Of Dragons, Roses and a Second-Hand Match

by joely_jo

Summary:

'He remembered how, a few short weeks before, he had told Lyanna how love could grow from the tiniest seeds. But what he hadn’t told her was that sometimes it was bigger than that, and bolder, and sometimes it made a person do dangerous things…'

A story of Robert's Rebellion, where love lives and dies and lives again. Told from the perspectives of Lyanna and Ned Stark.

NOW COMPLETE. :)

Notes:

No copyright infringement is intended. This is just for fun and to try to find ways of explaining the bits and pieces of back-story we've been given. As some of the characters and events in this story are (as yet) relatively unexplored in canon, I have interpreted them in my own way. Hopefully, they do not ring too untrue in the eyes and minds of any who read this.

Many thanks to my good friend Lissa who is always so generous with her beta skills, time and encouragement.

Chapter 1: LYANNA - A Suitable Match

LYANNA

 

A nightingale sung somewhere in the Godswood. She could not see it, its unassuming brown colouration making it disappear amid the branches, but she could hear its song, lilting and plaintive. It seemed to Lyanna like it was singing her mood aloud.

Still, her father’s words echoed in her head: “Lyanna, my daughter, I have brought you to hear news of a fine match I have chosen for you. You are to marry Robert, Lord Baratheon of Storm’s End. He is a worthy man, gallant, and a powerful name in the South. He shall make you an excellent husband.”

“An excellent husband? Father… what of my choices? Do I have no say in this?”

“Choices? You do not choose, Lyanna. That is my role as your lord father, and this is what I have decreed. You will marry Robert Baratheon.” Her father’s face had darkened with those words. “There is to be no further discussion on the matter."

His voice had been so final. 

The minute Lyanna had been dismissed, she had fled to her chamber and wept long and hard. 

Her sorrow had eased as the hours had passed and had been replaced with a coldly growing fury. How could her father do this to her? Robert Baratheon? She knew the man personally only a little, despite him being fast friends with her brother Ned, but his reputation preceded him. Even the smallfolk spoke of how inconstant he was, of how he took a new woman to his bed near every night. Ned loved the man, she knew, and she trusted his judgement enough to know that he would not love a man whose character did not deserve it, but she also knew that Ned and Robert had spent much of their childhood together, and men were different creatures. To them, love was a currency, not a fire that burned or a passion that plucked a tune from the soul. It was bound up so tightly in honour and duty that it could not spread its wings.

They would never understand.

The trees above her whispered in agreement. A cool wind was rising through the Godswood, and the birds were fleeing to their nests – even the nightingale had silenced. Lyanna looked about her; she had been pacing onwards with such blindness that she wasn’t entirely sure where she was, or indeed, how far from home she had walked. Plunging her hands into the pockets she had sewn into her cloak, she turned on the spot and breathed deep. She could run away, be on her horse in a matter of minutes and be gone. She could be ten leagues from Winterfell before they even realised she was gone and after that she knew she could outwit and outrun the lot of them, Brandon included. But where would she go? Her face was undeniably Stark and her clothing and mannerisms would betray her high birth to the first man who crossed her. Reluctantly, she realised that she had no choice. Even though it was the last place she wanted to go, she knew she would have to return home to Winterfell and face her father and brother, and they would doubtless have something to say about her absence, this day being Brandon’s name-day. They would be standing waiting for her in the courtyard, looking at her with those disapproving eyes they reserved only for her, and her father would mutter, “Wolf Child,” and shake his head at her.

She threw her own head back and howled in frustration at the sky. It was so unfair. 

But, when she returned, there was no-one waiting for her; the courtyard was empty and her father and brother nowhere to be seen. She crept into the stables and sat with the horses for a while, steeling her nerves, and then made her way back inside. Most of the household was gathering in the hall for the name-day feast, but she drew nothing more than a glance from any of them as they sat themselves at the long table and began their meal. Over dinner no-one spoke to her either and she sat in silence, her food barely touched, fuming quietly as she dreamt of being a man and in control of her own life. As yet another course was served, she noticed Ned across the table, watching her from the corner of his eye, but she ignored his faint smile and focused sullenly on the roasted wood pigeon and the thick spread of accompanying onion sauce that had been placed before her.

Finally, when she deemed she had sat at table for enough time to appear polite she stood. “Father, may I leave?” She gave no reason for her request, but sucked in a breath and looked him in the eye. Father’s grey gaze was steely.

“You may,” he replied.

Lyanna did not pause to allow him to speak further and she did not look at anyone else’s face. She skipped over the bench and flew from the room, not caring for modesty, and her footsteps rang loudly on the ground. She ran all the way to her chamber and slammed the door closed as hard as she could. But, turning around and facing her empty room she realised, to her surprise, that much of her resentment had burned away now her father’s eyes were no longer on her, and she felt strangely numb.

When she was a little girl she had imagined herself marrying a courageous knight, someone tall and lithe with blue, blue eyes and a secret smile. He had always been a respected hero, this knight of hers, and she had loved him dearly. And while her father and everyone around her told her that her headstrong nature did not become a lady, this knight would love her for that very thing.

She sighed, crossed the room and flung open the windows wide, letting the cool evening air rush over her. She was there, staring at the gathering darkness on the horizon when a knock came at her door. The knock was too soft to be her lord father’s and too short to be Brandon’s – it was Ned, she knew before she opened the door on his quiet face.

“Ned,” she greeted. In his time away in the Vale with Lord Arryn, her brother had grown into a man, but he still looked a little uncomfortable in his skin, like he had another half a hand to put on in height to make him in proportion. His arms and chest were muscled from all the riding and training with the sword he had been doing, but while his dark hair was longer and thicker and his cheeks bearded, his eyes were the same as they had always been, soft, grey and kindly.

“Lya, I came to see if you wanted to talk; I learned of Father’s wishes.” She stood aside to allow him entrance and as he moved inside, she closed the door behind him, leaning back against the heavy wood.

“Father’s wishes, yes…” she sighed sadly. She felt so utterly defeated it was hard to even bring herself to voice her objections to Ned. “You always speak so highly of him, and yet, I fear Robert will never keep to one bed.”

Ned’s dark eyebrows knitted. He went to the bed and sat upon the edge of it, looking a little like he was uncertain of what to say. Lyanna watched him privately war with himself a moment before adding, “I hear he has already gotten a child on some girl in the Vale.”

“Robert is a good man and true, sister. He may have made mistakes in his past… Gods be good, we all have, but I know he will keep to his word. He will love you dearly.”

“Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man’s nature,” she said in a quiet voice. “I knew when I opened the door that you were here to tell me this… that Robert is a good man and that despite all my misgivings, I will be happy.”

Ned looked down at the stone floor, then back up. His sigh sounded absurdly loud in the quiet room. “But I know that is not what you want to hear.” He studied her face for a moment. “You want to hear that this is a terrible thing: that I am sure Father has made a bad decision and that I know he will come to his senses.” His hands knotted together in his lap; she could see the already formed callouses on his sword hand. “But I will not lie to you, sister, not ever. You will marry Robert, not because Father wishes it, but because you know that if you do not, it will bring dishonour on him, and however much you hate him in this moment, you would not wish that.”

Lyanna closed her eyes and banged her head against the door dully. “You’re right… But that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she spat back.

“No, but that is the way of duty. Sometimes we have to do things that we do not wish to do.”

She fell silent; there was nothing to say to that. Her brother always had a way of putting things that made her feel so guilty for thinking otherwise. “When I was a little girl, I used to dream of loving someone so much I would do anything for them…” Her voice trailed away, the confession sounding hollow and sad and defeated.

“Oh, Lya… Love is a wonderful thing, and I am sure it can sweep you off your feet and throw you to the stars, but I also believe it can grow from even the smallest seed. And sometimes where you least expect it.” He chuffed a soft laugh, sounding so much like himself it made her heart ache. “Robert is a good man, whatever you might have heard about him, and he is in awe of you. In fact, I do not believe I have ever heard him speak so highly of anybody or anything.”

Lyanna allowed herself a small smile at that. “Even his favourite drinking horn?”

“Even that --” Reaching out, he pulled her to him and hugged her tightly. She pressed herself against his chest a moment, then pulled away. “You can meet him for yourself, properly, in a few months anyway.”

“I can?”

“Yes, Father has consented to you attending the Tourney at Harrenhal and Robert will be there, of course. It will be a grand affair, I’m told. Lord Whent is making a show of all his wealth and power for the honour of his daughter. Brandon says everyone of note in the realm will be in attendance.”

“Even the King?”

Ned stood and straightened his doublet. “There are rumours that the King will never step out of King’s Landing again. He grows increasingly frail of mind. But I’m sure Prince Rhaegar will not allow his house to go unrepresented.”

“Prince Rhaegar is the best joust in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lyanna suspected that her excitement was plain to see, at least judging by her brother’s delighted expression. In the past few years, she had attended a number of smaller tourneys, her father keen to show her face amongst the high lords. Each one had been a treat, and she had thrilled to watch the knights at the jousting, even as she quietly critiqued their riding and technique.

“He is skilled,” said Ned. “That much is clear for all to see. Although I do not think he is unbeatable.”

“Are you going to joust?

“Perhaps – I haven’t yet decided. I prefer the sword, though. I might just leave the jousting to Brandon; he loves it.”

She made a face. Brandon was always boasting about his ability with the lance and spent hours honing his technique. Once, he rode so many times at a hoop in the yard that the master-of-horse had to stand in his way and proclaim that he was going to break his mount’s wind if he didn’t stop. Brandon had cursed and yelled but finally relented when Father had stepped in to quell the situation.

“I think Brandon will end up flat on his back,” Lyanna predicted with a grin. “Prince Rhaegar will unhorse him.”

Ned laughed. “You should be careful with your tongue, sister. I don’t imagine Brandon would like to hear you speaking of his demise already. Besides, he told me just the other day that he has been beaten on too many occasions by the Prince and this time he intends to reverse the form. And you know how Brandon can be when he gets an idea into his head.”

“Then we will have to see, I suppose,” said Lyanna archly. “But I’m open to a bet, if you’re interested.” Ned chuckled.

And then it occurred to her that she had not thought of Robert Baratheon, marriages or betrothals in several minutes. Thankful, she jumped up suddenly and embraced her brother. His arms closed around her, lifting her until her feet dangled off the floor as he laughed and spun around in a circle.

“Oh, the Gods bless you, Lya! If there’s one thing about you, you don’t do anything without your heart being in it entirely.”

She loosened her grip on him, dropped down to the floor and grinned. “Thanks, Ned.” Her head cocked on one side. “I’m going to miss you when you go for good.”

“When I go for good?” Ned frowned. “I don’t leave for the Vale for another week. And it is hardly as if we shall not see each other again.”

“No, I mean you will be married soon too, I suppose. Father will have some beautiful Southern lady picked out for you, maybe a Martell or even that Lannister girl, what’s she called?”

“Lady Cersei,” said Ned. His face took on a sour look and Lyanna wondered if he was trying his best to keep his tone neutral as he replied, “Or perhaps he will let me pick my own wife.”

They looked at each other and then burst into laughter.

 

To be continued... 

 

Chapter 2: EDDARD - Harrenhal

EDDARD

 

The day before the Harrenhal tourney was a warm, breezy spring morning, the sun rising from a blood-red bed of clouds on the horizon. The air was scented rich with flowers and pollen flew in clouds from the fields and trees. Ned had come down from the Eyrie and arrived just before noon to find House Stark and the bannermen already encamped, the familiar white tents crouching in the castle grounds, direwolf banners sprawling in the light-fingered wind. Brandon had come down from Barrowton and met with the sworn swords of Stark at Moat Cailin, arriving several days earlier.

But Brandon was not there to greet Ned. Instead, his brother was down in the stables, preparing his horse for a few practice tilts and it was there that Ned had found Lyanna, dressed in riding breeches and leather, getting ready to take her favourite riding horse out galloping in the twenty acres of Godswood. “Lyanna, what are you doing?” he asked. His sister froze, one foot in her stirrup, and half-turned towards him. At least she had the grace to look guilty, he thought.

“Going for a ride, dear brother,” she replied. “And it is nice to see you too. You’re late.” A grin quickly replaced the look of guilt, but Ned resisted the urge to smile back.

“Brandon will not be impressed if he finds you dressed like this.”

She arched her eyebrows and reached behind her head to tie back her long, dark hair. “Then he’ll just have to not find me, won’t he?” She eyed Ned pointedly and swung herself into the saddle. Her grey courser whickered and pranced on the spot, but Lyanna’s strong hands and legs held him in; she really was as skilled as rider as everyone said.

“Lya…” he warned her.

“Come with me if you’re worried about me,” she offered. “But I want to get out and feel the wind in my hair before we have to sit in that wretched hall and eat and drink until our stomachs burst.” Some chunks of hair had fallen from the ribbon she’d used to tie it back and she tossed her head to fling them from her eyes. Dressed in her riding garb, she looked for all the world like a young boy, not the lady their father intended for her to be. Ned sighed.

“I can’t. Robert has asked me to practice with him.”

Lyanna’s face brightened. “Oh well. Good luck with that one, dear brother.” Her horse side-stepped a couple of paces, nervous and keen to break away. “Don’t get yourself too many bruises or you may find yourself unable to joust tomorrow!”

And with that she put her heels into her mount and galloped off, the ground stirring to dust beneath her horse’s hooves.

Thinking not for the first time that his sister’s headstrong nature would undo her one day, Ned watched her leave. As her shape disappeared into the thick of the Godswood, he heard footsteps and Robert’s booming voice from behind him. “Ned! I thought you were coming to practice some hits with me in the yard?”

Ned turned and faced his friend. “I was just speaking with my sister,” he explained.

Robert’s face took on a wistful look and he smiled a softer smile than his usual spreading grin. “Ah, the beautiful Lyanna… I’ve missed her? For shame… Is she well? I’m told your lord father may allow us to finally meet.”

“My sister is very well. She wished to go riding before the feast, so she has gone. I doubt we will see her again before tonight.”

“More’s the pity,” Robert said, still smiling. “I should have liked to have met her before the feast began. By this evening I may have too much wine in me to make a sound impression!” His laugh trumpeted out and Ned chuckled quietly alongside him. If there was one thing about Robert that made Ned uneasy, it was his tendency to enjoy his wine and ale a little too much. He hoped for Lyanna’s sake that Robert would keep himself sober enough to speak sensibly to her tonight.

“Shall we gather swords and armour up then?” Ned enquired.

“No, let’s practice without all that garb. A couple of solid wooden swords and the freedom to move should do us some good. Jon says I should improve my movement and don’t see how I can do that when I am laden down with all that plate. So, gambesons only – what do you say?”

“As you wish.”

“Excellent!” Robert clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him gently in the direction of the yard. “I hear the Prince is to grace us with his presence, along with half the Kingsguard. Why the seven hells he has to be here I don’t know!”

“He wants to enter the lists, I presume,” said Ned. Robert’s peevish irritation was undoubtedly because he perceived a kind of threat from the Prince, whose skill at the joust was second to none.

“The lists? There are dozens of tourneys in a year and Rhaegar Targaryen attends only a handful, and rides in fewer still. Why this one?”

Ned turned and waved at the huge castle rising around them. “It is rather a grand location, Robert. And perhaps he thinks he should honour Lord Whent. I hear the Prince and Ser Oswell Whent are good friends.”

Robert’s mouth quirked and he said in a low, conspiratorial voice: “Well, I’ve heard whisperings that he’s pissed off with that mad man we call a king. Perchance he intends to sample the mood of the high lords before he mounts a challenge for his father’s crown.”

“I’m not sure that would be something the Prince would do,” Ned said. He doubted Rhaegar would wilfully seek to remove his father so long as the man was able to rule even half effectively – he seemed to prefer reading and playing music to making war. “I think you are reading too much into the turn of events.”

A laugh broke again from Robert’s lungs. “I do that, don’t I?” he said.

They had reached Flowstone Yard, where a flurry of activity was taking place. Squires and stable hands swarmed like insects over the hard, dusty ground and the sound of swords, both steel and wood, clamoured in the air. Several dogs sniffed hopefully at their feet and Robert planted a boot into one persistent hound. He yelled for his squire and a short, dark-haired boy of no more than four and ten came running from the arms store.

“My lord?” the boy questioned. He was slight of build with a thin face and a maze of freckles across his even thinner nose. A prominent scar split his left eyebrow in two and made the lid droop slightly.  

“Wooden swords for Lord Stark and me,” he commanded. “And quick about it!” The boy scurried away. “He’s a good lad, really, but slow-witted. He will not do anything without being ordered to do so.”

Ned inclined his head. “Perhaps he is scared of you…”

“Scared of me?” Robert roared, then laughed at Ned’s expression. “Yes, maybe you’re right, Ned. I shall seek to be more kindly towards the boy.”

At that, the squire returned, out of breath, two wooden swords in hand and a roll of leather handle-binding tucked under his scrawny arm. He gave the swords to Robert and Ned with clumsy hands then stood back awaiting his next orders. Robert looked pointedly at Ned and grinned. “See what I mean? Be gone, boy,” he said to the squire. “And make sure my armour is gleaming on the morrow. I wish to impress this fine man’s beautiful sister.”

Ned tested the balance on the sword and performed a few stretching slashes into the air in an effort to loosen his muscles. The ride down from the Eyrie was always a rough one and his calves and thighs were tired from keeping his balance on the rocky path. Beside him, Robert mirrored him. “Have you seen your brother yet?”

“If you mean Brandon, I welcomed him earlier, but he has gone to practice tilting at hoops. He has this bold and somewhat foolish urge to put Prince Rhaegar on his back.”

Amused again, Robert turned to Ned, took several paces back and held up his sword to measure the distance between them. “Possibly not the wisest wish in the world, but that brother of yours does not give up without a fight does he? I like him.”

“My father says that Brandon has a lot of the wolf blood,” Ned said. He touched Robert’s sword and dropped into position. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

They began.

Robert’s strength was legendary and Ned knew he had little on him in that regard, but in return, Ned was quicker, more fluid. Where Robert was all power and commitment to the blow, Ned was subtler, able to twist his way out of trouble and aim a blow where an opponent was least expecting it. Jon Arryn believed the two of them were the match of any on the Kingsguard and had dared to say once that even the Sword of the Morning might quake in his boots at the sight of them both facing him.

After several minutes, Robert seemed to have the advantage. The sweat was trickling down Ned’s face as he blocked and parried Robert’s slashes, trying to edge him backwards and force him to commit to something foolish, but Robert was like a stone wall of resistance. He even had the gall to laugh in Ned’s face when Ned pinned him with his blade. His blue eyes were dancing as he used his strength to push Ned to the floor and brought his sword crashing down on his shoulder.

It was a harsh blow.

Pain coursed through Ned and he felt a soft pop as the joint slipped from its socket. “Ah!” he cried out, looking to his shoulder. “Yield!”

The shout took Robert by surprise. He froze in mid stride and the grin sank from his lips. “Ned? Oh, Gods, are you hurt?”

Ned tried to move his arm, but the limb refused to cooperate and instead another shooting pain blazed like wildfire along it. Robert dropped to his knees but when he tried to touch the shoulder, Ned cursed him and pushed him away with his boot. “I need a surgeon. The joint has slipped.” He looked away and closed his eyes in quiet fury. This would surely put an end to any jousting or fighting he had thought to do on the morrow.

Another knight’s squire had seen the commotion and darted forward to offer aid. Robert, impatient with the guilt of having injured his friend, shouted instructions that the maester and the surgeon be fetched. Ned barely heard his words, though, as his head had begun to swim with the pain. “Help me up,” he begged. “And get me out of here. I do not want everyone turning their eyes on me.”

Robert leaned down and allowed Ned to throw his good arm around his neck, then raised himself slowly and began walking them both towards the Wailing Tower. 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 3: LYANNA - Crown Princes and Crannogmen

LYANNA

 

Once clear of the stable yard, Lyanna slowed her horse to a walk. The sun was streaming through the leaves of the trees of the Godswood, falling as dancing patterns of light on the spongy ground beneath her horse’s hooves. Twenty acres was a vast area, bigger than any other Godswood in the land, and from the moment she had heard about it, Lyanna had wanted to ride in it. Back at Winterfell, she often took her horse along the winding paths that threaded through the Stark Godswood, losing herself in the dim light and tall trees. It was her own kind of prayer to listen to the sounds of bird and beast as she rode. Here at Harrenhal the trees were less crowded, but they were just as old. She could imagine Harren the Black riding out with his men and hunting for stag and boar in this wood.

One of the stable-hands had told her that buried deep in the trees there was a stream and that the banks were soft and clear enough for a horse to get up to full pace uninterrupted. She had been riding for nearly an hour when the vegetation thinned and she finally came across the slow-moving ribbon of water. She grinned; the stable-hand had spoken truth. On either side of the stream the banks were wide and covered with a bed of moss and short tuft grass, perfect for a horse to gallop along without fear of injury.

She turned her courser and looked along the path of the stream. “Are you ready then, Blizzard?” she asked the horse. Blizzard seemed to sense her mood lifting and snorted in anticipation. With a shout and a touch of her heels, he was off.

Hooves thundered and the ground sped away beneath her. It was like being truly free, she thought, to be riding like this. Lyanna leaned forward, taking her weight off Blizzard’s back. She had learned that her light weight often gave her an advantage in the saddle, but that if she held her weight above her mount’s back, it allowed for a fuller range of movement and even more speed.

They were just getting up to full pace when, out of nowhere, a pheasant startled in the trees and came beating out across her path, yik-yik-yikking in panic. Spooked, Blizzard slid to an abrupt stop, screaming, and Lyanna tumbled forwards over his shoulder.

She hit the ground with a curse, but unable to stop herself, she rolled over the edge of the bank, down the slope and splashed headlong into the cold water. “Oh, seven hells!” she yelled at the top of her voice. There was a throbbing pain in her ankle. Her tunic and leggings were smeared dark with mud down one side as well. She slapped the water with her palms in frustration and then tried to stand up only to have her ankle buckle beneath her. She collapsed into the stream again. The banks on either side were too high to simply step onto and she sat staring at Blizzard, already moving off to graze, wondering how she was going to get out of this one.

She was lost in thought when a voice made her jump. “My lady, you seem to be in some difficulty. May I be of some assistance?”

Lyanna looked up and saw a tall man standing on the bank beside a great black destrier. He was wearing dark silk riding breeches, a leather tunic that seemed to be made of the softest, lightest tan and black enamelled mail. There was a hood to his tunic, but it was lowered to reveal silvery-blonde hair that hung loose around slim shoulders.

She scowled, consumed by the shame of having fallen from her horse, something she had not done in years. “I fell,” she said stupidly. She tried again to rise and this time succeeded in heaving herself up, whereupon she stood islanded in the middle of the stream on one leg. The man standing on the bank seemed amused by her situation, his pale lips quirking into a smile he was clearly trying to contain. Lyanna scowled harder, her embarrassment searing into her like a branding iron. She despised being the victim of jesting and she had the distinct feeling that this knight was doing just that, however quietly. “Well, aren’t you going to help me?” she demanded of him. “You are a knight, aren’t you?”

“Indeed,” he replied. He dropped his destrier’s reins and crouched on the bank. “Hop to the edge now,” he instructed, “then hold your arms up and I’ll lift you out.”

His arms were slender and his frame light; she doubted he would have the strength to do as he proposed, but she kept her mouth shut and obeyed. His hands closed around her ribcage and then he lifted her out of the stream, rising with surprising effortlessness to his feet in one smooth motion.

Once safely on the bank, she looked mournfully at her ruined tunic and breeches, then lifted her gaze to look at her rescuer and thank him. She blinked. His eyes were a rich lilac.

And then, belatedly, it struck her: this was the Prince. Rhaegar Targaryen. Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had just lifted her, filthy and limping, out of a stream and she had just been unforgivably rude to him. She was lucky he hadn’t struck her and condemned her for treason. “My Lord – I, I mean, Your Grace, I…” Her voice trailed away and she felt a hot blush fill her cheeks.

The prince’s smile grew and he stood back, appearing not in the slightest bit offended. “I believe you now have the advantage, my lady, as you appear to have identified me. Pray tell me, by what name should I call you?”

Lyanna looked at her boots; they were caked in mud as well. “Lyanna,” she murmured. “Lyanna Stark, daughter of Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell. Your Grace,” she added quickly.

“Lord Stark is a good man,” said the Prince. “And I believe I am acquainted with his eldest son, Brandon.”

“You’re the only rider to ever unhorse him more than once.”

The Prince laughed. His laughter was warm and genuine, and he threw his head back as it shook his body. Lilac eyes sparkled darkly as they met hers again. “By your tone, I suspect your brother may be out for revenge, then. I shall make sure to keep my eye on him when next we meet.”

Blizzard was tearing contentedly at the lush grass just a few paces along the bank and the Prince went to him, gathering up his reins and leading him back to Lyanna. “Your horse, my lady. Stand on your good leg and I will help you remount.”

Lyanna positioned herself and the Prince took her knee and lifted her into her saddle, sliding her injured foot carefully into the stirrup. “You should have the maester fetch you some cold compresses and hawthorn root salve when you return. It would be a true shame if you could not attend the feast tonight.” He smiled up at her.

Lyanna cocked her head on one side, considering his words. She had been thinking about cheating her way out of the feast earlier, but now it seemed as if the Prince were requesting her company. She wondered what Father would make of this. Perhaps I should keep it to myself, she thought. “Thank you for assisting me, Your Grace,” she said.

He nodded and swung himself up onto his own mount, taking the horse in hand and turning him to face her. Lyanna noticed the destrier was lightly tacked and instead of heavy plate and leathers, carried nothing more than a small harp, tied to the back of the saddle. “My lady, it was my honour. Although, before we go our separate ways, I feel it would be remiss of me to not point out that you have duckweed in your hair.”

Colouring once again, Lyanna reached up to her hair, feeling for the offending greenery. The Prince chuckled softly, then put his heels into his mount and rode away.

She flicked the piece of weed onto the ground and cursed under her breath.

The ride back to the castle passed much more quickly than it had seemed to go on riding out, perhaps because as she rode, her mind was alive with strange thoughts. A hundred questions about the Crown Prince now crowded in her head, each one as insistent as the next. She needed to find out more about this intriguing man who stole away from official duties to ride through the Godswood alone.

Lyanna emerged from the trees just as the afternoon was beginning to wane. The warmth of the sun was pleasant on her back, drying the mud on her clothes and face. She had not come out in the same place she had entered, however, and found herself further away from the stable-yard than she had intended, although she could see its dark bulk across the swathe of rough cut grass before her. The sounds of swordplay, shouting and the occasional whinnying of horses carried in the air.

But as she crossed the field, Lyanna realised that the shouting was not coming from the stables. Off to her right, half-hidden by the longer grass, three squires were gathered in a circle, sticks in hand, jeering and laughing. They seemed to be jabbing their weapons into something on the ground, then one of them kicked whatever it was and she heard a quiet cry of pain.

This was no dog they were teasing; that cry had been uttered by a man, she thought.

Swiftly, she dismounted and moved as fast as her injured ankle would allow towards the crowd. One of the squires was laughing wildly and Lyanna heard his ugly voice: “Something the matter, mud-man? You’re like a frog out of water! Get up off the floor and face us, will you?”  

Before she even realised the words were out of her mouth, Lyanna heard her own voice yell out: “That’s my father’s man you’re kicking!”

The three squires turned as one and stared at her with open mouths. Lyanna had an instant to react before they turned on her too. She reached out and drew the largest squire’s own sword from its sheath and brandished it at him. “Back off now!” she ordered. She waved the sword in their faces and yelled again, “I said ‘Back off!’ or I will hurt you.”

The threat of cold steel, even if it was nothing more than a blunted tourney blade, made the squires take a step back. “You’re mad, you are,” said one of them, his filmy brown eyes fixed on the point of the sword. He had a pox-marked face and his thick eyebrows stretched unbroken right across his nose.

“We were just having fun,” said another. “Little frog-eater shouldn’t be here anyway.”

Lyanna took a step forward and pressed the tip of the sword into the belly of the closest squire, hard enough so that it pushed a hole through the material of his tunic and pricked into his skin. He flinched away. “Having fun?” Lyanna roared. “You were tormenting that man like he was nothing more than a dog. Have you no respect? No honour?”

The largest squire opened his mouth to reply, but Lyanna switched her blade to his throat and stepped forward purposefully. “In fact, no, don’t answer that – I already know the truth. So, go on, run along now, before I do to you what you did to him, only when I hit you, it will be with this sword and not with my boots or fists.”

There must have been something firing in her eye as with that, the three squires scattered and ran back towards the stables, never once looking back.

Lyanna stood stock still for a long minute after they had disappeared, quite amazed at her own reaction, and then turned to the little crannogman the squires had been beating on. He had sat himself up and was patting his bleeding head with his sleeve, frowning. She held out her hand and helped him to his feet. He was no bigger than she was, but by the shape of his face and the build of his muscles, was clearly full grown. He seemed as embarrassed by what had happened as she had been when she had fallen from her horse.

She tore a strip off her ruined tunic and gave it to him to staunch the flow of blood from his head; the crannogman took it gratefully and pressed it to his temple. “Thank you, my lady,” he said. His voice was accented and strange-sounding. “You have done me a great service.”

“That was one of the Freys there, but I confess I do not know the other two.”

The crannogman smiled. “Oh, I have their faces, my lady, do not worry about that.”

“You should come back to our chambers and have your hurts seen to,” said Lyanna as he dusted himself down. He was wearing a woollen shirt sewn with a thousand bronze scales that glittered in the sunlight, brown leather breeches and close-fitting knee boots. She noticed how small his hands were, no bigger than a woman’s.  

“That is a kind offer, but I should probably be keeping out of the way.”

“Please, it would make me feel better to know you are tended to,” she insisted. “I am Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Rickard Stark. What’s your name, my lord?”

“I am Howland Reed of Greywater Watch, m’lady. My house pledged their fealty to the Starks of old… and so I thank you. You have repaid that amply.”

Lyanna smiled. She had shouted that he was her father’s man as nothing more than a threat, so it pleased her to find that the words had in fact been truer than she could have imagined.

The crannogman had a warm face with enchanting moss-green eyes that spoke of kindness and an understanding beyond knowledge. There was something almost majestic about him.

“You’re a crannogman, aren’t you?” she asked Reed as she studied him. “My father has spoken of your people. You have defended the Neck from invaders for thousands of years.”

Reed nodded, but then looked at Lyanna’s foot. “You are hurt, my lady. Your ankle is sprained.”

“I fell off my horse,” explained Lyanna, blush colouring her cheeks again. “It’s sore, but it will be better in the morning.”

“When we return, I have a salve in my pack to help that. With your permission, my lady?”

Lyanna consented with a nod and a smile. She offered Lord Reed her horse but he refused and so she mounted herself, the better to rest her foot, and they made their way back to the stable yard.

Brandon, Ned and Benjen were waiting for her when she arrived back in the Stark encampment and Brandon scolded her for disappearing. “Robert Baratheon asked for you on two occasions and I had to tell him I did not know where you were. Next time you feel the urge to ride off on your own in a strange place, perhaps you would be so kind as to let us know where you are heading?”

Lyanna glanced at Ned, who lowered his gaze and said nothing. At least she was certain of one thing – he hadn’t betrayed her to their brother.

Ned, sitting in a chair, had his arm in a linen sling and seemed pale of face. She frowned at his injury. “What have you done?” she asked him.

“Robert knocked my shoulder out of joint when we were fighting,” he sighed.

“Are you in pain?” Lyanna asked in concern. The thought of her brother hurting made her stomach clench.

“A little, it aches more, though.”

It was then that Brandon noticed the crannogman standing behind her. His grey eyes narrowed. “Lyanna, who is that you have brought with you?”

“Dear brother, this is Howland Reed of Greywater Watch. He’s a crannogman from the Neck and one of our sworn bannermen. I caught him being set upon by a gang of squires.” She stopped, not wishing to go into any further detail lest Brandon decide to tell their lord father. “He has some hurts. Do we have linen and water so I can help him clean and bind them?”

Ned stood and made his way over to his trunk. With a little grimace, he bent and took out a small leather roll and passed it to Lyanna. “In there,” he said simply. He returned to his seat and called for Benjen to bring a bowl of water.

With a methodical hand, Lyanna opened the roll and began to tend to Reed’s cuts and bruises. To her relief, Brandon seemed intrigued by the stranger and began asking him an apparently endless string of questions, talking with interest about rumours of castles that moved, houses built upon stilts and men that breathed mud, while Ned watched and listened quietly from his seat. Then, as she finished, the tent flap lifted. It was a squire; Lord Dustin was calling for Brandon and as her eldest brother left to visit his fosterer, Lyanna saw her chance.

“Ned, can Lord Reed come to the feast with us?”

Ned looked upon the crannogman, now bound and cleaned and looking a good deal more comfortable. “Perhaps you should ask Lord Reed himself, sister.”

Lyanna grinned. “Lord Reed, would you do us the honour of attending the feast tonight?”

Howland Reed clicked his tongue and studied Lyanna a moment, his green eyes seeming to see right through her. “I am not sure my presence at such an event would be appreciated.”

“You are of high birth,” Lyanna argued. “You have every right to attend. And if those squires dare speak ill of you again, I shall beat them myself!”

“Lyanna,” warned Ned.

“What?”

“You know what,” he said. He turned to the crannogman. “The Starks would be honoured to have your attendance, my lord, and it seems my sister would be most pleased if you were present.” He glanced at Lyanna, who smiled widely at her brother, satisfied.

“It seems I have little choice,” laughed the crannogman. “Although I must ask another good deed of my lord and lady…”

“Go ahead,” said Ned.

“I must find something more fitting to wear. My garb is not suited to so fine a celebration and I’m afraid I have travelled lightly – I do not have anything else.” He tugged at the woollen tunic he wore.

Benjen, who had been watching the crannogman with silent fascination, spoke up, “You could borrow one of my doublets. We’re a similar size.”

“That is a fine idea, Ben,” Lyanna said. “Go with my brother, Lord Reed, and he will ensure you are properly garbed for tonight.”

“You seem to have rather improved your mood from this morning, dear sister,” observed Ned as Benjen led their guest out of the entrance and towards his own tent, chattering amiably.

“And what if I have?”

“No matter – it is just pleasing to see. Just a few short weeks ago, I thought I might not see you smile willingly again.”

Lyanna’s mind cast back to when Ned had seen her last, on Brandon’s name-day, when their lord father had broken the news to her that she would be wed to Robert Baratheon. She scowled at the memory. Still she had not met her betrothed, although her father had promised that she would do so at Harrenhal, and that Brandon would make certain they would sit together so she could enjoy his company. “I am trying to make my peace with the arrangement,” she told Ned in no uncertain terms. “Please do not remind me of it.”

She turned and followed Benjen out.

Chapter 4: EDDARD - In A Brother's Name

EDDARD

 

In the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, it was warm. Too warm, in fact, and Ned could feel the sweat beginning to pearl on his back. Around him, the air was thick with multitudinous aromas: roasted venison, onions, gravy, suckling pig, boar, pigeon and game, all intermingled with a dozen rich spices, the sharp tang of wine and the hoppy scent of ale. Singers played music but it was mostly drowned out by the voices, shouts and laughter of a thousand men. 

It was past sundown, and yet the merrymaking continued. Behind him, a fool was prancing with a pair of hand puppets cut from felt, one a green and gold dragon and the other and knight wearing black. No doubt it was intended to be the Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, famous for his burnished black steel armour – the heir to the throne was seated at the far end of the vast room, on a raised platform alongside his father, King Aerys, his young wife, Princess Elia of Dorne, and their myriad advisors and attendants. To Ned’s eyes, Rhaegar appeared bored. He spoke only occasionally to his wife, and even less to his father, and seemed to regard the gathered crowds with a kind of numbed tolerance.

Ned could understand the feeling. Beside him, Brandon, loud and over-confident after too much wine, was joking with Ethan Glover and Kyle Royce. He could hear Robert’s bellowing laughter even over the melee of noise. Lyanna, on the other hand, had come and gone from the table; whenever she was present she seemed to be deep in conversation with Howland Reed. Whatever stories the crannogman was telling were obviously fascinating; it was rare that his sister listened so intently.

He had been watching the room’s occupants for a while now, his eyes turning over the faces and sigils, when his gaze fell upon a young girl seated on the high table with the royal party. She was tall but slight of build, with long, dark hair which framed an elfin, pretty face. Her skin was pale, ethereally beautiful, and her eyes… her eyes were deep-set and captivating. He watched her as she talked quietly with her companions, unaware of his gaze.

There had been few women in Ned’s life aside from family members, and most had been unremarkable – aging septas, servant girls or, on rare occasion, the daughter of a noble lord. The Eyrie was rarely visited by anyone, out of the way and cold as it was, so Ned’s youth had been spent mostly amongst men. Brandon was known for his good looks and his devastating charm, but Ned was plainer, and his inborn reserve often made him seem solemn and remote. And of course, where his brother had the glamour of being their father’s eldest son, Ned was the second brother and heir to nothing.

He knew where the eyes fell first.

A serving girl poured more wine into his cup and he heard Robert’s laughter booming again, drawing him from his thoughts. He turned towards Brandon’s conversation and, as the serving girl filled his brother’s cup, he said, “Brother, who is that?”

Brandon frowned. “Who?” His cheeks were flushed from wine.

Ned inclined his head towards the girl on the high table. A grin spread across Brandon’s face and he leaned into Ned. “That? That is Ashara Dayne, Ned – the sister of the Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne. She’s a rare beauty, isn’t she?”

His eyes were caught again. It felt like he couldn’t look away. Brandon sensed his fascination and chuckled. “You should ask her for her favour, Ned.”

That was enough to drag Ned’s eyes away. His gaze fell to his half-empty plate and he stared glumly at the congealing food there. “Her favour?” He huffed hopelessly. “With my arm in a sling I am sure she will want nothing more than to bestow her favour upon me. I shall be sitting out this tourney, you know that.”

“Then ask her to dance tonight,” Brandon replied with a casual air. To him, such things were insignificant; so commonplace was it for Brandon to ask a girl to dance that he did not see how it could be a challenge for Ned.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why would she look at me when there are all these other knights and lords around her? What can I give her?”

Brandon snorted into his wine cup. “Well if you think like that, you won’t have a chance at all. Ashara Dayne will dance with you if you ask her.”

The briefest of hopes flickered through Ned; then Ser Arthur Dayne appeared behind his sister and leaned down to speak to her. Whatever he said made her laugh and those eyes lit up from within. She turned and he took her hand and kissed it gently. Ned felt his stomach clench. Gods, she was Ser Arthur Dayne’s sister… what was he thinking? She would never look to him. He picked up his wine cup and drained its contents.

Suddenly, the sound in the hall lulled. Voices quietened, feasting halted and even the singers silenced. Every head in the room had turned towards the raised dais upon which the royal party were seated. Ned noticed King Aerys was not there – he could only assume he must have retired for the night – but all eyes were now on Prince Rhaegar.

The Crown Prince had his harp in his lap, one hand resting lightly on the strings, the other holding the instrument steady. He had tucked his silvery hair behind his ears and a look of concentration patterned his handsome face. His fingers played up a scale with expert precision.

“Ugh, he’s going to play that ridiculous harp,” Brandon hissed in Ned’s ear.

In a carrying voice, Rhaegar said, “I should like to give my thanks to Lord and Lady Whent for their remarkable hospitality on this eve and for hosting such a magnificent event.” His voice was more honest than Ned had expected it to be. “This tourney promises to be the grandest of our day, and I look forward to seeing the skill and talent that will no doubt be on display in the coming days. I also look forward to competing myself. But before the sun rises on the morrow and the competition begins, I would like to play you all a song. I have been practising this for some time and I believe it is now ready to be heard. I pray that you all enjoy it.”

Rhaegar’s hand stroked along the wooden arc of the harp, and then he began. Fluid notes filled the air. The Prince was good, Ned found himself thinking. He watched and listened; in Rhaegar’s lyrics a man named Azor Ahai sacrified his true love to create a sword that would slay all enemies. It was a melancholy tale.

As the song came to an end, Ned glanced at Lyanna and frowned in surprise. His sister was crying. Her eyes, bright and welling over, were fixed on the Prince. She blinked and two fat tears sped down her cheeks.

“Lya?” he asked softly, leaning towards her. His voice appeared to snap her out of her reverie and she wiped her cheeks hurriedly, sniffed, then blinked and blinked again. At the same time, the silence dissipated around them and a crescendo of voices and applause overwhelmed the quiet. Benjen hooted with laughter and pointed at Lyanna.

“You’re crying!” he crowed. Lyanna scowled.

“Shut up…” she threatened in a low, hissing voice. But Benjen just threw back his head and roared in delight. Unable to help himself, Ned began to chuckle too. “I said shut up!” Lyanna yelled. She grabbed up Brandon’s cup and tipped the entire contents all over Ben’s head; the wine sluiced through his hair and all down his white Stark surcoat, staining it deep red.

For a second, the Stark table fell silent. Benjen sputtered and blinked through tendrils of dripping hair. Then Brandon snorted and Ned felt laughter surge out of him. Even Howland Reed joined in.

“You asked for that,” said Lyanna, even as she handed her little brother a cloth to wipe his face.

“You should know not to make fun of our dear sister, Ben,” Brandon explained. “She’s like to make you seem rather foolish!”

The far end of the hall was being cleared noisily away by a host of servants and the singers began setting up their various instruments for the dance, odd, tuneless notes sounding out as they did so. Lords and knights were moving from their places and taking up positions along the walls. The torches were dimmed.

As the dancing began, Benjen disappeared to change his tunic and Brandon left the table to entreat several ladies to a dance. Ned, however, remained where he was. He watched couples come and go onto the floor; as the songs changed, the faces changed. Some seemed comfortable together, others more stilted and uncertain. Ashara Dayne danced with her brother, her dark hair gleaming in the torchlight. To Ned, it seemed like she was a swan amid a rash of starlings, beautiful beyond his wildest imaginings.

But he did not rise from his seat.

Lyanna got up and left again, Benjen returned and Ashara Dayne danced with two more. Finally, Brandon emerged from out of the darkness. “You’re still sitting here,” he observed. His face was flushed, but this time it was not from the wine.

“Where have you been?” asked Ned.

“I have been dancing! There are so many fine women here this night I fear I might never see my bed!” He grinned widely even as his eyes roved the faces around them.  

Arching his eyebrows, Ned regarded his brother thoughtfully. It was no secret that Brandon had bedded a number of women, even after his betrothal to Catelyn Tully had been announced. Their father had warned his eldest son to be careful that he didn’t spread his seed too widely – in Rickard Stark’s eyes, a bastard was a yoke around a lord’s neck – but Brandon appeared undeterred. The last Ned knew, he was spending much of his time in the company of Lady Barbrey Ryswell and just a few months before his name-day, rumours had swirled about that he had taken her maidenhead.

“What’s the matter, brother?” Brandon questioned.

Ned shook his head. He picked up his cup and took a drink; the wine tasted slightly sour. Brandon seated himself on the bench beside Ned, a little too close for comfort, and mirrored his brother’s actions with the wine cup. His grey eyes were merry. “You should come and dance,” he said after a moment.

“No,” said Ned.

Brandon slammed his fist onto the table so hard he made it shake. “This is ridiculous, Ned!” he exclaimed. “I am going to ask Ashara to dance with you myself.”

Before Ned could get a word of objection out, Brandon had swung his leg back over the bench and had loped off in the direction of the royal table, where Ashara Dayne was in conversation with some of her lady companions.

Half in horror, Ned watched as his brother confidently approached the Lady Ashara and sank to his knee. A few words were exchanged – Gods only knew what insult to his honour they contained – and then there was laughter between them, a touch of hands, a kissed knuckle and Brandon stood once again. When Ashara lifted her gaze in Ned’s direction, there was a hint of a smile upon her lips and she nodded. Brandon took her hand and led her over.

Ned found himself unable to look at them then, as they approached. In that moment, everything and everyone in the hall seemed more compelling and he took in Robert, engaged in a drinking match with a lord whose face he should have been able to put a name to, his father’s squire, Jory Cassel, telling bawdy jokes to anyone who would listen, and then his sister, standing in the shadows of the room, talking once again with Howland Reed, her finger pointing at a wiry looking squire with a shifty, nervous gaze.

And then she was there, before him, and her eyes were on him. They were deepest amethyst, he saw, and more enchanting than they had been when he saw them from across the room. Brandon stood between them. “My lady, this is my dear brother, Eddard Stark… Ned, this is Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall, who has given her consent to a dance.”

Ashara held out her hand and dumbly, Ned looked at it. His body seemed frozen. “Um, my lady, I am honoured,” he heard himself say. He swallowed, and took up her hand. He hoped she could not detect the shake in it.

“My lord.”

Brandon grinned and patted Ned on the back. “Enjoy yourself, brother,” he said before loping away.

Ned glanced at his brother’s receding back but then turned back to Ashara. Along her cheeks, the faintest of rose-pink blushes grew and she smiled at him, her eyes lit from within. In his chest, his heart raced. “I am sorry,” he began. “I…”

“My lord, your invitation was pleasant to hear, no matter who delivered it,” said Ashara. “I know the royal party can be intimidating.” She smiled and Ned felt his stomach unclench just a little at her kindness. He nodded in acknowledgement. A smile tugged gently at the corners of his lips.

“Shall we dance, my lady?”

“I should be delighted,” she murmured.

And so began the shortest love affair of Ned Stark’s life.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 5: LYANNA - Illicit Things

LYANNA

 

The dancing was in full flow when Lyanna decided to get away from the table for some fresh air. She slipped ghost-like through the arch of the hall’s great oaken doors, watching for Brandon, or anyone else of the Stark household likely to stop her.

Outside, the night was cool and clear, the sky patterned with stars, and a crescent moon was rising. Bats darted from Harrenhal’s huge towers and dived for insects above her head, their wing beats sounding like the mad fluttering of birds.

Lyanna breathed in deeply and filled her lungs. She wondered how long she could stay out here without her absence being noted. One time back at Winterfell she stayed up the entire night, evading her father’s men as they searched for her by hiding behind bales of hay in the stable yard and climbing the walls of the castle like a spider. The next morning, Lord Rickard’s fury at her disobedience had been a thing to behold, but Lyanna had endured it, biting her lip as her father made her promise not to behave so insolently again.

She didn’t think she would stay away from her bed this night though.

Despite her earlier reservations, she had enjoyed the feast, and was pleased to have made the acquaintance of Howland Reed, who had fascinated her with tales from his travels and of his homeland. She had made him swear that she could visit him at Greywater Watch as soon as she was able. As they had sat talking, he had pointed out the squires who had attacked him and Lyanna had etched their faces and allegiances onto her brain, thinking on what indignities she could make them suffer on the morrow.

And Benjen had deserved that cup of wine over his head, she thought. Her little brother was becoming more confident as he grew and he was no longer the sweet, guileless boy he had been. There was an intensity to him and he had a way of getting men, no matter how old their age, to do as he wished. She saw him for a lord commander one day.

She walked to the drawbridge. It was lowered, although four burly guards stood motionless and speechless beneath the bar. “Hello,” she greeted as she walked under the portcullis. One turned his head and nodded an acknowledgement, but the others ignored her, as guards tended to do when on duty. She moved out across the wooden bridge, her footsteps sounding as an echo in the quiet of the night, and once on the other side, leaned over the low wall to stare down at the moat.

Harrenhal’s moat was like everything else about the castle – vast. It dropped down like a mountain crevasse and a wide ribbon of black water lay darkly at the bottom. In daylight, fish could be seen breaking the water for gulps of air, but now it was the bats that dunked for biting insects across the surface.

Lyanna’s eyes were fixed on the little animals’ zipping motions when she heard footsteps on the bridge and lifted her head, half expecting to see that Brandon had come searching for her. But instead there stood Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

She stood up straight.

The Prince was dressed in the finest black doublet she had ever seen; the material was shot through with metallic thread that glimmered and caught the light like a thousand tiny stars. He wore white silken breeches and black boots, their leather polished to such a shine they gleamed, were on his feet. A cloak of white, embroidered with three twisting black and silver dragons, hung from his athletic shoulders.

“Lady Lyanna,” he greeted. He had stopped a few paces away from her, but she could clearly see his eyes smiling at her, even though his face was unreadable. “I had a thought I might find you out here.”

“Your Grace… You watched me leave?” Lyanna asked, trying not to think that unusual, and somewhat unsettling, behaviour. She had never known anyone other than the Winterfell household to pay her comings and goings much attention, and she had thought she would likely never speak to the Prince again after their afternoon meeting.

“I did,” he admitted. “I supposed you were taking leave of the festivities to get some fresh air, as I intended to do also, and here you are. I am proved correct.” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Lyanna arched an eyebrow in return. “And that pleases you?”

There was something strange in the air between them. Lyanna had always imagined that royalty would be difficult to talk to – she disliked the thought of constantly tripping over courtesies, wondering whether she had too much, or too little, been too brusque or frank, but she found she felt none of that. Rhaegar Targaryen made her feel surprisingly at ease.

He moved towards the low wall and leaned on it as she had done just moments earlier, his indigo eyes looking down at the moat. “It always pleases me when I am right,” he said. He didn’t look at her but his mouth quirked again. “I am not so different from other men.”

“You are the Crown Prince,” Lyanna said.

“Indeed. But I am also a man.”

There was a weighted pause, and then he started, pointing down into the moat. “There, look!” His shoulder nudged hers; Lyanna couldn’t help but flinch – you were not supposed to touch royalty. “See that?”

“What?”

“There!” He pointed again. And then she saw it: a bat had been skimming over the water and misjudged the dip to the surface to collect its insect prey. It had crashed in the water and was swimming in an ungainly fashion towards the grassy bank. A chuckle rumbled in the Prince’s chest. “Poor thing! I am sure it was not expecting that to happen.”

“It will be fine,” said Lyanna, relaxing a little as the Prince’s shoulder leaned slightly away from her. “It will crawl up to the castle wall and fly off again from there.”

“Unless a dog gets to it.”

“A lovely thought, Your Grace,” she said with a wry smile.

The Prince chuckled again.

“My lady, nature is but tooth and claw. Many bats will be caught by dogs before the morn.”

“I know that, but I didn’t need reminding of it.” Lyanna pouted. “Has His Grace enjoyed the feast?”

“It has passed with some amusement. I particularly enjoyed when you tipped that cup of wine over your brother’s head.”

Lyanna turned and stared at him. He was a curious individual. “You really have been watching me, haven’t you?”

The Prince said nothing. A moment passed, then he straightened and took a step away from Lyanna, his eyes steady on her. The flickering intensity behind them made a blush bloom on her cheeks. “The small council told me of your betrothal to Lord Robert Baratheon, my lady. I am surprised to find that you are not with him.”

Doing her utmost to maintain a neutral expression, Lyanna replied, “My lord is drinking with his bannermen and my brothers. But, once again, you are right, I should probably be returning to the castle.” She looked at the main gate; the huge walls of the castle looked even more imposing under moonlight.

“But you do not want to go…” It was a statement, not a question.

Lyanna drew in a breath. “I am learning the role of duty, Your Grace,” she said. “Though I confess, it is taking me some time.”

“Ah, duty,” the Prince said. “I know it well. I should also be returning. My men will have noticed my absence.” He smiled. “When one is the Crown Prince, slipping away for some time alone is rather more of a challenge than you might think.”

“You may have already noticed that I am no stranger to that challenge myself,” said Lyanna. She met his deep stare. “And you might also have noticed: you have not been alone.”

Rhaegar Targaryen laughed aloud then. “Clever as well as beautiful! “ He exclaimed. “I have been in the finest company, it is true. But now I must take my leave of you, my lady, and pray we meet again.”

He reached out and plucked up her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckle. It lasted just a second longer than it probably should have. And then, with a swish of a white cloak, he was gone and Lyanna stood alone.

She was absently rubbing her knuckle before she even realised she was doing it. As she caught herself, she dropped her hands to her sides and breathed out a steadying breath. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. He is the Prince. And he is a married man. What in the Seven Kingdoms would he want with you?   

Walking back to the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, she tried to stop thinking about what had just happened, but every time she dismissed the thoughts with an internal shout to never return, they poked their insistent heads back into her brain. Father would be furious if he knew the pattern of her thoughts, she told herself, and the Gods only knew what would be said.

Lyanna was so lost in her thoughts, she did not notice her brother appear in front of her and she walked smack into his chest, bouncing off him with a little ‘oof’. “Ned! I’m sorry, I…”

“…was day-dreaming,” Ned finished for her.

“Yes,” she admitted. She looked down at her boots, then laughed. “You should have got out of my way.”

“But of course, dear sister.” Ned’s eyes were smiling, and it seemed it was from more than their unexpected collision. “What have you been doing out here?”

A half-truth was best, she knew. Ned did not need to know the exact details of what she had been doing. “Getting a little fresh air; I was too hot in that place.”

“Me too,” he said. He ran his hands through his hair, a distasteful look crossing his face. “I feel like my skin is on fire.”

Ned did indeed look flushed. And a little discomfited, she thought. He tugged at the collar of his doublet, loosening it, then spread his arms out to let the cool night air wash over him. “Take me back to the North,” he muttered. “I am built for frost and snow, not this.”

He leaned against the keep wall and closed his eyes. “I am ready to retire if you are, Ned,” Lyanna offered. “Robert is well drunk by now. Our meeting will have to wait another day.”

“Yes,” said Ned, not clarifying to which statement he was agreeing. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and blew out a slow breath. He turned to Lyanna and held out his arm to her. “Let us retire, then.”

They walked slowly back to the Stark encampment in companionable silence. Ned seemed to be enjoying the vague night breeze on him so Lyanna did not rush him. Occasionally, he would look up at the star-filled sky but otherwise, his eyes remained fixed ahead of him.

The moonlight shone bright on the white fabric of their pavilions, and with no night breeze to lift them, the Stark banners hung down their poles, limp and unspectacular. “I hope you enjoyed the evening, Lya,” Ned said quietly as they reached her tent. “And I’m sorry Robert did not keep himself sober enough to talk with you.”

She smiled wanly. “I enjoyed it well enough, brother. There will be plenty of time to talk with Robert when we are married; I am sure it was just the excitement of the first night of the tourney that overcame him.”

Ned huffed softly and Lyanna could tell he was quite aware of the falseness behind her voice. “You are learning,” he said.

“Reluctantly,” admitted Lyanna.

He was bending to lift the flap on her tent when a noise made them both pause. A female voice spoke softly: “Everyone will hear…” Although the voice was quiet, there was excitement in the tone, a faint touch of laughter.

Ned’s back straightened.

The voice came again: “My Lord Stark--”

“Shhh… Keep your voice down, my lady.” Brandon’s low tones were unmistakable to both Ned and Lyanna. Their eyes met.

Footsteps were sounding on the ground now, coming towards them.

Reaching out, Lyanna grabbed Ned by the arm and pulled him sharply inside the tent. The flap fell down, obscuring them from view, but Lyanna grinned. “Ha, that’s Brandon, do you hear him?” she hissed. “Father will be furious if he’s brought some woman back with him. Did you hear him lecturing him about Barbrey Ryswell just after his name day?”

Ned shook his head.

Lyanna scooted around her brother until she was standing just behind the flap, peeking through the thin gap between the fabrics to look out.

“Lyanna,” Ned chastised. “Leave them alone.”

She made a face. This is much too good to walk away from, she thought. It would be enough defence for a lifetime if she saw Brandon doing something he had been expressly forbidden to do – never again would her big brother be able to threaten her with anything, because she could simply stand and remind him of his indiscretion this night. She sighed in delight with the sheer mischief of it all.

The footsteps stopped. And then there was another sound. Soft, wet and punctuated with a quiet female moan.

Brandon and whichever girl he had with him were kissing just beyond the tent flap.

Lyanna opened her mouth in exaggerated amusement at Ned and mouthed, “He’s kissing her!”

Ned said nothing and Lyanna knew then that he wasn’t going to pull her away.

Brandon’s brawny back was visible, and a pair of delicate female hands was wrapped around his waist. There were jewels on this woman’s hands. She was no whore.

“My lady,” Brandon said. His voice was breathy. There was another kiss, the sound of cloth moving against cloth. “Come inside with me.”

“No… I…” The woman’s voice was quiet, but there was reluctance in her rejection.

“I beg you, my lady. I am like to suffer endlessly if you do not consent. Your beauty… I am astounded. It would be a crime for it to be wasted behind a veil of virtue.”

Lyanna glanced at Ned; there was a look of distaste on his solemn face. She knew her brother was an honourable man – perhaps too honourable, on occasion, for his own good – and she knew that he oftentimes disapproved of Brandon’s hedonistic and heedless nature. “Should we stop him?” Lyanna whispered.

In a low voice, Ned replied, “If I dare to stop him, he will not take it kindly.” He looked down at his arm, still held in its sling. “And I am in no condition to fight him off. Leave them be,” he instructed and he began to turn away.

But Lyanna stayed, eyes fixed on the gap in the tent wall, for just a moment longer. Long enough to see Brandon step backwards and catch the face of the woman he was with.

A pretty, elfin face, framed by long hair darker than the midnight sky, and deepest purple eyes. “Oh, Gods, Ned…” she hissed. “It’s Lady Ashara Dayne!”

Ned froze. His back was to Lyanna, but she saw something in the tensing of his muscles even before he turned and showed her his face. “What?” he said.

She looked back through the opening to check she hadn’t been mistaken. She grinned. “It is! Ser Arthur Dayne’s sister, Lady Ashara! And now they’re going into his tent!”

When she turned back to her brother, she saw that Ned’s face had gone pale and hard. His eyes, normally the soft grey of doves’ wings, had gone steely cold. He stepped forward and pushed her aside, looking for himself. And then abruptly, he spun on his heel, marched into the middle of Lyannna’s tent and stopped dead. He raised his hands to his face and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

He drew in a slow, tight breath.

Lyanna frowned at his behaviour. “Brother?” she asked in question. She watched in concern as his hands fell from his face and clenched into fists at his side. “Are you all right?”

She moved around to face him. He swallowed and looked at her, although it seemed to Lyanna that he wasn’t really seeing her. “I am fine, dearest Lya.” He cleared his throat and blinked a couple of times in quick succession. Within seconds, he was all business again, that icy façade he kept over his emotions slipped back in place. “I had thought to talk with Brandon, but that will have to wait.”

Nodding, Lyanna agreed. “Probably best to keep out of his tent for a while.”  

While she unpinned her hair and shook it free, Ned poured himself a cup of mead-wine and drank it down in one long mouthful. Something had thrown him, Lyanna could tell, but to ask him about it now would be futile. Ned was an intensely private man, who shared his thoughts and feelings rarely and with few. If he wished to speak about it, she knew, he would do so in his own good time.

He said nothing when he placed the cup down on the low table it had come from, but went to her, kissed her gently on the cheek and smoothed a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Lya, I hope you know how I love you,” he said in a voice that seemed laden with sadness.

Lyanna frowned. “I know, Ned.” She forced a smile, in hopes of making him forget whatever ailed him. “And you are my favourite brother.”

He looked so forlorn standing there before her that she reached out and wrapped him in her arms, pressing her cheek against his hard chest. His heart was thudding dully. His hand rested briefly on her head, then he kissed her hair. “Get some sleep,” she told him and he nodded.

In the morning, she hoped, things would seem better.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 6: EDDARD - The Mad King

EDDARD

 

Ned had always been cursed with waking early; when his mother had still been alive, she had often spoken of how as a babe he would scream and cry as soon as the light broke, refusing to quiet until he was plucked from his cradle and allowed to see the dawn. This morning, it seemed, was no different. He woke just as the sun was rising over Harrenhal’s great towers having slept a dead and dreamless sleep all night. Howland Reed was still slumbering in the makeshift bed they had assembled for him on the floor of Ned’s tent, so he dressed and stole quietly outside.

As he passed Brandon’s tent, he heard his brother’s soft snores from within; he wondered if Ashara was still there with him or whether she had crept back to her own rooms in the night. Half of him wished to march into Brandon’s tent and drag his brother from his bed, shouting about honour and virtue; the other half knew it would be a foolhardy venture. If he did, Brandon would be furious, and he would likely end up with a split lip to add to his injured arm; besides it would change little.

He thought of Catelyn Tully then, and considered if she would ever know of this. He hoped not. And then he thought of Lyanna, whom he had told that Robert Baratheon would keep to his word. Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man’s nature, she had replied, and now he found himself wondering if perhaps she had been right.

Brandon’s nature was set in stone.

He broke his fast slowly and alone. He began to hear the sounds of men rising, and soon after he heard the sounding of the bugle indicating the opening of the lists. Safe in its sling, his arm felt comfortable, the night’s rest having done the bone-deep ache good. He doubted he would have enough strength in it to wield a weapon, though.

But while ever the thought was in his head, he couldn’t be sure until he’d held his sword and tried the strength in his arm himself.

He stopped briefly at Lyanna’s tent, half-expecting to find her breaking her fast with her handmaid, but the tent was deserted. Oddly, Benjen’s padded grey gambeson was laid out across her bed, one arm inside out, as if it had been removed in a hurry. Benjen was nowhere to be seen. Ned looked around. He wondered if his little brother had been showing off the new garb their father had had made for him recently, but on closer inspection, he saw that this was an old item, the padding bruised and buffed by the impact of wooden swords.

He dismissed the find from his mind – perhaps Benjen had convinced Lyanna to practise some swordplay with him – and instead returned to his own tent. Howland Reed was gone from there also, the pile of furs and blankets he had borrowed folded neatly upon Ned’s own bed.

Standing in the clearest space, he untied the sling that held his arm steady. He tested the movement in his shoulder with a few slow turns. The muscles pulled a little, but the pain had receded. He had left his sword belt off until now; he picked it up and slung it around his waist. He sheathed his dirk and then reached for his longsword.

His fingers closed around the hilt and with a small grimace, he lifted the sword’s weight. His arm shook with the effort, but he managed to sheath the blade and then withdraw it again. He smiled at his success; he’d grown so used to wearing his weapons that he felt half-naked without them.

The tent flap lifted and Robert walked in. He seemed none the worse for his heavy drinking the night before, his cheeks ruddy and his eyes bright with anticipation. “I thought I saw you come back here… Good morning, Ned!” he boomed. “The lists are open.” He glanced at Ned shakily holding his sword with his injured arm and watched as he replaced it at his side. “How is your arm? I hope you are fit enough to enter.”

