Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

299 AC 

"Did you always wish to live in the south, mother?" Cassana asked, her back pressed to Lyanna's chest. 

Lyanna pulled her closer, "Quite the opposite, truth be told. There were days when Ben and I dreamed of living beyond the Wall, wild and free as direwolves or shadowcats." 

"That's silly," Cassana said. "Uncle Ben says wildlings steal women and call it marriage. You wouldn't survive a day among them." 

Lyanna chuckled, "Why, daughter? I am a fair fighter myself." 

"But you're too pretty to scare them off, mother," Cassana said with a giggle. 

The sound warmed Lyanna to the bones. Summer sun was joy, her children's laughter was summer itself. Unbidden, her thoughts wandered to Jaehaerys. As always, it was a stab of pain everytime she heard Cassana's laugh, head tipped back, or Steffon's quiet mirth, so much like Ned. All she remembered of Jaehaerys were the cries, and the long, unblinking stares he gave her, so much like Rhaegar. 

Glad her daughter could not see her tears, Lyanna dropped a kiss to Cassana's hair and inhaled the sweet scent of her babe, again, glad it was not blood and sweat flooding her senses. The Tower of Joy was so far away, and yet, too near for comfort. 

"Do you wish to hear the tale of Black Aly?" 

"No, you make it sound tedious, mother. Uncle Ben tells it much better. He says Cregan loved Alysanne for her beauty and wit, and even more so for her bow arm. He even put up his sword for her. It's all so...romantic, like the songs," Cassana said, "And you say the only reason Cregan married her was to silence her meddling." 

Lyanna chuckled. "There's not a single romantic bone in Ben. If he did, he would marry one of the countless ladies half in love with him." 

"You're just jealous he tells better stories," Cassana said. 

Lyanna had no answer to that. Instead, she tickled her daughter till they were both out of breath. 

"Hush now, my sweet," Lyanna said, "Have I told you the tale of Bael the bard?" 

When Cassana was asleep at last, Lyanna slipped out of the bed. The northern style dress laced up at the front, allowing her to dress herself. Outside her chambers, Ser Jaime fell into step behind her. 

"I shall pray for Joffery, Ser Jaime," Lyanna said outside the godswood, "Your family may not believe in the Old Gods, but still..."

"Thank you, my Queen," the knight nodded stiffly, "We- I don't think it matters much. He needs all the gods who will listen." His eyes, always so full of mirth at the mere idea of praying to a tree, were now dull and absent. 

A moon turn after the incident, Joffery was yet to wake, but Grand Maester Pycelle kept muttering assurances to Cersei. Fearful of Cersei's wrath, the old goat had lost as much weight as Joffery himself. The wretched woman rejected all help from one of Marwyn's healers for the sole reason that Lyanna suggested it. Though Anelle—the best of Marwyn's protégés—had deemed Joffery a lost cause, at least she was better than the doddering fool Pycelle. 

After weeks of watching his nephew wither on the sick bed, the unflappable Kingslayer looked half a ghost.

In the Godswood, she moved to the Heart tree and sat down on the stone bench. Here, among the gods of her people, she closed her eyes and reached out for the constant presence in the back of her mind, a presence that radiated pride, hunger, and hate. 

When she opened her eyes, Lyanna was no longer among trees and sunshine, instead she was met with darkness and damp stone. Moving on four legs would always remain a novelty, and the cat never forgot a scent. One could mask their face, but not the scent. 

The cat moved from the dungeons to the long, narrow tunnel under the cellars and through a narrow gap in the hidden door there, hopped over to the even smaller tunnel into Maegor's, where the stone floor felt warmer under the padded feet.

Unlike the Maidenvault, Maegor's Holdfast had water piped through the walls, and drains that still worked without filling the keep with the stench. The cat had to move in the open, darting across hallways and servant passages. 

"...that boy! I want Loras Tyrell's head, Stannis, you hear me? I want that blasted boy's head—" 

"The Tyrell boy did no wrong, woman!" Stannis snapped, "If only I had saved my son from your coddling—" 

"He's my son too!" 

Lyanna had heard Cersei rant a hundred ways. Her heart ached for another mother, but she would not shed a tear for the boy who threatened her children. 

It was impossible to keep an eye on every servant at all times, but Lyanna still found it useful to observe them unawares. The first lesson she had learnt was that in private or among themselves, servants behaved far different—which was not suspicious in itself, but it showed who among the servants was smart enough to be kept an eye upon. 

Still, no amount of spying as a cat could replace a set of informants. It helped that Lyanna had filled the Royal household with servants from the North, men and women raised on Stark lands.

She moved through the Holdfast, and after what felt like an entire day, she returned to the small tunnel and just as Lyanna prepared to pull her mind out of the cat and back to herself, she heard footsteps on stone and the cat's eyes caught a flash of metal in the darkness. 

No more than a handful knew the tunnels, and only one would dare spy within Maegor's. 

Varys

Curious, she gave chase. The sound of footsteps led to the tunnels outside of Maegor's, through the dungeons, and finally stopped in one of the old cellars. The cat moved between dragon skulls and its eyes found Rugen the undergoaler. In truth, it was Varys in disguise, and not even Robert or Lord Arryn were aware.

At the end of the cavernous room was a man who could only be described as enormous. Dressed in what appeared to be an oil stained cloth large as a tent, he looked entirely out of place in that damp room. Varys greeted the fat one with a hearty embrace. 

Curious...very curious. 

They spoke in Valyrian, the Pentoshi accent Lyanna knew well from her dealings with their cloth merchants and dressmakers. 

The fat one spoke to Varys, "I agree, my friend, but sooner rather than later, the Council will cave, and as ever, they will seek to blame me. I warned you, we should have killed them long ago." 

"They served their purpose well," said Varys, his voice entirely different from the high and effeminate one he used at court, "But do try and keep them occupied for a while longer...we have set into motion a plan we cannot afford to stop, even if we wished to." 

"I will try, but I make no promises," the fat one said, "May I at least begin emptying the warehouses of my valuables? A move like this takes time, and I have no wish to be caught between a Dothraki horde and the city walls." 

"You need not my permission for that, my friend. But do ensure utmost secrecy as you do so," said Varys. "And remember, we need proof. Without that, I cannot proceed here. I need Robert's trust in me to be absolute." 

"I haven't forgotten," the fat one sighed, "Serra's vision is within reach...soon, the world will be rid of Targaryens."

Varys chuckled, a disturbing sound she had never heard before. 

With a gasping breath, Lyanna opened her eyes in the godswood. Ser Jaime stood over her collapsed form, his helm on his belt. "Should I get a maester, Your Grace?" He pulled Lyanna to her feet. 

She smoothed her skirts, "No need, Ser. I am tired, is all."

"Ah, yes," The knight smirked, "I didn't know ladies used greatswords as needles. I imagine knitting must be tiring these days." 

Lyanna laughed, loud and head thrown back, despite the weight of questions bearing down on her mind.

The smirk softened and he tucked a loose curl behind her ear, "Are you well? Truly?" 

Lyanna nodded, all too brittle to say more. She did not let herself break until she was alone in her chambers. Across the Narrow sea, her son, her little boy was in danger and she could do nothing, not with the Seven Kingdoms watching her. 

Varys is plotting to kill my son, my firstborn. She had to warn them...didn't she? What kind of a mother am I? 

The kind that abandoned her son, answered a snide little voice at the back of her head. 

No, it was safer this way...I had to...

"I see no babes, only dragonspawn."

Even years later, she reasoned that it was Robert's chilling words that made the decision for her. 

That Robert would burn the world down if only to find her bones. 

That she had no choice but to let Dayne take her son away, for his own good. 

"Promise me, Arthur...promise me..." 

Whatever his answer, it was lost to feverish stupor at the time. And now, monsters and men alike plotted her son's demise. 

In the end, her decision took but an instant, yet it took two days before she put the words to parchment. The letter was an innocuous sounding missive to a distant cousin in the Company of the Rose, a Snow left behind by the Wandering Wolf. She left it unsigned, trusting Ser Arthur still recognised her hand.

No messenger in the Seven Kingdoms could be trusted with the letter. If discovered, she would make an enemy of everyone, even her own children. Even with Cersei's son out of the game, Steffon and Cassana would be at risk. They needed her, now more than ever. 

As did Jaehaerys. 

That night, a common hunting falcon flew from the Red Keep. She had raised the bird from a hatchling, and while it was accepting of her commands, it did not bear her presence at all times. Not her familiar, but it would do. The last time she had sent the bird so far away was during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, to keep an eye on Cersei at Storm's End. Falcon trainers were certain the birds could fly hundreds of leagues in a day. 

Her heart thundering in her chest, she bid the falcon fly east. Come morning, she would reach for the bird's mind once more, try and urge it to cross the sea. 

A poor wager, but it was all she had. 

285 AC

"Robert?" Lyanna tugged at his doublet, "Did you hear me?"

"Truly?" Robert asked, "A child! I- it's—" he gulped, and placed his hand over her belly. 

"Say something—" 

"I love you," he breathed, "I love you so, so much, Lya." 

Lyanna chuckled, "And I love you too. But I meant this child growing in me. What are you thinking?"

"Words do not measure," he chuckled. "Whenever that happens, I just say 'I love you'..." 

Lyanna laughed, "I have known that for many moons." 

Robert just kept his hand on her belly. She buried her face in his chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat. It was a rare day warm enough to visit the Godswood. 

Before Lyanna was ready to leave, Robert got to his feet and dusted off his breeches, "We must tell Jon—the old man has waited long enough for some good news." 

"You may go ahead. I wish to remain a while longer." 

"Not for long, my dear. It's still too cold." 

"This is no worse than a summer morning at Winterfell." Lyanna laughed, "the mighty King Robert, scared of a breeze!" 

Back turned to her, Robert laughed. "Winter is no jest, woman!" 

Finally alone, Lyanna stepped closer to the Heart tree and placed her hand on the pale bark. "...from root to leaf, in winter to summer, I beg of you, carry this child..." 

In return, the gods of her people remained wordless as ever. Lyanna repeated her plea, over and over. Her own mother was long dead, and what she remembered of Lyarra Stark was little and nothing. 

The memory was as vivid as it was terrible, the day her mother had died. Pale, sickly, and utterly unafraid of her coming fate. They had buried Lady Lyarra and the babe, Rodrick in the litchyard at Winterfell, when had been Benjen too young to understand and Lyanna not much older. 

Lyanna had given birth once already, and it nearly killed her. 

The Maesters said it was easier after the first, but what did men know of the childbed? They would say anything to ensure women did not stop spawning heirs and spares and girls to marry off. She drifted off to sleep and dreamed of blue eyed babes. 

"Your Grace?" 

When Lyanna opened her eyes, the godswood was dark. Ser Jaime stood before her, he held out a thick fur cloak. 

"It is too cold, Your Grace. Remain outside any longer and you will freeze. Here, one of the maids brought this," he handed her the cloak.

"Thank you." She stood up and draped the cloak around herself. She noticed he wore a padded doublet beneath his plate, and his cloak was new, and lined with white fur. "That is a lot of fur you wear, Ser Jaime. Does the brave lion of the West fear a bit of cold in the air?" she teased,

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I have no wish to test my chances against a chill—it is an enemy I cannot cut down with a blade," Ser Jaime shrugged, his armour clinking. 

Lyanna laughed at the bold answer—surprising, but not unwelcome. "The worst enemies are never the ones with steel in their hands. A pity, those are the ones I most dearly wish are cut down."

"Thank the gods that I'm a knight then. Such enemies are not my concern." For a brief moment, his mask of false cheer slipped. He opened his mouth as if to say something but closed it shut and put his helm back on. 

Lyanna had seen the mask slip when he trained with Benjen. Though he was squire to Ser Barristan, it was Jaime who handled much of the actual training. At five and ten, Jaime had joined the Kingsguard with dreams of honour and chivalry. And to ensure another fifteen year old boy did not make the same mistake, Ser Jaime did his best to turn Benjen away from the Kingsguard. 

Not that it had any effect on Ben's grudging admiration for the knight, at least Ben no longer saw a white cloak in his future—something Lyanna was grateful for. 

A cloak of white or a cloak of black, Benjen was not meant for a life of servitude. He was just a boy, a third son, meant to live a full life—tourneys to fight, taverns to drink dry, maidens to deflower and jousts to win. Soon, he would have another niece or a nephew to spoil. Her child needed uncle Ben...not Ser Benjen, just another knight of the Kingsguard. 

Ser Jaime hesitated before turning around, "Trust me, Your Grace, it may seem the easiest way to be rid of enemies, but killing them is not always worth the trouble." 

"Do you regret it then?" Lyanna asked, staring right into the eye slits on his helm. "Killing Aerys?" 

"I do not," he said easily. "I wish I had done it differently...if only I had known of the price I would pay for it. I would have shed the blame on someone else...perhaps even let Lord Stark do the deed." 

"Do you, Ser? Truly?" Lyanna asked. 

"I cannot say, Your Grace," he said, "I know this—some stains are too deep to be washed away by time. The truth of me, now and forevermore, shall be Kingslayer." 

"A great shame," Lyanna said with nothing but conviction, "It was your finest act." 

He snorted, "I could ask the same of you. A joust was no place for a girl, yet you fought for the honour of your father's bannerman, a friend. Would you do it again, if you knew what it would lead to?" he asked, "Do you regret any of it?" 

"I do...I regret a great deal of it," Lyanna said quietly, "But not all of it—certainly not that day at the joust. It is the one good deed I have done, I must cling to it or I drown in guilt." 

"I suppose that is all we can do."

"Perhaps." This was her one chance. Lyanna turned to face him, "On the day of the sack—" Lyanna steeled herself, "Why did you not protect Princess Elia and her children?" 

It felt like yesterday when she had watched Robert behead Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch. Lord Tywin had been given a chance to admit that his men had acted against his orders, and was rewarded with Cersei's marriage to Stannis, the new Lord of Storm's End. Lord Arryn and Ser Barristan had escorted the remains of Princess Elia and her children, along with Ser Lewyn's bones back to Sunspear. 

But the question of Ser Jaime's complicity in the murders remained. 

"I- I didn't know..." Even hidden behind the helm, he could not look at her. He sighed, "I had bigger concerns that day," his voice turned to stone.

"What could possibly be more pressing than innocent lives?" Lyanna snapped, "Is that the worth of your duty, Lannister? Was it your lord father who ordered you—" 

In one stride, he stood right in front of her, "What do you know of duty—" he hissed. 

Lyanna flinched, stepping back. 

His voice was low and distant as he spoke, "Do not speak to me of duty, Your Grace, when you have not felt its bite. By what right does the wolf judge the lion? By what right?" 

Lyanna's heart thundered in her chest. This is the Kingslayer...the man who slew Aerys and let Rhaegar's family die. Her hand clenched at the dagger hidden in the folds of her skirt. 

Valyrian steel. It would be so easy...but this is no common knight. 
 
Ser Jaime continued in a distant voice. "That day—the day of the sack. The defense of these walls fell to me. The sack was already underway, my father's men were at the gates of the Red Keep. I knew we had lost the moment Pycelle convinced Aerys to open the city gates to my father's men—it was the one time he should have listened to Varys, but he didn't."

"All this, while Princess Elia fought for her life..." Lyanna hid her trembling hand in her skirts, still clutched around the dagger. "Where were you?"  

"I was atop the outer gatehouse, shouting commands to pour burning pitch on my father's men," Ser Jaime said. "I begged Aerys leave to negotiate terms, but my messenger returned with one command: 'bring me your father's head, if you are no traitor.' Aerys was too far gone to yield—and certainly not with that Pyromancer at his side, Rossart, a cowardly little rat. I knew what was to come, and believe me when I say this, Your Grace, it was a fate worse than a thousand years of your infamous winters." 

Eyes blown wide, Lyanna stared. "W-what does that mean?"

"Wildfire..." Ser Jaime muttered and sat himself on a tree stump. He took off the helm and placed it beside him, breathing heavily. "Burn them all...burn them all..." 

