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Chapter Text

act 1: mappa mundi

prologue: before the bells toll

Harsh winter winds sweep across King’s Landing as Rhaegar Targaryen rides through its streets, flanked by two white-clad brothers of the Kingsguard. Behind them, on a dappled gray gelding, is a slender girl clad in a dark blue dress. 

Despite the snow falling softly over their heads, the bustling crowd pauses as they pass, whispering curiously among themselves. The objects of their curiosity ignored them, however, moving onwards without a word. No one even stops to chastise the crowd’s louder, more fervent whispers as soon as they catch a glimpse of the snarling gray direwolf on the girl’s pearly white cloak. The crowd mercifully thins out as they make their way through Aegon’s High Hill, past lavish manses owned by lords, ladies, and even a few of the wealthiest merchants in the realm. Few, if any, would brazenly watch this unusual party — the rich and the powerful know better than to be caught gaping at the crown  prince, no matter how odd his retinue may be.

At the Red Keep’s bronze gates, the goldcloaks standing guard simply wave them through. They, too, know better than to bar the crown prince’s way. One boldly leers at the lady accompanying the prince, however, as they take the horses away. This earns him a dark glare from the younger of the two Kingsguard — 

Rhaegar turns to the lady as soon as they’re out of the goldcloaks’ earshot. “We are about to meet the king, Lyanna.”

“I know.” Even with the fear in her eyes, Lyanna Stark lifts her chin boldly and defiantly — a show of confidence under the threat of the Mad King. “I will keep quiet unless spoken to, and answer questions as briefly as I can — just as we have discussed.”

“Thank you.” Rhaegar gives her the smallest of smiles before leading the way farther into the courtyard, and to the great hall that holds the Iron Throne, where the stench of charred meat and ashes hang in the air.

The throne is still the same as Rhaegar has always remembered — a large monstrosity of jagged spikes and half-melted metal twisted into the semblance of a chair. Being made of countless swords confiscated across the realm that the Conqueror had slowly bound together, it stands tall over everyone who approaches, reminding them of the might that House Targaryen once wielded. Two members of the Kingsguard, Jonothor Darry and Lord Commander Hightower himself, stand guard at the foot of the throne, surrounded by pyromancers and six members of the small council — lickspittles, all of them.

King Aerys, second of his name, sits atop the throne in the same stained red robes that he wore when he ordered Rhaegar to ride to the Riverlands over a moon ago. His unwashed hair has grown longer and more matted, tangling with his equally unkempt beard. Askew on his head is a heavy red-gold crown, its points shaped into wicked dragon heads with onyx eyes that glitter with malice. His Inhumanly long, dirty fingernails tap on the swords that form the armrest as he leans forward, leering at Rhaegar and his companions.

“How brazen of you to show your face here, boy,” he snarls before his pale gaze turns to Lyanna. “And with the wolf bitch too, I see.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Rhaegar can’t remember the day this man stopped being his father, truth be told. “Just as you have asked.”

“Yes, yes, I did ask you, didn’t I?” He turns to his cronies before his attention returns to his son. “Ah, I remember it now. ‘Apprehend the wolf bitch and bring her to me before I feed you to my flames.’ And why did we send for her again, Lord Varys?”

The master of whispers giggles as his companions flash mirthless smiles. “Little birds on the streets have heard of a most peculiar rumor of a girl who fancied herself a knight, charging into a tourney to shame three poor squires while bearing a crude sigil of the tree she worshiped.”

The king’s lips curl in disgust. “That false knight was not there for those insignificant brats. That knight was an enemy. And you must know who these enemies are after, my good lords — me.”

Lord Merryweather nods. “If Lord Varys speaks true, then this false knight is more dangerous than we thought, Your Grace. The so-called Great Alliance — Arryn, Stark, Tully, Baratheon — surely you must know of it too, my prince.”

The lords whisper among themselves until Lord Velaryon speaks up with a sneer. “Only fools haven't heard of this alliance! The Stark heir betrothed to a Tully, their lone daughter betrothed to a Baratheon. Is it not strange when their House has rarely married outside of their barbaric folk? And now the second Stark son — the son who had been fostered by Jon Arryn alongside the Baratheon boy — has seduced and wed a Dayne!”

“Strange, yes.” Lord Varys clasps his fingers as he briefly glances at Lyanna, his face unnervingly devoid of malice. “Such an alliance is dangerous, too.”

Aerys spits. “Treason, that’s what it is! Tell me, Stark bitch, what use is that alliance, if not an attempt to depose me?” 

“The North is poorer than most southron lands, Your Grace.” There’s nary a quiver in Lyanna’s voice, even as the king scrutinizes her with his burning gaze. “Our lands are inhospitable, and we fare worse during winters. An alliance would supply us with fish and fruits and grain to help us survive the worst, and in turn, we offered fur and lumber, wool and silver.”

“The North? Poor? Bah!” Lord Merryweather’s vile sneer grows and grows. “It is no secret that it has grown wealthier than it has ever been in the past five and thirty years.”

Lord Velaryon nods sagely, malice aglow in his eyes. “Oh, yes, the northern mines. Plenty of northern rubies have made their way as far south as King’s Landing, and even sapphires both blue and pink. They have caused quite a stir, my lady. And from what I have heard, House Stark has earned enough from these new jewels to rebuild Moat Cailin and strengthen its trade route.”

“Yet it is not enough to keep our people alive in harsh winters,” Lyanna insists, her face blissfully calm despite the scrutiny. “Vegetables and grain are not easy to come by, my lords, even with the gold we have earned from those new mines.”