Ned made a face. “Well, I could not hold a lance, that is for sure. A sword? Perhaps. And if my opponent was a girl I might have a chance of beating her.”

Robert’s grin faded. “Could you not enter the mêlée?” he asked. “That is two days hence.”

“I don’t know… I do not wish to injure myself further. This is my sword arm we are talking about.” Robert’s expression was guilty and Ned laughed. “Robert, do not worry. If I have to sit out this tourney, so be it. I am sure things will proceed quite adequately without me. Are you entering joust and sword?”

Robert seemed appeased. “I had thought to, but perhaps I should concentrate on the sword. I’m told there are a great many strong competitors in the joust.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Robert Baratheon I know,” said Ned with a smile.

“No, it does not, but I also do not like the sound of failure. And unlike your dear brother, I do not fancy my chances against Rhaegar Targaryen. So, I think I shall stick to the sword and mêlée.” Robert patted his sheathed blade to confirm his decision. “Walk with me to the Lists?” he asked.

They stepped out into the daylight. Ned let Robert lead the way to where a pair of scribes were busy writing names on parchment and a line of lords and knights wound its way along the tourney grounds. Men were busy checking the newly installed guard rail and the area was being swept clear of stones. The sound of thundering hooves filled the air as squires warmed up their masters’ mounts in the field opposite.

“There’s Arthur Dayne,” rumbled Robert as they stood in the slow-moving line. “Would that I could pit myself against him!”

Ned followed Robert’s gaze, thinking of Ashara’s bold and fearless brother, the inimitable Sword of the Morning. The man’s white cloak and armour were clearly identifiable amidst the browns, greys and buffs of the other gathered knights. Like Ashara, he was tall, dark of hair and had an impressive physical form – all high cheekbones and fine bone. He had a quiet authority about him, though, and walked with an easy grace that belied his size. 

“The Sword of the Morning? Robert, the man could beat you with one hand tied behind his back.”

Robert grunted. It was clear that he was unimpressed with Ned’s candour. “You should give thought to joining the Kingsguard, Ned,” he said, eyes still fixed on Arthur Dayne. “All those vows would suit you.”

Ned shook his head. “It’s the Wall for Northmen.”

“The Wall? Now there’s a grim place. Not that I suppose that wouldn’t suit you just as well. One of these days, Ned, my friend, I swear I will melt some of that ice you keep beneath your skin!” Robert’s arm clapped around his shoulder and he stepped closer, whispering loudly, “I am told you were dancing with the lovely Lady Ashara last night.”

Looking away, Ned did his best to keep his face neutral. “I do not wish to talk about it, Robert.”

“And why not? She is a most beautiful lady.” Robert’s grin was growing wider as he observed Ned’s discomfort. “And we all know what these Dornish girls are like! They like their sheets to be kept warm.” Robert paused. “But I can see this is making you cringe. Perhaps you ought to consider taking a woman to your bed, Ned. Gods be good, you could do with a little warmth, even if it is only in between your sheets!”

They had reached the end of the line and Ned waited while Robert signed his name to the Lists. Arthur Dayne had vanished and Ned was pleased that Robert appeared no longer interested in his dance with Ashara, his attention sufficiently distracted by the news that his first opponent in the sword would be none other than Ser Richard Lonmouth, with whom he had been playing drinking games the previous night.

The sword contest did not begin until the afternoon, so Robert suggested finding a good place in the gallery to watch the jousting. The early rounds of tilts were generally of poorer quality, the riders less skilled, and so there would be a smaller audience, although judging by the number of servants fussing with draperies and standards bedecked with the three-headed Targaryen dragon, the King would be in attendance nonetheless.

“It appears we are to be joined by the Mad King himself,” Robert observed as they took their seats. “I wonder why he’s here anyway? This was Rhaegar’s doing, wasn’t it?”

Ned ignored Robert’s provocative statement and replied coolly, “I thought Lord Whent had organised the tournament to parade his sons and daughter and make known his wealth.”

Robert stared at Ned then roared with laughter. “You are a damnable man, Ned Stark. You refuse to be drawn on anything.”

They watched the first few rounds of jousting with few other lords and ladies in attendance, and then the King appeared and took his seat in the royal box. Aerys was gaunt and haggard, although his man-servants had done their best to tidy his appearance by brushing his straggly silver hair and beard, and his shoulders hunched over in a mistrustful manner.

But it was his eyes that made Ned uneasy.

He had seen common folk in the Winter Village suffering from the madness of age, their pale grey eyes seeming to see nothing or everything. That had been sad, and distressing, but the look the King bore in his lilac eyes was enough to frighten even the boldest man.

King Aerys’s eyes bulged from his bony skull; the great dark shadows beneath them made them seem to sink deeper than usual in the face, and like a nervous animal, the pupils switched constantly. Sometimes his stare would fall upon a person or thing that aroused his attention, and then a sneer would grow on his lips. If the rumours Robert had heard about Rhaegar’s plan to relieve his father of kingship were indeed true, Ned could understand why.

The King’s arrival seemed to swell the ranks of watchers, and when Rhaegar slipped quietly into the royal box and seated himself to the right of his father, more gathered. The Prince was dressed simply in black ringmail and tunic, a short cloak of fiery red swinging from his shoulders. In contrast with Aerys’s unkempt appearance, Rhaegar was the epitome of nobility and grace. Several womenfolk in the audience could be seen pointing him out to their companions.

Father and son exchanged a few words, then turned their attention to the jousting. Ser Gerold Hightower put the eldest Whent boy on his back in quite spectacular fashion, and the commons cheered wildly for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Aerys watched, impassive. He seemed uninterested in the entire event, but at the same time, Ned noticed, he watched his son with eagle-like eyes. Rhaegar, for his part, appeared unfazed by his father’s mistrustful attentions and merely clapped politely whenever a victor paraded himself before the royal box.

Robert caught him looking up at the king and leaned in to speak in a low voice: “He’s going to do something unforgiveable, Jon says. Something that will send waves through the entire realm.”

“I can believe it,” said Ned.

Aerys had turned his switching gaze onto the tourney again and was stroking his clawed fingernails with long, meticulous strokes. “Do you believe the Prince would ever depose his father?”

Ned breathed out a sigh. He looked at Rhaegar, sitting so unobtrusively beside his father. From what he knew of the Prince, he was a quiet, studious man, who preferred book-reading and music-making to warring. Ned admired that.

There was something intense about Rhaegar, as if his eyes saw more than others; some called it his inborn melancholy; others said he was obsessed with myth, magic and prophecy. Whatever it was, it made his dark lilac eyes seem fathomless. “I do not know,” Ned replied. “Aerys would not go easily. Rhaegar would have to kill him.”

Nodding in agreement, Robert said, “And so we suffer the fancies of a madman.”

Another competitor came out and Robert’s eyes drifted back to the tourney. By their sigils, the knights competing this time were another Whent and a Frey. In a flurry of hooves and flying streamers, the two collided with a sickening thump and the black bat ended up spread-eagled on the ground, groaning. His horse wheeled away in fright and galloped out of the tourney field. Robert applauded heartily. “Good job!” he shouted. Ned shook his head; he recognised the Frey man from Howland Reed having pointed him and his squire out the night before.

“Why are you cheering for House Frey? They are nothing but an honourless nest of rats.”

“The man put Edmyn Whent on his back!” Robert rejoined. “His strike was clean. Whent let his arm fall as he neared his approach; his lance didn’t even touch.”

Ned narrowed his eyes but kept quiet. In this moment, Robert saw only the man’s skill as a warrior, and nothing Ned could say would change that.

The next two contests were unremarkable: broken lances, but no riders unhorsed, and losers and victors alike trotted away unscathed. By then, it was nearing noon and Robert was growing restless to get to the sword ring. He was predicting little resistance from his opponents and a swift advancement to the second day when Brandon hurdled up the steps to the viewing gallery and sat himself down next to Ned.

The King startled nervously at the new arrival and turned a suspicious stare towards Brandon.

“Dear brother…  Robert,” he greeted. He was out of breath and his forehead glistened with a thin film of sweat. He wore polished ringmail beneath a fine grey and white surcoat with the Stark direwolf emblazoned on it. His dark hair was swept back off his face and tied with a leather switch. He looked as handsome as ever as he grinned and turned his attention to the next joust about to begin. “Forgive me, I have been training. It seems Prince Rhaegar has granted me and all the other previous tourney champions a bye to the third day so our opponents will be more challenging. I have been using the time to practice. My horse threw a shoe so my squire had to take him to the smith.”

Doing his best to maintain a cool manner, Ned listened to his brother’s excuses for his absence, then replied, “It is good to see you, Brandon.”

He suspected Brandon did not even know that Ned had seen him taking Ashara Dayne into his tent, and he was quite content to allow that ignorance to continue. What good would it do him to create a scene? If he was feeling bold later in the evening, or had drunk enough wine, he might ask Brandon whether he had taken a woman to his bed and see if there was a reaction. If there was one thing about Brandon, his face showed his feelings like a zorse showed its stripes.

“What news so far?” Brandon asked, inclining his head toward the contest. “This is Florent versus Lannister, yes?”

“Indeed,” replied Robert. His eyes were not on Brandon but on the two knights readying their mounts at either end of the lists. “And it seems Lord Whent’s boys ought to be putting in some more practice themselves. His lordship is down to two sons still left in the competition. And I would not be surprised if Willam and Royden go the same way before the close.”

“Royden is very green. He was squiring for Hoster Tully just a year ago.”

At the mention of the Tully name, Ned jumped in, “And how is Catelyn, brother?”

“Oh, she is well. I stopped at Riverrun on my way to Harrenhal and Lord Hoster is keen to begin marriage preparations finally. He feels Catelyn is of an age now. Although I think the old man was simply unwilling to part with his daughter – and who could blame him! She is a beauty!” Brandon’s answer was fluid and showed no signs of being at all ill at ease. He turned back to Robert. “And I was pleased to hear your good news, too, Robert. My sister is delighted to have been matched with you.”

Ned watched Robert’s eyes sparkle with pride at Brandon’s approval. With Lyanna on his arm, Robert would likely be the envy of a great many men in the Seven Kingdoms and it was clearly a thought that pleased him immensely. Ned wondered for a moment if his friend really believed Brandon’s words that Lyanna was overjoyed at their betrothal or whether he was just swept away with the idea of it. Either way, he suspected neither his father nor Brandon had cared to share Lyanna’s real opinion of the match to Robert.

“I understand Lord Rickard wishes to delay the marriage until Lyanna is sixteen? Although I confess to hoping he can be persuaded to make it sooner instead.”

Nodding, Brandon explained, “My lord father is worried Lyanna is too young and inexperienced of life to be a good wife.”

“Many girls are made happy brides at a younger age,” said Robert.

“True. But then many girls are not my sister.”

There was something proud about Brandon’s voice then and Ned was reminded of his brother’s great many virtuous characteristics. Like every man, Brandon had his flaws, but he was loyal to the end and fiercely protective of his own. He loved Lyanna dearly and would never let any harm come to her.

The bugle blew and before them, the two knights spurred their horses and rushed at each other. There was a tremendous crash as both lances met their targets and splintered, the wood raining down around their heads in shards. The knight bearing the lion of Lannister swayed in his seat, but managed to keep his balance and rein in his horse. “The King has called Jaime Lannister to the Kingsguard,” said Robert. “His cloaking ceremony is scheduled for the close of the tourney this evening.”

“I shall not be attending,” Brandon replied coolly.

“You disapprove of the appointment?” Robert is fishing for controversy once again, Ned thought, and with Brandon he is like to get a better discussion than if he’d broached the matter with me.  

“I would not trust a Lannister with my life for all the gold in Casterly Rock. There must be another reason for the King to have bestowed a white cloak on the man.”

Behind them, Aerys got to his feet, grumbling. He spat a few insults at his page, then descended the steps of the royal box and departed. Two of the Kingsguard followed him dutifully. Rhaegar watched his father leave, then shook his head and whispered something to the page. For the briefest of moments, Ned’s eyes met the Crown Prince’s and Rhaegar acknowledged the look with a smile and a nod, then returned his gaze to the tourney.

“The sword is due to begin in an hour, Robert,” reminded Ned. Robert had become quite engaged with Brandon’s willingness to discuss gossip and had clearly forgotten the time; he looked at the sun, high in the sky above the castle, and then rose to his feet.

“I’m afraid I must be taking my leave,” Robert said. Brandon nodded and rose also. “You would all be most welcome at my table this evening, my lord Stark.” He grinned. “Remember that I am still eager to meet the lovely Lady Lyanna.”

Brandon placed his hand on Robert’s thick shoulder. “That sounds like a fine idea! We would be honoured, wouldn’t we, Ned?”

“Indeed,” replied Ned.

They descended the gallery steps and made their way to the sword ring.

 

To be continued...

 

Chapter 7: LYANNA - An Honourable Revenge

LYANNA

 

The armour was the hardest part.

Lyanna was of average height for a girl of fifteen; but where most knights were strong and broad-shouldered, she was skinny and slight, though her muscles were tight as wires.

First, she tried the armoury, scavenging like a furtive animal through the stacks of breastplates and helms to no avail. Everything was either too big or too heavy.

It was then that she resorted to altogether more devious means. Donning her cloak and lifting the hood, she began to slip in and out of tents, searching for bits and pieces she could cobble together to form a full suit of armour. On several occasions, she was very nearly caught and escaped only because she was listening out for footsteps or voices.

She took her hoard piece by piece back to her tent and when she had finally collected all she needed, sat down with her loot. It was a mish-mash to say the least. Some bits were nearly new, cast for the young sons of lords or knights and gleaming brightly with lack of use, but other pieces were old and rusting, dented or chipped. She was pulling on Benjen’s gambeson when Howland Reed entered the tent. Lyanna startled – she had been listening so carefully she was amazed the little crannogman had managed to sneak up on her.

“You scared me!” she chastised, one of the leg greaves she had pilfered held guiltily in her hand.

“My lady, I did not mean to. I simply saw you returning with your… stash… and wished to see the final product.” He looked apprehensively at the pile of metal plate beside her. “Are you certain this is wise?”

“Oh, it’s not wise,” declared Lyanna, “but it is tremendous fun! Can you just imagine the looks on those knights’ faces when I tell them my ransom?” She laughed aloud. “Teach your squires honour, I shall say! Ha!”

Howland Reed moved towards the helm she had procured from a young squire of one of the lesser houses and picked it up. It was made of poor quality steel, and was dull and flawed. “You sound very confident, my lady.”

“I am! I snuck a look at the early stages this morning and the standard is quite low. And besides, jousting is three-quarters good riding skills and one quarter aim. Father has let me practice at rings these last two years so I have a decent enough aim, and I can ride better than my brother Brandon, although he would never admit it.” 

“But if you should be hurt…”

“I shan’t,” said Lyanna. “I will lift my chin at the last minute. I will make sure I keep my aim steady and my horse will be completely under my control. And I shall have all of this to protect me.” She waved her hand expansively at the bits and pieces of armour patterning the ground.

Lord Reed looked doubtful then, as he watched her begin to try on every mismatched piece she had gathered. But when she struggled with some of the fastenings, he helped her. Soon, she was armoured up and standing before him testing out her range of movement. It felt strange to be stuck inside a steel cage like this – she wondered how her brothers put up with it and could understand why Ned preferred sword-fighting to jousting.

“You look the part, my lady.”

Lyanna grinned, although she knew her expression could not be seen through the steel helm. “I do?” Her voice sounded deeper through the helm too. She chuckled at herself and repeated the words again, this time dropping her voice as low as it would go and shouting out, “I do!”

“Very impressive – no-one could tell it was you under all that,” said Reed. “Not even your own brothers.”

“Well, that is the test. I have to fool my brothers more than anyone else. If Brandon finds out I will have all seven of the hells to pay.”

She turned about in a circle and walked a few paces backwards, then another couple forwards, bending at the waist in every direction. The armour made each movement sound out loudly; it would be impossible to do anything quietly dressed like this.

“Will you be able to wield a lance and sit a horse in it?” the crannogman asked.

“I think so,” said Lyanna. “There’s actually quite a bit of movement possible.”

“But there’s something missing…”

“Missing?” she questioned, then looked down at her steel-clad body and continued doubtfully, “I don’t think I could get anything else on me.”

Howland Reed moved away, out of Lyanna’s sight, and then returned a moment later. “How about this?”

In his hand was a wooden shield, painted green, with a white weirwood emblazoned on its front side. The weirwood had on it a red face, and it was laughing in sheer joy. “For you, my lady. My favour, if you like.”

Stunned, Lyanna removed her helm and took the shield from Reed. It was expertly crafted, cut to a perfect size and weight for her arm, and the device upon its face was enchanting. “It’s a weirwood,” she said. Her finger traced the design. “A laughing weirwood.”

Reed nodded. “I saw one like this on the Isle of Faces this last winter. There are many weirwoods with carved faces there, but this tree held a special power for me. Every time I prayed beneath it, my prayers were granted.”

Lyanna was intrigued. She had never taken that much stock by the old Gods. They always seemed very fickle with their attentions, she thought, and although her father insisted that she paid her respects to them, she had oftentimes wondered what the point was when they seemed to listen to no man. Not that she believed the Seven were any better. As far as she could see, you were the master of your own fate. But, it seemed for Howland Reed, the old Gods were important, like they were for Ned. “Have you visited the heart tree at Harrenhal?” she asked.  

“I have, and I have prayed at its base for the Gods to bless you with strength and accuracy. We will see if, on the morrow, Harrenhal’s heart tree is as generous with its prayer-granting as this tree was.” He rapped the shield with his knuckles and smiled warmly at Lyanna. She arched her eyebrow at him.

“Are you implying, my lord, that I need the assistance of the old Gods if I am to succeed?” She kept her tone jovial, her mood light. Howland Reed did not, however, smile in return. Instead he regarded her with a thoughtful air, his green eyes soft and knowing.

“I think your courage is plain for all to see,” he said. “And perchance it will be enough, but I believe in giving fate as much of a helping hand as is possible without seen to be cheating. Hopefully, the Gods will be good and those squires will receive their lesson, one way or another.”

Lyanna laughed. “If a helping hand is bearing this sigil in the tourney tomorrow, then I would gladly do so.” She brandished the shield and dropped to a fighting stance. “I shall defend your honour nobly, my lord.”

“Why, thank you, kind ser,” said the little crannogman, and his eyes lit from within.

The following morning dawned bright and sunny once more. The spell of fine weather was the best that had been seen in some time and the whole castle was alive with talk of spring. Swallows were in the sky, dipping and diving for flying insects, and the puffy seeds of dandelions drifted on the little breezes.

Lyanna rose early and broke her fast before the rest of the Stark household even stirred. Her nerves were jangling. She had slept fitfully all night, thoughts of what she was intending to do whirling in her head and making her heart beat so wildly she could hear its pulse in her ears. She had even been distracted the night before, when she and her brothers had dined with Robert Baratheon. It was a meeting Lyanna had been thinking on since her lord father had brought her news of her betrothal, but she had found her mind occupied with thoughts entirely different to those she had imagined. 

Over dinner, the Lord of Storm’s End had been as gracious as Ned had suggested he would be, dropping to one knee and taking her hand to kiss in greeting when she arrived. Lyanna had been expecting to find her betrothed abhorrent, but was surprised to discover that he was not. Near six and a half feet tall, Robert Baratheon was broad-shouldered, long-legged and as strong as any man she had ever laid eyes upon. His smiling face was pleasant to look upon, although there was hardness to his jaw that suggested stubbornness. From his confident, commanding demeanour, Lyanna suspected he was used to getting his own way, and by the time the evening came to an end, she could understand why so many women had fallen between his sheets.

And so she had played the dutiful maiden as he sat her beside him at the head of his table, kept her wine-cup full and offered her the choicest cuts of meat. His praise for her beauty had been fulsome and frank, but she had felt nothing when she looked into his blue eyes.

After they had eaten, Brandon had excused himself, saying nothing about where he was going, leaving Ned, Lyanna and Benjen to talk on. Ned seemed to enjoy Robert’s company – he was apparently quite content to be partially eclipsed by Robert’s vigour and bluster, as if he could shelter at ease in the man’s great shadow. She supposed that was what true friendship was like – two characters fitting to each other side by side.  

While they laughed and talked, Lyanna sat quiet and thought through every possible eventuality that could befall her on the morrow. In her head, she imagined galloping lines, angles, distances, striking zones, and then, what she would do if things didn’t go to plan. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but still, it was wise to consider her escape route.

She thought of running, and of hiding, or of begging her brothers to help her, but finally settled on disappearing into the ether, forever to remain a mystery. She would quietly return her armour to its rightful owners so it couldn’t be missed, and dispose of the shield somewhere in the vast Godswood.

When Ned had forced one too many yawns back, she asked if they could leave and he had begged her forgiveness for allowing time to run away from him. Robert had kissed her cheek as they left and the smell of wine had been strong on his breath. “My lord, it was a pleasure to have met you,” she had said, then turned and left, her arm tucked tightly into her brother’s.

But recalling last night was not helping her now, she realised. She had to steel her nerves and think clearly. Riding out always helped her with that, so she went to the stable yard and had one of the lads saddle Blizzard for her. While there, she nosed around the horses, seeing which ones belonged to which knights, which were horses of the Whent household and which were from the royal party. A large bay courser caught her eye. It had good bone, a strong back and seemed to have an honest eye. She reached out and stroked the white blaze that ran down its nose and it snorted softly.

The stable-hand called her to say that Blizzard was ready and she asked him who the courser belonged to. “That horse was bought by Lord Whent for his youngest son to joust with, on his return from Riverrun,” he replied, “but he has proved unsuitable for Royden. He is a stallion, yet to be gelded, and likes his head a bit too much. I believe Lord Whent is planning to sell him on again.”

Lyanna nodded. The horse seemed genuine enough and something about the look in his eye made Lyanna feel confident he wouldn’t shy away from a rushing lance. “He’s well trained and sound?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, m’lady, trained by the Harrenhal Master of Horse himself, and most certainly sound.”

“Thank you,” she said and dismissed the lad. She took Blizzard’s reins, mounted, and with one last look over her shoulder at the bay courser, rode out of the stable yard.

She rode for nearly an hour until she came upon the great heart tree of the Harrenhal Godswood. Its trunk was so wide if she wrapped her arms around it they would barely reach half way. White branches like many finger bones stretched up to the sky, and the blood-red leaves quivered in the breeze.

But it was not its width, the branches or the leaves that held her gaze – it was the terrible face carved into the trunk. Lyanna had seen many weirwoods in her lifetime, but this was far and away the most chilling. She felt her eyes narrowing as she stared at the red, red eyes and the sneering mouth. It was as if the face was staring right back at her, alive and full of hate.

She wondered who had carved its dreadful visage; whoever he was, he must surely have had nothing but loathing in his heart for this world.

Compelled, Lyanna slipped from her horse and dropped to her knees before the tree. When she had done this before, back in Winterfell, she had always felt like she was doing it because it was her duty, what her father had told her to do, not what she wished to do of her own accord. But she suddenly realised that, as she knelt before the Harrenhal heart tree, she was doing it because she was filled up with reverence.

She closed her eyes and prayed.

She prayed for her father, Brandon, Ned and Benjen. She prayed for her future and for her past, for the ghosts of her mother and her forefathers. She prayed for Winterfell and the North. And then she prayed for herself. She prayed that the Gods would keep her arm steady and her aim accurate, that her horse would be swift and sure and that her courage would not fail her. But most of all, she prayed that she would live to see another day.

When she opened her eyes again, the tree was still staring redly at her. She thought of what Howland Reed had said about the weirwoods on the Isle of Faces and about the one he had painted on her shield. She hoped her prayers would be answered as his had been.

The wind had picked up and the leaves rustled in agitation as she mounted her horse again and, with one last look over her shoulder at the Harrenhal heart tree, headed back to the castle.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 8: EDDARD - The Knight of the Laughing Tree

EDDARD

Ned cared little for the puffed-up splendour of the knights who paraded around pretending to ride for the honour of countless pretty girls. This playing at war that men did often left a sour taste in his mouth; he knew that when war came for real, there were no heralds, no trumpets and certainly no beautiful maidens cheering you on. But while ever there was jousting to watch, a crowd always gathered, and the mood was always light and cheerful, and Ned found that as seductive as anyone else.

Brandon had been in fine form all morning, and his laughter and good mood had convinced Ned to forgive his brother his indiscretions. Robert, too, had been joking. He had done well in the sword competition, and had advanced to the semi-finals, where he would face Ser Gerold Hightower in two days hence. His achievement had elated him and he was like a kite flying high.    

“Where is the beautiful Lyanna, Ned?” he asked as he returned to his seat. He was between Ned and Lord Dustin in the gallery, picking fault with each new challenger and jesting sarcastically at every loser.

“She has gone back to her tent,” said Ned. “She did not sleep well last night.”

Robert’s laughter rolled out of him in a growing wave. The sun had caught him the day before and his cheeks were glowing and reddened. “Neither did I; all I could think on was her face and her…”

“Robert…” Ned interrupted, quietly. “Please remember she is my sister.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, dropping his head, momentarily chastised. Lord Dustin eyed him pointedly and hushed him. “I forget myself. Still… she must need her rest to keep so comely.”

“I shall tell her your praises,” Ned replied.

The rebuke quickly forgotten, Robert slapped him on the back. “I would rather tell her myself tonight, dear friend, when I have her in my arms on the dance floor!”

The day was warm and fine, with pollen floating in the air, and Ned was relaxed. His arm was hurting him much less than it had earlier, although the limb still felt unusually heavy and uncooperative. They had watched the field narrow to five champions – all the four sons of Lord Whent had been defeated and the reigning champions were lined up at the end of the lists. Brandon and the other past tourney winners were due to enter the field on the morrow, whereupon things would surely become even more exciting. Ned doubted that any of the present champions would still reign by the end of the third day, after they had faced the likes of his brother, Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord Yohn Royce and Ser Barristan Selmy.

For his part, Brandon had been practising intensely over the last few days, vowing that he was going to put Rhaegar on his back if nothing else. He seemed like a man possessed. He would listen to neither reason nor sense and was single-minded in his pursuit. Ned foresaw only disappointment. The last two occasions Brandon had faced Prince Rhaegar, he had been unhorsed at the first tilt.

They were all deep in conversation when, as the close of day drew near, a hush fell over the crowd. The last few tilts had been poor to say the least, with luck playing more of a part than skill, and Robert’s patience had been waning – on more than one occasion he had threatened to get up and leave, despite the King’s Herald having not signalled the end of the day. Ned looked up.

Standing beside a bay courser at the far end of the field was a diminutive knight, clad in mish-mash armour. Upon his shield was a strange device: a laughing weirwood.

“Who is that?” Robert hissed, his interest flaring.

“Nobody I know,” replied Lord Dustin.

Ned stared down the lists. There was something familiar about the knight’s stance and the easy sureness with which he held his mount’s reins. “A mystery knight…” he said with a frown.  

The knight mounted his steed alone in one smooth movement, and then kicked his horse into a trot. The horse duly obeyed, and the knight moved towards the royal box. As he passed, he dipped his lance at the King and Prince Rhaegar, and then rode to where the day’s champions were awaiting challengers.

With a bold arm, he pointed at three of them: Ser Leslyn Haigh, Ser Rolan Blount and Ser Emmon Frey.

Ned glanced around. Suspicion was beginning to niggle at him; neither his sister nor the crannogman were in sight. Could it be? The King was sitting bolt upright in his throne seat, his eyes narrowed and intent on the knight with the laughing weirwood shield. His long fingernails were twitching. Beside him, Rhaegar’s face was as tense with thought as Ned suspected his own was.

A herald rushed out from the side-lines. He blew his trumpet, then introduced the competitors. He rattled off Ser Leslyn Haigh’s name and lineage like it was a dull page from a hefty tome, but when he came to the mystery knight, his voice lifted and sang forth: “Your Graces, my lords and ladies, a knight has come before us with no known name, his face hidden from view. His sigil is a weirwood tree with a laughing face; henceforth this mystery knight shall be known as the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

The cheers from the crowd resounded loud, accompanied by the stomping of feet and the clapping of hands. A mystery knight would always invoke great excitement, but it seemed this one was received with more than the usual interest. The singers often sang of the underdog who triumphed, thought Ned as he looked on the knight’s short stature. The big bay courser he rode made him seem even smaller.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree turned his horse at the end of the lists. The animal was fighting for its head, snorting and pawing the ground, but its rider had it well in control with the reins held in just one hand, a firm seat and legs that gripped tightly to the animal’s sides.   

“Well, I’ve give the man one thing,” said Lord Dustin. “He can ride better than Haigh.”

Robert laughed sarcastically. “Not a difficult task, I feel! Ser Leslyn sits a horse rather like I sit on the privy!”

The herald blew the trumpet again, the flag-bearer standing in the centre of the field drew away the King’s standard, and the two riders spurred their horses into a gallop. They came roaring towards each other down the lists, the ground stirring to dust beneath their horses’ hooves. Ned leaned forward in his seat. The mystery knight kept his arm steady and his horse flew as straight as a crow.

A tremendous shout went up as the mystery knight’s lance hit home and shattered into a thousand pieces. Ser Leslyn wobbled in his seat but somehow managed to stay atop his horse. Hurriedly, his squire ran out and grabbed the horse’s loose reins, pulling it back around and steadying the snorting, frightened animal.

At the other end of the tourney field, the Knight of the Laughing Tree raised his lance in salute and turned his horse in a tight circle. He had no need of a squire.

A second pass went much the same way as the first and the herald proclaimed the winner. “The Knight of the Laughing Tree defeats Ser Leslyn Haigh, two lances to none!”

There was another cheer from the crowd. Ned watched as the commoners crushed together as one along the rope marking the edge of the field. They were eager to see more. Robert, too, was more than a little intrigued. He had leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the mystery knight. “That was rather impressive, Ned, wouldn’t you say?” he observed.

“It was a fine display of horsemanship,” agreed Ned. “And his aim was perfect.”

“He didn’t lift his chin.”

“No,” Ned said.

“I wonder why? That is a very foolhardy tactic to use.”

Brandon, who had been curiously silent, spoke up: “He is braver than most. He does not want to take his eyes off the target.”

A few moments passed before the talk and cheers hushed, and then the mystery knight circled his mount again. The horse was growing agitated, foamy white sweat dripping from its withers and girth, but its rider kept a firm hold on it.

As Ser Leslyn left the field, the second opponent entered. Ser Rolan Blount was the heir to the Blount lands and title and a mirror image of his father, Lord Randulf – balding, pot-bellied and with a pinched, sneering face. He was regarded by many as a braggart and craven, accusations that seemed at odds with one another until you met the man. Brandon made a comment about Ser Rolan being all brawn but no brain and everyone around him laughed.

Ned watched Ser Rolan closely. The man was nervous, his face reddened and sweat-streaked as he donned his helm and started for his position. His horse whinnied loudly, picking up on its rider’s tension, and pawed the ground.

The standard was lifted and the two knights flew at one another again. As they met, it was even, both lances breaking cleanly.

“How did he manage that?” mocked Robert. “His horse was all over the place at the start!”

“Luck, dumb luck,” explained Brandon in a dull voice. He stared down at the servant boys rushing over the sandy ground picking up pieces of shattered wood.

Ned grunted, “Hm.”

The mystery knight appeared irritated by what had happened. He pulled his horse to a stand and shook his lance angrily. From within the dark steel helm, Ned thought he heard, ‘Seven hells!’, but could not be sure. He tilted his head on one side as he regarded the slender figure.

This time, when the horses charged, Ned saw what was about to happen before the mystery knight’s lance even hit home. The aim was sweet, the pace furious and there was something about the way the stranger lifted his body off the horse’s back and leaned forward ever so slightly.

The air shook with the force of the impact.

Rolan Blount was sent soaring backwards, his feet knocked clean from his stirrups, and he landed on his back with a thump that made his armour rattle.  

The cheer that went up was deafening. This time, the mystery knight seemed pleased with his efforts and deigned to circle the field with his lance raised in a victory salute.

Emmon Frey was next. Like his compatriots before him, Ser Emmon seemed more than a little uncertain of his fate; he closed the visor on his helm with a shaking hand. The mystery knight had proven himself so efficient that he was already being talked about as tourney champion. “Surely not…” Ned said doubtfully, but Robert called back,

“I swear by all the Gods that he has a talent that could not have gone unnoticed before. I’d stake gold on him being one of the Kingsguard. Can anybody see Jaime Lannister?”

“King Aerys sent him home,” Brandon explained. “And besides, he would be much larger than this man. He’s like a man grown.”

It was true that Jaime Lannister had always been tall for his age, and well-built, and to Ned’s recollection no other member of the Kingsguard was diminutive in size like the mystery knight.

The sun was beginning to dip low as Ser Emmon Frey turned his horse to face his opponent. The Knight of the Laughing Tree reined his mount in once again, then put his spurs in and the horse charged forwards. A flurry of strides and the two lances hit their targets – Ser Emmon’s glanced off without breaking, but the mystery knight’s was sure-struck and shattered, the pieces raining down like a shower of needles.

Robert shifted excitedly in his seat. He slapped his thighs with delight. “What do you think, Brandon? Could you take this one?”

Brandon did not reply. Instead, he waited until Robert’s gaze shifted back to the lists and then looked pointedly at Ned. He thinks the same as I do, Ned realised. He knows.

The mystery knight was readying himself again but had to delay as Ser Emmon summoned his squire to adjust his horse’s girth. “Time wasting!” shouted out Robert. The crowd booed. Ned stayed silent.

When Ser Emmon was satisfied, he circled his horse, then broke before the standard had been drawn back. But the mystery knight reacted instantly, and with one swift kick, was barrelling towards the devious Frey at full tilt. His lance hit with echoing force and Ser Emmon was pitched sideways out of his saddle, landing flat on his face on the dusty ground. His foot stayed caught in the stirrup though and while his horse careened off towards the end of the field, Ser Emmon was dragged unceremoniously along, arms flailing, and crying out as his head bounced on the ground with the horse’s motion.

If the crowd had cheered before, they exploded now. Emmon Frey was not a popular figure amongst the smallfolk, and the sight of him being dragged through the dust clearly pleased them.

And then Robert was on his feet, his great hands raised and applauding. Ned blinked in surprise. In the royal box, King Aerys was shouting something at his page but there was no way it could have been heard above the cheering. Prince Rhaegar was on his feet then and placing a quietening hand on his father’s arm only to have Aerys snatch his arm away.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree circled the field, drawing further cheers and whoops from the audience, while Ser Emmon was helped to his feet by his squire. The son of Lord Walder Frey was in his forties and it was whispered that this would be his final tourney. He was clearly angered by his defeat, however, and stormed at his squire, thrusting his horse’s reins into the young boy’s hands and leaving the field in a red wrath.

The defeated knights were grumbling when they returned to the field, their squires bringing forth their horses and armour as ransom. Ser Rolan Blount appealed to the King’s Herald, but was told the result was incontestable – just because the mystery knight was a mystery did not mean the result did not count.

Ned watched as the Knight of the Laughing Tree dismounted and walked over to the royal box, leading his horse behind him. He was not more than five and a half feet tall and seemed far less agile and coordinated on the ground than he had been ahorse. King Aerys leaned forward in his seat, his eyes bulging and wide, as the mystery knight approached. Prince Rhaegar, on the other hand, remained standing, having subtly placed himself between his father and the poor, beleaguered page. Normally, this was the moment when mystery knights revealed themselves, but it seemed that the Knight of the Laughing Tree was unwilling to do so.

Instead, he simply bent his knee.

King Aerys left the knight kneeling for a moment, then indicated that he rise by beckoning upwards with one of his claw-like, thin-fingered hands. “What shall be your ransom, Knight of the Laughing Tree?” he rasped in a high and wheedling voice.

The mystery knight looked left and right. His entire visage was obscured by the helm he wore, but for the briefest of moments, his face pointed directly at Ned, then he turned to Ser Leslyn, Ser Rolan and Ser Emmon and answered, booming, “Teach your squires honour, that will be ransom enough!”

And with that, he turned and left the tourney field, even as the whispers became noisier and noisier.

To be continued...

Chapter 9: LYANNA - Caught

LYANNA

 

She moved swifter than a slinking wolf as she returned the borrowed armour piece by piece. The shadows were growing long and the sun sinking low when she stowed the last foot sabaton in the trunk of a squire in the service of Lord Randyll Tarly.

In the plan she had made in her head, she had thought to take the weirwood shield into the Godswood and dispose of it somewhere it couldn’t ever be found, beneath a fallen tree or buried in a hole in the ground, but when she looked upon it, she found herself reluctant. If the shield had indeed brought her the luck of the old gods, they would probably curse her forever and eternity if she did such a thing, and so she wrapped it in sackcloth stolen from the stables and snuck back with it to her tent.

She was grinning with the flush of success when she slipped through the flap, but as her eyes fell on the faces of her two older brothers, the grin fled from her face.

They were side by side, still dressed in the same clothes they had been wearing all day, the same outfits she had looked upon when she’d glanced at them as she rode past the gallery and dipped her lance at the King. Brandon’s hands were on his hips and the expression on his face was not pleased; Ned was impassive, as ever, but there was a frosty look in his grey eyes that was already making her toes begin to curl.

“Brandon, Ned, dear brothers,” she greeted jovially. Perhaps if I act completely oblivious, she thought, they will think I know nothing.      

But then, as she tried to slip past him, Brandon grabbed her wrist and brought her before him. “Lyanna,” he said in a voice hard and serious, “what is this?” He reached out and tried to take the weirwood shield from under her other arm but she ducked away, twisted in his grip and broke free.

“No!” she cried out. “You’re not having it; it’s mine!”

“Lya,” said Ned calmly. “We won’t take it from you. Let us look… please?”

She regarded her brothers with sceptical eyes. Brandon was still expectantly holding out his hand. She frowned. “I don’t believe you,” she said, directing the comment at Brandon, then held the shield out to Ned, who took it and unwrapped the sackcloth.

“Gods be good!” Brandon gasped as the sackcloth fell away and the shield was revealed. “Lyanna, what in the Seven Kingdoms were you thinking? Everyone is clamouring for you to be unmasked! And the Gods only know what the King is imagining…”

Ned turned the shield over in his hands, running his hand across the painted weirwood. “Where did you get this?”

Indignant tears were prickling in Lyanna’s eyes as she watched her brothers. She had known, of course, that her little adventure would be short-lived, but she hadn’t imagined just how much she would hate to see it die. “Howland Reed gave it to me,” she said, sniffing.

Brandon’s eyes narrowed. “The crannogman?”

“Yes,” said Lyanna.

“He told you to do this?”

At that, Lyanna started. She angrily rubbed at her tear-filled eyes and shouted, “No! It’s not his fault! Don’t you go and do anything to him!” Her hands closed into fists and she punched Brandon in the stomach, hard.

He let out a soft grunt but before she could swing another fist, he had grabbed her wrists again and held her, even as she gritted her teeth and growled at him. “Stop it…” he warned. She twisted in his grip, but his hands were too strong.

“Ned!” she cried out. “Please… Don’t let him hurt him.”

“Brandon, that’s enough--” said Ned.

Brandon relaxed his grip but did not let go. “Are you going to speak to me sensibly or are you going to hit me again?”

She snarled, then backed down and shook her head.

“Nobody told me to do anything,” she said sullenly. “I did it on my own, and of my own free will. Howland Reed just gave me this to help me protect myself.” She looked at Brandon’s face, praying he would accept her explanation and believe her. “I swear it.”

Ned sighed. “She’s telling the truth, Brandon. This is her own doing.”

Finally, Brandon released her, and Lyanna looked at her wrists and began rubbing the reddened skin that circled them. There was a long moment of tight silence, stretched taut like a wire, and then Brandon spoke: “What were you planning to do on the morrow when the tourney begins anew? You have vanquished three of today’s champions and will be expected in the lists.”

Lyanna shook her head. The truth was that she hadn’t really thought about what would happen the next day; she had been too caught up in the fervour and excitement to think on that. “I don’t know,” she murmured. She lifted her eyes and looked at her brother. His face was now more grave than angered. “I could ride again?” she asked hopefully.

“You will not,” said Brandon, and there was no doubting his meaning then.

“There is only one possibility,” Ned said. He handed her the shield back again and Lyanna almost snatched it from his hands and immediately began wrapping it back up. “You will not show yourself again. The mystery knight must remain a mystery. Now and forever.” His eyes were dark. “You will go out to the Godswood tomorrow morning early, before anyone else has risen, and you will dispose of this shield somewhere where it can never be found. And you will not return for it.” Ned looked to Brandon. “Do you not agree, brother?”

Brandon nodded. “That is the wisest thing, I believe.” He stared at her and for just a moment, she thought she could see something like admiration in his eyes, but he spoke not a word to her. Instead, he turned to Ned and said, “I must take my leave. I need to bathe and dress for the feast this evening.”

When he had gone, Ned turned to her. “That was a good thing you did today, sister – an honourable thing.” He paused. “But it was a truly dangerous thing as well. I do not think Brandon will tell our lord father, but rest assured he will not forget it easily. There will be much talk of the mystery knight at tonight’s feast. You must keep a straight face and, whatever you do, do not betray yourself in any way or your forfeit may be your life.”

“I understand,” she said.

And then Ned’s grave face broke into a soft smile. “Now, put on your finest dress, dearest Lya, and make a good show with Robert. He has been looking forward to dancing with you all day.”

“Dancing? Really?” she asked, making a face. The thought chilled her to the bone.

“Yes,” said Ned. “Really.”

The next morning, Lyanna was awake with the birds, although the truth be told, she had slept little all night. She had cheered and laughed loudly with everyone else when Robert Baratheon and Richard Lonmouth had announced to the entire hall that they were each personally going to unmask the mystery knight on the morrow and make his visage known to all, but when King Aerys had stood up she had balked. The King had spat out to all the gathered knights and lords that the mystery knight was no friend of his and urged all to challenge him and see him defeated. It was not his words that had frightened her, but his tone and the flashing of his lilac eyes as he stared suspiciously at every man in the room. Before the feast, she’d had half a thought to defying her brothers and squirrelling the shield at the bottom of her trunk, but the vicious look in the King’s eyes had convinced her to be rid of it as soon as possible.

And so, when break of day came over the castle, she dressed in riding clothes, grabbed up the shield, still wrapped in its inconspicuous sackcloth, and slipped out. She saddled her horse herself and headed out into the Godswood with no one but the rising sun for company.

She rode for several hours, following barely trodden paths and beating her way through undergrowth in order to find somewhere few had known. This far into the Godswood, it was eerily quiet, with barely the sound of a bird in the trees above her head, and the air was pungent with the smell of rotting vegetation. All around her soldier pines, oaks and sentinels crowded and cut out the light. Occasional clearings where a tree had fallen or the ground was rockier had formed and punctuated the dimness.  

In one of these clearings, she dismounted and tied Blizzard’s reins to a nearby tree. The sun was percolating through the canopy, casting little blobs of light on the ground all around her, and the branches whispered in the wind. She unstrapped the shield in its sackcloth covering from her saddle and pulled it out, taking one last wistful look at the painted, laughing weirwood on its face.

Then, she carefully selected an oak tree she would be able to climb. Rather than choosing the easiest one, she picked the most challenging, slung the shield on her back and began to scale up it.

Her fingers were raw by the time she had climbed high enough. She found a half-rotten hole about the size of a man’s head in the place where the trunk and one of the main branches joined; water had pooled in the hole and turned stinking and green with decaying leaves and algae. Bracing herself against the central trunk, she took the shield off her back and tried to wedge it into the hole.

But the hole was just a little too small and the shield just a little too awkward. She sighed in frustration and gave it a harder shove, determined to see it pushed at least partway into the hole, but as she did so, it slipped on the mossy trunk and spun off, falling, falling, and then landing with a soft thwump face down in the leaf litter beneath the tree.

“Seven hells!” she cursed and began to descend.

When she reached the bottom, she looked up at the tree and saw how high she had actually gotten. Under normal circumstances, she would have been rather proud of her achievement, but now she had a shield to hide and she had to be back before anyone had chance to notice her absence. She bent to pick up the fallen shield.

“Well, this is a surprise,” said a voice.

Lyanna nearly jumped out of her skin. She let out an involuntary yelp of shock and spun around to find Prince Rhaegar sitting at the base of a tree just a dozen yards away, leaning against the trunk with one leg stretched out in front of him and the other drawn up towards him. A shaft of sunlight lit his smooth face. He was eating an apple, and his teeth crunched as he bit into it.

“Gods… You scared me!” she said. She stared at him as he chewed the flesh of the apple with relish. “How long have you been sitting there?”

Rhaegar arched his eyebrows. He studied his apple thoughtfully. “Oh, a short while. Long enough to watch you climb all the way up there. You are rather an impressive climber, my lady… I wonder where you have learnt that skill.”

Lyanna pouted. The shield still lay flat on the ground behind her and she was suddenly conscious of the fact that the Prince might mean her ill. After all, he was his father’s son and the King had made his opinion of the mystery knight perfectly clear to all last night. She knitted her hands behind her back and stole a glance at Blizzard tied to the tree immediately to her right – the distance was surely too far for her to reach him, untie him, and make a run for it. Especially when Rhaegar’s destrier was standing right next to him. “I learned to climb at home in Winterfell. In the Godswood there.”

“I have not visited Winterfell,” he said, standing.

Lyanna watched as he took another two small bites of his apple, then threw the core into the undergrowth. “You would be most welcome, Your Grace.”

“Is that true?”

He moved towards her. He was wearing the same simple black enamelled ringmail he had worn the last time she’d seen him here in the Godswood, with a rich red tunic and cloak. The topmost section of his silvery hair was tied back. “So, I ask you, my lady, what are you doing out here in the depths of the forest when the tourney has already begun?”

His eyes were on her, like a predator, fixed and intense. She could feel them boring into her.

Lyanna backed away with two small steps. She thought hard again about whether running would do her any good and came to the swift conclusion that it would not.

Rhaegar’s eyes shifted to where the shield was lying flat on the ground. Lyanna’s body betrayed her and she looked too. He caught her and smiled triumphantly, then slipped past and scooped up the shield. “Ah… the Knight of the Laughing Tree. I thought as much.” His finger traced the painted design. “My father sent me to search for the mystery knight when he did not show his face in the lists this morning. He was angered by this defiance and demanded that the man be brought to him immediately.” He paused. “And I am sure you are aware of what the King does when he is angered.”

In her head, Lyanna let out a scream, but aloud, she kept a stony silence. What am I going to do? He will kill me, surely, she thought. If Prince Rhaegar doesn’t do it first.

But there was a smile on the Prince’s lips. Faint, but it was there, and it was unmistakeable. “And now I find myself in a quandary,” he said. He was right in front of her now, so close she could almost feel the heat radiating from his body. She could even smell the perfume coming from him – lavender and lemon, she realised. It was making her skin prickle. “I have my father’s orders, but I also have before me a woman who has caught my attention like no other. What compelled you, my lady, to do something so laden with peril?”

“Those knights had squires in their employ who behaved with dishonour. They beat on a crannogman of the marshes, who could not defend himself.” She met the Prince’s intense gaze. “That kind of thing makes my blood boil. My father has always taught me that a lord should be the protector of all his men, no matter who they are.”

“So you wished to teach those men a lesson?”

“Yes,” she said, defiance rising in her. “They deserved no less.”

There was a pause and then Rhaegar Targaryen threw his head back and laughed. The prince whom everyone said was filled with grief and melancholy actually laughed.

His laughter rang out in the forest, a high and true sound.

Lyanna stared at him. She could not have been more bewildered had he sprouted a second head. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“Because you are unlike any other I know of, my lady. No-one in my service would behave with such righteousness, especially when there was every chance that they could lose their life as a result. But you… you are something else.” His hand reached up and he passed the backs of two fingers lightly along her jawline; her skin felt like it was burning where he’d touched her. “When I first laid eyes on you, I was – I suppose like so many men have been – struck by your beauty. And then, to find that you were far more than just a pretty face, with fire and passion like I had not seen before…”

And then his voice trailed away. His eyes were alive with something she had not seen before in any man – not even Robert Baratheon, who claimed to love her so fervently. Frozen, she found herself caught between tearing away from him and moving toward him. She felt a blush creep along her cheeks. “Your Grace, I--” She frowned. “I am not sure I understand you.”

“Many do not,” he said and this time there was regret in his voice. “I am oft misunderstood, I fear, although that is never my intention.” He paused. “But the more I see of you, the more I think you may be what I have been looking for my entire life.”

“Your entire life?” she said, suspiciously.

“You sound doubtful, my lady…”

“I am doubtful, Your Grace.”

He smiled at her again. His face, it seemed, was not used to the expression, but when it crossed his features, his eyes lit from within and an energy sparked in him that seemed to jump across the air to her. “Please, then, let me show you.”

With hands as soft as a breath of wind, he cupped her face and leaned in and kissed her.

His lips were gentle and undemanding, as if he was giving her chance to pull away, but Lyanna found that she could not. Something powerful held her and she found herself kissing him back, her mouth opening to his.

Her assent seemed enough encouragement for him and he pulled her body flush with his, one hand on the small of her back, the other cradling her head.

A quiet moan slipped from her and she felt his smile against her lips.

He pulled away.

The sounds of the forest filtered back into Lyanna’s consciousness as she stood regarding him, listening to the thumping of her heart and feeling the heat burning within her. “Now do you see?” he asked.

The temptation to reach for him again was strong, but she swallowed and straightened. She would not become some fawning, silly girl. “I see a married man who is also the Crown Prince of Westeros.”

“Indeed,” he said.

“And I am betrothed to Robert, Lord Baratheon.”

“Indeed. But, tell me, my lady, does Lord Robert make you feel like this?” He pushed his hands through her hair and kissed her again.

She didn’t get a chance to reply.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 10: EDDARD - The Right Choices

EDDARD

 

Ashara Dayne was looking at Brandon with something dangerous in her eyes. But it was the look in Brandon’s eyes that scared Ned more.

All evening Ned had seen it, in lingering looks or stolen glances. He knew the look and had seen it before, oh, too many times.

Brandon had lost his heart and his head along with it.

With his marriage to Catelyn Tully just months away, Brandon was treading on very hazardous ground. Their lord father would not be pleased, but that would be the least of Brandon’s problems. The arrangement with Hoster Tully was like any other marriage arrangement in Westeros – it relied on both parties keeping their end of the deal. If Brandon was to break with his betrothal, it would surely have terrible repercussions.

And Brandon knew that as well as Ned.

But his brother was not like him. Back at Winterfell, he had been called wild and Lord Rickard had always said he had the wolf blood in him. From the time he was old enough to worry, Ned had believed that it would be the undoing of him – he just hoped that in this he would see sense.

Robert jolted Ned out of his thoughts as he sat down next to him on the bench and slammed his wine cup down. Some of the dark red liquid sloshed over the rim. His face was flushed from drink and his blue eyes bright with jollity. “Now then, Ned, I wonder if your dear sister will deign to dance with me?”

“I’m sure Lyanna would be pleased to,” replied Ned. “She has gone for some fresh air but I believe she will be back soon.” The truth was, though, that he had not seen Lyanna for nearly an hour and he had no idea whether she would be returning to the hall or not. She had been as distracted over her dinner as Brandon, picking at the food on her plate and seemingly a million miles away from any conversation. Shortly after the meal had been removed, she had got up from her seat, stuffing two apples in her pockets, and made excuses that she was going to feed them to her horse. Ned had not questioned her – Lyanna’s love of her grey courser was second only to her love of freedom.

And after everything that had happened this day, he could understand why she might need some time alone.

When Rhaegar had returned to the tourney field with the laughing weirwood shield, Ned’s heart had surged into his throat; he had anticipated that the Prince’s men were about to bring Lyanna forward clad in chains to face the King’s justice. But Rhaegar had merely handed over the shield and stated, calmly and with little regard for his father’s fuming irritation, that the shield was the only trace of the mystery knight he had been able to find. Ned had glanced quickly at Brandon and they had shared a secret smile – Lyanna had been successful.

“Your brother was telling me earlier that he intends soon to wed Catelyn Tully. I was thinking that I would like to speak to your lord father about pushing forward my marriage to Lyanna – what do you think?”

“I think my father would entertain you but I doubt he would change his mind. He wishes to wait for Lyanna to turn sixteen.”

“That is nearly another year!” bemoaned Robert. “I am not sure I can wait that long – she is such a beautiful flower, and so ripe for picking!”

Surprised, Ned turned to his friend. He had always known Robert’s patience was a limited thing, but he never imagined that he would consider bedding Lyanna before their marriage, betrothal or no betrothal. “Robert, what are you suggesting?”

Looking away, Robert realised his error, blushed and blustered, “Oh, I am just saying how very tempting your sister is. There is no crime in that.”

Ned stood up. “My friend, please excuse me – I think I need some air.”

He tracked his brother out and up onto the castle walls, where he found Brandon sitting on the steps to an unmanned guard tower, his head in his hands. “Brandon, my brother,” he said softly and Brandon lifted his head with a start.

“Ned, what are you doing out here?”

“Come to get some fresh air. You?”

Brandon sighed. A beat passed. “Do you ever wish you were lowborn?”

“Why?”

“Because it seems to me like the smallfolk are the only ones who can choose their own destinies. Of course, they live their lives according to simpler rules – eat, sleep, make love – but that seems rather appealing, don’t you think? There are no games when you are the son of a butcher or a smith, no expectations.”

Ned chuckled softly. “Is the weight of Winterfell weighing heavy on your head, dear brother?”

Brandon’s head snapped up and for a moment he glared at Ned with steely eyes. “Oh, laugh, go on,” he said sharply. “You are the second son. It is easier for you.”

Ned said nothing. Brandon’s rage was temporary, he knew, and would pass in a moment.

“In a few months I will marry Catelyn Tully.” He stood up and went to lean on the wall, looking out across the rows and rows of tents and at the fluttering banners of hundreds of houses. “I barely know the girl. She is beautiful, of course, but I have spoken no more than a few words to her. And from the day our fathers agreed to wed us, I must remain true to her.”

“You must,” agreed Ned.

He waited for Brandon to speak again. His brother’s eyes drifted up to the moon floating high and lonely in the inky sky. “And yet I love another,” admitted Brandon.

“Ashara Dayne.”

Surprised, Brandon turned and looked at him. His face filled instantly with tension and more – guilt, perhaps, or regret – it wasn’t completely clear. “I am sorry, Ned. I misled you and it was grievous wrong of me to do so.” He paused. “We met at the Tourney at Storm’s End – when I was injured by Lord Estermont’s lance in my first tilt. I had to sit out the rest of the tourney, much as you are doing now, and one evening, when I was feeling particularly sorry for myself, there she was… Like some kind of dark-haired angel, full of life and soul. She was gorgeous, Ned. She is gorgeous.”

Ned chuffed a wry laugh. “I know.”

Brandon looked pained. “And then she was here and we spoke and, well, one thing led to another and--”

“You bedded her,” finished Ned.

“Yes.” Brandon’s hands hung limply at his sides; Ned had never seen his brother look this way, even after their lord father had forbidden him to see Lady Barbrey again. That time, Brandon had raged and cursed, flying about the castle like a crazed animal. This was a deeper, different reaction, but no less like Brandon. It seemed his brother was forever going to be a man of passionate extremes. It was something that was foreign to Ned. Brandon cleared his throat and his eyes sought out Ned’s. “You must think me a beast.”

“You are my brother,” said Ned, simply.

“That matters not in this. I should not have asked Ashara to dance with you when I knew naught would become of it.”

“But yet you did…”

“And what does that show?”

“That you had good intentions.” Ned afforded his brother a rueful smile. “I understand, brother. Your problem does not lie with me, I can assure you that.”

He moved to sit beside Brandon on the steps. His brother shifted along to allow sufficient space; even so, Ned could feel the tension hard and taut in Brandon’s shoulder where their bodies touched. A long moment of silence passed between them. “Father will be furious if he finds out. And Lord Hoster…” His voice stumbled a little, almost as if he was realising for the first time just how serious his actions could be. “Gods, Ned, I’ve made such a mess of this!”

Ned said nothing.

“And the worst of it is,” continued Brandon, rising to his feet and spreading his hands in exasperation, “this is nothing to Ashara. The Dornish have a different culture to us – unmarried women take lovers all the time. Gods be good, they choose who they marry! If a woman dislikes a suitor, she simply tells him so and he moves onto the next.” He closed his eyes and looked skyward. “And before you say anything, I know – I do not have that luxury.”

“You don’t.”

“So I must marry Catelyn Tully and play the dutiful son and heir while the woman I love goes back to King’s Landing and moves onto another.” He shook his head. “It stinks!”

Ned waited whilst Brandon calmed. In his heart he wanted to be sympathetic, to embrace his brother and bemoan the state of things and the horrible unfairness that plagued him, but even as the thought came into his mind he knew that wasn’t what he was going to do. There was never vengeance in Ned, but where that was missing was a well of honour, truth and reason. He breathed in deeply and said in a quiet voice, “How many people know of your relationship with Lady Ashara?”

Brandon stalled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Ned, “how subtle have you been, brother? Because it seems to me like there could already be people out there who know of your indiscretion. People who could use it against you. Lady Ashara is one of Princess Elia’s companions and wherever there are Targaryens, there are eyes, the least of which are the Kingsguard themselves. And then do not forget that a woman can be powerful too. It would take a bitter soul to do so, but if Ashara truly does love you and cannot have you, what is to say that she wouldn’t want revenge on you? She could have your sin paraded for all to see, including Lord Hoster.”

As Ned’s spoke, Brandon’s face went pale as ice. He visibly swallowed. And yet, despite the foolishness of his brother’s actions, Ned found himself wanting to help. “I don’t believe anybody saw us leave the hall these last two nights,” Brandon said, but there was doubt feathering his voice.

“And Ashara?”

“She loves me,” said Brandon. “She is a gentle soul. She would not wish me ill. And if I asked her, she would keep her silence.”

Ned nodded. “I hope for your sake, for all of our sakes, that you are right.” And more than that, I hope that she is not with child.     

He left his brother sitting on the steps as he had been, thinking on the words that had been exchanged. Ned was not accustomed to speaking to his brother so plainly, but for once, Brandon needed to see just how his actions affected others. It was a sorry situation, but he had faith that the heir of Winterfell would make the right choices. Brandon would marry Catelyn and in time would come to love her and all would be fine.

He remembered how, a few short weeks before, he had told Lyanna how love could grow from the tiniest seeds. But what he hadn’t told her was that sometimes it was bigger than that, and bolder, and sometimes it made a person do dangerous things…

 

To be continued...

Chapter 11: LYANNA - A Single Blue Rose

LYANNA

 

The letter had appeared on her bed late that afternoon.

At first, she had not noticed it, her mind preoccupied over what had happened in the Godswood. She had gone to meet her brothers at the jousting after she had changed into more appropriate attire than her riding breeches and tunic, and found the Prince already seated beside his father in the royal box.

He had not so much as glanced at her as she slipped in beside Ned and turned her attention to the competition. Brandon was doing well, having disposed of one of the lesser champions with ease and then resisted the challenges of a number of others, so it had been easy to fall into cheering and shouting for her brother to do well.

When the close of day came, Lyanna went back to her pavilion to prepare for the evening’s feasting and there it was, a single piece of white paper lying atop her pillow. The seal was a plain blob of white wax, imprinted with what looked like the image from a golden dragon coin – it was a simple enough seal to create, innocuous to the eyes of most, but one that told Lyanna exactly who had sent the letter without her even needing to open it.

With shaking hands, she split the seal with her fingernail and opened the letter. His hand curled grandly, was softly pressed into the paper, and slanted to the left.

When she had finished reading, Lyanna was shocked to discover that her heart was pounding, faster even than it had done before she rode her first tilt the day before, and her mouth was dry. In the letter, Rhaegar urged her to meet him that evening, in the stable yard, and then walk with him along the banks of the Gods Eye. He concluded with a promise of a gift and his love’s faithful vow, but did not sign his name.

The words seemed even stranger on paper than they had this afternoon when he had whispered them in her ear before he had taken his leave.

Lyanna’s finger traced the letters distractedly, before she folded the paper into a tiny square and pushed it down the bodice of her dress. It was not the kind of thing she wished anyone else to discover.

Over dinner, her stomach was churning so badly, she struggled to eat anything more than a few bites. When the Prince climbed from his seat beside his father, he did not look at her, but instead engaged Ser Arthur Dayne in a brief conversation. The Sword of the Morning nodded and then followed Rhaegar out of the great hall.

For a moment, Lyanna wondered whether she should get up and leave as well or whether she should give it a few more minutes, to make her departure less obvious, but her mind was made up by Robert, who turned towards her and dared to blow her a kiss from across the table. He laughed raucously. She smiled at him and then stood, shoving two apples from the fruit bowl in her pockets and excusing herself to her brothers.

She almost ran to the stable yard. With everyone gathered in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, the yard was deserted, the only sounds were those made by horses grinding on hay or shifting quietly in their boxes.

Even her footsteps seemed loud as they crunched on the dusty ground. 

Blizzard poked his grey head over the door of his stable when she called his name in a soft voice and whickered. “My sweet boy,” she murmured, stroking his velvet nose. She took out one of the apples and fed it to him, smiling as he took messy horse bites of the ripe flesh.

A pair of hands slipped around her waist and turned her. She gasped.

The Prince was right behind her, though she had not heard him approach. His handsome face was smiling. He chuckled throatily at her startled reaction. “How do you always seem to be able to do that to me?” she demanded.

“Shhh… Quiet as a mouse,” he whispered and kissed her forehead. “When you are who I am, you learn ways of getting around that mean you can slip away without anyone’s notice.”

His hands dragged slowly through her hair. “May I?” he asked, reaching for the blue ribbon that held it back from her face.  She nodded and, very slowly, he untied the bow and let it fall to the floor. His eyes were on hers. “There, that’s better.”

Lyanna noticed then a shadow standing some fifty paces away, half-hidden underneath the overhanging roof of the stables. She started, but Rhaegar held her still with a gentle grasp on her waist. In a low voice, she said, “There’s someone here.”

“I know… It is Ser Arthur Dayne, my greatest friend and advisor, and my sworn protector.”

The shadow shifted slightly as Lyanna stared and the moonlight caught the white scales of his Kingsguard armour.

“Is he--” Lyanna started, but Rhaegar cut her off.

“I trust him absolutely. He may be my father’s Kingsguard, but he is my man, good and true.”

