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Chapter Text

298 AAC. Last Hearth.

Beams of early twilight slipped past the thick curtains of Lady Rowan’s chamber, barely illuminating enough of the dimmed room for her eyes to start fluttering open. She nearly jolted from her chair beside the hearth then, remembering her promise of staying up all night to watch over her cousin's ailing daughter.

The girl, Oma, turned and whimpered fitfully on the large bed on the opposite side of her. A rooster started crowing outside and Rowan found herself  scowling at the sound. She slowly put aside her two knitting needles and walked to the bed, stretching her arms out then wiping the sticky sweat on Oma's forehead. The fever was even worse than it was a few hours before, and round spots of coughed up spittle and spew stained the pillow around the little girl's head.

For Rowan it was but another reason to hate the early mornings. Neither sun nor moon would guide men, her mother would say, after that fateful day twenty years ago. Rowan flinched at the memory, almost seeing those light grey eyes that long since disappeared from her nightly terrors. It was a mercy that her niece did not inherit them, what with her mother being some distant Karstark.

A thud suddenly echoed through the hallways, followed by a faint sound of two little feet running closer and closer to the door. Rowan sighed, pulling the furs upward to cover Oma's flushed cheeks. She then adjusted herself to look decent in front of whomever shall enter, reminding herself to order a new bowl of water and another towel. There were five little knocks that sounded like a cadence of sort, and a red-haired boy of ten -whom she couldn't recognise- entered immediately after she answered.

"Milady, me sorry for waking you, but milord Jon had a raven arriving yesterday while you were asleep here. He said to wake you with the first daylight!" He said, panting a little with sweat on his reddened face. Rowan sure hoped he did not get the pox like the rest of the children within the castle.

"Well, is he awake now?"

"Yes, milady! Milord didn't sleep all night, Rigar say. He and Lord Mors said to prepare horses soon to leave for winterfell. Lord Stark is dead now."

Later, Rowan would suppose that it shouldn't have been much of a surprise. Two years of sickness and twenty year of grief would do that to the old man. But she felt her heart stop for a little nonetheless, her words stopping short in her mouth.

The lad furrowed his brows at her, surprised at her reaction. It must have been all over Lasst Hearth by now. Surely, if she lent an ear to the hallways outside she would hear more shuffling and buzzing than usual, especially when the sun barely revealed the first rays of orange light. That did not distract her from the news though. Another reason to hate the early mornings, she'd think.

The image of her, with those powerful grey eyes for once asking for help, jumped into her mind again. She shivered, and a quiet gasp was all that was heard from her. The lad in front of her seemed confused enough. He started fidgeting with his sleeves while stealing glances at the whimpering Oma. She would spare him the apprehension; she once felt the same as she stood before Lord Stark.

The late one, that is.

"Anything else, child?"

"Milord said if the little lady was better, she would go too, to Winterfell," he stammered, "Milord said you would see to it with him."

Lord Stark was dead, they said. And the new Lord Stark whom they would travel to swear fealty to nursed the same grudge against her house better than his father. It was a wonder her cousin still thought to foster his daughter there, but she had no right to interfere, as long as she wouldn't have to go as well.

She sighed, rubbing her eyes and nodding at the lad. "Very well, go now and tell him I'm coming. And bring another maid to watch over Oma." She said, waiting until the boy bowed and left before she walked closer to her cousin's child. She pressed a swift kiss on her temple, saddened to feel it sweaty again. She went to pull the large drapes closer together, not before opening the shutters and looking outside first. The sun fully appeared on the horizon at last, and she breathed in and out with silent prayers for Oma, Lyanna, and Lord Rickard's soul.

She spent another moment staring at the scene, imagining a woman of her age riding towards them through the same path she was once taken from. It was hard to forget that echo of a scene, that shook the whole north. The north would always remember. Even with it's Lord gone and few still waiting for his daughter. Rowan could no longer wait herself.

With a sigh, she turned and left for her cousin's solar. He should expect a foul mood from her, as foul as those damned early mornings.

Chapter Text

Sounds of spilling ale and merry talk filled Winterfell's great hall, causing Barbrey to tsk every once in a while. Her feet still tingled from the long hours she spent organizing the reception, and yet the plain food and lowered banners failed to remind the attending lords of the grief that loomed over her home.

A part of her couldn't blame them; her own goodbrothers looked pleasant enough. As if Lord Rickard's last rites were not less than a moonturn ago. They had all looked stiff and frigid then, even the children, who looked slightly shaken after Old Rickard kept calling little Arya by her late aunt's name.

Her husband, Lord Brandon, was the only one who held himself aloof, standing tall as each lord knelt to swear fealty. Both Barbrey and their son stood behind him on the first step of the dais, dressed in white rabbit furs adorned with silver wolf heads.

She insisted on stitching bands of red and orange around the edges of her sleeves, the colors of House Ryswell. Her father and her brother noticed, hiding smiles as they swore their pious loyalty.

The next one to make the vow was Lord Stane. The Lord of Driftwood Hall lowered himself to one knee, placing his right hand over his heart. His heir was more hesitant, mostly because of Brandon's obvious sour mood.

"I, Lord Charlin of house Stane, do swear by the gods of the forest my and mine's loyalty to the Starks of Winterfell. Our spears and pikes we give to your name, and your justice we accept." The Lord boomed, remnants of rough clicking sounds from the Old Tongue colouring the oath with a thick accent. It was nearly the same oath as that of Lord Crowl, and Barbrey could see her firstborn smirking a little.

Brandon leaned forward and placed his hands on Lord Charlin's shoulders, accepting the oath and pulling the Lord up to his feet. The Lord's timid heir straightened too quickly, and they both bowed again before walking back to their table.

"Learn a damn thing instead of chuckling, else you want to embarrass yourself like that poor sod," Brandon murmured, his rebuke aimed at Cregan.

"It was nearly the same words. I'm surprised he didn't mess up his own name!"

"And how original would your oath be to the king? At least he did not stutter like you did when you asked the Manderly girl for a dance." Brandon retorted, turning his head just barely with a smirk.

Barbrey tsked again, glaring at her son to close his gaping mouth. Her leather gloves creaked as she clenched a threatening fist beside her skirt.

"This is almost over. Be done with this first then mess around later!" She hissed at them both, then quickly smiled again as another Lord came forth, kneeled, vowed, and returned to his table.

By then she kept moving her weight from one leg to the other; the pain in her feet burning up to her lower back.

It was a tiring affair, over an hour long already. To Barbrey's annoyance, no one seemed as tired as her.

Mercifully, Lord Howland Reed was the last. He stepped forward with both his children behind him, dragging his limp leg across the white floor.

Barbrey considered making an exception for the man and let him vow standing, but his daughter quickly helped him kneel without putting much pressure on his injured knee. Barbrey bit her lips then, and ignored the spasms of pain contorting his face. 

The warden of the Neck placed his trident -which he used as a cane- before Brandon's feet, then cleared his throat to keep his voice from cracking.

"Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you." They all said in perfect harmony.

It was the final oath they would hear that night, and it made Barbrey sigh in relief.

Brandon had the decency to let the younger Reeds be the ones to help their father up. They both raised him to his feet quickly, then Lord Howland clasped his arm with Brandon.

After another nod to the attending Lords, the Lord, Lady, and heir of Winterfell returned to their high table. Barbrey slumped immediately on her chair, the relief numbing her to whatever toast Brandon gave. She only saw the lords raising their cups, and she downed hers in one gulp.

The reign of Brandon Stark would finally start; it was less impressive than what she imagined.

She once thought her life would be more glorious; her children's names written in history and her legacy full of legends.

Once, she used to think that, when she was only ten and five, racing through her homeland with a grown lordling chasing behind.

Now she knew better. She knew the tiresome duties of being just another Lady of Winterfell, a mother of four, and a wife to a man who thought only halfway.

What was worth the wait was putting an end to the days of mourning. She smiled tentatively as the maids stepped forward with plates of roasted meats and steaming stews. Other servants started raising the Direwolf banners once again across the walls.

Her goodbrothers relaxed once all the banners were up. They were seated beside their wives at the high table, an exception due to them being the sons of Lord Rickard.

It however came at the expense of the rest of her own children seated at the nearest lower bench, which was far enough from her reach. She could only hope her tsks would keep them from flinging spoons at their cousins.

Thankfully, It seemed it would be a while before they resorted to that, as they seemed more inclined to gobbling their mushroom soup and gossiping quietly. Only Cregan, who sat on the other side of Brandon, seemed lost in thought. Barbrey remembered the look of confusion on his face when he saw the two Reed children kneeling.

Brandon leaned towards him a little. "Lord Reed has been asking for his firstborn, Meera, to be named heir for a year now. Don't really know why, his son seems a healthy lad," he said, as if he knew exactly the question troubling his son. "I would have allowed it by now, but this deal with inheritance papers isn't easy to sign. With your grandfather sick I would have had to inform the king."

"What's wrong with informing the king?"

"Not a damn thing, but Lord Reed dislikes the south in general. After some honourless squires bullied him until his leg broke in that tourney of Harrenhal."

"Not that the king would care anyways, these matters are settled without much thought in the small council chambers." Ashara chipped in, her silver bracelets jiggling as she cut up a small piece of glazed lamb for her youngest. Little Rickon squirmed even more in his mother's lap when she tried to feed it to him.

"But why does the king need to be informed?" Cregan asked again. Barbrey thought his interest in laws was welcome.

"Because there already is an heir to Greywater Watch. A sane, male, trueborn, mainline, little Reed called Jojen. Changing that without much reason would seem off. And we all heard of the dance of the dragons." Barbrey replied in a light voice. "Your aunt is correct, though. The king doesn't care for these matters, nor would Lord Reed mind writing to the crown, in fact. Yet patience never harmed a soul."

It was true. No one knew more of patience than Barbrey Ryswell Stark. Her very marriage was an example, tested many times by the policies of her goodfather.

She slowly breathed in, remembering that he passed away. She would no longer argue with him over the plans he set for her children.

Even Benjen seemed happier now that his father is gone, she thought darkly.

The two had given grief to the other most of their lives; Benjen's insistence over joining the night's watch would end with screaming matches that startled her at night. A sudden, rather forced, wedding to Dacey Mormont ended it for all.

It saddened Barbrey to see the she-bear eating silently at the end of the table. She knew, of course, that there were no cruelty or hatred in their marriage; just blandness and courtesy. Such matters were hardly kept secret with them living in the same castle.

Still, Barbrey couldn't bring herself to fault Lord Rickard for that one. She was annoyed that he roped Dacey into a loveless marriage, sure, but she would do the same thing for her son.

None of her children would join the night's watch, she knew. It had given her grief when her second born Willam started his ridiculous phase of thinking glory was in slaying snarks and standing against the harsh winds on the wall. She would have none of that. Even her third son, Torrhen, would remain in Winterfell until he was old and grey.

It was her daughter whom she would hate to let go. Her sweet Ida, with dark brown hair and light grey eyes, the same rare shade that belonged to the Late Lady Lyanna. Thinking about the story of her goodsister always managed to make both Benjen's and Rickard's actions more justified.

A loud yell from the now-drunk attendees distracted Barbrey from her thoughts. She sighed and pushed her plate away.

Her nephew, Domeric Dustin, managed to slither away from the rest of his companions and into the table her children sat around. He, Willam, and Torrhen started a flicking war with Robb, Arthur, and Benjen's little Rodrik.

The thrown food clung to the girls' hair, and before anyone knew it, the wailing and kicking began.

Barbrey could not stand it. She could hear a constant buzzing in her ears, and the pain in her legs somehow returned.

Ida was the only one ignorant to what was happening. Barbrey saw her daughter rubbing her sleepy eyes; her chubby head almost smacking with her empty plate twice. It looked the perfect way to put an end to the children's squabbling. She hissed at Willam so he would take his little sister to bed. Sansa stood to take Rickon and Rodrik to their own beds soon after.

Brandon grumbled at the loss of his entertainment, but Barbrey would have none of it. It was enough that he failed to keep the rest of the Lords quiet.

Willam had only pulled Ida to her feet when the faint creaking of the old timber doors distracted Barbrey from her two children. The howling of their direwolves outside increased for a minute.

Ser Martyn entered with a grimace on his face; three men clad in black stood behind him. The one in the front was the only one Barbrey could identify. He was last in Winterfell a few months before Old Rickard had taken to his sick bed. The other two's faces were pale and sweaty from riding hard, making them look way older.

They stepped in, dripping snowflakes on the cleansed floor. The door closed behind them with a louder crack, causing many heads to turn at the intruders.

It didn't take long for all the noise in the hall to die down. Barbrey could see Brandon gripping his cup until he nearly shattered it. She had to dig her nails into his knee to calm him down. Dacey had a matching scowl, mayhaps thinking about her uncle. Cregan, Eddard, Benjen and Ashara looked on with some discomfort.

The three men walked towards them as if they were walking to the block.

Barbrey thought they might as well be.

Yoren, the wandering crow, bowed to Brandon first. "Good evening, Lord Stark. I was sent here by Lord commander Mormont to offer our sympathies for the loss of Lord Rickard, and our congratulations for your coming reign as Lord of Winterfell," he said in a voice lighter than she remembered. 

The words sounded awfully rehearsed. She knew they were hiding a disaster; Yoren was too careless and rude for such greetings.

Benjen and Dacey leaned closer with an interest. Around them, the noises slowly returned, with muffled gossip and whispers this time.

"You've said them both, now would that be all? Or does the night's watch need more funding?" Brandon bit out, his eyes narrowing even more than hers.

"N-no, my lord. I mean of course, it would do well to consider the relations between the Night's watch and House Sark, but that is not what Lord Mormont sent us here to do,"

Barbrey did not like the sound of his stuttering one bit. She glanced at her children's table and was satisfied to see the younger ones had left. It would do them no good to see their father murder a guest on his first day as Lord of Winterfell.

"Well, what did he send you to truly do?" Ned asked, the quiet wolf speaking for the first time that night.

"It's about Mance Rayder, my lord. The deserter who's been speaking with some village elders beyond the wall."

"What of him?"

Yoren hesitated again, his hands fidgeting with the holes in his cloak. The other ranger, whose face returned to its normal flushed colouring, spoke instead.

"They claim him as the king beyond the wall now, my Lord."

Little wonders, how good nights are easily ruined.

Chapter Text

Five times already did Lyanna stitch a red wolf's head across the thigh of her son's new breeches, never to her satisfaction. She huffed again as she plucked the thread out with her nails, reminiscing over the patterns her governess once taught her.

The design she chose would be facing forward instead of sideways, for even if it had been years since her father's sigil was seen beyond the wall, the North still remembered. Should anyone ask, the design ought to resemble Ghost; the expensive red thread contrasting with the bleached buckskin.

Lyanna huffed as she flattened the white cloth between her hands; it was peppered with enough gaps it seemed impossible to continue.

"Either you'd lose the cloth or you'd lose the thread with what you're doing, Lya. Try practicing a bigger one on some rag." Dalla chided gently, not even looking up from the stew pot she was stirring. Lyanna grimaced; she felt as if she were ten name days again. She couldn't tell Dalla that even now, stitching her house's symbol on a rag felt like an insult.

"The thread is hardly cheap. I'd hate for it to break again," Lyanna chose to say, keeping all thoughts of the Starks to herself. Dalla said nothing in turn. Instead, she returned her focus to the food she was preparing.

For six days, they had prepared a feast of food, hoping each time that Mance and Jon would return safely. But each night, both Lyanna and Dalla went to their beds with more fear twisting their hearts, the excess food given to the sick and the old in the village.

Val had often grumbled about that, just as she had raised an eyebrow at Lyanna's choice of embroidery. The blonde maid did not mind feeding the other people; instead, she insisted on scouting for her friend and her goodbrother. Lyanna had assured her that she felt Ghost getting closer, and that was enough for the princess to wait.

The needle pricked Lyanna's thumb. She almost didn't feel it through the calluses, but the drops of blood smearing the fabric irked her. She tossed the cloth, thread, and needle on the table and strode out, nearly crashing into Val.

"They are here!" Val announced, sprinting inside their home to relay the news to Dalla. With some focus, Lyanna felt the hum of Ghost's heartbeat echoing louder in the back of her mind. It was soon eclipsed by the familiar clopping of hooves not so far away.

The arriving party seemed smaller than when it had left. Mance's horse trotted through the villagers surrounding him. Jon rode beside Ghost, a tired smile on his face. His mount was a gray mare that Mance had gifted them a while back.

A sense of familiarity washed over her; she recalled the image of her father and Brandon riding through the gates of Winterfell.

Lyanna shook her head and ran to meet them with Dalla hot on her heels. She only waited until Jon got off his horse to embrace him.

"What took you so long?" She screeched into his chest; at nearly five and ten, he was already towering over her.

"We have been riding hard for days, ma! Mance wanted me to get here by my name day," he replied, hugging her back. Jon didn't blush like the last time she hugged him in public; Tormund roared a jest at their expense. Lyanna felt irritated that he didn't answer her question, instead, she chose to savor the reunion.

"How have you been? Did the night terrors stop?" Jon asked his mother as they all walked back to their house. Lyanna frowned, remembering Mance's promise to get her to a wood's witch. She owed too many favors to the bard, and it made her mind race with questions.

"Soon, dear, very soon. Why don't you tell me about your adventure, hmm? Did you make it to Mag the Mighty?"

His face somehow paled even more. Up close, Lyanna could see dark rings around his eyes. She looked around and saw everyone appearing the same, from Mance to Talg and Sayf.

