that, for once, the scorn of the court had found another target.

Ashara was kind—too kind. They often walked the gardens together, speaking of home and family, though it was Lyanna who offered comfort when Ashara wept for her brother, Arthur, still clinging to life.

Once, Lyanna had almost asked her the name of the father, but the words had died in her throat. Bastards might be no great shame in Dorne, but the other kingdoms had long memories and sharp tongues.

A sharp knock broke the silence, pulling her from her thoughts. "Lady Lyanna?"

It was one of the guards, his voice muffled but insistent. She turned toward the sound, and the motion caught her reflection in the glass of the window. 

“The seamstress has arrived,” the guard said, bowing low. “The final fitting, as ordered.” The words rang hollow, like the toll of a bell at a funeral.

“Tell her to wait,” Lyanna said. Her voice was steady, but her nails dug into the wood of the windowsill. “I’ll send for her when I’m ready.”

The guard hesitated. She did not look at him, but when she spoke again—sharper this time—he bowed and left her to the quiet.

Today, she would stand before gods and men, bound by vows she had not chosen and duty she could not escape. Today, she would be made queen of the seven Kingdoms.

Her gaze lingered on the tinted window, where the banners of House Stark emerged, grey and white against the gold of the rising sun. Wolves, riding south. Ned would be with them. Lyanna pressed her hand to the glass, as though she could somehow bridge the distance and feel his presence.

The room behind her was too grand, too gilded. Silks and gold, candles and jewels—it all felt foreign, like a dream she did not belong to. She had shed her cloak and furs, but still, the North clung to her skin like frost, cold and unyielding.

Lyanna called for the guards to inform the servants she was ready to be dressed. She would be late on purpose. A small, deliberate act of defiance to irritate Rhaegar. He had not risen to her provocations in the past month—only offering cold frowns. Let him stew in his impatience; it was the least she could do in the midst of this gilded cage.

The gown they placed her in was a delicate thing, crafted of the finest silks, its pale blue fabric echoing the colors of House Stark. For the first time, a crown—heavy, jeweled, and foreign—was placed upon her head. The jewels glittered as they were fastened to her, but it felt as if they were shackles. She looked every bit the queen they wished to shape her into, her beauty heightened by the opulence, but inside she remained nothing more than a captive, a piece in a game she had not chosen. Her wild hair had been tamed, now falling just past her shoulders. It was braided in the intricate southern fashion, with jewelry woven between the strands, sparkling like a reminder of the chains that bound her.

Once she was dressed, Jaime Lannister entered the room, his appearance improved—flesh filled out, color returning to his cheeks. He gave her a nod of acknowledgment as he came to escort her. Ever since she had saved his life, his arrogance had melted away, replaced with something else, something earnest. He was a different man around her, and though he said little, his knowing smile seemed to speak volumes.

The procession to the Sept of Baelor was a spectacle in itself, the halls echoing with the sound of armor and boots. Lyanna walked with a firm stride, though the hateful and curious glares that followed her made her feel as though the walls were closing in. When they entered the sept, she took her place next to Rhaegar, who was clearly irritated by her late arrival. His teeth ground together, his jaw tight with suppressed fury, and she could not suppress the small smile that tugged at her lips. His anger was a balm to the ache in her chest, a small victory, and she allowed herself the moment of satisfaction.

They both bowed before the High Septon, who began reciting scriptures about union and duty, words that felt more like shackles than blessings. As the High Septon spoke, Lyanna allowed the slight smirk to tug at her lips when she glanced sideways at Rhaegar. His displeasure radiated from him, like heat from a forge.

Once the High Septon finished his speech, they rose. Rhaegar leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, his voice low and sharp. "You did that on purpose," he murmured, a note of indignation in his tone. "You care nothing for jewels or fine clothing, for looking the part. Yet you know well enough that your tardiness reflects poorly on the crown—and still, you choose to vex me."

Lyanna ignored his whispered words, her gaze unwavering, fixed firmly on the High Septon as he rambled on. Her expression remained neutral, but the faintest of smirks lingered at the corners of her mouth. She would not give him the satisfaction of a response. If he wished to play this game, she was more than capable of matching his frost with her own.

Then came the cloaking. Rhaegar, his hands cold and firm, removed her direwolf cloak and draped the three-headed Targaryen cloak over her shoulders. Their hands were bound together by cloth, the union sealed not by love, but by duty. With that, the ceremony was over.

A loud, raucous applause filled the sept, and Lyanna’s heart sank. This was it. She had been wed. As she turned to face the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Ned and Catelyn Stark among the onlookers. The sight of them stirred something deep inside her, a bittersweet emotion that threatened to break through the cold exterior she had built around herself. Her smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she caught sight of Catelyn’s rounded belly—proof that Ned had indeed consummated their union, despite the distance and the silence.

Ned had not written to her in King’s Landing. She knew it was out of fear of being watched. She forgave him that; she had always known the price of love in this realm of politics and power.

Once the ceremony ended, the wedded pair was escorted to the grand hall for the feast. The hall was alive with music and laughter, filled with nobles drinking and dancing, but for Lyanna, it might as well have been a tomb. 

The feast stretched late into the night, a blur of dancing and endless courses of food. Rhaegar sat beside her, cold and silent, their words as sparse as the space between them. He raised his goblet when required, smiled faintly when eyes were on him, but there was no warmth in it. Lyanna matched his icy demeanor, offering only what was expected and nothing more.

When the opportunity arose, Lyanna excused herself, stepping down the dais where Ned and Lady Catelyn waited. Catelyn curtsied gracefully, lowering her head.

“Your Grace,” she said softly.

Lyanna sighed at the title. It felt foreign, suffocating, yet she forced a smile.

“No need for such formality,” she replied, her voice gentler than expected. “You are my Good-sister.” 

Catelyn straightened, beaming at the words, and Lyanna found herself oddly comforted by the sincerity in her expression. It was Ned she turned to next, and without hesitation, she threw her arms around him, traditions and propriety be damned.

Ned stiffened at first, then held her just as tightly, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I have missed you, dear sister.”

A lump rose in her throat, but Lyanna swallowed it down, forcing the tears to retreat. “I missed you too,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the din of the hall.

When Ned drew back, his eyes darkened, cutting a sharp glance toward the dais where Rhaegar sat, cold and rigid. Beneath his calm, anger simmered like a forge’s fire.

“Has he harmed you?” Ned’s voice was low, tight with fury. “Despoiled you?”

Lyanna’s jaw set, her chin lifting just a fraction. “No,” she said, firm and unflinching. “He has done no such thing.” Her tone softened, but the chagrin remained. “We argue, and we despise each other, but he would not lay a hand on me.”

Ned studied her, searching for cracks, for hidden wounds. When he found none, he gave a curt nod, though his shoulders did not lose their tension. “Good.” He held out his hand, rough and steady as always. “Shall we dance, then?”

A small smile touched Lyanna’s lips as she took his hand. “Always.”

They stepped into the dance, moving to the lively tune of The Bear and the Maiden Fair . For the first time that night, Lyanna laughed—truly laughed—as the music carried her, her worries momentarily forgotten. Her cheeks flushed, her brow damp with sweat, but the joy was fleeting.

Her smile faded when she turned and saw Rhaegar standing by the table, watching her. He was a statue carved from marble—perfect and cold. The sight of him stirred the anger she had buried beneath the layers of silk and jewels.

“Your Grace,” Ned said stiffly as they approached, offering no bow.

“Lord Stark,” Rhaegar replied, his voice cool, polished like Valyrian drawn from its sheath.

Ned turned back to Lyanna, his words dropping to a hush meant only for her ears. “I leave at first light. The North needs me. We’re building something stronger—strong enough that no one will ever dare harm a Stark again.” His voice was low, but there was a fire beneath it, quiet and ruthless.

Lyanna’s heart sank, “so soon?”

Ned nodded, the sadness plain in his eyes, though he tried to hide it.

“I’ve a gift from Benjen,” he said, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll leave it with you before I go.”

Lyanna’s fingers tightened around his hand, desperate to hold him there, to freeze this moment before it slipped away. “I will keep my promise, Lyanna,” he murmured, voice rough with feeling. “I’ll speak to him. I’ll ask Rhaegar to grant you leave to visit Winterfell.”

It was a hollow comfort, but she nodded, forcing herself to let go as Ned stepped away. She watched him until he disappeared through the doors, fearing this might be the last time she saw him for years.

“It is time to retire, my lady.” Lyanna turned to find Rhaegar standing beside her, his voice low and unreadable. The words struck her like a vicious gust. It was time. Her throat felt tight, her limbs heavy. She knew what awaited her tonight—a duty she could not escape. He would take his pleasure, cold and carnal, and she would endure it for the North.

His words startled her, but she masked it quickly, schooling her face into calm indifference. Instead, she tilted her chin up, nodding stiffly.

“Very well,” she said, her voice steady.

As they turned and began their procession toward the chambers, Lyanna’s heart pounded in her chest. The cold she had felt all night seeped deeper into her bones. She would face this night as she had faced every battle before it—with steel in her spine and fire in her veins.

Rhaella stood nearby, regal and distant, as though she had never left the Red Keep. She had returned from Dragonstone only days ago, bringing with her the babe Daenerys and the young, sharp-eyed Viserys, whose energy filled every hall he stepped into. Lyanna had taken care to avoid the dowager queen since her arrival, and she intended to continue doing so. Their last exchange had been barbed with veiled threats and words as cold as beyond The Wall.

Now Rhaella offered her son a faint, practiced smile, but when her gaze drifted to Lyanna, her lips thinned into a frown before she turned away.

Once inside the king’s chambers, Lyanna stilled, her eyes sweeping the space. The room was larger than any she had ever seen, draped in rich velvets of crimson and black, the Targaryen colors woven into every corner—dragon motifs carved into the woodwork, their scaled bodies twisting across the bedposts. Candles burned low, casting golden shadows that flickered like dancing flames. A dragon’s skull hung high above the hearth, hollow eyes staring down at them. 

Rhaegar said nothing at first. He only sighed, a sound heavy with weariness, before stepping toward the bed. He sank onto the edge of the bed, his fingers working with practiced ease to unlace his woolen doublet. One by one, the layers of his fine garments fell away, revealing the pale, sculpted planes of his chest.

Lyanna stiffened, unlike any other woman who might have admired the beauty before her, she felt only a cold distance between them. His form was as flawless as the stories told, muscles honed by years of battle, skin luminescent, yet marked with scars. 