“It’s never enough with scheming upstarts,” Lord Chelstead points out, completely oblivious to the irony of his words. “And that is what this alliance is for, is it not?”

Rhaegar clears his throat, drawing the men’s gaze to him. “My lords, perhaps the northern betrothals are exactly as they are. The North needs every support it can get to prosper, even with the small wealth it is slowly amassing.”

“Lies!” The king snarls as he stands, his fingers gripping the side of the throne so hard that they begin to bleed. “You cannot hide anything from me!”

“You would do well to remember that the king’s might extends beyond the Red Keep’s walls, my prince.” Lord Chelstead smiles horridly. “Besides, do you take him for a fool? It was no secret that you and your wife were frequently seen accompanying Lady Stark at Harrenhal. Is it truly impossible for us to assume that something is afoot?”

“Elia and I enjoyed her company. Nothing more, and nothing less.” Rhaegar’s eyes roam around the crowd, daring them to speak before he has said his piece. “I am a crown prince of the realm, my lords, not a deceitful opportunist. My loyalty is to the realm — I am not privy to such conspiracies, nor do I condone them.”

“And yet marriages to Dorne bind you and this brewing threat together, my prince.”

“I have not orchestrated such a plot. Neither would I have allowed one to continue, had your allegations been true.”

Aerys slowly descends the throne, ignoring the Kingsguard’s offers to help. “Do you dare call my Master of Coin a liar, boy?” 

Varys approaches the king with a cold smile. “Perhaps the prince would like to prove him wrong, Your Grace. Help us prevent this alliance from being something more.”

“And what do you propose, my lord?” Rhaegar can feel his shoulders tense up under the king and his lickspittles’ hungry gazes.

“Strike a blow strong enough to weaken the alliance. Prevent them from gathering enough strength to rise against our king.”

A vile smile spreads across the king’s face, made worse by the breathless laughter that escapes his lips. “Yes, I like the sound of that. Perhaps we can take this as an opportunity to put those cousins of ours in their place too. I’ve had enough of those thick-headed Baratheons, anyway.”

His cronies laugh with their king. Rossart, the pyromancer who had wormed his way into the king’s ear, bares his teeth with barely-concealed bloodlust. “Shall we have the prince wield the flames, Your Grace?”

The situation is quickly spiraling out of control, and Rhaegar isn’t sure he can still do anything to steer it into something favorable. Perhaps, he may even have lost the moment he chose to obey the king. When facing a madman like Aerys Targaryen, nothing good seems to come out of even the best intentions anymore.

“That would teach the conspirators a lesson, yes, but…” The king licks his lips as he approaches Lyanna and grabs her by the chin, his uncut nails tearing as they scrape against her cheek. “It would be a waste. How old are you, girl?”

“Five-and-ten, Your Grace.” Lyanna Stark does not flinch, nor struggle. She meets the king’s eyes with her own defiant stare concealed behind a mask of courtesy.

“Young still, I see.” The king twists her face to the side before letting go of her, his attention now on Rhaegar. “Have you sired anything on that Dornish whore yet, boy?”

“Princess Elia’s health is still delicate, Your Grace.” A half-truth, Rhaegar knows — his wife had been faring better until the winter snows returned. “I shan’t risk her life for a child that may not even live past the birthing bed.”

“Weaklings, both of you.” Aerys slaps his son, the sharp sound echoing through the room. “If you cannot put a child in her, then you should have looked elsewhere!”

Shit.

A nervous laughter escapes Lord Velaryon’s lips. “To set aside Princess Elia would offend Dorne, Your Grace. We will crush them, of course, but they will remain dangerous enemies —”

“Who said anything about setting her aside?” Aerys reaches out to feel Lyanna’s body, squeezing her breast before pinching her hip. “The Conqueror himself had two wives, and his own son, Maegor, had six. Who would dare deny my own heir such an honor?”

Red-hot anger courses through Rhaegar’s veins as he watches Aerys’ hands roam, and it takes all of his strength to stop himself from drawing his sword and striking his own father down right then and there. “The Doctrine of an Exceptionalism may have made the Faith turn a blind eye when we wed brother to sister, but our ancestors were not bold enough to take a second wife even after it was written.”

“They were cowards, like you.” Aerys lets go of Lyanna, finally. “You have remained heirless too long, boy. I heard that wolf bitches are fertile, birthing mongrels year after year. Why don’t you prove them right and father a son on her?”

“Your Grace, I am content with my wife. And Dorne will not be pleased —”

“They don’t need to, do they?” Another cackle escapes Aerys’ lips. “They will do as I say for as long as the sand witch remains wed to Rhaegar.”

“And the Starks, Your Grace?” Lord Varys asks with a cloying smile.

“Have Pycelle send word to them to come and see the girl’s fate for themselves. Say nothing of the marriage.” Pale purple eyes meet Rhaegar’s angry gaze, and the king bares his half-rotted teeth in glee. “I shall call for a septon to wed you and the wolf tonight, in front of the trees her kind loves to worship. If he objects, then he will have a taste of my flames.”

chapter 1: final, not final

Elia was there when it all began at Harrenhal, and it seems only fitting that she should be here when it ends.

The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor toll loudly for the eleventh day in a row, reminding the entire city that the battle in the Riverlands has been lost a fortnight ago. Soon, the rebels will be marching farther south to King’s Landing, and everyone will be under their mercy. Fear has gripped the entire city since the first peal of the bell, made worse by the criers running through the streets to announce the dire news. And this fear has deepened into dread on this very day as Lord Tywin’s forces begin to gather at the city’s gates. 