"What happened?" She hissed, only for her son to flinch and ignore her.

Mance had already disappeared into the overhead rooms before she could go and ask him, followed by half the spearwives and chieftains who returned. Dalla stood to the side, hugging herself and leaning towards the wall. Lyanna's heart sank; it was an ill omen that Mance had not waited for the food, nor had he embraced his wife.

Jon went to his own room soon after, throwing his cloak on the clay hanger that had long since cracked from the cold. Val and Dalla walked hand in hand to the kitchen, leaving Lyanna all alone, just as she had been a few moments earlier. Only Ghost appeared to have missed her, sticking his shaggy head through the old, opened doors, pinkish tongue lolling out in a smile.

It was a small comfort that pushed her to seek out remnants of the lamb that Dalla had cooked. The discarded breeches awaited her on the table, and she thought of nothing better to do while the sun slowly fell to the west.

The next day, she awoke to her own screaming and her son shaking her roughly. Images of her nightmare flashed before her eyes, and she barely held herself from screaming again.

Mance stormed in as well; he was not yet used to her scares. Val and Dalla were absent, mostly thinking she cried wolf.

Lyanna's cheeks flushed in embarrassment at his confused expression. Jon poured a mug of water for her while the king-beyond-the-wall narrowed his eyes, lost in thought.

"We leave for the witch today," he commanded, then quickly left.

Jon's eyes widened in surprise, then sorrow. He already started preparing a bag for her to take, avoiding looking at her.

Lyanna remembered that Mance once said the witch was a three days ride away; she would miss Jon's nameday.

"Oh, Jon," she said, stepping closer to him. "We will make haste, I promise. I already have something for you here!"

She reached for the breeches and winced at the fact that she had forgotten to finish them. He smiled thinly and kissed her cheek.

"It's alright, ma. I pray for your safety on the way."

"And pray for some answers too, it has been a while since I had a good night's sleep."

Lyanna grabbed the bag for travel and said her goodbyes to Jon again. Mance awaited her outside, with some spearwives and warriors acting as guards. They were soon on their way deeper into the forest. 

The mare Lyanna rode was already tired from Jon's quest, but it still went out faster than the others, keeping her on the lead beside Ghost and Mance. Lyanna contemplated asking him why he had done her such favors; it went beyond her simply living with Dalla.

"How do you know that witch?" She chose to ask instead.

"She is a cousin of Mother Mole, who helped drive more people to my cause."

She nodded. "Did you see Mother Mole recently? Did she tell you about the Giants?"

He eyed her warily at the mention of the giants. He remained quiet, subtly quickening the pace of his horse. Lyanna ignored the gesture, her horse whined as she kicked it forward. 

"Why is Tormund not with us, though? Did something happen yesterday?" She asked again.

He whipped his head to her side, his eyes strained. He opened and closed his mouth twice, with no words coming out. Lyanna's heart clenched; there weren't many things that could turn the former crow speechless. 

"Later. I will tell you later, my lady." He eventually said, much to her annoyance. She flinched when he called her a lady; he was one of the few who knew of her truth, and the fewer who would speak of it.

They had spent the rest of their wandering in relative silence. Mance had not said anything, and her thoughts grew more ugly and frantic, even more so when they reached the ugly hut the witch lived in.

The old witch was dressed in garbs that did not distinguish her from any other free folk, but she had placed a crown of red feathers on her head and black lines on her cheeks. Three owls stood vigilant behind, and only the one in the middle dared to hoot.

The woman stirred a cup of sap and held it out to Lyanna, who scuffled closer to sip from it.

"Your dream, child?"

Suddenly Lyanna felt hesitant; she looked at the woman with no teeth but presumably a third eye. She hadn't spoken of the dream to anyone, not even her son. Even though Jon was usually the one who was startled awake because of her nightly terrors.

"It's on a land I have never seen, bare of any trees or waters or hills, with nothing but pure snow on the ground and white winds blowing in a winter storm... and then there is this wolf, he's old and tired. He keeps howling against the winds, and the winds howl back louder. Back and forth, and the storm grows stronger each time. Until his fur starts falling in patches, the meat falls off after the skin, and his eyes weep blood. Yet he keeps howling until the winds carry his bones away. Only then is there silence."

She couldn't bear to utter the thoughts plaguing her mind. Does father no longer wait for me? Am I too late?

Her tears dripped onto her lap. She wiped them hastily before looking up at the witch. To her surprise, the woman's face was set in a scowl.

"Either you're wasting my time or you're wasting yours, girl! You know what the dream means; He's dead! Wolves only stop howling when they are dead! You have wasted the patience of Gods, child!" The witch snarled, the fat on her wrinkled cheeks jiggling.

Lyanna wanted to rage, to argue that Ghost has never howled and that the hag's time was well paid for in herbs and hares. She rose to her feet quickly, trying to impose some sort of defiance, yet all three owls screeched at once, their wings spreading as if for an attack.

Lyanna fled from there, the cold wind outside halting her until she crumpled on the snow, screaming and weeping in rage.

Ghost rushed to her, licking her face and wiggling his tail in worry. Mance appeared immediately after, his men's weapons raised high in alarm. Their chosen king had let her weep into Ghost's fur until her sobs quietened, then he stepped forward and crouched.

"This was the last favor, my lady," he said softly. "Now you have a duty to do in return."

Lyanna had neither the energy to scowl nor argue. She looked at him expectantly, praying to the Gods that he knew nothing of her father's death. There was no telling of what he could do then.

"We need you to go back to your family, to ask them for a parley, this is long overdue."

The gall of this man!

Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head, fearful thoughts raced in her mind. Does he know already? Why did he not say anything? What is his plan?

Mance did not wait for her to talk. "This is long overdue," he repeated. "Lord Mormont is leading a great ranging. You ought to be our middle ground, our only way of compromise. House Stark's influence would be much needed."

"I could never go back!" She screeched at him, choking through her tears. "Let me remain here! I'll speak with Lord Mormont!"

"And when your survival is well known within the watch, what then, hmm? Your brothers would come running, starting another war because we kept you here for this long, but if you speak with them first-"

"No!"

His face lost any sign of genuine care, twisting once to match the scowls appearing on the spearwives' faces. She was undeterred by his stormy expression, although she felt like weeping again.

"Listen to me, my lady. There was a war before because you disappeared! If you go back, Gods' willing you might stop another one. Because my people will go south. Even with an army if that's what it takes."

Lyanna shook her head frantically, then she clutched Ghost's fur and pressed her face into it. Her loyal direwolf snarled at Mance, who straightened and stepped back.

She knew Mance was only desperate; she could see it in his eyes, but that didn't make his demands any less hurtful.

The King didn't relent, he stepped back further away from Ghost, yet raised his voice all the same. "You want to know what we encountered then? The damned others, Lya! A whole village on our way, empty and barren of life! You want to know why Tormund isn't here? He's out telling the families of my fallen men!"

That gained her attention. She snapped her head back towards him and saw the hatred on the faces of those standing behind.

He stepped closer, for once unafraid of the direwolf between them. "You want to know why your son won't speak of it? They attacked him too. I saved him and brought him back to you unharmed, and made him promise he wouldn't tell you before I did so you wouldn't worry."

"No," Lyanna whimpered again, biting her lip to avoid telling him her father's fate. "Leave me alone, please."

He ignored her. "Your son is in danger. you are in danger. We all are in danger; the long night is upon us. The night's watch is ignorant and the Lord of Winterfell despises them," he stepped closer again, Ghost's warnings increasing. "I know what happened to you, and I'm so very sorry. But now you're our only hope. Save us and no other girl shall be stolen as long as I'm chosen to lead."

"That's low, Mance. Even for you."

He shrugged. "Think on what I have said."

Mentioning her incident left a bitter taste in her mouth. She had only been two and ten at the time, a month after her nameday. 

Her kidnappers had stolen two other youths, a lowborn lad named Jon and a lowborn lass named Ashie, and tied them all together, leading them through the wilds.

The burly wildlings were guided by a tall, slim raider named Yorn. His face was the least scarred among the others, and he had forbidden any wildling from harming any child.

Yorn had spoken softly to her and had given her more food than the other two children. Soon he confessed that he was becoming a chieftain and had stolen her for his son. Lyanna bit his hand with all her might the next time he pressed a bowl of porridge to her mouth, yet he only laughed it off and raised his bloody fingers as if it were an honor.

It was then that she resorted to crying instead of kicking and screaming; the other children began wailing louder.

Two weeks later, they had passed the wall through the far eastern coasts of the Gift. By then, Ashie had died of the cold. They had left her corpse to rot in the forest to save time.

Her father had sent men after them, they said. Guards and crows alike chased them until they reached the vastness of the haunted forest. Yorn's raiders were antagonized; some had pulled her hair, and others had licked the food she would eat.

One of them, Emmick, crept on her while Yorn slept. He gagged her and started pulling her knees apart. She wept and shook until a cloud of white fur flashed into her vision.

Emmick fell dead above her, his neck seeping red over her face. Lyanna stared at his lifeless eyes while the phantom made a quick meal of the others.

When the screams and the crunching of bones stopped, she pushed the corpse aside. A white wolf the size of a filly watched on with eyes matching the color of the blood on his snout. It stepped quietly towards her, nudging her trembling legs forward.

Yorn was still alive. His savaged body twitched while his eyes frantically searched for her. The other boy, Jon, was spared. Lyanna held her arm out to him and told him to fetch a knife. Together they drove it into Yorn's neck and twisted. Both Yorn's twitching and Jon's whimpers ceased immediately after.

After that, the wilderness was left for her and Jon to discover. The direwolf, an ever-loyal companion, never abandoned them to the mercy of other wolves or snowy bears. It amounted to nearly nothing, for they were lost and nearly starved.

Jon was the one who knew how to start fires. He roasted some prey while Lyanna tried to fetch berries and water.

"You are a highborn, milady. A Stark." Jon had once said to her, offering most of his ration. He died soon after, and Lyanna couldn't bury him either.

The ghost of Ashie visited her then, bound once between the trees. Lyanna thought in her hunger that it came to condemn her; she rested against the bark of a tree while the wolf hunted, accepting her fate.

Ashie's ghost strolled closer, and Lyanna could see that it was not Ashie; it was a different girl who said her name was Dalla. She had brought her father Morin, who carried Lyanna back to their hut. Lyanna told them her name was Arya, and that she didn't remember much.

Lyanna remained with them until news of her father surged; he was searching for her beyond the wall with an army.

Lyanna decided to play her own part as well, slipping from the room Dalla's family had given her and joining Ghost in the forest; She knew they were not too far from each other. She trekked the path her wolf sniffed for her, stopping at some villages to hear the advances of her father.

Some had called him the southern lordling, others said the Stark king. Some even called him the wolfman. Lyanna followed the whispers of any name as long as they grew more frequent.

The wolfman took some crows to the Whitetree. The wolfman killed the cursed man of Craster and started a war. The wolfman came searching for his daughter, he is heading for the Haunted Forest.

"The wolfman's wife died heartbroken," an old healer from the third village had said, and four more locals recited the same words days after.

Lyanna had remained in that village until every person repeated the same answer. She cared not if it seemed suspicious or if the tribesmen were throwing her curious glances. Her denial slowly faded, leaving her to flump down and weep like a beggar. Ghost had felt her stress and had grown restless, so Lyanna ordered him to remain in the woods. The lack of his solace made it all the more helpless.

A few travelers arrived a while later, claiming the wolfman had bonded with some direwolves on his way south. A child who had given her his family's leftovers relayed the news, and it was enough to jolt her out of her stupor.

She knew if she rushed south, she might be able to catch up or at least run into some of the night brothers who still infected the Haunted Forest. But as she reunited with Ghost once again, she only led him back to where Dalla's family was, against the aching of every part in her body, yearning to go home.

Lyanna threw herself at Morin's feet and told them her real story, Ghost pacing behind. For the sake of her warging alone, they took her back and kept her secret.

Ghost had saved her for the third time then. He had stayed with her all the way; when they had wandered to another village, when Morin had died, when her son's father died so far away, skewered by a spear in a war with another tribe, and when Mance held no regard for her tears and ordered her to return to Winterfell.

Lyanna whispered to Ghost to stop snapping his jaws. She stood up and saw Emmick's face on one of the raiders. She reminded herself that only Sayf would wear Shadowcat skin, then walked calmly between the spearwives and Mance towards her horse.

Mance had let her go without any struggle; he too went to his horse in silence, his grudging people following as well. They rode back with her leading, arriving at their village at night.

Mance grabbed her wrist once they entered their hut. "I expect your answer within the first hour of morning," he whispered before letting her go.

She climbed the uneven steps to the room shared with her son. She laid down on the bed opposite of him and gazed at his sleeping face.

He looked so young, and as tired as she was. Lyanna wanted to brush the black strands of his hair away from his face so she could see him better. He was wearing the breeches she had gifted him; Val most likely was the one to finish her design.

He looked so much like her father Lyanna found herself wailing again. Jon woke up immediately and crawled to her, rubbing her arm and damning the witch as a swindler, thinking that it was the nightmare again.

The next morning, Mance found her sitting alone in the kitchen. Her back faced the door so no one would see her puffy eyes, her thumb gently tracing the edge of a knife. She did not have a nightmare of the wolf. Instead, her sleep was plagued with cold blue eyes.

Mance cleared his throat to announce his arrival. Lyanna didn't bother looking at him; she only nodded.

Chapter Text

Elia I. 10th of May, 298 AAC. The Red Keep.

The yolk of the soft-boiled egg oozed on the buttered and seasoned toast, and its rich flavor blocked out the clinking of forks and plates beside Elia. Both Aegon and Daenerys looked similarly captivated; they had already finished half their dish by the time Elia finished chewing and swallowing.

"By the Gods, child, if you choke on your food I won't let anyone help you!" Elia reprimanded her son, who only snickered with a mouthful in response. He immediately yelped with a hiccup after, and his aunt burst into a fit of giggles. It was fuelled more by his face turning an adorable shade of pink.

Elia held back a chuckle herself. She could see Rhaella looking on disapprovingly; since Rhaenys had married and left, Daenerys was under the constant influence of her nephew Aegon, whose manners were sometimes in doubt. The queen mother's lips still twitched in a smile behind her lavender-scented handkerchief, and it all made Elia's heart feel a little warmer.

While Aegon gulped down his goblet of watered wine, Elia moved on to another part of her dish, spreading the steaming paste of sweet potatoes on her toast. She fiddled a little with her napkin, thinking about a topic to discuss.

"And where did this new cook come from? I believe Oberyn might gain much weight after he arrives today," she asked, turning her head to her goodmother.

"From the Westernlands, dear," the elder woman responded with a smile. "I thought Dany would like to get a little more used to the food there. There is a dish prepared with venison and basil that I heard of, mayhaps I could have it made for dinner."

If anything, Daenerys' face looked soured at the mention of the West. She gripped her fork harder, turning her attention to what was left of her pie. While Elia had known better than to push Daenerys any further in the matter of her betrothal, Rhaella had often made such remarks, all with good intentions.

Aegon, who had prevailed from his hiccups for a moment, overlooked Daenerys' glumness. "You should be betrothed to Lord Walder Frey instead of that Lannister heir. That way we would be kin to half the realm."

Daenerys sulked even more at his jest. She placed her fork down, then stood up to leave, mumbling that she was no longer hungry, and ignoring Elia and Rhaella calling for her to stay. Elia glared at her son a second time, almost kicking his shin under the table.

He looked at her, confused; he had always loved Daenerys as a sister and a friend, but he rarely understood what was going through her mind.

"I thought she had felt better about her betrothal. Gerion Lannister is young, golden-handsome, and the future lord paramount to the Westerlands. What is there to brood about?"

The fact that he is not a prince, for one, and not golden, either; they say he has his mother's Tully hair, Elia thought to herself.

It was Rhaella who answered him, her somber face gazing down at her food. "Girls her age act this way. Leave it be, she will come around eventually."

Aegon did not believe her. Judging by her frown, Elia found it hard to believe her words as well. Daenerys was often moody, and although she never voiced her complaints about her betrothal, she didn't try to hide her bitterness over it.

Aegon looked back to the food he left unattended; ripe berries scattered upon white cream. Elia thought it looked anything but nauseous, but his face contorted once before he resigned to excusing himself.

"I think I'm full now. I should head back to the yard," he said, trying not to blush in embarrassment again as another hiccup interrupted him.

Elia could hear the apologetic tone in his voice. He was likely to go and apologize to Daenerys instead. Both Rhaella and her sighed once the doors closed behind him, the clinking of his kingsguard's armor slowly fading away.

"That was one way to kill the mood," Rhaella muttered. Elia tried not to wince at her words; if Daenerys wished to act that way, then it was hardly her fault.

It was Rhaegar's fault, a small part of her whispered, as it had for years. Both he and his father had turned the realm against their own family. 

"I just wish I could find out what has gotten into her. My Dany was always too sweet, she liked the stories of gallant knights and the songs of young love. Oh, you knew that already, you would tell better stories than myself. I just wish to see her happy and safe like I've seen Rhaenys and Viserys. These days, I don't even know if I'm going to live long enough for her wedding." The queen mother continued.

"Oh, goodmother, you will. Do not say such things!"

"It is but the truth. I am old and long have I been easy to fall sick. Not that many would seem to care if I'm gone, It's been years since Rhaegar had broken fast with us, or even sang me a song."

"Rhaegar pays little mind to any of us. He has kingdoms to rule, and the kingdoms are not easy to rule."