“Oh…” She relaxed a little, but the presence of Arthur Dayne worried her somewhat. It gave their meeting a sense of authority and meant it was not the secret tryst she had at first thought it to be. 

“I promise you, my lady, we are not in any danger of being seen. Ser Arthur’s sister tells him your brothers are otherwise engaged. Walk with me?”

Lyanna nodded. Rhaegar held out his arm in the knightly fashion and she took it, sliding her arm through his. He led them out of the stable-yard and towards the Gods Eye. As they walked, Rhaegar said nothing and Lyanna, unable to free her own wits, kept silent as well. She could hear the gentle crunching footsteps of Arthur Dayne as he followed them, maintaining a discreet distance.

They moved away from the tourney grounds, through a field of long grass, and the black stillness of the lake came into view. Shadows of tall trees clustered along the high banks and then the ground fell away in a gentle slope towards the stony shoreline. There was not a breath of breeze and so the lake was millpond still, the reflection of the moon clear and perfect upon its surface.

He led her down to the edge of the water, his pace patient while she moved uncertainly over the uneven ground. It was much harder to walk in soft leather slippers than it was in her practical riding boots.

Finally, he came to a halt near a pile of vast stones that seemed as if they had been cast aside by some angry giant. Some were so large they were taller than she stood. He explained, “These are left from the building of the castle. Harren never saw fit to move them.”

“I’m surprised he moved them at all!” Lyanna replied in amazement. Rhaegar took her hand and gestured for her to be seated.

And then he stood before her, his back straight and rigid. “I find myself on unfamiliar ground, my lady,” he said, softly, “so please stop me if I am making little sense. I have never wooed a woman. Like so many, my wife was chosen for me by others.” He paused. “Oh, Elia is beautiful, and has as kind a heart as any man could wish for, but she is frail and sickly and we spend little time together as a result. My maesters tell me she grows weaker by the year. They fear she shall not bear me another child.”

Lyanna frowned. A surge of indignant insult filled her – had she really heard him say what she thought he’d just said? “Then you are seducing me because your wife is sickly and you want an heir?” She couldn’t help the incredulity in her voice. She had half a mind to reach out and slap him.  

Rhaegar chuckled and Lyanna narrowed her eyes at the cheek of him. “That would be an unfair assessment of my motivations… although I will confess that my more primal, and unfulfilled, desires have indeed played some part in this.” He shifted his position. His face was serious and intent; try as she might, Lyanna found herself pinned to the spot. She felt a blush billowing on her cheeks.

“Your Grace, I--”

“I speak boldly, I know, and to you, my lady, I would wish to be known by my name – Rhaegar, if you please.”

Lyanna swallowed. It felt odd to even think of him as anything other than a prince, even odder to address him with such familiarity. “Rhaegar,” she began. Part of her felt loathe to say it, and her heart would have had her deny it in a beat, but there were other things to consider apart from base desire. “I cannot be your mistress, if that is what you are intending. My father… my family would never accept it.” Nor would Robert, she thought to herself.

“I know that,” said Rhaegar, smiling. “You Starks are ever honourable, which has also always been a quality attractive to me. But there is more to you. You are this intoxicating mix of cool and calm control hiding a fiery spirit, whereas I… I am of the dragon, fire and flame, born in the icy grip of grief.”

He dropped down on one knee before her, heedless of the pebbles that must have dug painfully into him. He took her hands in his own, his thumbs turning gentle circles on her palms. “We complement each other,” he said softly. “Do you not agree?”

Lyanna was speechless. It felt as if her brain had turned to fluffy down. She looked down at their joined hands and said, “I… I cannot be your mistress.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded weak.

Abruptly, Rhaegar stood and turned away, looking out across the lake. Lyanna stood also, wondering if she had just offended him beyond all repair with her refusal. But he seemed quiet and his breathing was even. When finally he spoke, his voice was calm and distant, “I see you will not be moved on this, my lady.” He sighed. “A shame, indeed, but it shall not make me any less resolute.” He turned back to her. “I shall have to find another way of making you mine.”

There was something determined in his voice, as if she had presented him with a challenge he was being baited to succeed in. She briefly wondered what lengths he would go to.

“Tell me something, my lady, do you ever consider the futility of life, the stars and everything in this world?”

It was a strange question, and for a moment Lyanna thought he was jesting with her, perhaps daring to make a sarcastic remark about her refusal, but then she saw his face and the solemnness that was marked upon it. She frowned. “I don’t think I understand your meaning.”

“Do you ever consider that we not really masters of our own fates, but that we are just puppets someone is playing a kind of complex game with.”

“You mean, do I believe in the Gods?”

“The Seven Gods, the Old Gods, the Red God, a greater power other than ourselves – it matters not.” He forged onward, “Do you believe that our destinies are carved out for us already or do we choose them ourselves?”

He was looking back across the lake again, his eyes dark and unfathomable. Lyanna wasn’t sure what to reply; it wasn’t something she had ever really given thought to. “I don’t know…”

Sighing deeply, he shook his head. “I have long believed that there was a greater plan at work and that our lives were lived out to satisfy this greater plan. We could rail and fight against it, of course, but in the end, the result would be the same. There are things that are just meant to happen. Sometimes they are little, insignificant things, like a bat being caught by a dog.” He glanced pointedly at her. “But other times they are huge, vast things. Things that could change the course of everything.”

She opened her mouth to say that it was folly to think such things but he interrupted, “And then what if you were given an insight into the way of things, if you could see what was meant to happen. What would you do? Would you try to change it, or help it along?”

His eyes were fixed intently on her and his hands were spread in a gesture of questioning bewilderment. Lyanna shook her head. “I… I do not know what I would do.” She frowned. “But I think I would be compelled to act.”

A wide smile spread across his face. “Exactly!” he said, triumphant.     

Eventually, he reached out and took up both of her hands in his. He kissed the knuckles on each hand and then his eyes lifted to hers. He stepped in close and Lyanna felt her accursed body start to betray her once again. “Lady Lyanna,” he murmured in a voice thick with desire. “I want you. Like a flower parched of water, I want you.”

“You honour me, Your… Rhaegar,” she corrected.

His hands fell to her waist and he tried to join them, but years of riding had made Lyanna a little thicker in the body than the thin and slight Princess Elia. He settled for rubbing them up her back and tangling them in her hair. His face moved in to her neck and she felt his soft breath on her. It stirred her deep inside. She reached up, put one hand on the back of his head and then pulled him upwards so she could cup his face. The skin of his clean-shaven cheek felt smooth – it was so different to the beards sported by both Brandon and Ned. Rhaegar closed his eyes at her touch.

When he opened them again, his eyes were full of longing and he asked, “Do you want me also?”

Gone was the confidence, the air of certainty, the self-righteous undertone that his previous words had been built on. Now, he seemed a young man, questioning and desperate. Lyanna smiled. She tucked his silvery hair behind his ears; her gaze fell to his lips. “I do,” she said softly.

When he leaned in to her, his mouth was tentative at first, but when she did not move away, became more assured. His lips moved over hers, opening her mouth to his and then it was as if she were being swept away, her legs turning to water beneath her, and her nerves trembling.     

When the kiss ended and they broke apart, Lyanna was out of breath. Rhaegar’s pale face was flushed and his indigo eyes bright and sparking as sapphires. He stepped back, swallowing. “I fear this will need to end here,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. “Else I may just pull you down onto the ground and do something that would dishonour both of us.” He shook his head at his own weakness. “My lady, right now I can feel the dragon stirring inside me and his passion is threatening to overwhelm my better judgement.”

He stepped backwards a pace, the look on his face as if he was stepping back from a blade that had run him through. He sighed. “Give me the pin from your bodice,” he said suddenly. “I wish to wear your favour on the morrow.”

“You can’t!” Lyanna gasped. The silver direwolf pin she wore nearly every day was the most easily recognisable possession she had, a Stark sigil that announced her family name to all who looked on it. “Everyone will know.”

She glanced around nervously. Ser Arthur Dayne was still standing resolute and alone further up the path, turned away from them as if to offer a degree of privacy.

“They will not,” he replied with complete confidence. “I shall pin it to the inside of my gambeson. Against my heart.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

Pacified, Lyanna nodded. She removed the pin brooch from her dress and passed it to him. He took it, kissed it, then pushed it into the pocket of his breeches. “Good luck for tomorrow and the next day, Rhaegar,” Lyanna said. “I shall pray for your safety and your success.”

He smiled. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, then, as if he had remembered something, he started. “Ser Arthur!” he called. The knight of the Kingsguard turned around and began to walk towards Rhaegar, his white cloak billowing out behind him. He moved with ease, as if every step he took was calculated perfectly, agile like a cat but powerful too. Lyanna could see why he was the most feared of all the Kingsguard.

“Your Grace,” Ser Arthur acknowledged. He glanced at Lyanna and smiled a warm, genuine smile. There was no judgement in his expression, she noted.

“My gift for Lady Lyanna,” said the Prince. “Do you have it?”

“I do.” He reached behind him to where his greatsword was sheathed on his back, fumbled a moment, then brought forth a single blue winter rose, long-stemmed and just beginning to open.

Blue winter roses grew only in the gardens of Winterfell, cultured there for thousands of years by the tender hands of generations of Northern gardeners. Their silken soft petals were blousy and exceptionally beautiful, beginning as tight midnight blue buds that opened out into big rosettes of ice-blue flowers then darkened once again with age. She remembered how her mother used to cut them from the gardens and have them in her chambers, their heady scent filling up the room.

“Where did you get that flower?” she asked as she took it, amazed.

Rhaegar smiled. “Winterfell, of course.”

“But you said you’d not been to Winterfell.”

“I haven’t,” he agreed. “But I have my sources and often they will do anything for their Prince.”

Lyanna raised the bloom to her nose and her eyes closed as she breathed in the rich fragrance. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“It is my pleasure,” he said, still smiling. “Now, keep that rose close to you, as I shall keep your favour close to my heart, and I swear… I swear on my own life, that we shall see each other again.” He paused, his eyes rich and intense on hers. “Please allow Ser Arthur to walk you back to your tent.” He gestured to his friend, who nodded in assent. “And then good night, Lyanna, my lady love.”

He leaned forward, kissed her gently on the cheek, then turned on his heel, leaving Lyanna standing with the blue rose held in her hands.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 12: EDDARD - Secrets, Lies and Broken Lances

EDDARD

 

“Ben, what are you doing?” Ned asked.

Benjen hurriedly hid whatever he had in his hand beneath his furs as Ned walked into his tent. “Oh, nothing,” he said, as he met Ned’s gaze. He smiled guilelessly. “At least, nothing of any importance to you.”

Ned eyed him with suspicion. Benjen was thirteen and growing up fast. In the last two years he had really seemed to flourish, and their father was beginning to talk again about where he should be fostered. Ned himself had been fostered at eight, as had Brandon, but since the death of his lady wife, Lord Rickard had chosen to keep the youngest Stark boy at home. People whispered that the Lord of Winterfell simply didn’t want to see the last of his children fly the nest and leave his halls empty; although his father would never admit it, Ned believed there was probably a truth in that.

“Are you sure about that, little brother?”

“Perfectly sure,” replied Benjen. He changed the subject smoothly. “Is Brandon ready to face Prince Rhaegar today?”

“I believe so. He is full of confidence, although, Gods be good, I don’t know why.”

Benjen laughed. “Brandon is always full of confidence,” he stated. “He doesn’t know how to be modest. Or haven’t you noticed?”

“You should be careful saying such things, Ben, Brandon is likely to have you buried head first in a pile of manure!”

“He wouldn’t dare!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure…”

The tent flap lifted and Lyanna slipped underneath it. She was dressed in a grey-blue gown with white myrish lace detailing around the neck and sleeves; her dark hair hung in loose curls around her shoulders. She smiled in greeting at both of her brothers, then went to Benjen’s trunk and rooted around in it for a moment. “I have need of your direwolf pin, brother,” she explained simply when Benjen made a sound of indignation at her cheek.

“Why?” asked Ned. “Where is your own?”

Lord Rickard had given all four of his children a silver brooch cast in the shape of the Stark family sigil for their tenth name days and commanded that they wear it on their informal garb. Lyanna had taken to wearing hers pinned to her dresses and tunics.   

Lyanna straightened and eyed him a moment. “What does it matter to you?”

Shaking his head, Ned turned away from them both in exasperation. “Does every one of my siblings have a secret they wish to keep from me? Just because I have been away at the Eyrie does not mean that I have been expelled from the family! Why cannot I know?”

“You don’t need to know everything!” Lyanna and Benjen said in unison.

Ned stared at them and then burst into laughter. “You are both impossible!”

“It’s on my tunic from last night,” Benjen said. “But you had better be careful with it – I want it back.”

“You shall have it back at the end of the tourney. In the meantime, please allow me to use it.”

Benjen nodded his acquiescence. He turned to Ned. “When does the jousting start?”

“Shortly – that is why I came to see if you were both ready to leave.”

“I’m ready,” said Benjen.

Lyanna turned away from them both and attached the direwolf brooch to her dress, then pushed a blue winter rose behind it. Had she brought that all the way from Winterfell? It seemed to be fresh, although the bloom was now nearly fully opened, the misty blueness standing out against her gown.

“Very beautiful, sister,” he said. “Why ever did you bring winter roses from home with you?”

“Oh, it was a last minute thought,” she replied, looking down at the flower head. “I saw them starting to bud in the gardens before we left and thought they would look pleasing on my dress. I’ve been keeping them in water in my tent.” She smiled wistfully. “Remember how Mother used to have them in her chambers? I always loved the scent – it reminds me of her.”

Ned nodded, thinking on how Lyanna always managed to surprise him. To think that his boyish, spirited sister, who had never had time for any kind of lady-like behaviour, had noticed something like the flowers their mother preferred seemed at odds with her character. It had been five years since their lady mother had died and Ned had been away in the Vale when it had happened, taken as she was so suddenly. Privately, the memory still bothered him. “Shall we go then?” he asked, changing the subject. “We don’t want to miss the action.”

It was another bright, sunny day and an awning of white had been erected above the royal box to shade the King and his companions from the midday rays. There was a strong but warm breeze blowing and the Targaryen banners fluttered wildly from the top. King Aerys sat on his throne seat with a wine cup clutched in his bony hand, while Princess Elia was beside him in an ivory and peach gown that drained her colour and made her look more tired than ever. Around them were a sea of multi-coloured robes, surcoats and sigils and the sound of voices hummed and murmured like some slumbering beast.

The day’s jousting began as always, with a number of squires risking themselves to impress their lords. Some were skilled enough, although it was clear they were still learning; one poor boy of no more than four and ten failed to free his foot from his stirrup after being unhorsed and was trampled on by his mount. He had to be carried away, screaming, with an arm dangling useless and broken, while the ladies of the court averted their eyes.

When the squires had finished, the lists were prepared once again for the knights and lords still left in the competition.

The sun was high in the sky now and the ladies had their fans out. Shortly, there would be a break for lunch and everyone would disappear to find shade, but now Ned could feel the heat beating down relentlessly on his head and back. In full armour, he knew it would be nearly unbearable.

The herald blew his trumpet and announced Brandon’s entrance to the field.

He came riding out on his bay destrier. The horse was armoured up and adorned in Stark grey and white, although clearly skittish, and it was only Brandon’s exceptional control of the animal that had him behaving appropriately. Brandon himself looked every inch the first son of a great lord, dashing in his shining steel plate. Streamers snapped extravagantly from the top of his wolf’s head helm. He had bested every knight he had faced yesterday, and his confidence was high.

But Rhaegar was his challenger and Ned knew as well as anyone that it would be a tough call for Brandon to beat the crown prince.

The crowd were still cheering for Brandon when Rhaegar came onto the field. Ned had never seen the prince in his full armour, although everyone talked of it – men said that women swooned to see him, so beautiful was he in his full attire.

And indeed, it seemed as if the rumours were true for beside him, Lyanna sighed along with half the crowd. “The Prince impresses you?” Ned asked.

Lyanna did not tear her eyes away but replied coolly, “As he does everyone else here, I suppose.”

Rhaegar was a figure in black upon a black horse, his armour shining bright as polished obsidian. The trimmings were silver and then his horse was decked out in Targaryen red and black, the caparison catching in the breeze and fluttering lightly. Everything about him was intricate and perfect, from the rubies set into his breastplate to the dragons carved on the hilt of his lance.

Both riders spurred their mounts to come before the royal box. Rhaegar’s horse was as spirited as Brandon’s, and as they came alongside each other, both snorted and threw their heads up. King Aerys stood, nodded to his son, then addressed them together, “Lord Brandon of House Stark and Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, today you will joust to find the winner by the best of five lances. Whichever of you succeeds will go on to be challenged anew this afternoon.” Aerys sneered openly at Brandon. “May the best man win!” he called, although his preference was clear for all to see.

The herald blew the trumpet and Brandon and Rhaegar turned their horses and made their way back to the lists. As was tradition, they positioned themselves on the correct sides, then walked towards each other, halted and touched fists. The crowd cheered in anticipation.

But Ned saw something else in the gesture. Brandon had his helm on, but Ned was his brother and could tell by his body language that he was coiled like a spring. He found himself holding his breath, praying that Brandon didn’t do something hot-headed and foolish like shout out an insult or curse the Prince for all to hear.

Robert was behind Ned in the gallery and leaned forward to shout above the cheering, “Will you take a bet, Ned?”

“Well, I can hardly bet against my own brother now, can I?” he replied, smiling.

“Exactly!” laughed Robert. “Gives me more chance of winning that way!”

“You think Rhaegar will win, then?”

Robert leaned back in his seat. Richard Lonmouth was beside him, just as boisterous as he was. “I think it’s highly likely Brandon will be beaten, yes. He may be the finest of horsemen, but there’s more skill in Rhaegar’s right arm than there is in Brandon’s.”

Lyanna chose that moment to turn around. She had on an expression that could just about be described as coquettish, at least, as far as Lyanna was concerned. “I’ll take your bet, Lord Robert,” she said.

Everyone turned. Robert’s eyebrows shot upwards and his grin vanished. He fumbled for an appropriate response. Ned smiled inwardly at Lyanna’s ingenuity – Robert would have to accept her bet, for she was his betrothed. And honour dictated that he must offer her the first choice of the competitors and then accept whichever she declined. “My lady, you wish to place a bet?” he asked.

“I think it would be a fine thing to have a bet on this match. And unlike Ned, I am quite content to bet against my brother.” She paused and smiled at Robert’s obvious discomfort. “I bet you three golden dragons that Prince Rhaegar puts my brother on his back before the fifth lance is up.

In the silence that followed, Robert swallowed audibly, then Richard Lonmouth exploded with raucous laughter. “The great Lord Robert Baratheon, stunned into silence by a slip of a girl!” He turned quickly to Lyanna and added, “Begging your pardon, my lady, of course, but… HA! And here I thought you were just a pretty face, Lady Lyanna!”

Ned joined in the laughter just as Robert recovered himself. “It would be my honour to accept, my lady,” he said with admirable self-control. Lyanna grinned and held out her hand.

“Shall we shake on it?”

Robert eyed her warily, then took up her hand and kissed it. “My word is my bond,” he said. Narrowing his eyes, he glanced at Richard Lonmouth and added, “You can stop laughing now.”

Ned and Lonmouth chuckled themselves into silence.

Down in the lists, Brandon and the Prince were readying their charges. The horses were tense and Brandon’s destrier pawed the ground impatiently while he waited for the trumpet to sound, sending up clouds of grey-brown dust. Each rider eyed the other over the distance. The herald lifted his trumpet to his lips and a sharp call shouted through the air.

Brandon’s horse was first to break, but only by a half second. The lances were zoned into target, steadied, as the gap narrowed. Both hit home and both shattered, sending an explosion of splinters above the heads of the Prince and Brandon.

Robert let out a guttural cry of “Yeah!” and turned to Lyanna, his manners utterly forgotten. “One point a piece, my lady. Only four more lances to go!”

“Oh, I’m sure four will not be required,” she replied with a casual air.

Brandon was wheeling his horse about with a tight rein, his squire Ethan rushing out from the side-lines to take the broken lance while the pieces of wood were collected from the floor by a swarm of boys. At the other end of the field, Rhaegar turned his mount, lifted his visor, and stood waiting with quiet patience. Brandon’s lance had slightly dented the Prince’s pauldron but he seemed unconcerned and waved away a boy who came to ask him about it.

“He struck clean and hard,” noted Ned to his companions. “Brandon has been practising!”

“Rhaegar doesn’t look like he’s broken a sweat though,” said Richard Lonmouth. “Look at him – he’s staring at Brandon like he wants to eat him!”

Ned laughed, but the comment was accurate. Rhaegar always had a look of intensity about him, but right now he was so focused he looked like a bird of prey about to free-fall in for a kill.

When the boys had finished clearing the field, the herald announced the next pass. Rhaegar was ready to begin immediately, having already handed over his lance for a replacement, and simply turned his horse in a circle and lined him up. Brandon fussed a moment over his shield, then took a new lance and readied himself too.

The crowd hushed. The trumpet sounded and the two riders spurred their horses forward into a gallop. Hooves thundered. But Ned saw something was wrong before the lances met. Brandon was not happy with the grip he had and tried at the last second to adjust it, but all that happened was his eye slipped from the target, and his strike glanced off. In contrast, Rhaegar’s lance arrowed into Brandon’s breastplate with a sickening thump.

For a second, everything slowed. The lance fell like a toy from Brandon’s hand; the power of the blow forced him out of the saddle and onto his horse’s haunches, whereupon the speed of the gallop and his sheer ungainliness in full armour did for him and he slipped inelegantly off his horse and landed flat on his back.

There was a collective intake of breath from every man, woman and child present. Lyanna stood up, her bet with Robert forgotten, and looked down anxiously at Brandon who lay prostrate and unmoving on the ground. Ethan Glover ran out and knelt beside Brandon. “He’s hurt,” Lyanna said in a low, anxious voice. “Ned, he’s hurt, he’s not getting up.”

Nodding, Ned did not answer; instead, he pushed out of the row he was sat in and hurried down the gallery steps, Lyanna right behind him. Later, he would learn that Rhaegar had dismounted and immediately summoned his squire to help him out of his armour, but in that moment, he was focused entirely on Brandon. He strode out to his brother, even as a hushed silence fell over the crowd. Ethan Glover carefully removed Brandon’s helm and he saw his brother’s eyes roll open and his head loll from side to side. He sighed in relief – Brandon was merely dazed.

“Brother,” he said, kneeling down. “Can you hear me? It’s Ned.”

Brandon groaned. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times then swallowed. His eyes were still glazed and he was fighting for breath. “I… am… fine, I… Ethan, get this bloody breastplate off me… so I can breathe.”

His squire obeyed instantly and began undoing the leather straps that held the breastplate in position. Ned turned his head and saw Rhaegar standing above him, in nothing but padded gambeson, breeches and boots, a concerned expression upon his face. From the centre of his chest, something metallic caught the sunlight and flashed in Ned’s eye. “Your Grace,” said Ned, surprised. “I apologise for not acknowledging you more appropriately, but I thought my brother grievous hurt.” He dipped his head.

“Do not concern yourself, my Lord Eddard,” said Rhaegar. “It is far more seemly that you should attend your brother than show your respect to me.” He looked at Brandon, but Brandon’s eyes were closed and he was moaning as the breastplate was removed. “I shall send for my maester to treat your brother immediately. Is there anything else I may do to help?”

The Prince’s offer shocked Ned again. Usually, if a competitor was injured, the victor barely acknowledged the vanquished and would often ride off without so much as a word. For Rhaegar to disarm himself and strip off his armour and walk over to enquire after his opponent was generous indeed. Clearly, Rhaegar was not from the same mould as his father.

“No, thank you, Your Grace, we will be fine in a few moments,” replied Ned.

Two boys came rushing onto the field with a stretcher, but  Brandon was fighting to sit up by then and cursed at them, waving them away. “I do not need that!” he snapped. “I will be fine in a moment. Ned,” he said, “help me up so I might save myself a shred of dignity!”

Ned held out his hand and with Ethan Glover’s help, pulled Brandon to his feet. He encouraged his brother to wrap an arm around his shoulder, hissing slightly when Brandon rested his weight on his still-tender shoulder. As he helped Brandon to walk away, Ned heard Lyanna exchange a few words with the Prince, thanking him once again for his interest and then congratulating him on the successful challenge, but her voice was soon lost into the sound of applause as the crowd stood and began to clap Brandon off the field.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 13: LYANNA - The Queen of Love and Beauty

LYANNA

 

He looked taller, like some hero from a song, thought Lyanna, as Rhaegar circled the field, lance in hand. She lifted her hand to shield the glare of the sun so she could see him more clearly. His bright-shining black armour made him stand out against the white scales of Ser Barristan Selmy, the only challenger left in the field.  

The Prince had done for Ser Arthur Dayne that morning, breaking five lances against him to Ser Arthur’s three, and winning on points score. After the match, the two men had dismounted and embraced, the result forgotten in place of their friendship, and Lyanna had felt her heart swell once more.   

She had not spoken to Rhaegar since they had met in the stable-yard, other than in the lists, and was feeling curiously bereft. She wanted to see him again. She had dined in the Stark encampment the night Brandon had been unhorsed, Ned insisting that their brother rest himself rather than go up to the castle to drink and dance with everyone else. Although Brandon had railed against the decision initially, he seemed to know deep down that Ned was right and had relented, allowing himself to be propped up with pillows while they ate.

Ned had sensed that something was amiss with her when she failed to finish her meal for the second night in a row, and begged her to confide in him. But she knew that was foolish – no matter how trustworthy and honourable her brother was, she couldn’t share this information with another soul. It was much too volatile.

That morning she had noticed Elia watching her from the royal box. The princess was dressed in swathes of salmon pink silk, patterned with Martell suns embroidered in shimmering golden thread. There were shadows under her eyes, and even though it was still early, she seemed weary of the day. She spoke little, and then only to her lady companions, and when she turned her eyes on Lyanna, seemed as if she was deep in thought. Lyanna had smiled at her, but Elia had not returned the gesture, leaving Lyanna wondering just how much she knew of her husband’s indiscretions.    

Back on the tourney field, Rhaegar’s great black destrier was tossing his head and side-stepping at one end of the lists. The Prince lowered his visor and took a tighter hold on the reins. In the royal box, Princess Elia leaned forward slightly to watch.

Barristan Selmy often did well in tourneys and it was rumoured he was the greatest joust in the Seven Kingdoms. He had twenty years on Rhaegar, but from the look of his figure, it was not obvious. After what had happened to Brandon the day before, Lyanna felt her heart like a stone in her throat, and wondered if Elia was feeling the same.

Ser Barristan was atop a red courser, lighter in build than Rhaegar’s destrier, but apparently also fleeter of foot. When the herald blew the trumpet and the two horses broke, Barristan’s mount fair flew down the lists. They met closer to Rhaegar’s end and Barristan’s lance splintered, while the Prince’s remained intact, glancing off. Lyanna heard the crowd gasp and Robert’s cry of delight from behind her. He was sitting with Lord Hunter and Jon Arryn, riding a crest of exhilaration after winning the mêlée the day before. Brandon, on the other hand, was sullen and quiet two rows behind him, sulking about his defeat and who knew what else. Ned had tried to stir him from his bad mood to no avail and so he had been left alone since then.

A cheer went up as both riders turned their horses ready again. Two more lances in a row were required for Barristan to beat the Prince, or someone must be unhorsed. Lyanna watched as Rhaegar adjusted his grip on his lance and then took his horse in hand.   

They thundered down the lists, dust flying up from their hooves. Both lances came down at the exact same moment.

There was a terrific noise as Ser Barristan’s lance shattered, but there was more power behind Rhaegar’s hit and it slid off the shield and planted itself decisively against the breastplate. Ser Barristan was swept backwards over his mount’s haunches as Rhaegar’s lance held firm and his horse kept on – seconds later, the great white figure of the man of the Kingsguard was flat on his back in the sand.

Lyanna thought her ears might burst from the cheering. Everyone was on their feet, the smallfolk, the nobles, even King Aerys himself – all of them shouting Rhaegar’s name and applauding. She stood too, and soaked herself in the atmosphere, feeling a tremendous sense of release.   

As the chanting persisted, Rhaegar took his mount on a victory lap around the field, his lance held high and the streamers on his helm blowing behind him like tongues of fire. Ser Barristan got to his feet and raised his hands above his head, joining in the applause. Rhaegar rode up close to the gallery as he came past, close enough for Lyanna to see his indigo eyes flash at her through his helm.

Three trumpet blowers sounded out a call and the crowd hushed into silence, allowing the King’s herald to shout, “Your Grace, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, the champion is Rhaegar Targaryen, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms!” Another cheer went up then subsided. “The prize of 50,000 golden dragons is awarded to the winner. As is also fitting for the champion of any tourney, Prince Rhaegar shall now name the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

A young page in Whent livery came walking onto the field, his nervousness showing in his short, rapid steps. In his hands was a crown of blue winter roses, lily of the valley and babe’s breath. That must have been where he got the rose from, thought Lyanna. He must have plucked it from the store being kept for the crown. The page reached up and slid the crown onto the end of Rhaegar’s proffered lance and the Prince turned his horse and began to trot towards the royal box.

Lyanna found herself looking down at her knotted hands, not wishing to watch Rhaegar land the crown on Princess Elia’s lap. She was appalled at herself when she realised the feeling that was coursing through her was jealousy – Gods be good, she was jealous!       

She heard the hoof beats coming closer and actually closed her eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath.

And then they slowed and stopped. A horse snorted, very close to her.

She lifted her head and there he was, standing right before her, the visor up on his helm. His expression was warm but solemn. He smiled a soft smile at her.

Beside her, she felt Ned tense. Silence had never been so loud.

“I proclaim you queen…” Rhaegar paused, “of love and beauty. The fairest maid in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

And with that he tilted his lance and the crown of winter roses slid into her lap.

Struck dumb, Lyanna looked down at the crown. The thorns of the roses pricked her fingers as she held it. Rhaegar pulled his horse back so he was right alongside her. The height of his destrier meant he was nearly at eye level with her. “Be crowned, Lady Lyanna,” he said in a voice meant only for her ears, then spurred his horse and rode away.

She lifted her head and smiled uncertainly. Everyone around her was stunned into silence – every pair of eyes was fixed on her. Oh Gods, she thought. She glanced across the lists at Rhaegar leaving the field.

Ned’s eyes were wide with shock. He seemed to have lost all ability to speak and instead was staring at Robert. Lyanna followed his gaze. Robert Baratheon looked a little like someone had just run him through with a blade from behind. Beside him, Lord Hunter and Jon Arryn wore similar expressions.

And then the comments started. Like a rising wave they surged through the gallery and then flooded out across the tourney grounds. Lyanna didn’t need to hear them to know what they were saying – she shut her ears and stared down at the crown in her lap, making no attempt to put it on her head.      

Ned leaned in to her and whispered urgently, “We need to get you out of here.” He was looking around at the people in the gallery, his eyes falling like the soldier he was on every perceivable threat. “This has the power to explode any minute.”

Lyanna could only nod. She let Ned take her by the arm and lead her out of the row and down the steps to the grass. She moved automatically, without thought; around her the sound of the crowd grew and she felt the power of a thousand stares upon her. As Ned walked her past the royal box, she glanced up at Elia. Rhaegar’s wife was sitting perfectly still, staring straight ahead, her face impassive, even as the eyes began to turn to her.

Back in the Stark encampment, Ned pulled Lyanna into his tent and sat her on his bed. Brandon came in just moments later, his face dark. “Did you know of this?” he demanded.

She shook her head, still so stunned she could not form her words.

“Everyone is talking about it,” said Brandon, turning to Ned. “Why didn’t he name Elia? Why Lyanna? Are they courting? What does it mean? You do understand what this means, don’t you?”

Lyanna tried to tune out their arguing. Her fingers held the crown still and her eyes fixed unseeing on the blue petals. In her head, she was imagining that this was the end, and it pained her. She felt something clenching around her heart, something desperate. Brandon’s voice cut through her. “Has he spoken to you?”

Should I confess it all, or lie and risk being discovered? When she looked up, the cold look in Brandon’s eyes convinced her.

“The other night at the feast, he saw me outside. We spoke briefly, but I thought it only courtesy.”

“He did not suggest any preference? Favour?”

“None,” she said.

“Hm,” said Brandon. “Is it too much to hope that it was just a simple gesture?” He looked at Ned sceptically.

“Elia has received the crown on a number of occasions,” allowed Ned. “Perhaps it is merely that Rhaegar wished to honour another pretty girl. Perhaps he wished to honour Robert.”

“Why would Rhaegar care about Robert’s ego? They barely know each other.”

Ned went to the tent flap, peered outside, and then spoke in a lowered voice: “This must go no further, brother, but Robert has told me that this entire event was organised so that Rhaegar might speak to the high lords about deposing his father as King.”

Brandon looked shocked. “Really? But why then did he invite his father?”

“Robert believes the King invited himself… out of paranoia. He doesn’t think Aerys trusts even his own son.”

“And Robert knows this to be the truth?”

“I suppose there are but few who know it at all. But it does make some sense out of the whole thing, does it not? Rhaegar knows how Robert loves to be praised and wants him on his side when the moment comes.” Ned spread his hands in a gesture of confusion. “Why would Rhaegar move in on another man’s intended wife when he is already married himself? He would know it would only incite Robert’s wrath to make Lyanna his mistress.”

For a moment, Brandon said nothing, then murmured, “For love, perhaps?”

Lyanna looked up at that.

There was always a degree of ice in Ned’s face, but he looked colder than winter in that moment. “Rhaegar would not be so foolish.” Lyanna could not be sure, but she thought she heard her brother hiss under his breath, “And neither will you.”

She stared at her brothers, facing one another off in a way she had not seen them do before, then interrupted, “Knights beg favours from ladies all the time. Knights crown ladies as their loves all the time. Why does this have to be anything different from those other times? Just because he gave me a crown doesn’t mean I am going to become his mistress. I am betrothed to Robert. Even if Rhaegar wanted me, he couldn’t have me.”

Both Brandon and Ned turned and Ned smiled broadly, with some relief apparent. “See? There we go. We can forget the whole thing, as everyone else will come the morrow when some fresh new gossip will no doubt be found to spread about.”

“You sound very certain,” said Brandon.

Ned sighed. “Nothing is certain, unless you have developed some magical ability to see the future. We just have to deal with what is thrown to us as well we can.”

That seemed to appease Brandon somewhat and Lyanna smiled at him, gladdened when he smiled back. She picked up the crown of roses and returned to her own tent. Once alone, she sat on her bed and studied it. There were just six blue winter roses amid the foliage and other flowers, their icy-blue petals already growing darker from lack of water. In frustration, she plucked a petal away from one of the roses and crushed it between her fingers. A stampede of thoughts was gathering pace in her head: part of her was angered that he had done something so reckless, part of her flattered, and the other part worried for what the future held.

Maybe the best thing to do would be to forget it all. Marry Robert and live the life of a high lord’s wife, give him an heir and be the Lady of Storm’s End. She had no doubt that, whatever his flaws, Robert would love her. Did it matter if she did not love him? She sighed. Perhaps Ned was right; perhaps her love would grow, in time. 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 14: EDDARD - Something Stirring

EDDARD

 

The final feast was as spectacular as any Ned had ever attended. He had thought the same of the first night’s celebration, but this was better still. Food and wine were aplenty, the fires blazed, singers told tales of lost loves and great battles, tumblers performed acrobatics, and fools jested. But for all the merrymaking and good humour, Ned might have been at a wake; on one side of him Brandon was long-faced and slow-burning with unspoken anger, and on his other, Lyanna was little better, picking at her food like a bird once again and staring vaguely off into the distance. He had tried making conversation to no avail and now simply ate his own meal in silence, waiting for whichever one of them would sigh next.

Finally, Benjen cracked. “Oh, what is wrong with the two of you?” he complained. “Can’t we forget about this afternoon and just enjoy ourselves?”

Brandon glared at Ben across the table. “You’ll understand when you’re older, little brother,” he said, unfairly, and went back to staring at his wine cup.

Ned offered Benjen a smile of encouragement, but he just shook his head and stood up. “Well, good luck, Ned,” he said. “I’m going to find someone more interesting to talk to – a wall, perhaps. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Nodding, Ned watched him leave. Brandon sighed. He stood up, and in a low voice said, “Excuse me… there’s someone I need to say goodbye to. Enjoy the rest of the evening, Ned, Lya.”

Ned waited a few moments before he dared to speak. “Lya?”

“Hm?”

“Do not think about what it all might mean. It is best that it is forgotten.” He had hoped his voice had come out sounding sympathetic but by the look Lyanna afforded him, it probably hadn’t. “I’m sorry,” he added, as if an apology would do some good.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Lyanna stated. “I am fine, Ned, really.” She smiled promisingly, but then went back to moving her mutton around her platter.

Ned sighed.

A few more minutes passed and then Lyanna too stood up and made her excuses. She was going to go for a walk, she said, and would then retire to bed early, the better to be heading home on time the next day.

And so Ned was left alone. Further down the table, Robert was discussing something in great detail with Jon Arryn; Ned was pondering going to sit beside them when Howland Reed appeared in front of him. Ned had not seen the crannogman for several days and had believed him to have returned to Greywater Watch or wherever he had come from. Passingly, he had thought it a shame – he had hoped to get to know Lord Howland better.

“Greetings, Eddard, my lord,” said the crannogman. He made for a strange figure, so small of stature yet with such authority about him that he seemed far larger than he was. His green eyes sparkled as he held out his hand and Ned took it, shaking it. “You seem to have lost your pack, quiet wolf,” he added with a smile.

“So it seems.”

“It was not your doing.”

“No…” said Ned. “Although I feel a little like it was.”

“Do not,” said Lord Howland. “There are some things that are meant to be. May I sit?”

Ned looked at the empty bench beside him and replied, “Of course. Have you eaten?”

“I have not, but I see there is plenty to be had.” He nodded at the barely touched dishes in the centre of the table – Brandon and Lyanna had eaten so little there was plenty remaining. Ned waved a hand at the food in invitation, and the crannogman piled herb-crusted trout and honeyed duck breast with green beans on his platter. He sat and began to eat, shovelling huge mouthfuls as if he had not eaten in days. Ned watched in admiration as the pile of food diminished with impressive haste.

Howland Reed noticed Ned’s stare and grinned. “We bog-dwellers may be small but we have hearty appetites.” He paused a moment while Ned chuckled softly, then continued, “Your sister is an impressive lady, my lord. I suppose you have now heard of our little adventure.”

“I have.”

“Then you will also know of my involvement…” Ned nodded. “I promise you, your sister was never in any danger. How do you say it? I, er… had her back.” His accent curled around the words.

The crannogman’s eyes were like sparkling emeralds once again. Ever since he was a boy, Ned had heard wondrous tales of the men of the marshes, of how their houses, and even their castles, moved amongst the wetlands of the Neck, of how the men who lived there could breathe mud and walk the tops of trees, of how their leaders could turn water into earth and earth into water with a mere word. “I’ve heard things about crannogmen,” said Ned. “I have never seen sorcery in action, but it seems like much of what I’ve heard could be called magic.”

Howland Reed raised his thin, dark eyebrows. He smiled enigmatically. “What is magic but something men do not understand and cannot explain?”

“I suppose that is true enough,” allowed Ned. But the question still nagged at him. “Is it, though?”

“To the casual observer, yes, but to those who understand it definitely no.” He paused, took another mouthful of food and swallowed. “I realise that I speak in riddles, my lord, but I assure you, one day you will see for yourself. In the meantime, please take my assurances that your sister was not in any danger. I would not let such a person be in danger.”

“My sister is a wilful thing,” said Ned, unable to keep the regret from his voice. He hoped Howland Reed would not see it as bad feeling towards Lyanna.

“She is a powerful thing, although at present most of that power lies dormant within her, and she has a good and honourable heart. I feel blessed by the Gods to know her. As I suspect others do also.” Ned nodded in agreement. “I owe her my life.”

“She considers the debt amply repaid,” said Ned.

“I am sure she does, but we crannogmen do not sway from our loyalties so easily. Thousands of years ago, a Stark saved a Reed from a terrible fate and that bound our houses together. The other day, that act was repeated and the bond strengthened – it will take much to break it, of that I promise. If ever House Stark has need of the crannogmen…”

Taken aback, Ned regarded Howland Reed. Lords and knights swore their fealty on a regular basis back in Winterfell, but the words were usually the same whoever uttered them. There was something more genuine in this assertion. A simple word of thanks seemed too small, but he thanked him nonetheless.

“Something is stirring, my lord,” said the crannogman. He pushed his now empty plate away and looked darkly at Ned. “Ice and fire are aligning themselves and when they meet, a spark will ignite from the ashes, and burn and burn against the blue cold. Our seers have seen it. You must prepare yourself. As will I.”

Ned was stunned into silence – the words seemed strange and full of grave import, but he had no idea what to make of them. He sat still, staring. “I am sorry, Lord Howland, but I do not understand.”

Howland Reed stood up, throwing one of his thin, lithe, little legs over the bench. “You will,” he replied, “in time. And now I will take my leave of you, though I have no doubt we will meet again very soon.”

And with that, he was gone, vanished into the crowds of people who were suddenly on their feet. Ned looked up, wondering what had stirred everyone to move when they had been quite settled just a few moments earlier. He peered through the heads and saw it: in front of the royal dais, the white figure of Ser Arthur Dayne was grabbing the hand of his sister, Ashara, who was weeping and fighting to be free. Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy stood, his jaw clenched hard and his blue eyes on the tearful girl. “Let me go! I want to see him!” cried Ashara.

In that moment, Ser Arthur appeared to realise that much of the hall was now looking at him and he released his sister’s hand. She covered her mouth with her hand and picked up her skirts and ran, leaving Ser Arthur standing staring dumbly at the amazed crowds. He frowned and looked down at the ground.

Prince Rhaegar, who had been sitting beside his father on the dais, stepped down and went to him. He placed a steadying hand on the knight’s upper arm. A few words were exchanged, then Ser Arthur nodded and stood back, straightening and fixing his gaze ahead in that calm, unseeing manner all of the Kingsguard had whenever they were on duty and there was no perceivable threat. But for the distant look in his eye, he appeared as if nothing had happened.

Rhaegar turned to the gathered crowd. “My lords and ladies, Lady Ashara is feeling unwell. Please excuse her and her brother who was trying to attend to her.” He glanced at Ser Arthur. “I now release Ser Arthur from his guard – Ser Barristan, please take his place.” He raised his voice so that it carried clearly across the packed hall. “Pray, continue the festivities.”

Slowly, the crowd began to drift back to their conversations and the murmur swelled to become a thousand voices talking together and over one another. Ned stood back and watched as Aerys sank back down into his chair and fell to picking restlessly at his scabs. Rhaegar departed. Ser Arthur Dayne glanced at Aerys then at Barristan Selmy as the other white cloak stepped up and stood before the king, his gaze locked straight ahead.

And then the Sword of the Morning was walking towards Ned, with his shoulders squared and his face set. “Eddard Stark,” he greeted. Ned had never heard him speak before; his voice was calm and deep and clear.

“Ser Arthur,” replied Ned.

“Walk with me.”

Ned had no choice but to agree. Ser Arthur Dayne was a formidable presence up close, half a head taller than Ned, his body built with a deadly combination of strength and suppleness. He led the way out of the hall, continuing to walk until they stood in the vast shadow of the Kingspyre Tower. Ser Arthur stopped then, and turned to face Ned. It was quiet out here, the sound of the music from the hall nothing but a distant echo. “I am sure you are wondering why I wish to speak to you and why I have brought us here, away from the hall…”

Do I say something? Is he expecting me to admit what I know so he can confirm his suspicions? Ned swallowed. “I have a thought,” he said.

Arthur Dayne crossed his arms; on his back, the hilt of his blade Dawn glinted as he shifted. “I am not trying to trick you. I am sure you must know of my sister and your brother’s… relationship… and I wish you to know that I have done what I can to dissuade her from embarking on something potentially ruinous.” He sighed. “Ashara is grief stricken at the moment, but she will recover from this and move on. Our father has selected another suitor for her to contemplate and we can only hope that she will entertain this one for longer than she did the others.”

Ned, who had been anticipating some sort of warning or reprimand, was surprised. “I have also spoken to Brandon. He believes he loves Ashara, but he knows his duty.”

A sad smile crossed Ser Arthur’s face and he looked down at the dusty ground beneath his feet. “As do I, as do I… we all do.” He paused, then huffed softly. His eyes were dark as pools of ink, with flecks of rich amethyst in them. “They tell me you are a man of honour, Lord Eddard. I am also, and we honourable men know that sometimes, you have to do your duty even when it pains you. I just wanted you to know that before you ever had chance to believe that I stood by and acted without honour.”

“I understand, and I thank you,” replied Ned, somewhat stunned. “I do not think there is much more I can say but that.” He extended his hand and smiled warmly. “I hope when we speak next, it will be on considerably more pleasant terms.”

The Sword of the Morning took Ned’s proffered hand and shook it with a firm grip. “I hope the same. And I hope your brother finds some peace with his betrothed bride.”

As he turned and walked away, his white cloak fanned out behind him. 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 15: LYANNA - The Wailing Tower

LYANNA

 

High in the Wailing Tower, Lyanna stood looking down at the people below in the courtyard. They seemed tiny as ants as they moved to and fro, sometimes stopping to talk, but mostly heading towards the hall or the crouching cluster of coloured tents in the distance. Up here, a cool wind whistled and moaned through the fissures in the stonework; she could feel it drying the tears even as they prickled unbidden in her eyes. All day, or rather, ever since she had resigned herself to her fate, she had felt like this, as if she was a moment away from breaking down and sobbing without end. It was only her sheer strength of will that had stopped her from doing so.

Tomorrow they would leave – Brandon would return to Barrowton before riding for Riverrun to begin the first wedding preparations, Ned would go back to the Eyrie with Robert, and she and Benjen would travel to Winterfell. And everything that had happened here at Harrenhal would become just a dim and distant memory.

It was ridiculous, she told herself, as she stood looking out at the other huge towers and the massive curtain walls. Prince Rhaegar? In one breath she cursed herself, and in the other she longed for him. Lyanna had always been proud of the way she knew her own mind and spoke it, but now she felt as if she didn’t even know who she was anymore.

He had changed all that. 

But all the while, an insistent voice in the back of her head demanded… Is this what love is? If there was no Robert Baratheon to think of, would I even be thinking at all?

Another wail sounded as a gust of wind wrapped itself around the tower. It was a terrible, haunting cry, as if the tower itself were stricken by a grief so profound no words could voice it. She had heard people saying that the fine weather was set to turn in the next few days, and as she stood up here, she could feel the chill in the air. It was rain for sure. I should get some rest for it will be a difficult journey back home.

Slowly, she began to descend the six hundred or so steps that had taken her to the top of the tower. The stairwell was dark and shadowed but she knew exactly whose arms wrapped around her, even in the gloom.

“What are you doing here?” she gasped.

“I must see you alone before you go,” he said urgently, his body pressing her back against the cold stone.

“Your Grace, I mean, Rhaegar… I cannot.”

“You don’t want to?”

“I am not sure I dare.” She looked away, trying to gather herself once again. The tears burned behind her eyes again. “My brothers would not be pleased if they saw me with you. They have explained away the crown of roses, but they still do not really trust you, Brandon especially.”

Rhaegar shook his head ruefully. “Perhaps they have reason not to,” he said. “But then perhaps they do not.” His hands were on her forearms, holding her still, but his grip was light and she could easily pull away if she wished. “I’m not sure Robert Baratheon knows whether to be threatened by me, or flattered by the fact that you are his betrothed.”

She couldn’t help the smile that crossed her face; Robert’s ego was a legendary thing.

“Why did you give me that crown? You should have given it to Elia instead.”

“I gave you the crown because you deserve no less. You are the most beautiful maid in the Seven Kingdoms, not to mention the bravest. Elia and I talked about it beforehand, so it did not come as a shock to her.”

Lyanna’s stomach turned suddenly at that, as she imagined Rhaegar telling Elia that he was casting her aside in favour of another. She saw the princess as she had been in the royal box that day, drowning in salmon pink, sad and sickly-looking, and imagined her big, dark eyes filling with tears.

She wished she could change things, if only so that Elia would not be hurt.

“So you are intending to cast her aside?”

Rhaegar frowned. “It is true that I am fond of my wife – she is the mother of my child – but love is another matter. As you are well familiar with, marriage in our world has little to do with love and much more to do with politics and alliances. I did as my father bid me and I was chosen for Elia by her mother. However, you are right that we are bound together by marriage. But do not also forget that my wife is Dornish; she has grown up with the idea of paramours for both men and women. This is not so unexpected to her.”

It was a strange thing to swallow. But Lyanna had been told how life in Dorne was different to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms – as a child, when she had learned of the social independence and power that Dornish culture granted its womenfolk, she had often wished she had been born there. “But I will not be your mistress.”

“I know, so therefore I have to consider another option. But I believe I have found a way to make you mine that you will agree to,” he said. “There are some foundations to build that may take some time, but I hope to keep everyone in kind.”

“And what of Robert?”

Rhaegar replied, “Robert will be taken care of too. He will be offered something he cannot refuse.”

“So you would buy me?”

He looked offended. “I would buy your betrothed, but you… you are a priceless thing, my lady, and could not be bought with all the gold in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lyanna couldn’t help the smile that filled her face. It wasn’t the words that impressed her, rather the fluidity with which they had been delivered, as if it was impossible that he could have even thought otherwise. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured.

He smiled, stepping forward. One hand tangled in her hair and he pressed his lips to her forehead, then to the top of her head, and breathed in. “And so I ask you, Lyanna Stark, before I do things that will change much… do you love me?”

The words stopped her and she pulled back enough to look him in the eyes. “Love?” she asked dumbly.

“Yes, love. Surely I do not need to explain it to you?” His words were not harsh, but rather teasing. She shook her head and instead, she turned the question around.

“Do you love me?”

“Oh, indisputably I am in love with you,” he said without pause. He looked down at the steps still below them as if he was suddenly nervous. His pale face was shadowy in the darkness yet she could see his sincerity. “I think about you all the time, I don’t like it when I’m not with you… When I consider the thought that I might not have you, I think I would rather die.”

Lyanna was stunned. “I, I don’t know what to say…” she murmured.

He met her eyes. “You do not have to say anything you do not truly feel.”

“I don’t?”

“Of course you don’t!” He sounded surprised. “That is what I would wish for every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms. If two people are in love, then they should be together. When I am King there will be many changes, and this will be one of them.”

She sighed at his romantic, impossible assertion. “You talk of changing the way our whole world operates.”

“Change is good,” said the Prince. He smiled at her. “And sometimes all that has to happen is for it to come from the top.”

At that, Lyanna’s own smile burst widely on her face. He could not have said anything she agreed with more and suddenly, all thought of Elia, of Robert, and of her duty blurred and disappeared. She was just a young girl looking at a young man who had set her heart on fire.

One step and she was in his arms and kissing him like her very life depended on it. His arms wrapped around her and he responded in kind. There was nothing subtle about it. Their tongues clashed together, lips moving, moving faster and then slower, steady, open and yielding. Lyanna felt herself sinking into him, her body against his, until the hard press of him against her belly drew her back to reality and reminded her of her virtue. She stopped, swallowed, and pulled back.

Rhaegar drew his hand across his face in distracted amazement and stumbled over an apology. “I’m sorry, my lady… Gods, I am sorry. My body… my body is a traitor to me.” He looked away, his lips parted and his breath coming in short, sharp grabs. He seemed to be trying to gather himself up again, with difficulty. He sighed and shook his head. “But, oh, sweet love!” he cried. “Give me that treason again!”

Smiling, Lyanna gave him his kiss once more.

She was still smiling when she slipped back into her tent, her cheeks flushed and her lips stinging with sweetness. Not a soul was there so she took up the crown of blue roses, climbed onto her bed, and lay back with it resting on her stomach, his departing words echoing in her head.

“Parting is enough to make me wish I could cleave my soul in two and leave one half with you. Look for a raven – I shall send word soon. Good night, my love.”

“He is my love,” she said, aloud, and her smile grew. “I do... I love him.”  

 

To be continued...

Notes:

Apologies for the brevity of this chapter. It needed to sit alone, I felt.

Chapter 16: EDDARD - Farewell to Harrenhal

EDDARD

 

The Stark encampment was being collapsed around him the following morning in a light rain. It had started in the night as the wind had arisen and continued off and on since then, never more than drizzle and sometimes just a wet mist. The fields around Harrenhal seemed greener for the soaking. Despite the grumbling other men were doing, Ned was pleased – wet days in the Riverlands reminded him of spring in the North when the snow turned to sleet and then to fine.

Jon Arryn came to speak to him as the final pieces of baggage were being loaded up. “Ned, your father has sent a raven. He intends to visit the Eyrie next month, after meeting with Lord Hoster at Riverrun.”

Ned smiled. His father coming to see him at the Eyrie was a rare but pleasant thing. He took the letter from Jon, split the Stark seal, and began to read the contents. Lord Rickard was coming to Riverrun to assist Brandon and Lord Hoster with the marriage preparations and then he intended to treat with Robert about Lyanna’s marriage. Robert will be pleased, thought Ned. For several months now, Robert had been keen to leave the Vale and return to his seat at Storm’s End, but Jon Arryn had persuaded him that he needed to wed before he did so. “He wishes to talk to Robert about wedding Lyanna,” said Ned. He folded the letter again and pocketed it.

“It is about time that Robert wed,” replied Jon. “And time you were also thinking of it. I suspect your father will want to find you a wife when he is done with Brandon and Lyanna.”

Ned chuffed softly. “I suppose he will, although I am likely a less attractive proposition than my brother, being heir to nothing.”

No reply was necessary to that, so Jon simply nodded and said, “My men are departing in an hour. Are you intending to ride ahead with Robert?”

“He has been to see me about it already. He hopes to land a deer as we pass along the High Road.”

“Ah, well, best of luck. This life of fine food and drink we’ve been living here could become rather comfortable!” laughed Jon. “I will see you when we are back in the Eyrie, then.”

When he had disappeared, Ned realised that he had better bid farewell to his brothers and sister, else Robert would find him, ready to leave, and he would have to make him wait. He went to the stable yard first and predictably found Brandon there, waiting for his horse to be saddled. He was talking with Martyn Cassell and smiled when Ned approached. It was the first smile Ned had seen on his face in days, since the night he had sat with him on the battlements and learned of his brother’s love for Ashara Dayne. He wondered what change had occurred to alter Brandon’s mood.

“Ned,” said Brandon warmly. Alongside him, Martyn Cassell nodded in greeting as well. “Are you leaving?”

“Very soon – Robert wishes to go hunting ahead of the baggage train and now my shoulder is healed, I feel the need of the wind in my hair.”

Brandon grinned. He was dressed in a simple white linen shirt and a boiled leather doublet, a relaxed contrast with the steel plate and surcoat he wore to joust in. He had tied his hair back, revealing his handsome face, and a cape of russet fox fur was draped across his shoulders. The misty rain had coated with fur with a silver sheen. “You look well today, brother,” observed Ned.

“I am feeling well.” He glanced at Martyn Cassell and said, “Martyn, I will speak to you soon. Tell my father I will send a raven when I am readying to leave for Riverrun.” His friend nodded and departed. Brandon’s face clouded a moment. “Ashara and I spoke last night. She was tearful but she understood in the end. I intend to see her once more before I wed Catelyn.”

Frowning, Ned replied, “Is that wise?”

“It will all be done with the utmost discretion, Ned, I swear.”

“I don’t know,” said Ned doubtfully. He hoped Brandon understood what he was doing. “No-one must see you. Lord Hoster would take it as a slight this close to your wedding, and if you anger him…”

“No-one will see us,” asserted Brandon. Ethan Glover had finished preparing Brandon’s horse and handed the reins to him. He gave him a leg up into the saddle and then adjusted his cape over the horse’s haunches. “Where is Lyanna?”

“I’m here,” came Lyanna’s voice and both Ned and Brandon turned to see her walking towards them across the stable yard. She, too, was dressed in riding clothes, and although her hair was wet, she had a wide smile on her face. “I thought I would find you here. We are leaving shortly and I had to say farewell to my favourite big brothers.”

“We’re your only big brothers,” said Ned with a quirking smile. Pinned to her chest was her direwolf brooch, but this time, there was no blue rose behind it.  

“Exactly!” said Lyanna delightedly. “And therefore my eternal favourites. When will we see each other again?”

“When I am wed, I suppose.” Brandon’s horse snorted and tossed its head; Lyanna reached up and caught its bridle and stroked its nose, calming it. “I believe Lord Hoster is thinking six months hence.”  

“Not long, then. Although I shall miss you – we’ve seen so much of each other these last few months, it feels like times of old.”

“I shall miss you too, Lya,” said Ned. He embraced her fiercely. She was so slight she felt like barely more than a child in his arms.   

They separated and Brandon reached down and mussed her hair. “As I will,” he added.

Smoothing her hair back down, Lyanna looked up at him on his horse and grinned. “The next time we meet, then, you will be a husband. What a frightening thought! It’s hard to imagine you being such a figure of responsibility.”

“Why, thank you, dear sister,” Brandon replied sarcastically. Ned laughed. “Can you imagine yourself a wife?”

Lyanna made a face. “It does not bear thinking about,” she said. “Perhaps I shall run away and become a septa or one of the silent sisters.”

For a moment, Ned thought that Brandon believed their sister to be serious, but then he chuckled, tugged at his horse’s reins, and turned it around to look her in the eye. “That’s the only thing more ridiculous than you being a wife!” he exclaimed. “Look after yourself, Ned, Lya, and tell Benjen I shall write soon.”

And with that, he spurred his horse and trotted out of the stable yard. Ned sighed. He disliked taking his leave of his family, always in the back of his mind thinking of when he’d said goodbye to his mother only to never see her alive again. He turned to Lyanna, who was still watching where Brandon’s horse had disappeared. The rain had picked up again and so he reached for her sleeve and tugged her beneath the overhanging roof of the stables. “You are feeling better than last night?” he asked her.

Lyanna looked oddly at him. “I was fine last night, Ned, just a little contemplative. Truth be told, I was thinking about being Robert’s wife.”

“You didn’t look very happy with the idea.”

“No, perhaps I didn’t, but then I am hardly doing it out of my own choice, am I? But yes, before you start, I know, I have my duty.” She screwed up her face into a scowl. “Although sometimes I think I should just stuff duty with leave it out for the crows. And don’t make that face,” she said.

Ned instantly blanked his expression, wondering what face he had been making. “What face?”

“The one that says you wholly disapprove but dare not say so because it would not be honourable.”

Shaking his head, Ned laughed. “Am I that easy to read?”

“To me you are, dear brother…” Her voice trailed away. She sighed. “Do you ever wish we could live in a world that was different?”

“I suppose I have never thought that way.”

“You must have!” Lyanna looked shocked.

“No, not really. What is the point of wishing for something that cannot be? It serves no useful purpose.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” she said. “But everyone needs their dreams. Even you, Eddard Stark.”

From across the stable-yard, a horse’s shoed feet sounded loudly and a groom appeared leading Blizzard by the reins, tacked up and ready to ride. Lyanna rose on her tip-toes and kissed Ned on his bearded cheek, then stood back and smiled.  “Take care of you, my sister,” he said softly. “Watch yourself on the road.”

“Oh, I will,” said Lyanna with a grin. “Think anyone could catch me if I wanted to run?” She took her horse’s reins and swung herself nimbly into the saddle. She looks like she was born there, thought Ned. “I ride better than Brandon does.”

“I think any potential thieves should beware… of your acid tongue if nothing else!”

Lyanna laughed and turned her horse around. “Goodbye Ned, I will see you soon!” She put her heels into Blizzard’s sides and set off at a trot, splashing through the puddles.

Ned found Robert waiting for him at the head of the Arryn line beneath the looming main gates to Harrenhal. Jon was in front, mounted on his bay palfrey, surrounded by his own men. The moon and falcon banner of House Arryn flew above their heads. “Where have you been, Ned?” asked Robert, impatience peppering his tone. He was dressed for hunting in supple leathers, and carried a recurve horse-bow and a quiver full of arrows slung across his back. “We’ve been waiting.”

“I’m sorry, I had to say farewell to my brothers and sister. I hope I haven’t delayed us too long?”

“No, no,” replied Jon with a smile. “You know what Robert here is like, always wanting to get going. Never one to sit back and relax, eh?” He inclined his head towards Robert, then chuckled.

“I hate standing around!” boomed Robert. The huge red destrier he was riding side-stepped into Ned’s mount. “Besides, this bloody rain is getting into my boots stood still. You ready, Ned? I think a strong gallop will do us good.” He did not wait for Ned’s reply but instead spurred his horse and set off. Grinning, Ned followed suit.

They went for several miles at the fastest pace until the horses began to tire and Robert slowed to a lope and then a walk. They were well ahead of the Arryn line by then, out on their own in the Riverlands. Everywhere Ned looked, it was green and lush – the flood plain of the Trident was such fertile land that near enough every patch of land was turned over to fields of yet-to-ripen grain or rich pasture. The rain had slowed to a few odd spots and the sun was beginning to break through the clouds – as they rode through the thinning mist, the Crossing-at-the-Ford came into view.

Robert drew alongside Ned when they approached the ford. The rain had made the water about knee-high, but the ford was still passable on horseback. Reining his mount in, Ned followed a few paces behind after Robert had kicked his destrier on and gone splashing through.

Once on the other side, Robert stood waiting until Ned joined him, allowing his horse to drop his head and snatch a few mouthfuls of grass. As he drove his horse up the small embankment, Ned noticed Robert’s face was lined with thought and his eyes faraway. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

Robert tugged his horse’s head up and kicked him on as he replied, “I’m thinking that I do not trust Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Ned blinked. He had explained the same notion to Robert that he had to Brandon after Rhaegar had laid the Queen of Love and Beauty’s laurel in Lyanna’s lap and had believed the matter to be closed. The only time Robert was an easy man to persuade was when he was being flattered, and Ned had made sure he had laid on the flattery three-fold.

“No?” Ned waited for Robert to expand on his comment.

“No. I don’t believe I have ever completely trusted the man – I mean, Gods, who reads books and plays a harp when you could be practising with a sword or bow?”

Ned raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think that makes him a man not to be trusted does it? Maesters read books all the time and we trust them with our lives.”

Robert grunted. “But maesters are maesters, they are not crown princes. Rhaegar should be leading by example.”