The princess presses a slender hand to her swollen belly, her thoughts drifting to her unborn child. Joy had filled her when she first found out mere weeks after Rhaegar had marched off with his army to the growing camp farther north along the Blackwater Rush. A child, finally! It was as if all her prayers for the past three years had been answered. 

The joy had been quickly replaced by regret, however. If she had been healthier, then she would have been with child sooner. Things would be different. There would have been no war, no Stark burnt to cinders before the Iron Throne. Lyanna would be safe with her family, far from the Mad King’s whims. Elia herself would still be in Dragonstone, basking in its relative peace instead of living under her good-father’s gaze.

But as the weeks turned into moons and the bells began to toll, her regrets gave way to despair. The royal army has been crushed, Rhaegar and Uncle Lewyn dead on the banks of the Trident. The rebels have begun to march farther south and Tywin cannot be trusted. Elia knows that soon everyone in this castle — no, the entire city — will be at their mercy. She fears her child may never be born at all, all thanks to the danger she must now face. Alone.

Her thoughts drift to poor Lyanna, who must be close to giving birth by now. Elia and Rhaegar both love her dearly, it’s true, but she never deserved to be entangled in their mess. If only things had gone according to plan in Harrenhal, perhaps everything would be different.

And now the girl is tucked away in Starfall for the past six or seven moons, safe from the war and the chaos of the Mad King’s court. Ser Arthur had first suggested an old, abandoned Dayne outpost farther in the Prince’s Pass, but Elia would have none of it. Despite the questionable nature of Lyanna’s marriage, she is a princess of the realm now, and deserves a better place to safely carry her child.

Elia would have come with her too, had the king not demanded her presence in the Red Keep mere days before they were to set sail for Starfall. Dorne had understandably refused to answer the king’s call to arms though Elia’s brothers knew the truth behind Lyanna’s supposed disappearance, and the king needed their forces after the decisive loss at Stoney Sept. 

But it was all for naught after all, wasn’t it? Uncle Lewin mustered the Dornish forces Doran had grudgingly sent north and Rhaegar finally assumed his duties in the war as soon as Lyanna’s safety was secured, but they both died in the end. The war has been lost, and now all that’s left is for the rebels and the Lannisters to deal the final blow. 

With a sigh, Elia turns to her desk, and the half-finished letter addressed to Doran — the last one she will ever write, she fears. Unlike everything she had ever sent since she was wed to Rhaegar, this one is naught but the simple truth. There are no secret codes, no thinly-veiled requests to look after Lyanna should the worst befall her. She has nothing left to say, save her love for her brothers and her fear for the immediate future.

Dearest Doran,

I hope you and Lady Mellario are doing well, despite the dire news that you must surely have heard by now. I have received word of Oberyn’s task, and I believe that he will do his utmost best not to disappoint you and our family.

Fear has gripped King’s Landing since we heard of how the battle ended. How could we not? The rebels will be here soon, and the presence of the Lannister army at the gates brings us all no comfort. Blood will spill soon, no matter what Lord Tywin’s machinations will be, and I worry that we will be powerless to stop it.

The night after we received the news from the Trident, Lord Lucerys and his fleet escorted Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys to Dragonstone. The Queen looked ill when she left, perhaps because it has only been six weeks since she birthed Princess Saera. She did not even have the strength to argue when the king refused to let the child come with her, insisting that he must teach her how to be a dragon first.

As you must already surmise, I shall also be remaining here. The king wishes to ensure the loyalty of our forces that survived Riverrun. Once I am closer to childbirth and begin to produce milk, the king expects me to replace the princess’ wet nurse as a test of my loyalty…

Elia looks up in surprise as she hears a loud thump coming from the walls. Her eyes flit to the left, where a lone shelf begins to move, and grabs the dagger hidden within the folds of her skirt. She takes a step back, closer to the door, and prepares to scream though the king refused to give her even just one guard.

The shelf shifts once more, revealing a passage concealed on the wall right behind it. A man emerges, clad in an ill-fitting armor painted red and white, and a dusty white cloak that must have belonged to another man. He raises a hand, as if to reassure her he means no harm. His other hand, meanwhile, gently lifts his helm’s visor to reveal a familiar face that Elia never expected to see again.

The bells stop tolling outside.

It’s over.

King’s Landing has been sacked, people have been killed, and women have been defiled. Many houses have been looted and even set to the torch. Soldiers from the Westerlands swarm the streets, watching quietly — resentfully — as the victorious army marches through the sullied city. In the distance, Lannister banners can be seen flying over the Red Keep, serving as a message and a warning.

Ned suppresses a shudder as they march through the streets. He had seen his own fair share of blood and death during the war, but not an atrocity of this scale. In the past year, men had lost hands for far less than harming innocents. To see a lord turn a blind eye — if not actively encourage — such actions sickens him.

As they draw closer to the Red Keep, they encounter a few more skirmishes that are quickly snuffed out by their forces. Though some of them are slain, most of the remaining soldiers and guards of King’s Landing surrender at the sight of rebels. Lannister soldiers, meanwhile, watch them with loathsome eyes.

“Hah. I knew it was only a matter of time before Lord Tywin marched on our side!” Robert crows as they begin the ascent to Aegon’s hill, passing by silent manses that have thankfully been spared from being gutted. “After that decisive win at the Trident, they’d be fools to still take Aerys’ side.”