"Hm, that is correct, dear. But truthfully, he was the one who made it all the harder for himself." Rhaella's voice was sad. She did not wait for Elia to respond but stood up and excused herself as well, leaving Elia alone at the dining table.

She would suppose that Rhaella was correct after all. Lamenting over the past twenty years, Rhaegar had been as good a king as she had once imagined, but everyone seemed to eye him as Viserys the first come again. She shuddered at the thought, praying that Rhaegar's reign wouldn't end with another dance, even if there were no dragons.

Elia headed for the queen's wing shortly after finishing her meal. Her ladies were nearly all present already. Each stood and bowed at her when she entered. Elia would prefer sewing circles to happen in the evening; there was little gossip to be shared this early in the day.

It did not bother her that her ladies would sit down before she did, nor that they continued to stab at their embroidery while continuing their hushed conversations. Elia, feeling used to the lack of useless decorum, quietly took her seat by the empty hearth, facing a young, blushing septa that used to trail the queen mother around.

Across from her sat Nymeria Tolland and Selyse Florent, each one muttering and throwing dirty glances at the other. Lady Roslin Frey stood to the side, acting as a handmaid to her Rosby cousin and holding a book for hymns. Lady Alla Manwoody was half asleep on her chair, with her younger sister nudging her awake once every few moments.

There were many times as such when Elia thought of things more useful to do. Her smile twitched with annoyance, and no one seemed to care.

Rhaenys should have been still here instead of Highgarden, she told herself, stitching a pair of wings sprouting from the back of a snake. At least Oberyn and three of his daughters would be here soon. They ought to make an even better company.

Out of all her brother's daughters, Elia was most certain about Nymeria being one of those visiting. Tyene would stay beside Princess Arianne, and Obara had never liked the Red Keep. The little ones would remain in the water gardens, and Elia felt a little sad for it had been too long since she last saw them.

Lady Roslin had so timidly asked her in the last sewing circle if Sarella would be arriving as well. Elia had thought their friendship was intriguing, but she replied easily saying that it was quite possible.

Lady Selyse spoke next, in a hesitant voice and tentative tone, "will Princess Visenya be visiting as well?"

The queen's lips twisted, she blamed it on the needle pricking her finger. Oberyn had indeed written of Rhaegar's youngest child accompanying them, and she had prepared the girl's rooms herself, far from her but close enough to Aegon and Daenerys. Elia had kept her silence, however; she felt little need to tell that to the Florent lady.

Instead of gossiping about Visenya or blushing over her brother like Lady Alla, Elia's ladies now began fawning over Lord Tywin's tourney. Even the young Septa looked the most excited; her reddening cheeks contrasting against the blue skirts of the Maiden.

Elia held her breath. She vaguely recalled Lord Richard Lonmouth, who was Rhaegar's replacement to the exiled Varys, speaking of the tourney way before Maester Pycelle had handed the sealed parchments to Rhaegar.

The queen was too focused on ignoring the hand of the king at the council meeting then; she could barely remember bits and pieces of a dispute settlement and grains transportation, but she could not forget about the event; she half-expected it herself before any of them; there was no way Lord Tywin would waste an opportunity to flaunt his grandson's betrothal to a princess.

Lady Tolland's voice snapped Elia out of her thoughts, "I heard that Lord Tywin's youngest son would return from Essos to attend the tourney, too! He must be hoping his father would be happy enough to accept him back."

Lady Selyse immediately started arguing, saying that the dwarf only wished to put his hand on the winner's gold with the help of hired sellswords to compete. Lady Alla replied that Lord Tywin would never allow him in, and Ranna Rosby spoke of how much it would upset Lady Catelyn Lannister more, as if her cold marriage to Ser Jaime wasn't enough.

While the ladies continued their chattering about the tourney, Elia's thoughts drifted towards Visenya once again. The girl would be returning to the Red Keep for the first time since her mother had died of the pox, with neither her father nor her mother's cousin to welcome her.

Not for the first, Elia considered taking her as one of her Ladies, wondering at the type of company she would be.

The afternoon came with Elia shifting her weight from one leg to the other while waiting for Oberyn's retinue to finally arrive. Aegon stood next to her, chatting earnestly with Ser Arthur. Poor Rhaella had apologized for her lack of presence, saying she couldn't go down the many stairs and then climb them again.

Rhaegar did not bother attending, and it made Elia stew in anger. His own daughter was to arrive as well, and he had still chosen to lock himself with his advisors and his hand, only sending a squire with an order for Visenya to meet with him once she arrived.

Eleven beautiful sand steeds trotted into the yard, slowing to a halt in front of her. Oberyn rode up front, dressed in orange garments that did not look even slightly affected by his traveling. His daughter, Nymeria, rode beside him. A wide smile on her face matched Elia's own.

Behind them, a large wheelhouse came into view. It was adorned with black and red lines amongst golden little dragons. Elia had just noticed Ser Renly then. The shine of his golden armor nearly blinded her as he opened the carriage's door and helped Princess Visenya down the steps.

The girl was fairer than how Elia remembered her, it seemed the harsh sun of Dorne did not affect her skin. She was wearing a Dornish-styled red dress, looking every bit a Valyrian descendant. Even more so than Daenerys and way more so than Aegon, whose skin has darkened slowly in the past years to match Elia's color.

Oberyn crushed her in a hug before she could stare more at her husband's daughter. Elia chuckled, swaying to the side and kissing his cheek.

"Dearest sibling, how I missed your company. And look how much this little beast has grown! What do they feed you in the Red Keep?" Oberyn said, letting her go and turning to Aegon. Her son blushed and stammered, but he played it off with a hug to his uncle.

Nymeria dismounted her silver mare as well; she went and helped Lady Ellaria down the wheelhouse, with Sarella and Obella joining her a moment later. The four Dornish ladies walked towards her, and Elia embraced them all and ruffled her nieces' hair. Ellaria linked one arm with her and the other with Oberyn, she was already nudging them inside.

To her right, Aegon went to hug his half-sister. The girl dropped a curtsy first then kissed his cheek, smiling. Elia nodded at her with a smile as gentle as she could muster, then turned with Oberyn and Ellaria and walked inside.

It wasn't long before she, unfortunately, had to leave them to bathe from the grime of the roads. She chose to spend that time watching over Aegon's training with the Blackfish in the yard. Visenya stood beside her, shyly cheering her brother. Elia pretended not to see the servants eyeing them with eyebrows either raised or furrowed.

In the evening, Elia invited Oberyn to drink tea in her chamber, planning a load of gossip and stories to share. Elia's heart warmed more when he embraced her again, placing a blood-orange dress of Myrish silk as a gift on the chair beside her.

They spoke of formalities and gossip over the first round of refreshments, then the wild stories of his most recent adventure in Essos and her own in the Red Keep over the second one.

Eventually, Elia hesitated for a moment, sipping her tea quietly before mustering up her courage. "And what of Princess Visenya? It doesn't seem like you have spent much time in her company."

He scoffed at her before quickly shifting his features into his regular, nonchalant expression. His eyes were still darkened when he answered, "She's a sweet girl, quiet and polite. She made fast friends with my daughters. Obara doesn't like her much, but again, Obara rarely likes anyone. Sarella and her are joined at the hip, however."

His words made Elia feel a little more relieved, but not nearly enough. "But isn't Doran mad about it, that Quentyn has to be betrothed to her? I thought some would still consider her fostering an insult."

"For some people, it certainly was, since the Connington woman died and long after, but people always forget. As for Doran, it’s true he loves power, but he loves his peace even more. When one considers both these things together, one would know that no one is more satisfied with that betrothal than him." Oberyn sighed, wiping his hands from the breadcrumbs with a napkin. A frown still adorned his face when he continued, "Had it been Rhaegar who asked for this fostering then we certainly wouldn't have taken it lightly. Still, I understand why you were the one who asked for this, though."

"I'm a queen, Oberyn, I have no qualms with a girl younger than my children, and the fault isn't with her, it's with Rhaegar, Lord Connington, and his cousin whom he slipped into Rhaegar's bed. And all this for a dream of a fickle woodswitch."

At least Princess Visenya would live away from the shadow of her mother. Elia hoped she would feel at home in Dorne, as much as Ser Renly seemed to be.

Oberyn leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper, "If your husband had the third head of a dream then who knows what else he might dream of. Everyone knows how the son of the first Visenya and Aegon turned out to be."

Elia flinched at his words. "Are you mad? The High Septon would never accept this, he has been hounding us for years because of Rhaegar's second marriage, and only recently did he stop. Besides, Visenya is already betrothed to Quentyn, and Rhaegar damn sure knows better than to insult us twice."

"A king is always used to getting what he wants; why else would he ask for his daughter to visit? Aegon came of age a few months ago, and he still hasn't chosen a bride. Only the Gods know why you haven't betrothed him to anyone yet." The teapot between them had long gone cold, yet neither asked for a servant or a guard to bring another one.

"I want my son to have an opinion first!" she snapped, watching as her brother winced and leaned back on his chair. "I want him to make his own choice, to think of love, even. Instead of marrying the first prim and proper daughter of the lord with the best political advances!" She thought of Rhaegar and the match his father accepted out of spite for the Lannisters.

Oberyn reeled back from her outburst, measuring her words while biting into a sweetened loaf of bread. It was almost as if he was reading her mind, "I thought you once told me that Rhaegar didn't marry Jeyne because of love."

Elia sniffed. "Oh, he loved her, as he loves me now and since we were married. But I suppose he loves his prophecy way more." 

"If you only ask, Elia, I would find a way to make Rhaegar keep his word."

"Never mind that now," she said instead, shaking her head. "Tell me, did you hear of Lord Tywin's tourney on your way?"

He didn't respond right away, hoping to sway her from changing the topic. The resolve of the queen would always make him relent, however. "Ah, yes. The invitations are not yet sent out to all the houses, of course. But it's long-anticipated. Tywin Lannister, finally reaching his Targaryen dream."

"His Targaryen dream was different than this, Oberyn. Do you remember when he would nearly throw Cersei at Rhaegar's feet? The Light of the West, now the Lady of the Vale. It's most certainly not what he planned for."

He snickered. "Nevertheless, for a Targaryen princess to marry his grandson, that would protect his damned legacy all he wants."

His legacy wouldn't be the only one protected, Elia mused. She pushed the platter of lemon tarts towards Oberyn, frowning at his mischievous smile.

"Hm, we have been speaking for so long about these fair Targaryens. I wonder, where is the most beautiful queen mother in history? I wish to give her my personal regards."

He ducked just in time for Elia's napkin to miss his face, chuckling all the while.

His words about Visenya stayed with her until the night, however, as she lay down on her bed alone in a futile attempt to sleep.

Visenya was only a child, as innocent as she was harmless. Elia had wanted to comfort the lonely girl when she saw her in the yard, hunching her shoulders and looking around with an uneasy feeling. She had also wanted to comfort her when Lady Jeyne died and take her on as one of her ladies, but the girl still kept to herself after all.

Elia had intended the fostering to be just as merciful as it seemed petty to other people; Princess Visenya had not been called a bastard nearly as much as she was used to, ever since she left the suddenly-religious Red Keep. It saddened Rhaella greatly, although the queen mother knew it was for the best.

Elia had expected some backlash from the faith when Rhaegar had finally sailed with an army to dispose of his father, and when the news came of his second marriage, the High Septon was the last thing on her raging mind. Only Rhaella had anticipated the complete fallout; she had more septas trailing her than handmaidens by the time Rhaegar had secured the throne and called for the lords to swear fealty. It did little to appease the High Septon, so the dowry of Lady Jeyne, made of half the fortunes of Griffin's Roost, had to go to the poor box.

The lords themselves held their own contempt, and it flared Elia's anger more. The fickle lords of the Crownlands stayed idle while Rhaegar marched through King's Landing, as if they hadn't nearly worshiped the dust Rhaegar walked upon before.

These days, she couldn't believe that she was feeling gratitude for Lord Lannister out of all people. 

Not only did he support Rhaegar back then —for his reward, his son was relieved from the kingsguard instead of Lady Cersei being the third queen like he had wanted— but because his daughter had eventually married an Arryn, his son had married a Tully, and the other Tully daughter, Lysa, had married Lord Baratheon.

With Daenerys' betrothal, Elia could feel a looming shadow disappear from her mind. The Tyrells, too, had become kin with Rhaenys marrying Lord Willas.

What was left was the Starks in their frozen lands. The last thing Elia had heard of them was the news of old Lord Rickard passing away a moon's turn ago. Even Ashara's letters became rare and far in between, yet still keeping the same flare of warmth between them.

The thought of Ashara ached her heart more. Her loyal friend had once promised to remain as a lady-in-waiting for as long as Elia required. But during the war against Aerys, Elia had sent Ashara to marry the son of Rickard Stark, whom Ashara had already fancied in the tourney of Harrenhal; Elia could not bear to give Aerys another Dornish hostage should Rhaegar fail.

And when they had won, Elia had practically begged Rhaegar to bring Eddard Stark to court, to give him a position and keep Ashara close in her company again. Rhaegar's excuses were another thing she couldn't bring herself to forgive.

Tears formed in her eyes, gently falling down her cheeks before she could wipe them. She sat up, then opened the wooden drawer of her nightstand to search for her friend's letter. The last one was sent from Winterfell instead of Moat Cailin, a few days before the death of Lord Rickard.

Ashara had written of her children, five sweet darlings who had all looked like her except for a little Arya. She had written of Robb, a bright lad always up for mischief with his friends and foster brothers, and her second son Arthur, who wanted to become a kingsguard like his namesake and uncle.

The queen chuckled when she read of Ashara's usual complaints; the absurd lack of Dornish wine, the shenanigans of her youngest, Rickon, as well as the frigid, icy, weather, freezing her whenever she stood far from the hearth.

Elia felt a shiver run up her spine herself, and it took her a moment to realize that it was not because of an autumn breeze. Her head felt even colder at the realization, a plan blossoming immediately after.

Icy weather …

Ice…

And fire …

She read the letter again, stopping at the paragraph describing Ashara's first daughter. Lady Sansa Stark, two and ten years of age. A sweet and perfectly-mannered child with a sharp tongue and a beautiful face, a younger-looking version of her mother.

The excitement took the better of her; Elia could not even wait to go over the other letters. Hastily putting on a silk robe and a pair of slippers, she scurried out of her room and through the hallway. Ser Brynden Tully followed her, startled. He and Ser Barristan stood guarding the door after she entered The king's lavish, but ironically messy, chamber.

Rhaegar was still in the study attached to the room, surrounded by candles and different scrolls. He smiled at her when he looked up, black circles surrounding his eyes. He had stopped wearing King Baelor's ring ever since Daenerys was betrothed for the High Septon no longer seemed to care. Instead, the tanned line around his finger was colored in ink, black and red.

It was then that Elia remembered that she had left the letter back in her room. It did not deter her; she walked closer to him, smiling, and rested her hand on his shoulder while he continued shuffling through the papers.

"Rhaegar, do you happen to remember what Lord Manderly said in the small council?"

Rhaegar hummed, "he spoke of another fund for the repairs of the kingsroad. To send more furs and timber south and grains north before the winter. He said it was what Lord Rickard had planned before he passed. Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking, you could order Lord Brandon here to swear fealty and give him his funds, it would be a nice gesture for the start of his regime. Oh, and I would love to see Ashara as well. You remember her, don't you?"

Rhaegar looked at her with eyes narrowed just enough to show his confusion. Elia ignored the guilt that was wrenching her gut for tricking him.

"Arthur's sister," he said. "She used to be your lady in waiting before marrying the brother of Lord Brandon."

"Lord Eddard, yes. It's been a while since I have last seen her, and I would love to meet her children."

"Where exactly are you going with this, Elia?" He finally asked. She would suppose that it was impossible to trick a king in the first place.

She sighed, "I was thinking, if anyone has the blood of ice to match the fire, then it has to be a Stark. Lord Brandon's daughter is only five namedays old, but Ashara's daughter might have already flowered. Sansa is her name and she has a direwolf companion, too. Like all the other Starks." Her words were spoken slowly and as measured as she could manage.

Rhaegar's eyes lit up with so much hope he looked like a child. It made Elia's heart shudder with pity. She thought of Jon Connington; did he give his lady cousin to Rhaegar out of that foolish belief as well? Or did he wish to gain more power, as if being the hand of the king wasn't enough?

Rhaegar still seemed to hold some distrust towards her words; she had always shown her distaste for prophecies. It hurt a little, but she had expected it.

His enthusiasm eventually towered over his doubt. "Truly?" he asked. "Does Aegon know of this?"

Elia tried not to wince. "I thought of telling you first, maybe make it a surprise for him? I could write to Ashara and insist on her going to the Lannister tourney with us. We all could meet Lady Sansa then. What say you?"

Her heartbeats almost deafened the silence of the anticipation. His eyes scanned her for a moment, then the wall behind her, then back to his scrolls. "Very well, you will do that, but say nothing of a betrothal until we meet them."

She almost bounced up and down in happiness, but she held on to her regal attitude, kissing his cheek lightly and bowing her head in appreciation.

That night, she slept beside Rhaegar for the first time in a while. They were both dressed in silk robes and small clothes, turning their backs to each other. 

Elia stole glances at him every once in a while, thinking and smiling to herself. She survived the war against Aerys and the plotting of the Lannisters, she outlived her husband's second wife, and she wasn't affected by the greyscale outbreak in Dragonstone, which scarred her goodbrother's face. Whatever would come next, by the grace of her royal family with her, would be way better than before.