Lyanna gasped, tears flooding her eyes. Wildfire. 

"Burn them in their homes...burn them in their beds..." Ser Jaime didn't seem to hear her. He finally looked up at her. His voice trembled, "That was what he said...over and over." 

"Burn who?" 

"Everyone," he choked out, "the whole city—every living soul from the lowest beggar in Flea Bottom to his own royal arse in the Red Keep—" 

Lyanna's blood ran cold. "H-how? Even with wildfire, it would take—"

"Enough substance to fill the God's Eye?" He laughed bitterly as a hand loosened the clasp of his cloak. "I was as much a hostage as I was a Kingsguard. Aerys kept me close, where I could be watched. I was there when Aerys took a shit and I was there when he raped his Queen."

He continued, "I was at his shoulder when he bid Rossart to ready entire caches of the wretched substance. One night I heard him tell Rossart: 'The traitors want my city, but I’ll give them naught but ashes. Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat'. That was the great king they revered, all these fools who name me Kingslayer—I laugh in their faces."

"He ordered those caches lit, did he not—when your father betrayed him?" 

Ser Jaime nodded, those piercing green eyes had turned dull. "It was either Aerys or the whole city...it was not a hard choice." 

Lyanna realised she was trembling like a leaf. "A-and the wildfire? How did you stop that?" 

"More killing," he shrugged. "I knew what Aerys had planned. I found Rossart trying to sneak away through a postern gate. Him I slew first. I knew Aerys would not rest till the city was his pyre...I don't think he expected to die, not truly. He thought he would rise from the ashes a dragon. Like that prince who drank wildfire—Maekar's son, was it Daeron? Aeron? One of those two. Aerys had to die, and I was the only one who knew that. He raged, even as I drove a sword into his chest, he raged till he had no blood left. I watched him bleed out," he trailed off.

"Gods be good..." Lyanna whispered, "Why keep all this to yourself? You saved more lives than any of these wretched gods."

"You cannot understand...my mind was elsewhere. I had just killed the King, broken the most sacred of my vows, and I felt only relief." 

"Ned said—" 

"Ah, yes, the honourable Lord Stark!" Ser Jaime said, a sneer twisted on his face. "That is when your brother found me on the throne, Aerys's corpse at my feet. Do you think he asked for my reasons?" A bitter laugh rang through the empty godswood. "So assured in his own honour that Lord Stark only had to look at me to judge me guilty! I ask again—by what right did he judge me? Him who rebelled against the very king I slew. Him, if given the chance, would have done exactly as I did!" 

Lyanna paced in the clearing. She knew what Ned thought of the boy he had named 'Kingslayer'. On their journey north from the Red Mountains, Ned had admitted that he would have liked the entire Lannister army sentenced to the Wall. Had Ned known of the truth...

Her head snapped back to him, "Ser Jaime? What was done to the wildfire?" 

"Still there, last I checked," he said. "Once things settled in the castle, I hunted down the other pyromancers and slew them as well. Belis, that craven cunt, offered me gold. I forced him to flush out the rest of the rats. After Garigus, Belis too died at my blade." 

"And for two years, there is not a soul you spoke to? Not even your family?"

"Not one, Your Grace," he nodded. "It was too dangerous...I believe Varys knows, but no others. After I saw what my father's army did that day...I could not risk anyone trying to use it for their own ends." 

Lyanna clutched her belly. She felt sick. "I will not raise this child here! Not if the city could be reduced to ashes any moment, Ser Jaime. It must be removed before too late...wildfire becomes more potent and more unstable each passing day—a truly dangerous combination if I am not mistaken." 

"I recall Rossart telling Aerys something of that sort—yes, if I'm not wrong, he mentioned that the caches double in potency every five years," he nodded. "I know where every cache is, I memorised the exact locations on a map Rossart kept on himself. But, Your Grace, who would you even trust with this? One small mistake, and in an instant, the whole city would be up in flames. I cannot fathom anyone willing to risk it." 

Lyanna continued to pace before the Heart tree. After several minutes, the answer came to her. "There is one Order that hated the pyromancers—they also happen to be the best suited for a task of such sensitive nature—the Maesters," she said. 

During their stay at the Tower of Joy, Rhaegar had maintained regular correspondence with a Maester Marwyn. "A rare one among his kind, Marwyn respects the mundane as well as the magical," he had said when she had tried to steal a look at one of his letters. 

He stood up and pit his helm back on as they set out towards the gates of the godswood. "When you do tell the king, be sure I'm not nearby." 

After a pause, Lyanna laughed. "Why, Ser Jaime? I'm sure a hammer would improve that pointy nose of yours." 

Ser Jaime tried to touch his nose, only to realise that it was behind the helm. He let out a snort, "I must say, it makes me glad that I killed Aerys—Baratheon humour is a definite improvement."

"That is not as flattering as you think it is," Lyanna said. "And less so when it comes from the dour lion." 

"Better that than—" he paused with a sigh. "Forgive me, it is unworthy of me as a knight."

Lyanna snorted, entirely unladylike. "After the conversation we just had, nothing you say could possibly sink my opinion of you, Ser." 

"Because it could not be any lower?" 

Lyanna laughed, "Aren't you clever today?" 

"I used to be clever more often, but it usually got me punched in the face," he shrugged, "At least, they tried." 

"That would be a tragic day indeed," Lyanna said with mock concern. "Without that face, how will you justify your immense vanity?" 

"My vanity is proportionate to my qualities, but I shall take that as a compliment." He laughed, "I would love watch you and Cersei trade barbs—better than any duel." 

"You would accuse a lady of unseemly behavior, Ser?" Lyanna asked with mock outrage. 

"It would be entertaining, at least—"

"Go wager on a cockfight like the rest of your brutes." 

They bickered the rest of their way back to Maegor's Holdfast. As Lyanna lay in her bed that night, she could not help but wonder about Jaime and how he kept his true face buried under a mountain of indifference and sharp retorts. Part of her, the one that caged her envy, wished he had not confessed to the truth of his actions. She took comfort in the idea that she was not the worst person in the Red Keep, now that list was reduced by one name. 

289 AC

Lyanna rocked the babe in her arms. Only a year old and Cassana promised to take after her mother. Lyanna already dreaded the endless tantrums at anything remotely ladylike. She wiped fat tears from those rosy cheeks. Her mind wandered to a memory she thought long buried, of another babe in another time. Jaehaerys...my son, I pray your tears do not dry in silence.

Ser Arthur cared for him, but what did he know of raising a child? It was the only decision they could have made at the time, but it did not change the fact that she had left her son, her firstborn. 

Long gone were the days she cried at the mere thought of holding her babe close. Though at times, the guilt crept back into her chest, clawing at her heart.

"Your Grace?" Ser Barristan's voice shook her from her thoughts. "Lord Arryn sent word, he waits in the lower courtyard." 

She laid a kiss to her daughter's forehead and passed her off to the wetnurse. In the next room, Steffon was in his crib, asleep after a morning of tiring out his nursemaids. She leaned down to kiss his soft curls before heading out. 

Decked in furs dyed pale blue and white, Lord Arryn's frailty was well hidden. The falcon banner hung limp in the freezing air. He and his men mounted up on shaggy furred garrons from the North, gifts from William Dustin's stables. Lyanna and Ser Barristan mounted their own horses and the party set off down the King's Way. The street cleaved Aegon's Hill in two as it ran from the Merchant's Square to the Red Keep.

The main streets were clear of snow, and the sweepers had salted the stones to keep the ice away, evident from the clattering sound from their horses. But the lesser streets were not as well kept, most of the salt now diverted to pack fish and meat for the King's armies and Lord Stannis's navy. Balon Greyjoy's ambition was ill-timed, desperate to gain a foothold before the snows melted and the roads cleared. But summer was still many moons away, and Robert's armies already neared the Sunset coast.

Even close to noon the sun remained distant and cowardly. While King's Landing remained untouched by the war, the city was not spared the disquietude of battles on the western coast and storms on the Sunset sea. 

She smelled the fresh bread as they passed the Baker's Alley. "New day, new prices!...five coppers for quarter loaf, a stag for whole!" cried a steward from the Breadmakers' Guild. 

"It was five coppers for three quarters of a loaf a moon turn ago," Lyanna said as they slowed down near the Merchant's Square and turned north onto the Street of Sisters. "Lord Velaryon's convoys bring in wheat and rye by the moonturn—why do the prices keep rising, my lord?" 

"I suspect the Guilds are behind this—once winter ends, grain from the Reach will soon flood the city. It will drop prices, and the smaller mills outside the city will buy the excess grain and undercut the local mills and bakers. The Guilds seek to make the most of these waning winter days," Lord Arryn said, his words muffled by a fur cap. "And unlike Balon Greyjoy, this is not an enemy we can fight, only endure." 

"It does not help that all the meat we can spare is shipped to feed the armies." 

Lyanna breathed a sigh of relief when they neared the top of Rhaenys's Hill. The Dragonpit loomed ominously at the end of the Street of Sisters. The residents surrounding the pit were mostly Silent Sisters. Far from any commercial activity, the holy women kept their streets spotless. A few of them peeked through the small windows of their modest quarters, but most of them would already be inside the ruined monstrosity that was the Dragonpit. 

They dismounted once inside the gates. The outer walls were no more, and all the lesser entrances and postern gates had been sealed. Guards in Baratheon colours stood sentry at the gates and along the mezzanine. The main floor had fourteen of the old dragon pens still standing, now covered with wooden beams and tiled roofs, each one now a small hall. 

For a moment, she saw it not as it was, but as it could be, the bones of dragons reborn as a sanctuary for the broken.

The general fervour ground to a halt when her presence was announced. The maesters, acolytes, and the scores of women in grey robes knelt as one. She bid them rise and the crowd returned to their tasks. 

"Welcome, welcome," came the booming voice that belonged to Archmaester Marwyn, the man in charge of this new venture. "Your visit comes on a momentous day, my Queen." 

"Archmaester, I hope we find you in good health." 

"Your Grace, my lords," Marwyn bowed. He made for an unseemly sight, his features closer to the Ibbenese than to men. But his mind was sharper than ten of Pycelles. "I pray you will forgive an old fool's ardour. It is not everyday that the gods bless us so—I was but a man dying of thirst, choked by close-minded incompetence, and plain old idiocy," he shook his head, "that was until I received your letter all those years ago. And here we stand now on the brink of history—we stand in a true temple of knowledge, where anyone is free to learn anything they wish." 

Lyanna resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She had borne no great expense other than the purchase of books, scrolls and plaques from all over the world. The true test was yet to come, when the realm at large realised the sheer scope of the project. 

"I hope the Silent Sisters find their new accommodations comfortable," Lord Arryn said. 

"Former Silent Sisters, my lord," Marwyn said. "You will find they are quite insistent on the distinction." 

"That is a relief," said Lord Arryn. "These women have earned that freedom many times over." 

"I wager it was no easy task to persuade the High Septon," Marwyn flashed a sourleaf grin. "Nor cheap." 

If Lord Arryn was offended by the man's bluntness, he did not say. After the usual inquiries, he left to inspect the emptied wildfire holds, though none of them ever spoke the name out loud. 

Ser Barristan followed as Marwyn led her to the first of the former dragon pens, each converted into small libraries. Wood panels now covered the flame scarred walls. A long table sat in the middle, surrounded by shelves full of leather-bound tomes. The newly added roof had a glass window that lit the room. 

"This is only the first one. Give it a few more years and the rest of the pens shall filled as well, Your Grace," Marwyn said as a stout old greeted them with a short bow. "Anelle here, has decided to join us on a more permanent basis. She may not know her letters, but there are few more experienced in the art of midwifery. She has already begun training no less than five of the sisters, who in turn teach her to read and write." 

"How could I forget? Pycelle suggested cutting into my belly when I was on the birthing bed last year—Anelle threatened to throw him out the window," Lyanna laughed as she took the chair Ser Barristan pulled out. "I may not recall much else other than the pain and blood from that day, but I can never repay the debt I owe you, Anelle." 

"I did only what my mother taught me, Your Grace," Anelle said with a kind smile. "What do men know of the birthing bed? Only what they were taught by other men." 

Even Ser Barristan chuckled behind his helm. 

"Please, sit," Lyanna gestured to a chair nearby. Anelle froze, startled at being asked to sit with a highborn, let alone the Queen. "The Archmaester here is a free soul, Anelle, he longs to travel, to reach for distant lands and strange people. He has delivered what he promised and loathe as we are to see him leave, I fear it is his nature to be restless."

Marwyn shrugged, unapologetic. 

Anelle nodded. "I understand, Your Grace. He has made me aware of my duties, and I believe I can lead the acolytes here, at least untill he returns." 

Lyanna nodded. "It pleases me to hear that. It goes without saying that you shall have my blessing, and the support of the Lord Hand. Your only objective is to care for these brave, unfortunate women you have on your hands. Give them the hope they were denied for so long, Anelle." 

"As you wish, my Queen," Anelle said, dipping into a less than graceful curtsy. "It is an honour to serve."

Over the next hour, they discussed the particulars of the food and quarter to be provided for the next batch of acolytes, and the guards needed as most learners were women. She met with a few of the former Silent Sisters—the women who had braved the tunnels and sewers under King's Landing to rid her people of the wildfire caches. 

Every night for the past three years, they had not breathed a word of what they were doing—a testament to their integrity. Six moons ago, they had finished moving hundreds of earthen pots full of wildfire—from the nine buried caches to the barges outside the Mudgate. From there, the pots were taken across the Blackwater to be mixed with sand before it was loaded onto barges and thrown overboard in the middle of the Blackwater Bay. 

It was all done under the guise of the Silent Sisters removing corpses, before the rot led to more sickness in the city. And in winter, there was no short supply of corpses. Other than the Small Council and a few Goldcloaks, no one else had an inkling of the true danger they had been in for years. 

After most of the caches were removed, it was the turn of the High Septon to pay his dues and free these women from their silent servitude. He had whined and dithered, but in the end, he had acquiesced to Lord Arryn's demands. It certainly helped that Ser Jaime had dragged the High Septon to see the final cache of wildfire, a hundred jars right underneath the Sept of Baelor. 

The cache remained there, even six moons after the High Septon rode up Rhaenys's Hill to bless Marwyn's fledgling academy—and of course, the Silent Sisters who helped in the wildfire disposal were given their freedom, and the leave to pursue learning. 

Lord Arryn had ordered the last cache disposed only a few weeks past.

Now, tens of lives and three years later, the city was finally free of the wretched substance, and the Silent Sisters were free of their vows. 

"Father made sure we knew our sums, yer'grace. Aye, he was a mean ol' drunk, but a fine merchant before lions burnt 'is shop," said Gwenys, a former Silent Sister. Both her arms were convered in burn scars, and she wore her old cowl only to hide her burnt scalp. "If me sister Giselle saw me today..." she trailed off and stared at the floor as tears slid down her face. 

Giselle had burned to death when one of the wildfire jars had cracked in her hands, setting her ablaze instantly. It was a miracle Marwyn had saved Gwenys that night. 

Then came the handsome Septa Elladora, who had been sentenced to the Silent Sisters for the crime of 'seducing' a certain son of Lord Caswell. Even dead men and their dogs knew there had been no seduction.

"Leave it to me, Your Grace, I shall keep an eye on these women. They are free to bed whoever they wish, but they must do it elsewhere...this place is sacred, I shall see to it that it does not become a whorehouse."

"I believe it was fifty lashes—the punishment an acolyte recieved when he brought a whore inside the living quarters," said Marwyn. "I doubt such harsh measures are required here, but I defer to the Septa's judgment." 

"You are a man of rare wisdom, Archmaester," Elladora said sweetly, yet her words carried a hint of warning if Marwyn's nervous chuckle was any indication. 

Lyanna dropped the smile when she turned to Marwyn. "Very well, Archmaester, you have me convinced. If Lord Arryn permits, you may leave for the Free Cities. But make no mistake, my patience is not without end. Pycelle will start bleating the moment you step onto a boat. Fail to return, and these women will be back at the mercy of the Septons and corpses, your dream dead before its time." 