“Perhaps he is,” said Ned after a moment’s pause.

Robert did not reply, but moved into a trot and started down the road that led away from the ford. Ned did the same, and when he drew up alongside, Robert spat, “If that Targaryen whoreson so much as breathes near Lyanna again, I will not suffer it.”

“Robert--” Ned began, but before he could get his objection out, Robert interrupted,

“I will not be made a fool, Ned! Not by Rhaegar Targaryen or anyone else. If he wants my alliance to stand against his lunatic father, he’d better offer me something to secure it, something I can hold in my hand.”

There is nothing to say to that, thought Ned. When Robert Baratheon sets his mind to something, he is as immovable as a rock.

The High Road towards the Eyrie was looming up before them now. Through the foothills, it was wide enough for two carts to pass easily and the surface was even and easy-going, but it would soon become more mountainous and the way would narrow to nothing more than a track in places. If they were going to land a deer, they had better do it soon. Robert rode in silence just ahead of him; in time, Ned knew his friend’s mood would pass and all would be forgotten, but for the moment, it was best to let him alone.

Suddenly, Robert let out a shout and pointed before them. Running alongside the road no more than a hundred strides ahead was a small herd of mountain deer. Ned barely had a chance to catch sight of them before Robert was urging his horse into a gallop and tearing after them, hooves thundering. Ned spurred his mount into pursuit but Robert was drawing his bow before he even approached. With one well-aimed shot, Robert hit the trailing animal and it skitted sideways. The arrow had buried itself in the deer’s haunch and rendered it lame, but so fuelled by fear was it that it did not stop and instead barrelled onwards. Robert drew up another arrow and hit the deer again; this time the shaft sank deep into the animal’s neck; and with a scream, it tumbled over its own head and collapsed on the ground.

“Yes!” roared Robert. He galloped up to the dying beast and slid from his horse just as Ned arrived, a dozen strides behind him. He drew his dirk and cut the deer’s throat, ending its misery, then turned grinning to Ned. Blood glistened on his blade. “An excellent prize, wouldn’t you say?”

Ned glanced over the carcass – it was a young female, probably no more than a year old. “It’s a decent size,” he said. He reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a length of rope. “Here, tie up its legs and you can throw it on the back of my horse if you want.”

Taking the rope, Robert laughed. “Oh, no, this one’s mine to carry home,” proclaimed Robert. “My prize.” He turned and looked pointedly at Ned. “And no-one can have her but me.” 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 17: LYANNA - Come Away With Me

LYANNA – Come Away With Me

 

Time passed. The blue roses in the glass gardens bloomed and faded, and then dropped their darkened petals on the ground. The sun rose in the east and set in the west, and life went on little changed. Lyanna’s father went about his business as Lord of Winterfell, Ben practised swordplay, archery and tilting at rings in the yard, and Lyanna read, rode, botched her sewing, and when no-one was looking, challenged her brother to clash swords with her in the Godswood.

It was exactly how it had been before Harrenhal.

Except for one thing.

Every so often when she retired to bed, there would be a letter on her pillow with a familiar seal. The first time, Lyanna had snatched up the parchment and unrolled it breathlessly, to find no more than three words scrawled on the paper and the pressed head of a blue winter rose resting within. She had hurried to reply in kind, sneaking off to the rookery to send a raven when she was sure nobody would notice.

The next time, the letter was longer, more a diary entry of a day in King’s Landing, punctuated with tiny sketches in black ink, and finishing with the same three words.

And so it continued.

When Robert Baratheon sent her a letter too, Lyanna sat on her bed and stared at the paper in sheer amazement. His words were gushing and sentimental, praising her beauty – his idea of romance, she presumed – but in comparison to Rhaegar’s delicate, intelligent prose, they seemed clunky and forced. She had scribbled a polite reply out of duty rather than desire, thinking that if someone had told her a year ago that she would be courted by two men at the same time, she would have laughed in their face. It was utterly ridiculous, she told herself. But that did not stop her hurrying to bed every night to see if there was something new awaiting her on her pillow.

It was a dull day when everything changed. Storms had skirted around Winterfell like a pack of snarling wolves all day, thunder grumbling in the distance and rainclouds turning the horizon black as night, but not once had they emptied their rains on the castle. When Lyanna had begged to be allowed to go out riding, Lord Rickard had forbidden it, saying he did not wish to send his men out to rescue her should a storm break and leave her stranded.

“I won’t need rescuing,” said Lyanna indignantly. “I can look after myself.”

Her father’s long face was expressionless at the best of times, but his eyes always spoke his feelings loud and clear. Now, they turned icy grey. “That is enough, Lyanna. I am so weary of your constant challenging of my decisions. Why must you be so headstrong? I swear I never thought I would have such trouble with a daughter!”

Lyanna dropped her head and scowled at her shoes. There was half an argument on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. “Yes, Father,” she said.

“Good. Now, have you packed?” The day before, Brandon’s summons for them all to travel to Riverrun for his marriage to Catelyn Tully had arrived and Lord Rickard had immediately started preparations. Lyanna shook her head. “Well, perhaps you ought to stop mooning about the stables and go upstairs to your chambers and organise your garb.”

“Yes, Father,” she parroted. Sometimes she wondered if her father would ever accept her for a grown woman, capable of independent thought – she had once asked Brandon why he treated her differently to Ned, who was only a few short years older than she, and Brandon had replied that that was the way with fathers and daughters and she would just have to get used to it. Lyanna had never got used it.

She went sullenly up to her chambers and shut the door with a thud, kicking it for good measure once it was closed. Her trunk was open in the middle of the room, ready for filling, but instead she went to the window and flung it open, staring out across the yard and the castle walls. A flash of lightning lit up the western sky. The clouds were gathering, dark and foreboding, once again on the horizon, and Lyanna imagined riding out towards them with the wind buffeting her. She closed her eyes and let the cold air wash over her face. In her head, Blizzard’s hooves pummelled the ground beneath her and she glanced over her shoulder to see a great black destrier following in her wake, a familiar figure astride it. 

She sighed, then turned back to her trunk. Ned’s voice echoed in her head from all the way back at Harrenhal: What is the point of wishing for something that cannot be? It serves no useful purpose.  

It was then that she saw it – atop her pillow was a rolled piece of parchment, bound with black ribbon and closed with a single red wax seal. Lyanna fairly lunged across the room and swept up the letter. There was no stag of Baratheon printed in the wax; instead it was patterned with a thumbprint, slightly distorted. She pressed her own thumb into the moulding – by the size of it, it was clearly a man’s thumb.  With fumbling fingers she untied the ribbon and rolled out the parchment. A flurry of blue rose petals, pressed and dried, fell to the floor. Her hands shook as she read:

Find reason to offer your prayers to the Old Gods tonight, and when the moon rises above the library tower, come to the Godswood.

As always, there was no signature beneath the message.

Lyanna sighed and pressed the paper to her chest. She looked around her, half expecting someone to be watching her, even though the door to her bedchamber was shut tight. Her heart was hammering wildly. Oh Gods, she thought, what is this?

That evening at dinner, she played the dutiful daughter, but she kept glancing around the hall looking for his face. She had no idea though why she was even looking, because he would be so blindingly obvious if he was here, with his silvery hair and purple eyes. Her father was entertaining his men for the last time before riding to Riverrun, so there was a fine meal on offer, stewed lamb with potatoes and onions, a haunch of venison and half a dozen other dishes, none of which interested Lyanna in the slightest. Her mind was elsewhere, beyond the castle walls and deep in the Godswood, wondering if he was already there amid the trees, waiting for her.

If any of her lord father’s men noticed her distraction, they did not comment. When the time came for her to retire to bed, she stood and asked, “By your leave, Father?”

Lord Rickard nodded but did not speak; it seemed he was still angry about her defiance that afternoon.

Walking slowly and deliberately, Lyanna left the great hall of Winterfell, climbed the steps to her bedchamber, and went straight to the window. She pulled herself up onto the ledge, braced her feet against the stone on one side and pressed her back up against the other. The storms of earlier had been blown away and the cloud that had shrouded the castle all day was beginning to thin. Her eyes lifted to the sky and searched for the moon; she found it, three-quarters full, pale, and half-hidden behind whispery veiling cloud. It was almost level with the highest window in the library tower.

With a patience unlike any she had ever felt before, she waited, and waited. The sounds of men laughing and talking in the great hall began to fade away, and when she heard the last footsteps ringing across the stones of the courtyard, she knew the feast was over. The moon was level with the library tower’s turreted roof then and she watched it with an unbroken stare until it floated lazily above the highest point. She donned her cloak, raised the hood, and lifted the latch on her door.

For a moment she stood peering out into the darkness of the hallway, then slipped away. She moved stealthily, on her tip-toes for fear of her footsteps sounding on the stone and betraying her.

Outside, the night air felt cool against her skin. She kept to the shadows as she moved across the courtyard and entered the Godswood through the silent wooden gate behind the kennels. In the vague moonlight the sentinels looked eerie, like the straight spears of giants pierced into the earth, and the massive oaks twisted and turned their gnarled branches into a dense canopy. Lyanna watched her step as she moved forward, trying to avoid the snaking roots that puckered the ground.

It was always quiet in the Godswood, but tonight it seemed quieter still. Her feet made no sound as she walked through the hummus. When she came upon the heart tree, she stopped and looked around. She had seen nobody and heard nothing except the occasional hoot of an owl or the scrabbling of nocturnal beasts in the undergrowth and was confused now. The thought flitted through her head that perhaps she had been tricked.

And then there he was, walking towards her dressed all in black with his head hooded.

A smile split her face and she ran to him; he enfolded her in his arms and spun her around, chuckling softly. “Gods, I’ve missed you,” he murmured as he kissed her hair, her forehead, her eyes, and then finally her mouth. She was breathless when he stopped, her head whirling. “Tell me you’ve missed me too…” His voice was accented with a desperate need.

Lyanna reached up and took his face in her hands, looking deep into his dark lilac eyes. “I’ve missed you more than I can say.” She kissed him again, long and soft – in his throat, Rhaegar hummed with joyous satisfaction.

For a long moment they stood just holding each other, neither wishing to let the other go, but then a little wind moved the branches of the weirwood above their heads and Lyanna looked up. “I’ve thought about you every day,” she said in a low voice. Her hands fell limply to her sides. “And sometimes I’ve hardly been able to sleep for thinking of you…” She trailed away and then looked at him anguished. “It’s been months – I’d almost given up hope.”

Rhaegar reached up and caressed her cheek. “I am so sorry, my love. I have tried so hard.”

Lyanna felt tears prickle behind her eyes. “Then this is it,” she said numbly. “You are here to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” He looked shocked. “No, no, not goodbye… never goodbye.” He cupped her face and smiled at her. “I’m here to ask you to come with me. To beg you to come with me.”

In her chest, Lyanna’s heart clutched and sputtered. Have I heard him correctly? She stared. “To… to come with you?”

“Yes. Come away with me. Tonight.”

His eyes were pleading her and Lyanna felt a pull like no other to take his hand and go wherever he would lead her. “How?” It was a simple question but it asked so much and Lyanna knew that he understood. There were so many barriers in their way and while he had the power to push and pull, to change, and if all else failed, do as he pleased, she was a woman – not much more than a girl, in truth – and she could do nothing. It was a frustration that had haunted her entire life.  

“I would marry you, my love; your family could have no problem with that, surely? You would be my Queen and they would become the second most powerful family in the realm.”

Lyanna shook her head in confusion and said, “You are already married.”

Silence stretched a moment. Rhaegar moved to stare into the dark depths of the pool that lay before the heart tree, then said quietly, “If I had had my wish I would have ridden into King’s Landing after Harrenhal and changed everything that stood in our way the very next day. But I have been my father’s heir for long enough to know that you cannot change a kingdom like that overnight. Things have to be done carefully and the way has to be forged so that the balance is maintained even while the weights are changed.”

“Harrenhal became the graveyard of my last endeavour. My father has kept himself hidden inside the walls of the Red Keep for years but then he announces that he will be accompanying me to Harrenhal, where I had wished to speak to the high lords about his increasingly fragile state of mind. Someone betrayed my trust and informed him of my intentions. I have not yet identified the culprit, although I have my suspicions.” He turned to look at Lyanna, his face solemn. “So I had to move quieter still. And quietness takes time, I’m afraid.”   

“I have begun the process of having my marriage dissolved,” Rhaegar continued after a moment. “Elia will return to Dorne, where she would rather be anyway, and keep all the benefits she has enjoyed these last three years. For her, nothing will change other than that she will see me less often and that she will, of course, be free to follow her own heart and marry whomever she chooses.”

It sounds too good to be true, she thought. She couldn’t help the look of scepticism that crossed her face; clearly, he saw it too.

“I intend to remove my father from power and rule the Seven Kingdoms as Prince Regent,” he said simply. There was no joy in his voice. “I have been thinking it has been necessary for some time, but it will not be easy. I have worked to assure the support of a number of the Kingsguard and men of the Small Council, but as Harrenhal proved, there are those who would plot to deny me.”

Lyanna frowned at him. “But this is just a plan, isn’t it? An intention.”

“I always said you were clever,” Rhaegar said with a smile. He took her by the shoulders. “It is just a plan, but there are other things that are driving me to act now, things I will tell you about when we are away.”

“Where will we go?”

“King’s Landing,” replied Rhaegar. “I shall keep you hidden there for a short time, until I have fully executed my plan, sought an arrangement with your father, and then we will be free.”

Above her head, the weirwood whispered as a breath of wind stirred its branches. Lyanna went to the pool and then threw her head back and laughed. When she turned back to him, he was frowning in bewilderment, but she couldn’t stop herself, the laughter boiled up in her throat again and came spurting out.

All her life people had said she was wild – her own father called her ‘wolf child’ – and here she was weighing up actions and consequences like never before. Across from her, Rhaegar Targaryen stood completely still, his eyes focused on only her. The man would change an entire kingdom for me, she thought. It was the stuff of songs.

And then she realised that she could stand here all night, until the sun rose in the east, and debate the possibilities with him, or she could take his hand and run with him, and be damned with it all.

A smile crept onto her face. It sounded like a bloody good thing.

Rhaegar smiled back and the look in his eyes was enough to make her forget about Robert Baratheon, her brothers and the whole world. He held out his hand.

With Winterfell’s ancient weirwood staring redly down on them, Lyanna Stark took the hand of the Prince and followed. It was the most wilful thing she had ever done. And as they rode away from the castle in the pre-dawn light, she never looked back.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 18: INTERLUDE

INTERLUDE

 

****

Three stories converge.

One day in the life.

Time slows. A moment stutters and then stops and then hangs.

Fate looks down and chooses the course of things and then the moment restarts, winds up and the story continues.

****

On the King’s Road south of the Neck, Brandon Stark rode with his companion Jeffory Mallister and his squire Ethan Glover towards the Inn at the Crossroads. Coming from the Vale in the East, Kyle Royce, who had met with Elbert Arryn near the Bloody Gate, had already arrived and were waiting for their friend.

Brandon Stark was to be married in three days hence at Riverrun, to the beautiful Catelyn Tully, eldest daughter of Lord Hoster Tully, in a marriage bond that had been forged some five years before. Royce and Arryn, keen to begin the festivities, ordered meat and mead, and were telling tales of girls they had bedded and of exploits they had won with sword and lance when Brandon flung open the door and marched inside, his face split from ear to ear with an enormous grin.

Ordering himself a flagon of strong ale, Brandon joined the group. The mood was sparking with high spirits – it had been years since all five of them had come together – and the drink flowed almost as freely as the laughter. As the afternoon wore on, Hoster Tully arrived to meet his honoured guests and ride with them to Riverrun on the morrow. He was an older man, Lord Tully, so while he sat with his guests, his mind was on other things, and his wine-cup remained largely untouched.

So it was that no-one noticed the hooded figure that walked into the inn as the sun began to dip in the sky. He was of medium height and clearly a man who enjoyed his pleasures, for his shoulders and belly were rounded. His hood covered his head entirely and left his face so shadowed that it would have been difficult to see his features even in broad daylight, and in the dim darkness of the inn, impossible. With soft, sliding steps, the figure moved to the bar and reached into his cloak, retrieving a letter rolled tightly and bound with a white ribbon, and handed it to the serving girl. He spoke quietly, in a voice that could be heard by only her, and inclined his head towards the table of unruly youths in the corner, whispering, “For the man who leads them.”

The serving girl looked over to the handsome son of Lord Rickard Stark, whose cup was raised in a toast, and whose eyes were dancing with merriment and intoxication. She frowned. “Brandon Stark?” she asked, but when she looked back, the figure who had handed her the letter was gone, as silently as he had arrived. Confused, the serving girl scanned the room but there was naught to be seen. She looked down at the letter in her hand and walked towards Brandon. He afforded her barely a glance when she came alongside him and dropped her head in deference, so she said, “M’lord?”

“Yes?” Brandon turned to her, irritated by the distraction. When he saw she was young and sweet-faced, his irritation subsided and instead he flashed a smile at her and repeated, in a much more pleasant tone, “Yes?”

The girl bowed her head. “There’s been a letter delivered for you, m’lord.”

Brandon frowned. His companions lulled themselves into a silence; their wine-cups were set down on the heavy, oaken table. “A raven?” he asked.

“No, m’lord, a messenger.”

Brandon looked around the room, scanning the faces of the men and women within. “Where is this messenger?”

“Gone,” said the serving-girl. “He left before I had a chance to ask his name.”

A frown patterned Brandon’s face. He thanked the girl and she scuttled away. The eyes of his companions sank to the roll of white parchment held in his hand. “Is there a seal?” asked Royce.

There was, but it was no symbol they had ever seen before – a bird’s footprint. Brandon pulled the ribbon from the letter and unrolled it and began to read.

****

Halt.

Refocus.

Onward.

****

Dawn broke over Winterfell with thick fingers of reddened cloud staining the horizon – a warning of more bad weather to come. Men were already moving around the castle, their voices calling out across the courtyard as they prepared for their liege lord to leave for Riverrun as soon as the day was begun. In the centre of the courtyard, a light wagon was being loaded with bags and supplies for the journey.

Rickard Stark stood in the archway, overseeing. The fur cloak around his shoulders was heavy enough to make it look like a weight was pressing him down. He had woken with a strange sense of foreboding, his body slick with sweat, having dreamt disturbing dreams filled with fire, smoke and heat.

His mind turned to his daughter. Lyanna’s wilfulness troubled him – even though she was just weeks away from her sixteenth name day, and a woman flowered, he still worried for her. Last night she had left the great hall without so much as a word, his punishment from her for not allowing her to do as she wished and ride out into a storm. He hoped the night’s sleep would have dulled her resentment.

He turned and headed back into the castle, thinking he would wake her with a cup of warm milk, just as he used to bring her when she was a little girl. Having collected the milk from the kitchen, he made his way up the stone steps to Lyanna’s bedchamber. The door to her room was closed, so he rapped gently on the wood with his knuckles and waited.

No answer came, and so he knocked a second time, harder, and called quietly, “Lyanna? May I come in?”

Nothing.

He pondered a moment. He hadn’t seen her leave and he was sure he had seen Blizzard’s head over the stable door when he’d been in the yard. He knocked again, and this time gave the door a push. It swung open to reveal an empty room. The bed was still made, the blankets and furs untouched, and the shutters were open. Rickard frowned.

The room was cold and he abruptly realised that the window was ajar. He went to close it and as he did, noticed something upon the floor - a blue rose petal, pressed and dried, lay nestled against the bedpost… 

****

Fade out and away.

Across the miles, then down and zoom in again.

****

High in the Eyrie, the weak mountain sun was shining on the yard as Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark pressed one another in a duel of swords. Steel sang as the two struck and clashed. Ned drew back and circled around Robert, drawing him out, changing his grip on his sword while he forced Robert to turn. From the side-lines, Jon Arryn watched his two wards in their swordplay, shouting comments out every so often when one or other made a mistake or a good move. They had been at it for nearly an hour and Jon could tell that both were beginning to tire, the sweat shone brightly on their foreheads and their hair was dripping. Right now, they could have been enemies on the field of war, but when they were done, Jon knew they would embrace and laugh.

When he had first taken his two charges on as boys of eight, Jon had had his concerns. Where Robert had always been loud and brash, Ned was quiet and serious beyond his years. Now they were men grown, little had changed – Ned was still the steadying influence on Robert.

A page came running from the castle, and Jon turned towards the sound of hurrying footsteps. “My lord,” said the boy. He was new to the Arryn household, the son of a blacksmith from the Vale. His desperation to please had him out of breath and thrusting the letter at Jon even before he had completely halted.

“What is it?” asked Jon and took the letter.

“A raven from Winterfell, my lord. Maester Colemon says it is urgent.”

“Thank you, Aron,” said Jon, remembering the boy’s name just in time.

He frowned at the letter. For some reason, the single piece of parchment felt heavy in his hands. He remembered the day when he had received word from Lord Rickard that his lady wife had died, and remembered imparting the news to Ned, who had been all of three and ten and still a boy. Jon slipped his finger beneath the direwolf seal of House Stark and opened the letter. Rickard’s hand was unmistakeable.

“Ned!” he called.

The sound of swords stopped and Ned turned around. He was smiling and breathless, but when he saw the expression on Jon’s face, and the letter in his hand, he fell instantly solemn again. “What is it?”  He sheathed his sword and came to Jon; Robert stood behind a distance, affording them a moment of privacy.

Jon held out the letter and Ned reached for it, hesitating for a breath before his fingers took hold of it. “This is not good news…” Ned said in a quiet voice. Jon said nothing. He allowed Ned to read the letter.

With each sentence, Ned’s face became more and more fixed, his eyes growing dull. Finally, he spoke: “Lyanna is missing,” he said. “Gone in the night. My father found a blue rose petal in her chambers.” Ned looked up. A few paces away, Robert was listening intently. “Hoster Tully tells my father that Brandon has ridden for King’s Landing – he received a message telling him that Rhaegar Targaryen was planning to kidnap Lyanna and take her as his own.”

Robert came marching the few paces towards Ned and took the letter from him. “Gods be good, can this be true?” he growled. His blue eyes were burning.

Ned looked like a ship cut loose from its moorings and Jon reached out and placed a hand on his forearm in comfort. “Brandon is defending his family’s honour,” he explained. “If the Prince has indeed done as all this suggests, Brandon is within his rights.”

“Brandon is hot-headed,” said Ned, his voice leaden. “Reason will have fled his mind; he will be incensed.”

“I always thought Rhaegar Targaryen was a son of pox-ridden whore!” Robert cursed. His lip was curled in anger. “The Others take him! Ned, the dragons have pissed on this one you can be sure!”

“Robert--” Jon began, and inclined his head towards Ned, whose arms had fallen limply to his sides. Robert looked at his friend and fell silent.

“It is pointless throwing around accusations,” said Ned. His voice was forced calm. “We can only pray that Brandon sees reason before he does something foolish.”

****

Pause.

Resume.

Notes:

This is part one of a planned two-part mid-week update! Keep your eyes peeled tomorrow night for the second bit - a thank you from a grateful writer for all the kind comments and encouragement people have been leaving me.

joely_jo. :)

Chapter 19: LYANNA - Dreams of Fire and Ice

Notes:

As promised - the second mid-week update!

LYANNA – Dreams of Fire and Ice

 

How he was staying awake, Lyanna did not know. The many miles they had travelled had wearied her beyond reckoning and even though she had fought and fought against her fatigue, she found herself leaning back into his chest and sinking into him. “Sleep, my love,” he murmured in her ear. “I’ve got you.” One arm encircled her while he kept the other on the reins and they rode on.

When she next awoke, it was because the rhythmic tattoo of his horse’s hooves had slowed to a steady walk. Yawning, she stirred in his arms. Daylight was upon them now, and she looked around with sleepy eyes, trying to establish where they were. They were still in the North – the Barrowlands, she suspected – although they were not on the King’s Road, but rather making their own trail. Beneath her, Rhaegar’s horse was breathing hard and its steps were slow and heavy. “We must stop to rest the horse,” he said quietly. She nodded.

“How far have we come?” she asked.

“I believe White Harbour is somewhere over there,” he said, pointing off in front of him and to his left.

She nodded and stretched, rolling her shoulders to ease the stiffness from them. When she twisted to him, she saw that he looked tired; there were shadows beneath his eyes. “You look like you need to rest too.”

“I am weary,” he admitted. “But we must needs find somewhere to shelter if we are to stop.”

Lyanna looked around. The land was hilly and bleak, with outcrops of white rock pushing through the rough turf, and there were no buildings to be seen. Then she remembered Ned speaking of the Barrows of the First Men, and how beneath the hillocks ringed with standing stones, there were often burial chambers cut into the earth, long since empty and abandoned. “Look for a circle of standing stones,” she said, “and there will be a barrow beneath. Likely we can find shelter there.”

The next ring of stones they came across was just a few miles further along. They traced the base of the barrow and found the entrance beneath an archway constructed of three massive stone slabs. It was dark within and a strange earthy smell emanated. “Let me,” he said, as she peered into the darkness. His hand went to the sword at his side as he stepped forward. She watched as he was swallowed up by the darkness.

A minute later and he reappeared, a smile upon his face. “It’s dry in there,” he explained, “and it’s very dark, but the ground is soft earth not stone. We should be able to rest here for a while.”

He hobbled the horse in the entrance to the chamber, then unstrapped the saddlebags, took her hand, and led her within.

It was as dark as she had imagined, even with the daylight that was filtering in from the doorway, but after a moment or two, she found her eyes adjusting to the lack of light. The chamber was circular, high enough for her to stand at her full height, although he had to stoop a little, and the ground was spongy dried peat beneath her feet. The air smelt cool and old, like it had not moved in a thousand years. Rhaegar knelt and dug in one of the saddlebags, bringing forth a large roughspun blanket and a parcel wrapped in waxed paper. “Here,” he said, handing her the parcel. “Salt beef, rye bread and some hard cheese. Eat what you will – I have more.”

When she peeled back the waxed paper, Lyanna realised how hungry she actually was. It was a simple meal, but she ate eagerly. “Would you like some?” She offered him the parcel.

“In the morning, my lady, I fear I am too tired to eat now.” Sighing in exhaustion, Rhaegar sank to the ground and leaned himself up against the stone wall of the chamber. He lowered the hood on his dark cloak, revealing his fine, silvery hair, and while she ate, he watched her, a thoughtful smile on his face. When she had finished, he beckoned to her to sit beside him, lifting his arm so she might slide in and be enveloped. He spread the blanket over them both.

“Would that I could light us a fire, my lady,” he said softly as his arm squeezed her tight against him. “But I dare not risk the smoke being seen; we are still in the North and too close to Winterfell for comfort.” Lyanna nodded. Although it was daylight, she knew why he was sheltering now. A lone man and woman, riding out in the Barrowlands during the day would be easy to spot – it was far safer to travel under cover of darkness.

“I am quite warm enough with you beside me,” she assured him.  

A bare few moments later, she felt his breathing change and looked up to see that his eyes were closed and his beautiful face was soft with sleep. She laid her head on his chest and let her body soak up the warmth of him as she too drifted towards slumber.

Some time later, Lyanna woke to find the sun streaming in through the entrance to the barrow, falling full on her face. Beside her, Rhaegar was still asleep. His arm, which had been wrapped around her, had fallen free, and as she shifted gently away from him she noticed his face was filmed with sweat. His eyes flickered beneath their lids. She almost reached out and said his name, but then he murmured, “No, no, no…” His voice was barely above a whisper. As he spoke, he frowned and his head rolled from side to side.

He’s dreaming. But it is not a pleasant dream.

“No! No, Gods, no, no…” he said again, this time a little louder. “Stay away from them!”

“What is it? What do you see?” she whispered.

“Fire and ice, fire and ice… No!”

With a deep inhaling of breath, Rhaegar shot awake, sitting up as if someone had pricked him with true steel. He looked around with unseeing eyes and then focused on her; he turned away, embarrassed and blinking, and rubbed his face. She knelt beside him and waited for him to speak. When he did not, she asked, “Are you unwell, Your Grace?”

“Rhaegar,” he corrected immediately. “I am sorry, my lady, I am… out of sorts. Please…” He climbed to his feet, distracted. “Give me a moment to compose myself.”

He walked out of the barrow, his form blocking the sun for a moment and casting a long shadow.

Minutes passed and Lyanna waited. When he did not return, she followed him. The sun was setting almost directly in front of the barrow’s entrance; its yellow rays made her squint. Rhaegar was nowhere to be seen. Lyanna felt concern start to gnaw at her. She glanced around, then set off to her right, along the sloping barrow side and away from the entrance. She had barely walked two dozen paces when she caught sight of him, sitting near the base of the barrow with his legs drawn up and his chin on his knees. He was staring at the sun like he was trying to see something in it.

“Rhaegar,” she said softly as she approached him. He turned his head towards her. The sunlight caught in his hair and it turned the finest strands to spun gold.

“My lady,” he replied.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Aye, some.”  

“You were dreaming,” she said.

He drew in a deep breath then slowly released it. His hand patted the mossy ground beside him and she sat, her shoulder touching his. She remembered that night on the drawbridge at Harrenhal, when she had flinched away at his touch – now it seemed so natural, so comfortable, like they had known each other for an age.  For a long moment, he was silent, and he turned back to the sun. “I am sorry if I have scared you, my lady – please, I apologise if that is what I have done.

“You did not scare me.”

“That is good to know,” he said with some relief. “I had feared I had. I was dreaming of dark things.”

“You were sweating, and you said some things…” She frowned. “You were crying out ‘No!’ and then you said ‘fire and ice’. What were you dreaming of, my lord?”  

At first, he did not answer, but she waited patiently for his words. “Do you remember what we talked about the night by the lake?”

Lyanna nodded. “Yes.”

“Since I was a very small boy, I have had dreams that have haunted my sleep. I would wake screaming sometimes and my mother would think that I was being murdered in my bed. As I grew older, I tried to make sense of these dreams. I read and read and read, trying to find reason in them. Some were easy enough to decipher, but others were more complex, or metaphorical. More than once, I feared I was going mad. More than once, I believed them to be but pictures in my mind.” He shook his head. Lyanna saw that his grip on his knees was tightening, so hard his knuckles were turning to white pearls. “But one dream kept recurring. In that dream I saw terrible things, death and destruction, men fighting futilely in the face of a cold, unspeakable evil. And I saw myself in these dreams, and others that I knew, and faces that were similar to mine but as yet unknown.”

He looked at her and then went on, “I have spent my life trying to decipher what, if anything, these dreams meant. Then, when I was still a child of seven, I believed I had found the answer. I realised that what I was seeing in dreams were visions of the future.”

“You speak of premonition, of prophecy,” said Lyanna.

“The Targaryens have had this ability for centuries – I am not the first. When I realised what I was seeing, I knew I could not stand idly by. I had to act.” He sighed. “But yet I find myself questioning whether I have done right. Have I chosen the right path?”

“Can you ever know whether you have or not? We can’t replay our lives with different choices, however much we might want to.”

“We cannot,” he agreed. “My grandfather, King Jaehaerys, wrote in one of his many diaries that fate is a game and that you can either play it or be played by it. I have tried to play it, but sometimes I am left wondering. This dream I have just woken from is one undreamt before… I saw a dragon circling around two wolves that were shackled, while a crowd watched. The dragon breathed fire upon the wolves and they melted as if they were ice. I was not there, but I saw you, crying over the pools of water left behind.”

At that, Lyanna shivered. “Me?” she asked. The direwolf is the sigil of the Starks, she thought, whereas the dragon is Targaryen – his sigil. Am I in some kind of danger I do not yet understand? Is my family?

He twisted his body towards her, the sun now lighting up one side of his face and casting the other in shadow. A sad smile was on his lips. “My lady, I have dreamed of you for a long, long time.”

Lyanna almost laughed. It was the sort of thing she had heard Ned tell her that Robert was always professing to women when he was trying to bed them, yet somehow, this was different. There was no desire on Rhaegar’s face in that moment; instead, his brows were knitted together in a worrisome set. “I have been in your dreams?” She couldn’t help the wonder in her voice.

“In many forms,” he said quietly. “So you see now why I was so drawn to you when first I saw you… I fear I have been in love with you in my mind for half my lifetime.”

There was nothing Lyanna could say to that. She smiled and took his hand in hers. Together, they turned back to watch the sun as it slipped below the bank of clouds curled along the horizon. 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 20: EDDARD - The Worst News

EDDARD – The Worst News

 

Ned was little interested in the food before him. The meat had long since congealed in a pool of grease and looked even less appetising than it had done when it had been set in front of him. Even the wine had left a sour taste in his mouth.

The High Hall in the Eyrie was a cold place at the best of times, but Jon Arryn always kept the fires burning and the heat they generated was ordinarily enough to stave off the chill. Tonight, though, Ned felt the cold in his bones and no amount of warmth could warm him.

Jon had found him in the stables yesterday, preparing joylessly to go out on another hunt with Robert – since his friend had learned of the abduction of his betrothed, his bloodlust had been up and he had brought home more quarry than many men would do in a year. Jon had walked towards him, his face like a book, and Ned had known then that the news was not good.

There had been two letters in his hand. One from King’s Landing, almost a week old, the raven delayed by a storm in the Riverlands, proclaiming Brandon a traitor to the realm and listing his crime – threatening the life of the Crown Prince – and another from his lord father, explaining that he had been summoned to the capital by the king to answer for Brandon’s offences. Rickard had stated that he intended to ask for trial by combat and the letter ended with an assurance that all would fine and the Ned should not worry.

As he stared at the food gone cold on his pewter plate, Ned thought how futile those words were. Not worry? My every waking minute is plagued by a terrible sense of unease and I can hardly sleep for dreams so dark I dare not share them with anyone else.

He thought of Brandon, rotting in the dark of his prison cell. He had never seen the dungeons at King’s Landing, but he had heard tales of the black cells and considered it a vile place on the strength of words alone. He hoped his brother had not been harmed.

Footsteps on marble woke Ned from his thoughts and he looked up to see Robert coming towards him, still dressed in his hunting leathers with the stag of Baratheon embossed upon the chest. Even now, Robert’s face was hard and bitter, his anger at Rhaegar Targaryen having inflamed him in an inferno that seemed like to blaze forever. “Ah, Ned,” he said as he slid onto the bench beside him. “I have been considering my options. Jon is keen for me to bide my time; he thinks Rhaegar will try to contact me, but I am not certain I wish to endure this insult that long.”

Ned tolerated Robert’s egotism as he tolerated everything else in his life, with patience and a sombre air. “Do you have a choice?” he asked.

“Of course I have a choice,” growled Robert. “I could call my banners and march on King’s Landing. The Mad King would have to listen then, with all the force of the Stormlands knocking on his door!”

“But that would be foolish. The King would simply reply in earnest and call his own.”

“Perhaps, but it would be damn well satisfying to do it nonetheless,” Robert said. He pouted into his tankard of ale.

“And what of Brandon and my father?” asked Ned, forcing the issue. Not a few months ago at Harrenhal, Robert himself had told him of Aerys’s increasing paranoia, yet now he seemed to have forgotten that fact. “While ever they are in Aerys’ grasp, the king will surely not hesitate to kill them if he feels further threatened. Jon is right, we must bide our time. My father will deal with the King.”

“Your father is placing a lot of faith in a trial by combat. What makes him think the Mad King will fight fair?”

Ned stood. It was too much to talk of this right now. Robert had spent the time these last few days speaking of nothing but threats and retaliation and war. Such talk tired Ned at the best of times, least of all now with Brandon in shackles and his father on his way to challenge the King’s ruling. “I’m sorry, my friend, I do not wish to discuss this now. Please excuse me,” he said simply and walked away.

For the next few days, Ned kept to himself. He went about his business on his own and ate at different times to the rest of the household. He had never been able to abide sympathy of any kind and it seemed that ever since the news had hit the Eyrie, everyone was looking at him differently. Their eyes followed him and they whispered as he passed. Ned understood, of course – they wanted to say something, to express their condolences, but often as not they simply did not know what to say. He was content to let them go on that way. Long ago, his father had taught him that the best defence a man had was to keep his face firmly set against adversity and Ned was finding that he was practising that skill a lot of late.

He found himself thinking often of Lyanna. He remembered how she had begged and begged their lord father to allow her to arm herself and thought of the irony – if she had carried a sword on her belt, would she have been able to stop them carrying her off? He thought of how ably she had brandished her lance at Harrenhal and knew that she would have.

Yet somehow Rhaegar and his men had snuck her past the Winterfell guards, through the gates, and in a single night, disappeared far enough away that his lord father’s own men had been unable to find them, even in daylight. Ned was not a betting man, but he had his doubts that such a set of events was likely. But what then did that suggest? He hardly dared think.

Another week passed, then another. The weather grew dull and cloudy, with a chill in the air, the brief taste of spring they had experienced at Harrenhal long since fled. Flakes of snow began to flurry on the wind whenever it blew from the north. Winter is coming, Ned had thought, when he had felt those first flakes land on his face.

It was early morning, a few days shy of a month since the raven from King’s Landing had arrived, and Robert was still abed, having spent the previous three days away hunting in the Vale. Ned, however, had been awake for hours. A light snow had fallen in the night, and then frozen, coating the world with a thin crust of crisp powder. His feet crunched as he walked across the courtyard to answer a summons from Jon.

He found the Lord of the Eyrie in his solar high in the Falcon Tower, behind the huge oaken table he used to spread maps and manuscripts upon. As long as Ned had known Jon, he had loved to read, and this fascination often kept him burning candles till long past midnight in his solar, alone with a pile of books. Now, though, he was standing looking out of the window. There is tension in his shoulders, Ned thought. “It looks like more snow is on the way,” Jon said, without turning around.  

Ned moved alongside him. Jon was right – along the northern horizon lurked a vast bulk of smoky whiteness, almost hypnotic as it rolled slowly towards them, shrouding everything in its path. Together they watched a moment, before Ned dared to ask, “Is there news from King’s Landing?”

At first, Jon did not reply, then he turned back into the room. There was a letter in his hand. The parchment had clearly been unrolled several times as it was already beginning to look somewhat crumpled around the edges. In the last several weeks, there had been no news at all and Ned had grown accustomed to the silence, even daring to think on one or two occasions that no news was good news. But one look at the letter in Jon’s hand told him that the contented ignorance was at an end.

“What is it?” he prompted.

“Sit, Ned,” Jon instructed. He pulled out a chair; Ned sat, but his back remained ramrod straight. Jon watched him a moment. His brown eyes were soft with compassion.

And it was then that Ned knew what he had been brought here to hear. In his chest, his heart thumped in a slow, dull rhythm.

“I am truly sorry for what I am about to tell you,” Jon began.

On his knees, Ned’s hands tightened their grip. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

Jon was not the sort of person to embellish the truth; he always spoke plainly no matter who his audience was; yet he seemed reluctant to say the words. Finally, he confirmed, “They’re dead.” He shook his head. “Aerys granted your father his trial by combat, but named fire as his champion. Lord Rickard was burned alive in his armour. Brandon had a noose placed around his neck and his sword set just out of his reach. He strangled himself trying to get to the blade so he could rescue your father.”

Ned’s eyes stared emptily at Jon. He was imagining the screams, and the stench, and the…

He looked away. Out of the window, the advancing snowstorm had turned the sky whiter than white. He set his face in ice and nodded. Saying nothing, he stood. The sound the chair made on the floor was an ugly scraping noise that rent the silence. Jon made no attempt to stop him leaving.

He went out to the practice yard. It was silent and empty, the threatening snow muffling everything to quiet. There were no guards, no servants, not even any dogs. The air was leaden. In the centre of the yard stood a padded dummy used for sword practice, a frosty rime of snow upon its head and shoulders. Its blank face stared back at Ned.

He thought of Aerys as he had been at Harrenhal, twitching and vile, sneering at Brandon when he rode onto the tourney field. This was his doing, he knew. The actions of a madman.    

Withdrawing his sword, Ned brandished it at the padded dummy, allowing the point to sink half an inch into the chest. It is easy to be angry, he thought. Slowly, he raised the sword above his head then, with a yell, he brought it crashing down on the dummy’s padded shoulders.  

When he had cut the dummy to shreds, he stood back, his breath roaring out in plumes of mist, and surveyed the damage he had done. Straw padding lay strewn on the ground and the double layer of waxed linen covering the dummy hung in a grotesque parody of spewing guts. It was a mess, and it hadn’t done a thing to ease him. Back at Winterfell, he might have taken his woes to the heart tree and tried to calm himself beneath the whispering red leaves, but here in the Eyrie, there was no weirwood and nothing but a barren garden in place of a Godswood.

Snow was starting to fall in tiny flakes that rushed towards him. His sword hung hopelessly in his hand and then suddenly he realised that his face was wet, not with melting snow but with tears. He drew in a breath, trying to hold them in, only to find that the breath broke immediately out in a racking sob, and before he knew it, he was sinking to his knees and shaking.

The grief cut through him like his own sword had cut through the dummy knight. He had been young when his mother had been taken from him, and he couldn’t remember the pain being like this. The ground was hard beneath his knees but he hardly felt it.

“Ned…” said a soft voice. He looked up and saw Jon standing above him, flecks of snow in his hair. Through the tears, the white tunic he wore blurred with the white sky. “Ned, you need to come inside now.”

At that moment, he would happily have sat in the snow until he froze to his bones, but Jon was holding out his hand and he couldn’t deny him. With unsteady steps, he rose, leaving his sword lying on the ground, the snow already beginning to cover the cold steel. “I, I… I can’t,” he began.

“You must,” said Jon. He put his hand in the small of Ned’s back and pushed him gently towards the castle. “You are Lord of Winterfell now.”

The words sounded half a dream to Ned, but they drew him back from his grief like a dagger in the belly. Lord of Winterfell. Jon continued, “You must think on what you wish to do. How will you respond to this?”

“I don’t know…” My head is full – I cannot think – I cannot even imagine. He stared beseechingly at Jon.

“You will need time to think,” said Jon. He led him out of the falling snow, back up the steps of the Falcon Tower to his solar.

Once inside, Jon sat him down and stoked the fire in the grate. When freshened flames surged upwards, he dropped another log onto them. He went to the table beside the hearth where he kept a bottle of mead and poured two generous slugs into pewter cups; he gave one to Ned, who looked dumbly at the golden liquid for a moment before raising it to his lips and taking a drink. His hands were still shaking. “What are you thinking?” Jon asked. He sat down behind his desk.

“I am thinking that I do not know what to do next.”

“That is to be expected. But in these times we must tread carefully. There is more news I did not tell you, news that means that Robert and I must be privy to your decision.” He glanced at the door. “May I bring Robert into our discussion?”

Ned nodded. Jon motioned to the door and it opened to reveal Robert. He had clearly been waiting for the summons to enter. His head was lowered and he seemed paler than usual. His eyes flickered towards Ned then looked away just as quickly. “Robert, take a seat,” said Jon.

Robert pulled up a chair at the table and sat down. Jon cleared his throat – he rubbed his hand over his square, stubbled jaw. “My instinct is to deny him,” he said. “When I took the pair of you as my wards, I swore to your lord fathers and the Seven that I would protect you at all costs. But I am not so foolish that I do not know what that means. It means I would call my banners and we would need rise in revolt.”

“Deny whom?” asked Ned. He mind felt sluggish and he was confused.

Jon and Robert looked at him at one. “King Aerys has called for your heads. Yours and Robert’s.”

“Why?” Ned was stunned; his voice rose with the question, the disbelief. I had nothing to do with Brandon’s folly, he thought. Why would the King want my head?             

“He is not called the ‘Mad King’ for nothing, Ned,” said Robert.

 “I am certain this is born of Aerys’ paranoia as much as anything else,” Jon said. “I cannot believe that he has been counselled that this is the correct course of action. I do not want to believe it.” He sighed. “I had thought this might just settle itself down. I thought perhaps Rhaegar would wish to treat with Robert, that some deal might have been brokered to keep the peace, but now…” His voice trailed away. “Now, the manner of their deaths, the injustice of it, and then the demand for your heads, you who have been a hundred leagues away… I feel the only choice I have is the one I do not wish to make.”

“You will raise your banners,” said Ned.

“And rebel,” concluded Jon.

 

To be continued...

Notes:

Just to warn everyone who is reading this story, with the next chapter, I am going to need to change the rating to M. This is simply due to an inability to write effective love, death and battle scenes without a sense of realism. Hopefully, it won't put any of you off!

Chapter 21: LYANNA - The Dragon Must Have Three Heads

LYANNA – The Dragon Must Have Three Heads

 

She had thought he intended to ride the entire way from Winterfell to King’s Landing, so when the whitewashed buildings of White Harbor appeared on the horizon just as dawn was breaking, she was surprised.

“White Harbor?” she asked, confused.

“We are not going into the city,” Rhaegar explained. “It is too dangerous for us to go there. By now I am sure your father will have sent a raven to Lord Manderly and the eyes will be out for us. Instead, we are making for a village just south of White Harbor, on the other side of the Fork. It is sparsely populated but there is a gig there that will take us to a ship – the Silver Sword – anchored in the Bite. There is but a skeleton crew aboard, enough to man her safely, because I feared that the more people who saw us, the more chances there were of something going awry.”

Lyanna nodded. She shifted in the saddle in front of him. His arm was still around her waist, holding her steady while the horse loped easily onwards. After a while, the coastline came into view as White Harbor slipped behind them. It was rocky and grey, the granite turned darker still by the light, sleety rain that had been falling most of the night. A dirt track led to a cluster of stone cottages nestled close by the sea and Rhaegar urged his horse down it.

The village was quiet due to the rain and the early hour. Most of the smallfolk were doubtless sheltered indoors; thin columns of smoke rose from the chimneys of many of the houses. They slowed to a walk. There appeared to be just one main street, running perpendicular to the shallow harbour, and they followed it towards the sea.

When they reached the harbour, there were just two faces to greet them. A man, his face pale and pinched by sea winds, was helping a young, reedy boy of twelve or thirteen unload a catch of small silvery fish in straw baskets from a fishing gig. Both of them glanced up at the sound of hooves. Rhaegar nodded at them from underneath his hood and they returned the gesture before going back to their work. A jetty made from large rocks and wooden planks and from which several other boats were moored, jutted out into the small natural harbour. Rhaegar halted the horse, dismounted, and then reached up to help Lyanna down.

“Are we here?” she asked, looking around.

“Yes,” he said. He walked over to the man with the gig and began a conversation, keeping his hood raised. A moment later, he turned back to Lyanna and beckoned her. She could just about see his smile underneath his hood. He gestured to the boat the men had been unloading their catch from and explained, “This man will take us out into the Bite to the Silver Sword. Allow me to help you into the gig.”    

She took his hand and stepped from the jetty into the bobbing boat. The man then climbed in opposite her and took up a set of gnarled oaken oars. Rhaegar joined her, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her into him. The boy gave the boat a push off, and then they were moving.

If it had been cold on land, it was even colder out in the bay and the rain picked up a little. As the shore fell away, the waves grew bigger and salt spray began to surge up with every stroke of the oars. Lyanna nestled in close to Rhaegar trying to get some heat from his body.

Soon, though, a ship came into view. It was a decent-sized trading cog from the South, with sails furled. A figure on the deck caught sight of them, cried out, and then leaned over the side, throwing down a hemp rope which the fisherman used to secure the gig. Next came a rope ladder and Rhaegar helped her to stand and begin the ascent. Lyanna had never been aboard a ship in this way, but she gritted her teeth and began to climb. Rhaegar followed her.

Once on board, Rhaegar dropped a small purse of coins into the man’s hands then loosed the gig and told him that the horse was his to keep or sell as he wished. The figure that had helped them climb aboard turned to Lyanna and greeted, “Welcome aboard the Silver Sword, my lady. I am Alyk Dayne, Ser Arthur Dayne’s brother and the heir to Starfall.”

Lyanna blinked and looked closer. The man before her did indeed have the same deep purple eyes she had seen in Ser Arthur’s face. However, where Ser Arthur was tall, athletic and handsome, Alyk Dayne was a man of little more than average height, with a belly that hung over his belt, and a chiselled face that seemed ageless. He could have been anything from thirty to five and forty. His hair was several shades lighter as well, more the colour of a mouse’s back than anything. He wore a simple brown woollen tunic with a sealskin jerkin over the top of it and had a white silk scarf tied several times around his neck.

“Alyk,” greeted Rhaegar. He embraced the man warmly. “It is good to see you once more.”

“My Prince,” Alyk acknowledged. “The weather appears to be setting in, so I suggest we haul anchor and get on our way.”

Rhaegar nodded. He turned to Lyanna. “My lady, please allow me to take you out of this rain and get you warm. I would not wish you to catch a fever.”

He took her below to a compact but comfortable cabin that appeared already prepared for her. The room was dark, with a narrow sleeping bunk, upon which there was a featherbed, a round table set with four chairs, and in the middle of the room, a large trunk. “I took the liberty of preparing a trunk of clean garb for you,” he said. “You will find everything you could need in there.” He reached up and lowered the hood she still had over her head and ran his hands through her hair to smooth it. He kissed her forehead. “Now I will leave you to change out of these wet things. I will ask Alyk to get one of the lads to fetch a little warm water for you to wash with.”

And with that he left her alone. Lyanna stood for a moment, taking in her surroundings, then ventured to the trunk. Beneath her feet she felt the ship begin to stir and shift as they got underway. She lifted the lid. Inside was a pile of dresses, tunics, breeches and smallclothes, smelling of rose petal perfume.

When she had washed, changed into a clean, dry dress and donned a fur stole across her shoulders, she dared to venture above again. It had stopped raining, and on the eastern horizon towards which they were headed, blue sky could be glimpsed. Thank the Gods, we are sailing into fairer weather! She found Rhaegar standing at the prow of the ship, leaning over the side, the wind licking through his hair. His eyes were fixed ahead and he did not notice her approach until she came up beside him and nudged his shoulder with hers. He looked at her and smiled widely. “My lady,” he said. “My apologies, I should have come to see if you were settled in your cabin, but I’m afraid I became distracted by the view.” He angled his head towards the vastness in front of them. Behind them, the sun was setting, its last fingers of light streaming through the fracturing cloud bank.  

“It is rather beautiful,” said Lyanna.

A moment passed. Then he pulled her before him, between his body and the wooden railing that ran around the ship’s prow. His hands went to her hair as the wind blew it forwards; he tucked it behind her ears. His expression was soft. “But you are more beautiful by far. My heart aches to even look at you.”

Lyanna smiled. “You are too kind to me… If you had seen me at Winterfell, sword-fighting in the Godswood with my little brother, you would not have thought me so beautiful.”

“On the contrary,” he said, playfully. “I think I would have found that scene tremendously arousing.” He chuckled deep in his throat and Lyanna ducked her head, a blush colouring her cheeks. One of his hands crept down and he tugged her closer to him.

When he reached down with his lips she did not stop him and instead melded gently to him, allowing his kiss to linger, slow then slower still.

In the blowing wind, their hair mingled together, dark and light.

Something burned in Lyanna’s belly, something she had not really felt before. There had been the first beginnings of it that night in the Wailing Tower when he had kissed her for the first time with complete abandon. She pulled back and looked him in the eyes. His face seemed to show a similar burning. “My lady,” he whispered as he kissed her neck.

In a fraction of a second, Lyanna made a decision. It was a reckless decision, almost as reckless as taking his hand and following him out of Winterfell, but once she’d made it, she felt a thrill rush through her and she grinned. She ducked under his arm, held out her hand, and when he took it, she pulled him towards her. She led him below to her cabin, her heart beating wildly in her ears.

“My lady,” he said when she bolted the door closed. “What are you doing?” He is surprised, perhaps even a little nervous, she thought. But it felt good to be the one taking control, to be leading him rather than him leading her. She went to the small-paned window and released the drapes, allowing their heavy velvet weight to block out the fading light. After she lit the candles upon the table, she saw that he had not moved. Slowly, she removed the fur stole from around her shoulders and laid it over a chair, then came before him. His face was blank, wide-eyed like a hare caught in lamplight.

“Your Grace,” she said. Her fingers went behind her and she began to unlace her dress. “Rhaegar.”

He opened his mouth as if to reply, but no sound came out. She tugged at her dress and the material fell loose. She shrugged clear of it. He gave a tiny gasp. “Oh my,” he murmured.

She smiled. “Do you want me?” she asked.

“Want you?” He stared. “I have wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you, you glorious, untempered, sweet, sweet thing.” In two paces he was before her and he swept her into his arms and kissed her deeply. He backed her up to the bed, never breaking away, and laid her down, pulling the dress from her legs and sliding her smallclothes down. He stood above her a moment, gazing at her nakedness. “Gods, I have dreamed this moment!”

He removed his clothes and knelt with one knee on the edge of the bunk, hovering above her. His frame was as lithe as she had always thought it would be; he was not a man of bulging muscles but rather had a sort of chiselled leanness about him, as if his strength was something the Gods had bestowed on him rather than something he had worked at with training and effort. A thin line of pale hair started just below his navel and followed a trail that led to a slightly darker patch above his manhood. Lyanna’s stomach tumbled. If you’re going to back out of this, she thought, now is the moment. Otherwise, seize it.

“Are you sure?” he asked, as if he could read her mind.

In her head, everything slowed down and coalesced. She nodded. “I’m sure.” She reached up to him and pulled him down. He sank down upon her, flesh to flesh, and Lyanna threw her arms around him as he settled into the valley of her thighs. For a moment, their eyes met and held. Without breaking her gaze, he laid his hand on her shoulder, and softly, gently, it began to travel down her body with a blind stroking motion, to the curve of her hip. And there his hand softly, gently, crept inwards until his fingers were dipping into her, in a blind instinctive caress. She flinched a little, but then arched her back as the pleasure of the motion filled her up.

When he shifted his position she felt him hard against her thigh. Her eyes blinked at the rude reminder of what they were doing, but his were already questioning. She knew that it might hurt. She knew enough to know that was a fact, but she also knew that in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to get closer to him. She nodded, and so he moved forward. As he reached down and guided himself into her, a brief moment of tightness gave way to a hot, stinging sensation.

And then he was still. His breath came in short grabs. She could feel him deep within her, and it was glorious. Some strange instinct was driving her to move, though, and when she did he closed his eyes and for half a second looked as if he might be about to cry. “Oh,” he gasped. “Oh…”

Lyanna smiled up at him, a little amazed by his reaction. In that moment, she felt to be the most powerful thing alive: if she could do this to a man, to him, the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, what else could she do? Perhaps this is why men die for love. She arched her back. He gave another little gasp and pushed ever so slightly forwards. The stinging had passed, and now she just felt full of him.

Slowly, they fell into a gentle rhythm of push and pull. She felt her body growing warmer, felt her hands sliding across his skin, felt a delicious pressure growing deep inside her. There was nothing but obliterating sensation – no past, no present, no future. And then he let out a cry and collapsed onto her and she felt a pulsing as he spilled his seed inside her.

She raised his head up and looked in his eyes. They were clouded with something intense. She felt him trembling. It worried her at first, and she smoothed the damp hair from off his face and held him tightly against her.

After a while he rolled away from her and fell into the space between the wall and her body. One hand still lay upon her belly, where it traced delicate patterns on her skin. Finally, he spoke, “I think it unwise for me to try to put into words that experience. I must ask, though, did I hurt you?”

She turned so they were facing. “Only in that I feel a little lost now I cannot feel you in me.” He smiled and sighed.

“Then come here, my love, and let me hold you.” But even as he held her, a question nagged at her mind.

“You said before that you had dreamed this moment… and before you said that there were other forces driving you to act now. Have you seen all this in dreams?”

Rhaegar was quiet for a long minute. His hand stroked along the curve of her hip to rest on her thigh. He seemed to be contemplating how best to phrase what was in his mind. “There are none that know of this, but not long before I was first introduced to Elia, I dreamed a dream where I was standing in a dark room; the floor beneath my feet was shifting and pitching. I could hear no sound but the sound of my own heartbeat and before me lay a dark-haired woman, achingly beautiful, couched upon a bed wearing nothing but a smile. The woman was the same woman I had seen in other dreams – a dream of a circular stone room filled with firelight, a dream of a dark-haired child looking up at a statue, a dream of a grey horse racing through a still and silent forest.

“I was young when I was betrothed to Elia and I trusted my father unequivocally – I believed he had chosen for me the woman in my dreams. But it was not so. For years, I questioned the accuracy of my dreams, and then when I saw you at the tourney at Harrenhal, I knew that, in fact, the woman was you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you… when I saw you, I knew. I knew that fate intended for us to be together.” He paused, seeming to weigh his next words. “The dragon must have three heads.”

Lyanna did not understand him. She frowned. “Dragons have one head. And they are all long dead.”

“That is true, but while I have studied and read, I have come to realise that my dreams are not always to be taken for what they seem. Sometimes they need to be interpreted. You remember me saying before that there was one dream I had dreamt that kept recurring?” She nodded. “I learned from a book some time later that other Targaryens had experienced the same dream and that it had changed little in hundreds of years.”

“What was it?” Her curiosity had been piqued. 

“I believe it to be a vision of the future, but it is a terrible future. Our world is fighting a futile war against a cold, dark evil. Everywhere I look, men are dying and there is destruction all around. And when the darkness is at its blackest, there come faces out of the cold and they stand together before that terrible darkness. The faces are familiar, but different somehow. When I try to look closer, to see for certain, those faces merge and become a great three-headed dragon that engulfs me in flame.” 

He shivered as he finished speaking. The look in his eyes was enough to make a grown man fear. “And you think we are those faces?” Lyanna asked.

“No…” His voice was distant, dire. “I think those faces are my children. Elia’s and yours. Why else would they seem familiar but yet not be our own?”

Feeling suddenly cold, Lyanna sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bunk. Her first thought was of the Targaryen madness. Have I been seduced by a madman? Yet Rhaegar seemed perfectly sane of mind, his tone measured and calm, and she quickly dismissed the thought. “You talk of the end of days…” she whispered. “And you think that your children are somehow involved in the fight against the darkness?”

He stood and took up her hands. “I do… Do you see now why I have felt compelled to act?” He smiled sadly. “What would you do if you saw the world you loved coming to an end and the people you ruled perishing?”

There was nothing Lyanna could say to that. She thought of her family, of Brandon, Ned, Ben and her father, and thought that if their lives were threatened, she would feel the need to do something – anything – to try to save them. Perhaps he feels the same. She looked up at him. His face was solemn and he seemed to be desperate to make her understand.

“Lyanna, my lady, mayhaps you are now thinking that you have been tricked into believing that I am in love with you and that I intend to use you for my own purposes, but please, understand me – my love for you is as true as my word has ever been. Like I said before, and as I have just explained, there are other things that are compelling me to act now, but I swear on my honour, on my very soul, and on everything I hold dear, I have not tried to trick you.”

She looked in his eyes. There was honesty there. She considered his dream’s dire portent. If it was indeed a true sight of the future and what they were doing here was setting that future in motion, who was she to put up resistance?  

“You are certain of all this?” she asked, one final question as the vestiges of doubt began to leach away.

He cradled her face in his hands, smoothing her hair down. “As certain as I am that I love you more than life itself.”    

Six days later, the ship turned into the Blackwater and made for King’s Landing. He stood behind her on the prow of the ship again and he pointed out Dragonstone to her, and then Driftmark, Massey’s Hook and Duskendale on the coast. He told her it would not be long now and held her by the waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

But when indeed the great city came into view, so did a galley. There was a familiar face standing on the deck. It was Ser Arthur Dayne, his white Kingsguard cloak fluttering in the breeze, and he looked at them like a man with ill news. Beside him stood another man of the Kingsguard, stout with dark reddish-tinged hair and a close-cropped beard covering his chin and upper lip. The galley pulled alongside the Silver Sword and Ser Arthur climbed aboard. Before Rhaegar had a chance to speak, the knight said, “Ser Oswell and I have come to bring you back, Your Grace.” His voice was low, urgent and serious. “Terrible things have been done in your absence.”

Rhaegar’s hand, which had been clasped in her own, fell away. “My father…” he said.

“Your father,” confirmed Ser Arthur. He glanced briefly at Lyanna, standing behind Rhaegar. “Lady Lyanna cannot come to King’s Landing. If she did, I fear she would be in the gravest danger.”

“Danger?” Lyanna questioned, stepping around Rhaegar. She hated when men talked about her while she was directly present. “What danger?”

Ser Arthur met Rhaegar’s gaze. A moment held.

“I believe what my dear friend is saying is that my father may wish to see you dead.”

“Why?” Lyanna could not stop the incredulity in her voice.

“My lady,” Ser Arthur began. “It pains me grievously to tell you, but it seems that your brother Brandon was told that you had been kidnapped. Angry, he rode to King’s Landing and demanded that Prince Rhaegar came out to meet his death. The King heard his threat and had him arrested and imprisoned. He called your lord father to answer for his son’s crimes and then killed them both. Now he has bid Lord Jon Arryn to deliver him the heads of your brother Eddard and your betrothed Robert Baratheon.”

Lyanna felt her heart stop. And then start again. She stared at Ser Arthur, her mouth open in shock. “Is this… certain?” she asked. Ser Arthur looked at the floor.

“I am so sorry, my lady.”

Rhaegar was looking at her. He is expecting tears, she thought. But it seemed that the tears could not punch through the shock. She had thought that there might be a search going on in the North for her, that her father might have sent out men to find her, but Brandon going to King’s Landing and threatening the life of the Prince… that she had not envisaged. Turning back to Ser Arthur, Rhaegar’s tone and body language changed. In the blink of an eye he turned from her gentle lover to a prince, commanding, solemn and remote. He went to the edge of the ship and looked over at Ser Oswell, standing on the deck of the galley.

“Ser Oswell, turn your galley around – we make for King’s Landing immediately.” He spun to face Ser Arthur. “My friend, I am entrusting you with the most precious task. Take Lady Lyanna and this ship far away to the South. I wish for her to be protected while I attend to my father and see to Elia and the children’s safe removal to Dorne as well. I will send word to the Viper to come for her. We must try to halt this before we have a rebellion on our hands. I will join you as soon as I can.”

Ser Arthur nodded. Rhaegar clasped Lyanna’s hands in his own. “My love, would that I could come with you, but there is something ill-divining in this news. Go with Ser Arthur – he is a good man and true and will keep you safe. I will find you again soon.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, seemingly caring not for who was watching him. Lyanna’s arms went around him and her fingers gripped his back as if her very life depended on it.

“I don’t want you to go,” she said when he pulled back.