Chapter Text

I pray that you and yours are in good health, and that I was not too late in sending this letter to you.

 

By now, you must have heard of the tourney honoring my son's betrothal to Princess Daenerys. I sincerely apologize for the invitation not arriving sooner; I had hoped to write it to you personally first.

 

Long did you write to me of your children, who indeed take after their father in strength and courage. Even longer have I waited to meet them and to reunite with you. Our children now have a chance to meet each other, and I cannot wait for us to reunite.

 

I've taken personal care in preparing your rooms and the tents for your firstborn, should he ever wish to compete in the tourney. It's without question that he would make you and your house proud.

Chapter Text

 Val I. 20th of May, 298 AAC. Beyond the wall.

The sharp coldness of smooth stones slowly doused the flaming bolts of pain in Val's tender palms. She hissed as she gripped them tighter, wishing that she had been abed instead of spending all those late hours of the evening grinding cheap spices in an old, cracked mortar. It wouldn't have mattered, she supposed; sleep had rarely graced anyone she knew for the past three days, her and Jon least of all.

Jon, who had kept thrashing and kicking his covers only an arm's reach away, once huffing and muttering, once jolting up and pacing as if the witch-leaders who attended Mance's gathering had placed a spell on him, refrained from doing so for the first time this night. Sleep was yet to attend him, however; his glassy, gray eyes were still fixed on the ceiling, shining with what little flame of golden light that still lived in the dying hearth.

Val turned to face him quietly, refusing to break whatever trance his mind was lost to. She wished he had confided in her like he was wont to when they were still children, before the sight of the Others soured his innocence, before the awkwardness piled up between them.

Would he feel better if he returned to the room he shared with his mother, then? Or would the coldness take him in his sleep after dear Lyanna had left to the south and taken her body warmth and bed furs with her?

The thought of it sent bile up Val's throat; Jon, with his lips an icy blue and his skin an even paler color. How would she look Lyanna in the eye, then? What would Dalla tell her? And what would Mance do, if he lost the one hostage he held against the Starks?

Val often wondered if that was what went through the racing mind of the younger man in front of her. If the memory of his mother, pleading and begging for her son to accompany her south kept him up at night.

"She's coddling me, I'm a man grown now and she just wants to keep me by her side as if I were still a babe!" he had said at the gathering, scowling like the greenboy he is, unaware of the gravity of the situation. Val did not have the heart to tell him what Mance had truly planned. Not that anyone would speak of it; the trust in Lyanna's loyalty waned greatly after her true story was revealed.

Many raiders and spearwives condemned the southerner spy for lying all those years, for being the blood of kneelers and crows yet sent back to safety before them. Dalla had given each and every one of the hypocrites a good dressing-down, defending her chosen sister with so much vigor that it surely reminded Mance of why he fell in love with the free women in the first place.

"Mance himself was a southerner longer than Lyanna, and a crow. Lyanna has proved herself one of us for years, and she is the blood of Winter Kings no less, no one but the Gods could help us better," Val found herself saying, loud enough to erase the hideous scowl on Harma Dogshead's face.

Lyanna had also been a spearwife even, if only for a little time. She was steadfast and enduring, always yearning for a home she refused to return to.

Some other chieftains, like the Thenn Magnar, Devin Sealskinner, and the Great Walrus, were only interested in the advancement of the Others; they had changed the topic to recall the story of the latest encounter, and from then they discussed the fellowship of Lyanna's mission. It was almost as if everyone forgot their wariness of the kneelers, clamoring and pleading for Lyanna to take them and their children to the heart of southern lands.

"I want as many warriors as peacemakers on this quest, not children! Only a handful would go, three of each camp," Mance had bellowed, adding to the frustration of many. Ghost had to go as well, per Mance's insistence. The direwolf would provide enough credibility for Lyanna's identity in the south, at the cost of Jon's increasing loneliness.

Jon had pretended to care less about that than Mance ordering him to stay, yet Val heard her friend's grumbles as his connection to Ghost dimmed with the increasing distance. It was almost as miserable as the look of dawning realization darkening his face, three nights after the meeting, two nights after Lyanna left, and the night before this one, just after Mance had gone to settle some disputes with clansmen of another camp.

Suddenly, Jon cursed out loud, startling Val. He caught himself with the last syllable, biting hard on his lips and then glancing at her apologetically.

"Now what?" she hissed, frowning a little. His reply was an antagonizing huff escaping his lips, before turning his back to her and resuming his still composure. Better than a round of bitching, she supposed, although such stillness in his behavior started to feel a little alarming. Val raised her head barely enough to glimpse his solemn expression.

What is happening, Jon? What are you thinking? What are we going to do?

Nothing answered her thoughts, not even as she waited until the cold stones slipped from her loosening hands. Not even as the darkness gradually claimed her vision.

She found herself in front of an ancient weirwood tree, with a face matching the one on her brooch. A carpet of bright green grass was beneath her bare feet and a sky of bright summer blue above her head. Various birds chirped all around her, floating still in the air in colors she had only seen a handful of times. It felt like one of Lyanna's southern fairytales, where the knights saved the damsels, and the damsels married the kings, where it was too bright and beautiful and easily full of life.

The winds strengthened a little, blowing the fallen leaves against Val's face. The birds chirped louder, and the grass grew longer until it reached the tip of her hands. Val fell on her knees, praying before the Gods. She waited for the Others to come, dreading the winter they would bring to turn her dream into a nightmare. The grass wrapped around her legs, firm even as it started withering. The birds turned into crows, hunting her flesh. A shuffle and a hiss drew closer, and an appearing shadow sent her eyelids flying open.

Jon was sitting up straight in his bed, his legs crossed and his arms resting on his knees like the gargoyle of Lyanna's stories. His eyes were staring forward, the gray in them almost looking white. Val held back a scream, just as she held back the urge to get out of her own furs and smack him bloody for the scare. Or worse, stick a wooden rod in his creepy eyes.

Val reminded herself that it wasn't worth it, preferring to chase after her lost sleep instead. She knew she had missed the chance when Jon stood up and started moving, beginning his nightly ritual. She breathed sharply in annoyance and he abruptly stopped, checking to see if she was still asleep.

Time to be considerate, you cunt?

She could play that game, closing her eyes just enough to trace his silhouette without him noticing. He only spared another glance at her before kneeling beside his bed, rolling his furs tightly onto one another and stuffing them into a satchel. He moved to the candles next, picking a few up and placing them above the furs, wicks facing downwards.

Did he not know that wax was too hard to find these days? Val almost jumped up to stop him, but he strode over her to grab some of his discarded clothes, putting a piece or two above the candles and donning the rest.

He stood in silence after that, contemplating his next move while Val tried to understand what he was doing. He looked around him again. Then, he left.

Once the door quietly closed behind him, Val sat upright in her bed, confused and reaching for her nearby dagger. There was no way she could find any more sleep, not with her curious, racing mind, nor with the only two pelts Jon had left on his bed to make up for his lost warmth.

Val stood, wrapping one of her white cloaks around her slim body and hastily shoving her feet into her boots. She peaked at Jon's shadow, moving at the end of the narrow hallway and down the uneven steps towards the kitchen.

She crept after him, her fingers tracing cracks in the walls. It reminded her that she was one of the few lucky enough to live in a stone house instead of a mere tent or a tiny, wooden cabin.

Jon, on the other hand, took such things for granted. Even now, he fiddled with the herbs she had just minced without her permission, then he moved to where they had stashed some supplies, grabbing another sack to fill it with anything but grains.

Val narrowed her eyes; Jon tended to wander and brood, haunting any place like a phantom, but these actions were that of a thief in the night. Blaming her curiosity, she stepped inside.

Jon yelped, startled, then he bit hard on his lips to cover his shrieks. "What for fuck's sake are you doing here?"

"Could ask you the same thing, dear," she said, pointing at the bundle of furs at his feet. "You know all of that is not yours to take, aye?"

His response was a mere shrug, with a blush rising up his neck. Val thought of alerting Dalla, who was still asleep beside her spearwives upstairs, but her sister had long earned some rest.

He looked up at her, guilty. "Did you get cold already?"

"No, that's not what woke me up. Come, put everything back in its place and I'll tell no one you were up late again." She turned around, stopping when she noticed how he remained rooted to his spot. She strode over to him then. "Jon, whatever do you think you're doing. Stop. This is not something you've planned."

"I have planned for this," he argued, taking a step back.

"What plan? What's this even? Taking the food Mara prepared? You know she'd kick your arse bloody if she found out." His face remained stoic and silent, and she couldn't deny the suspicious thoughts circling her mind any longer. "Jon, why would you be packing food and furs anyway?"

His steely gaze faltered at the concern in her voice. He stammered after a while, "I'm leaving, Val."

She cocked her head to the side. "Where do you plan to go? Mance had given clear orders for you to stay with us."

"I'm leaving," he repeated. "I'm going after my mother, to the South."

For a minute, she remembered her nightmare, and what she imagined the South to be like. It was a bad omen, she now knew. "No. No, you won't, Jon, and you know why."

He ignored her, and she had once again pondered between stepping forward to stop him by hand or stepping back to call out for Dalla. "Do you think you can leave so easily? That is only madness you're attempting. Your place is here, beside us, as one of us."

"Many of us have already fled there, why should I stay? To ransom the Starks should the worst happen to my mother and her quest? Or mayhaps just to appease some of the hateful cunts on our side," he hissed. "Mance had no right to trap me here, he had no right to betray my mother like that."

Val bit her lip, a part of her agreed with what he was saying; she had known Lyanna all her life while Mance had only stolen Dalla a little more than a year ago, he held no excuse to turn their lives so.

The other part of her had heard of Mance for years. She knew that he united the free-folk and defied the Others, that he was akin to a savior in their lands, that Dalla, one of the wisest women she knew, had found him worthy of her bed and her heart. Her people trusted and obeyed him, and if they were to survive, they needed to heed his will themselves.

Val shook her head, "Oh, do not speak such foolishness! You know it is but a mummer's farce; Mance loves you as his own get, for Dalla's sake. He won't do you any harm. And we cannot fight our own any more than we can fight the Others. Mance is doing what needs to be done."

Neither she, nor Jon, nor Dalla, nor Lya might like it, but Val at least knew there was no appeasement for everyone. Politics, she remembered, was the word Lyanna used for such matters.

He took a step back, wary of her judgment. "Aye, we can't fight our men any longer, but we can send mothers away from their children."

"Knock it off! You're a man grown, not a babe. You said so yourself!" Though you're acting like a child anyway. "Besides, Lya can handle her situation, what mighty addition would your company bring anyway, other than another headache?"

Jon turned to her sharply, "Mother didn't fight the Night's Watch. I did . Mother didn't listen to Mance singing and blabbering about all the ways the Wall could be taken, about the state of those houses and castles. I did . Mother did not fight the Others . I did ."

Foolish; his mother had at least lived in the South. Shorter time than Mance, yes, but her tales were a lot longer. A lot better. Although Val could excuse Jon for his confidence; she held over three years against him, and three years ago she was just as hot-headed.

five and ten was a dangerous age, filled with half the knowledge and twice the recklessness. It was then when Lyanna had gotten with child, sired by some traveling hunter that died only a few months later.

The consequences were something Lyanna could not escape, yet it had at least proved a lesson for Val. She could not allow Jon to start his quest of madness, he might as well get himself killed before even glimpsing the wall.

"Jon, none of that matters. Every man and woman chosen to go was a voice for our people. Lya was chosen to go because she is the one the Starks are looking for. She knows the lands and the Starks know her, their reunion is how we bring about a truce."

He scoffed, fidgeting with a small, oil vessel before making a place for it at the bottom. "So it is true then, Mance has that little faith in my mother so he intends to keep me a hostage. Does he think the Starks wouldn't come for me, bearing bronze and steel as they had for my mother? Are they not my kin as well?”

Hardly , she almost said. Bael the bard was slain by his own son. A Stark. Although Lyanna had always loathed that story.

Half his words rang true, however. While Val doubted Lyanna to ever let a war break out, for the sake of the sisterhood, love, and understanding she had found in the true North, holding a blood leverage against the Starks would surely anger them enough.

Would they accept the truce in silence, welcoming their lost daughter and her son like the songs and the stories? Or would they detest her for it, for the untimely death of her mother, for forcing their hand on peace with their so-called enemy?

"Whom do you dare trust more, Jon? Your own people or the kneelers?"

"My blood, Val. In these times, I only trust my own blood."

It felt like a slap to the face. "Do you truly believe that Mance betrayed you, when it's your words that are most ungrateful?"

He seemed distracted enough, thinking of a retort. Val took the opportunity to yank the bag away from his fingers, and he pushed her in retaliation. Val punched him then, dragging him by his arm towards the stairs right after. She called for Dalla as loud as she could, but he immediately clamped her mouth shut.

They wrestled around the kitchen, his grunts and shuffling as muted as possible. Her elbow jabbed his neck. His knee slammed against her stomach, all fighting for the bag she now held. She leaned back, kicking his groin, and in her moment of victory, she grabbed the other heavy satchel around his shoulder, only to have her head jerked backward, hair pulled to the ground.

Jon pressed his arm against her throat, waiting to see if anyone woke up with the chaos. Val instinctively reached for her knife, but the pain and despair in his gray eyes stopped her.

She stopped kicking, waiting for him to remove his arm. He let her go with a sigh of relief, crawling away while moaning in pain. They both sat on the ground, the two filled sacks between them with half the contents spilled outside.

"That's a bitch move you did," he hissed, still covering his crotch.

She ignored him. "Why did you not tell me, at the very least?"

"Why? You asking why? I had not seen you put up such a glorious fight when Mance denied you a place in mother's campaign. You had left her alone, too." He threw his arms up, still panting from their fight.

"She's not alone, Jon. She has got Tormund, Sigorn, Jarl, Morna, Willow, Ghost -"

"She doesn't have me! She wanted me by her side where I should be!" He yelled, wincing at his raised voice. Jon was damn lucky no one had taken refuge in their hall that night. Or maybe he had just planned the day of his departure well.

"That's not what you said at the gathering, remember?" Her kind tone was uncharacteristic of her husky voice, Jon couldn't help but scoff at her. "You still cannot just leave. How can you? Mance got Lya and her group smuggled in some of his boats. What shall you do? Swim all the way past the crow lordlings? Or maybe climb the Wall yourself?"

"I found a way," he simply said, packing more bread, dried meat, and salted fish. He glared at her all the while, daring her to stop him again.

"A boat, then. How will you pay for it? Do you plan to steal it?" He didn't answer her, but the blush rose up to redden his entire face.

"YOUR PLAN IS TO STEAL A BOAT?" she yelled, her eyebrows climbing up to her hairline. Jon immediately clamped her mouth shut once again, hushing her desperately.

"No, I'm not stealing a boat! I just… found someone who can take me south. That's all."

That wasn't enough of an answer. Val glared at him again until he relented, quietly revealing his scheme.

Some huntsmen who were yet to yield to Mance were apparently seeking another raid. Other poor souls were slowly losing faith, they had sought a way to go south.

They would ride to the coast of hardhome for half a day, from then to the south until they were close enough to the mouth of the haunted forest. One of the raiders Jon knew had spoken of a man there building and renting some canoes every now and then to travel to the Gift, with a deal with some Night's brothers that eased up his work.

Val scrunched her nose in disgust. She knew of the man; Ulwik was his name. He rented girls he stole to the fresh set of rapists that took the black, girls who hadn't even flowered. In return, some would turn a blind eye to a few lonely boats floating away, should they ever be spotted whilst docking.

It was hardly different from Mance's plan, yet hardly any safe either; many of those rapists Ulwik relied on were caught, gelded, and killed, some by their own brothers no less. Lyanna and Mance had called those men ironborn, and even Lyanna's own people detested them.

"You can't use the aid of that wicked man! Do you how many lasses were taken by him? What would Mance think? What would your mother think?"

"She would understand better than you." He stood up slowly, hoisting his haul over his shoulder.  "Don't try to stop me, Val. I'm going. That's all I could think about these days, that they need my help. Me staying here is only bound to cause more trouble and you know it well enough."

"Yet we only survive if we stay together."

His eyes softened. He held his hand out to help her up. "Come with me then. Come with me, Val, and we can help them quicker."

"You've truly gone mad, methinks," she laughed, watching as he scowled before leaving.

Alone in the kitchen, the scent of herbs was only more intense. Val stood up and walked towards the hall between the stairs to the upper rooms and the once-sealed exit leading to their small stables, where it all felt surreal.

Val thought of waking Dalla again. She, her sister, and three spearwives would be more than enough to win a fight with Jon, knock him out, even. Yet did she truly wish to stop him?

Lyanna had indeed looked too disheveled when she was forced to leave, to the point where it broke Dalla's heart; she had already fought enough times with Mance over it.

Jon's disappearance would be another disaster altogether, but it would hardly be a disappearance then; her folk could find him in mere days, as long as he hadn't reached the shore.

He would fight and argue, until he would certainly be named a southern traitor and Dalla wouldn't be able to protect him, then. They all had faced enough accusations from Harma's and Rattleshirt's vile tongues.

No, Val couldn't allow that to her sister. Dalla was more graceful, kinder, and sweeter. Val had to protect her.

What of Lyanna, then? The she-wolf was just as much of a sister to Val. Almost a mother even. Lyanna was the one she knew to be truly in distress. Was it still worth the trouble?

Maybe Dalla's wise words wouldn't work anyways. Maybe it was too late to wake her up; Should Dalla and her spearwives startle Jon, he could easily run off, and only Val was quick enough to track or race him.