“Perhaps.” Even Ned knows that Lord Tywin is a dangerous man. The destruction his forces wrought in the span of a few hours is proof enough. “We must tread carefully, still.”

“Tywin’s history with Aerys is complicated,” Jon adds. “Whatever friendship they may have had is no more. He will not side with Aerys — especially not in a war that the king has all but lost — unless he has far too much to gain.”

The corner of Robert’s lips lift up in a smirk. “Hah. As he should! I heard that Lord Tywin’s clever. He’ll make a good ally, I’m sure.”

“And a dangerous one.” Jon warns him with a frown. “He’s as ruthless as he is intelligent, or so I hear. We must tread carefully when dealing with him, lest you lose your crown before it’s even placed on your head.”

They ride through the Red Keep’s gates unhindered, passing by groups of soldiers bearing the sigils of different western lords. At the entrance to the Great Hall, the lords of the united armies dismount alongside their best soldiers, and march on to the Iron Throne. The rest of their forces remain at the entrance, standing guard should anything go awry.

Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock awaits them beneath the gaze of the Iron Throne, accompanied by a handful of his lords and at least fifty red-clad soldiers. At his feet lie about a dozen figures wrapped in blood-stained crimson banners. He slowly kneels as the approach, his face devoid of any emotion even as he studies them with shrewd green eyes.

“King’s Landing is yours, Lord Robert — or should I say, Your Grace?”

“I’m yet to be crowned. Call me what you want and be on your feet, Lord Tywin.” Robert waves his hand dismissively before his attention turns to the wrapped figures. “And what are those?”

“A gift.” Lord Tywin motions to his men, who proceed to lift the cloaks, revealing the mangled corpses beneath.

A metallic stench fills the air, making Ned’s stomach turn.

King Aerys’ face is frozen forever in a look of horror and rage, his throat slit open so deeply by his attacker that he had almost been beheaded. Half-dried blood stains his filthy orange robes from the collar down to his knees like a grotesque twist on his House’s words. Though it may be a gruesome sight, Ned can’t help but admit that it’s no less than the king deserves.

To the king’s left is the corpse of a Targaryen man-at-arms, his body split open from navel to waist. Whoever he was in life will be hard to tell now — his head had been dashed violently against something hard, and his face is beyond recognizable. Even in death, he still clutches a brown pouch in his hand. Lying to the king’s right, meanwhile, is a man in bright green robes almost completely dyed red with his own blood. He had been stabbed over and over again, creating a gruesome sight that will surely haunt Ned for years.

“My men identified him as Rossart, the Hand. He was caught escaping,” Lord Tywin says in an unnervingly dispassionate voice as he pointed at the man with the crushed face. Then, he turns to the other corpse. “This was one of them too, but we were unable to get his name. In fact, he died so fast that we couldn’t get any information out of him at all. But no matter — we have caught a third and my men are questioning him as we speak.”

“And the rest?” Jon asks.

The remaining bodies are in even worse states. All of them are women — servants, from the looks of it — barely clad in the remnants of their dresses. Some had been struck down by blades, some had been choked to death, and the tallest of them had been stabbed countless times like the nameless pyromancer. Horror is etched on all their faces, reminding everyone who dares to look that whoever killed them had done more than that.

“Elia Martell’s servants, though some of them may have also tended to Aerys’ rumored babe.” Lord Tywin barely spares the poor girls a look. “Commoners, all. They’re nothing of import.”

Ned fears that Tywin Lannister might be much worse than the stories claim.

“A terrible fate, nonetheless,” he muses.

Robert flashes the most terrifying smile Ned has ever seen on his face, one of unabashed glee and barely-concealed bloodlust. “Bah, it’s no less than they deserve. They worked for the Mad King, remember that.”

Ned purses his lips, though he wishes to say more. Watching his oldest friend find joy in the horrific deaths of women makes his gut twist.

“What of the other Targaryens and Princess Elia?” Jon asks. “Where are they?”

“Gone.” Lord Tywin purses his lips. “The few cooperative servants we have encountered informed us that the queen fled with Viserys shortly after the battle at the Riverlands with Gerold Hightower. As for her babe and Elia Martell, we could not find them in the castle. Elia’s room showed no signs of struggle at all. The nursery is empty too — we found not even a wet nurse. We fear that the remaining Kingsguard might have spirited them away.”

Robert bares his teeth and growls. “Damn it! We were so close to putting an end to the dragons and their spawn!”

“They’re just women and children,” Ned reminds him. “What harm can they do?”

“If we are to crown Lord Robert as king, then they may challenge his rule.” It’s chilling to hear Lord Tywin say such words so dispassionately. “Viserys and his sister may be children, but if we do nothing, then the day will come where they will wed and have offspring of their own. And there are rumors that Elia Martell might be with child too — another complication that must be dealt with.”

“See, Ned?” Robert turns to his friend with a childishly smug look on his face. “We have to deal with them before they can turn into threats.”

“And I am certain that there are plenty of ways to deal with these threats.” Jon stares at his foster sons sharply, silencing the budding argument before it can go further. “But I fear that must wait, too. Lord Tywin, can you tell us more about what happened here?”

Tywin Lannister nods, his gaze still cold and mirthless. “With pleasure.”

“My lord, there isn’t much time left. She wants to see you before she… she…”

“I know.”

A weary sigh escapes Oberyn’s lips as he watches the children left in his care bicker and play with no hint of fear. Here in Tyrosh, where their blissful days have been spent unbothered, the horrors of war must feel like a world away even for the older children who know enough of the conflict at home. Oberyn would have it no other way, though anger and worry had long claimed his heart.