Rhaegar’s face was pained as he replied, “I must. My duty calls me. When I have tended to my father I will send word to your brother Eddard and ask for him to meet with me. He is an honourable man – I hope he can be appeased.” He kissed her forehead again, then turned and swung himself over the railing and onto the galley alongside them. “Farewell, my love!” he called.

She went to the railing and watched as the galley began to pull away, its oars cutting into the white-cresting water, praying that this would not be the last time she saw his face.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 22: EDDARD - The Lord of Winterfell

EDDARD – The Lord of Winterfell

 

Riding up the King’s Road towards Winterfell was something Ned had always loved to do – the castle he had been born in rose out of the ground and soared skywards, its grey towers and the square granite monolith of the great keep always an impressive sight to behold. But that morning the ground was hard, the air still and icy, and the road lonely. Ned had never felt such an inexperienced youth as he did then. It was a peculiar sensation, as if he had been cut adrift from his homeland for so long that he was almost a stranger in a seat that was now his own.

Lord of Winterfell. The words still sounded wrong when he spoke them aloud, and when he heard others address him thus, he often had to remind himself that they were, in fact, speaking to him.

He had landed in White Harbor two days before and immediately found himself a mount to carry him back to Winterfell. It had been a long, punishing ride. There had been a significant snowfall in the days before, and north of the Barrowlands, the King’s Road had been covered with snow that came up and over his horse’s fetlocks.

Not a breath of air stirred as he urged his horse onward. The few trees that lined the road were straggly, windblown things, their branches laden with snow, and on each side there was only boundless moorland, white and vast. But Winterfell was still the same as it had always been – huge, dark and solitary. A column of smoke rose straight upwards from within the walls, and as he neared, he could hear the sounds of voices.

Four guardsmen in Stark grey and white stood before the main gates, their hands on the hilts of their longswords. The drawbridge was down; they were expecting his arrival. When he approached, one of them moved to bar his way, but upon seeing who he was, instead bowed and stepped aside. “Lord Eddard,” he said, reverently. Ned nodded in reply. In the crisp air, his horse’s hooves sounded loudly out as he crossed the drawbridge. Once through the inner wall gatehouse, Winterfell’s courtyard opened out before him. Martyn Cassell stood before the armoury and spied him immediately. He strode to meet him.

“Lord Eddard,” he greeted. His voice was warm and welcoming and made thick plumes of steam in the cold air. He took the reins and held the horse while Ned dismounted. “How do you fare, my lord?”

Ned rolled his shoulders, trying to dislodge some of the stiffness that had settled there, and stood as tall as he could. I must look small compared to Brandon and my father, he thought. “I am well, Martyn, although I am weary from the journey.” A boy shot out from the stable and took the horse away, leaving Ned alone with the Winterfell master-at-arms. Martyn Cassell was a great-chested man whose frame was almost as wide as he was tall, although there was not one pound of fat upon him. His greying hair was cut to jaw-length and tucked behind his ears and his pale eyes were watchful and wise. Since Lord Rickard’s death, Martyn had been acting as castellan, for Benjen was too young yet to manage alone, and from the look of the place, had done a fine job. “How are you? Where is Benjen?”

“Benjen is at his lessons in the library with Maester Walys and I am well, my lord. I hope you find Winterfell in good order.” Martyn looked down at his feet. “I was grievous sad to hear the news. It was a dirty trick that was played on… on them.” He cleared his throat, seemingly unable to speak the names. “I trust you intend to bring them home?”

Ned frowned, sniffing back the emotions that he still fought to keep hidden. “I do. We have much to do, although I would like to get before a fire and put something warm in my belly before we begin.”

“As you wish, my lord,” said Martyn. “I had the kitchen prepare pea and mutton broth this morning in anticipation of your arrival. Would a bowl of that serve?”

It sounded perfect. As Martyn disappeared off to organise the meal, Ned turned a slow circle in the courtyard. Little had changed, but even so, it seemed strange and unfamiliar, like he was looking on the place with different eyes. A lord’s eyes, he thought. But it is senseless to think like this. I must be strong. I must show the men of Winterfell that I am worthy of their allegiances. If I am to ask them to fight for me, to maybe die for me, I need their trust and their faith and I will not gain that with self-doubt.

He went to the Great Hall. A fire was blazing in the hearth, stoked up and burning briskly, and he stood before it a moment, letting the heat soak through his furs and leathers to warm his bones. When he was sufficiently warm, he turned around. The raised platform where he and the rest of the family, plus any of their honoured guests, had always eaten drew his eye and he walked towards it. The Lord of Winterfell’s seat stood in the centre position. His father had used it every day. The stone was polished smooth where half a hundred Starks had sat upon it.

Now it was his.

He stared. Suddenly, the chair seemed ridiculously large and he imagined himself sitting on it as a small boy, his legs unable to reach the ground and his feet kicking against the base.

But he was no longer a boy. He was a man grown, and he was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.

He went to the chair and ran his hand contemplatively over the snarling direwolf face carved into the back, then slowly sat. His feet easily reached the floor. He leaned back and placed both hands on the arms and looked around the hall.

All this was his now.

He swallowed. He thought of his father and how he had proved a just and caring lord, and then he thought of Brandon and all the training and preparation he had received. It had all been meant for him and he would have done it well. I hope I can do this. I hope I can do them proud.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention and a serving girl came in with a steaming bowl of broth. She was not much more than a child and as she set the bowl down on the table in front of him she smiled meekly. “M’lord,” she said. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Ned shook his head, then remembered that he must speak his wishes, lest be misinterpreted. “No, thank you.” The girl made to leave, but Ned stopped her. “I do not recognise your face. What is your name?”

“I am Elitha, m’lord,” she said. “From the Winter Town.”

He smiled at her. “Thank you, Elitha,” he said.

The smell of the broth in front of him was making his mouth water. He hadn’t eaten for a full day, and spooned it into his mouth hungrily. When he was finished, he scraped the spoon around the bowl, pushing it away with a smile. It was then that he realised that, while he’d been eating, he’d been sitting in his father’s chair and hadn’t even thought about it.

Perhaps he could do this after all.

Martyn Cassell chose that moment to come striding into the Great Hall with two other men. He carried a large piece of rolled parchment and then several letters which he set down on the table before Ned. “This morning there was a raven from Lord Jon. Randyll Grafton and his number have been defeated and Robert Baratheon has returned to Storm’s End and called his banners. Some of his lords are resisting, however, so Lord Robert is marching on Summerhall, where they are gathering together.” Ned nodded at that. Robert had expected that some of the Stormlords might not give their loyalties easily and had said as much before Ned had left for the North.

Taking the large roll from Martyn – a map – Ned spread it out on the table, weighting the corners with his spoon and bowl to keep it from rolling back up again. Westeros lay before him, the rivers inked in blue, the mountains in grey, and the forests in green. Small illuminated sigils marked the seats of the high lords, and calligraphers had labelled them in an extravagant hand. He could see Winterfell, Moat Cailin, Torrhen’s Square, White Harbor and Deepwood Motte in the North, then his eye drifted down to The Twins, Riverrun and The Eyrie and further south to King’s Landing, Storm’s End, Lannisport, Highgarden and Dorne. Ned turned to Martyn. “Send ravens to the lords Manderly and Dustin. They must raise a hundred and fifty archers each and send them to Moat Cailin to fortify the pass. White Harbor must also needs be armoured against attack.”

Martyn sent away one of the men who had accompanied him with that task. “And now comes the inevitable action.” Ned looked up at Martyn, his heart heavy. “I must call the banners.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Ned sighed. He allowed the moment to string out for a beat or two longer than it probably should have done, staring down at the map before him. “Oh, Martyn, I do not wish it at all. I would rather, for all the world, simply turn back the hands of time and see everything righted to what it was. My father and brother alive, my sister returned to me. But it is futile to think such things – it gains us nothing, only grief and pain.”

“Your father thought Brandon hasty in his action, but there can be no doubt that Aerys is insane,” said Martyn. “The Seven Kingdoms cannot be ruled by a man who is not in his right mind. How he could murder your father and brother like that, I do not know.”

Looking away, Ned closed his eyes, summoning inner strength even though he felt he had none left. “It was unjust,” Ned said, “and dishonourable.”

“And the crime must be set to right.”

“Yes,” replied Ned. His voice was faraway, his thoughts turned to Lyanna. He wondered where she was. Is she in King’s Landing with Rhaegar? Or has he taken her elsewhere? He hoped wherever she was, she was not being harmed. Before he had left for Winterfell, Robert had been in a black fury, storming about the Targaryens and their mad blood, and proclaiming Rhaegar a craven and a rapist. His only proof in that accusation was his opinion, but that hardly mattered to Robert – he believed what he wanted.

“When do you wish to march, my lord?” asked Martyn.

“As soon as we are ready. Moat Cailin is to be our gathering place. There are one or two other things I must attend to in the meantime, however. Robert has asked me to send a raven to Hoster Tully. Tradition dictates that I should marry Lady Catelyn now that Brandon is gone, and if I can bring that arrangement to pass, I believe I should be able to secure the strength of Riverrun to our cause. But I must tread wisely.”

“You would marry your brother’s bride?” Martyn questioned, surprised. It was an old tradition and was not often acted upon. But Ned was sure it was something he needed to do, even if he was unsure about how much happiness it would bring him.

“Lord Hoster has long been keen to make good matches for his girls and when my lord father sought out a betrothal, he was highly pleased. And if we are to come out of this alive, we will have need of his swords.”

Martyn tilted his head. He looked down at the Tully sigil printed above the black dot that was Riverrun. “Hoster Tully is a proud man,” he said, “and his house has supported the Targaryens in the past.”

“I think he will be persuaded,” said Ned, “and his pride will be the key to it.”

“Very well, my lord, I shall fetch you paper and ink presently.”

Standing up, Martyn looked at Ned upon the Stark throne chair and smiled a small smile. “Perhaps you were not raised to be the Lord of Winterfell,” he said, “but you sit the seat well, Ned.”

It was the first time Martyn had called Ned by his name since he had arrived and not the polite honorific often used to address a liege lord. It reminded Ned that this was a man who had seen him grow up – the Cassells had been Stark bannermen for centuries and Martyn had been Lord Rickard’s master-at-arms since Ned was not much more than a babe in arms. Ned smiled wryly. “All the way here, all I could think about was what it would feel like to walk through the gates and be the Lord of this great place. Even now I find myself thinking of my brother and my father, of what they would do.” He sighed. “I fear it will take me a while to grow into the role.”

“You are very much your own man, Ned. And I think you are already doing yourself proud.”

He gestured to the doors. A boy stood there with a familiar leather scabbard, topped with wolf’s fur and dark with age. “What is this?” Ned asked, although he knew well what it was.

It was his father’s greatsword, Ice. Valyrian Steel, and as sharp as any in the Seven Kingdoms, the blade was five and a half feet tall and a hand’s width across. He had seen his father demonstrate the keenness of the edge once by dropping a single hair onto it from a height – the sword had cut the hair clean in half.  Ned had scoffed and told his father a hair was an easy thing to slice through, but when he had tried the same thing with his own sword, and then with every sword in the armoury, all that ever happened was that the hair slid off the blade and fell to the floor, intact.

The boy brought the scabbard forward and laid it on the table before Ned. “I had Wyllis Wull bring it from the armoury,” Martyn explained. “You should try it out, get used to the feel of its size and weight. It is yours now, Ned.”

Ned stared at the sword. Although many of the lords and knights of the Seven Kingdoms who owned greatswords carried them as their weapons of choice, often slinging them across their backs, Lord Rickard had used Ice rarely, preferring instead to carry a more practical longsword. In fact, the last time Ned had seen his father wield the blade, he had been polishing it and not using it to fight or dispense justice with.

But it was still his father’s sword, as it had been the sword of every Lord of Winterfell for four hundred years.

Slowly, he drew it from its scabbard. The steel was smoky and alive with patterns that seemed to shift and change even as he looked upon them.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Ned said nothing in reply. He wrapped two hands around the leather-covered grip and lifted it, stepping back from the table and descending the platform so he could stand with space around him. Ice was lighter than he had imagined – one of the many qualities of Valyrian steel – and so well-balanced he hardly noticed that it was a good foot longer than his usual sword. He swung a wide arc. The air seemed to whistle as the blade cut through it. Turning, he practised another cut, then another and another. Already it seemed that the sword was becoming part of him; nothing about it seemed cumbersome or unwieldy. In fact, it felt lethal. And powerful.

He stopped and stood the blade on its tip on the floor and looked over at Martyn Cassell. “How does it feel?” he asked.

Ned shook his head in amazement. “It feels good. It’s so light, yet…” He brought his finger to press gently on the fine edge with a feather touch then smiled when he looked and saw the blood welling up on his fingertip. “It’s sharper than anything I’ve ever known.”

Martyn smiled widely. “Nothing holds an edge like Valyrian steel.” He paused. “Would you wish to wield it in battle, my lord?”

Would I? I’m not sure, thought Ned. I could get used to carrying it on my back like Arthur Dayne. He thought of the Sword of the Morning and his fearsome reputation, of how Robert had respected the man’s prowess to the point of worship. Inside, the ego that was too often kept buried by his unwavering sense of honour twitched, and he nodded his head at Martyn. “I think I would,” he said aloud. “Could the saddler make me a baldric so I could wear the blade comfortably on my back?”

“I’m sure it would not be a problem,” replied Martyn.

“Ned!” One of the doors to the great hall swung open and Benjen galloped inside, his dark hair loose and flying behind him. “They said you were coming home!” His little brother had grown again since he had last seen him, but from the way he greeted Ned, seemed more like a child than ever. He barrelled into him, heedless of the sword in Ned’s right hand, and hugged him furiously. “Gods, it’s good to see you,” he exclaimed.

Ned let his free hand wrap around Benjen and held him into his chest. “It is good to see you too, brother,” he said. “How are you faring?”

Benjen pulled back and dropped his head. He scuffed the toe of his boot on the floor. “Maester Walys says that it will get better with time.” His voice was despondent. “But there are days when it feels like it really won’t.”

Ned’s heart went out to Ben – he was so young, younger even that Ned had been when their mother had died. Ben had been barely more than a babe when that had happened and had trouble even remembering it. This, however, he couldn’t fail to feel keenly. He laid a hand on Ben’s shoulder and said, “Maester Walys is right. It will get better. And you will not be beaten by it.”

Nodding, Benjen asked, “Has there been any word about Lya?”

“None,” replied Ned. The hole in his heart that had opened up when he had heard of Lyanna’s disappearance pulsed with pain again. “Not even a sighting, which is strange.”

Ben looked at Ice in Ned’s hand then. “You have Ice,” he said.

“I do…” He smiled wanly. “It feels strange to be holding it, to say that it is mine.”

“It suits you somehow,” Ben said, regarding him with thought. Ned gave a soft grunt and slid the blade back into its scabbard. There was a moment of silence as Ned placed Ice back upon the table and then turned back to Ben. “You are calling the banners, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he replied, unable to keep the sadness from his tone. “I must needs stand against the wrongs that have been done our family. If I do not, what does it show us?”

“Weak,” said Benjen in reply.

“Weak,” Ned repeated. “And I cannot have them think us weak.” 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 23: LYANNA - Starfall

LYANNA – Starfall

 

They were only just turning out of Blackwater Bay when Lyanna felt the first twinges of seasickness.  After the terrible news had been delivered, a kind of numb grief had descended on her. Initially, she dismissed the churning in her belly as just another side effect of that, but as Tarth came into view on the horizon, there could be no doubting what it was. The current had picked up and the going had become distinctly choppy, the result of a warm wind blowing onto the land. Lyanna had borne it for a couple of hours before she had been forced to make a run for the side and retch into the water below. The first time it had happened nobody had paid her the slightest mind, but when she repeated the same thing less than an hour later, she heard a low, concerned voice from behind her.

“My lady, are you seasick?” asked Ser Arthur Dayne.

He was standing three or four paces behind her. He had removed his Kingsguard cloak and armour and instead was dressed in what appeared to be some of his brother’s garb – an ill-fitting roughspun tunic over brown breeches. His hair was being blown by the wind at a sideways angle, forcing him to hold it with one hand to stop it licking in his face. “I am,” Lyanna admitted. She dabbed her chin with a handkerchief and then stood up, hoping she didn’t look too green. “I have not done much sea travel in my life.”

Arthur Dayne nodded. He came to stand beside her. “I forget that to many, it is not the way of things. I learnt to sail and row from a young age. My family’s seat, Starfall, lies right on the edge of the Summer Sea. There is little but a steep-sided river valley and barren mountains behind, so the only way to gather sufficient food is to farm the seas.”

“I have not heard of Starfall.”

“It is not a large castle,” Ser Arthur replied. “We are but bannermen to House Martell. But it is quite beautiful. You will soon see so for yourself.”

“I will?”

“Yes. We will make landfall there in about two weeks. His Grace has instructed me to keep you safe and the safest place I know of lies in the Prince’s Pass, a round tower keep built a century ago for one of my ancestors to pass her dotage in. No army can break through the Pass easily and unless you knew where to find this tower, you would not chance upon it. From Starfall we will ride there.”

“Why do I have to be kept this way?” complained Lyanna. “I hate it. I seem to spend my life having men seek to protect me when I can look after myself perfectly well.”

Ser Arthur studied her thoughtfully, a faint smile on his lips. “The Prince has told me of your wilful spirit. He loves it dearly, but I must admit it surprises me somewhat given what has befallen your brother Brandon. My own sister can be wilful too, but she has learned her lesson the hard way.”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes and bridled a little. Brandon’s name said aloud made a stab of guilt sink into her gut. Not for the first time, she wished she could have spoken to him or stopped him somehow. She did not know who had been his informant, but doubtless they had not framed her disappearance favourably to him. Brandon was hot-headed, certainly, but he was far from lackwitted, and she had trouble imagining him acting so foolishly had he been told the truth of the situation.

“How did Brandon know that it was Rhaegar I had gone with?” she asked. “We took great pains to ensure we were not seen.”

Ser Arthur sighed. He put one foot up on the railing around the ship’s side. “I have been unable to determine that,” he said. “I believe a message was involved, delivered to him while he paused for refreshment at the Inn at the Crossroads on his way to Riverrun. But I do not know what the message said or who delivered it. The serving girl who received the messenger could not describe him in any detail.”

Frowning, Lyanna asked, “Why would you try to find out who he was? My brother is nothing to you, surely.”

For a moment, Ser Arthur said nothing, then he replied, “I have my reasons, several to be truthful, but the foremost is that, when I donned my white cloak, I swore a vow to protect the King, and by extension his heir. Prince Rhaegar, it seems, has an unknown enemy, who is wishing to see him undone.”

That news hit her like a lance. Rhaegar had gone back to King’s Landing, where his mad father appeared to be ruling with less sense than a petulant child. Who knew what kind of dangers there were in that dreadful city? He said he would come to find me again soon, but how can I be sure? He may be killed by his own father, for all I know.

Once again, Lyanna’s stomach roiled, but this time it had little to do with seasickness. She closed her eyes and took in a few slow, steady breaths. “My lady,” said Arthur Dayne, his tone stony but considerate. “Perhaps you should retire to your cabin for the duration of our journey. If you try to pass the time in sleep, you will find the seasickness less troublesome.”

Lyanna nodded with some effort. She allowed Ser Arthur to help her to her cabin, whereupon she flung herself down onto her bunk. The sheets and furs still held Rhaegar’s now familiar smell, so she wrapped them around her and closed her eyes to try to sleep.

Four hotter and hotter days later, the Silver Sword turned north into a v-shaped bay lined by craggy white stone cliffs. On one side of the bay, the cliffs were topped with tussock grass that seemed to grow right up to the edge, on the other side, there was reddish sand and squat, waxy-leaved trees. Since they had sailed into the calm waters of the Summer Sea three days ago, her seasickness has disappeared and Lyanna had been able to come out of her cabin and take in the view of the dry desert coastline of Dorne. Although it was warmer than she had ever known days could be, the nights were cooler and there was always a dry, gusting breeze that blew onto her face from the land.

Now, though, it was late, the sun was setting, and the wind was beginning to die down for the night. They were heading towards the mouth of a river – the Torentine, Alyk Dayne had called it when she had begged him to explain the geography of the area to her – towards a castle that sat upon the cliff top. It built of the palest yellow stone with a central keep surrounded by walls that formed the shape of a five-pointed star. At each of the points of the star stood a thin crenelated tower; the one facing out to the sea was built right into the wall of the cliff and sank all the way down to the water below. As Ser Arthur had said, it was not a large castle, but it was truly beautiful. Flickering amber light danced along the walls from huge braziers had been lit at the foundations, and atop the towers, banners bearing the lavender and silver sigil of House Dayne fluttered lazily.

Even at this time, the bay was bustling with galleys, cogs and fishing boats, making their passage slow and ponderous, but soon they came to a deep-water harbour. There, Alyk dropped anchor and summoned a smaller vessel, with six oarsmen, more able to navigate the shallower waters. Leaving the crew aboard the Silver Sword, Alyk, Ser Arthur and Lyanna headed up a narrow beach made of small round pebbles.

“Welcome to Starfall,” Ser Arthur announced as they disembarked. He led the way along a path that was cut into the cliff face towards the slim tower that plunged like a knife down into the sea. On reaching the top, they climbed a dozen steps to a portcullis that opened onto a gatehouse carved directly from the rock. Below them, Lyanna could hear the sea as it lapped lazily against the tower’s foundations. There was nothing in the gatehouse apart from half a dozen burning torches and a sleepy guardsman standing before a flight of steps that appeared to twist around on themselves. Ser Arthur, who had donned his Kingsguard armour and cloak before leaving the Silver Sword, spoke to the guard, who immediately stood up straight and moved to one side, allowing the two Daynes and Lyanna to begin the ascent upwards.

“This is the Palestone Sword,” explained Ser Arthur as they climbed. His voice echoed. “It is the only entrance to Starfall and what makes it nearly impregnable. There are no other gates along the walls, and any enemy wishing to breach the castle’s defences would have to ram the portcullis and climb these steps. Look above your head and you will see murder holes coming from the floor of the next level, which would make such an action nigh on impossible.”  

They must have climbed two hundred or more steps by the time they reached the top and Lyanna was shamed to admit that she was out of breath – she imagined climbing the steps in full armour with arrows or hot oil raining down on her from above and concluded that Ser Arthur had been quite correct in his assertion that Starfall was an impregnable castle. Alyk had fallen behind, and arrived a few minutes later, red-faced and puffing, but Ser Arthur appeared to be none the worse for wear. The stairwell had opened out into a wide hall, brightly lit by torches that burned from sconces on the walls. Ser Arthur turned to Lyanna and said, “My lady, we are to bed here for the night before we conclude our journey on the morrow. Please, follow me and I shall lead you to your chambers.”

He was about to leave when a young woman came into the hall. She was not much older than Lyanna, and was blessed with arresting beauty. She was slender and fine-boned, with a curtain of silken dark hair and sad, purple eyes. One thin, pale hand rested on her belly, which was large and swollen with child. She looked directly at Ser Arthur but did not smile. “Sister,” greeted Ser Arthur. He went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “How are you?”

The woman looked at her with a gaze that made Lyanna shiver. Her eyes were completely soulless, as if someone had sucked all the life out of her. “I am well,” she replied in a voice that indicated that she was anything but. “We did not expect to see you back so soon.”

“I am not here for long,” Ser Arthur explained. He smoothed the dress on his sister’s shoulders and then removed his hands from her. “I am on a mission from Prince Rhaegar this time. We will be gone in the morning.”

The woman nodded. “Oh,” she said. “More Targaryen mischief, no doubt.” Ser Arthur ignored her comment.  

“You should get to bed,” he told her. “You need your rest.”

She nodded again, then turned and departed with slow, unhappy steps, her hand still on her belly. Ser Arthur watched her go, a frown upon his face, while Alyk excused himself and followed. Sighing despondently, Ser Arthur turned back to Lyanna. “My lady, follow me,” he instructed.

He took her out of the tower, across a cobblestone courtyard, and then into the central keep. Lyanna followed him up a flight of steps and onto a corridor where several wooden doors opened off. He led her through one of them onto a bright, airy room with a balcony that looked out across the bay. There was a large four-poster bed, draped in lavender silk, chairs and a night stand with a jug and washbowl upon it.  “That was your sister?” Lyanna asked quietly. Ser Arthur nodded.

“Ashara,” he said. He did not offer any further information, so Lyanna spoke again,

“She is so sad. What ails her?”

Ser Arthur moved to the wide window where the thin voile curtains shifted in a sea breeze and pondered a moment. “The same thing that likely ails you, my lady, when you are alone.” Lyanna frowned in confusion. “My sister was in love with your brother Brandon. His death has hit her hard.”

“Brandon? He was to marry Catelyn Tully before…” Her voice trailed away.

Ser Arthur turned back to her. A sharp smile was on his face and he shook his head. “Oh, Lady Lyanna, here you are, having run away from your home, having abandoned your betrothal, to be with Prince Rhaegar, who is casting aside his own wife to be with you, and you ask questions like that… Love is an unruly thing, my lady; it does not often go where it is bid.”

That gave her pause. She remembered the day her father had told her of his plans to wed her to Robert Baratheon, and the cold disappointment she had felt. Love did not always go where it was bid. She recalled Ashara’s red-rimmed eyes and the sadness that had hung about her like a shroud over a corpse. Had Brandon loved Ashara the same as Ashara clearly loved him? She asked, “The babe is Brandon’s?”

“That is what Ashara tells us – conceived at the tourney at Harrenhal. I took her away from King’s Landing after your brother was killed, fearful that if King Aerys found out that she was carrying Brandon’s child, he would have Ashara killed as well. She will give birth here, in safety at Starfall, and the child will be raised as a bastard, with the name Sand. No-one will ever know.”

And that was when Lyanna heard the crack in Ser Arthur’s voice – the great knight of the Kingsguard, the Sword of the Morning, the man who made other men quake in their boots for fear of his prowess, was on the edge of tears. “I do not wish to speak of it any longer,” he said, turning away to gather himself. A moment passed. When he turned back at her, there was a mask across his face again. “Sleep well, my lady. I hope you find the room comfortable.”

Lyanna stood alone in the room once he had left, her head filled with thoughts of Brandon, imagining her brother’s dark grey eyes in a child’s face. He would have loved the babe, she thought.

The next morning, they set off early, before dawn had fully broken over the golden walls of Starfall. Lyanna had tried not to look at Ashara as she bid them farewell, but hours later, she could still hear the tearful girl as she had begged her brother to not return to the danger of King’s Landing.

Ser Arthur had been silent for the last two hours, his horse plodding onward with a steadfast pace that seemed to reflect his mood.

They followed a thin, stony path along the river valley. By evenfall, they had turned east and were entering the Prince’s Pass, the Red Mountains enclosing them like a clasping hand. Throughout the day, the heat had grown steadily more oppressive and Lyanna could feel the sweat soaking through her dress. She was tired, too, and desperate to find their destination, yet when the light faded, Ser Arthur did not stop to build camp but instead continued on.  

It was fully dark and Lyanna had fallen asleep in the saddle when her horse came to a stop. “Are we there?” she asked, sleepily.

“We are,” came Ser Arthur’s reply. He was beside her and he held out his hands and helped her from the saddle. Her legs were weak from the long ride and her knees almost buckled when she tried to stand on her own, so she put out a hand to rest it on her horse’s neck as support. There was no visible moon, although the sky was full of stars, and she squinted through the darkness to behold a round tower hewn from red stone. It was small, perhaps with just three or four levels, and had just a few square windows cut into the stone. The roof was grey slate with a crenelated walkway circling the topmost level.

Ser Arthur hobbled their horses outside the tower and put his shoulder into the heavy wood door. It took three solid pushes before it opened in a sudden rush onto a round room holding nothing but a curling staircase and a faded tapestry depicting some ancient battle. Lyanna followed the knight up the steps until what was clearly the highest level. There, she found herself in a wide, circular room. There was a bed, carved from polished reddish wood, but little else – a chair, two tall iron candelabras with not a single candle between them, and a Dornish rug of reds, purples and golds.

“Lady Lyanna,” said Ser Arthur. “I believe you will find this room comfortable. I have candles in my saddlebag, some food and wine and other supplies. There is also a stream running from the mountains where I will collect fresh water from in the morning.”

He turned and disappeared, leaving Lyanna alone. She went to one of the thin windows and looked out. The Red Mountains of Dorne were great dark shadows in one direction; from another window, she could see the Prince’s Pass, its stony trail only just visible in the darkness; and from the third and final window, she could see the flat plains of the Marches. They were clearly further north, and a good deal more isolated, than she had at first imagined.

She went to the bed and sat on the edge. Exhaustion gripped her with its clenching fist and for a moment, she thought to sink into the blankets and let sleep carry her away, but just as she was contemplating that, Ser Arthur appeared again and set to lighting candles, filling the room with soft light. He passed her a wax paper package and she opened it to reveal bread, spiced ham hock and dates. “Eat, my lady,” instructed Ser Arthur. “You must needs keep your strength up.”

Lyanna looked up at him. “When will the Prince return?”

Ser Arthur paused a moment, then replied, “I do not know. In a week, perhaps longer, it is impossible to say. But be assured that he will return.” He went to the door. “And now, my lady, I will leave you to rest. I will be below should you want for anything.”

And with that, he left and closed the door behind him. For a long moment, Lyanna stared around the room, letting the quiet and aloneness sink into her. She sighed, folded up the package of food, leaving most of it untouched, and shed her dress to crawl beneath the blankets in just her smallclothes. She wondered why all of a sudden, she felt an emptiness gnawing at her. What had seemed like a marvellous adventure back at Winterfell was now starting to seem alarmingly real and not at all like she had imagined. She thought of Brandon, of her father, and then she thought of Ned…

He was the Lord of Winterfell now.

Where is he, she wondered. Is he still in the Eyrie? Or is he back in the North? Suddenly, she realised that she wanted to see him again so she could tell him that she hadn’t meant for things to end up this way.

She rushed to the door and swept it open. “Ser Arthur!” she called down the stairwell. There was a flurry of footsteps and in a heartbeat he was standing before her. He stared in surprise at her state of undress, but then his eyes fell away and he looked deliberately at the floor.

“My lady?” he questioned. “What is wrong?”

Lyanna’s hands fisted themselves on the cold steel of his breastplate. “I want to send a letter, a letter to my brother Ned.”

He looked at her hands and a frown knitted his brows together. “Lady Lyanna, there are no ravens here.” His voice was sad.

“Then you must take it to him! I need to tell him where I am, tell him that I am not being hurt.”

“I cannot… I cannot leave you.” He took her hands in his own. “I have my orders, my duty. And even if I didn’t have that binding me, I do not know where your brother is.”

“He’ll be at Winterfell,” she practically shouted. “He’s the Lord of Winterfell now!”

Ser Arthur looked as if he really didn’t want to share his next words with her. He swallowed, paused, then replied, “When we were at Starfall, my father told me that the Lords Arryn and Baratheon have raised their banners in revolt against the throne. Doubtless the North will follow soon.” 

“No,” she murmured as she stared at him. “No, that… that cannot be right.”

“My lady, I am afraid it is the truth – a truth none of us wishes to see, but a truth nonetheless.” In a moment of tenderness all at odds with his Kingsguard persona, Ser Arthur Dayne folded Lyanna Stark into his arms and held her. “I am sorry, my lady, truly I am. Your brother is an honourable man, and whatever allegiances I must needs owe, I hope with all my heart that no ill befalls him in this.”

In his embrace, Lyanna began to cry.

 

To be continued...  

Chapter 24: EDDARD - A Second Hand Match

EDDARD – A Second Hand Match

 

In his head, the bells were still tolling when Ned rushed into the stonemason’s cottage where Hoster Tully had been taken. There was blood leading up the path, blood on the step, and when he flung open the door, the stench of it was rank in the air. The kitchen was filled with men, some he recognised, and some he had no knowledge of, standing awkwardly with heads down. They were dressed in mail and plate, dirt and blood spattered on their cloaks and faces, but their swords were sheathed. When Ned burst through the door, they turned as one and looked at him.

“Where…?” Ned demanded. Before anyone could reply, there came a muffled cry of pain from above.

“The town’s healer is tending him, my lord,” explained one whose face was vaguely familiar to Ned behind the large bruise that was purpling across his cheek and swelling his eye shut. A young woman with red hair and freckles rushed down the narrow stairs with a wooden bowl filled with bloodied water. Ned took off up the stairs she had come down and found himself in an l-shaped corridor with three doors heading off it. One was open onto a bare-boarded room and he could see an infant’s cradle within; in the corner, a small girl of no more than six or seven huddled with the babe in her arms, sniffing back frightened tears. He smiled at the child but she only hid her face and continued to cry.

The next door was closed. A bloodied handprint marked where someone had recently pushed it open. Ned entered, ducking his head beneath the beam. The smells of boiling wine and cauterised flesh pervaded. There was a bed inside and on it laid Hoster Tully. Robert sat in a chair beside him, stripped down to his tunic and smallclothes, the great muscle of his left thigh freshly bandaged with linen. Lord Hoster, on the other hand, was unconscious. His armour had been removed, and his helm sat on the floor beside him, dented from a blow that had hit with some force. A head wound had covered his face in rivulets of blood and was still trickling slowly down onto the sheets, but what was much more perilous was the deep hole in his right shoulder where the flesh had been clearly pierced by a halberd. The healer, a grey-haired man with a thin, angular face sat beside Lord Hoster, a cup of boiling wine in his hand. A wooden spoon had fallen from Hoster’s mouth, and Ned presumed that the cries of pain had come from him before he had passed out.

“Robert… What happened?”

Robert glanced up at Ned and replied, “Connington.” He sighed. “Hoster was in single combat with him when he struck his helm so hard the bloody thing rattled. I saw it happen, Ned – if I’d been a dozen seconds quicker, I could have stopped it. Myles Mooton lies dead in the street, though, for trying to stand in my way.”

“Will he live?”

“It’s in the hands of the Gods, my lord,” said the healer, setting down the cup of wine and reaching for honey poultice. “His head looks bad, but it is actually only minor. Head wounds always bleed a lot. The other wound is, I’m afraid, going to put him out of action for some time.”

The young woman from before reappeared, carrying a fresh bowl of water. She knelt beside Lord Hoster, and began to wipe the blood from his face. Ned watched in silence as the water turned first pink, then deep red as she worked.

“Connington is gone,” Ned told Robert. “His army started retreating as we descended and by the time I had reached the market place, there were but a few injured men left. I gave orders for them to be given treatment or merciful ends, whichever was best.”

Robert nodded. He still stared at Hoster on the bed. “The men need food and drink and some shelter for the night. Can you talk to the townspeople and see if they will host us for a day or two?” He paused and frowned. “I’ll stay with him tonight.”

“Of course,” Ned agreed.

Just as he was about to leave again, Robert’s voice stopped him. “Thank you, Ned. Your van came just in time – the Gods only know what would have happened if you hadn’t arrived when you did.”  

The next morning, Ned climbed the steps of the stonemason’s cottage to find Hoster Tully awake and sitting up, propped up with pillows. He was pale of face and had dark circles beneath his eyes but he smiled as Ned walked into the room. “Good morrow,” he greeted.

“How are you, my lord?” asked Ned.

“I am better than I was, although I still feel rather sore and old. They have given me some strongwine, though,” he explained, “and it is helping. Are you well?”

“I am good, thank you. A charitable washerwoman gave Jon and me a bed for the night. Where is Robert?”

“I told him to leave me to break his fast; I do not believe he has eaten since before the battle.”

Ned pulled up a chair and sat beside the Lord of Riverrun. “I do not wish to push you on this matter, my lord,” he began, “but I am keen to know your mind. Have you thought on my offer?”

Hoster’s eyes drifted to the window. It was a quiet day outside, overcast yet not cold. “I have thought on it, Lord Eddard--”

“Ned, please…”

“Ned,” corrected Hoster. “I have thought on it. I know Cat was much anguished by the death of your brother – their betrothal had been lengthy and I believe she had become quite attached to him, or at least, the idea of him. But I must also think of the future. This whole horrible business,” He paused and indicated his injured shoulder, “has reminded me that I am not like to live forever. I must think about when I am gone… Cat will make you an excellent wife.”

Ned smiled. “Thank you, my lord. That is the answer I was hoping to hear.”

“But then there is the small matter of where we go from here.” Ned hesitated at that. He hadn’t been expecting Hoster to throw another dice into the game. “I am in no condition to lead my men again into battle and I fear I will be out of action for some time to come. And yet, you still have need of my swords, do you not?”

Swallowing, Ned nodded. He had assumed that his marriage to Catelyn would bind their houses together from now on, and give him the strength of Riverrun to add to his own swords and thus augment Robert’s number. I must needs keep my tone courteous, he thought. There is another deal about to be set forth here. “We need all the strength we can get, my lord, you know that.”

“I do,” said Hoster. “Which is why I will make you an offer in return. Catelyn’s hand earned you my swords for this battle – a token of gratitude, if you like, for your generosity in offering to honour the contract I signed with your lord father. But should you wish to win my swords until this rebellion is ended, I must needs see Lysa wed too.

For a moment, Ned misunderstood. He opened his mouth to reply that he could not marry two women, but Lord Hoster jumped in and spared him the indignity of that foolish reply, “Jon Arryn has lost his nephew and heir in this battle, yes?” Ned nodded. “And he still has no son to continue to Arryn line. Let him take Lysa to wife. She is young and… I am sure she will soon give him what he wishes.”

That deal was unexpected, Ned thought. Jon was an old man, by any accounts, and Lysa was not much more than sixteen – there would be near forty years between them. “Lysa is very young,” said Ned, as diplomatically as he could manage. “Would you not seek a match with someone more of her own age?”

Hoster sighed. His face grew pained. “I have to be realistic. You may have heard some rumours circulating about my youngest daughter,” he said. “They are, alas, true.”

Several months ago, Ned had heard it said that Lysa Tully had been bedded by a boy by the name of Baelish who had been Lord Hoster’s ward at Riverrun. “She was taken advantage of by your ward.”

“Yes,” replied Hoster, with some hesitation. “But, what the world does not know is that this liaison resulted in Lysa getting with child.” Ned looked down at his boots. It was rare but not unheard of for young highborn girls to end up giving birth to bastards that were sired by squires or servants of their father’s household. “I was deeply disappointed in my daughter. Of course, I sent the boy away – I could not allow them to wed, although Lysa begged me morning and night. Fortunately, though, this whole sorry situation ended without further embarrassment as Lysa miscarried and the child died.”  

Suddenly Ned understood. Lysa was no longer a maiden, and as such, scant currency for her father to negotiate a marriage to a highborn lord. But she had, in this, proven herself fertile and so her father was trying to pawn her off on the childless Jon Arryn to secure her future, protect his own interests and save as much face as possible.

“We would have to involve Jon in this,” Ned said. He stood and went to the window, looking out on the town below. A sour taste was in his mouth. “I am not sure he would agree.”

There was a pointed pause. “If my swords are what you want, he will agree,” said Hoster plainly. Ned turned back to his companion. He may have had a blow to the head just a day before, but his mind was clearly as sharp as ever. He sighed.

“Please give me leave then, my lord, to discuss this with Jon. I will return shortly with his answer.”

“Of course,” replied Hoster.

Ned walked out of the cottage and into the street below. It was a dry day – the first in almost a week – but no sun broke through the high grey clouds that blanketed the sky as far as the eye could see. Men were all about, soldiers and townsfolk alike, cleaning up after the battle. A cart loaded with the dead was being pulled by a sway-backed mule down the street. “My lord,” acknowledged one fellow, but most of the people afforded him barely a glance.

He found Jon in a field overseeing the burial of the dead. Captured royalist soldiers were digging the graves under his watchful eye. A small crowd of children, mostly boys, had gathered, and were standing just behind him, whispering and pointing. “Good morrow, Ned,” he greeted. His face seemed tired. “Are you well?”

“I am. And yourself?”

“As well as to be expected – my old bones are not what they were, I am afraid to say. I believe I have managed to pull a muscle in my back that is causing me some distress at present.”

There was little Ned could offer in condolence. “I heard the news of Denys’ death,” he said, “and I am sorry for your loss.” Jon chuffed softly.

“It seems the Gods are conspiring against me finding an heir. I can barely name one before they take him from me. I have no idea where I will turn next.”

Ned let the comment hang a moment, then took a breath and said, “There may be a way that will come as something of a surprise to you.” Jon turned to look at him. “Hoster Tully wishes to offer you his daughter Lysa’s hand in marriage in exchange for his swords from now until the end of our campaign.” Jon frowned.

“I thought… I thought you had already sealed that bargain by offering to marry Lady Catelyn in place of your brother?”

“As had I, but it seems Lord Hoster is not so easily bought,” replied Ned dryly.

“Oh, he is a tough old bird!” Jon chuckled. He adjusted his position, placing one hand on the small of his back and grimacing slightly, then releasing a long sigh. A moment passed. “So that is the deal, then? Lysa’s hand for the Tully swords, yes? There must be some kind of catch. I’ve known Hoster Tully long enough to know that he doesn’t hand out charity like that on a plate without there being something in it for him.”    

Ned scuffed his boot in the grass, digging up a clod of earth and turning it over. A worm wriggled in the dark soil. “You may have heard some rumours about Lysa and Lord Hoster’s ward a few months back… well, it seems that the rumours were true. The boy deflowered Lysa and got her with child but the distress caused a miscarriage.” He left out that Lysa had begged her father to allow her to marry the boy – Jon did not need to know that he would be taking on a girl who was in love with another. It was surely enough for him to agree at all.

“Hm,” said Jon. He walked a few paces away from Ned, stretched painfully, then stopped. “And he says this will grant us the Tully swords?”

“That is what he has promised.”

“How many men are we talking about?” Ned calculated in his head a moment.

“Hoster Tully isn’t just Lord of Riverrun, he is Lord Paramount of the Trident… that is a huge area. 10,000 men perhaps? Maybe more if Walder Frey commits himself.”

Jon smiled wryly and nodded. “Then it seems it is a second-hand match for both of us.”

“So it seems,” replied Ned. “Although let us hope that neither is a loveless match.”

“Indeed,” Jon agreed. “Indeed.”

 

To be continued...

Notes:

The last few chapters have been story-building and so may have seemed a little slow to some, but rest assured, things are going to start getting more action-filled from now on. Thank you to everyone who's sticking with me!

Chapter 25: LYANNA - The Tower of Joy

Notes:

As our dear friend Ser Arthur said: 'And now it begins...' Hope you all enjoy the ride to the finish line!

LYANNA – The Tower of Joy

 

Flames crackled and spat in the hearth in front of Lyanna. A fire was not normally needed, as the days were warm, but in the last week, there had been a cool breeze blowing from the north, and the nights had grown chill. Ser Arthur told her that there could be windstorms brewing and explained that such things were common in Dorne when the weather had been hot and dry. That afternoon, she and the knight had gathered kindling from the dusty sides of the pass, and carried it back to the tower in a hessian sack. Now, Lyanna was feeding the fire with that kindling, throwing sticks one by one into the flames until they roared and leapt high.

Collecting kindling helped to fill her empty days. She had lost count how many had passed since she had bid Rhaegar farewell on the Blackwater and she and Ser Arthur had come to the tower, although she suspected that time had seemed lengthened because of the loneliness and the lack of anything to do. The land around the tower was barren and uninhabited, and the Prince’s Pass was not much more than a thin stony path that thread treacherously through the mountains. They had not seen a single traveller upon it since they arrived and up here the only animals seemed to be snakes, scorpions, lizards, or the occasional eagle flying overhead, kee-keeing as it sailed the thermals.

Food had come from the wild sheep that grazed on the scrub grass that grew in the foothills – Ser Arthur had caught one and butchered it on the first day – and from the olive, orange, lemon and fig trees that dotted the landscape. A mountain stream within walking distance from the tower ran fresh and cool and gave her somewhere to bathe, and every morning, Ser Arthur would tote buckets full of water from there to drink and cook with.

But there was little to fill her time with other than thinking. She thought about Brandon, about her father, about Ned – but most of all, she thought about Rhaegar. Some days were better than others, and she believed that she would wake the next morning to find him lying beside her, but the other days were grim and hopeless. On one such day she had decided that she would run away and casually told Ser Arthur that she was going for a walk. For the first few days after they had arrived, the knight had dogged her footsteps, but once she had proved herself content to remain, he had relaxed his guard and allowed her increasing freedom to roam. That day, she had set off along the Prince’s Pass and headed north, but before long the path had become so vague, she had found herself lost. Ser Arthur had found her half a day later, sitting on the ground in tears of frustration.

Before her, the fire spat loudly as a piece of dry tinder caught the flame and exploded in the hearth, sending a shower of tiny sparks out onto the stone floor. They glowed a moment but quickly died to black. And then she heard Ser Arthur’s voice. The knight was not one to speak to himself, seeming to view conversation as part of his duty rather than something he could garner pleasure from. She listened closely. A second voice responded to Ser Arthur’s, and Lyanna stood up.

In two strides she was at the window, looking down. Another horse besides the two that Lyanna and Ser Arthur had arrived on was tied up outside the tower. It was a bay palfrey, light of bone and fleet-footed, and its flanks were glistening with sweat; it had been ridden hard. Her heart started to hammer in her chest.

Beneath, a door closed and then the voices were a little louder, although still too muffled to identify. Lyanna went to her own door and opened it onto the staircase that wound up the tower. The voices were coming from below. She stood at the top of the steps, wondering whether she should go down, but then the voices stopped and footsteps started up. They were quick and light, and then he was there in front of her, rounding the corner. Her face split into a wide smile and he flew up the last few steps and swept her into his arms, lifting her clean off the floor and spinning her around. “Gods be good, you’re here…” Suddenly, his voice broke and he began to cry, great sobs wracking his thin frame so he seemed for a moment just like a child in her arms, spending his relief. “You’re here,” he repeated. “You’re still here.”

He buried his face in her neck, and she just held him, her own body shaking like a leaf in a storm. He smelt of dust and heat and sweat, but underneath all that was the slightly spicy familiar scent of him. She breathed it in deeply.

When eventually he released her, they had both quietened. Without saying a word, he took her hand, opened the door to her chamber and led her within, closing it behind them. His eyes questioned her a second and when she nodded, he reached behind her and began to unlace her dress. His hands worked deftly and soon he was tugging the material open. It fell away and she watched as he looked upon her and sighed.

Quietly, she stepped free and into his arms, helping him shrug out of the thin white shirt he wore, then unlaced his breeches and waited while he cast them and his boots aside. And then they stood together in that simple round room, hands clasped, naked and gazing at each other. His pale skin was aglow in the light from the fire and the candles’ fine rays caught the strands of his hair and turned them to gold.

Lyanna could feel the burning beginning deep down in her belly again. She reached for him and took his face in her hands and kissed him. Slowly, softly, he opened his mouth to her. For a long moment they simply stood there, kissing, reacquainting each other with touch and taste and a world of sensation, but then, quite suddenly, he leaned down and scooped her up in his arms. The shock of it made her giggle, and he smiled at her reaction. He took her to the bed and laid her on the blanket, then climbed up too, sliding his body next to her. “How I wish I could stop time right now, my love,” he murmured, “or take away everything in my life but this.” One hand passed over her belly, and as he reached between her thighs, he kissed her again.

His breath was hot in her mouth. If you could taste pleasure, thought Lyanna, perhaps this is what it tastes like. His gentle fingers worked on her and soon, her body seemed to be moving of its own accord. Breath came shallowly and she writhed against him. He shifted his position slightly, pressed and then slipped two fingers inside and curled. In response, her whole body tightened quite unexpectedly and she felt a shuddering course through her so intense she let out a tiny cry. “Shhh, shhh…” he whispered, holding her tight. “Let it take you.”

When the last wave had passed, Lyanna felt her muscles relaxing and she opened her eyes. He was looking down at her and a smile was painting his lips. “Gods,” she murmured, smiling giddily back at him. “That was…”

“I know,” he finished for her, simply. He stroked back her hair, his fingers ghosting along her cheek. She drew in a deep breath, then reached for him.

“Come here,” she urged.

He nodded almost imperceptibly and moved above her. With a slow, steady, gentle shift, he slipped inside her, and Lyanna watched in rapture as his eyes closed and joy suffused his face. For a moment, it seemed as if he hardly dared to move, then gently, he pushed forward. Lyanna threw her arms around him and held him close, wanting nothing more than to slip beneath his skin and meld the two of them together still closer. In a while, his pushes began to grow more fevered, more desperate, deeper, and then, with a quiet gasp, he sank down onto her chest.

When she opened her eyes, they were greeted with him looking down at her with an intensity so raw she wondered whether his heart was bleeding out right there. His hands cupped her face and he kissed her. Wanting to savour their joining longer, Lyanna shifted her hips up and held him tight against her. A glassy look filled his eyes as she did so, and she realised, belatedly, that he was shaking with emotion. “Oh…” he murmured, “Oh my…” His voice trailed away and he drew in a steadying breath.

After a moment, he rolled away from her, onto his back, and he spread his arms wide. “I yield!” he called out and chuckled softly.

His laughter was infectious. She found herself joining in, straddling him and staring down at him, one hand pointed against his chest in mimicry of a sword. “You yield?”

“Oh, I do, my lady.” And then he sat up, pulling her into his lap, suddenly serious. “Gods, how I love you.”

“I love you too,” she replied. “Truly.”

They made love twice more that night, before finally falling to rest just as the dawn was breaking. Exhausted, Lyanna curled onto her side and he shadowed her body, one arm wrapped around her, and they slept.

Sometime later, Lyanna started awake and realised abruptly that it was fully light and she was alone. She sat up and looked around the room. In the hearth, the fire had died to dust and ashes but the sun was streaming in through the eastern window, spreading its warm, yellow light around with careless abandon. There was a pleasant ache in her loins from the night before, but she felt rested. His shirt lay discarded on the floor and she picked it up and donned it, tying the neck-cord in a bow; the material reached nearly to her knees and covered her modesty sufficiently. She pushed her feet inside her shoes, padded to the door, and descended the steps.

The other rooms in the tower were empty. She found Ser Arthur outside, brushing down the horse Rhaegar had arrived on last night, his arm working in methodical strokes that were making the animal’s muscles ripple on its shoulders and haunches. It was crunching oats noisily from a nosebag. “Good morrow, Ser Arthur,” Lyanna greeted. He turned and nodded, offering her a warm smile. If he even noticed her strange attire, he did not comment.

“His Grace has gone to the stream to bathe,” he explained. “And I am readying to ride out for more supplies. Are you well, my lady?”

“Very, thank you,” she replied.

The stream was but a short walk from the tower and she picked her way through the dusty red scrubland until she could hear the sound of the water. It was not a large stream, but it was fast-flowing and the water was clear and cool; in places it was just calf-deep, and rushed around upthrusting boulders and rocks, but further along its length there were pools where the water collected and it was possible to submerge yourself up to your waist. Along the banks, the water had turned the vegetation lush and green and even allowed a few trees to grow to a modest height.

She came upon him in one such pool, washing. His back was to her. “Rhaegar,” she said in quiet voice intended not to startle him. He turned and smiled widely.

“You found me.”

“Ser Arthur told me where you were.”

His hair was wet and heavy and scudding his shoulders, and water ran from it in thin rivulets down his chest and arms. Apart from a thin golden necklace, he was completely naked. Lyanna tried not to look anywhere but his face, but no matter how hard she tried, her eyes still kept drifting. He caught her and grinned suggestively. “Care to join me, my lady?” he asked. She blushed then wondered why she was doing so – she’d already seen him naked half a dozen times. “The water is pleasantly cool.” She looked about. There was no-one in sight so she shed his shirt and waded into the water to meet him.

He took her hands, brought them to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, then threaded his own fingers through hers. He tugged her close to him. Beneath the water, she saw he had become aroused and, boldly, she reached between them and ran her hand along his length. His eyes closed. “My lady, be very careful here,” he warned her gently. “Continue and I am like to turn the riverbank into a bed.”

Lyanna grinned. Since he had rushed up the steps of the tower last night, she had felt a kind of fervour in her blood, heating her from within and making her crave him. She had never known such a feeling before, had never even been told it existed. It was all-consuming. “Perhaps that is not such a bad thing,” she said, continuing. Soon, his breath was coming quickly and Lyanna thought he was about to spend himself into the water, but instead he wrapped one arm underneath her and lifted her onto him. Lyanna gasped at the suddenness and grabbed onto his shoulders. A dozen short strokes into her and she felt the heat of his seed inside her. He held her still for a moment, then gently set her down. The water had stirred to ripples that were spreading away from them both.

“That was a bit of a surprise,” she said.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he apologised. “I just… I had to be inside you.”

When his breath had calmed, he glanced back in the direction of the tower, serious once again. “There is a village at the bottom of the Pass and I have sent Ser Arthur to ride there for more supplies. He will return by nightfall.” He paused. “Come, my lady, there is much and more I must speak of with you.”

He took her hand and led her from the pool. The sun was above their heads now and it did not take long for the water to dry on both of their bodies. Rhaegar dressed, combed through his hair with his fingers then tied it roughly back with a thin leather switch. He picked up his shirt and pulled it over her head. “It suits you somehow,” he commented.

Lyanna smiled. As they walked back to the tower, they held hands. It was something Lyanna had never seen a man and woman do before, but when he reached for her hand and clasped it, it seemed the most natural thing. By the time they arrived back, she did not really want to let him go, but the stairwell was not wide enough for two to walk abreast. In the main room where she and Ser Arthur had shared their meals every day, Rhaegar poured them both cups of fresh water, squeezed the juice of a lemon into each cup, and then took out and laid on the table the last of the food he had brought with him: a thick wedge of blue cheese, a wheaten loaf and what remained of a bag of olives.

The sight of food before her made Lyanna’s stomach grumble and she reached eagerly for her share. He laughed as she tore off a hunk of bread and devoured it. “Hungry?” She hummed an affirmative.

“I feel like I could eat a horse,” she replied when she had swallowed. “It’s been nothing but mutton and figs since we got here.”  

There was a pause while he took a piece of bread, used his dagger to cut off several slices of cheese and ate some at a more languid pace, then he spoke, “There is much to say,” he started, “but I am uncertain how best to begin.” Taking a long drink of lemon water, he studied her face. “There is both good news and bad. Which would you have me tell you first?”

“The bad, I think…” she answered. He looked pained at her reply, but the culture in the North was to prepare for the worst before anything else. Winter is coming. He cleared his throat, then looked down. He traced the grain of the wood with his fingernail a moment, before he finally met her gaze again.

“The enemy who appears to be trying to thwart me has reared his head again. He has been whispering things to my father, whose paranoia is worse than ever.” He paused, then sighed. “My marriage has been dissolved, but it has cost me dear. I told my father I wished to have Elia and the children removed to safety in Dorne, but my father… my father stopped me. Doran, Elia’s eldest brother, has recently become the ruling Prince of Dorne and my father believes this engenders a problem. He thinks the new Prince will be angered by my actions and will cut all ties with the crown, and so he has forbid me to send Elia home.” Rhaegar’s eyes were filled with sadness. “He intends to hold her, Rhaenys and Aegon hostage to ensure the loyalty of Dorne against the rebels.”

“Gods…” Lyanna exclaimed. “He would really do that?”

Rhaegar shook his head. “You do not know my father. We argued, but he would not be moved on it. I left before I said something that would bring his wrath down upon me.”

“Are they in any danger?” Lyanna remembered the sickly-looking princess from the tourney at Harrenhal and then imagined Rhaegar’s children, his son no more than a babe in arms. Before her, Rhaegar covered his face with his hands and breathed in deeply, as if steadying himself.

“King’s Landing is not safe for anyone at present,” he said in a low voice, “least of all the second in line to the throne, his mother and sister.”

Lyanna stared. “Is there nothing you can do?”

“I have considered many options, but alas, I do not think so. I have instructed Ser Jaime Lannister to protect them at all costs, but aside from that, I fear there is little more I can do. I cannot defy my father in this.” While he had been talking, Rhaegar had pulled the loaf of bread apart and now he stared at the crumbling pieces emptily. “I also sent a raven to your brother Eddard as soon as I arrived in the capital, but I have not heard word from him in return. Now I am unsure whether the bird even reached him. Just before I left, the Lord Commander of the City Watch told me that since my father had your brother and father executed, ravens have been found shot down just outside the city walls – he thinks it is the work of rebel sympathisers, although the culprits have not yet been identified.” He sighed. “Mayhaps, though, the bird reached its destination and your brother simply does not wish to speak with me… There have been a number of battles already…” His voice trailed off.

“So Ned does not know where I am?”

Rhaegar shook his head. “I am afraid not, my love. Gods know how I have tried to bring us joy, but it seems that this tower is the only place where I can experience it. Every other place I go seems to bring nothing but woe upon me.”

Despite the grave words he had imparted, Lyanna’s heart went out to him then. She remembered how, at Winterfell, he had explained to her to that in order to forge a new way, the balance had to be maintained even while the weights were being changed and how confident he had seemed in succeeding. It seemed that although he had done everything in his power to do this, what he hadn’t accounted for had been others shifting the weights as he worked. She reached out across the table and took his hands in her own, squeezing them.

“When I took you from your home, I thought all for the best,” he said numbly. “But it seems that fortune is intent on making a fool of me.”

“Rhaegar…” Lyanna stood and went to him. He twisted in his seat and rested his forehead upon her stomach. Frowning, Lyanna laid her hands on his head and wondered at how he had kept all this inside him the whole night and not spoken a word of it. “You should have told me earlier,” she murmured.

He sighed and pulled away, looking up at her. “I would not for all the worlds wish anything different of last night. It was the perfect ease for my soul.”

A moment passed. I wish I could ease you more, she thought. “Dare I ask what the good news is then?”

“The good news?” A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “The good news is that I have made arrangement with Ser Arthur and we can ride for Starfall on the morrow and wed. I would take you for my wife, Lyanna Stark, if you would have me.”

Joy burbled up inside her, overthrowing the mood of just a few moments before, and surging wildly to the fore. “If I would have you?” she exclaimed. “Oh, but how I have wished for someone to ask me that!” She broke away from him and raised her hands to the roof. “Of course I will have you! You are my love… my dearest love…” She pulled him up and kissed him. He laughed against her lips and responded, one hand threading through her hair.

“Now that is good news,” he murmured. “That is very good news.”

His hands clutched her waist. 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 26: EDDARD - Lord and Lady Stark

EDDARD – Lord and Lady Stark

 

Since Ned had arrived at Riverrun, the evenings had been hot and humid, and each morning, the land had been covered with a thick mist that shrouded everything in a dull curtain of grey. Heat from the day quickly burned it away, of course, but as dawn broke, it was thick enough to coat every leaf and blade of grass in silvery dew.

This morning was no different; the dew was muffling his footsteps as he walked and soaking through the leather of his boots. Spotted damselflies and blue-green dragonflies hovered above the pale, slow-moving river and the pin reeds stood in the shallows still and straight as guards on watch. Along the bank he walked down, cream and pink clover flowered delicately and violets grew in abundance. The birds paid little attention to his passage as they sang their chorus from the tree-line, but quiet watery plops told him the voles were well aware of his presence.

I miss the North, he thought as he walked. I miss cold, sharp air that stings the back of your nose and throat; I miss the crispness of snow underfoot; I miss the sun so low in the sky it makes your eyes hurt just to look at it. It had been three days since he and Jon Arryn had arrived at Riverrun with their host Hoster Tully, who was still limping and had his arm in a sling from the Battle of the Bells. Jon and Ned had been treated like honoured guests from the moment they had stepped over the threshold. Unfortunately for Ned, though, Lord Hoster had taken pains to introduce him to all and sundry as the Lord of Winterfell and Second in Command of the Rebel Forces. The resulting attention had been difficult to bear.

And then there was Catelyn. Ned was not a fool and he had seen the look in her eyes when they had been introduced. She was expecting me to be like Brandon and she was sorely disappointed. To her credit, Catelyn had recovered quickly enough and bade him welcome with a curtsey and a chaste kiss to the cheek; Ned had responded in kind, keeping his tone cool and courteous to hide his own wounding at her reaction. He had tried not to let the moment weigh heavily on him. He knew he had made the right decision.

But was it such a crime to want for happiness? In the last few months he felt as if he’d had his share of sadness, and while Robert had spoken of massing the army for a final showdown with the royalist forces, he had dared to hope that this marriage could be the thing that offered him some comfort.    

A blackbird’s startled cry dragged him from his thoughts and he looked up. Before him, Catelyn Tully sat on the riverbank, her slender legs dipped to mid-calf in the moving water, her skirts gathered up on the ground around her. Her long auburn hair was loose around her shoulders, lifting every so often with the first breaths of wind stirring from the river. She truly is a beautiful girl, he thought. His breathing must have betrayed his presence as Catelyn turned her head and saw him standing on the bank down from her. “My lord,” she greeted.

Ned nodded in return. “My lady… It is a fine morning.” His reply was stiff, formal and left him feeling awkward.

“Indeed.” She turned back to watching the river flow past her and Ned swallowed. Does she want me to move on and let her alone, or should I keep talking? He cleared his throat and went for the latter option.

“You are risen early, my lady,” he observed. He moved a few steps closer to her. Catelyn did not look at him, but swished her bare feet in the water.

“I could not sleep and I find the river can help quiet my thoughts sometimes.”

Ned hoped that it wasn’t thoughts of their impending marriage that had disturbed her sleep. Her blue eyes met his. “You seem ill at ease yourself, my lord. Come, sit with me.” She patted the grassy bank beside her. For a moment, Ned hesitated, then realised that she would be offended if he refused, and with their marriage just a day away, he had better start getting used to being close to her.

He sank to his knees then sat cross-legged. “It is beautiful here,” he said.

“Oh, it is.” She pulled her hair around one shoulder, bunched it together and began to braid it. Ned watched her long fingers moving with fascination. “And there is much to think on,” she concluded as she tied a piece of ribbon around the end of the braid.

Ned had spent the last three days wondering whether he would ever be able to expel Brandon’s ghost from this relationship he was embarking on, and so preoccupied had he been with that concern, he had barely thought on how Catelyn might be feeling. Now, though, he wondered whether she was nervous, or angry, or maybe even afraid. She had been betrothed to Brandon for years, long enough to become accustomed to the idea, and perhaps even to have grown to love him – Ned’s agreement with her father was but a month old and had surely come upon her as something of a surprise.

“There is much to think on,” he echoed. “I don’t believe I ever offered condolences for your loss.”