Marwyn sighed. "I am grateful for your understanding, Your Grace. I beg you believe me when I say this—I would not risk it all on a mere whim. Essos has answers to questions we may not even realise to ask...answers I will never see on these godly shores...mysteries I cannot unfold here. What magic there once was in these lands, it breathes no more, strangled by the grey rats—" 

"Spare me the bluster," Lyanna said, having listened enough times over the last three years. "You have three years, not a day longer. You must keep up regular correspondence whenever you are at port. Lastly, you do not have my leave to die, Archmaester, have I made myself clear?" 

Marwyn nodded, used to her commands. 

Lyanna stared at his eerie black eyes. "What exactly do you hope to learn savages and slavers?" 

"Many things, Your Grace," he said, his hand reaching for the Valyrian steel mask and rod that hung from his chain. "But there is one that concerns me above all else—the death of magic." 

Lyanna's eyes narrowed. "I was not aware magic was ever alive..."

Not since the Doom, at least.

"Oh, but it is, and always has been," Marwyn said, eyes brighter, "The Valyrians were only the most well known—they were the best and the worst practioners of magic. It is true that their end coincides with the loss of much that was considered blood sorcery...but magic itself? It may wax and wane with time, but it lives still. Though, not for much longer if the grey rats have their way." 

This man can never learn of my skill at skinchanging. 

Lyanna left Marwyn to his duties soon after. She understood his need for answers, she once knew the hunger for something, anything to make sense of her odd dreams. Howland Reed was the first to tell her there was purpose to the dreams. All those nights spent on four legs, chasing hares in the wolfswood were no mere fancies of a young mind after all. 

Lord Arryn found her on one of the terraces that overlooked the city. Beyond the Street of Sisters lay Fleabottom, a pit of death and disease. Men and older boys had marched west with Robert's army, leaving the women and children to starve. Those women who could work, Marwyn fed them. Coin was scarce, but bread and soup was more filling than a bowl of brown. 

"Do you believe your new man can salvage the Office of Customs?" Lyanna asked. In the distance, she could see the faint outline of the Rivergate, beyond which lay the harbour. "The dock masters and tax collectors have been corrupt for a long time. Lord Manderly says they are like rats, burn the city and they still survive to fleece whoever comes next." 

"Baelish may be soft spoken, but I have seen the improvements he made at Gulltown," Lord Arryn said. "Besides, he was raised by Lord Tully himself. There are few men more shrewd than old Hoster. Should Baelish prove himself capable at the docks, he can take a look at the city's tax records." 

Lyanna nodded. "Say what you will, Lord Tywin's reputation kept this cesspool in line." 

"That I cannot deny," Lord Arryn laughed. "Worry not, my Queen. We have crossed rougher seas, we will do so again." 

"What of the Alchemists? Has the prisoner loosened his tongue?" 

"I fear not," he said. "Wisdom Hallyne, he calls himself. Ironic that he chose to suffer torture rather than help us. Fear not, my Queen, we will find the missing jars. It was wise of Marwyn when he taught the sisters to count. If not for the disparity between the numbers at the start and then at the docks, we would have lost a lot many jars and be none the wiser." He handed her a note. 

"Nine hundred and seventy three jars accounted for, eleven yet to be found," Lyanna read. "The Mad King's ghost haunts us still."

She had tried her best to locate the missing jars. Wildfire had a peculiar stench that a cat could smell, not men. The little devils could reach places even her men-at-arms feared. But weeks of searching yielded nothing. She suspected Varys, but he was adept at covering his tracks. With his 'little birds', he certainly had the means to orchestrate the theft. 

"The Grand Maester paid me a visit last night," Lord Arryn said. "He remains aggrieved that we have not moved to shut down Archmaester Marwyn's work here." 

Lyanna snorted. 

"I told him he was free to lodge his protest, but not before he reaches Castle Black," he said with a hint of derision. "I would have him gone from my sight, but until we bring Lord Hightower into the fold, we would only risk replacing a rat with a snake." 

It was never a wise choice to ally with Tywin Lannister. Half the Small Council despised him, and the other half feared him. One day, Pycelle would have his due, and she would throw feasts for weeks. 

"Until such day arrives, you may let Pycelle know that this place will not and cannot rival the Citadel in any way," Lyanna said. "Marwyn is hardly a meticulous man. I know not what will become of this when I am dust and bone, but so long as I draw breath, this will be a place of healing, of knowledge." She turned to look him in the eye, "Certain men will always seek to oppose that. I am fortunate to have better men on my side—Robert, my brothers, and most of all, you, Lord Arryn." 

"A wellspring of hope, this place," Lord Arryn said, a kind smile on his aged face. "You walk in the footsteps of Queen Rhaenys and Queen Alysanne. Who am I to stand in the way of greatness?" 

Lyanna nodded. "They did much for the good of women, but it remains true that countless still suffer indignities that have no escape. I pray they can find peace and purpose here—some of them, at the least." 

"To this day, it is unthinkable that the city lives because of one man's bravery," he said, a wry smile stretching on hie lips. "That it was the Kingslayer who saved them all... it beggars belief." 

"Irony, I've learned, is proof that fate has a sense of humour."

"Mōris sōpagon lēda vējes," said Lord Arryn. Doom laughs with fate. Valyrians loved their proverbs. 

Lyanna nodded. "It is time we returned." 

"Before we do, this place needs a name, Your Grace," Lord Arryn said. "I would suggest something along the lines of 'Sanctum of the Mother', but I would prefer that the Faith not plant their banner on this hill." 

Lyanna turned to look at the main floor behind them. Hundreds of Silent Sisters, now novices; alongside them worked boys unfit for armies; two score former slaves freed during Renly's raids on Tyroshi ships; misfits, rejected and discarded. Not one was paid in coin, not yet. All they got was the food in their bellies and a roof over their heads. 

"What do the novices call this new home of theirs?" 

"Wolf's Den...I believe the name is taken by an infamous stronghold already." Lord Arryn turned to her, "If I may put forth a suggestion of my own?" 

"I welcome it, my lord. You have been just as instrumental to its creation," Lyanna said. "Besides, it cannot be worse than Wolf's Den or Dragonpit." 

He smiled, "Queen's Collegium." 

"Queen's Collegium..." Lyanna tried the name on her lips, once, twice, and smiled. "So be it." 

Later that week, she decided to it was time she returned the old man's kindness and trust. She fetched a scrap of parchment and a feather quill from her desk. As she dipped the feather in ink and traced the first word, her hand refused to move. 

No, news such as this must be delivered in person. 

She dressed herself in a simple gown and soft shoes. Outside her door that night was Ser Vortimer Wylde. He was not yet a Kingsguard, but with a storied history such as his and skill to match, he was steadfast in his duties. Not to forget, there was very real chance that a Kingsguard did not return from the Iron Isles. 

She would not escape his protection unbothered. Servant passages it is. It was a while before she reached the trapdoor that guarded the cellar beneath the Tower of the Hand. Once inside, she kept to the shadows and servant passages till she reached Lord Arryn's solar. Fortunately for her, he was alone. But, I knew that already. She knew exactly where Lysa was at that moment. 

Lord Arryn's eyes widened at the sight of her. 

"Forgive my late intrusion, my lord," she said. "I fear the matter was too grave to be entrusted to parchment." 

"Has there been word from the west?" he asked. "Are Robert and Ned well?" 

Lyanna shook her head, "No new missive in two days." 

She gulped, her tongue heavy as stone. For a moment, she wondered if it was a kindness to let the old man believe that he had a faithful wife, that any child she bore would not be another man's bastard. 

Arryn is an old name, nearly as old as Stark. Jon Arryn deserved better than to be the last of his line. 

"No, my lord, it concerns Lady Lysa, and Petyr Baelish." Lyanna took a deep breath, "It may come as a shock to you, my lord, but I fear there is no kind way of saying this." She told him of all that she knew—from Baelish's boast of taking the maidenheads of both the Tully sisters, to the exact servant quarters they used for their clandestine meetings. "They are together at this very moment." 

All the while, Lord Arryn sat still, his face hardened, eyes narrowed to chips of ice. 

"I trust you can return to your chambers the way you came?" he asked coolly, at Lyanna's nod he continued, "Very well. You have my gratitude for bringing this to my attention, I will handle the matter from here. Goodnight, Your Grace." With a short bow, he swept out of the solar, an ornate sword in his hand. 

What have I done?

Come morning, the castle was rife with rumours. Lyanna's maids woke her with the sun. By the time she left her chambers washed and dressed, one thing was clear—Lysa Arryn was dead by poison. The culprit—Petyr Baelish, a customs agent, was slain by Lord Arryn himself.

By the time Ser Brynden Tully rode in to collect Lady Lysa's bones a fortnight later, the rumours surrounding her death had swelled to fantastical accounts—from Ironmen in the night to Targaryen assasins. 

The Blackfish held no such delusions. "I knew the Baelish boy was trouble. I should have drowned him in the Red Fork years ago. Hoster wouldn't listen, the proud fool," he said to Lyanna when she told him how shocked she was at the turn of events. 

"Before you resign, I trust you will find me a suitable replacement for the Bloody Gate, Ser Brynden," Lord Arryn said, dressed in all black. "House Arryn thanks you for your leal service." 

With that, he turned and marched out of the Sept. 

"I hear you are to make your way to Winterfell, Ser," Lyanna said. "Would you mind doing me a favour? I ask that you deliver a few gifts to my goodsister, and the children as well, of course. I hear I have another niece, Arya." 

"Aye, that be true, Your Grace. I am sure Cat will appreciate it, as will the children." Ser Brynden nodded, "I will rest easier when Lord Stark is back with his family...until he returns, I will keep them safe. I failed Lysa...I will not fail Cat."

Lysa had made her bed, but Lyanna could not help the guilt that arose. For weeks, she avoided Lord Arryn as much as she could. It was not her place to judge his actions, but a man as honourable and kind as him...to cause the death of his own wife, whether intended or not. It was a reminder that he would not forgive slights against his family. 

And he considered Robert as a son. There would be no forgiveness for her if the truth of Jaehaerys came to light. Not from Lord Arryn, and certainly not from Robert. 

And it was not Lyanna alone who would suffer. 

294 AC 

"A test of your knowledge will not be necessary—certainly not before me," Lyanna said. "Ser Jaime assures me your mind is ten times sharper than his."

"That may be so, Your Grace." Tyrion inclined his misshapen head. "Coming from Jaime, it does not count for much." 

Ser Jaime shifted in his armour behind Tyrion, but chose not to interrupt. 

Lyanna laughed. "There are not many who can humble your brother. I should offer you a place just for that." 

"A task I would enjoy to the end of days, Your Grace." Tyrion raised his goblet towards his brother. 

"Very well, Lord Tyrion." Lyanna poured grey wax and affixed her seal at the bottom of the letter to Archmaester Marwyn. "You are hereby accepted into the Collegium as a novice. Show this to the Archmaester." 

"Thank you, my Queen." Tyrion took the sealed letter Ser Jaime passed to him. "My brother may be wrong about many a things, Your Grace, but he is not wrong about you. Truly, the Good Queen come again." 

Lyanna smiled. "No need to continue the flattery, you have already been accepted." 

"Thank the gods," Tyrion sighed dramatically. "I was afraid I would have to perform Wolf Queen, Fair Queen on a weekly basis." 

"Once a month will do." 

Tyrion laughed as he hopped off the chair. "By your leave, Your Grace," he bowed and hobbled out of her solar.

"I did warn Your Grace, he is too bold for his own good," Ser Jaime said fondly, gaze fixed where his brother had vanished down the hallway. "I hope he learns to tame it before he loses his tongue...or worse." 

Lyanna heard the same worry in his words she herself knew all too well. Ever since he returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion decked in honors and a knighthood, Benjen had grown reckless, and mistook it for fearlessness. Even as the Lord Commander of the City Watch, Benjen did not miss a tourney within a fortnight's ride. He won more than he lost, but it took one stray lance for the worst to happen. 

"You mentioned Tyrion has a mind for history?" Lyanna asked. "Let him start there, and find what piques his interests." 

"Better books and scrolls than whores and wine," he said. "That is only reason my father has not stopped his journey here. I hope he learns to contain his excesses, for father's sake at the least."

Lyanna snorted. "Oh, with Septa Elladora there, that much is assured." 

Despite their repulsion at his appearance, the servants said Tyrion Lannister was not unpleasant, unlike his sister and nephew. For all that she trusted Ser Jaime's word, Lyanna had ordered her guards and servants observe Tyrion for a week before she granted her approval. 

"I- I am grateful for this, Your Grace," Ser Jaime said, softly, as if it were a great pain to admit it. "Many judge him on his appearance, it is unfair—"

Lyanna nodded. "The Collegium needs minds like his, Ser Jaime. I assure you, this is no great burden." 

Ser Jaime inclined his head and returned to his post outside her solar. She knew he meant to get his brother away from his father and the Rock, and closer to himself. 

It was no secret Lord Tywin despised his second son, and without a Royal decree stating otherwise, Tyrion remained heir to Casterly Rock. That was what Lyanna was counting on. When Tyrion replaced his father, Cersei's ambitions would be cut off at the knees—without support of the West, Joffery Baratheon was merely the son of Lord Stannis, and no true threat to Steffon. 

Curtains parted and Leona Manderly stepped back inside the solar. Lyanna joined her on the couch to continue the dress they had been working on earlier. 

"Whare are thoughts?" Lyanna asked. "Do you still reckon this is all a ploy of Lord Tywin's?"

"Can it not be both? That Ser Jaime truly does care for his brother need not be false for this to be Lord Tywin's ploys," Leona said. "We both know he will not be sated 'til his blood sits the Iron Throne. For all the supposed distance between him and the dwarf, no son would deny a chance at pleasing his father."

"Perhaps..." Lyanna did not wish to distrust Ser Jaime, and she knew very well his aversion to courtly guile. "I hear Cersei is apoplectic," she said gleefully. 

"She tried to have him sent back. 'I will not have you tarnish our name'. As if the dwarf is the reason people despise their family," Leona snorted. "You have met Balric Woofield—my cousin in the Goldcloaks—his wife heard Lady Cersei tried to persuade Ser Jaime against speaking in Tyrion's favour," she leaned forward, "She even threatened to expose Ser Jaime's dalliance with that young Septa."

As if the court was unaware.

When Lyanna had first learnt of the affair, it surprised her that the proud Ser Jaime would take to bed a commoner. But like many men, he was drawn to what was forbidden. Corrupting a Septa, one who was a part of the High Septon's entourage? What could be more forbidden? Besides, Septa Tyene was pretty as a rose and spoke with a silver tongue.  

Cersei's threat carried weight, but only if Lord Stannis backed his wife—the possibility of which was not a distant one, Stannis hated that Ser Jaime was not punished for his crimes. "One good act does not wash away the bad, nor a bad act the good," he had argued. 

Lyanna prayed Lord Stannis valued Ser Jaime's position as a hostage in all but name. There was a reason the Old Lion had not named Ser Kevan or Tyrion as his heir. He still dreamed of having Ser Jaime freed from the white cloak, however impossible it seemed. 

Not impossible if Tywin's grandson sits the Iron throne. 

294 AC

It was with great effort that Lyanna rolled out from under Robert's bulk and wiped herself with the silk sheets. Her body ached all over and her plaits had come undone. Soft breeze carried the smell of sweat mixed with his wine sodden breath. Resisting the urge to retch, she stood on trembling legs and searched the bed for her clothes. Her hands shook as she tied the laces on her sides. She could not reach the laces at the back, but refused to let her maids see her in this state. She found one of her thicker cloaks to cover her back and snatched a candle from the solar.

Once outside her chambers, she hobbled aimlessly, all she knew was that she had to be away from her chambers, away from Robert. Her first thought was to head to the Godswood, but the hour of the wolf had passed and she preferred not to give kindling to rumours of her witchcraft. Maegor's Holdfast was protected by a lone Kingsguard at the drawbridge while the other six rested. To summon one of them from their tower was no option. 