Her fingers brushed the hilt of the small dagger strapped to her thigh, the cool steel a reminder of her promise. It was there, hidden beneath her gown, just as she had planned. One of her handmaidens, a Dornish girl with eyes sharp as a serpent’s, had delivered it to her quietly, her loyalty unquestionable. The blade had slipped into the maid’s hands days before, and now, it was with Lyanna—silent and steady—waiting for its moment, should it ever come.

She would let Rhaegar take what he wanted—let him claim her as his wife in truth, as was expected of her. But she would not be harmed. She would not be made a victim in the bedding. She had heard the dark tales from the North, whispered around the fires—foul stories from the Dreadfort, of men who reveled in drawing blood and tears from their brides, taking pleasure in their pain. Lyanna would not be one of them. If Rhaegar tried to harm her, if he crossed that line, she would plunge the dagger into his neck, and damn the consequences. She would not be cowed by titles or bloodlines. She would not be broken.

Rhaegar’s voice broke the silence. “We will share these chambers from now on.” His tone was flat, dispassionate, as though he were speaking of politics or treaties. He met her eyes briefly before looking away. 

“They will expect the marriage to be consummated,” he said, his words deliberate but lacking any trace of desire. “The realm is in a fragile state. Appearances of unity must be upheld.”

He removed his last boot and turned his back to her, aware of the tension that clung to the air between them. Lyanna's gaze remained fixed on his form, but her hand stayed near the dagger hidden beneath her gown. She said nothing. Her eyes, cold and unwavering, never left him, her expression as unreadable and distant as the dragon’s skull hanging above them. 

Only his breeches remained as he ran a frustrated hand through his cropped silver hair, the strands catching the dim candlelight. He stared at her then—silent, expectant. This was it. He meant for her to undress. No man had ever seen her bare before, and prior to the rebellion, she had intended to keep it that way.

His eyes, cold and unfeeling, held no trace of hunger or desire—only an emotionless detachment, as if she were nothing more than another obligation to endure. He grunted as he stripped off his breeches without ceremony, his movements mechanical, before stepping away from the bed. The candlelight casted shadows on the pale scars that crisscrossed his body, the most striking being a deep, purple gash marring the muscle of his thigh—the mark of her blade. Once, she might have felt a twisted sense of pride in leaving it. Now, all she felt was a deep, unsettling terror, stealing the moment's sting of triumph.

Without a word, he turned and disappeared into the bathing chamber. Lyanna stood frozen, her pulse loud in her ears. Duty . This was duty, and she would not cower from it.

Her fingers worked quickly but shakily, loosening her braids and placing her jewelry down piece by piece until her hair hung loose and plain. Her gown came next, her trembling hands struggling with the laces and stays that her maid had already loosened. The silks pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but her shift, thin as gauze. The cold crept over her skin, and she hugged her arms around her body, willing herself to stand tall.

When Rhaegar returned, he stopped short at the sight of her. His eyes darkened, sweeping over her form before snapping back to her face. He said nothing. Instead, he snorted softly, the sound tinged with irritation, before striding past her and dropping heavily onto the edge of the bed, then lying down. His back to her, bare and taut, as though she were no more than air.

Lyanna’s lips parted in disbelief. Her pulse quickened as heat bloomed in her chest. She stepped closer, her bare feet brushing against the cold stone floor before she reached the edge of the bed. One hand braced lightly on the feathered coverlet as she leaned in, tapping his shoulder.

Rhaegar stirred but did not turn, his broad back rising and falling with measured breaths. He lay stretched across the bed, the fine linens tangled at his waist, his body tense despite the pretense of sleep.

She tapped him again, harder this time, her fingertips pressing into the bare muscle of his shoulder.

Rhaegar turned swiftly, displeasure evident across his face. His eyes drifted downward—quick as a hunting falcon—to the neckline of her shift, lingering for a moment on her chest through the thin fabric before snapping back to her face.

“What?” he hissed, his voice low, barely above a whisper. “Do you care nothing for sleep?”

Lyanna’s fury flared, cutting through her fear. “What do you think you are doing?” she hissed back, her voice a fierce whisper.

Confusion clouded his violet eyes, and for the first time, Rhaegar Targaryen looked uncertain.

"Did you expect me to bed you?" he asked, his tone laced with mockery, or perhaps disbelief, as though the very idea was foreign to him.

Lyanna’s brows furrowed. “Did you not say we must consummate the marriage? You yourself spoke of the need to maintain the appearance of unity,” she said, her voice steady despite the tight knot forming in her stomach.

“I will do no such thing,” his tone was quiet yet firm, catching her off guard. “I am the king. Damn the customs—I will not lay a hand on you if you do not wish it.” His eyes wandered briefly to the dagger hidden in her garter, then back to her face, his gaze unwavering. “And I value my head where it is, thank you very much.” His expression remained impassive, as though his words were simple facts, not even a hint of jest in them.

Despite his honeyed words, Lyanna did not trust him. Her hand slid to the dagger strapped at her garter, drawing it free. She placed it on the bedside table with deliberate care, her movements slow, never once breaking his gaze.

Then, tentatively, she sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers curling against the sheets, before lying back stiffly. Her eyes fixed on the carved canopy overhead, her breath shallow, her body tense.

She lay like that for what felt like hours, every nerve taut, bracing for the moment his resolve might shatter—for the shift of the mattress, the press of his weight, the inevitability of desire overcoming his restraint.

But it never came.

Instead, she heard the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint sound of it deepening until it softened into sleep.

She turned her head just enough to glimpse him in the faint light. The strain that always seemed to coil within him had eased, leaving his features softer, almost unguarded. He looked younger like this—less a king and more a gallant knight.

Even as sleep tugged at her, she fought it, her thoughts tangled and restless. But exhaustion won out, and sometime before dawn, her eyes slipped shut. 

Her dreams were restless, filled with wolves and dragons locked in an endless struggle. And through the chaos of fire and shadow, she saw a boy—his raven-black hair wild, his dark eyes glowing with a strange, somber light.

Chapter Text

GODWYN

It had been eight moons since the rebellion ended. Eight moons since the Starks had marched back north, since the wolf had bent the knee to the dragon. Eight moons since the Mad King had burned for the last time, and a new Targaryen reign had begun.

But for Godwyn and his kin, peace was still a dream whispered on the wind.

The Kingsroad, once the proud crest of Westeros, continued to crawl with bandits, cutthroats, deserters, and worse. They prowled the woods and ditches, robbing and raping those too poor or too slow to defend themselves. Some wore the remnants of Stark or Tully colors, broken men who refused to acknowledge the war was over. Others were merely ghosts of southern soldiers, men who had fought too long for lords who never knew their names, now turned to lawless wandering.

Godwyn grunted as he pulled the cart forward, his daughter walking silently beside him. The wheels creaked under the weight of what little they had left. A single sack of grain, some dried apples, and a jug of watered wine. That was all they dared carry. Anything more would tempt fate.

They were almost to the Twins, the great stone towers that stood sentinel above the Green Fork. North of the river, they said, the land was safe. Rumors painted the North as a place of harsh justice and harder winters, but at least there were no bandits on the roads, and no wolves in men’s clothing.

"It won’t be long now," Godwyn murmured, more to himself than to the girl. The child didn’t speak much these days. She had seen too much, more than any child ought to in a single war.

The road curved, the woods falling away to reveal the moss-dark towers of the Twins rising in the distance. A sliver of hope flickered in Godwyn’s chest.

They said Lord Stark ruled with an iron will. That he beheaded any man who broke the peace, regardless of name or station. He ruled from Winterfell now, not with pageantry or cruelty, but with the kind of cold, enduring justice that made the roads safe and the people humble. Some called him harsh. Others called him fair.

Godwyn called him salvation.

They walked on, step by step, toward the promise of the North.

There were growing whispers now, rumors carried on the wind like autumn leaves, brittle and half-believed.

The North was rallying.

From White Harbor to the Neck, men were being called to muster. Blacksmiths worked from dawn till dusk. Ravens flew across the sky. But that didn’t sit right with Godwyn. He’d heard that the peace treaty, signed in blood and bone, explicitly forbade the North from raising arms without royal consent. Lord Stark had knelt, they said. Sworn oaths. Accepted terms.

And yet.

A part of him didn’t blame them if it were true. Treaties be damned. In a world still licking its wounds, a sword in hand was worth more than a hundred promises.

Godwyn gripped the cart’s handle tighter as he and his daughter trudged forward, the stone road humming beneath the press of boots and wheels. They had reached the Twins at last.

The river was swollen from late spring runoff, the Green Fork churning below with muddy foam. The two great towers loomed on either side of the bridge like ancient sentries, their banners snapping in the breeze, House Frey’s sigil still flying, though faded by wind and time. The bridge between them groaned with traffic: wagons piled with belongings, donkeys laden with sacks, barefoot children clinging to their mothers’ skirts. The exodus north was in full motion.

Everyone had the same idea.

Refuge.

It wasn’t just smallfolk now. Godwyn saw hedge knights in rusting armor, merchants with hollow eyes, even a septon clutching a bundle of holy texts as if the gods themselves were fleeing the Reach. And among them all moved men in faded Stark colors, old gambesons stitched with direwolves, once proud banners now dirtied by the road.

"They say the Freys are letting only a few cross," someone muttered ahead of them.

"For a price," someone else replied.

Godwyn closed his eyes. He didn’t have silver. Just a girl and a cart and a back worn raw from pulling it. But he kept walking. The current of the crowd moved them slowly forward, step by step, toward the bridge, toward the North.

At the front of the line, the shouting grew louder, more rhythmic, like a chant worn thin by repetition.

“Silver or no pass. Risk your life if you will, but none cross the Twins without paying the toll.”

“Silver or no pass. Risk your life if you will…”

The Frey men, grim-faced beneath their mail, stood shoulder-to-shoulder across the gate, their voices flat with indifference. They didn’t raise weapons, they didn’t need to. The words themselves were a barricade. One that only coin could breach.

Godwyn felt his daughter’s small hand tighten around his own. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Father… what will we do?”

He looked down at her. The dirt on her cheeks, the way her hair curled against her temples, how her eyes, gods, her eyes, looked just like her mother’s. That same peaceful strength behind the fear.

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave her hand a squeeze and stepped out of the line.

“We have no silver, love,” he said finally. His voice was low. “So we’ll do what we must.”