It all fell back to her again, she only had to chase him.

When she caught up with him, he paid her no mind. Instead, he checked the hooves of his silver mare and adjusted its reins. He placed his baggage on either side of the horse after, keeping only his sword and his knife on his body.

The silver mare was the same one Mance had gifted Lya. Its company was incomparable to Ghost's, yet Lyanna had been just as fond of the animal; she taught it tricks and rode it as much as she could, drawing experience from her childhood memories. Lyanna had even named it 'Snowball,' after the very first pony she had owned.

Snowball neighed and whined softly, contrasting the snoring of their supposedly guarding hounds and the harmony of the hooting owls outside. It stomped its hooves against the ground in disapproval when Val meant to pet it. Another bad omen.

"It's not too late to turn back, Jon."

He ignored her again, straddling his horse and adding another bag to the previous ones.

He must have really planned for this , she thought, snatching the bag away desperately and holding the dagger at her hip firmly this time. Knock him out, put enough sense in him .

He sighed, holding his hand out to her. His eyes, however, were only pleading for her permission. "You know I have to do this, Val. It's like the Gods are giving me a sign."

The Gods have given her a sign too, and not a good one. All signs are fickle, but they are signs nonetheless.

She couldn't stop him by hand, nor by words. A part of her truly wanted to go with him, even. Just as she had asked to accompany Lyanna, but Mance wouldn't let Dalla lose both her sisters.

By the Gods, she had to think.

Jon was just as good at riding as his mother, knowing of the land and going as far and quickly as he could. Yet should Mance return anytime soon, Jon would eventually be either caught or named a thief or a craven or a traitor, even if they tried to hide it.

Maybe hounds would track her scent of herbs quicker, and her fellowship would slow them down as well, even calm Dalla's fears. Val could lie that Jon was only stealing her then, just as her sister had once foretold. That would do well to save the grace of her foolhardy friend.

Yes, that is what she would do. In the meantime, she would convince Jon to return home as quickly as possible.

Val leaped on the other steed next to him, her dagger back at her hip, and the other pouch slung around her back. "If you're going, I'm going with you."

He looked back at her, caution mixed with relief. He smiled, then kicked his mare forward.

To the south then.

Chapter Text

Ashara I. 23rd of May, 298 AAC. Moat Cailin.

Many times did Ashara believe the Gods to be playing a jest at her expense, for her youngest child was the first babe she had ever seen snoring worse than a bear.

"It's better than howling in his waking hours, goodsister," Dacey had once told her, rubbing circles on her temple. "and it does get worse once they bond to a direwolf. Ugh, the sleep I lost when the twins took to their wolves. Sometimes, I wish those animals bonded to Rodrik instead. They would have been quiet as a mouse."

For Dacey and her Rodrik, that would have been an excellent idea, but for the Lady of Moat Cailin, she feared the day Rickon would have a direwolf by his side. If Arya's Nymeria was a pest, and Robb's Greywind a menace, then Rickon's wolf would have been twice worse than both of them.

As if on cue, Arthur's direwolf, Summer, began barking loudly, and Rickon began squirming more and more on his father's saddle. Ashara leaned towards her husband, asking to hold the boy herself, and in that moment, her tired horse stumbled over a ditch in the uneven ground, almost throwing her out of the saddle.

Many heads turned in alarm at her yelp, with either chuckles or grumbles following after. Ashara felt heat rising in her face. She turned to Ned, growling at the faint smile he wore.

"Dammit, you! We should have set camp and continued on the morrow." It was past the hour of the bat already. The dull light of a crescent offered little help in guiding the traveling party.

"You heard the men, Asha." Her husband moved his steed closer to her with one hand on the reins and the other holding Rickon by his scruff, gently setting him on Ashara's lap. "There are more bugs and snakes the closer we get to the moat. It would be dangerous for the children if we spent the night here."

The children weren't faring well anyways, she thought, looking over at Sansa and her new friend, Jeyne Poole. The two girls were already half asleep, leaning against one another and hardly bothering with the reins of their shared filly. Beside them, Arthur was pulled onto Ser Jory's horse, too weary to steer his own pony.

Even her little, wild Arya couldn't keep up with Robb's tales of his fostering with the Lockes, Nor did Robb himself continue any longer, slowly halting his murmurs of Old Castle and his foster brothers. Ashara had half-hoped her firstborn would keep talking; It had been so long since she heard his voice. But besides the creaking and buzzing of the flies and crickets around her, it only added more to her headache.

Rickon miraculously quietened in her lap, and Ashara smugly quirked an eyebrow at her husband. Her victory was short-lived, however, for Rickon began squirming and snoring louder once the iron chains of the lowering drawbridge rattled.

She looked ahead to the scarcely visible silhouette of Moat Cailin. In the darkness, she could only discern the main tower, which was used as their main keep, and the shorter one that remained under construction to the left. Joists of wood braced the outside of that building. Ashara sighed, she would have to keep an eye on Arthur, lest he decides to start climbing them again. 

No sooner did they finally pass the moat and the first walls, then the second ones, and unto the courtyard. It was strangely empty, with only a few torches lighting the place and barely any servants or maids present to welcome them.

It felt surreal, like the first time she had been here, when the floors looked ready to fall apart, or the second time, where it barely looked any better, or the last time, when it was finally deemed suitable enough to be inhabited. The walls changed, but that eerie feeling never did.

The air around held a faint smell of rain, and the first few droplets landed coldly on Rickon's dark hair. He almost wailed again, but Robb took him from her arms and shushed him quickly, muttering about tucking his brother in himself.

Ashara smiled at her eldest, cupping his face and bidding him good night. She thought Ned was laughing at such a turn of events, but when she turned around, she only saw his back as he walked beside Ulfric Poole. He was already discussing the records and news that arrived when he was away while leaving her to take care of their luggage and their children.

Pouting at her husband's carelessness, Ashara strode to the keep's door away from the falling drizzle. She called out orders to the various servants; Forrin was to take the wolves to the kennels before they brought mud and fur inside, Marva was to ensure Arya was dressed and ready to sleep, and Ledya, her only dornish companion, was to get her a cup of much-needed dreamwine.

Finally, she called out to Sansa, who was frightened awake by the storm, "Your sister is to be your bedmaid beside Jeyne, it's colder here than in Winterfell." While the fortress did indeed lay in a warmer area, it still lacked the heated walls only Winterfell could offer.

Satisfied with her daughter's somewhat reluctant nod, Ashara followed Ser Jory next. He was carrying Arthur up through the spiraling stairs and into his chambers. She thanked the young knight when he placed him gingerly on the bed and went to fix her boy's covers herself.

His eyes blinked open. She couldn't help but sigh. "Were you truly sleeping this whole time, or were you simply too lazy to walk up here yourself?"

He pulled the furs to cover half his face. Only his purple eyes peeked out as he answered, "I was asleep."

She huffed. "What did we say about lying, Art?"

"It's no lie, mother. I swear! It's the night terror again, it woke me up just now."

"Which one, sweetling?" She had thought they stopped on the way back from Winterfell, where he would wake up every night and sneak into her and Ned's room.

His voice wavered a little. Perhaps it was the truth, not an excuse to go sleep beside Rickon again. "It was the big direwolf, with white fur and red eyes. It was running at me this time. I think it was afraid."

Ah, that one. The lady frowned, thinking of what comfort her son would need other than the same repeated words. She moved her cup of warm dreamwine to his lips. "It was but a dream, sweetling. We have just returned from Winterfell. Tell me, did you see any albino wolves? Did your uncle Brandon speak of a new litter?"

He shook his head. "No, but Willam said he saw it too. He was the one to tell me all about it first."

"Then maybe Willam only read of it in one of his books or legend tomes. He is fond of scaring his little cousins for a laugh, and that is not good, Art. You have the wolfsblood in your veins. No Stark was ever afraid of their sigil." Different from the one in Winterfell, it may be, but the banners of the moat had direwolves all the same.

Arthur huffed, not even slightly convinced. He turned around and pulled his furs to fully cover his head. "I'm not afraid. Goodnight, mother."

Ashara winced at his dismissal. Once, she could have excused his rudeness for exhaustion, but he was well over eight years now. His cousins' wild influence was starting to corrupt him. She would have to speak with Barbrey the next time she saw her.

Finally, Ashara reached her husband's chambers, flopping immediately on her side of the bed. Too much pain in her muscles kept her from sleeping, even with all the dreamwine she had just drunk. 

"Welcome home, lord husband," she mumbled, and he hummed in return. She was envious of how little tired he seemed, sitting with his back against the board and assessing some papers. "Couldn't that wait till morn?"

He blew his candle off, sliding further into the bed. "It shouldn't wait any longer. Lord Fenn has been waiting for a response for a month and a half already."

Yet he didn't pay his respects at Lord Rickard's funeral. Only four or five of the crannogmen had. "He seems like another shy frog-eater, why don't you draw him out from his bog?"

Ned certainly didn't consider her words to be a jest. "Don't be so cruel, Asha. It's enough all the men he sent to rebuild the moat. I was thinking I could foster Arthur with him or Lord Reed. They s-"

"Absolutely not," Ashara felt a pang in her heart at just the thought of that. "Arthur is better off in the company of a capable Ser. Robb could marry Lord Reed's daughter if that's what you want for your crannog-relations."

"Arthur is too young to be a squire and Lady Meera is sooner or later the heir to Greywater Watch. Kindly spare us a succession crisis in Moat Cailin just after we rebuilt it, presuming Lord Howland wouldn't rather have a crannogman consorting his daughter." Judging by his tone, he was uncharacteristically not-so-patient with her.

She scoffed. Crannogmen were his people, aye, but why would any bannerman refuse the nephew of his overlord as a goodson? "No matter. Arthur could be a page for now. I'm sure my sister would be delighted if I made such an offer."

"Ash, I told you before and I'm telling you again, I'm not sending my children to foster away." His voice was tired now, she almost felt bad for him.

"You sent Robb! And you almost agreed to send Arya!"

"Robb is with the Lockes because the Lockes are my cousins, and they are not too far away. As for Arya, what use would that be? Benjen and his children live in Bear Island as much as they live in Winterfell."

Ashara frowned. That wasn't the reason he refused that fostering; it was for fear of his daughter sharing the same fate as his sister. Ashara often wondered if it was Rickard who had actually made that decision. Is that why he refused Sansa's fostering as well? That didn't make much sense; Sunspear is much safer than the entire North could ever be.

She turned around, too tired to argue any longer. She felt his body shift in turn, leaning away from her. She pulled the covers above her to her side, and he snatched them to his end. They both ended up fighting over their furs like children.

His father just died, you dolt, a voice in her head whispered. She let go of the covers immediately, almost sending them flying out of the other edge. Ashara couldn't giggle over it like she would have usually done, but her pride stopped her from apologizing.

Her hips were burning, her back was stiff, and her head felt like it was hammered from the inside. She almost felt like crying; this was not how she imagined her life to be.

Had she made the right decision, when she allowed Elia to send her to the North?

"Only until Rhaegar sits the throne," the queen had said, but it had been fourteen years since. Neither Elia, nor Lord Arryn, nor Lord Manderly found a place for Ned at court.

Ashara missed her brother and Elia and all the other ladies. She missed Starfall and the southern court with all the gossip and mummers and singers. She missed the sweet, soft weather with an abundance of sunlight and all the flowers in the gardens of Dragonstone. She missed her old wardrobe, when she didn't have to worry about the expenses of dyeing her gowns a rich violet or buying more jewelry.

For years, she assured herself that sweet, quiet Ned was worth it. Sure, he never grinned or whistled at her, nor did he ever gape at her bosom or her rump like most other men, —and for that, he gained her favor instantly— but he still lacked the charm of his elder brother, and the beauty of Prince Rhaegar, and even the glamor of young Ser Jaime.

No. Ned was honorable and shy, but he was never exciting. If anything, it was Robb who kept her in the North, and Sansa rooted her place after him. When her little Arthur was born, that was when Ashara began to forget about the South.

It was these little moments, though, that came at the end of the day as she was falling asleep, where she couldn't stop thinking about what could have been. Those thoughts filled her mind now, forming a headache before slowly, finally, fading into oblivion.

When she woke up, it was to every inch of her back cramping. She could feel the sunlight burning her eyes before she opened them.

Grunting, she stood and dressed for the day. Her family must have broken their fast already, so she ordered a few dishes to be delivered to her on the balcony. She sat opposite Sansa and Ledya, smiling at the new cloth her daughter was stitching and keeping an eye on Rickon, who was trying to mimic his sister only to get most of the threads tangled.

Ashara had barely taken her first bite when Ledya left Sansa's side to join her. A kind smile was donned on her mischievous face. "Sweet dreams?"

Ashara hummed. She was never much of a dreamer, but the mention of it made her think about Arthur. She could see him practicing his archery down in the yard, with Robb by his side and Arya madly teasing him with her better aim. He seemed too drowsy, as if he hadn't slept at all. She knew how hard it must be; her own back felt like hounds were nipping at it.

Ledya suddenly cleared her throat. "If your mind is still buzzing from yesterday, my lady, mayhaps this could wait?" She held out a folded letter with a three-headed dragon. The red wax in it was mixed with Martell orange. 

Only Elia would do that, Ashara thought, grabbing the paper, breaking the sigil, and telling Ledya to watch Rickon. Her maid looked at her strangely for a minute, then immediately obeyed, not before placing another parchment beside the plates, that one sealed with a golden lion.

Ashara read the first part before fully flattening the paper. It was filled with the regular news and greetings; how Oberyn fared in his travels, a new round of gossip from her ladies, and even one or two recent tales of Aegon's shenanigans.

The other part surprisingly spoke of the upcoming Lannister tourney, where Elia insisted on Ashara's presence alongside her family. The queen specifically requested Sansa thrice; the first was to be a handmaiden to Queen mother Rhaella, the second was for Sansa and her siblings to befriend Aegon, and the third was a prayer for the little north-star to be named queen of love and beauty.

Had the letter been read by anyone else, it would have seemed like a peculiar courtesy between old friends, but Ashara knew better. Prince Aegon had passed his ten and sixth nameday a few months ago; it was about time Elia found a wife for him, and who would the sun turn to if not her trusted star?

Her heart almost burst out of her chest. She looked up at Sansa, her sweet girl was humming a song while perfecting another pattern. Ashara could see a queen in her. She always had. Her black hair would be adorned with gemstones as purple as her eyes. Her gowns would be of all colors, her plates filled with all delicacies. A flock of ladies would serve her every whim, and Arthur would be her Kingsguard.

It was perfect, so perfect that Ashara forgot about her pain and hunger. The Lannister's missive lay discarded, but it didn't matter much. She stood up, wondering where to find her husband.

The Godswood, most likely. He hadn't stopped praying for his father since the old man died. That didn't surprise her; Ned was just like that, taking his grief to the heart and never showing it, pretending he was alright with some kind smiles through his permanently serious expression.

She was almost dancing as she walked along the sacred path. She knew she had to control herself; it was unbecoming of a lady to disrespect the Gods. Her Gods were different, though, and in Dorne, dancing was nearly sacred as well. But not the North, where maids and smallfolk eyed her as an outsider. A sweet, gorgeous one, but an outsider all the same.

The Godswood looked too different from the one in Winterfell, or even the one in her home, Starfall. The stem of the weirwood was slightly narrower, with few black cracks in its white balk. The face engraved in its middle was set to an angry snarl, and the leaves were a pure scarlet without a trace of orange. Ned's direwolf, Valor, sat atop the large, moss-covered roots, growling as he cracked a fresh bone from the kitchens.

Ashara was truly glad she found her husband here. The scenery might be daunting, but she preferred it to his dull solar, where all the distasteful paperwork went.

Her boots crunched the carpet of fallen leaves as she headed to his praying form. It was rude to interrupt, but in her ecstasy, she couldn't bring herself to wait. She cleared her throat to gain his attention and winced at his surprised look. "Ned. I think you should see this, a royal letter arrived."

He stood up hesitantly, then took the paper from her hand. His eyes skimmed over the words before he sighed in relief. Did he expect a declaration of war? Surely she didn't startle him that bad.

"A letter from your friend, the queen? She wants to see you in Casterly Rock?" He shrugged, returning the letter to her twirling hands. "I'm sure she missed you, Asha, but I don't think there is much to fuss about."

"Yes and no. You see this?" She pointed to the last paragraph, waiting for him to decipher Elia's crammed handwriting. "Elia keeps mentioning Sansa. Here it says our children could befriend her son, and here it says Sansa could be the queen of love and beauty! Don't you see it? She's thinking of betrothing Prince Aegon and Sansa!"

He looked at her in disbelief. "I think if her grace wished for that to happen, then there would have been a way more formal phrasing."

"Oh, she's not addressing the court, she's writing to me. And I also think that's because it's not yet official. Either way, I know Elia, my love, and that's the idea roaming her head at the moment."

He eyed her with more doubt. Even worse, he looked rather distrustful. "Or perhaps you think of fostering the children away again?"

Oh, not this again. "What is your problem with the South, truly? First Sansa, then Arthur, then this!" She couldn't even leave for Lord Tyrell's tourney; he claimed that traveling wouldn't be recommended so soon after she gave birth. 

"I don't have a problem. I was fostered in the South, my friends are in the South, I-I met you in the South." And that is why Ned was his father's favorite, so it couldn't be Rickard's spirit that was vexing this situation. The old man would have been delighted to wed his granddaughter to a prince. Ned surely was as well, she was certain of it.