Instead, her feet carried her away from the drawbridge and towards the library on third floor. Every step was a struggle, but there were few places she could spend the night away from prying eyes...or worse. 

It took all her strength to push open the heavy doors. To her relief, the library was dark and empty. 

As a child, Lyanna had hated any and all books. She felt at home racing across the vast moorland, wind in her hair as Brandon's shouts grew distant, "Not too fast! Lya! Come back!" 

Lyanna never learnt, and Brandon had chased after her to his own bitter end. She was fortunate Benjen lived in the city, closer to the men he commanded. He may not have Brandon's wolf blood, but like Ned, his rage burned slow and long. 

No. Ben would not see her, not before her maids powdered over her bruises. 

Tired and aching, Lyanna grabbed the first book in her reach and slumped down behind a desk. The chair had no cushion and its arms were set too wide apart—carved for men, just as the rest of the bloody realm. She would find no sleep that night, but no one would find her till dawn and it was all that mattered. Bruised forearms and rough parchment were her pillow for the night. Had she tears left to cry, the priceless tome would be soaked to ruin. 

Head turned away from the candle flame, her eyes fluttered close against her will. 

Not long after, she woke to the sound of steel on stone, not the heavy clang of plate but closer to a dull thunk of a dropped goblet. 

"W-who's there?" her voice shook. "Show yourself at once!" 

From the stacks stumbled out Ser Jaime. "Well, isn't this a fine gathering?" he slurred, a hand on the nearest desk and the other clutched around a glass flagon. 

"Leave, Ser." 

Lyanna was in no mood for a verbal spar, certainly not with a drunk man—greatest knight in the realm or not. She dropped her head back onto the book. But the only sound she heard was a burst of laughter, hollow and bitter.

When she straightened to face him, he tried to drink from the flagon but only managed to choke and cough. The drink escaped down his neck and into the unlaced doublet, soaking the white tunic underneath. 

He placed the flagon on her desk and turned to the door, "I'll find someplace else to embarrass myself," he muttered, "Your Grace."

Instead of Arbor Gold or Dornish Red, the flagon held ale of an amber she knew well. "Hand me the flagon before you leave."

He turned and stared between her and the flagon as it to say, 'Get it yourself!' But chivalry trumped impertinence and he did as she asked. 

Lyanna took a long swig of the ale and a memory arose to the front, one she thought long forgotten. The drink was of the North, bitter as the winter breeze. She took another swig and noticed Ser Jaime had not moved. "You may leave, Ser."

But he stood firm. She risked a glance at his face and regretted it immediately. Lit by candle flame, dried tear tracks were clear on his cheeks, so was the rumpled hair.

"Now that's proper ale!" Lyanna took another swig, ignoring the way her lip stung. "What's a drink like this doing with a ponce like you?" 

Ser Jaime did not laugh at the weak jape. He studied her face, his eyes turned harder as his gaze moved down and settled on her forearm. She could still feel Robert's grip, the crush of his weight, the hissed cursing as he took her. 

"I'll show you...soft, was he? ...you won't even remember...not even a real man, was he? ...don't you worry..."

She flinched when she felt a thumb on her cheek, wiping tears that had escaped her notice. "I believe I asked you to leave." 

He rounded the desk and came to stand beside her chair. He raised his hand once more and she did not flinch this time. His eyes, she thought, his eyes were soft like they were when Tyrion made mock of himself. His mouth opened as if to speak, offer his sympathy, or worse, his pity, but no words came. His hand drew a kerchief and dabbed at her lip. The white silk came away dotted with red. 

"Thank you." Lyanna took another mouthful of the ale. "I forget...blood and ale don't mix well..." 

"Clearly, you haven't been to a proper tavern." Ser Jaime's lips curved into a smile as he settled himself on the desk, "Always took you for a Arbor Gold sort of a lady." 

"Clearly, you haven't seen me full of Ibbenese Rum," Lyanna said. 

His smile grew wider, "Wager you were sick for days." 

"No armour, no chivalry, eh? I should've known," Lyanna smiled, though it stung when her lip stretched. "I was not sick...merely blind for a week."

He shook with laughter, "Chivalry is the armour, my dear Queen," he said and took the flagon from her hand and drained half the ale.

"Where in Seven hells did you find ale that dark?" 

"Stole it," he said with a hint of pride. "Flint always hides a cask or two behind his bed." 

"That lying shit!" Lyanna laughed. "He told me he learnt to live with that Dornish piss." 

"He's told us brothers only because he thinks we all drink Arbor Gold," he said. "I've been stealing from the cask for weeks now. I'm sure Ryswell knows as well." 

"Traitors the lot of you, keeping this from me," Lyanna said, hugging the flagon to her chest. "I should have you ride north just to fetch a few casks of that."

Ser Jaime did not laugh, he just stared at her. She looked away and drank more ale. He spoke after a seemingly endless silence, "Strange...you are not the first Queen I found hiding here."

"What was she like?" 

"Nothing like you...save the love for children." 

"And bruises and split lips, right?" Lyanna snorted. "Aerys was a monster...Robert is only a man." 

"For all his crimes, my father never hurt my mother," he said. "There is a monster inside every man. With some you can make peace, most you cannot." 

"I have borne him two children, Ser. I made my peace with this particular monster a long time ago," Lyanna said. 

He scoffed, "That does not mean you deserve this."

"I never said—"

"But you think it, I see it plain as day," he said, jaw clenched in rage. "If all of us got what we deserved, my brother would not hide from his blood; Rhaella would have wed a lord far from here; Rhaegar's family would live; and my mother would still breathe. Since when did the gods decide queens deserve to be thrashed like a straw dummy?" 

Lyanna looked away, tears threatening to fall. "He loves me...I know he does. It's j- just when he's drunk—" 

"I am drunk right now," he said. "Do you see my fist headed to your face?" 

"He didn't! Robert would never hit me—" she stopped, knowing it was useless to deny it. 

Even drunk out of his wits, Robert never hit her on purpose, but he was not kind to her either. His hatred for Rhaegar had never faded, and he could not forget that she once carried a piece of Rhaegar in her, a babe he thought dead and buried in her former prison. Some part of Robert knew Lyanna had not been entirely unwilling when Rhaegar saved her from Aerys's men. 

Without wine in him, the thought of her with Rhaegar turned Robert sullen. But when drunk, he sought to erase that taint of Rhaegar in her. Little did he know, more than anything, her hatred for Rhaegar was sharpest at the sight of Robert correcting Steffon's swordgrip, or Cassana on his knee as she talked his ears off. 

Lyanna shook her head. "He's a good man, Ser Jaime, and a better father, and no, he does not hit me...he's not Aerys, Robert would never hit me." 

"And yet, here you are, hurt and bleeding," he said. 

"A small price to pay."

"A price no lady should ever have to pay," he said firmly. "Least of all from him." 

Lyanna snorted. "Well, if you happen to see a gallant prince in the woods, tell him I'm in need of another kidnapping." 

"Let's call it rescue." 

"Let's not!"

"Would you prefer we label it seduction?" 

Lyanna pursed her lips, but when she met his gaze and the laugh broke through. "I'm out of practice." 

"Oh, you are the one being seduced—all conjecture, of course," he said. 

"You don't believe I seduced the noble Prince Rhaegar?" 

"You were four and ten when it happened, the only ones seduced by knobby knees and a skinny arse are in the Great Sept or at the Wall," he said. 

Lyanna clutched her hands over her heart and threw her head back, "You wound me, Ser." She snatched the flagon back and drank more ale. 

"You will survive. It's only your vanity."

Lyanna rolled her eyes. "I will not be lectured on vanity by the likes of you, Jaime Lannister." 

He sighed and the look on his face was of amusement, mixed with—dare she say fondness? His lips twitched as if on the verge of speaking something clever, but they pursed to a thin smile. His fingers tightened around the flagon when she tried to pull it to herself. 

"There is a difference between pride and vanity." 

"One has a cock and the other has tits...nice ones too," Lyanna said with a smirk. Timed right, she treasured the sight when he choked on the ale. The coughing worsened and he patted his chest as she continued, "Jaime and Cersei...pride and vanity, one and the same." 

She used his distraction to snatch the flagon back and did not waste any time draining the last of it. "A ponce who can't hold his drink," she said with a triumphant grin. 

"Didn't your septa teach you not to mock knights—it is unladylike, or unqueenly? Not queen like?" 

She handed the empty flagon back to him, "I'm the only queen you know, silly knight. Queenly conduct is whatever I say it is." 

"You forget, I knew—"

"Queen Rhaella, yes," she a bumped a fist on his knee. "But we have established that I am nothing like her."

"Yes, nothing like Rhaella, not one bit." But his eyes twitched in disagreement. There was a haunted look to them, windows to exactly what he thought of her.

Pity...he pities me, this arrogant knight. She pushed down a surge of indignant rage. I have survived worse and he pities me for this? 

"Do not worry for me, Ser Jaime, I have had worse nights." 

It was never her intention to let anyone see her wounds, bleeding or otherwise, least of all Ser Jaime. Over the years—be it fate or his concern of broken queens—the knight had become one of the few to witness what lay beneath the facade. Against her nature, she had learnt to bury herself in courtly etiquette and her famed, northern charm. 

But on nights like these, the mask weighed too heavy. Letting Ser Jaime see her imperfections, strangely, was not half as terrifying as climbing the Broken tower at Winterfell. 

Where she hid the worst of herself, he was the opposite. Conceit and impertinence cloaked the Kingslayer, but beneath that lay a boy who had his dreams stolen by war and mad kings. A young knight forced to cast aside the honour he wished to earn, the honour his father lacked and despised. Kingslayer, oathbreaker, man without honour—each word a stain on his armour, repeated over and over until the boy was buried. 

Miraculously, that boy lived still, and Lyanna was one of two who knew the truth of Jaime Lannister. 

"Why are you here, Ser Jaime?" Lyanna asked, "Who is it you hide from?" 

"Not hiding...just remembering my mother," his smile turned wistful as stared at the empty flagon. "She hated it when we fought...we didn't fight often, me and Cersei, but when we did, it was as if a storm had snuck inside Casterly Rock. But mother always knew the right words to get us talking again. Some days, I can't even recall what she looked like, only that there is nothing quite as warm as her smile..." 

"I remember when I used to sneak into my mother's bed. Winter nights meant sleeping in mother's arms, the smell of lavender, and songs...oh, her voice! Bran and Ned were older and lads, they did not care for it, but I could never look away when she sang," she said. Lyanna's children were no longer babes and did not hesitate to tell her that she should consider leaving the singing to the bards. "It's silly, but I like to think all mothers sing to their children. Did your mother sing for you too?"

"If she did, I must have been too young," he said. "But she loved to tell us stories. Most nights she talked of great knights, or how her father, Ser Jason, often fought with his brother, Lord Tytos, my other grandfather," he said, "I only know because my aunt took to repeating those stories after mother passed and I fought Cersei over Tyrion. It was a strange time...Cersei and I grew closer than ever, but when it came to Tyrion, well, let's say we had very different ideas about family. She has never seen Tyrion as family, only a monster who took away mother." 

"Is that why you're here?" 

"Just thought a library would be the last place Cersei would look for me," he shrugged. And no one is allowed inside Maegor's, not without a good reason. "I don't know how to tell stories and make it right, I don't know how to make Cersei understand, she's always been the clever one, tongue sharp as any sword...wherever she went, I followed, but not in this," he said. 

Lyanna had no words for him, comforting or otherwise. She fought off a grin even. Cersei was a menace, and the sole reason she visited King's Landing every few moonturns was Ser Jaime. No one believed Cersei braved so great a distance to see her husband, not even Lord Stannis. 

"I never wanted to see it...but she will never stop hating Tyrion, and now that Tyrion has a place here, closer to me, she wants me to treat him as she has done all our lives. I won't, I just cannot." 

"I certainly hope not," she said. "You are all he has left." 

"He has said as much," he nodded. "I presume your brother knows nothing of this?" he asked, raising a hand to lift her chin, thumb brushing her lip. 

She nodded, "And it must remain that way...he will not take it well, Ser Jaime, you know this." 

"Then he is a better man than I," he said. "I was made to stand right outside the bedchamber whenever Aerys visited Queen Rhaella...he was particularly vicious after, err...long days at court. When I tried to stop him, Ser Gerold said we were supposed to protect her, but not from Aerys. That was the first time I thought that the realm would be well rid of him. By the time I realised it had to be me who does the deed, it was too late."

Thank the gods Robert is not the Mad King come again. But she was certain the blasted chair was cursed. 

"You may be a poor knight, but you are a good man." 

"No, I am not," he stared into her eyes and caught her by the chin once more. "If I was, I wouldn't do this," he said softly and his lips were on hers. 

After a brief moment of shock, Lyanna kissed him back and it was sinful oblivion. When they separated, he did not appear smug nor did he seem elated. 

He just...he had never looked more like Rhaegar. It was the eyes, those sad, mournful eyes. She could not tell if she liked the comparison. 

"Good night, my Queen," he said and sauntered off, humming the tune to Wolf Queen, Fair Queen.

295 AL

It was a beautiful summer morning when Robert decided that it was too fine a day to waste on petitions. On a whim, he challenged Thoros of Myr to a bout of arm wrestling. Even Lord Arryn joined with a gap toothed smile, his squire and heir, Harold Arryn skipped ahead, all too thrilled to see the King in his element. Lyanna took Cassana's hand and followed, her ladies in tow. 

The court gathered in an outer courtyard, one of three. The courtyard above it was for the Sept, and the one below it was left to the leisure of servants and men at arms. 

Robert and Thoros sat down at a table and soon the cheers rang out. "When you lose old man, don't say you were not drunk enough."

"That is impossible," Thoros grinned, slapping his round belly, "I am always drunk." 

"Ha!" Robert nodded and caught the Red Priest's hand. "On the count of three!" 

It was over in the blink of an eye. Thoros was strong and wicked with a blade, but Robert was a head taller and had arms thick as tree trunks. "Who else? Step forth!" 

"How about wrestling in truth, Your Grace? I seem to recall you had a taste for the sport," Lord Arryn called. "It has been years since your face kissed dirt, has it not?"

Robert chuckled, "I seem to recall there were a couple of wars since then..."

"No great matter, not to you anyway," Lord Arryn said with a grin. 

"Fight uncle Ben, father!" Steffon said.

"It would be both brave and foolish to even try, lad," Benjen said with a laugh, "I admit, I'm only one of those." 

"Ah, to be young and aware of oneself," Ser Jaime said. 

Before Ben could offer a retort, Robert bellowed a laugh and said, "Splendid! You two can fight me at once," Robert said, "One's brave and the other a fool, you may decide which one's which later." He searched the crowd, "Lannister, bring me my armour and sword." The King's new squire, Lancel bowed and ran to the armoury. 

Moon Boy tumbled down the steps where the nobles sat, his singing drowned out by indignant shouts. The verses grew bawdy while Robert donned his plate, a suit of enameled black-and-gold plate. Only the breastplate was old and scarred. Robert refused replacements, "These wounds I can't forget Lya; I am a mere rebel no more...I have a family now." 

Beside her, Cassana shook with excitement. "Papa!" 

At once, Robert walked over to them. He took off the helm and knelt before Cassana. "Yes, little fury?" he asked with smile and the ladies around her cooed at the scene. 

"Don't hurt uncle Ben," Cassana said. "If you hurt him too much he won't help me train Redwing." 

Against all advice, Robert had gifted her a dwarf falcon for her nameday. It was a pitiful creature and could barely hunt mice and frogs. Cassana kept changing its name in the hopes that it would improve, and in the month since, only Robert had kept up with its dozen names. 

"So be it then, I promise you shall have your uncle back in one piece," Robert said in all seriousness, earning Cassana's brilliant smile and a kiss to the cheek. 

Though the sight filled her heart to bursting, Lyanna rolled her eyes. Even in a crowd, the father and daughter were a world of their own. Steffon ran over and pulled Robert towards the centre of the courtyard, pattering what little he knew of swordfight. 