There was no turning back. The Crownlands were ruined: burnt out, lawless, crawling with raiders and starving peasants. The Westerlands had closed their borders moons ago, sending ravens back unopened. The Riverlands were worse than rumors claimed: every bridge a battleground, every village either sacked or deserted. The Eyrie was a fortress in the sky, unreachable for folk without wings.

Only the North remained. Cold. Harsh. But still strong.

So he turned from the gate and led his daughter down the muddy path that curved toward the ford, where others had gathered, those too poor, too desperate, or too proud to pay the toll.

The river was loud here, louder than it had sounded from the road. The Green Fork surged in restless waves, its surface littered with broken branches, clumps of brush, and, further down, near the far bank, bodies.

Some of them were bloated, pale, half-caught on rocks or tangled in reeds. Children. Men in cloaks. One woman in a red dress floating face-down, her hair fanned out like kelp.

Godwyn felt his daughter flinch beside him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, shielding her gaze.

A few families stood at the edge, testing the water with sticks or bare feet. One man waded in waist-deep, then cursed and stumbled back, nearly slipping. A mother pulled her crying son away from the shore. Another family turned around entirely, retreating with hollow eyes and silent shame.

But Godwyn did not turn.

He lifted his daughter into his arms, adjusted the weight of his satchel, and took a step into the water.

The river was ice.

Each step numbed his legs more, the current stronger than it looked, tugging at his calves with every forward motion. The weight of his daughter made it harder, but he held her tighter and pressed on.

He could not fail. Not here. Not now.

Behind him, others began to follow. A woman with two girls. An old man gripping his walking stick like a sword. A boy no older than ten, dragging a crying infant in a makeshift sling.

The water climbed to his waist, then his chest. Each step was a struggle, the river pushing sideways with a force that felt alive. Godwyn gritted his teeth, clutching his daughter to his chest, her arms tight around his neck, her breath hot against his ear.

A child ahead of him lost his footing. One moment he was there, clinging to his father’s belt, the next, a splash. A scream.

“Brynden!” the man shouted, spinning wildly. “BRYNDEN!”

The river swallowed the child in seconds. The father lunged after him, arms thrashing, voice cracking with pure animal panic. For a moment, Godwyn saw his hand reach up, desperate, reaching, and then nothing. Only water. The river rolled on, uncaring.

Godwyn’s breath caught. The world narrowed. Cold seeped through his boots, up into his bones. He held his daughter tighter, tried not to look back.

More cries rose around them. A woman slipped and vanished beneath the current. A man in mail tried to grab her and was pulled down with her. The Green Fork claimed them all. The air was filled with coughing, sobbing, and flailing limbs.

Godwyn stumbled forward, knees trembling. His foot slipped, caught in the silt, but then he felt the bottom again. He surged forward, his daughter still clinging to him, her body shaking. Another step. Another.

Then they reached the shore.

With a final burst of strength, Godwyn threw her up onto dry land. She rolled into the grass, gasping but safe.

He tried to follow.

But his footing gave way.

In an instant, the current dragged him sideways. His feet were gone from beneath him, the world spinning. Water filled his mouth. He sank, swallowed whole, the muffled chaos above replaced by darkness and silence.

No. No, not like this.

His arms flailed. His legs kicked, but the river pulled harder, stronger. He thought of his daughter: her face, her eyes. Alone in this cruel world.

Then—light.

A flicker above. A branch, jagged and wet, swaying just above the surface. He reached, fingers numb, strength failing, and caught it.

Pain lanced up his shoulder as the branch bent, then held.

He pulled.

The world broke open again: water, air, sky. He surfaced with a desperate gasp, coughing up river water, his chest heaving. He blinked, light burning his eyes, and then he saw her.

His daughter stood at the edge, barefoot, clutching the end of the branch with both hands, planting her feet against the soaked bank.

She had saved him.

He collapsed against the muddy shore, still coughing, dragging himself clear of the water. The girl fell to her knees beside him, and for a moment they just breathed. The noise of the river fell away. All that existed was the feeling of earth beneath them, solid and unmoving.

He kissed the crown of her head. “You saved me, love,” he whispered into her tangled hair. “You saved your old fool of a father.”

She didn’t answer. She just held on tighter.

Godwyn looked around, his vision still blurred.

A few others had made it too. A mother clutching her daughter. An old man collapsed against a tree, shaking. Maybe six in total. Not many.

But they were north of the river. 

Godwyn pulled her into his arms and held her like he would never let go again.

His chest was still heaving, soaked clothes clinging to his skin, but all he could feel was the fragile warmth of her body against his. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t need to. Her fingers fisted into his tunic. He could feel the tremble in her shoulders, the quiet sobs she was too proud to let loose.

They had left their cart behind. The grain, the wine, the apples. Everything they owned.

But none of it mattered now.

They were alive.

When their breathing finally steadied, when the ache in their muscles dulled and the adrenaline ebbed away like the river behind them, they joined the others, those few who had crossed, and followed the path northward. Step by step, through damp grass and silent woods.

The road narrowed as they entered the outer edges of the Neck, a misty, half-flooded land where reeds grew tall and the trees loomed like watchful sentries. It was the natural border between the Riverlands and the North, a place whispered about in taverns for its bogs, its crannogmen, its eerie silences.

But tonight, it was only cold and endless.

They walked for hours, following others when they could, listening for the sound of boots ahead, for the comfort of shared movement. By the time the sky deepened to gray-blue and the treetops swallowed the last hints of light, a shape emerged ahead, a squat building of timber and stone. Smoke drifted from its crooked chimney. Lanterns flickered in the windows.

An inn.

No banner flew above its door. No name carved into the sign. Just warmth. Shelter.

Godwyn squeezed his daughter’s hand. “Almost there.”

Inside, the common room was loud with voices and the smell of wet cloaks, smoke, and stew. Travelers crowded every bench and hearth. A fire blazed in the stone pit at the center, casting gold and orange light against the walls. No one looked up as they entered. Everyone here was running from something. No one asked questions.

Godwyn approached the innkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with streaks of gray in her braid and hands rough as bark. He reached into his coat, pulling out the last coin he owned, a chipped silver coin, smoothed nearly flat by years of travel.

“For a room,” he said. “Just one night. For me and my daughter.”

The woman glanced down at the coin, then at the girl beside him, teeth chattering in her soaked cloak.

She nodded and slid a key across the counter. “Upstairs. Second on the left. Fire’s lit.”

Godwyn murmured his thanks.

The room was small, barely more than a bed, a hearth, and a cracked window, but it was warm. He helped his daughter out of her clothes, wrapped her in a wool blanket, and sat her by the fire. Then he stripped off his own sodden layers and hung them near the flames to dry.

They didn’t speak much.

He just sat beside her on the narrow bed, one arm around her, the other holding out his hands to the fire.

They were safe.

He let her sleep.

She deserved rest, real rest, not the restless, fitful kind they’d grown used to under trees and tarps, always half-listening for wolves or worse. She was curled up in the wool blanket now, her chest rising and falling steadily by the firelight.

Godwyn slipped out quietly, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Downstairs, the inn’s common room was warm and alive with the hum of faint voices, the clink of spoons in bowls. The air smelled of roasted barley and hearth smoke, better than anything he’d known in weeks.

The innkeep looked up as he descended the stairs. “Still breathing, then?” she said gruffly, though not unkindly.

“Mostly,” Godwyn replied.

She slid a cup across the wooden counter. “Ale. On the house. You looked like a drowned dog when you came in.”

He blinked, surprised. “Much thanks, mistress.”

“Don’t thank me. You’ve a little one upstairs. That’s thanks enough.”

Godwyn took the cup, warm to the touch, and lowered himself onto a nearby bench near the fire. The drink was rough but good, earthy, honest. For a moment, all he felt was warmth. Relief. He was alive. His daughter was alive. That should’ve been enough.

But then the door burst open, heavy with cold air and noise.

Half a dozen men stomped inside, voices loud, laughter louder, boots thudding like drumbeats on the old floorboards. They wore dark wool cloaks lined in fur, armor etched with ice and snow patterns, and over their shoulders flew the unmistakable direwolf banner of House Stark.

Godwyn straightened in his seat, his grip tightening on the mug.

Northern men. Fully armored. This far south?

He had thought Winterfell’s men kept to the high passes beyond the Neck, far from the chaos of the Riverlands. But these were no mere patrols. They wore swords and axes with a purpose. One man even bore a warhorn at his belt.

They ordered loudly: ale, bread, stewed venison, and laughed like they hadn’t a care in the world.

One of them, a stocky man with snow-blond hair and a voice like gravel, turned toward Godwyn.

“Min’ if we sit here?” he asked, in a thick northern accent.

Godwyn hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, Ser. You may sit.”

The soldiers clattered down onto the benches, hands warming by the fire, voices picking up again as if no one else was in the room.

They didn’t lower their voices.

“Bloody dragons think they still own everything above the Neck,” said one, tearing into his bread. “But the North remembers.”

“Aye,” another grunted. “And this time, we shan't bend the knee so easily. I say we take our Lady back, burn the damn Red Keep if we must.”

Godwyn blinked. Lady? Red Keep?

“Prince Rhaegar’s keeping his queen locked away like some prize,” the tall one muttered darkly. “Not for much longer. Lord Stark won’t suffer that. Not again.”

There was a murmur of agreement. Another added, “King in the North, that has a fine sound to it, doesn’t it? The dragons have no right ruling over us.”

Godwyn sipped his ale slowly, keeping his face blank.

He wasn’t a man of parchment or court gossip, but even he knew the tales. Long ago, before the Targaryens came with dragons and fire, the Starks had been kings. Kings of Winter. Of snow and ice and all the land above the Neck. They’d ruled for thousands of years before bending the knee to Aegon the Conqueror.

Would they really try to take it back now?

Godwyn’s stomach turned. He had crossed rivers and buried friends chasing safety in the North. But what if he’d walked straight into the start of another war?

Godwyn nursed his ale a while longer, pretending not to listen, but the words dug into his thoughts like burrs. The North remembers. King in the North. Take her back.

After some time, he cleared his throat. “You said something about forces… gathering?”

The soldiers turned toward him, ale-misted and red-cheeked, but alert.

The stocky one grinned broadly, proud beneath his pale beard. “Aye, that we did.”

Another leaned forward across the table, slapping his tankard down with a satisfying thud. “Some of us ar’ Manderly men,” he said. “White Harbor lads. Came down south on Lord Wyman’s orders to demonstrate our fealty at Winterfell.”

Godwyn blinked. “Demonstrate how exactly.”