“Do you mean Brandon?” she asked, a frown patterning her forehead. Ned nodded. “I have grieved for him, as I am sure you have.”

Ned closed his eyes a moment as the pain made an unwelcome stab in his side. “Yes,” he said in as neutral a tone as he could muster. He did not want her to think him weakened by his emotions.

But it seemed that Catelyn was not so easily fooled. She smiled compassionately. “It will get easier,” she assured him.

For a moment, Ned was unsure whether she meant his grief or their marriage. Does it matter? He stood and held out his hand to her. “I must needs be returning to the castle. Walk back with me, my lady?”  

Catelyn stood, brushed out her skirts, and slipped her arm in his. Slowly, they walked back along the riverbank in silence, Ned brooding on desire and duty, choices and responsibilities. “You will make a good Northern wife,” he said eventually and hoped his words did not sound too patronising. Catelyn Tully would make a good wife anywhere – and to anybody – he was sure; he just so happened to be the one who would benefit from her charms.

“I hope I do, my lord.” Her tone was at first formal, but then with a vague smile, she added, “Although you should know that the cold is not my friend.”

It cheered Ned to see her smile and make a jape, however small. Perhaps they could make this work together. He offered her the smile in return.

“Ah, well, He is mine. But be assured, I have already chosen your rooms for you, and I hope you will find them pleasing enough. Hot springs heat the walls of Winterfell, and these rooms are some of the warmest in the castle.” He paused, the inevitable truth that hung over their marriage gnawing away at him. “You know I will have to leave you very soon, do you not?”

She looked down at their moving feet, at the morning light catching the dew in the grass. “I supposed as much. Lord Robert is wishing to gather his armies.”

“I am sorry to have to leave you so soon, my lady,” Ned murmured. “If there was another way, I would take it.”

Catelyn’s eyes were still on the ground as they walked. Ned’s words had not spoken their situation plainly, but their meaning was implicit. It was entirely possible that when he left in but a few days, he might not return alive. Catelyn was young and fair, but even that could not make the prospect of widowhood any less daunting.

“The singers are singing that this uprising is born of the wrath of Robert Baratheon,” she said. “And my father says Lord Robert is half mad with fury at Prince Rhaegar. Is that the truth? I had thought this was because of Brandon and your father.”

An unbidden sigh filled Ned’s lungs and freed itself in a puff of surrender. “Well, the singers will sing of what puts silver in their purses, and of course, there are really many reasons. But yes, Robert’s fury is a thing to behold,” he said sadly. “I am unsure if he will ever get over it.”

“Even if he kills the Prince?”

“Even if.” They had reached the stone courtyard of the stables and Catelyn released Ned’s arm. Ned looked down at the dust and dirt on the ground, shifted his weight, then added, “It is so very complex, and every one of us has our reasons for the choices we have made. For Robert it is that his pride has been injured by the Prince’s actions. He has chosen to protect his own dignity, but Robert being Robert, that choice has now been backed with a sworn oath of vengeance.” Shaking his head, Ned looked Catelyn in the eyes. “And other lords have backed that oath, their men with them, and so it goes on. That is the way of war. You just have to pray that, in the end, you haven’t lost sight of the reasons why it began for you in the first place.”

Around them, the sounds of the stable yard began to invade on the quiet they had created for themselves. Ned drew in a deep breath and straightened himself. “I should be meeting with your lord father after he has broken his fast. There are a few final things to discuss, your journey to Winterfell amongst them.” He smiled at Catelyn and added, “I know this match is something second-hand, but I hope sincerely that we can grow to care for one another.”

Catelyn said nothing, but she gave him that smile again. He plucked up her hand from her side and kissed the soft skin of her knuckles. “My lady,” he murmured.

“My lord,” she returned, giving a polite half-curtsey, but when Ned looked at her eyes again, the smile was still there.

The next day, when the morning dawned bright and warm once more, he washed, dressed himself in his Stark finery and descended to the great hall of Riverrun. Hoster Tully sat on his high seat, smiling widely at Ned as he entered the room. He had taken his arm from its sling, but to the trained eye, the limb still appeared to be causing him some pain. “Eddard, my dear boy, you look good to be wed!” he called out. Beside him, his young son Edmure was dressed in a red and blue doublet with a cloak bearing the Tully fish sigil embroidered as a repeat pattern, and then to his right was Jon Arryn, wearing the white and sky blue colours of his house. The men had been conversing, but broke off as Ned walked towards them and Hoster rose, embracing him and clapping him on the back. “I believe the girls are just putting the final preparations to their gowns, you know how these women want to be perfect. Now you are here, we should make our way to the sept.”

Ned nodded his agreement. He was doing his best to calm the ocean of nerves that was storming in his stomach, so chose to change the subject – idle ceremony talk was not going to help him stay focused. “Has there been word from Robert?” he asked as the men rose and headed out of the hall and in the direction of Riverrun’s sept.

“Only what we knew before: he is marching north,” replied Jon, falling into step beside Ned.

“And the Royalists?”

“Barristan Selmy and Jon Darry have been sent to muster the scattered forces from Stoney Sept, but from what our scouts tell us, they’ll have a job on their hands.” Jon shook his head; he seemed world-weary, as if the spiralling inevitability of their situation was weighing as heavy on his mind as it was on Ned’s. Ned felt a rush of sympathy for his fosterer – Jon Arryn was nearly sixty years, and if the Gods were fair his life should be free of such things as war and politics. “There will be another confrontation, I am certain. We will need to bring the Tully forces to meet us or we may be looking at another Ashford, only this time I suspect things will be a good deal more decisive, and not in Robert’s favour.

They had reached the seven-sided sandstone building that was Riverrun’s sept. The two large oak doors were already standing open, the threshold bedecked with rose petals. Lord Hoster bid his companions to enter. “But first to the business at hand,” he said as they walked within. Jon and Ned walked through the great doors into the quiet, dim room that smelt of incense and stone. Sunlight percolated in rainbows through elaborate stained glass windows in the roof and the visages of the Seven looked down on Ned from each wall. This is not the Godswood, thought Ned, as they moved slowly down the central aisle to the front of the sept.

“Yours was always a fine sept, Hoster,” said Jon, looking up and admiring the vaulted glass ceiling. A few of the honoured guests began to file in and take their places around the room – Tully, Stark and Arryn bannermen mostly, although there were a few others Ned did not recognise, likely members of the Riverrun household. “Is everything in order?”

Tully glanced towards his steward, who nodded calmly and replied, “Catelyn and Lysa are ready, my lord.”

“Then we shall proceed.”

Lord Hoster gave the signal and the Tully sisters appeared in the doorway. Ned’s eyes fell immediately on Catelyn, dressed in a blue gown of the finest silk. The rich colour made her auburn hair catch alight and her skin seem pale as snow. Her maiden’s cloak hung down her back in a waterfall of red, damasked with leaping Tully trouts. With the quiet ease of a pretty girl, she eclipsed her sister who stood beside her. She held her head high and walked slowly and proudly towards him, a picture of calm control.

Ned stood up straight. If she could do this and look so dignified, then he could at least give her the honour of appreciating her efforts.   

And so the night came. Lord Hoster had insisted that the celebrations were scaled down; there was a war going on, he said, and it seemed somehow inappropriate to be raising feasts and toasting the future when men were dying. Ned was secretly pleased – since the news of his brother and father’s deaths his stomach for cheer and festivities had grown even less than it had been before.  

It had been a long day and yet before he knew it, he was hearing that raucous cry of “Send them to bed!” go up. Ned turned to catch Catelyn’s eye just as the cups and fists began to pound the tables. Behind the practised air of serenity she had maintained all day, there was fear in her blue eyes – Ned could hardly blame her for that.

“Show her some of that Northern spirit, eh, Ned?” someone shouted.

“Give her it like a right Northern lad!”

“Your lady awaits your cock, Lord Stark!” another yelled.

“Bed her well, my lord, bed her well!”

Ned swallowed and did his best to put on the sort of response he knew they wanted. He shouted back a couple of retorts and then realised that someone had grabbed his doublet and was wresting it undone. Beside him, Catelyn’s laughter was uneasy.

“I hear you Northmen are like hot springs in the bedchamber!” shouted Desmond Grell. “But my Lady Catelyn will quench your stream, Stark!” Ned couldn’t help but smile when no sooner had the Riverrun master-at-arms let loose his jape, he turned to Catelyn, blushed profusely, and apologised, “I’m sorry, my lady, I am truly sorry…”

Catelyn’s shoes had been removed and someone was tugging at her gown – it was Jory Cassell, Ned realised, just as the material tore and fell away, revealing Catelyn’s naked figure beneath.

“Gods be good, Ned!” cried Willam Dustin with envy in his voice. He stood back a pace from Catelyn, who was colouring wildly at her exposure. “Those breasts are a sight to behold! Makes me wish I’d never been weaned!”

A roar went up from the assembled throng as Ned’s tunic and breeches were being pulled from him. The music was deafening, and then Lord Hoster appeared in the great hall doorway and called out, “To bed! Lord and Lady Stark… wedded and bedded!”

Another cheer erupted and the crowd bustled Ned and Catelyn towards to door. In the crush, they were split apart, and Ned saw her reaching for his hand again. He grasped her fingers and took some comfort in the fact that she held on tightly.

The rooms they were pushed into were dim and lit by no more than candles, a hundred white wax pillars that lined the hearth. A pair of silver jugs sat on the nightstands, filled with pale pink lilies whose spicy scent hung heavy in the room. Ned closed the door behind them, but the sound of men’s fists thumping against the wood and their baiting calls still echoed through. Catelyn said nothing, but went to the window seat. She dragged a soft shawl from the pile of cushions and threw it around her shoulders. Ned watched her pull her feet up beside her and heard her sigh. He wanted to apologise for the indignities of the bedding, but the words would not come.  

Ned stood still, unsure of what exactly he should do next. He had deliberately not spent much time thinking of this, if only because he wished to avoid a moment like the one he now found himself in. His feet suddenly felt huge and his whole body had become ungainly.  Idly, he wondered how many marriages went unconsummated on the wedding night because of this feeling. Ned Stark had always found the rule of his own body something he excelled in; compared to most of his peers, he was the one most able to stay focused, the one most able to move with calmness and control, even when the heat was on, and now it seemed suddenly like he was some awkward fool, his brain turning to mud even as he stood there.

A minute passed, though it seemed like an eternity.

Then Catelyn turned and rose. The candlelight had turned her hair to fire. “I suppose this is the time when we consummate our marriage, my lord,” she said. Her voice was calm. Ned opened his mouth to reply, but as he did so, she shrugged off the shawl around her shoulders and it fell to the floor in a soft pool of midnight blue. At the sight of her naked figure, the words halted in his mouth. Determined not to stammer, he sucked in a breath and forced them out.

“I suppose it is.” His voice was tight. He spread his hands vaguely. Honesty is always best, he thought as he beheld her, his eyes taking in her rounded breasts, her flat stomach and her generous hips. “I am afraid I must admit I am not as well versed in these matters as some other lords are. And I find myself unsure about how best to… proceed.” He looked down and tried not to laugh at the irony he saw – that part of him knew what it was meant to be doing at least. “Forgive me.”

He heard Catelyn’s soft rush of breath and realised she was no more than a step away from him now. He met her gaze. “I think it’s fairly straightforward,” she said, glancing down at his manhood, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Although I admit I am a little uncertain myself. At least about how it will feel. I would probably warn you, though, my lord, I’ve done my share of riding, so there is not like to be any blood.”

Ned remembered Brandon once recounting to him how he had taken the maidenhead of a girl from the Winter Village. He had spoken of how the girl had cried with pain when he’d entered her and how the straw bed had been stained with blood afterward. The idea had rather repulsed Ned, even then; he hoped he was not about to hurt Catelyn in the same way.

Catelyn, though, seemed once again far more able to govern herself than he at that moment, and the realisation shamed him somewhat. He was supposed to be a high lord now, not some nervous boy quaking in his boots at the thought of bedding a woman – this was his lady wife who stood before him, whom he had bound himself to from this day until the end of days. It should not matter that he barely knew her. He thought of Robert; he would not have hesitated in this position. He would have done his duty and he would have enjoyed it as he did it.

And so, in that room filled with soft light and the smell of lilies, Ned resolved to do the same. He swallowed hard and stepped closer as Catelyn angled her head slightly and he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. 

 

To be continued...

Notes:

Well, from what I could gather, the expectations on this chapter were high - hopefully, it has delivered!

Chapter 27: LYANNA - A Red Star Bleeding

Notes:

Ever so slightly delayed. My apologies!

LYANNA – A Red Star Bleeding

 

They had arrived under cover of darkness at Starfall and Ser Arthur had taken them immediately to a seldom used room in the castle. Lyanna had felt tiredness creeping upon her from late afternoon, and by the time the door to their chamber had closed, she had needed Rhaegar to help her from her garb. She crawled beneath the sheets and curled into a ball and fell to a grateful sleep.

It was half way through the night when Lyanna awoke with a start. Somewhere in the castle, she heard a woman’s scream – it was not a scream of fear, nor of anger, but of pain. She sat up and looked around the room, thinking at first that perhaps she had dreamed it. But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind, than the scream came again. Rhaegar was asleep still fully-dressed in the chair before the window. His legs were stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. One finger twitched, but otherwise he was utterly motionless, sleeping soundly.

She climbed out of bed and went to the door. With the skill of silence she had practised since she was a child, she lifted the latch and turned the handle and peered out into the hallway. Again, she heard the scream, this time keening to a low groan. It came from below. Suddenly it dawned upon her: Ashara Dayne was giving birth. Part of her wanted to go and find the girl, to see the child that would be her niece or nephew come into the world, but the more reasonable part knew that it was not her place. Ashara likely did not even know who she was.

Instead, she returned to her bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the cries become louder, then softer, and finally fade away to nothing. It was growing light when Lyanna eyes slipped closed again and she drifted back to sleep.

She next awoke to the sound of Rhaegar’s voice. As her mind lifted from its slumber, she heard then the unmistakeable tones of Ser Arthur. She opened her eyes and saw them standing on the balcony that overlooked the sea. Ser Arthur wore an off-duty white tunic and breeches that were tucked into his gleaming black boots, while Rhaegar was still in the same garb she had seen him asleep in that night. The sea breeze was lifting his hair delicately.

“How is she faring?” asked Rhaegar. His voice was low and confidential. I shouldn’t be listening to this, she thought. I should just roll over and close my ears. But even as the thought was in her mind, she couldn’t help herself.

“Not good, I’m afraid, Your Grace. She has not yet stopped weeping. The maester is quite concerned at her paleness and lethargy.”

“She has just given birth; it is understandable that she should be pale and tired. Elia was a year recovering from the birth of our daughter.”

“With all due respect, my friend, Elia was sickly before she birthed a babe. Ashara has always been a strong, healthful girl. I am worried for her. May I have your leave to stay a few days here while I try to ease her pain.”

Rhaegar did not answer at first, and although Lyanna could not clearly see his face, she could read the reluctance in his eventual reply, “I do not know if I can grant that. I intended only to spend a single night here. The fewer people who know of this, the better, as you are well aware. Has your father enquired as to your presence?”

“He thinks I have been granted leave to visit my sister in her confinement.”

“And the septon?”

“Septon Melore is able to perform both your ceremony and the funeral rites today,” replied Ser Arthur. “My father wants the child cremated quickly, and the ashes scattered from the Sword in the family tradition. He feels it will help.”

The child. Lyanna frowned. Did they mean… Ashara’s baby? All thoughts of pretending not to be listening disappeared from her mind and she stood and parted the voile drape that screened the balcony. Rhaegar and Ser Arthur turned towards her as one. “My lady,” Rhaegar greeted and went to her. He kissed her forehead. “Are you well rested?”

Lyanna ignored his question and looked instead at Ser Arthur. “Ashara’s baby…” she asked. Ser Arthur looked at his boots and then sighed.

“The child was stillborn,” he said in a numb tone. “A girl. The maester believes the cord became tied around her neck as she was birthed.” He paused and looked at Rhaegar. “She was strangled before she ever drew a breath of air.”

Unbidden images of Brandon straining desperately to reach their father as he burned filled Lyanna’s mind, the rope tightening and tightening around his neck until…

“My lady, you are crying,” said Rhaegar softly.

It was too much. Lyanna turned away from them both and went back into the chamber. She sat on the edge of the bed and put her face in her hands. She had known Ashara Dayne hardly at all, but she could remember the haunting look on her face when she had last seen her, the sadness and grief at Brandon’s death marked indelibly. How much should one person have to bear?

Rhaegar appeared beside her and sat down. “Lya, there was nothing that could have been done. The child was never in any pain.”

“But what about the mother?” Lyanna questioned, wiping her face. “Nobody ever thinks about the mother. It’s always the child.” She shook her head. “More and more I grow sure that fate is just an agent of cruelty – if it is true that nothing could have been done.”

“Nothing could have been done,” he confirmed. He reached for her hand. “And, yes, sometimes fate does seem to be cruel, but it can also be kind – it brought me to you, did it not?”

She nodded even as she sniffed back tears. “If only we could control it,” she said with an angry voice.

“Life would be a song,” he concluded. “But it is not. We might try to sing, to make the best of the lines that have been given us, but oftentimes the words are not as we would wish them.” He paused. “The Septon stands ready to wed us when we are ready, though… Are they words you would like to sing, my love?”

Lyanna looked at him and through the sadness, smiled. “I would,” she said.

“Then let us make our way to the Sept.”

The Starfall Sept was a tiny room off a nondescript hallway buried deep in the castle. Seven archways were carved into a rood screen of polished rosewood and seven rows of pews were set out before the altar. Septon Melore made an ancient, uncompromising figure as he bound their hands together with cloth of gold, his voice barely more than a whisper. Apart from the words he had to give voice to when performing religious rites, he rarely spoke; Ser Arthur informed them both before they entered that Melore had been utterly deaf for a dozen years and as a result tended to do as he pleased, existing in a bubble of self-induced ignorance about the world around him. Nevertheless, he was kindly and considered his service of House Dayne his duty.

Lyanna could see why Rhaegar had agreed to him marrying them.

When the septon released their hands and proclaimed them as one, Lyanna couldn’t help the grin that filled her face. Rhaegar removed her cloak (nothing more than the hooded cloak she had fled Winterfell in) and replaced it with his own, a black silk affair with the Targaryen dragon embroidered upon the cloth. As they slipped back to their rooms, foregoing the usual song and dance of a feast and a bedding, Lyanna kept catching sight of the cloak in mirrors and windows and smiling at what it represented.

It was just midday, yet Rhaegar was already keen to get away from Starfall. He agreed to allow Ser Arthur to remain behind for the cremation and the scattering of the ashes of Ashara’s dead baby, but was single-minded about leaving himself. “We must not wait about any longer than absolutely necessary,” he said. “The longer we are here, the more chance there is of someone betraying our presence.”

Lyanna could not convince him to stay, even for his friend’s sake, and so they packed up the few bags they had brought with them, mounted up and began the long ride back to the tower. It was a hot, hot day; Lyanna could feel her head starting to spin under the sun’s punishing rays; and the sky was so blue it hurt to look at it. Flies bothered the horses, making them flick their tails and toss their heads, until Rhaegar stopped, dismounted, and covered their faces with transparent fly veils. Once they climbed higher into the mountains, though, it began to cool and a breeze began to blow. There was dust suspended in the wind, and its cooling effect quickly became counteracted by a stinging in her eyes. She remembered Ser Arthur speaking of how dust storms were common in the area and wondered if they were about to experience one. “How much further?” she called.

“There is some distance yet to go, I’m afraid,” Rhaegar shouted back to her, but he came to ride beside her after that and Lyanna was grateful for his presence.

The dust storm never seemed to materialise, however, and as it fell dark, the wind dropped and the temperature fell away. Finding herself once again exhausted, Lyanna fell asleep in the saddle and did not wake until she felt a hand shaking her. “Hm?” she said blearily, and opened sticky eyes to see Rhaegar standing beside her horse.

“We must needs stop for a while. I had hoped to reach the tower tonight, but I am afraid I delayed our departure too long. We will have to make camp here for a few hours until daylight rises again. The path grows too dangerous in the dark.”

Glancing around, Lyanna saw that he was indeed correct. To the left of the narrow path they were on, there was a sharp drop that fell several hundred feet down to the valley floor – one wrong step from the horses and there could be a very messy end. She allowed him to help her down from the saddle. He led the horses away from the path and up the grassy slope to their right. Large outcrops of red rock pushed through the scrubby turf and brambles wound their way through patches of thorny bush. He tied the horses’ reins to the lower branch of an olive tree, then removed a bundle of blankets from one of the saddlebags. He spread one on the ground beneath the tree, rolled another into a kind of pillow and placed the final one atop.

Lyanna’s body was sore from the riding and fatigue still gripped her, so it really did not matter what their bed looked like. She sank gratefully down onto the blanket. “Are you well, my love?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”

“I am really tired, for some reason,” she replied. He came to sit beside her.

“It has been a long day. Here, lie back with me.”

He lay on his back and she curled up against him, putting her head on his chest. She heard him sigh gently. “The stars are out tonight,” he murmured, after a moment. Lyanna yawned and rolled onto her back to look up.

This high in the mountains, the sky was blue-black and unbroken by cloud or buildings. It seemed to stretch on forever. A thousand million stars glittered down at her, some of them seeming almost to wink at her as she watched. It reminded her of jewels spilt upon velvet. “There’s the Sword of the Morning,” said Rhaegar as he lifted his hand and traced out a pattern from a cluster of stars hanging due south. “And that’s the Wishing Well. They say if you see a falling star passing through the wishing well, you will have good luck for the rest of your life.”

Lyanna smiled. “I do not see one, unfortunately.” Rhaegar chuckled.

“Neither do I.”

He turned onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. “So, how do you like the ring of your new name? Princess Lyanna Targaryen.” She almost laughed at the absurdity of it, how with a simple exchange of vows, she could go from being a Stark since the day she was born to suddenly becoming a dragon. “It sounds rather perfect to me.” He grinned down at her, looking a little boyish and wicked.

“It is strange,” she admitted. “It will take some getting used to, I suspect.” She looked at him and reached one hand up to caress his cheek. There was just the hint of pale stubble appearing on his jawline. “I almost expected to feel different afterwards, but I don’t. I don’t even feel nervous, just… relieved and… contented.” She smiled. “How do you feel?”

He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I feel the same. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, I feel…” He plucked at her lips this time. “I feel joyous.”

And then he leaned down and kissed her fully, his mouth open. Lyanna arched up to meet his kiss and suddenly, they were both tearing at each other. Her fingers worked on the laces of his breeches, while he gathered her skirts up to her waist and pulled her smallclothes down her legs. Breathless, Lyanna barely realised when he shifted above her and she felt his hardness pressing against her bare thigh – it all seemed to have gone so quickly, from just a simple touch to the fire eating her up inside.

He kissed his way down her body, down her thighs and then he was right between her legs and she could feel his breath hot on her. She felt like she was burning up, as if his every touch was fire and he was turning her molten with his very fingers and then… oh… his tongue.

Lyanna nearly cried aloud when she felt him and her hands instinctively went to his arms and grasped, and held, and squeezed perhaps a bit too tightly, as his mouth moved on her. Tiny sounds were coming from the back of her throat, unbidden and uncontrolled. She found herself thinking, strangely, of that night at Harrenhal when she’d watched his fingers playing on the strings of his harp and realised that he was playing her with the same effortless skill. Her entire body was humming, vibrating, gathering, until something exploded and she clenched her eyes shut and shuddered.

She flung her arms above her head and let out a keening sigh. Moving up her body, Rhaegar smiled at her. She grinned back and then she grabbed him and turned him onto his back, ripping his shirt open and casting it aside. Slowly, she lowered herself onto him. For a moment, their eyes fixed on one another and Lyanna revelled in the feel of him deep inside her. They were confident together now, and it told in the way she rolled her hips into his, and in the way he could keep his rhythm even as he sat up and kissed her deep.

She could tell he was close to the edge when finally she felt his body stiffen. He stilled, then gathered her in his arms, flipped her over and pushed into her with a few quick movements. Sinking down upon her, he made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a sigh.

When he rolled away and lay on his back, he was still breathless. He stared up at the night sky and at the moon cresting high above them. Lyanna could feel the sweat on her body cooling her as it dried and the stickiness between her legs that told her he had spent himself hard. “Gods,” she murmured softly. Beside her, he chuckled throatily.

“Indeed.”

She shifted so she was pressed up against him and looked up at the stars. Silence held for a long moment. “How do you know so much about the stars?” she asked, finally.

“Because I have read a lot, and I remember much of what I’ve been told by others.” Lyanna smiled. Coming from anybody else’s lips, his words would have sounded faintly arrogant or patronising, but she knew that was not his meaning. “Stars are fascinating things. I wish I could understand more about them.”

“Tell me what you know,” she begged.

“Well,” he began, “how about I tell you some more constellations? Would that satisfy my lady’s curiosity?”

She turned her head to him and smiled. “I believe it would.” He breathed out and looked back to the skies.

“That is the Scorpion,” he said, his finger tracing a line of stars that curved up at one end like a scorpion’s tail. “It is only visible in the south during the summer months. The best view of it is from the Water Gardens in Dorne.”

Lyanna chuffed out a laugh and noted, “It doesn’t look much like a scorpion.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he argued. “You can see its tail there and its legs there, and there.”

“What about that one?” she asked. She pointed up at a bright star, tinged with red, which burned almost behind their heads. It was bigger than the others and far and away the brightest thing in the sky, save the moon. Rhaegar stared a moment, then he sat up and turned himself around so he could see without having to angle his head around. “Do you know it?”

“I do not believe I have seen it before,” said Rhaegar. His voice was distant and thoughtful. “The constellation around it is known as the Cradle.” His finger joined up seven stars immediately below it in a u-shape. “Early starseekers called it that because as it tracked across the sky, they thought it looked like it was being rocked very, very slowly.” He stopped and frowned. “But that star is not part of the Cradle. When did you see it first?” he asked.

Drawing herself up to sitting as well, Lyanna looked up again and shrugged. “I’m not sure. I just saw it now. I can’t remember if I’ve seen it before or not. I don’t pay much attention to the stars, really.”

“Hmmm…”  Rhaegar’s voice drifted away as he gazed up at the star, but he did not give voice to his thoughts and she did not prompt him. If he wanted to say something to her, he would say it in his own time. After a long moment, he settled himself back down onto the blanket and pulled her alongside him. The heat of their passion now cooled, she nestled thankfully against the warmth of his body.

The next morning she woke and slipped out of his arms to make her water behind one of the rocky outcrops. When she returned, he was already saddling up the horses again. From one of the saddlebags he pulled out a piece of dried salt beef and handed it to her. “That should keep your stomach from grumbling until we reach the tower,” he said, but Lyanna simply stared at the meat. Salt beef had a pungent smell at the best of times, but this piece smelt like no other – vile and intense. She made a face and gave it back to him.

“I’m not hungry, thank you. You eat it.”

He arched his eyebrows at her in question, but she still shook her head and so he popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. She swung herself up into the saddle and heeled her horse forward.

The remainder of the journey passed ponderously and without event. It was a cooler day than the one before and a steady wind was blowing from the south-east, rustling the leaves of the squat and gnarled olive trees that lined their way and riffling in her hair. Several times she had to stop herself from falling asleep in the saddle, and when she saw the tower before them, the red mountains behind it, she felt a relieved smile lift her mouth. “Here we are,” he said, coming up to ride abreast of her. “The Tower of Joy!”

She snorted a laugh back. “The Tower of Joy? Really?”

“Yes,” he said, looking wounded. “I’ve been thinking that the place needed a name, and somehow this seemed to suit it. It has brought me more joy than any other place in recent times.”

Lyanna said nothing. Her laughter now seemed a little unfair in the light of his explanation. “Mayhaps then it is rather suitable.” He smiled and dismounted. “That star is still visible,” she noted, “even in the daytime.”

“I know,” replied Rhaegar. “I have been watching it since we set off. I think it may actually have become brighter.” He paused. “What colour does it seem to you?”

“It is white in the very centre with a red edge.”

Nodding, he helped her down from her horse. “As I thought myself.” He hobbled the horses, then took her hand and led her inside. The provisions Ser Arthur had brought from the village were stacked in the lowest room. There was food, fresh garb for both of them and even a barrel of wine – enough to last them several weeks. Lyanna watched a moment while Rhaegar peered into sacks and rifled through the packages, but even as she stood there, the tiredness was eating at her bones.

She made her excuses and went up to the room that had become her bedchamber. It was warm within but there was shade falling across the bed so she lay down and sighed. Her whole body was heavy; she felt as weary as if she had been awake for days, even though she had slept soundly on the mountainside with him beside her, and ever since he had offered her the piece of beef, her belly had been churning. Perhaps it will help if I lie back and rest awhile, she thought. Just as she was closing her eyes, she heard footsteps outside and the door opened to reveal Rhaegar. He said nothing, but his eyes were concerned. “I am weary still,” she explained in a sleepy voice. “And the smell of that salt beef has made me feel nauseous.”

He came and sat on the end of the bed. “You are feeling unwell?” he asked.

“A little. My belly is turning about a bit.”

There was a long moment where he didn’t say a word and Lyanna allowed her eyes to close, thinking him done with words. “Lya,” he said eventually, his voice tender. “When did you have your last moon blood?”

She had been half a breath away from sleep, but his words cut through her like a slash from a sword. She started and sat up. Gods, she thought, I don’t remember. It has been the last thing on my mind. She stared at him. Slowly, she replied, “Back in Winterfell.”

The realisation was shocking. “How, how many weeks have I been gone?”

There was a faint smile on Rhaegar’s face and his violet eyes were gleaming. “It has been three months since we left Winterfell.”

“Months?” she said, astonished. “I thought…” Her voice drifted away.

He dropped to his knees before her on the floor, taking her hands in his. The smile was still on his lips. “I believe you are with child, my love,” he said. Their gazes dropped to her belly. Instinctively, Lyanna’s hand covered it. She was about to shake her head and say that it was impossible, but then realised just how ridiculous that comment would have sounded and instead stared in amazement at him. His smile was wide now and he placed both of his palms on her middle as if in reverence of what was held within. Suddenly, a laugh burbled out of her, like a bird startled from a bush, and resounded around the room.

“My Gods,” she said. “I’m going to have a babe.”

“You are.” He bent and kissed her belly. “My babe… our babe. A Prince.”

“A Prince,” she echoed.

“A dragon,” he added and kissed her.

Against his mouth, she murmured, “And a direwolf.” 

 

To be continued...

 

Footnote:

I have always been rather fond of fanart, mainly as I have often wished to have an artistic talent myself. My favourite site on the Internet has to be Deviantart and whilst perusing that site a few weeks ago, I found a picture titled The Victim drawn by the extremely talented CMBaggs that could in fact have been created specifically to illustrate this chapter. It wasn't, of course (I have only once benefited from a fanart gift, many moons ago), but following a conversation with the artist, she agreed to let me provide a link on this site, provided I credited her. So, here we go...

 

LINK 

 

Unfortunately, I can't work out how to insert a picture to a post, nor can I link directly to CMBaggs' Deviantart page as the picture is locked to members only, but I have uploaded it to Flickr instead. If anyone is a member of Deviantart I'm sure the artist would really appreciate a comment! Thank you.  

Chapter 28: EDDARD - A Letter and an Omen

EDDARD – A Letter and an Omen

 

The Stark direwolf flew above the encampment, grey on white and barely distinguishable from the thunderclouds that prowled along the horizon and launched attack after attack on the blue sky. Further up the northern bank of the Green Fork, the moon and falcon banner of House Arryn, the leaping trout of Tully and the stag of Baratheon, along with half a hundred other sigils of smaller vassal houses, fluttered just as wildly. It was a multi-coloured flare of defiance against the throne.

Ned sat on a rocky outcrop halfway up a grassy hill just above the river, running an oiled swatch of leather along Ice’s already gleaming blade. The slow, steady motion was calming and since taking the sword as his own, he had cleaned it every day without fail. A warm, humid wind was surging across the floodplain and catching him full in the face. There had been a succession of thunderstorms throughout in the day and the ground still glistened with moisture; the walk up here had washed the mud from his boots but the wetness had also soaked through to his feet. When he returned to camp he would have to make sure he dried them out and put on clean socks. One thing you learned quickly as a Northman was the importance of looking after your feet – it was either that, or watch them turn black and blistered before your eyes.

Following his marriage to Catelyn, Ned had marched the Stark host from Moat Cailin down the King’s Road to meet with Robert Baratheon and his army on the North Bank of the Green Fork. Robert’s injury was slowly healing, although his leg had weakened due to lack of use, and he wished to wait while he recovered fully. The Royalist forces had been scattered after the Battle of the Bells and the King had sent Barristan Selmy and Jon Darry to muster them again. Robert knew that they had time on their hands as a result and so he had set up camp and was biding his time with as much patience as Ned had ever seen him wield.

There had been a few skirmishes between outriders, but other than that, everything had been quiet for weeks. On the one hand, Ned was grateful, but on the other, the persistent inactivity was giving him far too much time to think. He thought daily about Lyanna – where she was, what she was doing, whether she was safe. But thinking was dangerous and the more he thought, the more he began to doubt his own mind. How had Rhaegar carried her off in the middle of the night without so much as a single soul seeing or hearing them? Lyanna was not the sort who would have meekly accepted her fate; she would have raged and fought, he knew, and would surely have created enough noise to raise the dead. And then there was the tiny matter of the blue rose petal Lord Rickard had found on the floor of her bedchamber.

But if what he suspected was true… Gods… What did that mean Brandon had died for? And who had told him that she had been kidnapped against her will?

Ned was so lost in his thoughts he did not hear or see the page running up to him until the young boy was standing right in front of him, sniffing back a dribbling nose and thrusting a piece of rolled parchment at him. “M’lord,” he said, “this is for you. Lord Arryn bade me bring it immediately.”

Frowning, Ned took the letter and thanked the boy. It was sealed with a direwolf. Benjen, Ned thought first of all, but as he slipped his finger under the seal, he caught the scent of lilies embedded in the paper. The letter was from Catelyn, he realised, and that she had used a direwolf seal was not lost on him. He smiled, remembering the way she had come to the gate to bid him farewell, and how she had pressed a kiss to his lips just before he mounted up. Unrolling the paper, he began to read.

My Lord,

I write with great tidings to bring you. Our time together as husband and wife may yet have been short, but it has been fruitful. I am with child and you are to be a father. I hope this news finds you well. I find myself missing your presence and pray we shall see one another soon.

The letter was signed simply with her name. Ned re-read the words on the page thrice over before he allowed his hand to drop and he looked up to see the page still standing before him. “Oh, thank you. I have no further need of you – you may go.” The page scuttled away, still sniffing.

A father. Ned looked at the paper and sought out the words once again. Of course it had crossed his mind that bedding his wife might result in a babe, but part of him had hoped that he would have had the chance to get to know her a little beforehand.

It was difficult to imagine himself as a father. He was still young, but he knew the sort of father he wanted to be. He had always seen his future with children in it, but now the fact was upon him, he felt a strange combination of emotions – relief, that Catelyn would have a child to bring her joy while he was away, hope, that mayhaps this signified the return of happiness to his life, and nervousness about whether he would do a worthy job. And then, if he were to be killed in the upcoming battles… some part of him would go on.

He must write and tell her his joy at her news. He stuffed the swatch he’d been polishing Ice with into his pocket, sheathed the blade, and began to descend the hill towards the camp.

Once in his tent, he found paper and ink and wrote, but some time later, when Robert walked through the tent flap, there were four balls of paper already decorating the rushes on the floor and Ned was on his fifth attempt. Every time he thought he was finished, he had a crisis of confidence about what he was writing and thought it either sounded too gushing, or too remote, or just insincere. Robert looked at the balls of paper and burst into laughter. “What are you trying to do, Ned? If you keep going through paper like this, there will be no more to be had in the entire camp!”

Ned grunted and set down his quill. He was not in the mood for Robert’s jesting. “Robert, please…” he begged. “I am trying to write a letter to my wife.”

“Your wife? Dear Gods, what have you done, Ned? Got a bastard on one of those luscious girls from Stoney Sept?”

“No,” replied Ned shortly, irritated by Robert’s carefree tone. He picked up the letter he had received that morning and thrust it towards Robert. “Catelyn is with child. I am to be a father.”

“Ha! So the frozen King of Winter does have blood in his veins,” exclaimed Robert, pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite Ned. “Or at least he does in his cock!” Ned frowned. “Oh, laugh, my friend, it was only a jape. Congratulations are in order, of course. I hope your lady wife gives you a son so you can teach him to be as cold and aloof as you are.” Robert reached across the table and grabbed up the flagon of wine that had sat untouched since a page had delivered it to Ned that morning. He poured two generous slugs into cups and then passed one to Ned “We should drink to the Lady Catelyn and to your unborn babe. May he – or she – be healthy, strong and happy.”

Ned took the cup Robert was offering him and raised it in answer to the toast. “Thank you, Robert,” he said, drinking deep. There was a moment of silence as Robert took another couple of mouthfuls.

“You’ll make a good father, Ned,” he said, eventually. He set down his wine cup and stared at the dark liquid within. “Better than I will, I have no doubt.”

“Mya is a happy babe, and she loves her father,” Ned replied, referring to the child Robert had begat upon a young serving girl from the Eyrie. Robert had seen the girl a dozen times or so, but like everything in Robert’s life, she had held his interest for only so long.

“You speak too kindly of me, Ned. It is a shame, but it is the truth. I am made for fighting not fatherhood.”

“You could change that,” offered Ned. “Acknowledge the girl.”

Robert looked away, his reluctance obvious. Ned knew why – he was expecting Lyanna to be returned to him, and he knew as well as anyone that any acknowledged bastard was a threat to trueborn sons and daughters. Ned didn’t want to quash his hope, so he changed the subject. “What news from the scouts?”

That perked Robert up a little. “Connington has been exiled, believe it or not,” he replied. “The Kingsguard pair are in Stoney Sept attempting to rally their numbers, but as I suspected, it is not proving easy for them. We shall wait it out here and then go for a final showdown.”

“You think that wise?”

“I think it is either that or march on King’s Landing, and if we make them come to us, we hold the advantage. Our troops will be well-rested, whereas they will be harried and exhausted from the march north.”

“True… How is your leg?”

Robert looked down at his thigh. With one hand he massaged the muscle, then said, “It is getting better every day. There is still some soreness and the muscle is stiff and unused, but at least we have time on our side.” Ned nodded.

“How much longer do you predict we shall wait here?”

“I do not know,” said Robert, shrugging. “However long it takes before they come to find us, I suppose. We have ample supplies and the Riverlands grass is lush enough to feed the horses for months if need be.” He paused and bent and picked up one of the discarded balls of paper. “What is the trouble with your letter then?

Ned sighed, reaching out and taking the ball from Robert before he could read it and find something in it amusing. “I cannot write anything that sounds right. Every time I read it back to myself, I think it is not what I wanted to say.”

“Then just say what you do want to say.” Robert grinned. “What do you want to say?”

“That I am happy for her, for us… that I can’t wait to see the babe, and her, again.”

Robert laughed. “It seems to me like you just need to write what’s in your mind, friend, and stop trying to make it sound right.” He raised an eyebrow. “Speaking as someone who has proven himself a right good marksman when it comes to love letters.”

Chuckling, Ned replied, “Aye, I remember the note you sent my sister. How many flagons of wine did you consume in the writing of that again?”

“Many and more, thank you very much, Ned.” He angled his head towards the wine cups before them. “Mayhaps that is where you are going wrong. If you get good and truly drunk and then put ink on the paper and I have no doubt it will be your heart that will speak truly… or your manhood.” Robert threw back his head and crowed with laughter. Ned smiled despite himself and looked at the paper in front of him. “Do you wish to take your leave and visit Catelyn?” asked Robert after a moment.

The offer surprised Ned. He looked up and questioned Robert with his eyes. “You would let me go to her?”

“If it was what you wanted.” Robert took another long drink from his cup, draining it. “Although be aware that I could not grant you leave of more than a few days. We could be sat here waiting for them for months, or it could be no more than a week. And I need you, Ned. You’re my right arm.”

Ned scoffed, “Jon is your right arm, Robert. He’s the one with the battle experience. I just do what feels right.” He looked down at his letter. “Which is, as you say, what I should do with this. But thank you for the offer – I will consider it.”

“Let me know if you intend to take it up. I am meeting with Jon in an hour about what bloody Mace Tyrell is starting at Storm’s End.” Robert got to his feet. He stopped on his way out of the tent to pick up the remaining balls of paper, turned and pelted them full force at Ned. His aim was wicked, and even though Ned ducked, he still ended up being hit twice. “Have fun with your letter, Lord Stark!” Robert laughed.

Gathering up the paper balls, Ned set them on his desk in a small pile, drew out another sheet of paper and pressed the point of his quill to it.

Dearest Catelyn, he began, then stopped. Would she think his address insincere? Oh, for the sake of all the Gods! He screwed up the paper again and started anew. My Lady Catelyn, he tried this time.

The tent flap opened again and in walked a familiar figure, in form and aspect quite the opposite to Robert. Ned almost startled. He had heard whispers from his men that a crannogman had joined the Northern host at Moat Cailin, but as he had seen neither hide nor hair of Howland Reed, he had assumed it just idle gossip.

“My Lord Stark,” said Reed. His green eyes twinkled in the dim light of the tent. Ned set down his quill and smiled.

“Lord Reed, I had heard that you might have joined us and I am pleased to see that it is so.”

Howland Reed inclined his head. He did not bend his knee, or smile in return, but simply regarded Ned with that knowing look he had, the one that made him seem older than his years. He was dressed in similar clothing to that he had worn at Harrenhal, brown tunic and breeches, knee-boots made from the skin of some kind of reptile, and a fur-lined leather jerkin. His hair was cut shorter than it had been, making him seem even more elfin in appearance. “I am your man, good and true,” he said in that warm, accented voice he had. “And to Winterfell, I pledge the faith of Greywater. Hearth and heart and harvest I yield to you, my lord. My spears and arrows are yours to command and as long as there is blood in my body, I shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water, by bronze and iron, by ice and fire.”

“Thank you,” replied Ned. “Your allegiance is an honour.”

He watched and waited while Reed pulled up the chair Robert Baratheon had been seated in just a few moments before and perched on its edge, his toes the only thing that touched the ground. “It has been some time since last we spoke and much and more has besieged you, but you have had some pleasant news,” he said.

If anybody else had been sat before him, Ned might have thought that some trick had been played on him, but this was Howland Reed, and Ned could not claim to know how his mind worked, let alone anything else. His hand reached out and he handed the letter Catelyn had sent him to the crannogman. “It seems I am to be a father.”

His friend did not look at the letter, but nodded sagely and smiled. “The babe will bring both of you great joy,” he said.

“I don’t doubt that,” said Ned in return.

“Oh, you do… only a little, but you do.” The crannogman folded the paper in half and handed it back. “You will be a good father, my lord. And as the years pass, your pack will swell to five.”

“Five?” Ned knew that his face showed his surprise.

“Five. Although there will be six who will call you father.”

That gave him pause. A bastard? I am fresh married, thought Ned, and I would not dishonour my lady wife. To Howland Reed, he said nothing but he looked down at the letter he had begun and knew then and there that he would never do such a thing. The mystical talk was making him uneasy, so he reached for a different subject. “You have heard about Lyanna, Brandon and my lord father I presume?” he asked.

“I have. I concede that we crannogmen are somewhat isolated living in the Neck, but I heard the full story from one of your men as you passed through. I am truly sorry for your losses, my lord. And your sister is one of the reasons why I am here. She and I…” Reed looked away and Ned saw for a moment something strange on his face, pain perhaps. “Lyanna caught my eye when first I saw her, but I never thought such ill could befall her. I thought her too strong. But then, not two moons ago, one of our seers dreamed of her.” His green eyes met Ned’s, dark and fathomless. “She would tell you that she is not in any danger, my lord. Although we would do well to get her home, before the red star fades in the sky and the fire that burns within her empties her.”

Ned stood up, holding himself back from reaching across the table and grabbing the crannogman by his tunic. “Do you know where she is?” he demanded. His hands shook.

“If I knew where she was, I would go to her,” said Reed simply, his voice strangely calm.

Ned stared at the crannogman. He could almost hear his heart beating in his own ears as a dull, persistent thud. He sat back down again and sighed. “I do not believe I have ever felt so helpless as I do whenever I think of my sister.” He frowned. “I wish I could speak with her. She used to write letters all the time – why has she not done so now?”

“Mayhaps where she is, there are no ravens. Or she fears the letter would not reach you. I am sure she has her reasons.” Reed paused. “Do you believe that she was taken against her will, my lord?”

“As Brandon was told?” questioned Ned. Howland Reed nodded. “I have asked myself this question more times than I can recall, and each time my answer is uncertain. I do not know…” His voice trailed away and he looked around the tent despairingly. He wanted nothing more than to find his sister and get her home. A red star, though? What could that mean? He turned back to Howland Reed. “What did you mean by the red star fading in the sky?”

The crannogman’s eye twitched. “Have you not seen it?”

“A red star?”

“Yes. In the northern sky.” His voice was low and soft and wise. “Look now, my lord, and you will still see it, if the clouds are shifting in our favour. It burns so brightly it can be seen in day as well as night.”

Ned got to his feet and went to the tent flap, lifting it and stepping outside. A gust of wind rushed past him and he looked up at the sky. A great black thundercloud hung to the west of the encampment, blocking out the afternoon sun, but as he looked north, glittering in a patch of blue was a red dot, a little larger than a star and thrice as bright. “Gods,” he muttered. “What is that?”

“A star, new-born. It appeared just a few days ago and has burned with such brightness as this ever since. But it is fresh and young and it will fade with time.”

Ned stared upwards. A cold terror was building inside him as he beheld the star. Before the red star fades and the fire that burns within her empties her. “How long do we have?” he asked the crannogman.

“I do not know,” came Howland Reed’s quiet voice. “But it will not be forever.” 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 29: LYANNA - A Rider at the Dawn

LYANNA – A Rider at the Dawn

 

Daylight came creeping in on their self-imposed solitude a little after they had finished. While Rhaegar had fallen to slumbering almost instantly, Lyanna had remained awake with her eyes wide open, thinking about the babe that slept within her.

A thousand thoughts crowded in her head. A girl or a boy? Dark-haired or silver-haired? With grey eyes or dark lilac? She ran her hand over her belly. Four and a half moons had come and gone since they had learned that she was with child, and now it was rounded and swollen. Rhaegar was convinced there was a girl within, but Lyanna was not so sure. The child had been restless all day, kicking and turning about inside her so much Rhaegar had japed that she was practising her swordplay hidden from view, just like her mother. They had stayed up half the night watching her belly move, laughing together when a foot or a fist or a head connected with one of their palms. But when they had finally crawled into bed together and Rhaegar had reached for her, pulling her to straddle him, the babe had fallen still. “Perhaps he likes you being close,” she had told him as she slid down onto him, her eyes closing at the deliciousness of the sensation.

Now though, Rhaegar stirred, but did not wake. She rolled onto her side and watched him. His face was soft and relaxed in sleep, his mouth ever so slightly parted, his hair mussed. With a gentle hand, she reached out and traced the line of his brow bone, then down to his cheekbone and to the curve of his bottom lip.

His eyes opened. He smiled.

“You’re still awake,” he murmured sleepily. She smiled as a reply. “Is it yet morning?”

“It grows light,” she replied, “but it is barely dawn. There is still time for sleeping.” Lyanna reached down and kissed him softly. His mouth was pliant beneath her lips. “So sleep, my love.”

He sighed. “Will you not sleep with me?”

“I am here with you.”

“You need your rest, Lya, and watching me as I sleep will not keep you rested,” he told her.

“I know.” But you are so beautiful, she thought, that I can hardly tear my eyes from you.

“Come here,” he said. He opened his arms to her and she wriggled into them, their legs intertwining. The swell of her belly was pushed up against his, embraced completely, cocooned. She sighed. She had never felt so loved as she did then. His face was so close she could feel his breath warm on the skin of her cheek and she looked into his eyes; in the early morning light they seemed the colour of amethysts.

They lay that way for a while, just watching one another, quiet and at ease. Between them, the babe was still. “What would you wish to call him?” asked Lyanna.

“Her,” Rhaegar corrected with a smile. “Remember, the dragon must have three heads. There is already one girl and one boy, so this child will be another girl. Just like Aegon and Visenya and Rhaenys.”

Their argument on this was already old and worn like a comfortable chair. Lyanna grinned. She had spent much time in the last few days thinking of the next time the issue would be raised. “How about this? If it is a girl, you may name her. If it is a boy, I shall name him. Does that sound fair?” Chuckling, Rhaegar stroked his hand along her spine. She shivered at his touch.

“It has the sound of a deal. Do I have to sign my name on a line?”

“I might not insist on that,” she said. “But I will hold you to it.” She paused. “What name would you choose?”

Rhaegar breathed in and thought awhile. “I think she will be a warrior princess, this babe – certainly she has been fighting inside you already. What about calling her after Visenya, Aegon’s warrior princess sister?” Lyanna made a face.

“Visenya?” She couldn’t help the dissatisfaction in her tone. “That’s a bit of a mouthful for a small child. And it sounds rather like your brother’s name too.”

“True…” His voice trailed away. “I will think on it some more. What would be your choice?”

“Jon,” she said, without hesitation.

“Jon?”

“Yes. There is no other option, I am afraid. If this child is born a boy, he shall be known as Jon.”

Rhaegar laughed aloud, his body shaking. “Jon Targaryen? It sounds… it sounds so un-Targaryen.”

“Exactly,” replied Lyanna, still grinning. “Remember, he would be half dragon and half direwolf. He needs a name that shows he is of the North as well.” She grinned. “And think not of moving me. I am resolved.”

At first, Lyanna thought he was going to object, but then he laughed again, the sound finishing in a low, rumbling chuckle. “I should know not to argue with you or attempt to broker deals. You fight unfairly, my lady,” he declared. “While I find myself moving for you in my own choice, you refuse to be moved in yours.”

Lyanna bobbed her eyebrows and leaned in to plant a playful little kiss upon his nose. “You knew what you were taking on when you wed me, my love,” she told him.

“That I did, and it was no stop to me.” He plucked at her lips with his own and then kissed her deeply.

Outside, the hollow sound of hoof beats growing nearer interrupted their conversation. “Do you hear that?” She nodded. “Ser Arthur is below, is he not?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. They had spoken to the knight before retiring to bed.

Slipping out of her arms, Rhaegar climbed to his feet and went to the window. He stood there looking down, naked and frowning. “It is a rider,” he said after a moment. Lyanna sat up, pulling the blankets around her. A sudden chill ran down her spine and she shivered.

“Who is it? Are we in danger?”

“I cannot tell. He is dressed in dark.” He turned back to Lyanna. “Wait here.”

He picked up his discarded garb from the floor and donned it: black breeches, white shirt and steel-studded black leather doublet. He pushed his feet into his boots and reached behind him to smooth his hair and tie it back. His sword belt lay beside the bed and he picked it up and strapped it tight around his waist, then took up his longsword and dirk from the corner and sheathed them. He flashed a quick smile at her and disappeared out of the door.

After he had gone, Lyanna stayed still in bed, staring at the door and listening intently. The hoof beats had stopped; a horse whinnied and she heard footsteps crunching on the ground outside the tower. Then there was silence.

She waited.

She could hear nothing. No sound of voices or the clash of steel as swords came together – just silence. It was deeply unnerving.

Finally, unable to contain her curiosity any longer, she got to her feet and dressed. She went to the door and opened it, still listening. There was silence in the stairwell too, but now as she strained to hear, she could just about make out voices speaking below, hushed and urgent. With slow steps, she descended, one hand protectively laid on her belly. The voices gradually became louder. The door to the lowest room in the tower was pushed closed, but there were clearly three people speaking beyond it; Rhaegar and Ser Arthur’s voices were obvious, but there was another voice, male, with a hint of a Riverlands accent about it.

“…cannot begin to understand how inconstant he is, Your Grace. One moment he is demanding one thing and the next, he wants another.”

“What does he wish of me? We parted on bitter terms and now he wants me back?”

“He has said he wants you within his sight.” There was a pause. “I do not believe he trusts that you are still on the side of the throne. The Spider has been whispering much and more in his ear about you.”   

Unbidden, Lyanna’s hand fell to the door handle and she pushed.

The door opened to reveal Rhaegar, Ser Arthur and another man Lyanna recognised as Ser Oswell Whent, although he was not dressed in his Kingsguard scales, but instead wore black from head to toe. They were standing in a circle before the hearth and turned their heads as one when she entered. Rhaegar’s face was pale and the set of it was angry, as if they had been arguing and forced by her presence to break off. Ser Oswell’s eyes fell immediately to her swollen middle. He swallowed his surprise, but restrained himself from saying anything.

“My love,” Rhaegar said, his voice tight. “You should have stayed abed.”

Lyanna ignored him. “What is the matter? What are you talking about?” she demanded.

All three men stared at her.

“Tell me,” she insisted. Her fists closed.

Ser Oswell Whent looked at the ground. Ser Arthur looked to Rhaegar. Then finally, Rhaegar spoke: “My father has ordered me back to King’s Landing. He wishes me to command our forces against Robert Baratheon and the rebels.”

In her chest, Lyanna’s heart stuttered. “What?”

“I have been sent for by my father.” He paused. “I… I have to leave.”

She raised a hand to her mouth and realised that it was shaking. “No…” she said. “No, you can’t leave. You can’t leave me…. What about our babe?”

Rhaegar looked as if someone had punched him in the belly. He rolled his head back and blew out a despairing breath. “I must. If I refuse… I cannot refuse, I--”

“My Prince,” interjected Oswell Whent, “the King has begun stocking wildfire in the vaults below the city. It is not well-known, but I have heard it said in my earshot and I do not doubt it. Just last week he was threatening Qarlton Chelsted that he should not come between the dragon and his wrath.” He paused, the import of his words heavy and resounding in the room. “I fear your father would not take any defiance on your part well. His mind is sound enough to act, but not to reason if the act is wise.”

Rhaegar paced to the door and held it open. “Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell, please will you leave me. I need to speak to my wife alone.” The two Kingsguard looked at one another and then did as they were bid, leaving Lyanna standing staring at him. She could feel tears budding in her eyes, sharp and stinging. It wasn’t just that he was speaking of leaving her, it was the realisation that if he left, he would be thrown into battle where he could not only meet Ned, but also Robert – Robert who had never cared for Rhaegar and who would, in all likelihood, now hate him beyond all compare.

As the door closed with a dull thunk, Rhaegar came to her and took her hands in his. His eyes were dark with sadness. “Lya, I must needs answer this call. If I do not, there will be surely be some grave retribution, and with everything that I stand to lose, I cannot take that risk.” He glanced down at her swollen belly. “I will leave you with Ser Arthur – you should not guarded by anyone less than the best. Ser Oswell and I will return to King’s Landing and I will be back to you as soon as I can.”

Slowly, Lyanna shook her head. She did not want to believe what she was hearing. “You said you were going to remove your father from power.” It was a long shot, she knew, but she was desperate enough to try anything.

“I know that was what I said, but I cannot just march into King’s Landing and usurp my father’s throne. We already have one challenger for the Iron Throne in Robert Baratheon, can you imagine what would happen to the Seven Kingdoms if I became another? No… I must needs wait, and bide my time. When this is done, then I will make my move.”   

The spiralling inevitability of the moment sent the tears that had been burning behind her eyes spilling over. “I don’t want to wake up without you!” she sobbed. “If you leave me, you might never come back to me!”

He took her face in his hands and used his thumbs to wipe away the tears on her cheeks. He kissed her. “We will see each other again, very soon,” he said, but Lyanna could tell that he was trying to keep the quaver from his voice, the uncertainty. Sinking to his knees, he placed his hands flat against her belly. She felt the babe kick against his touch and the sensation wrenched another sob from deep within her. He kissed where he had felt the kick, then again on the other side. “I love you so much I cannot even begin to put my feelings into words,” he said, looking up at her. “Both of you.”

And with that, he stood and walked out of the room, and his eyes were filled with tears.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 30: EDDARD - A Woman's Name

EDDARD – A Woman’s Name

 

All around him, the battle raged in a cacophony of sound. Screams and shouts rent the air and steel sang. The thunder of hooves was deafening. But the breath that roared from his lungs was louder than all this. Ice was in his hands and his men were beside him, Theo Wull, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassell and Willam Dustin. The Greatjon was a dozen strides away, hollering his anger as he laid into a man with a sun and spear upon his chest.

The fight had been raging for hours, but it was clear that the tide had turned. It had been vicious and bloodthirsty and Ned had seen a side to some men that he would not wish to see again in a hurry. He had seen Lyn Corbray cut down Lewyn Martell when the man of the Kingsguard was struggling to his feet, a crossbow bolt pierced through his breastplate.

And then suddenly, their enemy was scattering. On every side, men were fleeing. “What’s happened?” shouted Ned above the din as their opponents began to run.

“It’s a rout!” Dustin yelled, raising his sword above his head. His red stallion shrieked. “It’s over!”

Ned turned about himself. Men were being cut down by riders as they ran, loose horses galloped panic-stricken across the battlefield and the ground was peppered with arrows. “Gods be good!” he called.

And then their swords were no longer needed for all around them was still. The sounds of fleeing men began to fade, replaced instead with the dull moans and pained cries of the injured. It seemed deathly quiet in comparison to the clangour of before. Martyn Cassell, who had shielded Ned throughout the battle, sheathed his longsword. His helm was dented from an axe blow and he removed it with some difficulty, but it had obviously saved his life. “My lord,” he said. “What would you wish?”

“Gather the men,” Ned replied, removing his own helm. “Get the injured split from the rest and their wounds treated as best as possible. Everyone will need water, too.” His breath was slowing again and the sweat that had been trickling in his eyes was drying swiftly in the blowing wind. “Where is Robert?”

Willam Dustin replied, “I rode past him as I came across the ford. He was still ahorse and taking men down left and right.”

Ned nodded but did not answer. Robert had been like a man possessed when the scouts had returned with news that Prince Rhaegar and Prince Lewyn were marching their troops north towards the Trident. He had ignored the advice of Jon Arryn and insisted on riding into battle. Even Ned had been unable to calm him. It was as if he thought himself immune to death.

Sheathing Ice, Ned looked up at Willam and said, “I am going to the ford.”

“I’ll ride behind you then, my lord,” said Willam.

Together they moved across the battlefield. Hundreds of men lay dead in the mud on all sides, knights, men-at-arms, freeriders knocked from their horses, spearmen. Bodies were twisted in terrifying positions, arms and legs at unnatural angles. There were men who had lost their heads, others whose limbs were missing. Some had their guts spewing forth, and crows had already begun landing on the ripest pickings, squawking and arguing like demon children. Blood and mud had combined to become a foul, loathsome muck that sucked at Ned’s boots as if it was trying to pull him down too.

Some of the bodies were still alive, Ned realised. Eyes rolled towards him as he passed and some moaned or whimpered or cried. Some called for their mothers. He glanced at Willam Dustin, but his friend’s gaze was fixed resolutely at the ground in front of him, as if he dared not look up at the carnage around them.

Swallowing, Ned fought back the horror that threatened to engulf him. This is war, he thought, and it is not a song. If only everyone could see it as it is, could be made to remember it like this, then perhaps it wouldn’t be so easy to start again.    

It was but a short distance to the ford and as they approached, Ned saw Robert’s antlered helm cresting above a rabble of men searching through the shallow waters. He was standing in the middle of the ford, water reddened by blood burbling over his feet, his hammer hanging down by his side. Despite the men all around him, there was an eerie silence in the air. Even the wind seemed to have stopped blowing. “Robert!” called Ned.

Robert looked up at the sound of his name and Ned picked up his pace towards him.

And then he saw it.

The sight made him stop in his tracks. In the water at Robert’s feet lay the unmistakeable black-armoured figure of Prince Rhaegar.

“Dear Gods!” he exclaimed. Rhaegar was flat on his back. Robert had removed the Prince’s helm and flung it into the ford behind him where it had filled with red water. A thin rivulet of blood oozed from the corner of Rhaegar’s mouth and dribbled down his cheek. The water that rushed around him made his hair drift and ripple as if it was alive, but it was the only thing about him that moved; his pale face was lifeless, his eyes closed.

Ned saw instantly how he had died. His chest was caved in, his armour crunched to a sunken hole. Beneath the plate Ned knew there were shattered bones and blood, but to the naked eye, there was nothing to betray the injury that had obviously felled the Prince, other than the blood at his mouth. But the blow had been fierce. The rubies that adorned his breastplate had been knocked free and Ned realised then what the men downstream were scrambling about for – they were searching for gemstones in the water.

“I killed him,” Robert said. He was still breathing hard. “I killed him.”

There was nothing Ned could think of to say. He stared at Rhaegar’s body in the water. He had given orders that if any of his men had come across the Prince they were to take him alive. Ned wanted to see him, to look into eyes and ask him where Lyanna was, to drag from him the truth once and for all. Now that had been denied him. He felt a sting of resentment mix with the horror. Of course he had known that Robert’s fury and loathing would have settled for nothing less than Rhaegar’s death, but the violent reality of it stunned him. His mind filled suddenly with the sound of blood gargling in the Prince’s throat as he tried to force out his final breaths.

“And do you know what the fucking bastard said to me, Ned?” Robert’s voice was furious, his face harder than stone. Blood-stained spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke.

Ned met his friend’s eyes and saw nothing in them but pure, unadulterated hate. Robert’s lip sneered. “He shouted to me, she has never loved you! How dare he? How fucking dare he say that to me, me who loved that woman more than anyone in the world!” 

Robert put his foot on the Prince’s breastplate and pushed down. The thin line of blood at Rhaegar’s mouth swelled again with the action. Ned looked down at his own feet. “And then, once I’d slammed my hammer into his godforsaken chest and crushed that black heart of his, he had the nerve to say her name as his life pissed away from him!” Robert shook his head; drops of sweat and blood went flying into the water. He snarled at Rhaegar’s body and, with his foot, gave it a hefty shove. The Prince lolled like a rag doll, heavy and dead.

“Robert…” Ned said, appalled at his friend’s action. “The man is dead. Respect that if nothing else.”

But Robert was incensed and could see only red. “Don’t talk to me of respect, Ned!” he bellowed. “Did he respect you by stealing away your sister? Or me? Did his thrice-damned father respect Brandon or Lord Rickard when he had them killed like that? No!” He stamped his foot in the water. “The Targaryens know nothing of respect!”