Once the three men took positions inside the circle marked in chalk, Ser Aron Santagar called the start. 

Immediately, it became clear Benjen and Ser Jaime had no intention to fight fair, nor did she expect it of them, not when Robert was a head taller and built like an ox. The younger men were lean and quick, but Robert was no lumbering giant either. Benjen and Ser Jaime split wide to flank Robert. But Robert used the split to try and overwhelm Ser Jaime, sword hacking away at his white shield. 

As Benjen's raised sword neared his back, Robert sidestepped Ser Jaime's overhead swing and hooked his foot on the inside of his ankle. Ser Jaime lost his balance but rolled into the fall as Benjen launched at Robert, allowing Ser Jaime to collect his sword. 

"Demon of the Trident indeed," whispered Robin Flint.

With a roar, Robert charged at his opponents, a bastard sword in one hand and an oaken shield in the other. 

Just before his sword met Ser Jaime's shield, Robert spun half a circle and the brutal sideswing met Ben's longsword instead, Ser Jaime's sword bounced off his shield at the same time. 

Wasting no time, Robert turned once more and shoved Ben with his shield and aimed a kick at Ser Jaime's knee, but the knight stepped back in time to escape a torn knee. 

"This looks like no friendly scuffle," said Perenelle Velaryon, "They fight in earnest." 

"They are men of war, my lady," said Lord Arryn pleasantly, "They know no other way of fighting...what say you, Ser Barristan?"

"I scarce remember the time before my first battle, I was only four and ten, throwing back raiders in the Red Mountains," said Ser Barristan, "My Lord of Arryn is right, once a man has tasted battle, he is forever changed. Some are hardened by it, most crumble and fall." 

Lyanna's eyes never left the three men before them. 

Robert flung what remained of his shield at Ser Jaime, who ducked and charged at Robert just as Benjen stepped back to catch his breath. 

When Ser Jaime seemed close to breaking, Benjen stepped in to take Robert's two handed swings. This dance repeated two more times before Robert showed signs of fatigue. It did not go unnoticed, Benjen and Ser Jaime redoubled their attacks, the advantage on their side as Robert had lost his shield. 

For the first time since the bout began, Robert was put on the backfoot. His opponents pressed their advantage. 

Robert was nearly pushed to the edge of the circle when he did something unexpected—his hand shot out to grab Benjen's sword arm, and at that same time, his own sword slipped past Ser Jaime's guard and stopped at his neck. 

Ser Jaime stepped back and launched a flurry of strikes on Robert, who had just twisted Benjen's hand, the sword fell to the ground with a sharp clang. 

Ser Jaime now bore the brunt of Robert's attacks. Just as Robert readied to deliver an overhead swing, Benjen leaped onto his back and locked his arm around Robert's neck. Not wasting the opportunity, Ser Jaime parried Robert's clumsy swing and swung his blade to Robert's neck. "Yield!" Benjen yelled. 

Robert had a dozen ways to break the stalemate, but he chose to drop his sword and threw off his helm. "Gods! Now that's a proper fight!" The court cheered and applauded, Robert had always loved to be loved.

It was at that moment that the outer gatehouse blew a horn to announce a new arrival. Lord Alester Florent rode into the Red Keep at the head of a retinue three score strong, and one opulent, well guarded wheel house that remained in the wagon yard.

Once the knights removed their helms and knelt before Robert, Lyanna recognised the rest of his party as Florents by their overlarge ears. 

From the thunderous expression on Lord Florent's face, Lyanna knew he brought trouble. No one, not even Lord Tywin had ever dared glare at at the King. Robert was a simple man—anyone he could not befriend, could only be the enemy. 

Without a word, Robert turned on his heel and marched towards the Great Hall, Sers Barristan and Mandon rushing to keep up. The court broke out in furious whispers. 

"If I may suggest, Your Grace, let the children return to their chambers," Lord Arryn said, leaning down to speak in her ear. Lyanna saw the steely eyes behind his genial smile and deferred any questions for later. Lady Leona took Cassana in her arms and caught Steffon by the wrist and left, Ser Mark Ryswell close behind. "I had not expected them to arrive for another fortnight...no matter, I fear half the Small Council already knows," the old man said. 

"What would that be, my lord?" 

"Forgive me, my Queen, it is a delicate matter, better discussed elsewhere."

Life in the North was endlessly monotonous, even in Winterfell. As a child, she had longed for spectacle in summer lands.

After ten years in the capital, Lyanna had come to despise surprises.

Lord Arryn led them not to the Great Hall, but to the Small Council chambers. He stopped before they stepped inside. "If I did not know Your Grace well, I would have advised distancing yourself from this matter..." 

The issues Lord Arryn kept away from her entirely were far and few. First among such was that of Dorne and the Targaryen loyalists. The latter pretended not to hate her and Dorne...well, she was quite sure every child was taught archery with her likeness as the target. 

This was none of those. Most of the Reach had spent the Rebellion dithering outside Storm's End, they were no more loyalists than Lyanna was a knight. There was no reason for Lord Arryn to try and exclude her, and yet, he stood in the doorway with a brittle smile. 

At once, she rushed past him. Robert, seated at the head of the table, glared at an empty spot on the wall. At her approach, he failed to hide the grimace and looked to Lord Arryn, who just shook his head. 

Stannis slipped in between Benjen and Ser Barristan, the two men he respected most in that chamber. Varys and Pycelle were the last to join them before Lord Florent entered, two burly old knights behind him, Sers Axell and Colin, brothers to the lord. The Florents bowed stiffly.

Lord Arryn cleared his throat, "His Grace will now hear your case, Lord Florent."

"Me and my kin thank Your Grace for granting us this audience," Lord Florent began. "However, in prior correspondence with the Lord Hand, I was assured the court would be in attendance—"

"You were assured of an audience with His Grace, my lord," Lord Arryn said. "I suggest you do not waste it with idle complaints." 

Though clearly piqued at the Hand's wintery tone, Lord Florent silenced Ser Axell's imminent protest and schooled his own features before speaking, "Very well. In the name of the Maiden, Mother, and the Crone, House Florent asks for justice from His Grace the King for the dishonor visited upon my dear niece, Lady Delena of the Florents." 

Right and reason drowned in the clamor that followed. 

It worsened when Ser Alekyne led in three women, each bearing the Florent ears. The woman in the front was clearly pregnant, and by the size of her belly, she was three moonturns along, four at most. 

Oh...

Rage flooded her veins, cold and furious as winter storms, as Lyanna struggled to harden her face to an impassive mask. She clutched at the top of Robert's chair to steady herself. 

That whole year, Robert had been away from her only once—that damned visit to Highgarden for the wedding of Lord Tyrell's eldest son. Lord Tyrell had decided to surpass even Lord Whent and his cursed tourney, and the gods themselves could not keep Robert away from tourneys. 

That bastard! 

Upon his return, he had even presented her with a crown of flowers, fashioned in gold and sapphires, "I could not bring myself to crown anyone else there...the fat flower thought this a suitable replacement for the flower wreath."

Her blood boiled with humiliation. A part of her thought it fitting, given her own actions against Princess Elia. I was half a child, and even princes of the stories paled before Rhaegar. Lyanna had long since accepted that Robert would stray from their marriage bed, and short of threatening to kill herself, she could do nothing to chain him. A serving girl when Lyanna had her moonblood, or even a brief affair when she was with child—those she did not mind, not truly. 

But a highborn girl? One with kin as prickly and ambitious as the rat-eared Florents? 

The girl was pretty if one was drunk enough to ignore the ears, or the dull brown eyes that widened in fear when they met Lyanna's, cold and grey. 

Lord Arryn rapped his stick on the table till the noise died down. "Do remind me, Lord Florent, did we not settle this very matter the last time we spoke in person?" 

"I believe we did, my Lord Hand, but clearly, the matter has progressed in a different direction than the one we hoped for at the time."

Lord Arryn was unmoved. "I will do you the courtesy of being blunt, my lord—did you or did you not have the girl take moon tea?" 

The girl nodded furiously, as did her cousins. 

Lord Florent shook his head and clutched a hand to his chest, "Your Grace, my lords, I beg you believe me when I say this—no one is surprised more than I at this development," he glanced to the girl's swollen belly. 

"A likely story," Stannis said. 

"The evidence could not be plainer," Lord Florent said, infuriating in his continued calm. He gestured to the tall woman beside Delena. "Selyse, my other niece, bore witness to Delena's tryst with His Grace." 

Benjen snorted. "Another whore—" 

"You dare?" Ser Axell cried, "Tree loving savage—"

"Forgive me, I misspoke," Benjen said with a savage grin. "No whore has ever had the misfortune of such ugly features...nor a mustache that impressive." 

Ser Axell had to be restrained by his nephew. "Listen here, you cur—" 

"Who knows who else she has bedded since then," Benjen mused aloud, "Perhaps it was yourself who did the deed, Ser Axell?" 

"Enough!" Lord Florent roared, "It is House Florent who have been wronged—"

"Too right," Benjen said, "If they be the whores, it would make you—" 

"A whoremonger," Ser Jaime added.

"My daughter is no whore!" Ser Colin said. "She regrets her actions, but what is done is done. It is only fair that His Grace recognise the child and provide for the upkeep." 

"As is the precedence concerning bastards of royal blood," Lord Florent added. 

"If it can be proven that the child is indeed of the King's seed," Stannis said. "Until the child is born, there is no way to ascertain—"

"Fat chance of that!" Benjen said.

"Careful what you wish for, Lord Stannis," Ser Jaime said, "The greedy cunts look ready to cut open her belly for a handful of dragons." 

"I'll cut you open, Kingslayer! See if you shit gold like your cunt father!" Ser Axell's hand moved to an empty sword belt.

Ser Jaime sneered, "I'd love to see you try." 

Lord Florent stepped closer to Robert, "Your Grace, the girl was set to wed Lord Rowan's brother...that is no longer possible. As such, your child and its mother need to be looked after, and then there's the matter of the girl's dowry...but that can be arranged at a later time."

"A modest keep and sufficient lands for a start," Ser Axell said, "Until that can be arranged, we ask that our niece be housed closer to Your Grace—"

Benjen scoffed. "The nerve of these—"

"Enough, Lord Commander. Your anger is justified, but I ask that you bear with us all the same," said Lord Arryn, his hand on Benjen's pauldron. "Lord Florent, the crown is prepared to pay for the child's upbringing and of course, we shall match the lady's dowry when the time comes for her to wed. We shall convene after the child is born, until then, there is nothing more to be discussed." 

"But there is, my Lord Hand," Ser Axell looked to his niece and sighed in a show of concern, "We fear for her life if she remains in the Reach. House Florent has many allies, true, but powerful enemies too...enemies who would not dare touch her if she remains here, under the King's protection." 

"Preposterous! Who would dare harm the King's own blood?" Lord Manderly asked. 

"Who indeed?" Varys did not smile and titter for once.

House Tyrell

They all knew, but no one dared voice it—lest they give even the barest hint of legitimacy to the long-suffered hogwash that was the Florent claim on Highgarden. 

"We would not ask this if the danger to Delena and the child's lives was anything less than certain," Lord Florent said.

"And what? Let the little whore and her whore cousin and you sour cunts stay here?" Benjen asked, "What of the dishonor to my sister, our Queen? You dare suggest she share her roof with this filth?" 

"Filth, are we?" Ser Axell hissed. "You are nothing but a savage and a heathen, Stark!" 

"Perhaps," Benjen shrugged, "But you're the cunts that whore out daughters."

"My niece is no whore!" Ser Axell said, "Delena walks in the light of the Seven, you savage cur. Unlike your sister, my nieces are proper women...any of them would have made for a better queen—"

"You dare slander the Queen? That's treason, you daft cunt!" Benjen said. 

"I see no Queen here! Only a dead dragon's whore!" Ser Axell said. 

In an instant, Robert was on his feet and his hand around Ser Axell's neck. 

"Your Grace, no!"

"Lannister! Bring me my hammer!" 

It took every man in the room to separate the two men. Robert managed to knock Ser Axell to the floor. 

"Look at the girl, Your Grace," Perenelle Velaryon said in her ear. "Seems half dead already. I reckon she might lose the child before long." 

"Have the Grand Maester pay her a visit before sundown," Lyanna said. "Bastard or not, the child might be of Robert's seed." 

"Not everyone deserves your kindness." Perenelle sighed, "Certainly not at the moment." 

"Were I being kind, I would send for Anelle, not the old lech."

Once Robert was hauled back into his seat, Lyanna placed a hand on his arm. "Husband, I wish to retire for the rest of the day. We shall speak when cooler minds prevail." 

"Lya..." Robert did not dare meet her eye. "I- I'm...it was not my int—" 

"I have no need of words," Lyanna snapped, "Instead, you may give me his tongue on a platter," she pointed to Ser Axell. 

"Your Grace!" Lord Florent cried in horror. "My brother misspoke..." 

"I'll bring you more than a bloody tongue," Robert growled. 

"Enjoy the rest, husband," Lyanna said and turned. "Benjen. My solar. I have a letter to write—it has been too long since I heard from dear Ned."

At the mention of her brother, Robert paled and Lord Arryn winced. 

Serves them right.

The Reach was a mire of contradicting alliances, but one House appeared to be at the middle of it all—the Florents. While the Tyrells bred like rabbits, the Florents spread like weeds in summer. Their roots reached far and wide—from Lord Florent's sister, the Lady of Red Lake, to his daughters, ladies to Hornhill and Oldtown itself. As wily as he was charming, Lord Alester had stitched his banner across the length and breadth of the Reach. 

If the Florents were ever a danger to Tyrell hold on the Highgarden, it was now. 

"What in the name of gods are the Tyrells doing?" Lyanna asked herself. "Florent schemes under their very nose and they knew nothing?" 

When she repeated the question to Benjen, "Pigs flying is more likely," he said. "Buggering fuck! Of all the foolish things to do—"

"Careful Ben," Lyanna warned, "Leave this matter to Robert and Arryn. Ser Axell is being held in the Black cells. At the very least, he shall lose a tongue." 

"And what of the whore and the bastard?" Benjen asked, "Will you let them stay here in the Red Keep?"

"Nothing of the sort will happen, you know this," she said, "Besides, the decision is not mine. Precedence states Robert recognise the child and provide for its upbringing." 

"They can shove their precedence right up Florent's arse!" 

Lyanna sighed. Men could let their temper loose and no one would bat an eye. The lady she was, Lyanna was expected to hide her thoughts and smother her anger.

She turned her attention back to the ledgers. "Go hack at some dummies or bed your mistress," Lyanna said, "Not a drop of drink, you hear me? Not till this matter is behind us."

Benjen collapsed into an armchair. For a while, he let her work in peace. 

"Brandon would have challenged Robert to a duel of honour by now," he said, "You have more of father in you than the rest of us...he would try and use this to his advantage." 

"And how do you think father would have done that?" 

He shrugged. "That is for you to divine, sister. It was you who learned at his knee." 

Two days later, Robert held court to determine Ser Axell's sentence. At the last moment, Lyanna decided to attend the proceedings. Over the last three days, it seemed even the shadows had turned on her. Everywhere she went, whispers and pitying glances followed. She had sent word to Marwyn to keep the Collegium far away from the matter. Still, he had sent a cipher offering his and the Sisters' support in any manner needed. 

When Ser Axell was dragged before the Iron throne, he was devoid of all bluster. Robert did not waste time presenting witnesses, not when the King himself had been present at the time. He deemed the man guilty of slander and gave him a choice—lose the tongue or take the Black. 

Instead of saving Lord Florent further scandal, Ser Axell chose his pride. "I spoke out of anger, true. But I ask you this—was my anger misplaced? Was it not my niece who was dishonored? It was Benjen Stark who named my noble kin as whores...I do not see him in chains!"

"Aye, I said it," Benjen said from the dias, a hand on the pommel of his sword. "Big ears or not...she bedded a man and is now being paid for it. She would fit right in at the Street of Silk." 

Nervous laughter pierced the silence. 

"Water is wet, Your fate is set," Moon Boy sing-songed, but silenced at the bailiff sounding his staff. 