This humble manse had been their sanctuary since Dornish forces marched to war — a war he hasn’t heard from since he left Dorne. A part of him wishes that he stayed instead, marching alongside Uncle Lewin and their people to a battle none of them ever wanted. Protecting his daughters and Doran’s children is also a worthwhile task, he knows, but his hand itches to wield his spear against those who might mean Elia harm.

But Doran would not take his chances and neither would Oberyn, in truth. The children may be safe enough with the trusted servants and guards that accompanied them east, but only Oberyn can truly keep them safe if the near-impossible worst comes to pass.

Fear keeps him awake at night, leaving him wondering if his choices have left Elia to her doom. Anger keeps him company in the day, though all he can do is quietly seethe and curse the Targaryens — Aerys for his paranoia and madness, and Rhaegar for his inability to truly stand up to his father. And though Elia had written enough to reassure him that her beloved wolf girl meant no harm, Oberyn couldn’t help but rage at her too. Had she not been there to draw both Rhaegar and Elia’s gaze, then perhaps…

“My lord —”

“I’m coming.”

Tearing his eyes away from the children, he rises to his feet and follows the young maid upstairs, to the first door on the left. Here, in the room he often shares with his current lover, the smell of blood and sweat threatens to overwhelm his senses. He knows this smell too well but not from the birthing bed. This is the smell of a battle gone wrong, where life has been spilled for better or worse.

One does not need to forge a Maester’s chains to know that this moment was coming from the moment blood began to pool between Serra’s legs. It was too much, too fast, and the screams of pain that followed were even worse. Maester Caleotte, who left the Water Gardens to accompany them here, assured Oberyn that he will try his best to keep both mother and child safe, but it’s naught but an empty promise. 

As Oberyn approaches Serra, every step he takes feels like it’s weighed down by lead. He knew this was a possibility from the start but coming face-to-face with it isn’t easy, either. All he can think of is Mother’s last moments, wasting away from an illness none in their household ever anticipated. And though he loved Mother with all his heart, this situation still somehow feels a thousand times worse. He caused this, didn’t he? Had he not laid eyes on Serra that one time in Lys, then perhaps she wouldn’t be suffering like this.

“Brooding, are we?” Even in her condition, she still finds it in her to jest. “Come now, I thought you hated that the most because of your good-brother?”

“I’m not brooding.” He sits gently at the edge of the bed. Taking her pale, sweaty hand in his, he gazes into her blue eyes and finds contentment beyond the pain. “I was just thinking of the future.”

She graces him with the loveliest smile that makes him feel infinitely worse. How lovely she is even at the very end of her life, her gold and silver hair damp with sweat and her lips cracked dry. “Weren’t you the one who told me that your love is fleeting? That you might grow bored or find someone better someday and leave me?”

“And weren’t you the one who told me to think of today instead of worrying for tomorrow?” He all but snaps back as his grip on her tightens. “Now you won’t even have a tomorrow to worry about! I did this to you, I —”

“Knew the risk, just as I did.” Her smile falls and she looks away. “I was happy, Oberyn. Truly. Were you?”

“I was. I am.” It’s true that his love is fleeting but that doesn’t mean he was ever discontented. Serra had truly made him happy — happy enough to anticipate their child — and he would never wish for things to end this way between the two of them. He won’t forget this, even when he finds love again as he knows he will.

Though weak, Serra raises her hand and motions to one of the maids standing nearby. The woman steps forward with a bundle of blankets in her arms which she presents to Oberyn. 

“Our son,” Serra declares as Oberyn reluctantly lets go of her to hold their child in his arms. “I… I wanted to name him Daeron.”

His fifth child is small, like his sisters have been. At first glance, he is every bit like his mother, with his pale, delicate Lysene features complemented by thin tufts of silver-gold hair. His eyes haven’t settled between blue and purple yet, it seems, but their shape is unmistakable.

Let no one doubt  that this boy is Oberyn Martell’s firstborn son.

“Then Daeron he shall be.” Doran won’t be amused, but Oberyn does not care. Not now. “Despite our history, it’s not such a strange name in Dorne anymore.”

“Good. Then perhaps he can do what our forebears could not.” Serra looks away as her voice grows weaker. “I was the last of our blood and soon he shall be. The chest I asked you to retrieve. Give it to him when he comes of age. He must know, Oberyn. He must.”

A dangerous request, but one Oberyn cannot refuse anymore. “Then he will.”

“Promise me, Oberyn.”

“I promise.”

Dearest Ned,

I received your letter a fortnight ago, and apologize for my late response.

Robb and I are as well as ever. Our son is as delightful as we both hoped for — he is a bright and happy babe, though he does not shy away from causing a ruckus whenever it pleases him, even at night. Maester Luwin assured me that he is strong and healthy, and that I shall be fit to bear another child soon, should we wish for it.

Catelyn had given birth not too long ago, which is the reason for this delay. It was terribly difficult for her. Though the babe is safe and healthy, she lost so much blood during the ordeal that she still remains ill. We fear for her health, in truth, and even the maester has no definite answers for us yet.

Benjen recommended different Stark names for your nephew, and Catelyn eventually settled on Torrhen. In truth, I am worried that the name may leave a bitter taste in some people’s mouths due to recent events, but your brother had reassured us of the respect King Torrhen’s name still commands in the North. I truly hope that it is enough for the rest of the realm, especially our new king.