Ned frowned. It was then that he noticed that the armour on Robert’s left arm was heavily indented and blood was dripping from his gauntlet. “Your arm,” he said. Robert raised his hand; he seemed unaware that he had been hurt. He removed his gauntlet and vambrace, then looked at his forearm. The dented metal had sheared into his skin and the arm was bent at an angle where it should have been straight.  

“It’s nothing,” insisted Robert. “He must have just landed a blow.”

“Nevertheless, that needs to be seen by a healer.” With a begrudging grunt, Robert agreed, and Ned turned to Willam Dustin who had been standing on the bank in silence throughout the conversation. “Willam, please take Lord Robert back to the encampment on your horse.”

“I can walk perfectly well, Ned,” replied Robert icily. Ned said nothing, but watched him walk away, a limp to his stride. The battle haze has numbed him, he thought. He is more hurt than he would have any of us believe. 

When he had left, Ned turned back to the river. The men who had been scrabbling in the shallows had all but gone, no doubt intimidated by the presence of two of their lord commanders. Two remained, but even they began to cast wary glances at Ned as he stood watching them. “Come here,” Ned ordered them after a moment. The men looked up, feigning surprise at the sight of Ned standing beside Rhaegar’s body.

“M’lord?” one said. He was a weaselling man with a shock of red-blonde hair and a dusting of orange stubble across what had at one point been a clean-shaven face. The other was younger, more Ned’s age, and had dark, shifting eyes that refused to meet his.

“What are your names?”

“I am Alyn,” said the dark-eyed one.

“Ferret,” supplied the other. His name is apt at least, thought Ned.

“Whose men are you?”

Ferret shoved something hurriedly into his pocket. “Lord Bolton sent us, m’lord,” he said. He had an oily voice. “You’re Eddard Stark, ain’t you?” There was not the least bit of respect in his tone and Ned found himself thinking suddenly that this man was more dangerous than Prince Rhaegar had ever been.

“Lord Stark,” Ned corrected firmly. He had been intending to get the two men to carry Rhaegar’s body out of the ford, but he now realised that would be an error. They would probably try to thieve from the corpse if they were left unwatched. “My men are back along the riverbank. You will be able to identify them by the direwolf sigil they bear on their surcoats and tunics. Both of you are to go to them now and bring two able-bodied strong men to me.”

Alyn regarded Ned a moment, as if he was about to refuse him, then bowed his head and began to walk away. Ferret followed him, one hand still thrust suspiciously in his pocket. Ned watched them go, wondering if they would indeed return with his men or whether they would simply melt into the masses swarming back to the encampment, never to be seen again.

When he turned back to the ford, he found himself alone. No birds sang in the trees that lined the other side of the river and the sounds of battle had faded utterly, but the noise the water made as it rushed over the gravelly road seemed almost deafening. He looked down at Rhaegar’s body lying before him. Even in death, the Targaryen prince was quite arresting – beautiful would be the word Ned would use if he had to describe him, not handsome. Handsome implied ruggedness, a sort of manly roughness about the edges, but there was nothing rough or rugged about Rhaegar Targaryen – he was flawless.  

He had the nerve to say her name as his life pissed away from him! Robert’s angry words echoed in Ned’s head as he stared at the Prince.

Lyanna…

A hand fell on his forearm and he startled from his thoughts, turning to see Mark Ryswell alongside him. Howland Reed and Ethan Glover stood a few paces behind him; Ethan was bloodied and sporting a head wound that was turning his eye black with bruising already, but the crannogman seemed as if he had not seen the battle, although Ned had watched him draw his sword and fill his quiver with arrows beforehand. “You sent for us, my lord,” said Mark. “Is everything all right?”

Ned drew in a deep breath. “Yes, I did,” he confirmed. He waved a hand at Rhaegar’s body. “I would like the Prince’s body removed from the battlefield. Whatever has happened here, we should act with honour and send his bones back to King’s Landing for his wife to do with as she sees fit.”

The surprise in Ethan Glover’s voice was palpable. “You want us to boil up his body here in the encampment and have his bones sent to the capital?” Ned turned to him.

“Yes, I do. He was the Crown Prince,” he replied simply. “We should respect that.”

Mark and Ethan exchanged a glance, but aloud Mark only said, “As you wish, my lord.” The two of them stepped into the water and bent to pick up Rhaegar’s body. Between them, they carried him out of the water and took him away. Howland Reed lingered a moment.

“The men are saying that he called Lyanna’s name as he died,” said the crannogman.

“So I have heard.”

“Do you believe it?”

Ned breathed out slowly. There was a pain in his chest. “I think the question should be why should I doubt what they are saying?” He paused and sighed. “Whatever the answer though, it is surely now more important than ever to find her and get her home again.”

Reed nodded his little head. “It is.” He looked up at the sky, to where the red star was obscured by cloud cover. “What you did there was an honourable thing, my lord,” said the crannogman.

He stared at the ford, wondering why he still felt so empty inside. The water was tinged pink with blood and Rhaegar’s helm still lay in the gravel, so Ned bent to pick it up. It was a work of considerable artistry and skill, with an enamelled dragon’s face cresting on the forehead. Though where the beast’s eyes should have been, only two dark sockets remained; jewels had been knocked from them. He turned it over a couple of times in his hands. I should have the armour sent back with the body, he thought.

He was about to leave when something caught his eye. Glinting in the gravel where the helm had lain was something red. Ned frowned. He bent and picked it up. It was a ruby, bright and clear, no bigger than the stones that covered the bottom of the ford. He pressed the ruby into the empty socket where one of the dragon’s eyes had been. It fitted perfectly.

Dropping to his knees, Ned began to search through the gravel. After several minutes, he had found nothing more than stones and dirt. The other ruby had either been knocked out elsewhere or it had been washed downstream and quite probably pocketed by one of the men who had been scrabbling around earlier.

For a moment, Ned studied the helm and the single ruby eye of the dragon. It glittered and winked in the light, staring at him as if it was alive. I know you, it seemed to be saying, I can see all of you. Your truths and your lies, your honour and your cowardice. Ned shook his head, unnerved, but as he turned to carry the helm away, the ruby slipped out of the socket again and fell into the water. Gods, thought Ned, as he bent and hurriedly picked it up again, closing his fist around it tight. I almost lost it.  

When he got back to the camp, Robert was sitting in his campaign chair, stripped to the waist. His huge chest was bruised and battered from multiple sword blows. Clearly, Rhaegar had not gone down without a fight. But it was his arm that drew Ned’s gaze. A healer sat beside him doing his best to stitch the wound closed. Robert’s face was turned away and his teeth were gritted, but other than that, he was completely silent, bearing the pain. As the final stitch was put into place, he angled his head towards his arm. “I couldn’t even feel it, but apparently, it is broken.”

“You are going to have to be careful with that, Robert,” warned Ned. “It is like to turn green if you do not treat it carefully.”

Robert nodded. He seemed to have come down slightly from the peak he had been on before and was calmer. “As always you are right,” he said, reluctantly. “I will have to stay here and you must needs take up the next task.”

“King’s Landing?” asked Ned, although he already knew the answer.

“Yes. The uninjured men will be ready to march again in a day and you should get on your way immediately. The last thing we want is Aerys having any time to gather his forces again.”

“How many men will you give me?”

“Take what you will,” replied Robert. “By all accounts, the city is being held by several thousand, so you will need as many bodies as you can. When you get there, evaluate the defences. It may be that a siege is the only option open to us.”

Ned kept his face expressionless. A siege was a woefully tiresome thing, as Stannis Baratheon was learning to his peril, and Ned had the feeling that King’s Landing would not fall easily. “And if the defences are not what have been reported, would you wish me to take the city?”

“Do as you see fit. I will attempt to follow in a few days, when my arm has had chance to settle.”

Ned left Robert then and went to find where his men had set the body of the Prince down. A tent deep in the Stark encampment proved to be the location they had chosen. Two men-at-arms had been posted on the door and Mark Ryswell had already seen to the instructions that Rhaegar’s body be prepared for boiling down. Further men were inside the tent stripping the Prince of his garb. His armour had been removed already and was piled into a chest, and so Ned placed the helm atop the sunken breastplate, and left the men to their work.

But he had held onto the ruby. When he found Lyanna he would give it to her.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 31: LYANNA - The Fire That Burns

LYANNA – The Fire That Burns

 

Heat shimmered off the ground all around the tower. The sun had been burning down for days, assaulting everything with merciless temperatures; all the while the wind had been growing in intensity. So strong was it that it was even swirling up the dust and dirt from the ground and whipping it along the valley floor in curling puffs.

It looked like the land was smoking.

Ser Arthur had explained to her when first she saw the phenomenon that it was often the precursor to a dust storm – sand smoke the Dornish called it – and that he had suspected one might have been in the making for some time. Concerned that she could become easily lost in a suddenly advancing storm, he begged Lyanna to keep her wanderings close by and to advise him when she was leaving the tower. Dutifully, she agreed. Since Rhaegar had left, she had taken to disappearing for long hours to walk in the foothills. But as her belly had grown larger, so walking for any distance had proved more difficult. To her sadness, she had been forced to stay nearer and nearer by, until soon it became an effort to even climb the steps back to her chamber.

There had been little significant news from the capital. Rhaegar had sent a raven when he had first arrived, the bird bearing a note for Ser Arthur, and a letter filled with dried blue rose petals for her. Lyanna had taken to sleeping with the parchment beneath her pillow, imagining that this made him somehow nearer to her. But as the days went by, and no further letters arrived, she began to fear the worst.

Three nights ago, her hope had been renewed when she had dreamt the most vivid of dreams. In her dream, he had been standing at the end of the bed watching her, his eyes turned to rubies. So convinced was she that the dream had been real, she had climbed from bed shaking and covered with a thin film of sweat, expecting to see him standing there as real as life. But he had not been. Since then, she had been convinced that the dream had been a sign that he was returning to her and she had taken up a vigil at the northernmost window of the tower, her eyes fixed on the Prince’s Pass.

All the while, the babe continued to grow and Lyanna became more and more restless. Her back ached. It would not be too many more days, she knew.

She was watching out of the window after breaking her fast on an orange when she saw a raven land on the path that led up to the tower. Ser Arthur was outside, tending to the horses. He heard the raven’s cawing and went to it as it strutted up the path, one leg heavy and unwieldy because of the letter tied to it. Lyanna saw him gather up the bird, detach the letter, then release it. He turned and disappeared into the tower.

Long minutes passed. It was the first raven that had landed in weeks and Lyanna was anxious to hear its contents, but Ser Arthur did not appear at the door. She wondered if the message was for his eyes only. Perhaps Rhaegar is sending him instructions to bring me to King’s Landing, she hoped. Or is it dark wings, dark words…?

She stood and went to the door, then began to go down the steps. Her descent was difficult; her belly was so large she could no longer see where her feet were stepping, so she put one hand on the stone wall and used it for ballast. When she reached the lowest room, she pushed open the door.

“Ser Arthur?”

The knight was seated on the chair beside the hearth he often used. His legs were spread and his elbows rested on his knees. One hand was on his forehead; the other held the letter the raven had delivered, unrolled. His jaw worked almost imperceptibly. He looked up at her. His hand fell from his face. “My Princess,” he said, and from his voice she knew…

Ser Arthur climbed to his feet and went to her. “Read it to me,” she told him.

For a moment, he stared at her, as if uncomprehending, then he opened the letter and began to read, his voice dull and pained: “My sworn brother, I write with grievous news. This morning a rider came to the city a little after dawn. He came from the Trident, where our Prince and his men were fighting the usurper’s army. Our troops have suffered a terrible loss, but he brought still sadder news. Prince Rhaegar is dead. Robert Baratheon split open his heart with his warhammer and our friend and prince bled--”

“No more!” Lyanna interjected. The tears had begun when Ser Arthur had finished the first sentence and now they streamed down her face. She wheeled around and paced to the door, then realised she didn’t even know where she was going. She shook her head in denial. “No, no, no…” One hand gripped the wooden frame. Something inside her ripped and a sob wrenched its way free from her lungs. She turned about, her body lost, then her legs crumpled beneath her and she sank to the floor.

Her crying seemed to be coming from somewhere outside herself, great wracking sounds that came out in desperation as she tried to breathe. The air trapped in her throat. “Oh-huh-huh Gods…” she cried. “Oh Gods! Rhaegar…”

And then not even the words would come. She rocked on her knees, one hand at her mouth, the other clenching in a fist, then unclenching and grasping helplessly at her skirts.

Ser Arthur knelt in front of her, but through the tears he was nothing more than a distorted haze. She couldn’t breathe. Lyanna pressed her hand to her chest and thumped it, trying to tell him to help her, but he did nothing except wrap his hands around her upper arms. She let him hold her up. He leaned into her, and pressed his forehead to hers as he whispered, “Shhh… shh…”

In that moment, Lyanna wanted to die, but her traitorous body drew in another breath and she cried it out again in snatches. Her hands grabbed onto his tunic, balling it between her fingers like it was the only thing she could feel. “Ohhhhh…” Her voice became a fading wail. Her head sank down onto his shoulder and she felt him wrap his arms around her as it came again. One of his big hands enveloped the back of her head while the other rubbed up and down her back.

It felt like she was bleeding within.

He said nothing but just held her while she cried until no more tears would come. “Come,” he murmured when finally she had stilled, “come let me take you to bed.”

There was not the strength left in Lyanna’s body to object so she let him help her to her feet. She tried to walk, but her legs wobbled and if it hadn’t been for his grip on her, she would have fallen again. “I can’t…” she moaned. He did not try to persuade her but instead dipped and swept her up in his arms. With slow, steady strides, he ascended the steps while she pushed her face into his neck and shook with the effort of restraining fresh tears.

Once inside her room, he set her down on the bed and saw that the blankets were pulled over her, then knelt. Lyanna curled onto her side. “Close your eyes,” he told her and she did. His hand fell to stroking her hair, smoothing it back off her face. The motion was soothing and soon Lyanna found herself falling into a dark, dreamless sleep.

It was mid-afternoon when she woke with a start. It took her a moment to remember what had happened, and when she did tears budded in her eyes again. She eased her weight to the edge of the bed and looked around her – Ser Arthur had gone and the sun was slicing across the room, casting a bold square on the rug. There was a strong wind blowing through the window, gusting at the drapes.

Her hand went to her belly. What was that? At first, she thought it was a particularly vicious kick, but then the feeling intensified and became quite painful, as if someone was squeezing her insides. Oh Gods, she thought. This is it. She had been just a tiny child when Benjen had been born, but she could remember her mother’s moans and screams coming from the birthing room and the way her father had paced the corridor outside for a while, and then fled to the Godswood to pray. Her stomach gave a fearful twist. The pain subsided and she stood, taking in a deep breath.

Slowly, she moved to the door and peered down into the stairwell. From below, she could hear the sounds of movement and the vague smell of cooking meat wafted to her nose. I’ll go down to him, she thought, and tell him. She began to go down the stairs, but she had made it down just half a dozen steps before another wrenching pain struck her and she had to stop, hanging onto the wall. This time she cried out. She closed her eyes and sank to her heels, one hand underneath the swell of her belly.

Ser Arthur appeared in front of her. His face was etched with worry. “Your Grace,” he exclaimed. “Are you unwell?” Lyanna looked at him pleadingly, as if he could do something to help her.

“The babe… he’s coming…”

The look of terror on the knight’s face lasted no more than a few seconds. “Wylla!” he called down the stairwell. The sandy-haired girl Ser Arthur had brought from Starfall just a few days ago appeared by his side a moment later. She peered over his shoulder and murmured confidently,

“It is time, m’lady.” They helped Lyanna to her feet and between them began to lead her up the stairs. The contraction had worn her out, so she leaned into them and prayed silently.

Once back in her chamber, Wylla immediately began to clear the bed of blankets and laid down a fresh sheet. She worked methodically and silently. When she had finished, she turned to Ser Arthur and said, “Ser, there is no need for you to stay.”  

He took in a deep breath. “Are you sure you will be able to cope?”

“I have delivered seven babes,” she explained, “and had two of my own.” Her voice was comfortingly calm. “I know what I am doing, I promise you that.”

Her words seemed to soothe the great knight and he went to the door, lingering a moment before leaving them alone. Wylla busied herself with lighting a fire in the hearth, humming quietly, while Lyanna rested back on the pillows the young woman had propped behind her. There was a dull aching in her belly, similar to the pains that came with her moon blood. “Will it hurt much more?” she asked after a moment.

Wylla turned to her and regarded her. She was a short, slight woman of about five and twenty, stony-Dornish in complexion with a face full of freckles, a snub nose, and warm, honest, brown eyes. She had kept to herself since arriving at the Tower of Joy, spoken only when spoken to, and taken her meals away from Lyanna and Ser Arthur. “Childbirth is a painful thing, m’lady, I won’t lie to you,” she said in her soft voice.

Lyanna looked away; the answer was what she had suspected, but not what she had wished. “How long will it go on?”

“It is impossible to say. Sometimes it lasts a day or more, other times it is over in an hour or two. How far apart are your pains?”

“I don’t know,” replied Lyanna. She couldn’t honestly remember. “Not that far apart, but I feel just a bit of an aching at the moment.”

“That is normal,” explained Wylla. “You can relax for the moment. When the pains are very close together is when we must prepare ourselves.”

Nodding, Lyanna tried to do as she had said. She closed her eyes a moment and rested one hand on her belly. There was a little twinge, but not another pain, so she opened them and watched as Wylla hung a bucket over the fire to warm some water in. “Do you have a husband?” she asked.

“My husband is dead, m’lady.”

“Oh.” Thoughts of Rhaegar filled her head again and she looked away, blinking back a fresh bout of tears.

“It’s all right, m’lady,” said Wylla. She stopped what she was doing and a frown patterned across her face. “He died six moons ago – drowned at sea. My hurt is not as fresh as yours is.” She paused. “Our last babe is a few weeks away from his first name day. My husband got to hold him for no time at all before he was taken from us.”

“My babe won’t even know his father,” murmured Lyanna sadly.

“Oh, he will,” said Wylla with confidence, “just as my boy will. You will tell him of him, as will the rest of his family. Good men never truly die, m’lady; they live on in their sons and daughters.” And as casually as if she had said nothing at all, the little Dornish nurse went back to her work.

Outside though, things were stirring. As the hours passed by and the evening drew in, Lyanna’s pains grew closer and closer together. The wind shifted direction, moving around from the south-west to the south-east, and the storm came with it. At first, the world went quiet – the insects stopped chirping and the now familiar crying of eagles silenced – then the smoke began to gather thickly on the horizon.

Lyanna imagined some kind of brushfire in the foothills, but when Ser Arthur came running up the steps of the tower to batten down the windows in the chambers, he explained, “It’s a sandstorm, my lady. See the darkness gathering on the horizon? It is coming our way.”

Wylla looked at him with a suggestion of nervousness on her face. “Is it dangerous?” asked Lyanna.

“We must stay indoors,” he told them both firmly. “We must not breathe it in or it could kill us. But we will be safe inside the tower.”

Lyanna nodded. She stared out of the window at the darkening sky rolling towards them. What a way to come into the world, she thought as another pain began in her belly, this time longer and more furious than the last. Wylla lit candles in the room at Ser Arthur’s behest, and Lyanna leaned back into her pillows to battle her way through the agony.     

“When you get the urge to push, m’lady, you should do it,” Wylla told her. She helped her to sit up, supported her with pillows and pulled her legs apart. She showed her how to breathe through the pains, counting aloud with her when each one crested to its peak. And then, when Lyanna thought her strength was almost gone, Wylla convinced her that she had more, mopping her brow with a wet cloth. As she sweated and strained her way onwards, the room grew darker and darker, until it was near as black as night. It seemed as if the entire world was shrinking down until nothing was visible outside the window but black, smoking dust.

“Come on, m’lady, just one more push now!” Wylla encouraged. Lyanna looked at the nurse, and with every scrap of strength she had left, pushed. There was a sudden sensation of something giving way and then the sound of a squalling infant filled the room. A moment later, Wylla held up the babe in front of her and announced, “It’s a boy, m’lady, a healthy boy!”

She cleaned the blood and mess from his tiny body while he screamed and Lyanna collapsed bonelessly into the pillows. Now that is the most glorious sound in the world, she thought, as she listened to the babe’s cries. Wylla wrapped him in swaddling and passed him to Lyanna.

“You should try to feed him, if only a little. It helps with the afterbirth,” she explained as she continued to work between Lyanna’s legs. “I will take him soon though, so you needn’t lose your sleep over it.”

She showed Lyanna how to hold the child, then helped him latch on. He sucked greedily. “He’s hungry,” Lyanna murmured. The sensation was strange, but pleasant.

“He will be. This is his first ever meal on this world."

Lyanna watched incredulous as the little thing fed. He had dark, dark hair upon his head and his unseeing, new-born eyes were grey. There was hardly a hint of Rhaegar in him – a little in the shape of the eyes and the length of his body, perhaps, but other than that, he was Stark through and through. “Welcome to the world, Jon Targaryen,” she said. A smile wanted to come, but instead she found her face wet with tears. She bent and kissed the babe’s head, even as outside, the dust began to diminish. 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 32: EDDARD - Dragonspawn

Notes:

Just a quick note on chronology...

In order to keep the alternating POVs of Eddard and Lyanna, I have had to mix up the timeline a little bit. So, this chapter of Ned's is a little bit behind where we last left Lyanna. I hope it isn't too confusing!

EDDARD – Dragonspawn

 

A crowd had gathered before Robert, mostly Lannister and Baratheon men-at-arms, but Ned noticed the faces of a few Northmen amongst them. All were silent, watching the new-crowned King with interest. He made his way through the crush of bodies, to where Tywin Lannister stood. The Lord of Casterly Rock had one hand on his hip and another pointing to the ground, where Lannister cloaks were wrapped around two small shapes.   

This close, Ned could smell blood in the air and when he looked down he saw the reason for the stench – the red cloaks were soaked through with it. “…a token of my fealty to you,” Lord Tywin was finishing.

Robert’s face was hard. He was wearing his crown and bore the look of someone who was keen to assert his authority. But there was something in his eyes that was troubling. He was glad. Ned wondered if he was the only man who could see it. He looked down at the small shapes and it all clicked horribly into place. They were Rhaegar’s children, Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon. The shapes were about the right size for a four-year-old girl and a babe of a little less than a year. Shocked, he looked from Robert to Tywin Lannister and then back again, unable to contain the revulsion on his face.

“Did you kill them?” Robert was asking Tywin.

“My men did the deed,” he explained in that steady, calculating tone he had. It made Ned’s skin crawl with distrust. “But it was on my orders. Although, I confess that Elia of Dorne made herself rather troublesome and was killed in the event as well. That was unintentional.”

Robert nodded. “Your deed and the purpose behind it is noted, my lord,” he said after a moment. “Your fealty is welcomed and accepted.”

“I will serve you in any other way you would see fit, Your Grace.” And with that, he turned and left the throne room, his boots sounding out in the silence that pervaded. Robert dismissed the gathered crowd with a wave of his hand and, reluctantly, they began to disappear, although their eyes still lingered on the dead children laid out on the floor.

Once they were alone, Ned dropped to his knees and opened the cloak covering Rhaenys. The child was a horrifying sight. Her little face was smeared with blood, but it was her body that most distressed Ned – her chest and stomach were a tattered mess of stab wounds. A dagger with a thin blade had been used, the better to puncture between ribs. Whoever had killed her had not done so with any sense of mercy. He covered the body back up then turned to the babe. Swallowing as he opened the cloak, he was forced to close his eyes at the image that greeted him. Baby Aegon’s skull was smashed to a ruin, his face barely even recognisable. The dusting of pale Targaryen hair upon his head had been stained dark with blood and brains.

“Dear Gods--” His hand went automatically to his mouth and he looked up at Robert, who had remained silent while Ned was looking on the bodies. His new king was standing motionless above him. “You condoned this?” he questioned in astonishment.

If it was possible, Robert’s face became harder still. He was angry. “I did,” he said. “You heard me.”

“Why? This is murder, plain and simple. These children did nothing wrong, they bore no weapons, they did not challenge you in any way.”

“Their mere existence challenges me!” roared Robert. The empty throne room made his voice seem even louder than it was.

“They are no more than babes.”

“I see no babes,” Robert spat, “only Dragonspawn… Rhaegar Targaryen’s whelps – if there were no other reasons to take their lives then that would be enough.”

Ned was aghast. “Robert, what are you saying?”

“I am saying that these may be children, but children grow and come to wield their weapons in time. Have not a doubt that those weapons will be pointed at me.” He stormed up the steps of the dais to the Iron Throne and sat himself on it as if he was reminding himself that it was his and his alone. Ned stood and faced him. Disillusionment knifed through him. He had known Robert was a man who loved war but that he would sink to murdering babes was something Ned had never believed him capable of. He shook his head. He often found himself following where Robert led, even though his heart and head were elsewhere, but on this he was not to be swayed – he could not, would not sanction such a dishonourable act.

“I cannot believe I am hearing you say this. These were children and they were murdered with complete savagery. There is no honour in that.”

“It is the way of war, Ned. Or haven’t you realised that yet?”

“No, Robert, it is not. It is the way of dark, ruthless men like Tywin Lannister, who would have the world believe that he is a tyrant for the sake of a show of strength. You are better than that.”

“I am King now. If I am to rule without challenge, there must be a show of strength. There must be fear.”

“Fear? No… Allegiance is won and maintained with a fair and firm hand, with compassion and justice, not with murder. My father never ruled his lands with fear.”

“Your father was burnt alive by a mad man!” Robert yelled. His voice echoed high into the vaulted ceiling. Ned stopped dead and stared at Robert. A cold anger crept over him like ice freezing over a lake in winter. Robert went on, “If Aerys had feared him, even a little, he would never have dared to do such a thing!”

There was a loaded pause. Robert shifted his weight. Ned continued to stare.

“Be careful, Robert,” he said in a quiet voice.

But Robert did not heed the warning. “As long as there are Targaryens in this world, my claim to this throne is in danger. I would sooner cut off my own hand than see another madman rule the Seven Kingdoms, and if that means I have to kill babes, then so be it!” He turned his face away.

Ned narrowed his eyes. “If that is what you feel then we are done here. Take your crown and your Seven Kingdoms. I will go back to Winterfell and rule my lands how I would wish them to be ruled – with honour.” He turned and walked away, Robert’s curses echoing after him.

As he marched out of the throne room, Ned realised that he was shaking with rage. A pair of gold cloaks cast him a nervous look but he ignored them. He walked half a hundred strides before he stopped and sagged against the wall. He had closed his eyes and was trying to quiet himself when Jon Arryn came around the corner. “Ned,” he greeted. “They told me you were fighting.”

“I will have nothing more to do with him,” Ned replied in as calm a voice as he could muster. “What was done to those children was the vilest crime. Murder.”

“The Prince and Princess,” said Jon with a rueful shake of his head. “I have just heard about that. Tywin Lannister has been at his work again – he is a devil of a man. The whole thing stinks of some kind of treachery. I tell you, Ned, I wouldn’t trust that man further than I could throw him.”

“How could he condone such a thing?” Ned asked.

Jon raised his eyebrows and blew out a breath through his teeth. “Only Robert knows the answer to that, I’m afraid.” He paused. “I will try to offer him counsel, if he will let me.”

“Good luck with that,” said Ned bitterly. “I thought he valued my opinion, but clearly not.”

“Give him time, Ned. He’s just getting used to this whole thing and it’s understandable that he might make a few errors along the way. We just have to hope that we can speak wisdom to him and that he will listen. That’s all we can do.” He put out a hand and rubbed Ned’s arm in sympathy.

Sighing, Ned replied, “You’re right – of course – but I’m going to need some time myself, to forget the things he said to me in there. The way he spoke to me. I’ll take the troops to Storm’s End and relieve the siege. That will keep me out of the way while he calms down and you have chance to talk to him.”

“That’s probably a wise thing,” agreed Jon.

He left Jon and made for Maegor’s Holdfast. Before he was leaving this pit of sin for the field again, there was something he needed to do. His feet were heavy as he climbed the steps up to the royal apartments. Men passed him on the stairwell, acknowledging him with nods or ‘my lords’, but other than that, he was left to go about his business alone. When he reached what he believed to his desired location, he found two men-at-arms guarding the door. They were dressed in Arryn livery, so he inclined his head at them and smiled. “Were these Prince Rhaegar’s rooms?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord,” replied the older of the two men. “Do you wish to enter?”

“I do.” He did not provide a reason, but instead waited patiently while the men stepped aside and opened the oaken door for him.

Once inside, he told the guards to leave him alone and closed the door behind him. He stood in an anteroom with two doors leading off it on either side. At the end of the room was a window with a stained glass depiction of a three-headed dragon with eyes wrought from red crystals, breathing out a plume of fire. Sunlight streamed in through the window and cast a smaller, duplicate version of the colours and pattern of the dragon on the stone floor.

Ned moved to the door on the left and opened it. Within, there was a stale smell; the room had lain unused for some time. A wide bed, fresh made with white sheets and with a canopy of white silk above it, dominated. Beside the bed was a bookcase, crammed full of hefty leather-bound tomes, atop which stood a candle in an iron stand. There was a massive stone fireplace with dragons’ heads carved along the mantel. Candles lined that as well, their wax having oozed down to form a dribbling curtain.

To the other side of the room, beneath the window, a writing desk stood with a chair before it. Ned went to the desk and looked it over. The surface was clear, apart from a quill ready-dipped into the inkwell. Sitting down in the chair, he began to open the narrow drawers in front of him. Inside there was a small knife to be used for sharpening quills, fresh leaves of parchment and numerous pots of ink of varying colours. He found a diary, but with the exception of a few insignificant entries, it was empty.

He was just about giving up hope of finding anything of any use when he noticed that the boiled leather pad that adorned the writing surface was moveable. He lifted it and beneath it was what appeared to be nothing more than a square cut out from the desk surface, but when he put his hand on it, it wobbled ever so slightly. I wonder… he thought. Digging his fingernails underneath the edge, he lifted it up. What he found within made his eyes widen.

A small gauze bag held a stash of dried blue rose petals – their scent was powerful enough to have filled the entire compartment with fragrance. There was also a golden dragon coin, white wax still clinging to its edges, a stick of sealing wax, and a roll of thin white ribbon. He picked up the bag of rose petals and studied them, turning them over in his hands. Had this been how they had communicated? Secret letters sent anonymously across the miles, by raven or by loyal messenger. Had this been how they had organised it all so meticulously as to avoid a single person knowing their intentions or their whereabouts?

Ned pushed the bag into the pocket of his breeches, along with the golden dragon coin, and closed up the compartment. With one final look around the room of the Crown Prince, he left surer than he had ever been that Lyanna had not been taken against her will, and went in search of Howland Reed.  

He found the crannogman in the library, sitting in the window seat, reading from a book that seemed half as large as he. He looked up when Ned entered and closed the book, smiling. “My lord,” he greeted. “I have not seen you in days.”

“She wasn’t taken against her will,” said Ned, ignoring the pointless pleasantries.

Howland Reed regarded him with the same twinkling green eyes he always did, as if his thoughts were two steps ahead and he was constantly waiting for Ned to catch up with him. “You are sure of this?” he questioned.

“As sure as I can be now that he is dead and I cannot speak to her.”

Standing, Reed hefted the book back to the shelf from which he had taken it and slotted it back into place. He turned to Ned. “The star is still burning,” he said. “Day and night.” He put his hands on his hips. “This morning, something crossed my mind. I came up here to check it.” He paused. “Who are the Kingsguard?” Ned frowned. For some reason, he was filled with impatience and he wasn’t sure he could bear the crannogman’s strange need to speak to riddles.

“They are the seven elite knights who are sworn to protect the king and do his bidding,” explained Ned, trying to keep his tone polite. “What of it?”

“Where are they?”

Ned thought. Lewyn Martell, Jon Darry and Barristan Selmy had been at the Trident – he had seen Prince Lewyn cut down before his own eyes and had watched Ser Barristan bend the knee to Robert and receive a pardon just the other day. Jaime Lannister – well, I know where he is, that is for sure. That was four. But the others? “There are three I have not come upon,” he said.

“Who are they?”

“The Lord Commander, Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, and the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne.” He frowned. “In the eyes of the Targaryens, Prince Viserys is the rightful king, so I would suppose they have gone to Dragonstone with him and Queen Rhaella.”

“But we know that Aerys sent the Queen and Prince Viserys away,” said Reed, “and they had only Ser Willem Darry with them.”

“No Kingsguard?”

“No Kingsguard,” confirmed the crannogman.

There was a pause during which Ned’s frown grew deeper. “Perhaps they were sent to join with Mace Tyrell.”

“Perhaps. We shall find out shortly, I suppose,” said Howland Reed, and he looked at Ned with a glint in his eye, his head angled. “You wish to leave soon.”

“By noon,” said Ned. This is better, he thought, I can talk about firm things like this and not feel uneasy. “I do not suspect the Reach Lords will offer much in the way of resistance. I shall meet you at the gates.”

“You will, my lord.”

He turned and walked out of the library, his mind thinking on what the crannogman might have meant by his words.

 

To be continued...   

Chapter 33: LYANNA - We Swore A Vow

LYANNA – We Swore A Vow

 

They came on the third day.

Lyanna was standing at the window, Jon cradled against her breast, when she saw them riding towards the tower, the hooves of their horses stirring the dust the storm had left behind. It seemed Ser Arthur had seen them too, for he appeared on the path outside the tower, his white cloak billowing behind him. One hand was readying to draw Dawn, but then one of the riders called out and his stance relaxed. He began to walk towards them.

She was at the bottom of the steps when Ser Arthur led the two men into the tower. They were hot and dirty, their faces smeared with dust, but Lyanna immediately recognised Ser Oswell Whent. The other man was an unknown to her, but he was smiling warmly at Ser Arthur. He was a huge man and older than both of them, his dark brown hair peppered heavily with grey. His face was lined and worn with age, but he was still quite a presence – his shoulders were broad and strong, his hands like great paws. He embraced Ser Arthur in a bear hug, slapping his back.

“Lord Commander,” Arthur greeted, and Lyanna knew by his words that this was Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull.  

“Arthur,” he greeted. “It is good to see you again. How are you faring?”

Ser Arthur glanced back at Lyanna, still holding Jon close to her. “We have done admirably, here in this little tower.” He smiled and waved his hand at Jon. Both men of the Kingsguard looked to Jon; Lyanna found herself instinctively holding him closer to her as they stared. “What brings you here again?”

“Prince Rhaegar’s last words to us before he left for the Trident were to inform us of his marriage to Lady Lyanna,” explained Ser Gerold. “He told us also of the babe that grew inside her and that should anything happen to him in battle, he wished for us to swear to protect them both at all costs.”

“When our Prince did not return, we knew we had to leave at once,” continued Ser Oswell. “But the journey has been fraught. Forces loyal to the rebels run rampant in the Kingswood, all the way up to the Marches. What should have taken us a week to travel has taken thrice that.”

“Your raven reached us three days ago,” said Ser Arthur.

“We suspected it might,” Ser Oswell said. “We had hoped to bring the news in person, but it was not to be.”

There was a pause. Ser Arthur seemed to be studying the faces of his friends. “Pray tell me there is not more ill news?” Ser Oswell turned his gaze to the floor, then Ser Gerold responded,

“The war is lost, my friend. Robert Baratheon sits upon the Iron Throne. The King is dead, slain by Jaime Lannister.”

Ser Arthur’s face darkened. “Jaime? He…” His voice disappeared in a confused exhaling of breath.

“He was guarding the King and he ran his sword through his heart. We heard the news as we travelled through the Stormlands.” He shook his head. “We set off on this journey believing we were fulfilling the last wishes of our Prince, but we conclude it with the knowledge that our task is now of much graver import. Before the rebels even arrived in the city, Tywin Lannister and his men came to the gates of the city, begging entrance. King Aerys, it seems, admitted them, and they began to sack the city. Prince Aegon was killed, his head dashed brutally against a wall.” He stopped and looked to Jon in Lyanna’s arms. “He seems so small doesn’t he? But there he is – the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lyanna’s mouth fell open. They are jesting, surely. Yet all three men turned to look at Jon and the next she knew, they dropped to their knees in front of her, heads bowed, and proclaimed together, “Our King. We swear from this day until our last, we will protect and defend you.”   

After that, the atmosphere grew increasingly serious. The three men retreated to the room where Lyanna and Ser Arthur ate their meals and from then on, only the sound of hushed talking could be heard. Lyanna went back up to her chambers and sat at the window again, thinking on what had been said. As the day wore on, she began to feel tired, her limbs heavy. Wylla had told her that this was to be expected, and so she handed Jon over and retired to bed before the sun had fully set.

That night, she dreamt vivid, sharp-focused dreams. Ghostly shapes shifted outside the tower, and then came together in a rush, flowing over one another like gushing water. Blue rose petals flew up into a sky the colour of blood, and through it all she heard someone screaming out a name. Once or twice, she woke with a start, thinking that there was someone standing above her, only to find that it had been in her dream only.

In the corner of the room, Wylla was snuggled in the blankets of her feather bed, sleeping soundly. But Lyanna’s sudden waking had stirred Jon in the makeshift cradle Ser Arthur had made for him out of a barrel sawn in half. He was whimpering quietly. She went to him. “Shhh…” she whispered. She did not want to wake Wylla, so she picked him up from the cradle and began to rock him. As he mewled softly, she eased herself back down onto the bed and opened her nightgown, offering the infant her breast. Wylla had taken over most of the feeding, but Lyanna enjoyed the sensation so had continued to allow him to suckle on occasion. Mostly, he just fussed at her teat, full and sated as he was from Wylla, but this time, he sucked hungrily. Lyanna closed her eyes and sighed happily. “You have a healthy appetite, my son,” she told him in a quiet voice. “But that is good. If you are to grow up to be a King, you must needs have all the strength in the world.”

When he had finished, she winded him as she had watched Wylla do, then watched with fascination as he fell asleep in her arms. She pulled her blankets up and let herself sink into sleep as well.

The following morning, though, she woke to Wylla’s voice. “M’lady, are you well?” she asked. Lyanna opened her eyes and stared blearily at the little Dornish nurse, who was standing above her with a concerned expression on her face. There was a strange heat behind her eyes and her head was throbbing with a dull ache.

“I, I…” She blinked and then rubbed her eyes. “I have a headache.”

“You have been fitful in your sleep these last few hours. Would you like some water?”

“Yes, I think so,” replied Lyanna.

When Wylla returned with a cup of lemon water, Lyanna gulped it down eagerly, feeling thirsty. She climbed from bed, and began to dress herself. Her body was different these days to what it had been before the birth. Her belly was still settling, Wylla called it, and would not simply spring back to its original shape. It was still rounded, swollen even, and the myriad of reddish lines across it seemed like a map of blood-soaked rivers flowing downwards. She let one finger trace them for a moment, thinking. Was this how the Trident looked after he had died? She bit back the urge to cry again and instead reached for her dress and donned it, then went to break her fast.

She found the three Kingsguard seated around the table in more or less the same positions they had been in the previous evening. Their faces were intense. Several pieces of parchment were spread before them, along with a map of the Dornish Marches and the Red Mountains. They looked up when she walked in and Ser Arthur smiled encouragingly. “My Princess,” he greeted. “You look a little pale. Are you feeling well?”

Lyanna replied, “I have a headache. My sleep was rather disturbed with dreams if I’m honest – perhaps that is the reason for it.”

“I have suffered with that sort of headache before,” said Ser Arthur, smiling compassionately. “Only sleep will cure it, I have found.”

While she helped herself to bread and cheese, they continued their conversation. Lyanna found herself lingering so she could eavesdrop on what was causing them such difficulty. “So, what is your judgement then, my lord?” Ser Oswell asked the Lord Commander. Old Ser Gerold sighed; he ran one of his thick-fingered hands through his hair and rubbed his face. There were shadows under his eyes, making Lyanna wonder how long they had been awake, or if they had even been to sleep at all.

“The way I see it, we have but three options,” Ser Gerold replied. “We can bend the knee to the rebels, like our brother Barristan, we can ride to Starfall then sail to Dragonstone to join the Queen and Prince Viserys, or…” He paused and looked around the table. “Or we can make a stand and fight.”

“I will not bend the knee,” said Ser Arthur. “Just for a moment, stop and think about what will happen if we do. Robert Baratheon will not suffer another Targaryen heir just like he did not suffer Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. If he gets his hands on the babe, he will kill him. I cannot allow that to happen. I swore to Rhaegar that I would keep them safe.”    

“I agree,” said Ser Oswell. “That is not an option. And if we go to Dragonstone, what then? We cannot stay there forever. The Usurper will have us hunted down.”

“We travel across the Narrow Sea, I suppose, to go into hiding,” Ser Gerold said. His voice was heavy.

Ser Arthur shook his head. “And do you think that will mean we are safe? That they are safe? Of course it won’t. It will buy us time, nothing more.”

“Perhaps that is all we need. Once the babe is grown, he can come back to Westeros and claim his throne back again.”

Lyanna turned around and looked at the three Kingsguard. That they were talking about her and Jon was obvious. “I won’t leave Westeros,” she said firmly. Ser Gerold regarded her a moment, then explained,

“It may be the only way to keep the babe king safe.”

“Jon goes nowhere without me, and I will not go to some foreign clime to spend my life running from one place to another. You say that Robert Baratheon will kill him if you bend the knee – I know Robert well enough and I am telling you, a thin stretch of water will not stand in his way. If he wants something, he has this unerring ability to get it.”

Ser Arthur nodded his head. “I believe the Princess is right, my brothers,” he said. He sighed and indicated a chair at the table. “Please sit, Your Grace, and hear the news that prompted this discussion. Perhaps then you will understand our predicament.” Pulling out a chair, Lyanna watched as he leafed through the stray pieces of parchment to locate one in particular. She sat. “A raven came in the early hours of the morning from my sister Ashara. She has told your brother Ned of our whereabouts.”

A smile filled Lyanna’s face. “Ned? Really?” She paused. “Why would she do that?” Ser Arthur looked at the letter in his hands.

“She says that she had to make something right out of all the wrongs. She wishes us to treat with him.”

Lyanna felt a sudden sense of immense gratitude towards Ashara. She had lost so much in her life and yet still she was thinking of trying to do something positive. “But if she’s told Ned where we are…” Lyanna’s voice trailed off. Suddenly, she realised why the knights were so conflicted.

“Then he will be coming here very soon,” finished Ser Arthur. “And I suppose I should not need to remind you that, regardless of my sister’s wishes, he is on the other side.”

There was a long, drawn out moment of tension so sharp it could have cut through the air. All three knights seemed to be holding their breath. “Ned wouldn’t hurt us!” Lyanna cried out. “He loves me dearly.”

“I don’t doubt your brother’s love for you for a moment, Your Grace,” said Ser Arthur. “But he is Robert Baratheon’s man through and through. Do you think he will sit idly by and watch us proclaim a new King? Especially one who is but a babe in arms? The war is over. The rebels have won and a usurper sits the Iron Throne. Ned Stark, honourable though he undoubtedly is, will not want to risk allying himself in any way with a boy whose claim to the throne is a thousand times better than that of his friend’s. It would make him a traitor in the eyes of his friend.”

Her eyes widened as the reality of Ser Arthur’s words sank in. “Don’t fight him!” she exclaimed. “Do what your sister wanted – Ned will surely listen to you if you talk to him. He’s known Robert almost all his life! He could persuade him to help us.” But even as she said the words, Lyanna knew… even if Ned did listen, Robert would not.

“Help us do what?” argued Ser Arthur. “Flee? Bend the knee? Accept Robert Baratheon as our king when we know the rightful king still lives? Stand by and watch them murder him?” He shook his head. “No, I will not do that. I swore a vow – to Prince Rhaegar and to my king, my rightful king. I am of the Kingsguard and I cannot turn away from that vow. I will not.”   

Lyanna stared at the great knight, the man who had wormed his way into her heart in the last ten months with his generosity of spirit and true notions of chivalry. She frowned against the throbbing in her head. Does he know what he is saying?

Ser Oswell Whent broke the shocked silence. “Arthur, you speak it true,” he said. “I am no oathbreaker.”

“So we are decided then,” concluded Ser Gerold. “We stand and fight. Trial by combat.”

Lyanna felt a stone sink in her belly. Trial by combat was a loaded phrase, not just because of what she knew her father had requested of the Mad King, but also because it told her everything of the beliefs of the three men sitting before her. To their minds, they were on the side of right. They were defending the rightful king. Her tiny babe.

But where did that leave Ned?

She was about to raise an objection when suddenly, she was gripped by a terrible sensation that began deep inside her. Her whole body began to shake, wildly and feverishly, utterly out of control. Unable to hold herself upright, she sank sideways off the chair upon which she was sat and slipped to the floor. In half a heartbeat, the three Kingsguard were on their feet and Ser Arthur was kneeling beside her, but she couldn’t stop the trembling in her limbs. Her teeth chattered. She tried to reach out to him, but her hand wouldn’t obey her brain’s command. She heard them shouting to each other, but couldn’t determine the words they were saying.

A moment later, Wylla appeared above her, although she could barely make out the little nurse’s face through the haze of the shivering fit. A cold cloth was pressed to her forehead and one of the Kingsguard pushed something soft beneath her head. Gods, she thought, I am dying.

And then, as quickly as it had come on, it had passed. Lyanna moaned and opened her eyes. “My Princess,” said Ser Arthur, his voice accented with fear. “Can you hear me?” She nodded vaguely in reply.

“We must get her back to her bed,” Wylla instructed them, and she felt Ser Arthur’s strong arms lift her and he took her out of the room and up the steps to her chamber. He set her down on the bed and Wylla began to remove her dress. The three Kingsguard stepped back to allow her to work, averting their eyes.

“I’m cold, Wylla,” Lyanna murmured. Wylla said nothing but passed her another blanket and Lyanna wrapped it around herself. Her fingers felt like they had turned to ice. “What was that? I felt… I felt like I was shaking so hard I was fighting for my life.”

Wylla looked at Ser Arthur, then at her. There was something in her eyes that might have been dread. She reached out and pressed her fingers to Lyanna’s neck. His lips moved silently as she counted.

“What is it?” demanded Ser Arthur when she took her hand away. “Tell me.”

“It is the fever, m’lords,” said Wylla, her face grave. “The childbed fever.”

In the cradle at the end of the bed, Jon began to cry.

Four days later, just eight days after she had sweated and strained to bring her babe into the world, amid the delirium, she heard a voice below. “I looked for you on the Trident,” it said. It punched right through the haze of fever and pain and her fast-beating heart sang.

Ned, she thought. Dearest Ned. Gods, if you hear this, spare my babe and my brother.

 

To be continued...

Notes:

Although more or less everything I have ever read about Lyanna's death has her dying in childbirth just as Ned runs up the steps of the Tower of Joy, I am of the mind that Ned's observation that 'the fever had taken her strength' suggests that instead, she dies of puerperal fever, a common complication of childbirth during the Middle Ages. Famous victims include Mary Wolstonecraft-Godwin (Mary Shelley's mother) and Elizabeth of York, Henry VII's wife. If you look at the whole idea of contrasts in ASOIAF and take Rhaegar and Lyanna as being fire and ice respectively, then look at Elizabeth of York's marriage to the then Henry Tudor which united the houses of Lancaster and York to create the House of Tudor, you have an interesting historical comparison, I think!

Chapter 34: EDDARD - The Prince that was Promised

Notes:

The next two chapters were really, really hard to write, for lots of reasons. I hope they are not so hard to read...

I avoided a lot of stuff with regards to how Ned and Howland Reed beat Ser Arthur Dayne, because I am so unsure of how the actual storyline will play out. But there were some decisions that I just had to make. I'm sure they will be contradicted in due course!

EDDARD – The Prince that was Promised

 

Ice fell from his hand and clattered to the ground.

Above his head, the sky was the colour of blood and the sun left a shadow on his eyes when he looked up. It hurt to draw a breath, but even as he did, he heard the scream again.

“Ned!”

The voice was weak but unmistakeable. Lyanna. He did not even turn to look at the scene of devastation that was laid out before the tower; did not want to; all he wanted to do was get to her. Why isn’t she coming to me? The thought pricked him like the point of a blade.

He shouldered the door of the tower and burst through it with a grunt. The room opened out into a hallway with a flight of stone steps in front and two oak and iron doors off on either side. He flung each door open, finding nobody inside either room, then ran up the steps. His boots rang on the hard floor. He could hear his breath roaring in his chest, his heart fit to burst. “Lyanna!” he shouted.

“Ned!” came the answering call.

He sped up.

He heard her rattling breaths before he even made it through the door of that room on the topmost floor of the tower and it was then that he knew.

She was dying.

When he flung open the door, he couldn’t help the sound of shock that sputtered from his mouth. Lyanna lay on a wide bed, tangled in sheets and blankets that were stained between her thighs with the red and yellow of blood and pus. Her face was grey, sunken and sallow. The whites of her eyes were the colour of congealed grease, the skin around them ringed with red. Her hair was lank and it stuck to her head. She was dressed in a pale nightgown, but it too was smeared, and there were dark flowers of perspiration beneath her arms and across her chest. Beneath it her stomach was grotesquely swollen.

The whole room reeked of blood and death. It was stiflingly hot. Oh Gods, oh Gods, oh Gods…

“Lya,” he said. He went to her. Her eyes rolled to meet his, slow and delayed, and she looked up at him with a blind frown. It was as if she barely recognised his face.

“Ned?” Her voice was tired.

“It’s me, Lya,” he answered. He grabbed up her hand and brought it to his mouth. The skin was hot and clammy, as if it was on fire.

“I’m so cold, Ned,” she murmured. “Don’t breathe on me; it feels like ice.”

His hand fell away from hers, shaking. And then, from within the blankets and sheets that partly covered her, there came a mewling sound, like a wolf pup left alone in the cold. Ned startled. He pulled back the blankets, and there, in the crook of Lyanna’s arm lay a babe, tiny, no more than a week old, wrapped in pale blue swaddling with pink flesh that was a vivid contrast to the ghastly gloom of death that coloured Lyanna’s. It did not matter that he had suspected this outcome; the shock was still the same. “Gods be good,” Ned gasped.

“Don’t be shocked, Ned,” whispered Lyanna. Her eyes were fully open now, but it was as if she were forcing them to stay open. The arm that enveloped the babe held on with a strength that belied the weakness in the rest of her body. “He is my son.”

“Your son?”

She sighed but it took so long a time to push the breath out. “My son with Rhaegar. A Prince, not a bastard… and if he had a crown, he would be a King. Ned… oh, Ned… Look at all of this… I’m dying and there he is, so innocent. I did this. I went with him when I should have said no.” She looked up at Ned with hopelessness. Her lips parted drily. “But I loved him so much it hurt not to be with him. I didn’t mean for any of this…” Her voice trailed away and a wracking cough shook her entire frame. The babe trembled in her arms, yet all the while he was silent. 

“This is not your fault, Lya.”

She ignored him. “You have to stop them,” she pleaded. “Ser Arthur said… Robert… He… he will want him dead. And there will be others too.” He could feel her desperation, sharp and frantic. Tears oozed from her red-rimmed eyes, running down the sides of her face to mingle with the sweat that beaded along her hairline. “Don’t let them hurt him. Please, please…” She drew in another shallow breath. “Take him back to Winterfell and love him as if he were yours. Don’t let them hurt him. And when he is grown, tell him about me and his father and how we loved him dearly. Promise me. Promise me, Ned.”

In his chest, something emptied like a bucket being poured down a well and he stammered, “Lya, I’m married, I--”

“Promise me, Ned,” she said again. Her eyes met his and pleaded with him. He could see the fear within them.  

There was no objection he could make to that. Slowly, he nodded his head. “Say it, Ned,” she breathed. Her voice was frail and child-like. “And hold me up. I want to die happy.”

He sank to his knees beside her and gathered her into his arms. She clutched at his fingers. The babe puffed and blew as his position was changed, but all the while, Lyanna’s arm gripped him tightly. Her body felt heavy and weightless, both at the same time, and he could feel the burning of her skin. Before the red star fades and the fire that burns within her empties her. “I promise, Lya. On my honour, I promise you, and I promise him.”

At his words, the faintest of smiles lifted her lips and then she closed her eyes.

He knelt there, holding her, as her breathing grew slower and slower, as the pulse that beat against his arm fluttered and faltered and then finally fell away, almost imperceptibly. In her last few moments, the hold she had on the babe in her arm weakened and the child slipped away from her grasp and sank to the featherbed.

Ned had no idea how long he held her like that. When eventually a familiar hand laid itself on his shoulder, the heat had fled from Lyanna’s body. “Ned,” came Howland Reed’s voice. “She’s gone.”

Gone. The very word sounded like a knell. He breathed in, closed his eyes and clenched his jaw tight. “I know,” he murmured. Oh, Lya…

Another figure drifted before his sight, a small woman with a freckled face and a snub nose. “I’m Wylla, m’lord,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’m the boy’s wet nurse. Since she fell sick, I’ve been trying to keep her comfortable, but it’s been hard. We haven’t got the medicines or supplies here. The knights… they sent me to the nearest village to get what might help, and I have just returned, but I see she is gone already. I am sorry.”

Ned stared up at the strange woman. “You have been here too?” he asked in a numb voice.

“I helped deliver the babe, and then I have been nursing him along with the Princess.”

“Princess,” Reed repeated. “We were right, Ned. They were here to defend their rightful king.”

For once, thought Ned, I knew before he did. He gazed down in despondence at the grim secret Lyanna had spilled all over the sheets of her bed, then turned to stare at the babe as he fussed silently beside his dead mother. Ned felt a hole open up inside him and gape like a maw at the tragic innocence. This tiny boy had no idea what he had lost. “Does he have a name?” he asked.

“M’lady called him Jon,” explained Wylla. “She told me that if he had been a girl, Prince Rhaegar was to have named the babe, but as he was a boy, it was her choice and she wanted Jon.”

“Jon Targaryen,” said Howland Reed, “the First of his Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Promise me, Ned.

“I promised her I would keep him safe,” Ned said. He leaned over Lyanna’s body and picked up Jon from the bed. The babe looked up at him with staring eyes. His quietness was almost unearthly. The downy hair upon his head was dark and his eyes were Stark grey. There was little of Rhaegar Targaryen in his countenance – the vaguest suggestion in the shape of the eyes, if you were really looking, but other than that, the boy was a Stark. “She died peacefully because of my vow. I cannot turn my back on that now.” He shook his head and looked at the crannogman. “If Robert finds out who he is, he will have him killed. You heard of the madness in him when Tywin Lannister brought him the bodies of Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, did you not?”

“I did, my lord.”

“Then you know that we cannot let his birth right be known.”

There was a pause.

“I believe King Robert would see that as treason, Ned,” warned Reed. Ned’s eyes narrowed.

“I know that. But I swore my sister a vow. I could not stop her death, but I can do my best to stop her son’s.” 

“What would you have us do with him then?” It was a simple enough question to voice, but Ned did not have the answer to it. He frowned down at the child.

“I do not know.” He sighed. “I do not know.”

The afternoon turned warm, with a strong, dry wind blowing from the south-east. Outside, it was just about bearable, but inside the tower, it was much too hot for Ned’s northern blood. He was standing on the doorstep, looking out at the bodies of the dead, when Howland Reed came up to him. “My lord,” he said. His voice was heavy with sadness. “We should bury them.”

Ned shook his head. “The ground is hard as rock and much too stony – I’d be surprised if there was enough earth to actually make graves deep enough to stop animals from digging the bodies back up again.” He paused. “And I will not have that. It will have to be cairns.” Reed nodded, looking around. There were some massive boulders sticking out of the ground in places, all far too large to be moved, and a wealth of pebbles and stones no bigger than gravel, but apart from that, pickings were slim.

“Where do you wish to get the stones?”

Breathing in, Ned inclined his head at the tower. “From there. I want it pulling down.”

“The Tower of Joy?”

“Is that what they call it?” Ned huffed a laugh at the irony.

“The Dornish nurse told me that’s what the Prince had dubbed it. Strictly speaking, though, it belongs to House Dayne,” explained Reed. “It was a place where one of Ser Arthur’s elderly relatives passed her dotage, some hundred years or so ago.”

“The Tower of Joy,” repeated Ned. “Well, it has brought me no joy at all. We will need to get men from somewhere to help us lower it. Can you arrange to ride to the nearest village for help?”

Reed shook his head. His eyes sparkled. “No, my lord.” Ned was about to frown and challenge his friend’s refusal when Reed continued, “The fewer people who know of what happened here, the better. I will do it myself.” He is japing, Ned thought. “You look as if you believe I am not serious, my lord.”

“You must be jesting with me, friend,” replied Ned. He thought it impolite to actually point out that the crannogman was scarcely taller than a boy and that physical strength could not be something he possessed.

“No, no, I am not.” Reed smiled enigmatically. He turned to one of the large boulders that jutted out of the ground. Soundlessly, his lips moved, then the entire rock appeared to quiver and shake and with a rushing sound, collapsed to the ground in a puddle of water that began immediately to soak away. Ned stared.

“How… How did you do that?”

Howland Reed said nothing. His lips moved again and then the water sucked its way out of the ground and the rock was returned to its original state. Earth into water and water into earth. “The magic of the crannogs,” Ned said in wonderment. Reed arched his brows and smiled again.

“My people’s ways are strange to many, so when we come out of our land of bogs and swamps, we tend to leave our magics behind us. You remember what I said to you before, my lord? Magic is only called magic because it is something that men do not understand and cannot explain. And it would not do to be seen to be weaving words by someone who did not understand. It could be very dangerous indeed.” He paused. “It is an unfortunate truth that men tend to fear what they do not understand.”

Ned agreed, thinking of Robert in particular, “That much I have certainly seen to be true.” He looked back at the tower. “So you could turn this entire tower into water and then remould it into eight cairns?” He couldn’t help it; there was still the sound of amazement in his voice.

“Not in one section,” admitted Reed, “but I could do one cairn at a time. The effort would be considerable, however.”

“You will not put yourself in any danger,” Ned said categorically. Ser Arthur would have killed him if it hadn’t been for the little crannogman and he owed him a debt of much and more for that.

“I will do what needs to be done, my lord, nothing more and nothing less. But there is one thing upon which you must swear…”

Ned stared at Reed, wondering what required such a grave tone of import. “Anything. You have earned my fealty far more than I have earned yours, my friend.”

“You must never speak of what I did here. To anyone. The magics of the crannogs have been the stuff of legends for thousands of years. It is better for all of my people if it stays that way.”

“You have my word,” said Ned. He looked over to the fallen body of Ser Arthur Dayne. The great knight of the Kingsguard lay on his back, his white cloak spread out beneath him, stained with dirt and blood. Ned had taken his helm off himself and seen the eyes roll whitely to the top of his skull. Now the blood that had poured from his crushed temple had dried in the heat of the Dornish sun, and had formed a vile crust.

It was hardly a fitting end for the man.

The sword that lay but a pace away from him was a thing of beauty. Ned had thought Ice was impressive when first he had laid eyes on his family’s ancestral sword, but this was another thing entirely. The blade was as pale as the moon, shining with a light all of its own. He knew the stories about the title of the Sword of the Morning, that it was a name given to only the very best of men from House Dayne, the most perfect and honourable of swordsmen. Ned went to the sword called Dawn and picked it up. It was lighter even than Valyrian steel and so well-balanced it seemed to naturally fall into the right position in his hand. He turned to Howland Reed. “I know it is a risk to do so, but I will return this to Starfall,” he said. “It is its rightful place. And I must needs speak to the Lady Ashara.” And thank her for her message, and tell her of its futile and sorry outcome. Ned swallowed and let out a sigh.

Through the open window of the tower, Ned heard the sound of Wylla speaking to the babe in a quiet patter of nonsense. The crannogman must have heard it too, for he asked, “And what of the babe?”

Ned looked up at the window. “I see only one possible course of action,” he said. It was not going to be easy though. The lies I will have to tell, he thought, the people I will have to deceive. Every moment of the boy’s life would be a slight on him. He sighed painfully. “I must needs claim his as my own. If I take him back to Winterfell, I can call him Snow and no man will know he is not my bastard child, Robert included.”

Howland Reed regarded him thoughtfully. “That would be an honourable thing, my lord.”

“Would it?” Ned considered aloud. “I am not sure anyone but you will think so.” Reed inclined his head.

“No, perhaps not… but some lies are honourable lies.”

And may the Gods forgive me for them, thought Ned.

That evening, they built a fire before the tower and piled the soiled sheets and blankets from Lyanna’s chamber onto the roaring flames. Everything went – the bed, the drapes, even the cradle fashioned from a sawn in half barrel, so fearful was Wylla that some of the sickness that had struck Lyanna down would be on them. Everything apart from the Targaryen cloak Ned found folded beneath the bed. He took that for himself, and as a final act of remembrance, wrapped the babe in it and stood with his companions before the fire.  

So Ned had held him while the smoke filled their noses, watching puffs of ashes blow up into a sky stained red by the setting sun like dead rose petals, grey now, and no longer blue. 

He remained outside long after Wylla and the crannogman had retired, until the stars came out and the fire had sunk away to just a pile of glowing embers. He sighed and looked down at the babe, tears swimming in his eyes. Oh, what I have promised you, young Prince. In his arms, wrapped in red and black and with his head resting against the direwolf sigil on Ned’s surcoat, Jon Targaryen, the First of his Name, had fallen asleep.  

When next he woke, he would be Jon Snow, bastard son of Ned Stark of Winterfell.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 35: AFTERMATH

AFTERMATH

 

Climbing from his horse, Ned approached the great oaken doors of Starfall’s Palestone Sword and banged his fist hard against the wood. The sound echoed out across the bay. Behind him, one of the horses whinnied nervously at the noise. He stood back and waited. Soon, a figure appeared atop the tower, dressed in mail and steel half-helm, spear in hand. “Who goes there?” he shouted down.

“I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. I wish to speak with Lady Ashara, if she would.”

The figure turned and disappeared without a further word. Ned glanced at Howland Reed, then at Wylla, who was sitting uncomfortably atop Theo Wull’s steady, sure-footed garron, with Jon swaddled against her chest. Beside her, Howland Reed held Willam Dustin’s red stallion by a long lead rope. They waited, and then waited some more. While they stood, Ned looked out across the beautiful bay Starfall commanded a view over. The harbour was busy with boats of all sizes, from three huge galleys moored further out to dozens of tiny fishing gigs skitting through the shallows. Above his head, gulls wheeled and screamed like raucous puppets on strings across a sky bluer than anything Ned had seen.