The men laughed. One even snorted into his drink.

“Oh, you’ll see,” one of them said, voice low and cryptic.

“We all answer to Stark now,” said the tall one, with a touch of reverence. “Doesn’t matter if you're a Reed from the Neck, a Flint from the mountains, or a Manderly from the harbor. The direwolf flies over all our halls now.”

“Even the Boltons?” Godwyn asked, surprised, before he could stop himself. He’d heard whispers near the Trident, rumors that Bolton loyalty was as thin as the skin they liked to flay.

That made the laughter stop.

For a beat, the table fell quiet.

Then the stocky soldier let out a breath through his nose, more amused than angry. “Aye. Even the Boltons.”

There was a pause, just long enough for the fire to pop in the hearth.

Another man muttered, “Flayed men can wear wolf skins too, if they’re told hard enough.”

Godwyn stared into his mug. He had always heard how tight-knit the North was, painfully stubborn, but this? This was different. This was unity. Intentional. Strategic .

“But… why?” he asked. “The war’s done. King Rhaegar is on the throne now. There's peace.”

The tall man’s smile thinned, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Rhaegar’s weak,” he said bluntly. “Talks like a scholar, rules like a septa. All silk and softness. He let the South burn, let his father roast the Starks alive, and what did he do? Nothing. Cowered in the Red Keep until the Trident.”

The others nodded.

“Hoster Tully’s still angry,” another added, lowering his voice just a notch. “Lord Stark, too. Never sat right with them, what happened. They keep their words soft, but their hearts are hard. They want… something more.”

“Freedom,” someone said, almost under his breath.

Godwyn felt a chill settle over him, despite the fire.

“And no one will stop them?” Godwyn pried. “Not the Crown? Not the lords of the Riverlands?”

One Manderly soldier shrugged, swigging from his cup. “What's the Dragon King gonna do? March north? With what army? The dragons are dead. Burned out centuries ago. All the Targaryens have now are songs, and not many singers left willing to sing them.”

Laughter broke out again. Rough, easy, careless.

The stocky soldier leaned forward, his voice quieter now, but not cautious, confiding.

“We are moving . Quietly. Men from Bear Island, the Dreadfort, the Frostfangs. Moving toward the borders. Fortifying keeps. Setting traps in the passes. Sending scouts into the Neck. All of it under wolf banners. No declarations, no horns. Just… preparation.”

His eyes gleamed with pride. “They mean to make the North unconquerable. And if Rhaegar wants to stop that, well… he’ll have to cross the Twins first. Good luck to him.”

Godwyn’s thoughts churned. He wasn’t a lord. Wasn’t a knight. Just a farmer with calloused hands and a daughter to raise. But even he knew what it meant when men began building walls and counting spears in the dark.

Godwyn shook his head, voice low but firm. “This is madness. Lord Stark would never put Queen Lyanna in harm’s way. She’s his sister.”

The words landed like stones in a pond, ripples, but no agreement.

The tall Manderly snorted into his drink. “Aye, and she’s in a tower under dragon watch. You think that won’t twist her fragile mind against us?”

Another scoffed, slamming his empty tankard down. “Some things are more important than some lady. No matter her blood.”

“Our freedom,” added a third, pointing a finger. “That’s what matters. No more bending the knee to silver-haired tyrants and their southern courts. No more bowing to kings who never set foot beyond the Trident.”

The fire crackled in the silence that followed.

Godwyn stared into the flames, troubled. “But there’s peace now. You'd throw the realm back into war?”

“Peace?” one soldier barked a laugh. “A lie sewn into a king’s robe. You call it peace when bandits roam free and Targaryens hoard coin while our folk freeze in the barrows?”

The stocky one leaned forward again, voice thick with pride. “Lord Stark’s got an heir now. Robb. Just a babe, but hale and strong. Now Lord Stark can fight without fear of losing the line. The wolf has teeth again.”

Their laughter turned rowdy, echoing across the room.

“I heard Lord Stark stopped paying taxes moons ago,” one slurred, grinning wide. “Slap in the face to the Crown. Didn't even send a raven, just kept the gold. And when a Crown convoy tried to collect, they were chased out of the Neck like dogs.”

“Poor Dornishman,” another added with a theatrical whimper, miming reins. “Back to King’s Landing with wet boots and bruised pride.”

Even the innkeeper cracked a smile from behind the railing.

Godwyn wasn’t a Northman, had never claimed to be. But as the soldiers at the hearth continued to boast of wolves and independence, he began to notice something else.

It wasn’t just the soldiers laughing.

The other patrons, the farmers, the tradesmen, the old men with wrinkled hands, and the young ones with soot on their boots, weren’t drinking or speaking. But they were watching. Listening. And nodding.

Every time the soldiers spoke of Northern pride, the others straightened with something like agreement. Every mention of the “southern leeches,” the “dragon spawn,” drew a shadow of approval. Some clenched their fist. Others raised their cups.

They hate the South, Godwyn thought.

Not just the Targaryens. Not just King’s Landing.

The entire South .

He looked around and felt suddenly, terribly exposed. His accent was faint, but not Northern. His manners weren’t theirs. He didn’t talk like a bogman or move like a crannog.

And if they found out he was from the Crownlands?

Would they run him out? Or slit his throat and call it justice?

He paled. His hands trembled slightly as he drank his ale. It tasted like ash now.

Without a word, he pushed the empty cup toward the center of the table, nodded once, and stood.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, each creak echoing louder than the last in his ears.

He moved fast, too fast up the stairs, boots thudding on old wood. He reached their room, closed the door behind him, and crossed to the bed.

“Up,” he whispered urgently, already gathering their things. “We’re leaving. Now.”

His daughter stirred, groggy. “Papa? It’s still dark—”

“Get dressed. Quickly. No questions, love.”

Something in his voice silenced her. She sat up, eyes wide, already pulling on her cloak.

Godwyn shouldered the pack, wrapped her in the thick wool blanket, and lifted her into his arms. Her arms curled around his neck.

He opened the door and stepped back out into the hall, and froze.

The tall Manderly soldier was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

The warm cheer from just a moment earlier was gone, replaced by a hard, hollow glare. His jaw was tight. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“Where do you think you’re going, Southern ?” he asked, voice dangerously low. 

"Your tongue’s too smooth for the Neck. Too soft for the hills."

He sneered. "You don’t sound like any man north of the Trident."

Godwyn blinked. “I’m not—” he started, then caught himself. “I’m no Southern, ser. Just a man from the Neck, looking for work near Winterfell. A quiet life. For me and my girl.”

The soldier’s lip curled. He took a slow step forward, eyes narrowing.

“You called it the Riverlands earlier,” he said, voice cold. “Not many commoners north of the Neck bother with that name. Commoners call it the south . Only a Crownlander or a lordling’s steward splits maps that way.”

He stepped forward and struck Godwyn across the face.

The blow cracked loud in the hallway. Godwyn staggered back, tasting blood, but held his daughter tight, keeping her safe in his arms. She gasped, but didn’t cry.

“You’re a dragon spy,” the man snarled. “I knew it. That’s why you were asking so many questions. Why you watched us like a rat in the walls.”

The tall Manderly soldier stepped in closer, breathing hard, his hand twitching near the hilt of his sword.

“Maybe we ought to hang him,” he said, dragging Godwyn toward the others. “Before he runs back south to whisper in dragon ears. Or worse, tells Lord Frey. We all know what that old weasel would do with talk of rebellion.”

Another soldier appeared at the end of the hall, his face flushed, eyes glassy with drink. The faded cloak slung over his shoulders bore the rough image of a brown giant breaking free of chains, though Godwyn didn’t know the house it belonged to.

“Aye,” the man slurred, swaying slightly. “That’d be bad. Frey would sell us all to Rhaegar for a plate of stew and a new title.”

They looked at each other; drunk, grinning, but something darker passed between them. Not just talk anymore. They wanted blood. 

Godwyn shifted his weight, bracing his back against the wall, daughter still cradled in his arms. She was frozen, silent, clutching the collar of his cloak like she knew something was terribly wrong.

The men stepped closer.

Then a voice cut through the hallway. 

“Enough.”

It was hushed. Calm. But every man stopped.

The speaker stepped forward from the stairwell shadows. A thin man, older than the rest, with dark hair streaked in grey and a face that said little and revealed less.

“Commander Hareth,” the men said, bowing stiffly as the others stepped aside.

Hareth’s eyes swept over.

“I leave you fools for thirty minutes to warm a lady’s bed, and you manage to do more damage in one night than a southern raven could in a fortnight.”

The tall soldier’s smile faltered. “Commander, we—”

“You cannot hold your drink, you cannot hold your tongues, and now you threaten to string up a man and his child outside an inn full of witnesses.”

The man named Hareth turned his head slightly, meeting Godwyn’s eyes with a look devoid of anger or pity. Just command.

“They’ve heard too much,” he said. “We’ll hold them until Lord Wyman decides what’s to be done.”

Two of the soldiers hesitated, then obeyed. They moved forward with hands on hilts, expressions tight, not gleeful, not cruel. Just grim.

“No harm shall befall either of them,” Hareth added.

There was no satisfaction in his voice. No hatred.

Only duty.

Godwyn didn’t struggle. His arms tightened around his daughter, but he didn’t run. There was nowhere to run. Not here. Not in the heart of Northern territory, where even the trees whispered treason

They rode out under the cover of night. Godwyn had learned this was meant to be a brief stop on a longer march, part of the Manderly escort’s return from the Riverlands back to White Harbor. The detour to the inn had been an indulgence, a mistake of ale and loose tongues. Now, they needed to make up time. They would not wait for morning.

No words were spoken as Godwyn and his daughter were lifted onto a spare horse, flanked by armored men on either side. The girl clung to her father’s cloak, silent, eyes wide in the moonlight.

Commander Hareth rode ahead, face set like carved stone, his dark cloak snapping behind him in the wind. Embroidered on its back was the sigil of his house: a crowned merman, green-bearded and grim, bearing a silver trident like a weapon of judgment.

Behind them rode the others, Northern soldiers still half-drunk, their numbers made up of men from various houses of the North, with only a handful of Manderly men among them. Some muttered darkly under their breath, blades swaying at their hips with each uneasy trot. The mood had turned sour. The silence felt brittle, the woods too still, as if the night itself was holding its breath.

Godwyn knew it before it happened. He felt it in the tension of the horse beneath him. In the sideways glances exchanged behind Hareth’s back. In the way one of the men shifted his grip on the reins too often, like he was holding onto more than just leather.