"I will get no justice here, I shall leave it to the gods to decide," Ser Axell said. "I demand a trial by combat." 

Lord Florent's protests were ignored entirely. 

"And your champion?" Robert asked, his face stony. 

"I fight for myself." 

"Excellent," Robert said. "You slandered my wife, I ought to fight you myself."

"Your Grace!" Ser Barristan said, "I beg of you, let me avenge this slight against Her Grace." 

"These curs are unworthy of your blade, Ser Barristan," Ser Jaime said, "He can die by mine." 

Robert looked to Lord Arryn and nodded. "Very well. It is decided then. Summon the High Septon. Ser Aron, have this man's arms and armour brought to the courtyard by noon." 

As the court broke out in whispers, Lyanna waited for Robert to climb down from the throne. For three days, she had let him stew in his own mess, whenever he had tried to speak, she was with their children. She ignored his pleading look and placed her hand on his arm as they left the Great Hall. Before they entered Maegor's Holdfast, she left Robert at the drawbridge and turned towards the Godswood.

When Ser Axell faced Ser Jaime later that noon, some would say he was a brave man. Those who witnessed the fight would only call it foolishness.

At the High Septon's signal, Ser Jaime pounced on the older knight. Such was his ferocity that Ser Axell could barely raise his shield after the first few strikes. 

Florent may have been a skilled knight, but it meant little and nothing against Jaime Lannister. 

Ser Jaime's strikes did not relent till Florent's shield split to pieces. Ser Jaime tossed his own shield aside. He circled his prey, hacking at his limbs before slipping away to the sides. 

It was not long before Ser Axell dripped blood from a dozen wounds. 

Stepping back, Ser Jaime lifted his helm to reveal a mocking grin. "I suppose you wish to yield now?" 

"Not to you, Oathbreaker!" Ser Axell gasped.

"Have it your way then." 

Ser Jaime lowered the helm and rushed at Florent. 

Florent attempted a sideswing. Ser Jaime's parry knocked the sword out of Ser Axell's grip. 

In an instant, Ser Jaime's swordpoint went through Florent's eye slit. He went down like a puppet without strings. 

Blood still wet on his blade, Ser Jaime removed his helm and the golden locks caught the sun. He stood still, his face to the sky and his eyes closed...not a drop of sweat shone at his brow. 

Beautiful

His eyes opened and their gazes met for but a moment, but it was enough to wake her memory. It was the same look he had given her that night. For weeks, Lyanna had tried to forget that night at the library but to no avail. 

Lyanna left before the High Septon began to speak. In the distance, she heard shouts of "Lion! Lion! Lion!" 

That night, she prowled the tunnels and passages on four feet instead of two. It was outside the last room where the cat's keen senses picked up the scent. She slipped past the knight and the scent grew stronger. 

In Maegor's Holdfast, Lyanna pulled her mind back to herself. She donned a cloak and picked up the earthen pot. Once inside the tunnels, she maintained a faint presence in the cat. 

She slid the wooden frame to the side and entered the chamber to find Delena Florent fast asleep on the bed. Careful not to make a sound, Lyanna placed the pot on a table and drew a dagger from her skirts. 

Lyanna shook her by the arm and the girl woke. 

"There better be a good reason—" her eyes went wide in recognition. "Y-your Grace! Here? Wh—" 

"Shh, I only wish to speak." Lyanna held a finger to her lips. At the back of her mind, she was aware of the cat guarding the entrance to the room. 

Delena nodded and moved to sit at the table. 

"Are you well?" 

"As well as any woman in my state," Delena shrugged, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Lyanna opened her mouth to speak, but she had no words that could suffice. 

In the end, it was Delena who broke the silence. "Why are you here, Your Grace?" 

"The question, why are you here?" Lyanna took in the girl's disheveled appearance and let out a sigh. Delena did not answer, nor did Lyanna expect it of her. "Was it your uncle who told you to bed the King? Was it your father?" 

The girl merely shook her head. 

"Does not matter either way." Lyanna leaned in to tilt up Delena's chin, looking her in the eye. "The only question is, what happens now." 

Delena gulped. "I'm afraid I do not understand, Your Grace."

"I imagine this is not what you had in mind when you bedded Robert," Lyanna nodded to her swollen belly. "But, I do not get the impression that your uncle regretted your being with child...not until this morning." 

"No, he did not, Your Grace. I am but the daughter of a third son." 

"The question remains—what will become of you once you birth the child?" Lyanna had thought long and hard about this. In truth, there was little she could do at this point. 

Tears rolled down Delena's eyes. "F-father expects me to w-wed a knight in the household, or a motherhouse at Oldtown—"

"You do not wish to raise the child?" 

"What man will raise his wife's bastard?" Delena shrugged. "I have no choice in the matter."

"You are not wrong," Lyanna nodded, "Unfortunately, you will not be allowed to raise the child, that much is certain. I ask again, what will become of you?"

"The motherhouse—"

"Is the life of a Septa one you wish for yourself?" 

"No, I am a Florent! Not some—" Delena's gaze dropped. "Not some common whore." 

You should have thought of that before you bedded my husband.

"That you are not," Lyanna said. "I apologise for my brother's words."

"That does not make him wrong." 

"No, it just makes him a hypocrite—most men are just that, I suppose." Lyanna sighed, "I did not come to talk of men and their faults, that would take ages. I am here to offer you a choice. Do you wish to go where those men lead you, or do you wish that—for once in your life, the choice be yours and yours alone?" 

"Does one truly have a choice between the inevitable and the impossible?" 

Lyanna bit back a smile. To think that, in another life, Delena might have been a lady in waiting, perhaps even a friend. No. She perished the thought. There was a reason most of her ladies were older, or married to men Robert did not wish to cross. 

"You could wed a knight and pray he does not resent your past, or," Lyanna nodded to the earthen pot to the side, "You could free yourself of this predicament in its entirety and live a life of purpose, a life of meaning. I am prepared to offer you a place among the acolytes at the Collegium. The change will be hard, but you will be free when you have learnt enough to heal on your own. Should you prove competent, you may even continue to serve here if you wish it. The choice is yours." 

"The Collegium?" Delena whispered, "The Maesters...they said I am as good as simple...I was never good at sums or history...not like Melessa or Rhea." 

"That should not matter much. Anelle is the best healer there. She does not even read or write." 

"And live the rest of my life as a servant?" 

"You would not be the first highborn to join. Service is not servitude," Lyanna nodded to her belly, "Besides, your current prospects are hardly any better."

"Why?" Delena sniffled, wiping away tears, "Why would you help me?" 

"My choices were never mine, but I am fortunate Robert is a—" 

A good man? Husband? 

Lyanna sighed. "Well, he is not a bad one, at least." She got to her feet and pushed the moon tea to her. "This is my sole requirement. You have till sunrise to decide." 

Moving out of sight, Lyanna slid a wooden panel and slipped into the passage. 

Back in her own chambers, she pushed her mind into the cat and watched Delena. The girl sat on the floor sobbing, an empty pot lay by her side. 

Come morning, Lyanna did not have to wait long before news was brought to her. Only, it was not the one she hoped to hear: Delena Florent was found dead in a bed of blood. 

A bed of blood...gods!

The fault was not mine, Lyanna told herself. She would tolerate Robert's indiscretions, but every bastard was a rebellion waiting to happen. Delena was not the first, she would not be the last. It was a shame the girl died, the others she had just sent away with bags of coin.

Still, the events left Lyanna in a cesspool of tears and guilt. Once, years ago, she too had been in Delena's place. In her belly was the babe of a man married to someone else, and in her hands was a pot of moon tea. She did not regret her choice, then or now. But guilt ate away at her all the same.

The next time Robert was off hunting in the Kingswood, Lyanna let Jaime take her in a dark and dusty tunnel, and for but a moment, she felt herself breathe easier. It was a folly she thought not to repeat, a momentary weakness. 

Whatever guilt remained was washed away when she caught Robert in bed with his cousin, Ada Estermont. At the time, Lyanna said nothing. Pretty as a pig and half as eloquent, the girl was no threat to her. 

She let Robert stew for two weeks before they spoke. "Ensure she takes moon tea, or else..." Robert could not even look her in the eye as he nodded. 

To her surprise, forgiveness came easy, and not only because it was necessary. She did not retch when she felt Robert's hands on her, her insides pooled with satisfaction, slow and bitter. She now twisted between his ribs the very knife she had carried for far too long. The guilt of choosing Rhaegar would only last so long. 

Not a moon later, she found herself in Jaime's arms once more, and this time, she had no regrets. 

299 AC 

"No more, Robert!" Lyanna said, seated across Robert. "My nerves have had enough of your secrecy. I am well aware you have kept me away from any news of the Targaryens, and it only worsens my unease." 

"But Lya..." Robert sighed. "We will end the dragonspawn for good this time. You need not burden yourself with this—"

"I am no delicate flower," Lyanna poked a finger into his chest with each word, "I survived dragons once already—certainly, I can bear to sit through a meeting and watch you men discuss a hundred ways to plant your rumps while the dragons gain army after army, city after city."  

Robert pinched the top of his nose, wine forgotten. "Very well, you may—" 

"Uh- huh," Lyanna shook her head, "Ask me properly, husband."

Robert's smile was equal parts tired and amused. "Lya, the lady of my heart, body and soul, would you please grant us the favour of gracing this meeting—" 

"Enough, enough..." Lyanna shook with laughter, "Why yes, my love, I shall."

As soon as she said it, the look in Robert's eyes shifted. His hand went to lift her skirts but Lyanna caught it in her own. Instead she leaned to whisper in his ear, "After the meeting..." she told him of all the ways she wished to have him that night. 

She got off his lap and sauntered away, hips swaying. The groan that left him was honey to her ears. It was proof that deep down, Robert loved to be challenged, to be commanded. Proof that he still desired her.

Whenever she let him take control, he was too rough, too selfish, and left her sore for days. There were times when she did not mind that, but only when she wished to forget her worldly troubles. She would wager her sapphire crown that today was to be be one such day. 

When he wanted to have his way...well, he had his whore cousin for that. As long as the fat turtle did not forget the tragedy of Delena Florent. 

The Small Council meeting passed without incident. Lyanna kept an eye on Pycelle, and looked to Varys only when he spoke. It had been weeks since she heard Varys and his friend in the tunnels, conspiring against the Targaryens. In the time since, she put her mind to uncover his roots and reasons, only to end up chasing her own tail. 

Lost in thought, it nearly slipped her notice that the meeting ended without a single word spoken of the Targaryens. She followed Robert back to his chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, the Kingsguard left behind at the drawbridge. Instead of taking her to the bed, Robert led her to his solar. "Now that sour old cunt Pycelle is not here, we can finally talk of the dragonspawn," he said and offered her a cup of Arbor Gold. 

Moments later, Varys crept into the solar, his purple robes dusty from the secret passages. If he was surprised at her presence, he did not show it. "Good evening, Your Graces, I am afraid I do not bring good tidings, or tidings of any kind—"

"Spare me the drivel, Varys," Robert said, never one for pointless pleasantries, "It is time the Queen knows the truth."

"I was under the impression that Your Grace wished to involve the Small Council at a later time—"

"That is to continue until I say otherwise," Robert said, "I kept the Queen out of these matters to spare her the discomfort—well, no more of that." 

Seated at Robert's side, Lyanna remained impassive, watching as a sole candle lit Varys's powdered face. 

"Very well, Your Grace," Varys inclined his head and turned to her, "Let me begin by saying this: in the Free Cities, rumours are seldom true, and in the rare instance otherwise, the truth might already be too old to be useful." 

Lyanna gave a small nod. 

"Only this time, I'm afraid the rumours are not far from the truth—Viserys Targaryen has acquired a sellsword army, perhaps even more than one. He has also taken Taris, a city that was once vassal to Braavos and now pays its dues to Pentos—in other words, he has made himself indispensable to the Prince of Pentos." 

"Why?" Lyanna asked, "Why spend men and gold taking a city of no apparent importance?" 

Varys smiled, "If Your Grace asks whether Viserys aims to acquire territory in Essos and remain there—I must apologise, for I have no answer. Moons ago, with His Grace's leave, I recruited merchants and sellswords to try and investigate the matter. But they brought back no information we did not already know. What we do know is this: Viserys Targaryen has placed his own allies in control of Taris, to what end, I cannot say." 

Lyanna nodded. "How many men does he have at the moment?" She tapped her foot, playing the part of a fearful woman. 

"Less than a thousand. Much too less for any conquest there, let alone the Seven Kingdoms." 

"And if we would have to face Pentos herself if we were to attempt any attack," said Robert, "Not that it would be much of a fight—they can only field their city guard and fleet twenty warships at most. But why hunt a dragon in the air when you can wait till it returns to roost in its nest?" 

"By all accounts, Viserys is desperate and ill-tempered," said Varys, "The false knights with him may have restrained his worst tendencies, but it shall not be too long before he attempts something unwise." 

"And we are not the enemies nearest to him—Braavos has been made a fool of in this entire affair. That cunt Antaryon is desperate to hide his age and weakness. With any luck, the Iron Bank will sent a Faceless Man to Pentos and solve both our bloody problems." 

Robert's apparent calmraised doubts, but Lyanna pushed those down. 

Varys relayed more whispers from across the realm—reavers sighted off the coast at Cape of Eagles and Flint's Finger; Vale clansmen growing bolder by the day; Dornish sentries in the Red Mountains tripled in half a year; and of course, the perpetually disappointed kinsmen of Lord Tywin. 

Through a combined efforts of Septas, midwives, and orphans—a group called Widows of the Sack had emerged. They had members from Fleabottom to merchant quarters. They had seen to it that anyone from the West was not welcome in the city. Tax collectors, dock masters, shop owners, Goldcloaks, and even Septons were chased away by mobs chanting "never forget". Benjen ensured that the leaders spent a night or two in a gatehouse cell, but let them leave with no more than a stern warning. 

The few times Lord Tywin had managed to have a highborn appointed to a position in the city, they had all been caught taking bribes and promptly sent off to the Wall. The Small Council often ignored Pycelle's plea to address Lord Tywin's displeasure.

Varys relayed the news of Lord Tully's declining health and the former Targaryen loyalists raising secret toasts to Viserys Targaryen. He also spoke of the growing distance between the Hightowers and the Tyrells, with Lord Leyton wed to Rhea Florent. Curiously, Lord Tarly, also wed to a Florent, nursed his infamous contempt towards Mace Tyrell. Florent ambitions had not died with Delena. 

After Varys left, Lyanna poured herself a second cup of wine. "There is much that does not make sense. Varys says Viserys is Aerys come again, but so far, he has only moved from strength to strength." 

Robert sighed. "You suspect he has not been entirely forthcoming?" 

We do not know his motives—how can we trust him?

In the early years of Robert's reign, Varys had made himself indispensable, bringing whispers of discontent from every corner of the realm. In all his years on Robert's council, Varys had failed only once—the Greyjoy Rebellion. They had received no warning before the Lannister fleet was burned at anchor. 

Impressive as his reach was, there was no denying that Varys had been the loudest voice dripping poison in Aerys's ears, and eventually turned him against Rhaegar. It was also true that Varys had known of the wildfire caches and had kept it to himself, even years after Aerys was dead. 

"Is that all he has told you of the Targaryens?" she asked. "Any other secrets you keep from your wife?

"I know nothing that you do not," said Robert. 

Then Varys was keeping secrets from Robert too. Varys had not told Robert that his Pentoshi friend was the one hosting the Targaryens.

If Varys was not loyal to either Robert or Viserys, whom did he answer to? Lyanna sighed, dreading all the hours she would need to spend as a cat to unravel the Spider's web.