Your final endeavor may be over by the time you receive this in White Harbor, but know that I pray for your safety day and night. I miss you, Ned. There is much and more I cannot tell you with this humble letter, so you must come home to me soon. Alive and safe, just as you promised when we parted. And should you truly succeed in bringing Lyanna home, as I am sure you would, then please send her my regards and tell her that I have books and dresses waiting for her when she comes home.

I will do my utmost to keep you apprised of the situation here in Winterfell, should any new developments arise.

Ever your beloved wife,
Ashara  

Chapter Text

The sun has barely risen when a small group of riders leaves Winterfell that morning, white banners bearing House Stark’s gray direwolf dancing in the breeze.

All thirty of them are headed for a village just a short ride away to the southwest. News arrived yesterday of a group of criminals that Stark men had apprehended. It had only been two days since Winterfell first received news of the petty criminals bound for the Wall who had stopped there for the night, only to murder the member of the Night's Watch who was meant to escort them. There was more to the tale, though Mother and Father refused to discuss it in front of  the children, and guards were promptly dispatched from Winterfell to search for them. Now that they’ve been caught, it’s time for the Lord of Winterfell to dispense justice, assess the damages done, and provide what aid he can to the people.

Though she had been allowed to accompany Father before on some visits to the nearby castles and settlements sworn to House Stark, this is the first time Sansa has been deemed old enough to witness Father’s harsher duties. She is eight now, after all, and there is no finer age to start learning about the ways of the North. Or so, that’s what Aunt Lyanna often says at breakfast. Besides, the boys have been allowed to come with Father since they turned eight too.

They haven’t seen much snow at all throughout this third year of summer, so the journey doesn't last that long. Father estimates that they will be back before noon — just in time for their Dornish guests’ expected arrival. Their destination is a small village nestled right at the edge of the wolfswood that consists of a few sturdy cabins and huts haphazardly surrounding a small longhall, and crofts bearing half-grown crops. One of the houses standing a notable distance away from the rest has been previously burned, the sturdy logs that must have once been its walls now black as night.

“The outlaws did it,” Robb declares. “They robbed the seamstress’ house and took her away after killing the black brother. I heard Ser Jory telling Aunt Lya about it last night.”

“You hear a lot of things, Stark.” Their half-brother, Jon, grins as Robb glares at him. “Best be careful or else your lady mother might think you’re gossiping too.”

Father dismounts and hands the reins to one of their guards as more men clad in House Stark’s colors approach him while conversing in low voices. Sansa can’t understand it well, but she hears words such as “poached beyond the village’s bounds,” “petty thieves and rapers,” “murderers,” and “our seamstress.” There is anger in each word, enough to make Sansa’s skin crawl.

Their party is then led to the longhouse, where eight men are tied to wooden poles near the entrance. They are all dressed in ragged clothes stained by half-dried blood and dirt. Most of them bear cuts and bruises — they clearly struggled against their would-be captors. The thinnest and grimiest of them catches Sansa staring and flashes a smirk before licking his lips. Cold fear courses through her veins though she knows he cannot harm her, and it takes all of her courage to fight away the tears welling in her eyes.

But Sansa isn’t the only one who’s watching him and his friends. Their cousin, Torrhen, nudges his pony closer to her with a dark look on his pale face. Robb and Jon flank them, their angry eyes trained on the offending man.

The boys may often tease Arya and her, but she knows they love her as fiercely as she loves them. They look different from one another, and their circumstances of birth are different, but they are still a pack — something that both of her parents had also instilled in her for as long as she can remember. They are all even clad sensibly in similar gray riding outfits today, as befitting the children of House Stark.

Robb is the oldest among the four children present, tall, thin, but sturdy. He has the long face of House Stark, and Aunt Lyanna says he might grow to strongly resemble Father one day. However, his deep-set gray eyes bear the slightest hint of purple, like many of their kin from Dorne, and hair is like Mother’s — thick, lustrous, and as dark as night.

Jon, who is younger by a moon and a half, looks close enough to be mistaken for his twin. He is slightly shorter and more graceful, however, and his dark brown hair is often a mess of curls. His eyes are gray, like Father’s, but in a shade so dark that they look almost black. Mother often jokes that she would have passed Jon off as her own had he not been born in the south.

Torrhen is taller than both Robb and Jon, and was born between them too. Aunt Lyanna says that he might take after his father, Uncle Brandon, who was sturdy and broad-shouldered in life. He has high cheekbones, curly auburn hair, and bright blue eyes — all traits that he inherited from his mother, Lady Catelyn, who died from an illness not long after he was born.

Sansa, in turn, looks nothing like the boys. She is more Dayne than Stark — a fact that Robb often teases her about — with Mother’s purple eyes and her favorite uncle’s silver hair. Put together, it is a look common to people with the blood of House Dayne, but Sansa has overheard her parents talk a few times about how many folk in King’s Landing won’t take kindly to it.

Not that she cares about what they would think, of course.

“It’s time,” Torrhen says, breaking Sansa out of her thoughts. “Listen well and don’t look away.”

Sansa nods and turns her eyes on Father, who approaches the captured men. His long brown hair stirs in the wind as he regards the captured men with cold gray eyes. There is no trace of the gentle, soft-spoken man who would often sit with his children by the fire with plenty of stories and wisdom to share. Today, he is not the father who would quietly watch the boys spar with pride, and kindly give Sansa pointers when she trained with the bow. Today, he is Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

“You stand accused of crimes to the Night's Watch and this village,” he declares to the outlaws. “Do you deny killing Alyck of the Night's Watch? Do you deny stealing from the village seamstress, burning down her home, and abducting her?”