Then the first voice broke through.

“We should’ve hung him,” one of the drunk soldiers spat, loud in the quiet. “Letting him ride out like a guest, after all he’s heard? Madness.”

Another barked a laugh. “That’s Hareth for you. Still thinks we answer to lords instead of the North itself.”

“Don’t start,” grunted a third, trying to hush them. “Not now.”

But it was already too late.

Hareth reined in his horse, turning slowly. “You speak treason,” he said, voice low, deadly. “Stand down.”

The drunk soldier’s smile twisted. “No, Commander. We speak the truth.”

And then steel flashed.

The woods exploded with movement, horses rearing, men shouting, blades scraping from scabbards. Godwyn grabbed his daughter and threw himself off their horse, hitting the earth hard as chaos broke loose.

It happened fast and ugly. The drunk soldiers, some bearing the rough, brown giant chained to a broken fetter, others cloaked in different Northern colors Godwyn couldn’t name, turned on Hareth without hesitation. The two men still loyal to the commander fought fiercely but were quickly overwhelmed. One fell in seconds, his throat slit open like a torn pouch. The other blocked and swung with desperate strength, wounding one attacker before a spear found its way through his ribs.

The tall Manderly man stood frozen, caught between duty and confusion, uncertain which side to take.

Hareth fought like a wolf. He brought two down with precise strikes, nearly cut down a third, but there were too many, and he was too alone. A dagger slid beneath his arm as he turned to parry, and he staggered back, blood darkening his doublet.

Then they dragged him from the saddle and ran him through the chest.

The forest went still again, only the hiss of breathing, the wind rustling the leaves, the gurgle of a dying man’s breath.

Godwyn stayed crouched behind a fallen log, his daughter curled against his chest, his heart thundering.

One of the soldiers kicked Hareth’s corpse onto its back. “Commander,” he said mockingly. “Still commanding now, are you?”

Another man sheathed his sword with a sigh. “The South will never understand. We’ve bled too long. Bent too often. The wolf doesn’t crawl anymore.”

“That man and his brat,” said a third, turning toward the shadows. “They heard everything. All of it.”

“And they’re not Northern,” the first sneered. “No oaths. No kin. Just mouths waiting to wag.”

Godwyn held his breath as bootsteps moved closer, crunching dry leaves.

“What do we do?” one of the soldiers muttered, wiping blood off his blade. “They could be anywhere.”

“Wylric,” another barked suddenly, turning to the tall Manderly man who still stood rooted in place. “Are ye’ with us or not?”

The name broke through his haze like a slap. Wylric blinked, hesitated, then gave a slow nod.

“Then help us with the body,” the soldier growled. “We’ll need a story for Lord Manderly. Something clean. Maybe… Rhaegar sent a spy north. Commander Hareth fought bravely, uncovered the truth, and died killing the bastard.”

A few men laughed, grim and mean, as they dragged Hareth’s corpse toward a patch of open ground. One of them began stabbing the body again and again, muttering to himself as blood soaked the grass. Another stripped the commander’s cloak, tossing it aside like a discarded flag. They worked quickly, preparing their lie.

Godwyn had seen enough.

Cradling his daughter close, he slipped into the edge of the trees, moving as fast and silent as he could. His heart pounded louder than his footsteps. The girl clung to him, her arms tight, her breath warm against his chest.

They moved deeper into the forest, twisting through brambles, ducking beneath branches, until a sudden snap broke the silence.

A dry twig under his foot.

He froze, and his eyes went wide.

Voices rose behind them.

“Hey! They’re here!”

Steel rang out of scabbards. Boots thudded over grass and stone.

Godwyn didn’t hesitate. He crouched low, gripping the child’s shoulders. “Run,” he hissed. “Run north. Don’t stop. Don’t turn back. Do you understand me?”

She nodded once, too afraid to speak, and bolted into the trees.

Godwyn turned the other way.

And then he ran.

He crashed through the underbrush, snapping every branch he could, shouting nonsense, howling like a madman. Anything to draw them after him. Anything to buy her more time.

Shouts rose behind him.

“He went east!”

“Get him!”

He didn’t look back.

Branches tore at his face. Thorns bit into his arms. But he kept running, faster than he thought his legs could move, heart thundering in his ears.

Because if she could make it out, if she could get far enough away, then maybe, maybe she could live.

They caught him before dawn.

He ran hard, long enough to think maybe he’d bought her time. But the North had always belonged to wolves, and these men hunted like them. When he tripped in the dark and his ankle rolled beneath him, they were on him in seconds. Laughing. Cursing. Kicking.

“You’re fast for a southern rat,” one spat, dragging him up by the collar. “But not fast enough.”

Another, broader than the rest, leaned in close. His breath stank of ale and rot. “Change of plans,” he said. “You’re gonna help us now.”

Godwyn coughed, blood filling his mouth. “Help?”

“Aye.” The man grinned, revealing a chipped tooth. “Commander Hareth died fighting a southern spy. You. Who confessed everything under torture. How the Crown sent you to sniff out Northern loyalties. You’ll be our proof. A body with no name. Something to give the fire more smoke.”

“Anything to stoke the flames of independence,” another added. “The wolf needs a reason to bare its teeth.”

They dragged him through the trees, boots crunching frost and pine needles beneath them. The sky was just beginning to pale. Ahead stood a twisted old birch with bark like flayed skin.

He didn’t struggle.

They tied the rope like they’d done it before. No ceremony. No honor. Just knots and spit and silence.

One of them threw the rope over the branch. Another tightened the noose.

One of the men, younger than the rest, with the direwolf of House Stark emblazoned on his rusted breastplate, couldn’t meet Godwyn’s eyes.

Godwyn’s thoughts drifted, not to the rope, not to the pain in his ribs, not even to death.

His mind turned to her, his little girl. 

To her hand in his. Her breath against his chest. The look in her eyes when he told her to run.

He prayed she’d made it. Not just past the woods. Not just across the Neck.

But farther.

Past Winterfell, even.

Past the Wall.

Where the fires of kings and rebels could never touch her.

Where the realm of men could not burn her.

The last thing he saw was the breaking light through the branches.

The last thing he felt was the wind.

Then nothing.

Chapter Text

EDDARD

The wind howled through the gaps in the old stone, dragging the chill of the Neck through every crack and broken battlement of Moat Cailin. The fortress had stood since before the Andals, before the dragons, before even the Kings of Winter had carved their names in stone. Now it stood strong, not as a ruin, but as a warning. 

The North had spent the better part of the past year raising it stone by stone, dragging timber and granite through swamp and mire, restoring Moat Cailin to what it had once been: the shield of the North, the choke that no southern army could pass. 

It was fortified with timber palisades and sharpened stakes, the swamps around it thickened with hidden pits and spiked trenches. Narrow causeways were mapped and reworked, choked with deadfall traps and watchfires ready to signal any advance from the south.

Stone masons from White Harbor had reworked the gatehouse with iron-banded oak. Archers from Deepwood Motte were stationed in the towers, their watch never-ending. Even the crannogmen had emerged from the fog of legend, flitting through the bogs on flatboats, leaving no footprints but carrying word of every southern traveler, trader, or scout.

No man would pass through the Neck unnoticed.

Inside the newly furnished war hall, Lord Eddard Stark stood at the head of the long table, surrounded by men he needed: lords, knights, old warriors of the North who had followed his father before him.

A map of Westeros lay unrolled beneath his hands. One point on it stood out above all others: The Twins.

Two towers. One bridge. The only gate the Trident offers to armies marching north.

Rodrik Cassel cleared his throat. “You mean to take them, then?”

“I do.”

Even after weeks of rising tensions and long-riding schemes, the words landed like a sword clattering on the floor. 

Maester Luwin looked up. “That would mean crossing into Riverlands territory. Invading another realm, my lord.”

Ned nodded once. “The Starks have not done so in centuries. But this is no longer a realm built on the old customs and justice. The line between peace and survival grows thinner by the day.”

Lord Glover leaned over the table. “You’ll be seen as an aggressor. Even if you wear the face of a warden, you’ll be a conqueror.”

“We’ve spoken of this already,” Ned said, his voice stretched. “I will not have the North branded a usurper’s host. Not if we shape what tales leave The Twins .”

They looked at him, mute.

It was Rodrik who finally spoke, voice hoarse. “That may be true, at first. But words are slippery things, my lord. Sooner or later, someone will call it what it is.”

“Let them,” Ned replied, tone flat. “By then, the wolves will already control the bridge.”

“We do not burn the towers,” Ned continued. “We do not sack the halls. We do not hang Lord Walder. He remains Lord of the Crossing. The banner remains his. But silently above his banner… we will fly the wolf.”

Rodrik frowned, looking intently at the detailed map. “A garrison.”

“A watch,” Ned said evenly. “That is what we’ll tell the realm. That the Freys have grown too bold, taxing refugees like thieves, denying safe passage to common folk. That we ride not for conquest, but for the protection of the weak.”

“A lie,” said Lord Wylis Manderly, his voice lusterless and intentional. 

Ned met his eyes. “A necessary one.”

Another long pause followed. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to hush.

“Hoster Tully won’t take kindly to this,” Glover muttered. “The Twins are his vassals. You cross that bridge with steel, and you’ll humiliate him.”

“He has no army,” Ned said simply. “His men are scattered. His coffers are bled dry. If he raises a banner, half the Riverlands won’t follow.”

Maester Luwin’s voice came faintly from across the table. “And the Crown?”

Ned’s voice came even bolder. “The Crown cannot afford to act. Not while Rhaegar holds a city trembling on the edge of rebellion, and he’s too afraid to march his men outside the King’s Landing walls.”

The fire crackled, casting flickers of orange against stone and steel. No one spoke.

“We control the Neck,” Ned said at last, his tone final. “The North has only one viable way in, and I mean to seal it. Let the South fight its fires. We will bar the wind from blowing north. And should they ever come for us…”

He looked up, eyes hard.

“…they’ll find the bogs flooded and the gate locked tight. And wolves at every tree.”

Glover gave a long, slow nod. “And what of Lord Frey?”

Ned looked down at the map, at the thin ribbon of river that marked the Green Fork. “Walder Frey will not fight.”

Rodrik Cassel wasn’t so sure; his eyes betrayed him. “He’s prideful, that one. Might try to raise swords to save face.”

Lord Umber grunted from his seat near the hearth, arms crossed over his broad chest. “He’ll bark at first,” he snorted. “Then bend like 'em all.”