"Then why wouldn't you let our children have something bigger there, something bigger than this?" His expression turned from angry to pained. She immediately regretted her cruel words. "I'm sorry, love. But would you please consider it? Let us all go south, it would make the children very happy. You could even meet Robert and Lord Arryn, they wouldn't miss such event."

That got to him, she could see it. If only she didn't find him in such a foul mood.

Silence, then a huff. "Very well."

Chapter Text

 Barbrey II. Winterfell. May 26th, 298 AAC.

Twin wolves called out to their masters with barks and howls, nonstop since the first rays of sunlight dawned through the shutters of Lady Stark's chambers.

Inside, Barbrey tossed and turned, careful of the sniffling boy between her arms even in her sleep. His wolf joined the chorus of the kennels, and warm drool seeping through her nightgown and onto her shoulder was the final straw for her to wake.

The first thing she did was rest her palm against her son's forehead. A little damp and pale, but most importantly cool. His hacking coughs ceased sometime through the night, leaving his chest to rise and fall in a healthy rhythm. Barbrey gasped in relief, her hands brushing his matted hair.

Sleep was still clinging to his beady eyes as they slowly blinked open, focusing on her and around. "Ma? Is it over?"

"You tell me. How do you feel?" She checked the heat on his neck and cheeks. Flushed, but not as hellish as the past day. "Is your chest still itching? And your nose, is it still running?"

"No," he slurred, just as a bubble of snot exploded above his mouth. Barbrey wiped it off with the hem of her sleeve. "I'm fine, mother. I'm not that sickly."

As if he already forgot the sizzling sound whenever a wet cloth met his forehead. Barbrey traced the gray stains on the pillows, yet to dry. "Thank the Gods. You'll be up and about before you even know it."

"Then can I go play with Nara and Sara today?"

"Too eager already?" Granted, his twin cousins had given more care in visiting him than either his brothers, even placing weirwood leaves before the threshold while Ida kept behind, yet they were the ones to tangle him into this mess in the first place. Them and that Umber girl, whose sickness was still catching. "No, you still need to keep warm. Tomorrow, I'll think of it."

Torrhen made a retching sound, unprompted by his illness. "I said I wash that sickly, mother! Even Rodrik had it way worse and he's still a babe. No one made him stay abed for a week."

Ignoring his petulant whining, Barbrey stood and went to order a bath and some broth. Her son tried to slip from her bed and waddle away, huddled in enough furs to make him look more of a bear cub than a boy.

Blocking the doorway, Barbrey hoisted his light weight and sat him back on the bed, glaring at him should he attempt another escape.

Rodrik had let his mother take care of him, at least. Whenever would Torrhen relent? Since when was the age of ten too old for a mother's embrace, anyway? Cregan had clung to her skirts for longer than that, even under the strict scrutiny of Rickard the sorrow.

After much fussing and whining, her son's vigor left him for another round of dreamless slumber, just as two maids filled her tub with steaming water from the kitchens, barely lukewarm by the time she stripped to slide in. She fiddled with her hair next, chestnut curls that clung to her neck with sweat from two days past.

Between her fingers, a single gray hair stood out, not the first she had seen. She stared at it until all the wolves quietened.

"They grow from grief." She remembered her mother once saying.

What did Barbrey ever have to grieve for? The freedom of her childhood, when she rode horses and flirted with whom she liked for how long she had wanted? Or the love she held Brandon, slowly ebbing every time one of his old whores came begging to fend for his bastards? Only recently did she find out about a Dyanna Snow, born a few weeks after their Willam.

Oh, how she raged and wept after the girl's mother threw herself at Brandon's feet, more so when he denied her no stock nor silver. No tramp ever dared to trespass on Winterfell while Rickard was still the Lord.

If they didn't need Brandon's help before, why would he allow them to shame her now?

In front of her ladies, no less. All those perfect women, half of them maidens still. It was almost a penance for her envy.

Her sister, Bethany, was cherished by her Lord Dustin. Jorelle Crewyn never lacked roses in her braids from her betrothed. Jorelle Mormont was all too jolly and sweet with a guard who lacked a decent name. Lady Alysanne, who had all but married a commoner, was never seen without a smile. Even Dacey and her husband, who had yearned for a black cloak over a wife, found mutual respect and understanding.

He never dishonored her, either. None of them have.

Yet none of them rule the North.

At the very least, Brandon had given her some power. She would always admit that. Though he asked little of her presence in lordly matters, he still valued her opinion more than his father ever did. The late lord had only ever assigned her to womanly affairs and horse breeding programs.

"Stable duty and dramatics," Alysanne had called them.

Barbrey scoffed. She once thought the old wolf would see his lost daughter in her, but his actions never belonged to that of a loving father. All he ever saw was lost opportunities, a useless dowry, and doomed pride, no matter how many heirs and spares she had given.

Or was all this grief simply for the two girls she lost in the birthing bed, the memory of them corrupting her day whenever she thought she had moved on? Was that the same grief that turned her goodfather against her? Was that what made her husband forget his vows?

Little rings rippled through water that had long gone cold. Strange, Barbrey did not realize she was crying. She blinked the rest of her tears away, scrubbing her creamy skin raw with scented fat. A sharp razor swept down her legs and beneath her arms.

Let Brandon have what he wants, she would forgive his slights. She would deny him her bed no more, and she would birth another daughter of Winterfell. One that she won't fail as Rickard has.

Lady Stark dressed in white and gray only. Silver wolf heads dangled above her breast. She sighed in relief when she heard someone knocking. Finally, some maids remembered to serve her the broth she requested.

When she opened the doors, she found her husband's hulking figure instead. To her frustration, not a single strand of gray interrupted his sea of dark hair, more black than brown in the hallway's dimmed light. His cropped beard was the same color, thankfully dry from any ale or wine.

"Good morning, Lord husband."

"Good morning, Berry," he replied. He seemed confused by her change, almost hurtful in his disbelief. A beat passed and he looked beyond her, to where Torrhen lay asleep. "How's he? Did his fever break yet?"

"Yes, he's all well, now." Barbrey stepped aside to let him in. Brandon walked past her, lifting their son as gently as one would carry a babe. "Perhaps, if you wait two more days, he could even join you."

"To the tourney? Ah, so you've relented after all." Nonchalant, he headed to Torrhen's rooms. She followed him, basking in the way servants would bow just a little lower.

"He wasn't hale enough to travel before."

"And now, you think a gentle Southern breeze might be kinder to his lungs?" Brandon turned to her, a teasing smile on his face. "Or do you just want to go to Lannisport yourself?"

Hardly, her son deserved to have his own promises fulfilled. Although, the thought of Brandon going to Lannisport alone was indeed distasteful; while northern whores were manageable, Barbrey had no control over the dainty, simpering women of the South.

He stayed true to me when his father sent him to Harrenhal, among the likes of Cersei Lannister and Ashara Dayne . Surely he wouldn't stray now, as long as she glued herself to his side.

"So what? We could all go! Cregan would do well to learn of his peers. Ida, oh, it would be very sweet for her to come." Her daughter was only three years Prince Rhaegal's senior. She could be Princess consort of Summerhall, one day, far-fetched as it may be.

They reached Torrhen's room, their son clinging absently to Brandon's neck as he was lowered to his bed. The Lord of Winterfell grumbled. "What of Willam, then? You'll forget his punishment so quickly?"

Barbrey didn't see a problem with that. True, her little scholar was adamant in showing his disapproval for Maester Luwin's replacement, evading his lessons when he could, and when he couldn't, he terrorized the new maester with any sort of languages, questions, and behaviors the gray rat was either ignorant of or repulsive to.

But while she found entertainment in those actions, Brandon only found disrespect. He opted to teach Willam a lesson before Maester Yonas was tempted enough to poison their children.

Barbrey could not hide her disappointment; a more fitting punishment was to have Willam clean the dust and cobwebs that filled half the library than forbid him any activities. Her husband shouldn't have sided with the gray rat, either. It was bad enough how many times they failed her.

From Walys, attempting to have a southerner usurp her place, to Luwin, who failed her to her stillborns. Failed Torrhen to his fevers, Rodrik to his stutter, and Lord Rickard to his frail bones and poppy milk.

Her son seemed to be the only one who thought the same. Would it be that they had more in common, even his face looked all Stark.

"Willam hates melees and jousts and anything to do with polished armor and horses, anyway. He's old enough to stay alone for a few weeks."

Brandon eyed her warily for the second time that day. "I do not know you to let one of your children out of your sight."

Barbrey shrugged. "If you weren't so intent on going, I wouldn't have had to make this choice." The harvest festival would be soon after, as well. She'd have little time to prepare for it.

"Well, I don't have much choice, do I? Not when the Lannisters sent a bloody messenger to every great House." Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose. "It would be perceived as an insult if House Stark was the only one absent, especially with the Targaryens involved."

A messenger and two ravens, the proud lion only meant to flaunt his gold and his grandson's bride. "Even so, no one bat an eye when we didn't attend the Tyrell Tourney, or Princess Rhaenys' wedding, or the tenth anniversary of King Rhaegar's reign."

"Or Prince Viserys' wedding, or Prince Rhaegal's nameday feast, or Prince Aegon's coming of age tourney. You see, Berry? This is exactly why I have to go now. Not to mention, I have to swear my oaths before the King, and I'd rather do that in Lannisport than shit-landing. For my father, too. He loved the South. Once."

Between them, Torrhen mumbled and twisted under his pelts. Brandon ruffled his head, leaning low to place a kiss on his temple.

They left the room side by side. Silent, if not for Barbrey's stomach rumbling beneath the many layers she wore. Brandon trailed behind her like a lost a pup, opening and closing his mouth, searching for the right words. She couldn't blame him; she knew how hard it was to say 'sorry' firsthand.

Barbrey sighed. "Are you going to hold court, today? It's getting late."

"No, not today. Just grain records for now," he stammered. "Maybe tomorrow, and you could... join me? Some petitioners are women and I have no thoughts of how to aid them."

Of course you do . Barbrey could see how frustrated he was when she chuckled. "I did not spend all this time dressing for a farmer complaining about a dead donkey for two hours."

"Then who? Who did you dress for?"

You , but she couldn't say that. Not yet.

When the silence stretched between them again, Brandon grabbed her arm, almost too roughly. "Enough with your games. I'm sorry. Is that what you want to hear? I could not stop myself."

"Stop yourself? I was beside you all the time. You swore to share your desires with me, and only me. How many others are out there? Do you even know?" She reveled at the shame coloring his face. Her voice grew louder; she would teach him how it feels. 'How many would come begging with sons instead of daughters next time? Whores you've bedded before me?"

"Cregan is my firstborn, I promise you."

Barbrey laughed bitterly. "Promise? Do you think that means anything to me?"

Scurrying footsteps ran by. Brandon shoved her to the wall under the shadows, away from peering eyes. "What of you then? Do you truly believe yourself to be the epitome of virtue? Open your eyes, wife. No one here believes Cregan to be a premature babe."

"You dare?" She felt the urge to slap him, but the fury in his eyes was a beast she wished no quarrel with. "I was your companion! Your solace! You, who used my compassion and my love to-"

"Oh, your love. Was that for me, then, or for the title you have now?"

Her hand moved before she could stop herself. For a brief while, everything went quiet.

Barbrey curled on herself, bricks of granite harsh and cold to her back. She waited for him to either retaliate, or hopefully, storm away.

"I'm sorry," was all he said. He repeated it in a whisper. Barbrey found herself saying the same.

Maids passed nearby, their eyes widening and their pace quickening once they take notice of the couple. Barbrey would not hear the end of it. "I'm tired, Bran. I'm tired of this cycle. I'm tired of making scenes. I'm tired of you pleasing me as if I'm a child. All I ask is that you change. Can you do that for me? Change?"

He cupped her face hesitantly. breathing in her fresh smell of basil and gooseberries. "I love you, Berry. Is that not enough?"

Love could not change a man's nature. Was she a fool to believe otherwise? She knew who she married, at the very least. By what right did she complain?

Though, she did know him to change, once. When he ruled in his father's place with stoic wisdom and when he kept from ale for months at a time. But that was only after he tasted war beyond the wall.

A scar ran from the back of his shoulder to the base of his neck from his fight with the wildling Craster. Half the North thought he would die, but she never lost hope. She knew he would come back to her, always.

The scar was hidden beneath fox fur tailored on his woven cloak, on the same side as the red mark printed on his cheek. Barbrey rubbed the bruise with cold digits, softly, slowly, as if she was putting one of her children to sleep. Brandon leaned forward, his nose almost brushing her jaw. She let him kiss her, once, twice, but she still had her pride, and she feared the thought of one of her children seeing them like that.

Brandon's confused look was almost comical when she pushed him off. "I haven't broken my fast yet."

Her tone was just teasing enough to leave him wanting. He huffed, then smiled, then offered his arm to escort her to the kitchens. As gentle as his rogue nature could allow.

The Lord of Winterfell walked beside her all the way. He berated the maids who failed to serve her food before, and sat after her at the high table. They feasted together on honey and bacon and hard-boiled eggs. even some venison that belonged to the lunch course.

Brandon listened to all her suggestions as they spoke, from fostering Cley Crewyn, Oma Umber, and Domeric, to naming her cousin, Mark, the new master of guards, seeing that both Jory and Martyn were sent to Moat Cailin.

At last, Barbrey felt calm. She knew she missed that feeling more than he ever did. The knowledge of being irreplaceable. The power of it. She was not just some good cunt who got lucky. She was the Lady of Winterfell, chosen by her lord against all odds.

Another round was brought, and when that too was finished, Brandon held his hand out, pulling her to her feet. "There is one last thing I wanted to ask your opinion of."

Curious, Barbrey allowed him to escort her around the keep once more. She thought he'd lead her to his chambers, but he had the sense to give it some time.

They didn't speak until they ventured outside, her head hiding behind his shoulder in a feeble attempt to evade the blinding sunlight, way brighter than it should be in such autumns.

Her eyes soon adjusted to the chaos; little boys carrying water to the armory, younger girls fumbling with hay baskets and dung buckets. The noise was just as violent, shrieks, thuds, and grunts wrestling for her attention from the training yard they walked by.

Barbrey recognized one voice amidst it all. She stopped in her tracks, watching how her eldest son swiftly disarmed one of his opponents. Cregan stood as strong and handsome and tall as his father, live steel in his hand and sweat glistening on his neck.

She couldn't believe he was ten and six already, even with the whiskers growing beside his ears and on his chin. It felt like yesterday when Lord Rickard took him from her arms, smiling for the first time since he was widowed.

Beside Cregan was Benjen, loudly correcting any mistakes her son made. Dacey stood across with her daughters beside her. The hazel eyes, heart-shaped lips, and round face framed by mousy waves were identical between them.

The she-bear caught her eye, smirking slightly as she saw Brandon beside her. Barbrey scoffed, as if her goodsister had any right to judge her. Didn't it take a rebellion for Benjen to accept the role of a husband? The twins were most likely sired on Pyke itself.

Brandon tugged her sleeve to keep her moving, her riding boots crunching the slush on the ground. Finally, they reached the kennels, or rather the recent attachment built to accommodate the massive size of direwolves.

Little pups yelped and barked at her with pink tongues lolling out, while the elder ones simply ruffled their tails.

Barbrey could identify most of them easily enough; the ginger pair that belonged to Lynara and Lysara, the green-eyed one that followed Torrhen, and the largest, a gray and white beast that Cregan raised himself.

Honeybee, Primrose, Clovers, and Iceheart, if she remembered correctly.

"Figured you've been busy with Torrhen for a while, so here's a recap," Brandon picked the smallest of the recent litter. A black and white one, still nibbling on minced meat. "This is the one Ida bonded to, but she still couldn't figure out a name. So yesterday, she came to me for help. Do you want to guess?"

Brandon's own wolf trotted in, sniffing and licking her elbow fondly. Barbrey focused more on scratching its head; her mind remained blank to any suggestions.

Eventually, Brandon's short patience ran out. "Berries," he said.

Barbrey raised an eyebrow. "Berries?"

He nodded his head in earnest. "After you, Berry. Ida loved it, too."

That was a sweet gesture, her daughter's wolf named after her nickname. Though it was far from special, it still warmed Barbrey's heart. Perhaps it was just how silly and excited he was, so unlike the stiffness she expected.

Brandon's shoulder pumped into hers, swaying her like in the days of their youth. "Do you like it?"

Barbrey smiled. "Almost. Isn't it a little too sweet for a direwolf?"

"Oh, please. It's still better than Honeybee, Primrose, or Clovers. By the Gods, it's names like these that made us lose our wolves the first time."

Chuckling, Barbrey leaned forward to kiss him. "Oh, but Theon is so much better? You were seventeen when you got your pet, not a boy fond of fantasies." Even Eddard chose a finer name in Valor, unoriginal as that was.

A better name belonged to Spirit, Benjen's blue-eyed, white-furred, she-wolf. And the best name belonged to Danny, the old bitch old Rickard had taken to, with its golden eyes and onyx fur. Some northmen claimed that the beast held the soul of its namesake, Dany Flint, for how intelligent it was. Others thought it was the lost daughter, how she made her way south beside her father after all.

"The hungry wolf was a hero! Not only did he bash the Andals and the Ironborn, but the wildlings, too." His smile fell once those words left his mouth. The wildlings, once again. Their new king. Their recent attacks. This never-ending grief. The shadow of a girl, hunting the living for twice the years she had lived.

Perhaps it was best to change the topic, but she was too curious. His last meeting with the Night's brothers had passed without her involvement, after all. "I was meaning to ask you, what did Lord Jear write about that worked you up so much?"