Silence briefly rings in the air as the men watch him with shifty eyes. Then, the man who smirked at Sansa speaks up. “We wouldn't have ran off with the girl if we knew you'd bring us that pretty little thing, m’lord.”

Sansa’s earlier fear turns to anger. It takes all of her strength and dignity not to reach for the dagger tucked beneath her skirts and brandish it at the man. Though he has done nothing but scare and offend her, she knows this is neither the time nor place to retaliate. His life will be over soon — no matter what he or his companions have to say for themselves, the king’s justice will be served before the day ends.

Jory Cassel, the captain of Winterfell’s guard, seems to have ideas of his own. He shoves the offending man to the ground and points a sword to his neck. “Have some respect for Lady Sansa!”

“Perhaps we should cut his tongue, my lord,” Theon Greyjoy, the elder of Father's wards, declares with a smirk. 

Though a handful of years older than the boys, he is shorter than Sansa’s brothers and almost equally lean, with inky black hair, gleaming dark eyes, and an easy smile that always seems to find something amusing in the world.

Father turns to him, Sansa’s anger reflected in his own eyes. “There will be no need for that.”

Arvis Dustin, the younger ward, smirks at Theon but says nothing. Instead, he takes the gloves Father just removed and holds them tightly with all the dignity he can muster. He is only eight, like Sansa, with his father’s light brown hair and honey eyes. He is kinder than Theon, Sansa supposes, though she doesn’t like how confident he is that she will become his bride someday.

One of the men lurches forward and weeps. He is young, probably twenty at most, with fair, straw-colored hair. “Mercy, m’lord! I-I just wanted to go home! We all did! Didn’t want to go to no Wall for having a bit o’ fun with Heddie!”

“If none shall deny the accusations made against them, then there is nothing more to say.” His frown deepening, Father peels off his gloves and hands them to Jory. “Theon?”

As bidden, Theon steps forward with Ice, House Stark’s ancestral greatsword. It is as wide as a grown man’s hand and taller than Sansa and the boys, made of Valyrian steel that shone like gray smoke with even deeper ripples. Expensive and impossible to replace, the spell-forged blade is lighter, stronger, and much sharper than weapons made of any other materials. If Maester Luwin speaks true, it never loses its edge and not even fire can destroy it.

“Don’t look away,” Jon whispers to Sansa. “Father will know if you do.”

“And keep your pony calm,” Torrhen adds, his gaze distant and worried. “The last thing we want is for it to whisk you away if it spooks.”

Father takes Ice in both hands reverently as the men are lined up a short distance away before an old stump of wood. He observes them all one last time with cold eyes. “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.”

Sansa does as she is told, keeping her pony well under control as she watches Father take the men’s heads one by one. She’s seen a few people die from illness throughout the years in Winterfell, but this is the first time she’s seen an execution. Her stomach churns violently at the sight of blood seeping through the snow, but she watches until the last man.

Robb smiles at her as the village men take the bodies away. “You didn’t throw up on your dress. Good.”

She huffs and turns her chin up as Arvis lets out a loud retch behind them. “I’m no delicate flower.”

Father approaches her, his face still grim. He holds out a hand to help her dismount as Jon takes her pony’s reins. “I must stay behind to hear what else the villagers have to say, but you will be riding home with most of the men shortly. But before that, I would like to have a word with you. Will you join me on a walk?”

“Of course, Father.” She smiles pleasantly and follows him as he heads for a nearby well. She waits patiently as he draws water himself and uses it to wash the flecks of blood on his hands.

Only when he is done does he address her again. “Are you well, Sansa?”

“I am.” She pauses, her eyes darting around to make sure that no one is listening, before she carries on. “That man who spoke about me, he deserved it.”

Father watches her quietly for a moment before nodding to himself. “Aye, he did. Had I not been here to dispense the king’s justice, I would have had him gelded as Theon suggested. Did he scare you?”

“I was, when he first looked at me.” Sansa’s fingers are still tingling with cold not from the breeze, but from the man’s stare. “But when he talked, all I could feel was anger.”

“But you did not act on it.”

“No — he was going to lose his head, anyway. Wasn’t he?”

Father smiles sadly. “It is not my place to talk about the hardships and duties that come with being a woman, but know that we cannot protect you forever. It is why I let you and your sister learn how to defend yourselves, and see the kind of folk I had to execute today. You must see and learn, Sansa.”

“I understand.” Mostly. “But why did he have to say that, Father? Did he think you’d spare him?”

“No.” He pauses for a moment as the boys’ laughter ring through the air, like no execution took place but a few moments ago. “He was afraid, just like the man who pleaded for mercy. He knew he would not live — not after what they had done — and chose to say those words to spite me instead of accepting his death with what little courage he had left. It was the same when he and his companions chose to kill Alyck, rather than pay the price for their crimes. But do you know why I had to do it?”

This is not about their crimes, Sansa knows. She has heard enough about that even before they set off from Winterfell. “Because this is our duty to protect the people under our rule and ensure that they receive justice due to them?” 

“More than that.” Father kneels to look Sansa in the eye. “King Robert has a headsman — and indeed, so did the Targaryen kings before him. But our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.”

Do not look away. Sansa is starting to understand her brother’s words better now, and she’s glad she did as she was told. And yet… “What does that mean for me?”