“He’ll be allowed to keep his lands,” Ned declared, “but only in name. The North stays. Indefinitely. His castle becomes ours in practice.”

His voice was barely more than a breath. “We need the Twins.”

“Has Hoster not responded yet?” asked Lord Cerwyn, his brow furrowed as he scanned the map.

Ned shook his head. “No.”

He didn’t elaborate, but the silence spoke volumes. The envoys he’d sent to Riverrun had all returned empty-handed. No words. No letters. Not even a sealed refusal.

“Riverrun is shut tight,” Ned said at last. “Hoster’s gates are closed and his halls quiet. He still grieves. Still burns with the need for vengeance… but he’s not fool enough to be seen conspiring with Northerners.”

He paused, jaw grinding. “I had hoped to do this with his blessing. Quietly. Cleanly. But his silence leaves me only one path forward.”

Glover leaned back, grim. “Then we take the Twins without his leave. Let him curse us after.”

Lord Umber grunted, rising from his seat with a wolfish grin. “Hoster won’t raise a finger. Supporting us means treason, opposing us means suicide with no army. You have four thousand men at your disposal, Lord Stark. Give the word, and we march.”

Ned turned to the cracked window, watching the mists roll over the swamps like slow breath from some sleeping beast. Behind him, the hall was more hushed but not empty; the lords still stood around the war table, waiting for orders, their eyes on his back, their voices held in check. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Only the wind moved freely now, whispering through the cracks, tugging at his cloak like a warning.

He knew this was no minor move. This would be seen by some as the true breaking of the treaty.

After Rhaegar took the throne, Ned ceased acknowledging the Night’s Watch’s claims over the Gift. The ancient promise, once sacred when the Watch was strong and the realm united, had grown hollow in the harsh reality of the North. The lands lay idle, and the Stark bannermen needed more than old vows to feed their families through bitter winters.

So Ned began taxing and administering the territory as part of the North, though he made no grand announcements or proclamations. It was a measured, deliberate taking of what was necessary, done in silence and shadow.

But word traveled fast in Westeros, as it always does. Rumors of the Starks claiming the Gift spread from village to village, carried by merchants, travelers, and smallfolk alike. Whispers reached the ears of lords, and soon the Crown heard of the reclamation.

In response, a raven was sent; a symbolic fine, a formal reprimand meant more for appearances than for enforcement. The dragons in King’s Landing were occupied with their own struggles and never sent a force to contest the North’s claim.

But the Starks never paid the fine, and still no swords marched north.

So the whispers began: that the Starks could do as they pleased, that the Crown would not, could not, punish them. That Winterfell answered only to winter.

Yet this was different.

The Twins were not northern land, nor forgotten charity. They were the mouth of the Green Fork, the gate to the North, and seizing them would mean crossing into another lord’s domain, with an army. Lie or not, “watch” or “protection,” no lord would mistake it for anything but an act of aggression.

Was he ready for war?

He didn’t know.

Ned had not forgotten the price of the last one, barely a year past.

But he thought of Lyanna, still held in the Red Keep, behind veils and locked doors, crowned queen in name but prisoner in truth. No matter the silken gowns or private chambers, she remained a Stark. Still his blood.

If the dragon ever rode north with fire in his heart and vengeance in his fists, Lyanna would be the one to pay.

She can take care of herself , Ned told himself, not for the first time. She always could.

But in the dark corners of his mind, he imagined her running barefoot through the alleys of King’s Landing, slipping onto a ship with no name, hiding among Myrish traders or Lyseni courtesans, heading across the Narrow Sea where Rhaegar would never find her.

Where she could start again.

Because if war came to the North, Ned would not surrender.

Ned stood before the war table, his gray eyes steady as the walls of Winterfell. “We will march,” he said firmly, each word grave. “I will not have my son, Robb, at the mercy of a Targaryen, or any crown that forgets the North.”

He looked up. “What of recruitment? How fares the men?”

The master-at-arms of the Dreadfort standing before him dipped his head, pride stiffening his broad shoulders. “We lost many in the last war, my lord. But in this year’s shadow, we have slowly rebuilt.”

His voice grew firmer. “The timber trade with Braavos has been fruitful. The coin flows well. We have the means now to train and equip new soldiers: boys and men burning with hunger for southern blood.”

Ned shook his head.

He hated this talk of blood, tossed so lightly on the air. As if war were a feast men could march to with empty bellies and return from full of glory.

He had seen what war truly was.

It had taken his father, burned alive in the Red Keep. It had taken Brandon, strangled in chains while he screamed. It had taken his dearest friend, Robert, head clean off his shoulders. 

War hollowed men. It didn’t make them great.

What he was doing now, this campaign, the sacking of the Twins , was no call for vengeance. It was a shield, raised trembling between the North and the storm he feared would come one day.

“I’m not eager for southern blood,” Ned said calmly. “I’m trying to keep northern blood from staining the snow again.”

Ned dismissed them with a nod as the room emptied one by one, the voices fading into torchlight and soft footsteps.

The maps remained sprawled across the table, littered with carved wooden markers and wax seals. He stared at them a moment longer, tracing the Kingsroad with his eyes, past the Neck, to the Twins.

Then he blew out the candle.

Sleep came late and uneasily.

He dreamed of snow-covered crypts and a girl weeping in a bed of blood. Of wolves pacing behind barred gates. Of a shadow with silver hair and violet eyes that watched him from a throne of swords. And somewhere, beyond it all, Robb’s voice, distant and young, calling for him through the dark.

When morning came, it was grey and bitter.

The camp outside Moat Cailin walls had swollen overnight, nearly four thousand men and boys in leather and mail, sharpening swords, oiling shields, and saddling restless horses. The sound of marching feet and blacksmith hammers echoed across the stone yards.

Ned emerged from the walls wrapped in his cloak of wolf-fur, the chill air cutting sharper than any blade. Morning mist still clung to the fields, curling low around the boots of soldiers and the hooves of restless horses. Fires crackled in scattered rings across the camp, and the smell of smoke and boiled oats hung in the air like fog.

He spotted Lord Manderly first; broad and slow-moving, with a face flushed red from the cold and too much breakfast. The man was swaddled in furs like a beached whale, but his presence brought a sense of wealth to the host that few could match.

Beside him stood Roose Bolton, still and pale as a morning glaze. His cloak hung limp around narrow shoulders, and his eyes, pale and unreadable, settled on Ned with cool calculation.

Roose had been the one tasked with rallying the men for the march south, and he had delivered. Over four thousand men gathered in the field, many from the Dreadfort’s lands, grim-faced men used to hard winters and harder orders. Bolton had brought them without banners or boasts. No songs had marked their arrival.

They had waited near Moat Cailin for over a week, still as ice, but now they were ready to move.

Ned did not trust Roose Bolton. There was something too smooth about him, too still beneath the skin. But he was no fool. Roose had one of the keenest minds in the North, and Ned needed sharp minds more than familiar loyalties now.

They greeted one another in modest formality.

“Lord Stark,” Roose said as Ned approached, bowing his head just enough to observe courtesy, “the men are ready. Rations are packed, scouts are riding ahead. We can be near Greywater Watch before nightfall.”

“We’ll not move that fast,” Ned replied, glancing south, toward the mists clinging to the horizon. “Once we reach Greywater, I’ll speak with Lord Reed and lay out the strategy. The Twins may fall with no bloodshed if we’re careful.”

Roose inclined his head again. “Careful men live longer.”

“Sometimes,” Ned said. “Sometimes they just die slower.”

“I trust we plan to reach the Twins with swords sheathed rather than drawn,” Roose added, his voice soft as snow, 

“That is the hope,” Ned said. “Howland Reed is gathering one hundred men from the crannogs, tranquil folk, but fierce when roused.”

“We march to prevent war,” Ned muttered, more to himself than to the others. “Not to feed it.”

By the time they reached Greywater Watch, the men were sodden with mud and bone-tired from the march. The Neck had greeted them with its usual hospitality: wet boots, stinging midges, and ground that gave way under every step. Even the horses moved cautiously, hooves sucking at the mossy trails like leeches.

Ned gave the order to make camp beyond the causeway, where the land rose just high enough above the bogs to pitch tents. Fires were lit, cloaks wrung out, and shields laid down to dry. For now, there would be no more marching. The men needed rest, and the lords, a plan.

He and the other nobles dismounted stiffly, their cloaks heavy with the clinging damp of the Neck. Lord Manderly wheezed and cursed as he swung down from his horse, his boots sinking half an inch into the mud. Roose Bolton said nothing, as always. Lord Umber laughed loudly as he stomped the ground, his great shaggy beard still wet from the march, his voice echoing off the living walls like a drumbeat.

They were greeted at the edge of the reed-hall by the lean Lord of Greywater Watch in green and brown leathers, eyes the color of pondwater, sharp as a spear tip. 

Lord Howland Reed bowed low to Ned, and there was no mistaking the familiarity there, not of titles, but of shared blood and older oaths.

“Winterfell honors Greywater,” Ned said, clasping his hand.

“And Greywater welcomes her wolves,” Reed replied. “Come. The marsh has waited long enough.”

They were led inside through low, twisting halls roofed in woven thatch and timber, the air damp with the smell of peat smoke and river reed. The floor shifted faintly beneath their feet, as if the whole stronghold breathed.

The great hall was nothing like the stone chambers of the North. It was a long, curved structure, part timber, part earth, part living root, built low and warm to the ground. The walls were latticed with woven branches and clay, with rushes underfoot and antlers hanging from the rafters. Carvings of lizards, egrets, and wolves adorned the wooden beams, and pale swamp light filtered in through narrow slits in the ceiling, diffused by hanging moss.

At the far end stood a hearth, not wide, but deep and glowing, ringed with smooth stones and burning slow, smoky wood from the blackbogs. There was no throne, no dais, only a long table of driftwood, its surface polished smooth and etched with an old map of the Neck itself.

Lord Reed gestured toward it. “Come. Sit. The marsh does not forget, and neither do I. If blood is to be spilled, better we choose where it falls.”

Ned stepped forward, cloak dripping. He glanced once at the strange, soft-breathing walls of Greywater Watch, then down at the carved table before him.

Here, they would plan the sacking of the Twins.

The lords settled around the driftwood table as the fire hissed in the hearth. Outside, the reeds shivered in the rising wind, and grey light filtered through the moss-hung slats in the ceiling. Ned took his seat at the head, cloak still damp at the hem.