Theon snarled into her hair, sending gooseprickles up her spine. She was grateful Danny was still in the Godswood. Better yet if it followed its master. The direwolves were thrice the size of a grown, normal one. Apparently, they had thrice the lifespan as well.

"What do you think? He wants more wood and wool, said the trade was off with the wildling villages after they joined that king." With his tone changing drastically, little Berries whimpered until Brandon returned her to its pack.

"The Night's Watch always asks for more. What's the matter? Don't we have any to spare?"

"It's not that, Berry. It's that fucker beyond the wall. He's building a damn army."

Nervous, Barbrey moved to comfort him. her hand rubbed circles on his shoulder, almost to where his scar was "You do not know that. Not for sure."

"A blind man could see it! Worse yet, he's a deserter, he knows the weaknesses of the Wall well enough. But that's not all. You see, something else is happening out there. Something strange, not involving the wildlings. Rangers disappearing near the ice rivers, patrols vanishing at the bridge of skulls."

"Could be animals or snowstorms or mishaps. Maybe desertions, too. Gods, the ironborn are a damn headache. Surely they would run off at any turn." Brandon held executions almost twice every three months, the highest that record has ever been.

"Perhaps, though it's going on for too long. True, no one of importance disappeared just yet, but the old man is getting worried. He's planning to go all out. A great ranging, he called it. Problem is, with Mance Fucker out there, the Wall could be attacked if he left." Brandon spat on the ground. On the wolves, actually. The poor things whined and nuzzled Brandon's knees.

"So… what? He's asking for men?"

Brandon sighed. His silence was almost more chilling than his words.

Barbrey thought about it some more, then she gasped. "He wants you to go?"

"A small garrison is all he asked, but we know what that will amount to. I've managed to keep him waiting. Said I'll tell the king about it in the tourney and he'll just have to wait until come back."

No. She won't have it. He almost died the first time. And if he leaves, Cregan is likely to accompany him.

Fuming, Barbrey strode outside. Brandon jogged after her in a semi-chase. "I didn't mean to say that to upset you, love, but this is what you should expect."

"Expect? You marching to face an army beside ironborn and rapists? Have you forgotten everything your father taught you already?"

"I know you fret over me, Berry, and I love you for that." He ignored her scoffing. "But it's still far from coming to actual war. That's why he wants to end this quickly. We've given them too much leeway before."

Huffing, Barbrey curtly bowed her head as he kissed her forehead. She was far from satisfied.

No, she would make a plan. Would it be that she could write the Lord Commander herself.

She paused when Brandon took his leave to carry on with his other duties, her eyes widening with an idea. 'Dacey," she mouthed.

Dacey could write to the Lord Commander all day long. He was her uncle, after all, and the closest thing she had to a father.

Dacey, whose husband was more lenient to the Night's Watch than any other Stark she knew. Dacey, who recently told her neither Benjen nor her would go to Lannisport. Dacey, who had asked Brandon to take Rodrik with him, hoping the little boy would talk more if a more experienced –southern– maester looked at him.

But it wasn't Dacey who truly mattered, it was Benjen. The vigilant wolf would never refuse to aid the Wall.

Barbrey had wanted him to look after Willam, if she was truly going South with her husband. She planned to ask him to take her boy on a hunt or a ride or anything a thirteen-year-old could do besides reading, and in exchange, she would take his children South to watch the tourney.

Now, she would ask him to go instead of Brandon, too. Or alongside him, at least.

Yes. If Benjen loved the far North that much, then he was the one ought to go. Dacey would hate her for it, she knew. Winterfell witnessed enough yelling from both of them on the subject, but it was Barbrey's heart that withstood more frights.

Barbrey deserved calm. She deserved to have her loved ones safe. Whatever the price was.

Chapter Text

Elia II. May 28, 298. The Red Keep.

"– ago they sided beside each other against Volantis."

"Yet they fought each other far more times, using the same company no less."

"Aye, but to have another slave army as well hasn't happened for years!"

"I agree with my lord hand, it can't be the Tyroshi who bought them. What use would they gain when the –"

"That's enough, my lords." Though Rhaegar's voice was soft, every lord in the council chamber quietened. Elia sat straighter in her chair, no longer fiddling with the tablecloth to keep herself entertained. "Until Lord Lonmouth updates us with the state of Myr and the golden company, I don't see how arguing over this would benefit us. Now, what else are we to discuss?"

The answer came from the Grandmaester, Pycelle, who placed a letter before the king. "This is from Lord Harlaw of the iron islands, your grace. He is asking for Lord Theon Greyjoy to be returned."

"Again, already?" The wise voice of Lord Arryn spoke, not that Elia could see him from behind Lord Manderly. "Did he mention a reason for such persistence, or is it like the last four times?"

Sitting opposite the queen, Lord Connington snorted. "And here I thought I'd never see an uncle begging to give his power to his nephew."

While the other lords chuckled at the hand's attempt at a jape, Lord Redwyne replied, "Oh, those pirates would never admit it. They have their own wicked ways. Surely Lord Harlaw intends to pass them on, which is the reason why the boy should stay in Storm's End! I pity Lord Robert, but a future warden should not take his lessons from rapists and thieves."

"I fear the young Greyjoy already is a rapist. Isn't that why we refused the first request?" the spymaster recalled one of his earliest whispers. "As for Lord Robert, I do not think he is the correct influence to fixing such nature."

Before the master of laws could defend his former ward's name, Rhaegar curtly addressed his former squire, "My cousin is many things, Lord Richard, a rapist is not one of them. Furthermore, my first reply to the Lord Regent was that his nephew could return once he was deemed ready. What do your spies whisper from the Stormlands, my lord? Is he ready?"

All eyes on him, the Stormlander stumbled through his answer. He blushed more and more as the King continued, "I see that he is not."

Elia pitied the younger man. He had only joined the small council recently, already forced to establish a spy network of his own, seeing that his predecessor was more invested in rooting out the spider's little birds.

The memory of Varys had the queen grinding her teeth; the eunuch ran back to the eastern hellhole he spawned from after Rhaegar won the battle of the Rolling Ford, sending Aerys into an ungodly spiral of madness; hundreds of wildfire potions were stashed beneath the red keep, enough to burn the whole city.

Queen Rhaella and Ser Jaime were the ones to uncover that disaster, although their heroics remained uncredited. Panic in the hearts of half-a-million smallfolk and noblemen was the last thing Rhaegar needed, especially at the rocky start of his reign.

A raspy cough almost deafened her left ear. Lord Manderly wiped his mouth before continuing his argument, "What use would the whole fostering be if none of the ironborn would follow him? The pirates rising against the squids might sound sweet, but we'd still be the ones leaving our homes to stomp them."

While some of the lords agreed and others disagreed, Rhaegar only drummed his fingers against his thigh, humming a new tune. Elia wondered how long it would take him to stop his advisers from bickering the way he'd had enough of their talks of Essos.

She leaned towards him, whispering, "Will you kindly refrain from dragging this meeting any longer? We're leaving in mere hours, Rhaegar, and the lords need to rest before they travel."

A change of clothes and some food as well, Gods knew Elia needed that herself. It was a wonder Rhaegar had called a meeting in the first place.

The king looked at her though he didn't reply. Another secret was on his mind, she knew.

With a sigh, the queen addressed the council for the first time that morning. "My lords. Lord Baratheon wouldn't possibly waste the opportunity of joining us in Lannisport. I'm sure we could ask for his much-needed opinion of Lord Greyjoy then, to find out whether he's ready or not."

Save for the begrudging master of ships and the grandmaester, all the lords began nodding. Peculiarly, it was Jon Connington who agreed with her the most. He even smiled at her involvement, gentle dimples appearing beneath the wisps of his red beard.

Elia's eyes narrowed. The Lord Hand often tried to ignore her as much as she ignored him. And why wouldn't she? His attempts at apologizing for slipping his cousin into Rhaegar's bed were telling her how necessary it was. It didn't take long for him to resent her stubborn disbelief.

Did he think she relented just because she took Visenya as her lady? Or was it because she was spending more time in her husband's quarters?

Or did Rhaegar tell him of the Stark betrothal and their pact?

Whatever reason it was, she could already feel the amusement of his impending disappointment. He was raised amidst marcher lords, after all, and she in the arms of a dornish princess.

The near-marcher lord dismissed the previous discussion with a wave of his hand. "On to the next matter, Lord Manderly, you've noted that the levies from the Valemen on their smallfolk increased?"

"Indeed, but only because the merchants have raised their prices first. They insist it's because the trade with the east is too expensive, but again, that's mostly because of Tyrosh and the Stepstones."

"As if they were the only ones trading! Neither the Stormlands nor King's Landing raised their prices," Lord Redwyne argued, "and I know the Reach hasn't. Do they plan to raise their prices on us next?"

Lord Arryn opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by repeated knocking from outside. Ser Barristan opened the doors to reveal another kingsguard, Ser Lewyn, who announced the arrival of Prince Viserys.

Confused, Elia's eyes darted between Rhaegar, her uncle, and the doorway until the lanky figure of her goodbrother stepped in. He held a strange chest with both hands, not even bothering to bid entry.

If it weren't for her squinting and her uncle's introduction, Elia wouldn't have recognized him as Viserys at all. His eyes were downcast, and his silver hair was hidden beneath a hood that also covered the left side of his face, where the black scars were most prominent.

Most importantly, no word ever came of him being inside the city. No word ever came of him leaving Summerhall in the first place. Though that shouldn't have been much of a surprise; the prince preferred loneliness and quiet. Elia watched as he cringed from the lords' hesitant welcome.

The king, however, seemed as if he was the only one expecting him. He calmly stood and embraced his brother, careful of the greyscale marks. The ivory chest lay unbalanced on the smooth table, its unique carvings attracting the eyes of every nobleman and their queen.

"Ah, so you've actually managed to buy it." Rhaegar ran his hand across the lid, opening it just barely to peek inside.

"I haggled," came the shy response. Viserys stood awkwardly behind Rhaegar's right and in front of the curious Lord Connington. His purple eyes glanced upward to catch hers. Elia smiled at him, and he smiled back.

Rhaegar nodded. He turned his attention back to his lords before opening the chest all the way. "Well, I'm certain Lord Manderly would like to discuss the expenses with you."

Inside, a giant egg with light blue scales was nestled above a red pillow. Elia could tell it was heavy from the way Rhaegar took his time picking it.

So that must be the secret on his mind. Elia thought. Yet another dragon egg.

Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, Elia looked on to the other men; Pycelle who was just as uninterested as she was, a staunch believer of the dragons' complete extinction; Lord Arryn, with a frown on his face mirroring that of Lord Redwyne; Ser Barristan and Lord Manderly, straining a smile to show their support; Lord Richard Lonmouth, amazed with the first egg he'd ever seen, likely far from the last.

Finally, her eyes landed on the hand of the king. His bright smile was just as wide as the last time they bought an egg, or the two times before that. One would think it was his arse that might sit a dragon

Would it be that he falls off.

No, that was cruel. The queen did feel some guilt for harboring that much hatred against him. At the end of the day, his heart was more loyal to Rhaegar than even her own, and her son needed such loyalists to advise him. Elia knew non better than Oberyn, Connington, and Viserys.

Viserys, who twitched in annoyance as Rhaegar slipped off his silk gloves to further inspect the egg. The king huffed at a white streak marring the shell and his brother looked rather offended.

"Lord Lonmouth, I'd like you to focus some more on the merchant who sold this to us. He left Volantis to Lorath." Before he could hear Ser Richard's strangled reply, Rhaegar turned to his trusted friend, "Jon, you are to deliver this to the pit masters before we leave. Make sure they settle it well."

"Your grace, if I may," Viserys interrupted in a surprisingly strong voice, lowered immediately after, "I was hoping, that you might grace me with this egg? More dragons hatched in cradles than in pits, brother, and my son is yet to have his own."

Elia wondered if Viserys still enjoyed the hollow silence following his statement. Even Rhaegar looked impressed. His expression was the liveliest his face had been all day.

It was a bold request, but one Elia admitted to making the most sense. The pits have indeed failed them many times. And though a cradle egg never hatched for Aegon, Rhaenys, or Daenerys, a new chance presented itself for Viserys' child.

Children, even. Elia would not be surprised if Ysilla had gotten pregnant again. Mayhaps she already was.

"As far as I heard, little Prince Rhaegal outgrew his cradle, did he not?" The Hand asked. "He should be walking by now. Congratulations, my prince. You must be very proud."

The king's namesake hasn't, in fact. A detail not lost on either Viserys, Elia, or Lord Arryn, who did not appreciate such a low-aimed slight at a young boy's father.

Leaving Lord Jon the falcon to berate Lord Jon the griffin, the Prince of Summerhall slumped his shoulders, taking two steps back. Elia's heart broke for him. It was always easy to pick on the madman's heir, the half-faced prince, Lord Blackraven.

Lord Manderly chimed in, "Forgive me, your grace, but even if the cradle eggs hatched more than in the pits, it's the Prince of Dragonstone who has a priority. This is the natural order of things. I'm sure my prince understands."

"A dragon hatched is not a dragon claimed," Rhaegar reminded both his brother and Lord Manderly, placing the egg back in its velvet nest. He pushed the chest towards her and Ser Barristan, far from both Lord Connington and Viserys.

"And I'd never think of questioning your grace, but should dragon eggs really be sent to Summerhall , of all places?" Paxtor Redwyne asked next. His tone implied more pettiness than caution. Mayhaps Lord Lonmouth didn't notice that, but he nodded his head in agreement.

Lord Arryn attempted to defend the prince once more, with Ser Barristan joining the fray, but as Elia continued fiddling with her tablecloth, now stuck under the crate, any of the words spoken made sense in her mind.

What does it matter if the egg went to Summerhall or Dragonstone or the Red Keep? It was as likely to hatch as Oberyn was to become celibate. Not that the Targaryens would ever stop trying; King Baelon prayed, Prince Aeron drank wildfire, and King Aegon burnt half his family alongside himself.

At least Rhaegar knew better than to repeat certain tragedies. Elia trusted Viserys to know the same.

Judging by his quietness, only Pycelle seemed to share her sentiment. That, or the ancient man was snoozing.

The queen couldn't blame him. She almost envied him instead. Sleep sounded sweet this early in the morning. Too sweet, it was a chance to forget the brewing storm around her. It almost felt like a swim in the water gardens; all the voices and colors blurred together, and a warm, soft numbness was in her head. Elia missed that feeling. She really did.

Blinking rapidly, the queen saw Viserys stride past her, his face hard, his eyes teary. When she looked up at Rhaegar, he looked as guilty as she felt; she should've interfered in his favor.

The council was dismissed shortly after, with a promise to revise the levies and trade once the Royal Family returned from Lannisport. Rhaegar was the first out of his chair and the room, the one to keep the dragon egg after all.

Elia followed him through the corridors, Ser Lewyn and Ser Barristan trailing them. A few of Viserys' entourage bowed their heads as they passed, namely the youngest of the Royce brothers and his squire. Their presence calmed Elia's heart; Viserys was yet to disappear again.

Once they reached the privacy of Rhaegar's quarters, Elia wasted no time in dismissing his servants. Only his page remained, the young Edric Dayne, who began helping his king to a fresh doublet and fitting breeches.

"Viserys will stay to hold the Red Keep in my name. That's the real reason I called him here." Her husband informed her before she could say anything. Fair, she supposed. It was not like Viserys would accompany them to the tourney.

"You still think he'd do so after you embarrassed him?"

Rhaegar shrugged. "I did not embarrass him. He requested the egg. The lords and I refused."

"Refused? Mocked him, more like. He named his son after you. He looks up to you every day, and you won't even stand by his side?"

"I'm not a monster, Elia." He told her in the same dull way she had heard a thousand times before. "And I have stood by his side many times before. He's a man grown, now. A father. I cannot always shelter him from any elbows thrown in his side."

Elia placed her hand on Edric's shoulder, dismissing him as well. "You could have at least asked your friend to leave off him."

"You could have asked him yourself."

"Oh, and he would surely heed my words! But no, he really would, wouldn't he? What did you tell him? Was it about Sansa?" she questioned. Her arms wrapped around him, maneuvering the shirt's silk laces into loose knots.

"No queen is ever chosen on a whim. I merely asked for his opinion," was all he chose to say.

His hypocrisy made her chuckle. "Well, his taste in queens is certainly remarkable."

Rhaegar sighed at her snide remark. His breath tickled her forehead, and she stepped aside. "What do you want, Elia? If you wish to comfort Viserys, he should be in his old chambers. If you wish to scold Jon, you're still his queen."

She was almost tempted to do the former, but other questions roamed her mind. "I want to know why you bought another egg, Rhaegar. How much gold are we meant to spend on that one alone?" It would be years before the crown would begin to consider taking a loan, but it would be years before he passed the throne to their son.

"If we have enough gold to spare on a tourney after a tourney, surely you can forgive me for trying to better our House. Think of the lives that would be spared should a dragon take the mantle of war. Think of the safety it would grant Aegon."

Elia did not bother asking what war he referred to, –The Great War, obviously. Gods help those Northmen facing the endless darkness of legends– Instead, she chuckled again. "Safety? You think our son needs more safety? Well, what of more guidance? What of more time with his father not spent in reading books?"

"No matter what I do," he whispered before looking up at her. "I've done my part teaching him of kingship. And I'll have you know, my queen, that it was our son who came to me speaking of dragon dreams."

Taken aback, Elia let him don his cloak in silence.