"When I learnt that you were keeping this matter a secret, I assumed you were planning an attack on the Targaryens and feared I would raise a clamor over it," Lyanna said, "But you do not seem eager to fight at all—" 

"But I am," Robert said, staring into the fireplace. "I just don't tell that to bloody Varys. It is Jon's idea to keep certain details from Varys, and Stannis agrees. The Royal fleet is on the prowl for pirates and slave traders, but the true purpose is to blood the new recruits. And thank fuck the Dornish are posturing in the Red Mountains, it's given Stannis an excuse to have his bannermen triple their household guard—men, horses and armour. Brynden Tully has left Winterfell to be by his brother's side, but he has also ordered the bannermen to start training longbowmen." 

"Being prepared is well and good. Why not send assasins?" she asked, quite possibly the worst mother ever born. "I assumed a creature like Varys would be the first to suggest it."

"Aye, that would be the easier, but we'd have to kill both the brothers for it to work," Robert said. "Should he make a crossing, what is the one advantage Viserys holds over us?"

Lyanna shook her head. Whatever sellsword army Viserys could field, Robert could match it many times over. 

"The realm isn't his to hold together," Robert said. "He can set fires as he pleases, sow divide and chaos. It would force us to spread ourselves thin. Florent, Rowan, Tarly, Hightower in the Reach. Swann, Fell, Cafferen, Grandison in the Stormlands. Darry, Mooton, Whent, Vance in the Riverlands. Grafton may be quiet now, but he cannot forget that I killed his father. Every one of those lords is a barrel of wildfire waiting to burn the moment my attention is elsewhere. If that wasn't enough, Ned writes of a wildling army gathering north of the Wall, and Dornish are getting restless to our south, and not just Oberyn Martell this time. I wouldn't trust Tywin if I didn't hold his bloody sons here, the same goes for Balon Greyjoy. You tell me, why would I risk sailing an army or even a catspaw across the sea when the problems are here? I have waited fifteen years to end the dragonspawn, I can wait a couple more." 

In the tunnels, Varys had spoken of ending the Targaryens. If it was not at the behest of Robert, what did he have to gain from it? Even so, Viserys had surrounded himself with an army of sellswords—what could Varys do from across the sea? Ser Barristan said the rot in Aerys's reign began with Varys. 

She considered the possibility of Varys acting on behalf of Tywin Lannister. The history between the two suggested otherwise, but neither was above joining forces to eliminate her. But she had witnessed nothing that would suggest such a partnership. 

Robert needed to know of Varys's secrets, but it meant baring secrets of her own. As she contemplated this, Robert took her hands in large ones. 

"It's not about killing the them," Robert said, soft and strange. "It's about sending a message: the time of dragons is long past, no more will they rule over me and mine." 

299 AC 

Dragonbane was a magnificent sight, the flagship to Robert's still growing fleet. Lord Stannis's own ship these past few years. Despite their differences, Robert valued his brother's counsel, and save Lord Arryn, he trusted no man more. But his departure was long overdue. Between Cersei's misrule and her clashes with Ser Cortnay Penrose, the Stormlords had grown resentful of Stannis. "It's time a proper Baratheon ruled once more," Robert had said. 

To take Stannis's seat as Master of Laws, Lord Yohn Royce was expected to arrive in the capital shortly. Lannisters had protested a second Valeman on the Small Council, but Robert would not be swayed. Court gossip implied the appointment meant Lord Arryn's imminent retirement, or gods forbid, a sign of the Hand's poor health. But with Robert, the truth was much simpler—he trusted Lord Royce more than the lickspittles at court.

While Lord Manderly handled the upkeep of the Royal fleet when at shore, Stannis was the Lord Admiral, in command and a scourge on the outlaws of the Narrow Sea, be it pirates or slavers. Since the lords with fleets of their own were former Targaryen loyalists—Velaryon, Redwyne, Grafton, Hightower—Robert had not chosen a Master of Ships for years. By then, Robert and Lord Arryn realised it was wiser to split the finances and the command of the fleet, lest one man gain what was effectively a standing army, with ships and supplies on hand. 

Of the many names rumored to take command of the fleet, only one was of note—Gunthor Hightower. Not because he was trusted, but to bring Lord Leyton into the fold and ensure the next Grand Maester was just that, a bloody maester, not another Lannister toady or worse. 

There had not been a Master of Ships since Lucerys Velaryon had perished with the Targaryen fleet anchored outside Dragonstone. On that fateful night, Queen Rhaella too had passed, but not before birthing twins—Jaehaerys and Daenerys Targaryen...or so the ravens claimed. When Stannis had set sail with his new fleet, Lyanna spent weeks praying for her son's escape. 

Six and ten years later, Stannis sailed away once more, his own son's bones in a wooden chest. 

Young Joffery's fight against fate lasted a week and a moonturn. By then, even Lyanna had come to pity the boy. Cersei was mad with grief—the days she did not drown herself in wine, she lashed out at everyone in her sight. Pycelle had asked Stannis to be present whenever he examined Joffery, on account of Cersei scratching off half his wrinkled face.

Before the wretched woman ruined what little respect Lannister name carried, Lord Tywin stirred from the Rock and rode to the capital. After the funeral, he requested Lord Stannis to let Cersei mourn in her childhood home. Stannis was only too eager to accept. 

Two days past, Robert had reaffirmed Myrcella's position as heir to Storm's End. Stannis was pleased, and much to his and Lord Arryn's relief, Renly could not be bothered to leave Dragonstone. 

Most of the court had gathered at the docks to bid farewell to the grieving family. It was a somber affair, if one ignored the 'blessings' of cow dung and rotten eggs the small folk flung at the Lannister carriage. It was fortunate took Ser Jaime's suggestion to ride the carriage, Cersei had learnt a harsh lesson some years back.

Lyanna took her son's hand in her own. "Go on, wish your cousin fair travels. You will not see her for quite some time."

"I seem to recall giving a speech just yesterday, mother. It was overlong and before the whole court," Steffon said, his eyes avoiding Lord Stannis and young Myrcella. 

Lyanna sighed. "Well, it does not cost a single copper to say it again, will it? But it would mean a world of difference to that girl if she knows her princely cousin stands by her side."

"Spare me, mother," Steffon let out a faint groan, "I always- everyone knew Myrcella would be the mind to Joffery's madness. The fool just saved her the trouble of working in the shadows, Seven rest his soul." 

Cassana nodded. "Was it not you who said Myrcella is like uncle Stannis, only prettier?" 

"I recall nothing of the sort," Steffon said. 

"Oh, but I do!" Cassana said, "You even said she would make a better Hand than—" 

"A jest, nothing more." Steffon tugged at Cassana's braid and freed his arm from Lyanna's grip. "Very well, I will speak to her." 

He marched to Myrcella and her ladies waiting near a gangplank. Myrcella smiled when Steffon bent down to kiss her hand. The boy held on longer than necessary, not the Myrcella made any attempt to free her hand. 

Mother and daughter shared a knowing smile.

Cassana leaned into Lyanna's side and looked up at her. "Do you believe me now?"

"I always do, my sweet." 

Since Robert first let her sit in on his meetings with Varys, Lyanna had spent hours sharing her mind with the cat. To her vexation, the eunuch was a strange mix of regular and irregular. She knew he kept a small horde of mutes to keep an eye on the city. Those poor children were also the link between him and his informants, even the ones within the Red Keep. 

It was during one such excursion that the cat chased the eunuch's scent to the King's chambers. She bid the cat remain in shadows as Varys began his tales to Robert, tales they kept from her. 

Much of what Varys sung was known to her. There was a pattern to his whispers, a subtle twist to the facts. But the pattern had changed, Varys had become erratic, his maneuvering too conspicuous. "Before he left, Lord Royce wrote to Winterfell, and now he endears himself to Lord Manderly...the city's merchants fear a northern takeover in the wool trade," he said one day. A clear lie, since it was the Valemen flooding King's Landing with wool from the North, since the coming winter had increased demand ten fold. 

Not a week later, a sept near the docks began to preach 'cleansing tree lovers and salt preachers'. 

Her own ears in the city said the septon was mostly ignored. That he dared at all was concerning in itself. When the High Septon offered to put an end to it, Lord Arryn suggested they bide their time. Other than Tywin Lannister, Gunthor Hightower was the obvious suspect, but the man was more sailor than schemer, already off to fight pirates near Bloodstone. To Lyanna, there could only be one suspect.

Varys

It went on for weeks, Varys would utter ten truths and a lie. If not for her own fledgling web of informants, Lyanna was blind to everything outside the city. Varys 'missed' the Tyroshi slaver raids north of Ramsgate, or the fact that the Golden Company had broken its contract with Myr, not a whiff of their latest client. Our word is good as gold...or so the tale went. 

When Robert asked if the Golden Company appeared to join Viserys Targaryen, Varys shook his head, "They march south, Your Grace, to the disputed lands." 

If it was not apparent that the Spider had turned on her, it was made clear when Benjen was nearly killed in a drunken brawl. Only, his opponents were not drunk at all. "In case it has escaped your notice, little brother, we are being pushed to a corner," she said when he insisted it was only a brawl. 

As she expected, Varys informed Robert that it was the work of a Pentoshi merchant, presumably at the behest of Viserys Targaryen. 

It was certainly possible, but Varys was already in contact with a Pentoshi merchant, an old friend even—the very man she had spied beside Viserys Targaryen in a high-walled manse outside Pentos. The distance had given her a headache for days, but it was not the reason she did not search for another head of silver hair. Her falcon had flown off as soon as the man in white armour had taken the letter.

Was it possible? Could Varys have turned coat once more? He had risked much in driving a wedge between Aerys and Rhaegar. And now, he was laying the groundwork to do the same to Robert and Lyanna. If not Targaryen nor Baratheon, who was he loyal to? 

In the end, the answer was a reasonable sacrifice in the face of expediency. 

While it was not unthinkable that Varys had somehow learnt of her deepest secret, it was not the one that concerned her the most. Were he to tell the realm that Jaehaerys Targaryen was no son of Aerys, but hers in truth, it was easily refuted. Simply put, there was no proof that could turn Robert against Lyanna, much less the word of Ned Stark. 

And why would Varys risk losing his head when Lyanna had committed a crime just as grave, one well within the realm of possibility? It would ruin not only Lyanna, but her children's names as well. 

When she ignored Ser Jaime's questioning look for the second time, he understood their dalliance was at an end. 

Weeks into her game of Cyvasse with Varys, she told Ser Jaime to wait in one of the rooms they had used to meet. Only, she did not leave her chambers at all. She hid herself in the gown closet, waiting to see who crawled out of Varys's web. 

Before long, Argella Swann rushed into her chambers, "Your Grace!" she shouted, "By the Seven! Ser Robin, we must find the Queen...the maid said she found her sprawled on the floor..." 

Lyanna walked out of the closet, a gown in her hands. She feigned surprise, "Is there a reason for your presence here, inside my bedchamber?" 

"The lady asked me to join her, Your Grace," Ser Robin said, relieved. 

"One of your maids came to me running, Your Grace, said you were...she was clearly mistaken, thank the Seven." 

"I am perfectly well, as you can see," Lyanna said. "Inform Mya Cassel to have this maid brought before me." 

"Right away, Your Grace." 

To her credit, Argella had not lied. As Mya confirmed that evening, one of the maids had not returned to work the next morning. Argella was not free of all suspicion, but it did save Lyanna the effort of dismissing the daughter of prickly Gulian Swann. 

"About time!" Robert said cheerfully, kissing her hand as she took the empty seat beside him. 

Lyanna was the last to enter the Small Council chambers. Robert beamed as if he had won the Rebellion once more. Even Lord Arryn could not hide his nearly toothless smile.

"Go on, Varys, tell us the good news." 

Oh...Lyanna's stomach clenched as Varys smiled and bowed.

"Grave tidings from across the Narrow Sea, Your Graces, my lords," the eunuch said with another obnoxious titter, "Grave for Viserys Targaryen, not the Seven Kingdoms. Khal Drogo and his horde of forty thousand Dothraki screamers rides towards Pentos, their blades drenched in the blood of Taris. Who knew taunting the most fearsome Khal in a century would lead to this?" 

"Why would a horselord involve himself in a conflict between Braavos and Pentos?" asked Lord Royce.

"It is unusual, I admit, but there is a reason to this, my lord. Khal Drogo's uncle was killed in a manner most brutal when the Company of the Rose took Taris. It has become common knowledge that it was the Prince of Pentos who hired the sellswords, with Viserys Targaryen as the middleman. Even as we speak, Dothraki screamers flood the countryside surrounding Pentos. The harbour sits unprotected by the city walls, it is the fleeing merchants who bring this news to us." 

Gods, they are trapped! 

"There's more!" Robert laughed and gestured for Varys to continue. 

"Khal Drogo seeks to address the insult paid to his reputation. Word is that Prince Ziani and Prince Viserys made mock of Khal Drogo. A triumph was held through the streets, a reminder of Old Valyria, at the head were effigies of Khal Drogo and the Great Stallion himself. When word reached Khal Drogo, he crossed the flatlands in all haste." Varys smiled, "Of course, if such a mockery ever took place, it was behind closed doors. Our agent across the sea fabricated so wicked a tale that the Khal had no choice but to attack, lest he be exposed to challenge from his own bloodriders." 

"And who is this 'agent' that you speak of?" asked Lord Royce, his distaste for Varys laid bare. 

Varys smiled, "Forgive me, my lord, it would be a disservice to compromise their identity at this point."

"Disservice?" Lord Royce scowled, "You expect us to take you at your word? That would be a true disservice!"

Varys looked to Robert but found no support. 

"I trust the details will not leave this room," said Robert. 

Varys gave a stiiff nod, "Jorah Mormont."

"The slaver? You would trust that disgrace of a man?" Lord Arryn looked aghast, "Forgive me, Your Grace, but this is unacceptable."

Varys smiled, "That may be so, Lord Hand, but we can trust Mormont desires to see his home once more."

"You promised him a royal pardon?" Lyanna asked, "You would force such dishonor upon Ned?"

"A matter for another time," said Robert.

Lord Arryn's smile dimmed. "May the Seven forgive me for saying this...a quick death would be merciful." 

Lord Royce nodded, his eyes turned down in something akin to distaste. A man of honour, a warrior. 

"Dead is dead...I'd throw a tourney if it didn't mean celebrating dead children. Someone tell Santagar to prepare a hunt. Lannister, we leave before sundown. See to my guard," Robert was on his feet. "And Varys, bring me better news and I'll make you a real bloody lord." 

Like a puppet on strings, she let Robert lead her back to his chambers. Before he left, he took her roughly and promised to bring her a stag. She could only nod and speak empty words with a practiced smile. 

I cannot falter, not now. 

Patterns were a weakness. Habits were a comfort. In the end, they were one and the same. 

It had taken her years to study Varys's habits, and as a member of the Small Council, the eunuch was as predictable as the wind. But when outside council chambers or torchlight corridors, even the Spider followed a routine. He left the castle every other night and met his 'little birds' to collect whatever information they brought from the city. Some nights he spent as Talla the fishmonger, others as Rugen the undergoaler. 

The children were asleep and her ladies dismissed for the night. Robert was yet to return from the Kingswood, Lyanna descended into the tunnels for a hunt of her own. Confronting Varys was a risk, but she did not have the luxury of time. As always, the dungeons were damp and smelled of rotten wood. A lone torch lit the end of the corridor, casting shadows into the cells. 

It was Rugen she cornered that night. Standing before an empty cell, she was not seen until he was too close, and if he was surprised at her presence, it did not show on his scarred face. He carried no sword, but she would be a fool to assume he did not have a dagger or two on him. Seeing him through her own eyes instead of the cat, she had an inkling the scars were no fabrication. The beard was though, as was the obeisance in his greeting. 

"Yer'Grace! Forgive me, if I'd known...the cells are empty, only me and my ratty friends on this whole level. Hasn't been a proper prisoner 'ere in many turns...oh, many turns, I'd say..."

"All these years, I've never had the courage to come down here." She ignored him, instead stared at the stone bench behind the bars. "I am told it was in this cell my brother spent his final days. Is it true, Lord Varys?" 

His performance came to an abrupt end, Rugen's simpering vanished. In his place, Varys stood taller. "I hope you can forgive this deception, Your Grace. A hazard of my position, I'm afraid. To answer your question: No, Lord Brandon was kept in the black cells before his unfortunate demise." 