Howland Reed spread a parchment across the table, a careful sketch of the Twins rendered in charcoal and ochre. Two castles flanking a wide blue streak, the Green Fork, joined by a thick black line that marked the bridge.

“They built them fat and squat,” Lord Manderly murmured, peering at the drawing. “But clever. Stone on both banks. Hold one, you still have to take the other.”

“Storming them head-on would cost us dearly,” Ned said. “The Freys may be craven, but their stone walls are thick. That bridge could be barred before we’re halfway across, and the gates fired, if they’ve enough sense to soak them in pitch.”

“And they may be expecting us,” muttered Roose Bolton, voice cool. “A siege could drag on into winter. If they hold one side, we lose the crossing and our time.”

“We could try the river,” Umber rumbled. “Rafts, boats—hells, swim if we must. A wolf can swim.”

Reed shook his head. “The Green Fork’s swift here. Cold, wide, treacherous. Your men might reach the other side, but not in armor. Not in force.”

“There’s another way,” he added quietly. “Not of swords, but of steps. My crannogmen can move unseen. Through water, through mud. If there's a weakness in the walls, we can find it.”

“An infiltration,” Ned said.

“A gate opens from within,” Reed said, nodding slowly. “Not to win the battle outright, but to crack it open for your main host to pour through. If we succeed, three fires will blaze along the riverbank outside the Twins. A rider will run back to raise them, bright and visible to the Northern forces waiting beyond the marshes.”

Roose tapped the bridge with a gloved finger. “If we can take one tower and hold it, we control the crossing. We cut them in two.”

Manderly leaned back, rubbing his chin. “You’d need a diversion then. March on the eastern bank with full banners while your bog-devils sneak in the back.”

“We’ll need ravens,” Ned said, voice steady. “And seasoned scouts. No word must reach the Twins of the Crannogmen’s approach. Send a small force, fifty men at most, skilled in shadow and stealth, to slip inside unseen.”

The lords nodded, some grimly, some eagerly.

“We do this swiftly,” Ned continued. “Minimal slaughter. No children killed. We take the Twins, not burn them. The North needs a stronghold, not corpses.”

The lords remained a while longer, voices lowered as they turned to the finer threads of the plot, when the crannogmen would move, how the main host would feint, which bannermen would ride where when the time came. Nothing final was spoken aloud. Nothing written. The marsh had ears.

By the time the council broke, the fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across the reed-woven walls.

Maester Luwin stood from his place beside Ned, gathering the few scrolls he had brought south. A younger maester from House Tallhart’s household had taken over the ravens and wound care at Winterfell in his stead, but Luwin was needed back at the castle. Letters awaited his hand, stores to be accounted for, and children who would need a steady presence should war ignite the farthest corners of the realm.

“My lord,” Luwin said softly, offering a brief bow. “I trust you’ll not tarry in the marsh longer than need demands.”

“I never do,” Ned replied.

Lord Manderly was already preparing to depart as well, complaining of the damp and the difficulty breathing in “all this muck.” He was a man better suited to feasts than fields, and everyone knew it, including him. His strength had been in gold and ships and the significance of his name. That would be missed. His sword, less so.

Lord Umber, Lord Cerwyn, Rodrick Cassel, and Roose Bolton would ride with Ned to the Twins.

The rest, dismissed, would return north to gather strength, or wait, watch, and listen.

By the time Ned stepped outside, the mist had thickened again, curling low around the horses and watchfires. He stood beneath the grey sky, the camp quiet now, and listened to the wind whisper through the reeds.

He was doing what he thought was right. What was necessary.

But still the doubt clung to him.

He had seen the face of war too many times not to recognize the first steps when he took them. This wasn’t a raid or a stern letter. It was a march. A move. A threat.

Was this truly what was best for the North?

He thought of the south, of the bogs and rivers, of the Green Fork and the bridge yet to be taken.

And said nothing.

The towers of the Twins loomed ahead, rising like squat gray teeth above the Green Fork, their stone walls thick with damp and age. Morning mist still clung to the riverbanks, but the sun was rising now, casting long shadows over the bridge and the fields beyond.

Frey men scrambled across the battlements, shouting orders, fumbling for spears, dragging up barrels of quarrels and crates of oil. The sound of boots on stone echoed like thunder as they rushed to man the walls. One banner fell, tangled in its own cords. Another rose crookedly beside it, the twin towers on a pale blue field, fluttering in panic.

The Northern plan was working.

The Freys had been blind to the amassment at the Neck, too comfortable behind their toll gates and fat marriages, too southern to imagine the North could still move like wolves in the snow. By the time Ned’s host crested the ridge, the Twins were already surrounded on both banks.

Roose Bolton’s men held the east in tight formation. Lord Umber’s banners flew on the west bank, his men already driving sharpened stakes into the soft river mud. Cerwyn’s riders were just behind, dust-covered and cold-eyed from the work they’d done in the fields.

Lord Cerwyn had earned more than his share of blood. His outriders had swept the eastern riverlands clean on the march: Mallister scouts, Tully outriders, even a band of Darry men that had strayed too far north. None had returned.

They’d left no riders alive to carry tales. No smoke, no warning. Only trampled fields and red grass where the wind blew.

No word had reached the Twins before the North encircled them.

Now, the towers were rushing to seal tight, the drawbridge grinding halfway up in panic. Men shouted atop the parapets, their voices frantic against the rising wind.

From the north, it might have looked like a siege in full cry. But from within the walls, it was surely far worse, chaos clawing at every stone.

But Ned had not come for siege.

He came to take the Twins, not drown them in blood, but crack them open with might and speed.

He turned to Roose and gave a small nod. Without a word, Roose wheeled his horse and rode toward the riverbank, eyes fixed on the marshes, waiting for the Crannogmen’s signal.

Inside, the crannogmen would already be moving, slipping through waste tunnels and moss-wet stone, working their marsh-born arts of concealment while every Frey eye remained fixed on the northern host gathered in full view.

From the battlements, horns sounded. The drawbridge shuddered.

At first, it continued to rise, slow and heavy, grinding stone-on-chain, the kind of groan that echoed down through the river fog. Then, abruptly, it halted.

For a breath, nothing moved.

And then the chains clattered again, but now in reverse. The drawbridge began to lower, groaning back down like a jaw creaking open, before it hit the stone open once again.

A cheer rippled through some of the men near Ned; quick, half-swallowed, full of hope.

They thought it was the crannogmen.

They thought the keep had already turned.

Ned narrowed his eyes. His hand found the hilt of Ice out of habit, though he did not draw. Around him, his men stilled. Even Umber held his tongue.

From the far side of the bridge came a small party of Frey men, no more than twenty, with no swords drawn, but flying a pale blue banner between them. The twin towers stitched in silver flapped in the breeze as the bridge thudded into place.

They crossed slowly, in column, leaving just enough space between them and the Northmen for a retreat, or a trap.

In the center of the party, the ranks parted.

An old man emerged, bent nearly double at the waist, leaning on a carved cane that looked older than some of Ned’s bannermen. He moved in careful, premeditated steps, as if each one cost him something. His face was all folds and liver spots, his eyes pale as milk, watery and sharp beneath shaggy white brows.

Ned dismounted.

There could be no mistaking him.

This was Lord Walder Frey, old, cowardly, and crawling with sons.

He moved like a corpse that had forgotten to lie down.

The Frey soldiers behind him said nothing.

Neither did the northern host.

The wind stirred Ned’s cloak as he stepped forward to meet the man, the ground beneath him crunching like bones in a field of death. 

Lord Walder Frey stopped at the foot of the bridge, hunched and quivering. His guards held back, wary and stone-faced, their hands near hilts but not yet drawn.

Ned stepped forward to meet him, boots silent on the wet grass, cloak stirring in the river wind. Behind him, Lord Umber, Rodrik Cassel, and Lord Cerwyn waited on horseback, their men arrayed like a wall of steel.

“Well,” rasped Frey, lifting his head just enough to squint. “That’s quite a host you’ve brought to my gate, Lord Stark. Care to tell me why my bridge is staring at the sharp end of the North?”

Ned’s face was hard as granite. “You didn’t seem to care about the sharp end of the North when Lord Hoster called his banners. You stayed behind your walls while the rest of us bled in the Rebellion.”

Lord Walder chuckled, thin and wheezing, like wind through a broken flute. “Aye, and I still have my walls. That’s the difference between the bold and the clever.” He shifted, bones clicking. “I thought your lot were just passing through. Looks more like you’re laying claim.”

“I am,” Ned said plainly. “The Twins are now under the protection of Winterfell.”

Frey’s lips twitched. His head jerked slightly, as if he hadn't heard right, or didn't like what he had. “Under whose command, if I might ask?” he said, voice thin with confusion… or pretense of it.

Ned did not blink. “Mine.”

The old lord’s eyes narrowed. “Funny. I don’t recall any raven from King’s Landing saying I ought to hand over my castles to the Starks.”

That was when Umber pushed forward, snorting loud enough to draw startled glances from the Frey men. His shaggy beard bristled as he raised a mailed fist high.

“We don’t answer to Rhaegar and his Martell lapdogs,” the Greatjon barked. “In my eyes, we’ve got a king already, the King in the North!”

A cheer broke from some of the riders behind him, fists pounding shields.

Ned turned sharply. “Enough.”

The voices died as quickly as they’d risen. Umber grunted but fell back.

Ned hated when they called him that. He had turned them down twice already, at Winterfell, and again on the banks of the Neck. He had no desire for crowns. Only peace. Only safety for his people.

He looked back to Lord Walder. “This is not a conquest, but it will be a transfer of power. You may keep your name. Your family may stay. But the Twins belong to the North now.”

Walder’s mouth hung half-open, either from age or offense, it was hard to tell.

Ned looked up as Roose Bolton rode back toward the host, a sly smile playing faintly on his pale lips. He dismounted without a word, gave Ned a slow nod, and turned his gaze southward. Over the Twins, three thin plumes of smoke curled into the morning sky.

The signal.

“And if I say no to you lot trying to steal my castle?” Lord Walder asked, his voice thin and wheezing as he eyed the Lord of the Dreadfort.

Roose’s voice cut through the chill air like a knife. “Then the crannogmen already rustling through your halls will poison every man in your tower before you can limp back across that bridge,” he said, calm and cold as river ice. “And your line will die where it stands. No more cursed Freys to stain the world.”

He smiled then, thin, cruel, and bloodless.