Dragon dreams?

Why would Aegon not tell her?

She was indifferent to most things Valyrian, yes, but she still knew the significance of those ancient, ominous visions.

Did Rhaenys have them, too?

With the same hum from earlier, Rhaegar took her hand in his. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head and thanked her for her assistance in the council, polite as ever.

After he left, Elia brought a fingertip to where he kissed her. She almost felt an aching loneliness, before that turned to cold rage, smothered by the time she walked out of the king's quarters.

The queen strode to her own. The clanging of Ser Lewyn's armor behind her was as loud as the tolling bells of the Great Sept to her ears. The fourth hour of daylight began. Only one more before she would have to sit in a wheelhouse for days on end.

Her pace quickened, forcing her uncle to do the same. Beneath the noise, she heard how he took short, raspy breaths. His knees creaked with every step. Elia remembered that he was not as young as he once was. Neither of them was.

She tried to slow her pace again, but her clever uncle noticed "No need, your grace. It's best if I work my legs now before we leave."

"Then we should spend more time walking. Don't you agree?" Both she and the old knight smiled. "Gods know I'm in no rush to get blue feet again."

His tone turned playful, "Heh, we can't be that old. You would have little Oberyn mocking us day and night?"

"Oberyn is not little anymore, nuncle"

"Oh, but I can damn sure beat him still. Don't let him fool you with a few spear tricks." He grabbed the handle of his sword in its sheath, twirling it in circles as if he were in a fight. Elia giggled until the tightness in her chest reappeared. Until she finally entered her quarters.

They were almost empty, although she knew that already. Most of her ladies were either getting dressed themselves or patiently waiting in their carriages.

The only highborn present was not even a highborn; Ellaria Sand. As if she read Elia's mind, she held out a plate of fruit. The queen took it from her hands and bit on a fresh apple, savoring its perfect taste while her maids brought forth her dress.

"You're riding?" Elia asked. She noticed the paramour wearing leather boots and puffed trousers. She was almost disappointed, she had hoped to have Ellaria in her wheelhouse.

"Oh, yes. Oberyn insists. He said there's much to see and do on this long road."

"And here I thought you've had enough of seeing things after all the tours he gave you around King's Landing." From Cobbler's square to River row and especially the silk street. Ellaria had seen more of King's Landing than Elia herself.

"Gods, I wish I had, but I'm afraid the city is no longer exciting, dearest queen. Damn those septons, I say. They got rid of all the fun!"

The city was no longer dangerous . And if boredom seemed too cruel a price for Ellaria, well, she wasn't the queen. "So not a single rumor or gossip or tale managed to excite you? Am I to believe that?"

Ellaria nestled her head further back into the sofa. "Well, it's very cold here compared to Dorne. That's all I could say"

Oh, so it was a challenge.

Elia held onto the arm of one of her maids, stopping her from yanking the crimson threads on her bodice. "Arra, sweetling, what news am I yet to hear?"

"It's still very early, your grace," the girl cringed. "But yesterday, little Lady Redwyne was kissin' a bard. Oh, and milord Mallory was drunk and limpin' again."

Ellaria hummed but remained otherwise unfazed. Elia looked back at her maid.

"Uh, my sister swears she saw half a paper in Lady Rosby's hearth. Said she was blushing like a rose the whole day." Some pillow play with her husband, Elia wagered.

"And do you know who the paper was from?" The paramour asked. Her hands glided across the cushions.

The maid shook her head. Elia encouraged her to focus more. "Oh, little Lady Manderly got her pet mouse running at Princess Visenya's girls. They got themselves locked in their dorm with the mouse inside. Screamed for hours!" The girl laughed at the memory and Ellaria finally chuckled. The queen didn't, however. Her brows furrowed in concern.

She thought of the previous night; no wonder the young princess had worn a simple green dress with her hair just as loose. Her frightful maids abandoned her again. Although that shouldn't have been a surprise; the princess was the biggest scaredy-cat of all. The fact that she didn't ask for any lady to help her was proof enough.

Elia wondered what Rhaegar would think of that; his Aegon loved peace, not conquest. His Rhaenys preferred bawdy songs over the harp. His Visenya was a fragile rose not a feisty warrior.

Ellaria noticed her frowning. She must have thought Elia was offended by the mention of her stepdaughter, as she hastily tried to change the topic.

"It's alright, Ella," the queen said. "I feel bad for her, is all."

Even Jeyne Connington was hard to blame; only a girl of five and ten years when her cousin blindly gave her hand to Rhaegar and filled her head with stories of being queen. She was a naive, pretty little thing. All the poisons of politics and court killed her before the pox ever did.

"Ah, I pitied her when first saw her, too. Took her a while to warm up to my girls, but again, who can resist the sun?"

Who can, indeed. "Well, it warms my heart seeing your girls with her. Oberyn told me she and Sarella are very close. I pray that they remain so."

Ellaria's smile dropped for a split-moment. Elia pretended not to notice that until the paramour said, "Actually, my queen, Sarella was planning to join the citadel after the tourney. I had thought my Oberyn told you."

Blinking her shock, –and heartbreak, on the girl's behalf— The queen beamed at her companion. The maids finished dressing her, adding the final touches before leading her to the dresser. "Good for her, then. I'm glad my brother wouldn't be the only scholar in our family."

Ellaria felt her hesitance. "You do not approve?"

"If that is what will make her happy then I'm happy for her." She coughed as the maids powdered her cheeks and above her eyes. "But she is the future king's cousin, Ella. If she rose in the ranks, which I have no doubt she would, someone might know of it. What do you think they'll say?"

"What would they say, hmm? The future king's uncle must be a lecher, but he has a fine taste." Ellaria winked, far from discreetly. Even the way she bit into her strawberry was seductive. "But truly, no one would find out about my girl. She's as smart as her father, I promise you, and those gray robes could never catch a viper."

Elia nodded. She plucked the last fruit from above the plate. "She's joining Rhaenys' party, then?"

"If the Princess would have her." She purred, ignoring the young maid telling the others to hurry. "Oh, thinking of it, Princess Visenya said she wished to visit Griffin's Roost before, perhaps you can entrust the Baratheons to have her in their party."

"Perhaps," Elia replied. She clasped a thin necklace that dangled above her breasts, then a few golden bracelets on her wrist.

Finally, the queen was ready to leave. Ellaria walked by her side until they reached the horses. She kissed Elia on the cheek, bowed slightly before Ser Lewyn, then went and straddled her lone palfrey.

Elia continued, basking in the sunlight she loved and subtly looking for her son amidst the sea of scurrying servants, to no avail.

Resigned, she allowed Ser Lewyn to open the door to her wheelhouse. Daenerys and Rhaella were already inside, the queen mother resting her head on her daughter's shoulder. Elia remained quiet, lest she woke her up.

A few moments passed and the door opened again. Princess Visenya was helped up to the carriage by her kingsguard. Her fretting Septa handed her a small copy of the Seven, with the Warrior's image on its cover as red as the Septa's robes.

"Thank you, Ser Renly, and you, Septa Scolera," the girl demurely said. Both the knight and the holy woman bowed slightly to their princess, then at the waist to the queen.

Elia nodded at them before they left. She patted the feathery seat beside her for Visenya to sit on, not wishing to disturb her goodmother. Up close, she saw how the girl's Connington freckles diminished above that ivory skin. Her pointed nose grew in a softer curve, and a small cleft in her chin now hosted a recent scar.

Whenever Elia looked at her, she often tried to imagine her nephew's bride rather than her husband's daughter, but the more she looked the more prone she was to fail.

Seeking a different view, her eyes landed on the crooked stitches above Daenerys's lap. They ought to resemble a lion with its mane a crimson color. At least, that was how Elia perceived its figure.

"Dany, please. What are you doing?" she asked. Daenerys' needlework has always been rough, she knew, but that was too horrid to be unintentional.

"Stitching."

"Pricking empty holes and going over thread lines is not stitching. Do you think this might look anything meaningful to your betrothed?"

"I see it's only fitting, he wouldn't feel so bad about himself after he fails the joust."

No, he was likely to feel worse. "Is this your wish for a first impression? Dany, we've been through this before."

"The tourney will last seven days. We ought to arrive two days before. Would you make it easier on yourself?" She took Daenerys' silence for obedience, continuing, "I trust the septas taught you how to behave in a tourney, yes?"

"It's not like I've never been in one before!"

Beside her, Visenya cringed. Elia remembered that the girl has never been in a tourney. "Well, since it's in your honor, Dany, it would be a little different. You'll be the queen of love and beauty for the entire time, and you'll judge the knights when they swear their oaths. As a princess, however, they'll ask for your favors whether it's your tourney or not."

"I know that," Daenerys murmured. "Mother told me." Even after rolling her eyes, she failed to see Elia tipping her head to Visenya's side. She failed to notice how Elia's words were not meant for her.

"Well, did Rhaella tell you of all the other things you should do? Some of the young ladies are to accompany you as handmaidens. You have to balance your choices and keep the ones with most relations." Elia had already listed a few worthy names; some distant Lannister cousins, a Westerling girl, and a young Plumm widow.

Daenerys stabbed the cloth again. "Anything else?"

"Ah, yes, other than that, you're expected to integrate yourself with the Western lords. I want you to mind their homes and their culture, it will make your time as a Lady Paramount much easier."

"I'm a princess ," Daenerys whispered. She stared out of their little carved-out window. "If that's what they want then why do I have to flatter them so much? I don't want their stupid honors, either."

Elia sighed, "I know all of this might seem bothersome, Dany." The royal progress from Maidenpool to Dragonstone was certainly tiring. The crown of buttercups and marigolds in Harrenhal was too itchy. "Yet if you refuse it, you'd be shunning your betrothed. You'd be shunning the Lannister name itself."

Daenerys remained unconvinced. She threw her arms up, her face red with muted wrath. "But why do I have to marry him, sister? Mother trusts Ser Jaime enough and Lady Catelyn is as pious and loyal as any. Neither of them is an enemy."

But Lord Tywin could be. Gods forbid him living another twenty years. "Dany, this isn't just the Westerlands you're marrying, it's the Riverlands and the Stormlands and the Vale." Elia leaned forward, brushing silver strands away from the princess' face. "This way, your marriage can protect all of us, sweetling."

When she leaned back, she noticed a strange gleam in Daenerys' eyes. For Elia, it looked akin to defeat. The queen added, "And you are correct, Ser Jaime and Lady Catelyn are very loyal. Their Gerion surely would cherish you."

All the while, Visenya did not utter a word. Her lips kept moving with silent praise of the Seven.

Elia did not think a friendship would blossom between her and her aunt; underneath the dainty and proper visage of Daenerys, the Stormborn was too bold and outspoken.

"I hear that you wish to visit Griffin's Roost, Princess. Is there a reason for that?"

"It's my mother's home. Of course, I wish to visit it." For once, her voice was louder than whispers; it was the memory of her mother that gave her strength.

Elia respected that. "Then I'm sure you'll find it a lovely place."

Daenerys, too, furrowed her brow at those words. Their looks of disbelief nearly offended the queen, "Well, if this is your wish then I can inform Rhaegar, if you'd like. I expect you to make some friends there. You as well, Daenerys. In the Westerlands."

Visenya's lips quivered. Her shy eyes returned to the book on her lap, though they focused anywhere but on the text. Almost smiling, she said, "Thank you, your grace."

 "I'll try," came Daenerys' response. She took the opportunity to abandon her half-hearted embroidery, resting her head on her mother's shoulder. "Do you have any friends from the West, sister?"

None. Not even a handmaiden. "I don't believe so. I can only have so many friends, after all."

"You don't have any from the Stormlands or the Vale, either."

"Well, there is Ysilla. A very dear company, she is. But I don't suppose she's a friend, no. She was closer in age to Daenerys than her, and closer in temperament to Visenya. Of the Stormlands, Elia didn't wish to speak much. Most of the ladies there were fellows of Queen Jeyne.

Daenerys remained quiet for a while, mouthing the names of the ladies in court. She recalled the names of their homelands next, remembering that a kingdom was missing. "What of the North?"

Visenya twitched at their mention, doubtlessly thinking of Lady Manderly's stunt with her mouse. Elia twitched all the same, although for a load of bittersweet memories. "A northern friend, no. But my dearest friend now lives in the North. Ashara, Ser Arthur's sister. You've heard of her."

"Well, my dearest friends are the butcher's boy and the tentwright," a strange, thick voice cut in. The shadow of the speaker darkened most of their curtain. Elia quickly pulled it to her side only to see her son giggling at his own prank, "Good day, my ladies. You all look fine and well."

Daenerys immediately screeched, "How dare you eavesdrop on women, stupid?"

"Women? You sound like a child to me, and I'm sure mother doesn't care." He straddled one of the sand steeds Oberyn arrived with. The saddle was also of Dornish design, and he sat atop it like a general commanding battle.

"I do care," Elia lightly demurred. She held a finger against her lips to shush them; Queen Rhaella grunted and stirred in her sleep. "Where were you all day?"

"With uncle Oberyn and Ser Arthur. They were teaching me some tricks." He looked so proud of himself, she almost couldn't fault him.

"Is that all they do, Aegon? Is that all you do?" She let the curtain fall and flutter at his face. "A council meeting was concluded without you, you know."

"Without me to what? Pour father's wine? We all know I would have just stood to the side like the worst of Ser Richard's spies. Worse yet, I would have fallen asleep while standing."

Blushing, Elia remembered her interrupted slumber. "Well, I suppose it's good you didn't attend after all."

They remained quiet for a while. Aegon rode beside them, opening a pouch of berries then offering some to his mother and the princesses. To her dislike, his giddy attitude reminded her of Jon Connington in his youth; the way he thought himself pleasant when he was annoying, all-knowing when he was ignorant.

He wasn't too ignorant earlier, Elia remembered. She had no plans of the griffin learning of Sansa before her son, but at least she could inform him now.

Her ragged breath turned into a cough when she sighed, "Aegon, dear, you remember what I told you of Ashara Dayne, yes?"

"She was one of your earlier ladies and she is your best friend," he recited without care. "She married a Stark Lord and is now living in the North."

"Yes, well, they have a daughter now. Two daughters, and it's said the older one has the beauty of her mother. I'm certain she's just as kind and clever, too." Elia saw Daenerys' face twisting as if she ate a lemon. Just as she thought she had made some progress. "She's going to the tourney, too. I hoped the two of you would meet."

Aegon tried to toss another berry into his mouth, only for it to bounce off his chin. "So you want me to court her, then? Like I did Lollys the lackwit?"

Her mood ruined, Elia admonished him, "That's cruel, Aegon! Whatever did that poor child do to deserve that?"

He winced, "Well, her mother had the audacity to think she could be queen, as if finding a hedge knight for her was possible."

"And how is that the girl's fault? It's the mother who's to blame, and even then she's excused, every woman thinks her child is the best of their realm."

The queen paused at her own words, thinking of her children. Was she wrong to assume so much of them? But how could she question that? Aegon was kind and sweet and quick to smile. He will be one of the very best kings.

Was she falling into the same trap?

"So, not like Lollys the... lady?" Aegon said. He abandoned the reins to hold onto the window, clumsily trying to move the fluttering curtain betwixt them.

Elia firmly pulled it to the side. "No, Egg. Listen to me. Sansa Stark is the niece of the warden of the North. Her father is the Lord of one of the most important fortresses in Westeros. Her mother is my dearest friend. I've written to Ashara and I've spoken with your father. We all think this could be a brilliant match."

Just like that, his face fell. "A match, as in a bride? Really, mother? I told you I do not wish to marry."

"You cannot simply say that, Aegon. You're our future king! Who is to be your queen? Who is going to be your heir?" Elia loved Viserys dearly, he would not do. No, the crown needed to bring more nobles into the fold.

"Well, I do not wish to marry now!" He whined, almost petulantly. "I wish to find my wife by myself. It's my choice, too."

Elia nearly grumbled. "No one denied you the choice. If it's time you need then you'll have it! Sansa is still young, and there would be quite a long betrothal between you two."

"Oh, so you've already set a betrothal without me knowing?"

You had dragon dreams for so long without me knowing. "Stop putting words in my mouth! I've only implied it. What is to come is an introduction, Aegon. By all Gods, that's all I'm asking."

With a scarcely hidden eye-roll, he relented, kicking his horse forward and away from their sight.

The silence that followed was as awkward as she imagined, even as she tried to focus on the chirping birds and the chattering knights and the churning wheels. For the most part, her mind went back to Aegon and Sansa's betrothal.

Daenerys', too. Truth is, she wouldn't have minded her as Aegon's wife. Strange as that was, it was not as vile as him marrying Rhaenys. The lions had to be sated, however, and she couldn't risk giving them Visenya.

Looking at the princess, the girl had closed the seven pointed-star long ago, now attempting her best at sewing straight stitches with the unsteady carriage throwing them in all directions. It was a wonder Rhaella managed to remain asleep.

"Princess Visenya," the queen called, and the girl nearly jolted, "tell me, have you ever had any dragon dreams?"

The question came out of nowhere, she knew. What surprised her as much was how Daenerys perked up at her words. The Stormborn remained quiet, though Elia had an idea of what she wanted to say.

Frowning, the smaller girl looked at Elia with large, purple eyes. "No, your grace," she simply said.

No.

'No' was a word Elia rarely heard in the court of the red keep, even with all the years she spent inside its gloomy walls. Anyone with a glimmer of courtly experience would know better than deny their queen any favors or forbid her clear answers.

And with her own courtly experience, Elia knew the girl had lied.