His vigil was disturbed by the great doors opening. Ned turned. A steward dressed in a lavender tunic, alongside a pair of men-at-arms in boiled leather, was standing in the entrance. “Lord Stark,” said the steward, who was the eldest of the three, a thin-faced man whose sandy hair was sprinkled heavily with grey. “I am afraid you cannot bring your mounts into the castle walls. However, please allow us to take them to the stables where they will be fed, watered and rested.” Ned nodded and indicated to Howland Reed to hand the horses over. He helped Wylla dismount, then turned to his friend.

“Go with them, will you?” he asked. “See that everything is in order. Wylla, if you would accompany me?”

They followed the steward through the doors and up an apparently never-ending curl of steps that ascended the tower. As he climbed, Ned wondered who had come up with such an impractical way of entering a castle – whoever it had been must have been a remarkably paranoid man. Once at the top, the steward led them across a star-shaped courtyard to a stone keep, then up two further flights of steps to another oaken door. He knocked and shouted out, “Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and his handmaid, to see you my lady.”

“Send them in,” said a voice from within. Ned recognised it instantly from that warm night at Harrenhal. It seems like half my life has passed since then, he thought.

“My lord,” said the steward.

The door opened onto a large room that was pale yellow with sunlight. Ornate tapestries hung from the sandstone walls, and a sea breeze blew in from a balcony. Lady Ashara Dayne was sitting in a wicker chair looking out over the water. She had her back to him. The long dark hair that had caught his attention from across the Hall of a Hundred Hearths was half hidden by the rise of the chair-back, but still he felt curiously drawn to her. The steward cleared his throat and announced him, and then left. For a long moment, Ned stood completely still, a few paces in from the door, wondering what to say. He opened his mouth, but just as he did, Ashara saved him the awkwardness. “Ned Stark,” she said. Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear it. “I had thought I might see your face again.”

“You did, my lady?”

She twisted in her chair and her purple eyes fixed on him. Gone was the laughing look of them he remembered, replaced instead by an abyss of sadness so great it almost drew him in and drowned him right there. Half from shock and half from sympathy, he took a step towards her. “I did, my lord. I asked my brother to treat with you, and when I wrote the letters, I told myself everything would be fine, but…” Her voice trailed away and she looked away from him again. “When I received no reply from him, I knew. I wondered if it would be easier, knowing such a thing was coming before it came – if somehow it would be less painful than how it had felt when Elia came to tell me Brandon had been killed, when I saw my little girl taken away from me, blue and lifeless – but I can tell you, it is not.” A sigh gushed out of her lungs, as if she had been holding the breath in for hours.

And then he saw that there were tears running silently down her cheeks. He went to her and knelt on one knee before her, placing Dawn in her lap. The greatsword looked massive alongside her thin frame. “I am so sorry, my lady, for the tidings I must bring you. So very sorry.”

“Everyone always says that,” she said quietly, wiping her eyes, “when they bring ill news, as if that little word ‘sorry’ can somehow make the news bearable. Yet how could it? What can a word do?”

Ned said nothing. The bitterness in her tone was palpable, but he knew it was not aimed at him.

Ashara looked down at the sword. It was clear what it was, even though Ned had wrapped it in Ser Arthur’s white cloak. Her hands fell to the blade. “He was always so proud of this,” she murmured. “When it was bestowed upon him, he changed. It was as if his whole purpose in life had been made clear to him, as if he wanted nothing else again… I knew he would die with it in his hand.”

Ned looked away, a guilty feeling gnawing at him.

“My lady, why did you tell me where Lyanna was?” he asked. “You must have known that your brother was guarding her and what could happen.”

Folding the cloak back over Dawn, Ashara stood and carried it to a table, where she set it down carefully. “Because I remembered you from Harrenhal,” she explained as she turned back to him. “And because I thought you were a good man. Brandon always said you were the finest of men.” She met his eyes. “You deserved to get her back, if nothing else. You’ve lost as much to them as I have.”

Ned frowned. “Them?”

“The Targaryens.” She closed her eyes as if she was summoning her innermost strength. At her sides, her hands closed into fists so tight her knuckles turned white as pearls. “It was the Mad King who killed my lover, he who refused to allow my Elia to return home to Dorne, keeping her prisoner until Gregor Clegane butchered her and her little ones… I loved Elia like a sister, and I believed Prince Rhaegar would have made a good king, but they are gone now. Which leaves Viserys – and, believe me, my lord, I have spent enough time in his presence to know which way the coin has fallen for him. No, I have no love for what remains of the Targaryen dynasty.”

“But your brother…?”

“My brother was Prince Rhaegar’s dearest friend. In many ways he was closer to him than he was to me. I begged him to leave his Kingsguard duties and come back home, but he would hear none of it.”

She shook her head and continued, “I know I have committed a grievous sin, although few but you and I know it, and that I would be thought a kinslayer in the eyes of many. But I had hoped and prayed for a better end. And too many wrongs had been done. I had to try to make something right out of all of this… all of this bloody mess.” She sighed, then looked at him hopefully. “But your sister… tell me, how is she?”         

Ned swallowed, wishing he could tell her something other than the truth. “Lyanna is dead.” He paused. Speaking the words aloud was still difficult. “But you cannot blame yourself for that, Ashara. Her death was nothing to do with your letter.”

Saying nothing, Ashara moved back to the wicker chair she had been sat in and lowered herself down. She was perhaps two and twenty, yet she seemed like an old woman, with the weight of the world upon her shoulders. Ned watched her wipe the skin beneath her purple eyes. “Oh Gods!” she pleaded quietly to the ceiling. “I am so sorry, Ned. It seems that I am cursed in everything I do.”

He wondered how she was going to get over the grief that crouched within her. “You are not cursed, my lady,” he said softly. “You tried to do what you thought was the right thing, but as happens so often in life, other people's actions got in the way... You will get over this, in time. Just as I will.” His words felt a horrible lie as he said them, but Ashara gave him a wan smile.

“I wish I had your conviction, Ned. Right now, it feels as if I have nothing left in my life. The man I loved who would have been my paramour is gone, my babe, my friend and my brother are all dead. No man outside of Dorne will want to marry a soiled woman who has given birth to another man’s bastard.”

“If I was free to marry you, Ashara, I would offer to do so, in my brother’s memory if nothing else.”

“Oh, good, sweet Ned,” she said. Standing, she went to him, stood on her toes and kissed him on his cheek. If the situation had been any different, Ned would have blushed furiously. “You are just like Brandon said you were – the most honourable Stark of all.”

He ignored the comment and continued, “But we both know that is impossible. I have a wife, and a son… and now a bastard.” He angled his head towards Wylla, standing alone by the door of the room. She had not moved since they had entered, her head dipped in deference. Ashara looked across at the wet-nurse, seeing her as if for the first time, and tilted her head in questioning.

“Wylla?”

“Yes, m’lady?” said Wylla, lifting her gaze to Ashara’s.

“What are you doing with Lord Stark?”

“I was at the tower, m’lady,” replied Wylla. “Ser Arthur took me back with him when he rode here for supplies. I delivered the babe.”

Ashara looked down in shock at the bundle in her arms; Jon had remained so quiet throughout that his presence had gone completely unnoticed. “The babe?” She stood and went to look closer. Jon stared up at her with the same silence he greeted everyone with. “He looks like a Stark,” she told Ned. “Sometimes I try to imagine my babe’s face, but I cannot. They took her from me before I had even had a chance to see her.” She looked from Wylla, to Ned, and then back to Jon. Realisation dawned on her face. “He’s not yours, though, is he?”

Ned did not reply. A moment held while Ashara watched Jon and Jon watched her in return. Eventually, she continued, and her voice held the tone of someone who had suddenly fit together the pieces of a puzzle, “And now it all makes even more sense… This was more than my brother keeping his loyalty to his friend. This is Prince Rhaegar’s little boy, isn’t it? And my brother… my brother was doing his duty, protecting his King, just as he had sworn to do when he donned that white cloak – an honourable man, to the end.”

Ned could not disagree. In the end, the honour of the great Ser Arthur Dayne had indeed been his downfall. Ned said, “He was doing his duty. It seems my sister and the Prince married--”

“Oh, I know,” interrupted Ashara. “Septon Melore told me that much. My father has been encouraging me to spend more time with him in the hopes that it will help with my grief, though surely only the Gods know how I’m supposed to be eased by a man who is so deaf he cannot hold a conversation.” Ashara reached out and touched Jon’s cheek. He cooed softly in response. “A new Targaryen Prince,” she murmured.

Suddenly, a cold sense of dread filled him. If Ashara knows who he is and if what she says about her feelings for the Targaryens is true, have I just walked straight into the worst kind of trouble?  He should have sent Wylla with Howland Reed instead of bringing her and the babe with him. He had thought it better to keep Jon within his sight, but now…

His fear must have shown on his face, for Ashara smiled a thin, affronted smile at him. “Oh, do not think me capable of harming a child – I am no Gregor Clegane. What will you do with him?”

“Take him back to Winterfell with me,” explained Ned, “and raise him alongside my trueborn son.”

A look of admiration crossed Ashara’s face. “You would do such a thing? That is very… Dornish. And very brave.”

“I see no other option.”

“You are a good man, Ned Stark. It is no wonder my brother spoke highly of you,” she said. “And you need not worry that I know your secret. I think if this boy spends his life living as a Snow up in your cold North, he will be better off.” She looked down at Jon again and relief washed over Ned. “If I could come with you to see him raised right, then I would, but I fear your lady wife would not look so kindly on that.”

Ned gave a bitter laugh. “I think accepting that I broke my vows to her and fathered a bastard on another woman will be enough of a challenge for her, I’m afraid.”

She turned and approached him. Her graceful hand reached up and she ran the backs of her fingers lightly along his bearded cheek. “Oh, you have such grit, Ned, you really are the bravest man I know. You’ll make a good lord – the best, in truth.”

Ned blushed then and replied, “Thank you, my lady. I hope I do.” He reached out and took up her hands in his. “And what of yourself?” Ashara sighed.

“There are things I have been thinking of,” she said. “Offers that have been made to me. My father has been trying to tempt me with suitors again. Perhaps I shall marry one of them. Perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I will go away, across the Narrow Sea, where I can forget about this life and start anew. Perhaps I… well, it does not do to dwell on it.” She gently pulled her hands free of his. “I must leave you now, my lord. I wish you well, and be sure to care for the boy… I shall pray for him.”

And with that, she left him, disappearing out of the door, trailing her sadness behind her. The next morning, they found her dress and shawl in a small pile atop the Palestone Sword, and Starfall descended further into grief.

 

To be continued...

Chapter 36: EDDARD - Living the Lies

Notes:

Slightly earlier update this week. I like to keep you all on your toes! ;)

EDDARD – Living the Lies

 

The journey north was a long one and took many moons. But when finally the ruins of Moat Cailin came into view, Ned thought he had not seen a more welcome sight. Howland Reed left them there, swearing his silence to Ned about Jon on one knee, but then they continued their ride to Winterfell.

The ride home, Ned thought.

There had been snow north of the Barrowlands in recent days, but the King’s Road was still passable with care. The air was cold and crisp and stung in his lungs, and all around him was the blessed North – grey-green sentinels, snow-covered moorlands and straight, tall pines. The sky was blue and clear and the sun sparkled down on the ice. For the shortest of times, Ned felt joyous. But then he remembered what lay ahead of him. On the long journey from the capital, he had resolved himself to tell Catelyn nothing about Jon’s true parentage. He had thought of confiding in her, but the more he considered it, the more he realised there was no option but deception, even though the idea made him sick to the core. He could not ask her to become complicit in his treason – that would be hugely unfair – and moreover, how could he guarantee her silence? He may have taken her to wife, but in reality they were little more than strangers – he did not know how she would react to such news, or even if she would be prepared to join him in the plan at all. And if she ever had to choose between Jon and a child of her own body, he could hardly blame her if she would find that choice easy. The risk, in short, was far too great. And so he resolved himself to living his lies. 

Poor Catelyn, he thought. When she took my hand in the sept at Riverrun, she must have thought she was marrying an honourable man.

The rest of the journey passed fretfully for Ned as he wondered what words would be exchanged between him and his lady wife when he had to show her Jon. So absorbed was he by his thoughts that the days seemed to merge together and it seemed no time at all before the great granite walls of Winterfell emerged out of the snowfield.

The drawbridge was raised and the gates closed, but as Ned approached, the greycloaks standing on guard recognised his destrier and the call was sounded to open up for Lord Eddard. He heard the cracking of ice on the chains as the drawbridge came down and then the dull thump as it connected with the ground. He spurred his horse forward, beckoning to Wylla to follow him.

Inside the castle, the courtyard was quiet. A few men were working outside the stables, shovelling soiled straw into a cart, but with no Martyn Cassell it was Benjen who came to greet him from across the courtyard. “Ned,” he cried. “Welcome home!”

Ned swung down from the saddle and one of the stable-boys came running to take the horse from him. “Brother, it is good to see you.” He enveloped Benjen in a firm embrace. A year had passed since Ned had last seen his little brother, but the changes in him were clear to see. Benjen was several inches taller, his face was thinner, his nose and cheekbones sharper and less childish looking, and on his chin there was the vaguest hint of a whispery beard. He looked almost a man grown already. “You are looking well,” Ned observed.

“And you look tired,” said Benjen with a wry smile. “Was the journey harsh on you?”

Ned sighed. “This whole year has been harsh on me. Come,” he said, “there is much and more to tell you.”

They found themselves in the lord’s solar. Ned did not sit in the chair, feeling awkward in a room that he knew was his now, but still echoed with his father’s ghost. Instead, he went to the window and looked out. Through it he could see the Godswood and the huge white branches and blood red leaves of the heart tree reaching skywards; he would go there afterward and offer up a prayer. He listened to his brother pulling out a seat behind him, and after a moment turned back to Ben and said, “Lyanna is dead.”

At his words, Benjen went pale; he searched Ned’s face, as if trying to look for a lie. “When?” he said, finally. Ned thought back. He had seen three full moons since that fateful day before the Red Mountains of Dorne.

“Three moons ago. She died in my arms when I found her – it was a fever that took her.” He did not elaborate further and prayed Ben would not ask questions of him.

“Gods…” murmured Benjen. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold back tears, and then pushed his fists into his eyes hard. Ned said nothing, letting Ben compose himself. Although he had been close to Lya, it was Benjen who had spent the most time with her of all of them. “Was there nothing you could have done?” Shaking his head, Ned replied,

“She was too far gone. There was nothing anyone could have done.”

Silence stretched out. Ned did not choose to break it, though, believing his brother simply needed the time to come to terms with the news he had just heard. When eventually Ben opened his eyes, he swallowed hard and said, “I want to take the Black.”

“What?” Ned couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.

“You heard, brother.”

“I did,” admitted Ned, “but I don’t understand. You are barely five and ten. Why would you wish to do such a thing?”

“I have my reasons,” Benjen explained with no clarity whatsoever. “And besides, it is not such a strange thing for a Stark to join the Night’s Watch.” Ned stared at his brother in amazement. It was true that throughout the years there had been many Stark men who had joined the Watch and risen through the ranks to become Lord Commanders or First Rangers, but Benjen was so young. Does he even know what he is doing? What he is giving up?

“I know that,” said Ned, “but there is always a place for you at Winterfell, or a keep you would be entitled to as my brother.”

Benjen shrugged. “Yes…” he said in a faraway voice. “But the Night’s Watch is an honourable post.” Sighing, Ned wondered what his brother was trying to say. Does he think that he is not wanted, now that I am married and have an heir? He swallowed and put on his firmest tone, his lord’s voice, as he thought it.

“If you wish to have my blessing in this, brother, you are going to have to be more forthcoming with me than that.”

Ben looked away; Ned saw then that there were tears budding in his eyes again and for all his physical maturity, suddenly he seemed like just a boy. “I would rather not speak of it, Ned,” he said. “And you are not my father and I do not need your blessing.”  

Ignoring the challenge in Benjen’s words, Ned said simply, “I know that, Ben, but do you know the oath of the Night’s Watch? You must give up a good deal if you join up with them. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes,” said his brother. “There was a recruiter at Harrenhal, remember? I listened to what he had to say the same as everyone else.”

Ned tried to cast his mind back to when the Black Brother had spoken to the gathered men at the tourney feast, but he could remember only the vaguest recollection. He shook his head at Benjen. “I promise you I have thought about this for some time,” said Ben. “And I am not doing this on some whim. I have made my choice. Please respect my decision.”

Ned sighed. Whatever reasons Ben had, Ned did not feel like he was about to extract them now. His little brother had always had a stubborn streak in him, and if Ned himself was to have his own secrets, perhaps Benjen was allowed to have some too. He spread his hands. “Of course I will respect your decision, although that does not mean I have to endorse it.”

They parted company on that note. Ned remained in the solar, thinking on the words they had exchanged. He wondered if the decision had something to do with him hearing of Lyanna’s death, or whether Ben had simply been saving up his announcement for when Ned returned. Whatever it was, he knew he had to respect his brother’s decision.

Ned stood and went to window again, looking out across the courtyard, over the roofs of the armoury and the guest house towards the Godswood. The sun was dipping below the treeline and filling the wood with the last rays of light. Soon, it would be as dark and unforgiving as every other part of the North. A knock came at the door and Ned shouted for the caller to enter. Vayon Poole appeared and asked if he wished to eat with the rest of the household, or take his meal in the solar. Knowing he should always make a point of eating with his men, Ned chose to descend to the Great Hall.

Once he was there, though, he found himself hardly able to eat a bite, his mind awhirl with troubling thoughts of Ben, of Jon and of Robert. He picked at the food on his platter; it was pleasant enough, but he simply did not have the stomach for it. Instead, he sat in his lord’s seat and watched the rest of the household. They were in good spirits, whether for the return of their lord or because the day had been snow free, Ned could not tell, but they were drinking and talking and eating with vigour. A few men turned occasionally to look at him, then whispered to their companions, but Ned ignored them – their interest and attention would wane once they became used to the new face that ruled them.

He thought of Catelyn, then, and the new face of his son that he had yet to lay eyes upon. He must send a raven to her to bring her to Winterfell. His son would be near five months old now, and would have grown much and more since his birth. He tried to imagine what he looked like. Jon had a thickening mop of dark hair and his eyes were turning greyer with every week. Did his own boy look the same? Or did he have the Tully hair and blue eyes?

Excusing himself from the table, Ned went back to the Great Keep and climbed the steps to the room he had given to Jon and Wylla. The wet-nurse was knitting in a chair by the window and Jon was asleep in the cradle, his tiny fat hands flung above his head. He did not look like a Targaryen Prince, and for that, Ned was grateful. He had no idea what he would have done had the boy been born with silver hair and eyes of lilac. “How is the boy, Wylla?” he asked.

“Oh, he is well, m’lord. He is a contented babe – he eats and sleeps and rarely cries. I have not known such a quiet child.”

Ned went to the cradle and looked down at Jon. Perhaps he knows, thought Ned, and knows he must not draw attention to himself. A babe that cried and fussed was like to become a burden very quickly indeed. “I hope you do not mind me taking you so far from your home,” he said after a moment. Wylla set down her knitting in her lap and smiled at him.

“You have promised me a handsome sum in payment for my service and silence, m’lord, else I would not have considered it.”

“Still,” said Ned, “the North is not Dorne.”

“It isn’t, but your castle is warm, and I am happy to serve you so long as the babe needs me.”

Ned knew little of caring for babes, but his thoughts turned immediately to Catelyn. He wondered if she would have a wet-nurse of her own, or if she would require him to find her one. Mayhaps she would even be feeding Robb herself – it was not unheard of. “How long will he need you?” he asked Wylla.

“A few more months yet, m’lord. He is strong, but he will not tolerate solid food until he is near a year old.”

Ned stood watching Jon for a while longer, before retiring to bed. He stripped off his garb and sat in his smallclothes on the edge of the bed. He was tired. Not the ordinary kind of tired, but a deep, bone-aching fatigue that made his limbs feel as if they were wrought from granite. He raised his hand and observed the tremor in it wryly.

The bed was fresh laid with blankets and furs and he crawled gratefully beneath them, and for the first time in what seemed like many, many months, allowed the exhaustion in his body to overtake him.    

When he woke the next morning, it was from a sleep so dead he had dreamed not at all, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. The room was bright with daylight and he frowned, rising and going to the window. The sun was already climbing in the sky and Ned realised that he had slept long past dawn. He poured himself a cup of water from the jug on the night-stand and drank deep, then filled his basin and washed away the sweat and sleep. Once dressed, he went to the Maester’s Tower and sent a raven to Riverrun, then made his way down to the Godswood.

As he left the sounds of the castle behind, Ned felt the peace of the place sink into his soul. His feet made no sound on the spongy ground. Thousands of years of fallen needles, leaves and branches decayed slowly beneath the ancient trees, creating a litter that was thick and fragrant. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the canopy like swords and patterned the ground with slowly shifting light. He walked past a storm-felled tree, a forest of yellow, white and coppery fungi sprouting from its bark. There were birds too, the soft quork of a raven somewhere above him, and then the startled rick-rick-rick of a pair of partridges disturbed by his presence.

Out of the gloom, the heart tree emerged before him. Its huge white trunk was so large two men would have struggled to wrap their arms around it and its red leaves were still in the barely moving air. Ned circled around the black pool that lay before the tree and stared into the melancholy face that was carved in its bark. It stared back at him, ancient and wise. He went to his usual place – a grey granite rock that stuck up out of the ground – and sat facing the tree, his head bowed. Breathing in, he closed his eyes.

Prayer before this heart tree always came easily for Ned and this morning was no exception. He had gone to sleep the night before thinking of Jon and Catelyn and his son, and now they filled his prayers. “Gods,” he said in a low voice, beginning in the same way he always did, “I pray for the souls of the living and of the dead. Let Lyanna’s soul be at ease now and let her see that I have taken her boy and hope to do as she wished. Let Jon and my son live long and healthy lives and let them grow up close as brothers, and let my lady wife find it in her heart to forgive…”

Above him, the leaves of the heart tree shook with a sudden breeze and Ned looked up, frowning at the branches. The day had been still. He shook his head, putting the rustling down to an unexpected lifting of the wind, and then resumed his prayer. “Let Catelyn forgive me for the lies I have to tell her. I pray she comes to love me in spite of the wrongs I must needs do, and that we both find happiness in our marriage. Grant wisdom to my brother Benjen in his choices and may the men of my household and lands come to trust and love me. And last of all, Gods be good to me.”

He stopped then and lifted his head, looking long at the face carved into the tree. Finally, he stood, brushed the dry moss and dirt from his breeches, and turned back to the castle. He would return to offer the same prayer before bed this evening.

When Catelyn finally arrived at Winterfell three weeks later, Ned was out with a hunting party. They had landed a pair of bucks just south of the castle and were heading home with the carcasses when Farlen saw the riders and the baggage wayn moving slowly up the King’s Road. The snows had melted some and the King’s Road was now a dark tongue easy to spot against the white of the surrounding moorland. Ned sent the hunters back to the castle while he went to meet the new arrivals with an honour guard.

There were six riders dressed in Tully blue and red and flying the leaping trout banner surrounding a woman atop a dapple grey mare. As he approached, they called to him, “Greetings, Lord Stark, we bring your lady wife and your son and heir.”

“My grateful thanks,” said Ned. He looked immediately to Catelyn. She was dressed warmly in a thick fur-lined cloak, the hood raised to cover her auburn hair. From beneath it, he caught her smile at him. “My lady,” he greeted, acknowledging her with a nod and his own smile. He turned then to her accompanying guard. “Welcome to Winterfell, my lords. There are warm fires, featherbeds and food to furnish you well for your return journey.”

“That would be most welcome, Lord Stark,” said the leader. “I am Ser Robin Ryger.” 

Ned instructed them to follow him and led the way back to the castle. The hunting party had opened the gates and lowered the drawbridge in preparation for the arrival and Ned rode straight into the courtyard. He swung down from his horse, stretched himself to his full height, and waited whilst the Tully guardsmen dismounted and Robin Ryger helped Catelyn from her horse. As she was lowered down, Ned noticed that she kept one arm around herself, holding something hidden within her cloak. Once she had both her feet on the ground, she turned to Ned and lowered her hood. Her hair shone in the light and he was reminded just how beautiful she really was. “My lady,” he said and went to her, picking up her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles. “It is good to see you at last.” He smiled self-consciously, wishing that the guardsmen surrounding them would disperse and allow them a few moments alone. There was a knot of nervousness in the pit of his stomach. “I have been waiting for your arrival.”

Catelyn smiled at him. Gently, she parted her cloak and murmured, “Your son, my lord. I named him Robb – I thought you would approve.”

Swaddled against Catelyn’s breast was an infant boy, a little larger than Jon, already bearing a bright thatch of auburn hair. He was asleep, his eyes closed, his pink lips parted slightly, and his cheeks rosy. Ned gazed down at him in wonderment and felt something in his chest clench tight. “Robb,” he said softly. “My boy.”

“If we go inside, you can hold him,” said Catelyn. There was pride in her voice.  

“Yes, of course, that would be…” He looked up at her, then leaned in and kissed her cheek. “That would be pleasant.”

He gave orders for the horses to be tended to and then led Catelyn and the visitors into the Great Hall. The fire had been lit and was blazing hard in the hearth, kicking out a tremendous heat that was already filling up the room. The grateful men immediately gathered around it, removing gloves and cloaks and furs. Girls from the kitchens came up and offered them cups of mulled wine, which they took eagerly. The activity allowed Ned and Catelyn to steal away to a corner. He took her cloak from her shoulders. “Is this better for you, my lady?” he asked her.

Nodding, Catelyn began to unwrap the swaddling that held Robb against her chest. As she did so, he woke and began to cry. “Oh,” she said. “I had hoped he wouldn’t wake yet.” She looked around uncertainly at the gathered men, then up at Ned. “Can we go somewhere quieter? It’s just that… I will need to feed him.”

Ned’s thoughts blundered around his head a moment, then he said, “Come up to my solar. It’ll be quiet up there.” She nodded and he guided her out to the Great Keep, then up the steps to his solar. Inside, there was a fire burning low and the room was warm but not stifling. Robb had fussed and whimpered all the while, but as Catelyn finished removing the swaddling and freed him, he began to cry well and good. His fists opened and closed, his face reddening. He was dressed in a grey baby gown edged with lace, his little feet covered with woollen socks. Catelyn lifted him onto her shoulder and rubbed his back soothingly. “Hush, my babe,” she said in a quiet voice. “Shhh…”

She sat and then began to open her gown. Balking, Ned averted his eyes. “My lady, oh, I, um, I will leave you,” he stammered. Catelyn paused in her action and looked up at him oddly.

“You do not have to,” she said. “He is your son. I am only feeding him.” She bobbed her brows at him and flashed a teasing smile. “And I believe you have seen my breasts before, my lord.”

Ned stared at her, not knowing quite how to respond to that comment, but his feet did not move. Catelyn held Robb up to her breast and when he latched onto her teat, his crying stopping instantly. Fascinated, Ned watched his son suckling. He had seen Wylla with Jon before, but somehow this was different. He felt a sudden urge to go to his son and touch him. Catelyn was focused entirely on the babe, which Ned was secretly glad of – he had the feeling there was a look on his face that could not be called lordly.

When Robb had drunk his fill, Catelyn sat him up in her lap and gently patted and rubbed his back, whilst closing up her gown again. “Would you like to hold him?” she said after a moment. “Like as not, he will go back to sleep now. He tends to do that after he’s eaten.” Ned nodded. She passed the babe over and he took him in his arms, trying not to seem too awkward. A smile filled his face and Ned felt the clenching around his heart again.

“He’s perfect, my lady.” In his arms, Robb was falling asleep already. Catelyn came and stood beside him, her shoulder touching his. They stood together like that for a long moment, until Ned said, “Would you like me to show you the nursery and your chambers?” Catelyn smiled.

“That would be nice.”

He gave Robb back again and took her through the keep to the rooms he had set aside for her, near his own. He was pleased with the choice he had made, for the walls were heated by the hot springs and he knew she would be warm and comfortable within them. They were at the door to her chambers when it happened. Later, Ned would reflect that it could have been worse, but not much…

His hand was lifting the latch when Wylla wandered around the corner of the hallway, Jon over her shoulder. He was quiet, as always, but Wylla was talking nonsense to him in her soft Dornish accent. She said nothing as she passed them, but acknowledged both Ned and Catelyn with a nod, then was gone as soon as she had arrived.

There was a silence, strained and uncomfortable. Ned felt every part of him tighten. Catelyn did not move and her face was stunned. “Who was that, my lord?” she asked, her voice shaking ever so slightly. A wave of guilt washed over him at the sound of it.

Ned swallowed and braced himself. “That was Jon,” he said simply. “My other son, with his wet-nurse.”

“Your… other son?”

“Yes, my lady.”

At that, Catelyn’s face darkened and she put Robb on her shoulder and held him tighter. “A bastard?”

“Yes.”

“Why isn’t he with his mother?”

Ned’s thoughts flew to Lyanna and he felt the gulf of sadness within him open up once again, like a wound bleeding afresh. He looked away from his wife, willing himself to stay numb. “That is not an option,” he said.  

“But you bring him here?” She sounded shocked and Ned knew why. A lord who kept faith with his bastard children was a rarity in the Seven Kingdoms, and one who brought them into his own home almost unheard of. Mostly, bastards were, at best, acknowledged and provided for, but at worst, ignored completely or never even known about. “With your trueborn son?”

I cannot let her question me in this, thought Ned. This is it. I must put a stop to it, however much it might pain me. Oh, Gods, forgive me! He drew in a deep, steadying breath, and then put on his lord’s voice. “Yes, and this is how it will be. Jon is my blood and he will be raised here in Winterfell. Do not ask me to change that, for I will not change it, not for you or for anybody.” He opened the door to her chambers. “These are your rooms, my lady,” he said distantly. “I hope you will find them comfortable. If you have need of anything, please come to me and I will do my best to provide it.”

And with that he turned and walked away from her, down the hall and out of the great keep. He kept walking until he was standing in front of the heart tree, and there he sank to his knees, his heart aching in his chest like it had been shot through, and closed his eyes in prayer. 

 

To be continued...

Chapter 37: CATELYN - Love Enough For Any Woman

CATELYN – Love Enough For Any Woman

 

It took nearly a year in Winterfell before Catelyn allowed herself to trust her husband and still longer before she turned to him willingly. But even so, she could not say that she was sad in her life. No, never that. Eddard Stark may not have been her perfect love, but he was gracious, honourable and kind-hearted, and she wanted for nothing. He built her a sept, lavished attention on their son, and made her the Lady of Winterfell in every possible way he could. At times she even felt spoilt by his considerations.    

But despite all this, Catelyn felt like she barely knew the man she had wed.

He was often distant, formal, sometimes stern. Their conversations were rarely more than courteous and even when he smiled and laughed with their son, Catelyn could sense the sombreness behind his joy. He spent hours in his Godswood, praying to the Old Gods he kept to, and absorbed himself in his new roles of Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, working hard to win the support and trust of his household and his vassals. When he came to her chamber, he was gentle and thoughtful in his attentions, but remote, and he always left before the sun rose. Catelyn thought often that it was as if he was expecting her to hate him, as if he’d locked up his heart behind a wall of ice.

And there were times when she did think she hated him, most of them connected in some way or other to the bastard son he had brought back with him from the war. Jon Snow was a quiet babe, who rarely cried, and for that Catelyn was grateful, but that did not stop her husband from standing over his crib and watching him as he slept, nor from playing with him and spending time with him as he grew. In fact, he treated his bastard no differently from how he did his trueborn son, Robb, and that hurt. It hurt also that Jon was the image of his father, long of face and dark of hair, whereas Robb had the Tully colouring and her blue, blue eyes. Catelyn knew that men liked to see themselves in their sons and wondered what Ned Stark saw in his two boys.      

Yet as the time passed, so some parts of him melted. At first it was Robb who did the warming, smiling at his father when he picked him up from his crib, breaking out in tears when he was handed back to his mother, or finding a moment when it was just Ned and he alone in the nursery to try out his first steps. But then bit by bit, she noticed other things, a sidelong smile at her from across a room, a touch on her back as they passed in the hallway, graduating to a quiet chuckle when she teased him over some trifle, and a hand left on her thigh beneath the table as they ate.

Two years and eight moons into their marriage, when she went to him to tell him she was carrying Sansa, Catelyn knew without doubt that she loved her husband. But the day she knew without a doubt that he loved her in return did not come until he returned from war a second time.

Ned had been gone well over a moon’s turn when Catelyn felt the child within her kick her ribs with such force that she doubled over. She dropped the flagon of water she had been carrying and it clattered to the floor, spilling its contents in a dark bloom down the front of her dress and all over the floor. Frowning, she tried to straighten up, but as she did so, pain shot through her side and she reached out to grasp the wall. The child’s foot seemed as if it was still lodged in her ribcage. Each breath she drew in caused her pain and she had to close her eyes and pant shallowly for a moment.

Maester Luwin was in the Great Hall talking with Vayon Poole when she found him. “My lady?” he said when he saw her pale face and uncomfortable gait. “Is there something the matter?”

“I don’t know,” said Catelyn. On the way over from the Keep, she had begun to worry that something was quite wrong, that perhaps the babe was in danger. Luwin and the steward came to her and helped her to a chair. “I felt a kick, but it wasn’t like any kick I’ve ever felt before. This was right in my ribcage and… ow…” The pain came again as she sat down. “It hurts.”

The maester nodded. “If I may have a look, my lady? Vayon, please leave us, I will need to examine Lady Catelyn.” Poole did as he was bid, closing the hall doors behind him. Once he had gone, Catelyn unlaced her dress and allowed Luwin to look her over. When his gentle fingers touched her side, she flinched and drew in a breath, then made a face as the pain worsened with the breath. 

“Well, my lady, I believe your babe has broken one of your ribs,” he said after a moment.

“Broken my rib?” gasped Catelyn, amazed. “You are jesting surely?”

Luwin straightened up and regarded her with amused eyes. “I am afraid I am not, my lady. This child is a feisty one!”

Catelyn closed her eyes and laid a hand on her side. Her pregnancy with Robb had been a strange but easy thing; Sansa, too, had been simple, although her back had ached fiercely towards the end. But this one… this one was something else. She had spent the first three moons beset by a sickness in her stomach that had her worn out from vomiting and eating nothing but rye bread and butter, and now this… Catelyn sighed. “I can give you a half thimble of milk of the poppy, my lady, for the pain, but you must mix it with camomile tea, else it is like to upset the babe.”

Her eyes widened. “No, no, I will be fine. Besides, I think I would do well not to upset this babe at all.” Luwin laughed.

“As you wish, my lady. You should rest yourself then,” he told her. “No lifting heavy objects for a moon’s turn, even the children, until this has had a chance to heal itself.”

“Not even the children?” The idea of not being allowed to hold Robb and Sansa was almost too terrible to contemplate.

“Not even the children,” the Maester asserted. “Mayhaps if the raven we received this morning is anything to go by, Lord Eddard should be returned in a few days.”

Catelyn hoped so. Ned had been gone far too long already. Before he left she had tried to make him swear that he would come back to her, fearful that she might lose him in whatever battles Robert intended him to fight. Ever the honest man, he had made her no promises, but told her that he would be thinking of her and the children and would write whenever he had chance. She had received but one letter though and it felt like he had been away forever. At one point in the past, Catelyn had imagined that she would never see the day her husband spent a full night in her chambers, but since Sansa had been born he was there in the morning more often than he was not. Now that he was truly gone, and not just arisen with the birds to pray in the Godswood, Catelyn’s bed felt cold and empty.

She missed him and wondered if he missed her the same.

Ned had always been private man, who kept his feelings close to his chest, and Catelyn had grown to love even that about him, but increasingly she found herself wishing he would give her something in return, something spoken aloud or tangible that she could think, yes, that is his true heart there.

That night, after she had helped put the children to bed, Catelyn retired early, nursing her aching side. The babe was tumbling about again as she tried to sleep and she lay on her back and pressed her hands to her swollen belly, trying to soothe the restlessness. She had experienced a few indistinct movements before Ned had left, but nothing worthy of sharing with him, so when he returned to find her with a broken rib, he would no doubt be surprised. The first time he had laid his hands on Sansa’s kicking had been a moment she would treasure for the rest of her life – the thought of seeing his face like that again made her smile in the darkness and she held onto the thought as she drifted to sleep.

It was mid-afternoon, five days later, when Catelyn heard a horn’s blast and the shout go up from the battlements to lower the drawbridge and open the gates. She had been playing with Sansa, but instantly, she put down the doll she had been giving a voice to and stood. Sansa’s room was on the wrong side of the keep though, and for half a moment, she was torn between needing to see Ned as soon as he arrived and Maester Luwin’s advice. But it was only half a moment. She gathered up her surprised daughter, wincing against the pain, and fairly flew down the steps.

The drawbridge was just coming down when she arrived in the courtyard. Mikken, the new blacksmith, was at his forge and Robb was standing with Jon Snow beside him, the two boys watching the man work with wide, curious eyes. “Robb,” called Catelyn, “your father is here.”

Both boys stopped what they were doing and rushed to the South Gate, their voices eager and excited. Sitting on Catelyn’s hip, Sansa pointed towards the gate with a chubby finger and babbled a string of half-words and baby noises. A moment later, Ned came riding through the gates, leading his men behind him. He looked tired and his big grey destrier was filthy with mud and blowing hard. They have galloped the last stretch, thought Catelyn with a surge of pleasure.

From across the courtyard, he caught sight of her and dismounted. As he strode eagerly towards her, the smile of relief was wide on his face. “Cat,” he said. “Oh, it is good to be home.” One hand went to Sansa’s cheek as she reached for him. “Now then, little girl, you have grown well while I’ve been away.” He kissed her wispy auburn hair then turned to Robb and Jon, standing side by side. Robb stood tall and met his father’s eyes. He put his hands behind his back and clasped them.

“Father,” he said in his most respectful tone.   

Ned’s smile spread wider still. “Come here, lad,” he said, and he grabbed him under his arms and lifted him up, spinning him around until he laughed aloud. Catelyn watched them, smiling. Ned set Robb down on the ground again and then leaned over and ruffled Jon’s hair tenderly. “Is it good to see me again then?” he asked them both.

“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Robb with a grin. “Can we play at swords later? I’ve been practising with Jon and Ser Rodrik while you’ve been gone and Ser Rodrik says we’re both getting better.”

“That’s good, Robb,” said Ned. “And certainly we will play together on the morrow, but now I am tired. I have ridden a long way to get here ahead of time. My men will be expecting a feast, too, and I would like to spend some time with your mother.”

Catelyn felt her heart lurch a little at that. Robb and Jon both nodded and drifted back to the forge to resume watching Mikken work. “Welcome home, my lord,” she said. She had been expecting a smile and a polite reply while they were stood out here in the courtyard, but Ned turned back to her, took her face in his hands and kissed her. Kissed her right there in the courtyard in front of everyone, without a hint of his usual reserve about him. When he released her, Catelyn knew she was blushing like a maid. She dared not look around her; she had the feeling that half the household had seen them. Instead, she blinked at him in surprise. Ned’s face grew a touch abashed as he beheld her expression. “I am sorry, my lady, that was… inappropriate. I just…” He looked down at his boots. “I have missed you more than I thought I would.”

She stood on her tip toes, kissed his bearded cheek, and then whispered in his ear, “As have I, my love.”

That evening, Ned had the kitchens put on a feast in the Great Hall for some of those who had accompanied him to quell the Greyjoy Rebellion. Some four hundred men crowded into the Great Hall. There was a huge haunch of venison, roasted with chestnuts, trout stuffed with onions, mushrooms and almonds, and then three huge four-bird roasts of goose, pheasant, partridge and quail. Ale and wine were aplenty and before long, most were drunk and getting drunker. Catelyn noticed that even Ned kept his wine cup filled this night – a habit he usually left to his guests – and seemed in high spirits. She sat beside him and listened to him talk in turn to the men who had distinguished themselves in the campaign, finally inviting Jory Cassell to take the position of Captain of the Guards as reward for his brave and leal service. Still a young man, Jory left his lord’s table flushed with pride and returned to his bench to cheering from his peers. “It pleases you to reward them,” Catelyn observed when Ned sat back in his chair and reached for his wine cup.

“It pleases me that I have earned their loyalty,” Ned replied. “The reward pleases them.” He leaned toward her and whispered, “Do you remember Jory at our bedding, my love? He was but fifteen.”

“Fifteen and a little over eager as I recall,” said Catelyn with a smile, recalling how he had ripped her gown in his attempt to remove it from her. She looked down the benches to where Jory was being toasted by the other men. Ned chuckled. “He will be very unwell on the morrow if continues like he is doing.”

Shrugging, Ned replied, “He is happy now though. Let him have his wine and toasts.” He peered across at her own cup, empty but for a final mouthful. “Would you like some more wine?”

“You are forgetting something, Ned,” she told him and glanced down at her swollen middle. “It is not good for a babe to come out of the womb half in his cups already.”

“No, it is not. Water then?” Catelyn nodded. He reached for the flagon a little way down the table and then filled her cup. The evening was passing so pleasantly, Catelyn wondered whether to leave the news of her broken rib to the morning, but the thought had occupied her mind for barely a moment before he said, “How is the youngest Stark? Have you felt any movements yet?”

“The youngest Stark is proving rather troublesome. He has broken one of my ribs.”

The look on Ned’s face was nothing short of perfect and she almost laughed out loud as she beheld it. His brows knit together as he stared down at her belly with utter disbelief. “Broken one of your ribs?” he repeated. She nodded. “Gods be good, my lady, how?”

“With a well-placed and rather mule-like kick. Maester Luwin has looked at it, though, and he says it will be fine with rest and time.” She placed a hand on her side. “I tried to manage without anything for the pain, but it was proving too difficult to breathe, so I surrendered to starting and ending the day with tea laced with milk of the poppy. I am no longer in any real pain, although coughing and sneezing is far from pleasant.”

Ned stared at her side, then began to wryly chuckle. “And here I was thinking of how I must needs explain away my new scars to you, but instead it is you who have been in the wars!” He twisted in his seat and laid his hands on her belly. “Now then, young pup,” he said to the bump. “We’ll have less of this beating on your poor mother. I will not have her hurt by you or anybody.” Mockingly, he glared at the babe within her. Catelyn adjusted her position and willed the babe to kick at his hands, if only so he could feel how strong the movements were. But there was nothing and she shook her head.

“It seems there is defiance in this one as well. You will have to wait to feel the kicking, I’m afraid, my love.”

“Hm,” Ned grunted and shifted back to watching the men, but this time laid his hand on her thigh and did not take it away. Catelyn smiled and put her hand atop his, saying nothing.

They stayed that way as the night wore on and the men began to retire to their beds, singing bawdy songs in their drunkenness and sweeping up girls in their arms in jest or in passion. Ned had laughed more than Catelyn had seen him do in a long while, but he made no move to get up, nor to remove his hand from her leg, and she was content to simply have him there with her. As the hall quietened, he leaned into her until his shoulder was touching hers. The closeness of him ignited a flame inside her and she picked up his hand and squeezed it, intertwining their fingers. Finally, they were all but alone. Just a few men remained and of those most were too drunk to even be aware of them. She stifled a yawn. “It is late. I should be retiring,” she said. She began to climb to her feet, but before she had a chance to brace herself against the chair arms, Ned turned to her and kissed her.

It was no formal gesture, nor even the expression of relief and gratefulness that it had been this afternoon, this time it was the kind of kiss she had received from him only a handful of times, open-mouthed, his tongue sneaking into her mouth. It took her by surprise, but it was a pleasant surprise, made even more pleasant because he did not pull away for several moments. When he did, though, there was a soft smile on his lips and he reached up and ran his hand tenderly along the side of her face. “It is late,” he agreed. “Come, my love.” He stood and held out his hand to her, helping her to her feet.

He led her from the hall, a youthful smile on his face, and across the courtyard to the Great Keep. He kissed her in the doorway, while he held the door open for her, then again half way up the steps to her chamber. His lips were warm and she could taste the wine on them. “You are drunk, my lord,” she teased him when he loosed her hair from its braid while they stood and kissed some more outside her rooms. It was strange to see him so uninhibited, but pleasing also, like she was seeing the side of him he kept resolutely hidden from view behind a screen of honour and duty.

“A little, it is true,” he agreed readily.

Catelyn smiled. She reached up and took his blessed face in her hands, kissed him again, then reached behind her and opened up the door to her chamber. His eyes never left hers.

Once inside, his hands reached for the laces on her dress and he began to undress her. She helped him until she was standing before him, naked in the candlelight. His eyes travelled up her figure, pausing a moment on her gently swollen middle, then on the angry colouring of the bruise left by her broken rib. With a feather-light touch that seemed at odds with his battle-hardened fingers, he circled it. “That is an impressive bruise,” he said. And then his face clouded. “Are you sure you…?

The thought of not bedding him this night was not something she wished to entertain, but she knew if she did not seek to reassure him, he would worry that he would hurt her and take himself away to his own rooms. “I am fine, Ned,” she said. “I will tell you if you are hurting me.”  

Nodding, he pulled back the furs on the bed, and she eased herself back into the pillows. She watched as he stripped off his garb – his breeches, shirt, leather doublet and neck scarf fell to the floor and were then followed by his smallclothes. His cock was already hard. There were several bruises and then a few new scars, pink and barely healed, badged upon his chest and upper arms. One was a lengthy thing stretching full across his bicep and still bearing several stitches; Catelyn wondered what blow had given him that one. She thought he was going to lay himself above her, in their usual way, but instead he sat on the edge of the bed. His face was sombre again. “I thought about this moment the whole ride here,” he said.

“I’ve been thinking about it since we got your raven.”

“I almost got myself into trouble over it,” he admitted. There was a ghost of amusement in his eyes. “I even got called on it once.” His hand ran up and down her shin. “I’ve missed you, Cat.”

“I missed you too, my love,” she told him.

He nodded, and then his hand was creeping upwards and he slid his body alongside hers. His skin was cool, like always, and hard, his fingers a familiar combination of rough and gentle on the softness of her thighs and then higher, until they dipped into her wetness and began a caress. Catelyn closed her eyes and sighed as sensation began to overtake.

Even from their first night together, he had always been gentle with her, and tonight his touches were no different. He even dropped down and laid his mouth on her, his tongue stroking firmly over her until she pushed her face sideways into the pillows, her whole body tightening and then trembling with pleasure. When she had calmed, he looked up at her from between her legs and there was something in his eyes that caught her. But before she had a chance to identify it, he was running his hands over the smooth firmness of her belly, kissing the rise of it with a kind of reverence. Ever mindful of her, he asked, “I don’t want to hurt you, my love. How do you want to do this?”

She did not reply, but sat up and pushed him lightly back into the bed. His head settled into the pillows where hers had been.  Then she climbed atop him, took his hardness in her hand and guided him inside her. His eyes closed at the sensation and a look crossed over his face that she tried to burn into her memory for ever. When she started to move her hips, the look intensified and he groaned aloud.

Within moments, she was close again and she felt her concentration beginning to lock onto the seeking and nothing else. His hands fell to her hips, steadying her. “Look at me, Cat,” he begged from beneath her and his words brought her back. She met his gaze and what she saw there made her heart sing. This is it, she thought, as she felt him arch his hips up to meet hers, this is his rawest affection. It was no I love you, but somehow it was just as powerful, and just as thrilling. “Look,” he said again.

And then she heard again his groan and felt him fill her up with his seed. She kept moving and then she was there, alongside him, her eyes fixed on his as she tensed and cried out.

Their breathing quietened together, and although they were still joined, Ned sat up and kissed her, his hands in her hair. The swell of her belly was resting up against the hard muscles of his stomach when the babe gave a tremendous kick. Ned startled and looked down between them. “Gods be good,” he said in amazement. “Was that what I thought it was?”

“Now you see why I am bearing wounds,” she replied with a laugh. Gently, he lifted her off him and laid her back on the bed. He slid down on his side, one hand holding up his head so he could look her in the eye, the other rubbing across her belly. The babe inside shifted and turned. Ned’s smile is a thing of beauty, she thought, and she watched his face as he moved his hand about, seeking out another kick or pressing. “Mark my words, my love, we’re going to have a fighter on our hands with this one. Promise me you’ll teach him how to use his sword for the sake of good?”

“I will. Now come here,” said Ned. “I want to hold you some more.” He pulled the furs over them and gathered her into his arms.

Catelyn sighed and let her eyes fall closed. She knew it was he who had come home, but it felt like she’d shared in that homecoming. She was right where she wanted to be. Long after he had drifted to sleep, she stayed awake, listening to the sound of his breathing and feeling the warmth of his skin against hers.

She knew he would still be with her in the morning. 

 

To be concluded... 

Chapter 38: EPILOGUE - JON - Not a Stark

EPILOGUE – JON – Not a Stark

 

Reaching the age of ten in the North was considered an achievement worthy of a celebration in the households of most. Of course, Jon Snow knew that he’d had a privileged upbringing, within the safety and warmth of Winterfell’s walls, and so had been given a better chance than most at making ten years of age.

But he also knew that he was a bastard boy, so a celebration was not like to ever come his way.

Robb, on the other hand, his half-brother and the boy he had spent near every moment of his life with, had enjoyed the most lavish of celebrations in his name. There had been a great feast put on, with a singer, and Robb had chosen his favourite foods from a list as long as his arm. He had received several dozen gifts from the guests, and then from Father and Lady Catelyn, a handsome pin, wrought from silver and amber, that had once belonged to Father. The heir to Winterfell had been the centre of attention from the moment he had woken to the moment he had succumbed to sleep in his chair, too excited to admit he was tired. Father had carried Robb up to bed, in the end, and Jon had followed not far behind.

Jon’s own name day had always come one moon’s turn after Robb’s. His lord father had stated that it was the date of his birth and so it had been. It was not fitting for a bastard to be the guest of honour at a feast, so Jon’s name days had always been small affairs. He suspected his tenth would be no different. So, his surprise was evident when Father found him that morning in the yard, receiving an archery lesson from Jory Cassell alongside Robb and Theon Greyjoy, and asked him if he would like to come to his solar to choose the dishes he wished to have put on at his name day feast.

Robb and Theon were equally surprised, it seemed, although neither said a word whilst Father looked down on them. “Yes, please,” said Jon and immediately gave his bow back to Jory. He stripped off his hand and arm guards and followed.

Lord Eddard Stark led the way up to his solar in silence. Once inside, he closed the door, instructed Jon to sit, and then went to his own chair, leaning back into it and steepling his hands together. Jon waited for him to speak. “Ten is an important age,” he said after a long moment. “It signifies the start of a boy becoming a man. In six years, you will be called grown and will be expected to hold the responsibilities of a man. But, in truth, in this unpredictable world we live in, there are many who have such responsibilities thrust upon them at a much younger age.” His father paused; his face was solemn – his lord’s face, Robb called it – and his tone formal. “I trust you to make the right choices in your life, Jon, just as I trust Robb. I hope you will not disappoint me.”

Shaking his head vigorously, Jon replied, “No, Father.”

“Good.” His father smiled. He reached across his desk and pushed a piece of parchment in front of Jon. “This is the same list Robb looked at just last month. Like him, you may select ten dishes from it. Choose wisely. I would wish you to pick your own choices, of course, but bear in mind that there will be guests present who would like to see something more than ten different kinds of chicken.”

Jon wondered who the guests were like to be. He knew his father was greatly respected amongst his bannermen, but he was not sure such respect extended to them attending a feast in the honour of a bastard son. His curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “Who is coming?”

His father fixed him with his grey eyes. “I have invited the mountain clan chieftains to bring some of their valued men to Winterfell. The clans Norrey, Flint and Wull, Harclay, Liddle and Knott will all be attending. The men of the mountains are an old people, but they are of the North and their leaders are wise and honourable. They have been leal supporters of House Stark for thousands of years. It will prove a vital lesson for both you and Robb to meet them in the flesh.” Jon had learned a little of the mountain clans in his lessons. They were a somewhat primitive people, living in caves and roundhouses made from timber, wattle and daub, but they were as adapted to their harsh environment as mountain goats. The thought of having them as his guests was rather exciting – Robb had had to make do with the usual assortment of bannermen.

He looked down at the list he had been given. It was extensive, with half a hundred different options to choose from. His father waited patiently whilst he read. When he had finished, he looked up and saw a quill dipped in ink ready waiting for him. “If you mark next to the ones you have chosen clearly, so the kitchen will be able to read it.” Jon did as he was bid, marking a careful cross next to ten dishes. He handed the parchment back to his father, who looked it over, nodded, then stood. “You have chosen well, Jon. Now, run along and return to your archery practice,” he said. Jon stood.

“Thank you, Father,” he said.

He rushed down the steps from the solar to the practice yard, puffed up with excitement at the thought of his name day celebrations. Robb was nocking another arrow as he ran up, but lowered his bow and grinned at him. “Picked your dishes?” he asked.

“I have. Father said I chose well.”

“Come on then, tell me… what have you picked?” Robb was as eager as he had been when he had chosen his own dishes.

“Lots of things – you’ll have to wait and see. But I picked suckling pig for you.” Robb’s eyes sparkled appreciatively.

“Good choice!” he said and grinned wider.

Jon was taking up his bow and readying for another shot at the target when Theon Greyjoy chimed in, “Why are you getting a feast anyway, Snow? You’re not a Stark, you’re a bastard.”

The words sunk into Jon like a punch to the gut and he fumbled with his arrow and then dropped it. Greyjoy laughed. Jon looked down at the fallen arrow and frowned. He had never much cared for his father’s ward. Theon was a few years older than he and Robb, lanky and ever-smiling, but there was a nastiness behind his smile that made Jon mistrust him. “Bastards don’t get feasts in their name,” continued Greyjoy. “Why should you be any different?”

“That is enough, Theon. Do you want me to get Lord Eddard?” Jory threatened, but the threat passed over Theon like a little breeze over a frozen lake.

Jon bent to pick up his fallen arrow, feeling hot tears pricking behind his eyes. They swam in front of his vision as he grasped for it. “He’s crying!” Greyjoy hooted, elbowing Robb. Robb said nothing. “Oh, don’t cry, Snow, it’s not your fault your mother was a wench.”

That was it. Jon turned and fled, the word ‘wench’ ringing in his ears. He heard laughter from behind and wondered whether Robb had joined in now that he was no longer there beside him to be offended. His feet thumped dully on the ground. He had no idea where he was going, only that he wanted to get as far away from everyone as he could. The tears streaked down his face as he ran, burning his cheeks with their salt.

Finally, when he was all but out of breath, he slowed to a walk and then stopped. He was deep in the Godswood. He brought his fists up and wiped his tears away angrily. Why did I let him do that to me? He will know exactly what to do from now on whenever he wishes to upset me. His frustrated breath sounded out loud in the quiet that hung perpetually amid the trees of the Godswood. All around him, the sentinels, oaks and pines crowded like dark bodies pressing close. Yet, somehow, the eeriness was peaceful, calming even.

He sat himself in the shadow of a great oak tree, drew his knees up in front of him, and rested his chin on them. A nightingale sang a mournful tune somewhere above his head, but although he craned his head to try to see it, he could not.  Long minutes passed as he listened to its song, but then there came a shout. “Jon!”

It was his father’s voice.

Frowning, Jon got to his feet. He knew why his father was looking for him. No doubt Jory had sought him out and told him of what had happened. But right now, his embarrassment was too raw for him to think about talking it through. He would doubtless begin to cry again, and he did not want to appear childish in front of his lord father.

“Jon!” shouted his father again. By the pitch of his voice, he was some way off, so Jon skirted wide of the direction in which the shout had come from and headed back towards the castle. The soft earth of the Godswood concealed his footsteps. When he got back into the practice yard, the archery target still stood where it had been set up, abandoned, and there was no-one about. Jon wondered if they were all looking for him, or whether he had just struck lucky. He snuck through the practice yard and then through the lichyard where the most loyal servants of Winterfell were buried, past the North Gate and into the Glass Gardens.

It was warm within – in truth, it was always warm in the Glass Gardens – and the air was moist and thick and scented. Jon drew in a breath of it. Around him were dozens of raised beds, bordered by pine timbers, containing vegetables of all kinds. Jon spotted round, green cabbages, the leaves of onions and carrots and potatoes, even beans growing up cane pyramids. There were thin gravelled paths between the beds and he walked along one of them, snatching up a couple of peapods and splitting them with his thumbnail, so he could pour the contents into his mouth.

At the far end, the raised beds gave way to a flower garden where colour and scent prevailed, and it was there that he stopped. The Glass Gardens was not a place he tended to frequent, except occasionally to do a little thievery of ripe berries, but it was quiet and out of the way and at that moment, it suited him perfectly. He sat down on the ground, his back up against a low stone wall, and thought on what had happened. It wasn’t Theon Greyjoy’s words that had made him angry, but rather that he had allowed them to hurt him.  He was a bastard. But sometimes it was hard to remember that, particularly when his father showed him kindness. And when he forgot it, the drop back to reality would rattle his very core. Just as has happened today, he thought.

All of a sudden, a shape loomed above him. “Jon?”

Startled, he shot to his feet. Before him stood his father, a concerned expression on his long face. “Father--” he said.

“What are you doing here?” His father glanced around him, his eyes falling on the blue rose bushes that were beginning to come into bud behind the wall Jon had been leaning against. “People have been looking for you.”

“I…” he began, then hung his head. “I’m sorry, I ran away from them. I ran away from you. I heard you shouting me in the Godswood, but I ran away.”

His father looked at him with a thoughtful gaze. “I have spoken with Theon,” he said, ignoring Jon’s confession. “He will not say such things again.” Not while he can be heard he won’t, thought Jon to himself, bitterly. “If he does, you are to tell me, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” His father sat down on the stone wall. A moment passed. “Now, there are five days before your name day, Jon, and I had thought to save your gift from me until then, but today’s events have convinced me otherwise.” His voice had softened and Jon found himself meeting the grey eyes that looked at him. He stayed silent in the pause as his father reached into his pocket and removed something. “This gift is something just for you, to show you that you are loved and that you are of this family, even though you carry another name. You must treat it carefully and with the utmost respect as it is worth a lot of coin.”

He held out his hand. Whatever was in it glinted in the light and Jon stepped closer, the better to see what it was. When his eyes focused on it, he gasped.

It was a silver pin, a direwolf, exactly like the one that had been given to Robb just a few weeks before, only the eyes of this wolf, instead of being yellow with stones of amber, were red rubies that glittered and glimmered.

“What do you think?” asked his father. “Do you like it?”

“Like it?” Jon’s eyes widened as he reached out and gingerly took up the pin. “Of course I like it! It is beautiful.”

His father smiled at him and nodded. “You must needs keep it safe, Jon. It is not a toy. Just like Robb’s pin once belonged to me, so this once belonged to my sister Lyanna. I had thought at first to give you my brother Brandon’s pin, but I thought perhaps it might be more fitting that his go to Bran, when he turns ten, as he is his namesake.”

Jon turned the pin over in his hands. The detail was impressive, with even the wolf’s fur carved into the metal. But it was the eyes that captured him the most – they sparkled with a light all of their own. It was almost as if they were looking right at him. “Thank you,” he said. “I promise I shall keep it very safe.” His hand closed around it. He wanted to go to his father and hug him, then, but he stopped himself, noticing that his father’s face was distant again, as if he was thinking of something upsetting. “Didn’t your sister die around this time of year?” Jon had heard the story of how his father had tried to rescue his sister from the clutches of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, who had kidnapped her and hidden her away. King Robert had started a war to get her back and killed Prince Rhaegar, but Lyanna had died before his father could get to her. When he had heard the story, Jon had understood why sometimes his father had his times of sadness – no doubt he was thinking of his lost sister, and his brother and father who had been killed in the same war.

His father turned to him. “She did, yes, Jon.” And then he stood and brushed down his breeches. He sighed. “Now, perhaps you ought to find Robb. He was worried about you.”

“He was?”

“He was,” confirmed his father. His voice changed its tone. “And when you find him, you can tell him that I expect the two of you to clear up the things you have left in the practice yard. I will not have Jory wasting his time tidying up after you.”

“Yes, Father,” said Jon. He grinned, his embarrassment forgotten.

Reaching behind him, his father plucked a blue rose that was just beginning to open from the bush nearest to him. He lifted it to his nose and breathed deep of the scent. It was an action that seemed at odds with his father’s usual manner and Jon frowned. His father noticed his expression and explained, “Your words have reminded me that I must needs make a visit to the crypts and pay my respects. And my sister was rather fond of these flowers.”

“She was?”

“Yes. They meant a lot to her.”

“Oh…” Jon looked at his father as he beheld the blue rose held between his thumb and forefinger with wistful eyes. Somehow, in that moment, it mattered enormously to him to accompany his father on his visit. “Can I come with you?” he blurted. His father had been about to turn away, but Jon’s words made him stop. He tilted his head a fraction and looked at Jon curiously. “I promise I’ll clear everything up afterwards.”

Finally, a ghost of a smile crossed his father’s face and he nodded. “Of course you can, Jon. Of course you can.”

 

The End.  

Notes:

So, we come to the end of the road...

But what a road it's been! If, when I started writing this seven months or so ago, I had known that it would take over my life like it has done, I might have changed my mind. But then, I would never have experienced the tremendous enjoyment writing and posting this has given me. It's been brilliant. So I would just like to say a huge, huge thank you to everyone who has read this and enjoyed it, commented, left kudos, bookmarked etc... I have felt very humbled by all of it. And I'm really just so pleased my little hobby has been appreciated and enjoyed in this way. Also, I still feel very new to the ASOIAF fandom, and although I've resurrected my livejournal account, I realise I'm basically just an unknown newbie, so to every friend I've made through this - thank you!

And finally, although I have been thinking about the posting of this final chapter now for weeks, I confess to being a little sad. I am having a hard time saying goodbye to the little universe I've built up, so there will be more. During the writing of this, there were lots of little moments that ended up being cut from the story for all sorts of reasons. I am currently in the process of making them fit for posting, and maybe then I will be able to let go...

In the meantime, I hope the last chapter has been enjoyed by all.

Jo. :)

Out-takes from this story can be found here: Deleted Scenes from the Cutting-Room Floor