For a moment, there was only the sound of water moving beneath the bridge.

Then Walder Frey laughed, harsh and brittle. “You’re mad, you Northerners,” Walder Frey spat, eyes narrowing. “Thinking you can just walk in and take a lord’s land, of another kingdom, no less. If King Rhaegar doesn’t have your head for this, Lord Hoster surely will. The Riverlands are his to protect, and he’d be remiss not to defend his liege lords.”

Ned’s eyes narrowed. “The same Lord Hoster who now hides behind the walls of Riverrun?” he asked, voice like frost. “He hardly has the men to control his own keep.”

“And as for Rhaegar,” Ned continued, his voice low, “we’ll send a raven to King’s Landing, inform him the North feared the Twins were exploiting northern travelers, barring their return home unless they paid Frey tolls. I’m sure Rhaegar will find a way to convince his small council that the North holding the Twins is in the realm’s best interest.”

He bit the words out like sour bread.

And he saw the shift, the flicker of doubt in Lord Walder’s eyes, the way his mouth twitched and his shoulders sagged ever so slightly. The man might’ve been a weasel, but he was no fool. He knew when he was cornered.

There was a long pause, long enough for the wind to change.

Lord Walder stared at Ned, mouth drawn thin, jaw working behind sagging jowls. His cane trembled in his grip, though whether from rage or age, it was hard to say. Behind him, his men shifted, fingers tight on their pommels, faces caught between confusion and rage.

And then, with a harsh breath through rotted teeth, Walder Frey turned.

“Stand down,” he barked, voice hoarse but clear.

The men behind him shared a peculiar look. The instinct to fight still burned behind their eyes. But pride didn’t override command, not here. Shields lowered. Hands off pommels. Across the bridge, along the battlements, men who had been rushing with quarrels and oil froze at the sound of a distant command, then slowly backed away from the crenellations, weapons lowered.

Walder turned back with something like a smile curling his cracked lips. It was a sickly thing, as insincere as a Frey vow.

“Welcome to the Twins, Lord Stark,” he rasped. “May you find them... hospitable.”

Ned gave a curt nod. He didn’t smile.

He looked past Walder at the towers: stone, damp, and shadowed by mist. No fighting. No fire. Just as he’d hoped.

The North had taken the Twins.

Now they had to hold them.

Ned had come south with two goals.

The first was simple, if not easy: to make the North unconquerable. From the frozen shorelines to the stony hills of the Neck, no army should ever march freely into his lands, not by sea, not by land.

The second was more ambitious. To enrich the North.  

The Rebellion had shown him too much, too many of the North’s flaws. Villages without grain. Smallfolk with no silver. Boys marching to war in patched leather and borrowed steel, armed with nothing but hope. It wasn’t enough to endure winters anymore. The North needed to thrive.

The timber trade with Braavos and the Free Cities was a start. But the tolls… the tolls from merchant caravans crossing the Green Fork and lords traveling the Seven Kingdoms, those would build roads, fill coffers, raise proper keeps from stone instead of pine. If he held the Twins, the realm would have to treat the North with the same deference they gave the Reach or Casterly Rock.

He would ensure it.

For Robb, for any daughters he and Catelyn might yet have. They would not inherit a land of snow and hardship. They would inherit strength.

The lords mounted their steeds and rode through the gates under the watchful eye of Frey guards, their banners folding in the river wind. Lord Umber rode proud, Cerwyn silent, and Roose Bolton attentive as ever. They were escorted across the bridge, beneath towers that still bore the Frey sigil. 

The great hall of the Twins was damp and narrow, its stone walls cold and streaked with moss. Torches sputtered in iron sconces, throwing pale shadows across a room that felt more crypt than court. It smelled faintly of mildew and old meat. No laughter, no fire, no warmth.

At the far end of the long hall, Lord Walder Frey shuffled forward and slumped into a carved oak chair too tall for him, his cane resting across his lap like a scepter he had no strength to lift.

“Well then,” Lord Walder said, blinking through folds of loose skin. “You’ve taken my halls, Lord Stark. I suppose I should be flattered.” His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Tell me, where are these famed crannogmen of yours?”

“Hidden,” Ned said flatly.

He motioned with one liver-spotted hand, inviting them to sit, though no food or drink had been laid.

Walder’s watery eyes fixed on Ned. “You’ve come this far. Tell me, what are your terms?”

Ned did not answer at once. He sat first, his cloak falling around him like a shadow, and met Walder’s gaze without blinking.

“The North will hold the Twins,” Ned said at last, his voice level. “Indefinitely. For the protection of our people and the good of the realm.”

Frey’s mouth twisted, but Ned went on.

“Five hundred of your able-bodied boys will remain here, under Northern command. They’ll garrison the walls alongside our own men. The rest will be split. Two thousand Frey men will be sent north, to aid in the building of our roads, ports, and fortifications. Those who serve well will be granted land.”

A pause. Then, flatly: “The remaining five hundred soldiers may swear fealty to House Stark and go north, or they may wander the Riverlands and find another lord who’ll have them. That choice is theirs.”

Frey’s cane tapped once against the floor, slow and hollow.

“You will still hold the castle,” Ned continued, “in name. Your heir will retain the rights of succession. Your line will remain.”

Walder blinked.

“What of my bridge, the tolls—”

“The crossing,” Ned said, cutting him off, “will belong to the North. Sixty percent of all levies and tariffs will go to Winterfell. You may keep forty.”

“It’s fair,” Roose Bolton added coolly, his tone flat as slate.

“Fair?” Walder spat, half-rising. “You mean to take my land, seize my castle, rob me of my rightful coin, strip me of my men, and you call that fair?”

Bolton shrugged. “The alternative,” he said, “is we end your line here and now.”

The words hung heavy in the chill air, and Ned flinched despite himself.

He hated that sort of talk, that casual cruelty Roose wore like a second cloak. He had not come for blood. He would rather not stain the Stark name with the massacre of an old, craven house.

But he did not correct Bolton. Not this time.

Across the table, Walder Frey sat back down. Slowly.

He had lived long enough to know when a game was lost.

“You will still be liege lord to Hoster Tully,” Ned said, his tone as firm. “To avoid further turmoil in the Riverlands. On parchment, nothing changes.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“But know this, Lord Walder, your true lord sits in Winterfell now. No raven from Riverrun will unseat me. No royal decree will undo what’s already done. No one can save you… only you can save yourself.”

Frey swallowed, slow and dry.

“There will be marriage ties,” Ned added, though he hated the words even as they left his mouth. “Your sons will marry into the North. And Northern men will take your daughters as wives. Lands will be granted. Names joined.”

He paused, jaw clenched.

This was the part he loathed. He had no taste for bartering flesh like cattle, especially with a Frey. But both Roose Bolton and Lord Manderly had warned him, if House Frey was given nothing, they would never stop scheming to take the Twins back.

Give the dog a bone, Roose had said with a shrug. And it’ll lie by your hearth instead of biting your heel.

And just like that, Walder Frey brightened. His eyes sharpened with sudden hunger. His lips curled into something that almost passed for a smile.

“Ah,” he rasped. “Now we’re speaking the same tongue.”

“As for ruling the lands of the Twins,” Ned said steadily, “you may do so as before. I have no interest in the Riverlands beyond these walls.”

“We will compose the raven as planned, Lord Bolton,” Ned said, his eyes steady on the Lord of the Dreadfort.

“Lord Umber, see to it that the men are safely within the walls. We don’t need any surprise attacks.”

Lord Umber nodded grimly. “We’ll see to it, my lord.”

Ned sighed, rising slowly from the bench. He turned to Lord Frey, who sat on his dais, watching with a mixture of resentment and wary calculation.

“This will be the beginning of a fruitful relationship, I believe, Lord Frey,” Ned said, his voice steady but guarded.

With a curt nod, Ned turned and walked out of the damp hall into the cold grey sky, toward the camp where Northern men were already setting up tents and watchfires.

The next morning dawned gray and windless, the sky a low lid of cloud over the river. Ned stood atop the eastern tower, wolf-fur cloak drawn close, watching the yard below.

Thousands of Frey men gathered like cattle in the lower bailey, their faces sullen, shoulders squared with unspent rage. He saw it in their eyes: anger, pride, resentment, all stewing beneath the thin skin of forced obedience. Most had stripped their house colors already, though a few clung to blue and grey as if the cloth might yet save them.

Below, Lord Cerwyn was mounting for the long march north, his banner snapping in the wind. Two thousand Northern men rode with him, still hungry for a battle that had never come. Alongside them trailed the broken column of over two thousand Frey men: disarmed, unarmed, and watched, but still whole.

Their names remained Frey, but by winter’s end, they would be Northerners in all but blood.

With one faint stroke, the Twins had been emptied of its army.

Another thousand Frey men remained behind, kept under close watch. Five hundred boys, no older than twenty, had been chosen to stay and garrison the Twins under Northern command. The rest were told their choices: swear fealty and march north with their brethren, or seek out another lord in the Riverlands willing to take them. But none could remain at the Twins.

Most chose to head north, their breaths heavy with quiet anger. A few lingered, hoping to stay in the Riverlands, though without lord or land, they would soon wander like lost dogs in search of a new master.

The remaining two thousand Northerners would stay behind to garrison the Twins, their spears and shields now the teeth of the crossing. Another five hundred, Lord Manderly had promised, would arrive in the coming moons, well-fed men from White Harbor, seasoned and sworn.

Ned had his garrison. The Twins were going to hold. The North had its bridge, and for now, its peace.

That night, Ned sat alone in the solar of the eastern tower, the hearth behind him reduced to red coals. The wind moaned through the slitted windows, carrying the smell of river-mist and damp stone.

The parchment that would soon fly on swift wings lay open in his hands and read: 

To all Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms,

House Stark has taken heed of reports concerning House Frey’s recent dealings with Northerners passing through the Twins. In the interest of safeguarding the peace and ensuring the safe passage of all subjects, Lord Stark has led a considerable force southward and taken possession of the Twins, without the shedding of blood.

The Twins shall remain under Northern occupation until such time as the realm is restored to peace and order.

Let it be known that this action is borne not of conquest, but of necessity and protection.

By command of House Stark,
Signed this day by Scribe Moryn Frey, on behalf of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North.

He looked out through the window toward the river, where the banners of the direwolf now fluttered above the Twins beside the twin towers of House Frey. There was no joy in it. No triumph. Only the dull knowledge that the North was safer tonight than it had been a fortnight past.

And that had to be enough.