"Did you witness their end, Lord Varys? My father and brother? They tell me the Mad King laughed as my father burned in his armour. Were you there when Bran was forced to strangle himself?"

"Your Grace...the answer would only torment you further."

"And yet, you served the Mad King, you served him well. You fed him whispers until the day he died." 

"I was but a poor man on the streets of Myr when he sent for me. When I served the merchant guilds, I was needed and despised in equal measure. The Free Cities are much more volatile in nature, an offer like the King's was not easily refused. I did not know the monster that lay within until it was too late."

Did you now? 

"You claim no titles, you ask for no lands. You have no kin to please and appease..."

Varys did not pause to think. "As a slave, I was less than vermin. As a mummer's apprentice, my worth was a moment's madness at the hand of a strange priest, he took my manhood and threw me to the streets. Free at last, that was the first time I pondered my own worth. Was the breath in my lungs worth working for two meals a day? A warm hovel to sleep? Was the struggle worth selling myself?" Varys said, his pale blue eyes flat and dead. 

"In the end, it was spite. I stole from those who would put me in chains. My belly had never been so full, yet I hungered. I was a man no more, yet I lusted. The hunger and lust left a void that would never be filled, so I kept stealing 'till I was a prince among thieves. And yet, the void remained. I stole gold, gems, heirlooms, and when none of it sated me, I stole their secrets. Letters, ledgers, contracts. The very men who despised me learnt a harsh lesson, but the void remained, hollow and miserable. When a foreign king offered me a position in his court, I wondered if at last, I would be whole again. I ask no titles nor lands, Your Grace, for I know neither will be enough. It is true, I value order, stability, and peace...but above all, I seek to be rid of the void within. In all my years of search, this is the closest I have ever been to that end." 

Lyanna could only nod. She would ponder on his words at a later time. Now, her mind was elsewhere. 

Before she could give Varys a chance to spout another fanciful tale, she felt it getting closer, the presence at the back of her mind. 

"I fear we carry a void in each of us, Lord Varys." Lyanna felt the soft brush of fur at her ankles. She leaned down and gathered the cat in her arms, the creature purred at her scratches. "Mine came into being the day I heard of my father and brother's murders." 

Varys looked on in puzzlement. "That cat..."

"Hush, Balerion," she whispered to the ageing tomcat. The look on Varys's face was one to savour.

Footsteps approached from behind her. "Aha! Just the charming company I needed this night." 

Varys paled even further when Benjen brushed past her and stood between the two. Her brother's boots were wet with sewage, his tunic soaked in sweat. Earlier that day, he had heard the plan and thought her mad. "Head to the Collegium and follow the cat." 

If allowed time, Varys could undo everything. But his was a long game, and he did not have the luxury of haste. Her standing in the eyes of the court was beyond reproach—it was no easy feat to chip at it, even with the enormity of her crimes. As long as she had Robert on her side, none could touch her. 

Robert

Surely, the scheme hinged on turning Robert against her. And she had handed Varys the perfect tool to achieve this. He sent that maid to raise questions of my whereabouts, no doubt someone would point to Ser Jaime's absence from the white sword tower. Not quite the scandal, but enough to raise questions.

It was certain Varys would not stop until Lyanna was stripped of her claws. She certainly had enough enemies to aid in Varys's schemes. 

She could expose the Spider's plans, bring Robert into her secrets. Unfortunately for Varys, she preferred murder over Cyvasse. 

Quick as a snake, Benjen clobbered Varys on the head with the pommel of his short sword. They dragged the limp form back to Rugen's chambers, sparse and false as the undergoaler himself. 

It was not long before Varys opened his eyes, only to find himself on a stone bed, the tip of Benjen's sword at his throat. "Your Grace! What is the—" 

Lyanna did not flinch when the sword swung down, warm blood sprayed her hand. In the end, Varys was alone, no kin to protest his murder, nor allies to take up his noble task of lighting the realm on fire. 

Lyanna led Benjen back to the tunnel. "Be quick about it and—"

"Follow the bloody cat, I know!" He eyed Balerion warily, "We have much to discuss."

"Perhaps..."

"All those men up there, yet, it is you who terrifies me the most, sister." 

"Run along now, little brother." 

For ten years now, the Dragonpit had only been called Queen's Collegium. Yet, the walls refused to forget times of old, the stone stubborn and scarred with fire and blood. After a century and a half of disuse, the air inside no longer tasted of ash and brimstone, instead a smell that Lyanna could only name 'peasant' in nature, much like the rest of the city, though not as revolting. She hoped to see Tyrion Lannister's sewer plans brought to fruition. 

A decade long summer had swelled the city's populace to bursting. The first sign of this burden appeared when Alysanne's fountains ran dry and worsened with the sewers flooding the low-lying streets. Over the years, rents doubled and then tripled, meat and cloth went from necessity to luxury, the smallfok learnt to be content with grain and rags. 

Amidst this chaos, it was hardly surprising not many had noticed that Varys kept over fifty children under his soft, powdered thumb. Not one older than twelve, and the youngest just shy of seven years. Three days after Rennifer Longwaters discovered Rugen's corpse, the first of these poor children turned up at Varys's usual haunt near Fleabottom. It was not long before the rest emerged with the last of Varys's stolen secrets. 

The sight of these starved, unwashed orphans tugged at her heartstrings. How many were killed off when they grew too old? How many were lost to winter? How many to cruelties much worse? 

And this cold woman she was now, had turned a blind eye in the name of bloody politics. 

"Are the children settling well?" she asked Marwyn.

It was no great burden to house the children with the Sisters. It certainly helped that every single child knew their letters, if only in Bastard Valyrian. In a matter of mere weeks, she could already see the Sisters adored the children. 

"As well as can be expected, Your Grace." Marwyn shook his head slowly. "Poor devils haven't seen a scrap of kindness their entire lives. If this was how Varys got hold of his whispers, no wonder someone got rid of the eunuch. I'd say Varys was the worst of Aerys's scum. Now, if someone could do the same to that old goat Pycelle..."

"Peace, Archmaester." Lyanna fought a smile. "I did not ride across the city for talk of bloodshed, the court talks of nothing else these days." 

"Lord Royce is no closer to the truth then," Marwyn said with a sourleaf grin, red and foul. "A fitting end to the Spider, mysterious in death as he was in life." 

"Do us all a favour and keep your thoughts to yourself, Archmaester." 

Marwyn had enough detractors already, worst among them was the Faith. Fortunately, the High Septon no longer grumbled about Marwyn's odd collection of guests. With Septa Elladora at the head of the Collegium's band of healers, not even His High Holiness dared question Marwyn's interest in the higher mysteries. 

"Is there word from Archmaester Vaellyn?" 

"Wager the bastard's preening all over Oldtown by now, with every creature with eyes asking after the comet," Marwyn shook his head. "He was the first to call me 'mage'. Vinegar Vaellyn, I named him in turn. No doubt he dithers on purpose, no doubt I say. I beg you write Lord Leyton himself, Your Grace...pray it is Ser Baelor who writes back, not the Mad Maid." 

Lyanna sighed. "You mentioned comets are the hedge knights of the sky, here one day, and never again for decades." 

"So I did, Your Grace, you retain better than those witless boys in novice robes. Perhaps it is true women have a longer memory, for better of for worse," Marwyn said. "Much was lost when the Great Empire of the Dawn fell, and what little knowledge remains at the Five Forts is lost to a dead language and the Starry madness. I say horseshit to whatever they say of their beloved Bloodstone, but they know comets appear at regular intervals. I do not recall if there was a red comet among their records, but I wouldn't be surprised if they didn't already fleece a great many merchants with a simple prediction." 

Through the gaping hole that once roofed the Dragonpit, Lyanna eyed the streak of fiery red that tore through the lilac evening sky. The Red Comet, as the maesters dubbed it, had made greenseers of even sightless old crones. A wordswitch across the Blackwater claimed it a sign of the dragon's return, and Ninepenny Nute at the harbour saw a summer without end. 

Over on Aegon's Hill, half the court called it a sign in favour of eastward invasion, to end the dragons once and for all. To no surprise, Septons praised the sign from Seven heavens, but it was up to debate whether the sign meant the Warrior's blood or the Crone's guiding light. 

With Varys missing, the Small Council was blind and deaf. Rugen the undergoaler was dead and buried, Varys the likely suspect. In his place, Sisters of the Collegium sent word from all corners of the realm. 

"The comet is no different to storms and droughts then? We try to find a deeper meaning where none exists?"

"Precisely, Your Grace." 

"I could say the same of your many 'discoveries', Archmaester." 

Marwyn snorted. "Believe me Your Grace, there are days when I wish you were right." 

Much of the Marwyn's travels yielded nothing more than fanciful tales. From the Sistermen's kin under the waves to vast riches within the Smoking Sea. But every now and then, even the blind stumbled upon gods, and Marwyn was no sightless fool. He had told her his secret to understanding the higher mysteries: listen to every tale, believe only what the eye sees. 

Naturally, it reduced most, if not all mysteries to mere tales. But after years and decades of labour, Marwyn had a healthy grasp of what magic was at present, and more importantly, he was a good judge of the limits to magic. 

Before she left, Lyanna asked Septa Elladora to walk her through ledgers concerning the Collegium's healers. Cloth for bandages; herbs, honey and roots for potions; wine and vinegar for wound-wash; and perhaps the most important, tansy and pennyroyal, grown in fields along the Blackwater. 

For dried moon tea, the pillowhouses paid in gold, and they paid well. But not enough to pay for the rest of their supplies, let alone the costs of food, parchment, ink, lamp oil, cloth, boots and all manner or necessities for five hundred. 

Lyanna sensed a headache coming at the mere prospect of asking Manderly for more gold. But there was no other way. 

It was near sundown by the time her party prepared to return. Before she bid farewell to the Sisters and the mute children, Lyanna spotted a flash of red across the main floor. 

Even stood in the shadows, the woman was striking. Taller than most men, more buxom than Robert's fat turtle whore. 

In a flash, Marwyn was by her side. "Your Grace, this is the Lady Melisandre, a priestess of the Red God." 

"The Maester flatters without need. I am no Lady in truth, Your Grace, merely a servant to the Lord of Light." Melisandre bowed low. Her red gaze as unsettling as the ageless look of her, her common tongue heavily accented. "An honour to have made your acquaintance, Your Grace, a blessing from the Lord. Word of your generosity has spread to distant shores, long before the flames led me to these lands of winter and gods of greed." 

"Men are greedy, godly men more than most. The gods, Old and the New, remain as they have for millenia, cruel and kind in equal measure. They will be so for millenia to come." Lyanna smiled. "Tis but the summer, priestess. But aye, winter is coming."

"As foretold in the flames." Melisandre glanced up at the Red comet. "I crossed the seas to spread the Lord's wisdom. But not two weeks on these shores, I find myself called elsewhere."

"You believe the comet a sign from your god?" How very predictable. Lyanna bit back a snort. "The court is not entirely unfamiliar with your Red God. I am told another of your order believes the Red Comet a sign of coming war." 

"Many faces does darkness wear, Your Grace, but there is only one Lord of Light, R'hllor is his name, Thoros has let his vices lead him astray...his faith in R'hllor may have faltered, but the Lord of Light does not abandon his servants. Thoros will soon see the light," Melisandre said, her ruby choker flashed. "When the red star bleeds and darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone...the bleeding star hangs above us, dragons stir in the east, darkness rides south. R'hllor sends these signs to the ones weak of faith."

The words sent a chill through Lyanna's blood. Many faces...Rhaegar wore many faces, I knew ever saw the brooding romantic. The night she missed her moonblood, Rhaegar had held her close, whispering strange songs to the babe in her belly. Winter and darkness and red swords...only five and ten, she had laughed at the tales. 

No...not this again!

"Prophecy is a poor gamble, Lady Melisandre," Marwyn said. "Of all the higher mysteries, it is prophecy that draws the most fools, no shortage of great men among them...once, to my great shame, I counted myself one of these men...mercy, I lost nothing but years, my fellows were not so fortunate," he said, pointedly avoiding Lyanna's gaze. 

"I do not prophesy, Maester. The Lord of Light grants me divine vision, and the flames do not lie."

"You seem quite fond of saying that, priestess. How are we to know it is not you who lies?"

Melisandre's laugh drew curious glances from nearby listeners. "It was not I alone tasked to find R'hllor's chosen. Benerro, the High Priest in Volantis sends missions in all eight directions, the Fiery Hand hoards grain and gathers arms. I am needed elsewhere, but more of my brothers and sisters will arrive. For the night is dark and full of terrors, Your Grace knows this is true. It matters not, flames or dreams, we both know what is to come, winter princess. Should the flames will it, we shall meet again. Until then, farewell."  

Lyanna gathered ever grain of restraint to let the woman keep her tongue. She had suffered a pretentious prophet once already, never again. Once the woman was out of sight, she turned her glare on Marwyn. "You may cavort with all manner of savages on your travels, Archmaester, but you will not brandish foreign zealots before the Faith!" 

Marwyn did not argue. "A lapse in my judgement, Your Grace, one I shall not repeat." 

They returned to the Red Keep and once away from prying ears, Ser Barristan spoke. "Not that it matters, but I think you are wise to wash your hands of prophecy and portent, Your Grace. Rhaegar was not the first prince I saw lose himself to that particular madness, no, that dubious honour belongs to his great uncle, Prince Duncan. 

"As wise as King Aegon and twice as kind, but a fool in love. The realm suffered for his choices, but I cannot deny his virtues—I was but ten when he dubbed me 'the bold', despite my folly. King Robert would have me whipped for saying this, it was the same kindness I saw in him that made me kneel on the Trident. And kindness is not all the King shares with his great uncle...he too defied the realm itself for love," he said. "Such promise in him, and yet, prophecy led him straight into the fires at Summerhall." 

"Robert is no dreamer, that much is true. Who needs signs and omens when one has Robert's strength. His fate his own," Lyanna said with a small smile. "Even the gods must despise prophecy. It is arrogance to presume what fate has in wait for us, I wager the gods write fate anew to spite those who chase prophecy." 

Ser Barristan chuckled. "I would carve those words into stone, Your Grace."

She stood watch between two great beasts, one fire and the other fury. 

She flew over lands of summer, once green and great. She passed bones of men and cities alike, their cries lost to wind and time. 

She ran across fields of battle, the ground strewn with limbs and blades, the dead whispered their loves. Her feet grew slick with blood, she called for a storm to wash away the red. 

Wings and feet carried her through forests and hills, across deserts and fields of gold. Smoke cleared and her tears dried, she saw a sea of spears and men in scale armour, their blades still wet with blood. At the head of this great host was the dragon standard wrought in gold. 

The legions of Valyria born anew. 

When she woke, the taste of home lingered on her tongue, bitter and sweet in equal measure. Sap and seed, ground with blood and bark. It was madness of the worst sort, perhaps the pain had dulled Old Nan's cautions. 

Ships fleeing Pentos had brought word one last time: Khal Drogo marched on Pentos with Targaryen heads mounted on spikes. 

Her son was dead, her poor firstborn, her Jaehaerys. While she danced and feasted with Steffon and Cassana, her poor boy lay dead in a land not their own. She cursed Rhaegar, Robert, Viserys, and the bloody gods themselves. But the blame was hers alone, the abominable mother who gave her child to those fools in white. 

dead 

dead 

dead

Cold and weighty in the chest, her heart turned to stone watching Robert throw feast after feast. She kept the pain to herself and tried to drown herself in wine, and for all they shared the same torment, she was not Cersei. Lyanna buried all her rage, her sorrow, her very heart. But it was not enough to hide her torment, Steffon and Cassana worried for her, and Ben suggested a visit to the North before winter was upon them. Even Jaime's company would be no comfort, only a momentary dullness. 

The realm marched on, uncaring as ever. Whispers of Usurper ceased, dreams of old days vanished. 

In the dark of night, ghostly whispers sang to her, a medley of harpstring and her babe's cries. 

"His is the song of ice and fire..."