“One day when you are older and perhaps wed, there may come a time where you must make difficult decisions of your own — decisions that may seem harsh and painful, though it may not need you to swing the sword for justice.  When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. Only by bearing the burden of the choices you made will you truly understand their weight.”

The trip home goes by quickly enough. Torrhen keeps her entertained with stories about his latest foray into the lower levels of the Winterfell crypts with Robb and Jon. Her brothers themselves chime in with their additions to the story every now and then, though she can feel their watchful eyes on her. Perhaps they're still worried that the vile man, the execution, or both had rattled her. She does what she can to reassure them, smiling and chatting along throughout their ride. She's truly fine despite the earlier surge of anger and fear.

Behind them, Theon mocks Arvis incessantly for throwing up earlier.

They pass through the winter town, first past empty houses that are only occupied in winter, then the homes and shops that are busy no matter what the season is. The town’s glass gardens glitter in the distance — a symbol of how their lands have grown more prosperous since Sansa’s great-grandfather, Edwyle Stark, first discovered the North’s greatest treasure. In the distance, smoke rises from three inns that host not only weary travelers, but also intrepid merchants who braved the cold and the distance to see the North’s famed rubies and sapphires for themselves. The market square also bustles with life as women flit from wooden stall to wooden stall as the smell of bread wafts from a nearby baker’s shop.

Uncle Arthur awaits near Winterfell’s gates, his silver hair trimmed for the first time in many moons. A new fur cloak hangs around his shoulders, white as fresh snow, adorned with Mother’s embroidery in violet thread the same shade as his eyes. A castle-forged longsword hangs on his hip, its scabbard gleaming with the Stark direwolf.

“Welcome home,” he greets them with a warm smile as they begin to head into the castle grounds. “Ashara sent me to wait for you here as soon as you were seen entering the town.”

“And Arya didn’t argue with you until you let her come?” Jon asks.

Torrhen shakes his head. “She might be too busy pestering Aunt Lya instead.”

Uncle Arthur’s smile grows as he regards the two boys. They may not be his nephews, but he has always been kind to them too. “Her lessons with Maester Luwin have been keeping her busy this morning. She doesn’t seem happy about it, but Ashara thinks it’s high time for her to start learning about some storied ancestors. Now, how did your journey go?”

“Well enough.” Robb mirrors their uncle’s smile though his eyes briefly flit to Sansa. “One of the men was quite unpleasant, though.”

“Is that so?” Uncle Arthur’s eyes turn as cold as steel. He may be their uncle and guardian now, but he was a knight once — a knight who once gained the confidence of smallfolk as he led a campaign to crush a fearsome band of outlaws. Of all people, he must know the kind of men Father had to deal with this morning.

Sansa clears her throat, not wanting to dwell on it any longer. “There was no need to cause further trouble over it. Didn’t matter what he said or did — he was going to lose his head, anyway.”

They dismount halfway through the central courtyard and continue on foot to the Great Keep. Mother and Aunt Lyanna — the most beautiful women Sansa knows — wait for them right by the entrance, whispering to themselves as they watch the party approach.

Mother approaches first, already clad in her finest though their guests shouldn’t be arriving until well after their midday meal. Her dress is made of the finest gray wool that clings to her full figure, the skirts heavy with intricate embroidery of falling stars in gleaming silver thread. Her dark hair is bound up by silver pins in an intricate Dornish style, drawing attention to her neck adorned with a lovely white gold necklace resplendent with purple star sapphires.

With a bright smile, she swoops in to kiss Robb’s cheeks, then Sansa’s, then Jon’s and Torrhen’s. She even takes the time to greet Theon and Arvis warmly, giving the younger boy a proud pat on her head. As Maester Luwin once said, Ashara Dayne has always had so much love to give to the children of Winterfell — even those that are not her own.

“Welcome home, my dears,” she says in her deep and melodious voice. “I’m glad that Ned made sure that you would be home in time for our midday meal.”

“Ned wouldn’t dare do otherwise.” Aunt Lyanna says with a snort. “He knows what they’re like when they’re hungry.”

Like Mother, she wears her best today. Her wool dress is a dark shade of gray that almost looks black, cut to make her look even taller than she is, the bodice embroidered with delicate winter roses. Her brown hair is unbound today, tumbling around her face and over her gray eyes, making her look so much like Arya — who is conspicuously missing. She wears a necklace too, this one made of gleaming gold and teardrop-shaped rubies more deep pink than red.

She greets her niece and nephews with kisses on the forehead, and the wards with hearty pats on the arm. Then, she wraps an arm around Jon’s shoulders with a contented grin. He has always been her favorite — Mother once said that Aunt Lyanna nursed Jon herself when he was a babe to ease the pain of losing her own son during a war that everyone says Sansa will learn about soon enough.

Uncle Arthur turns to Mother, a knowing smile on his face. “Ned stayed behind, as expected — I am certain that he knows you’ll be fussing over the state of his clothes as soon as he returns.”

“As he should,” Mother huffs playfully as she ushers them all into the keep. Beside her, Aunt Lyanna smiles smugly. “He can do better than those drab grays and browns he prefers.”

“And so he shall tonight,” Aunt Lyanna tells her while Uncle Arthur bursts into laughter. “It’s high time he dresses as well as his lords. It wouldn’t hurt him to wear a bit of blue or green, won’t it?”

The adults’ laughter still rings in her ears when Sansa finally slips into her room. The servants have cleaned it up in the few hours she’s been away, as expected, though she spots a mass of messy brown hair and wrinkled blue fabric that should be a dress sprawled on the edge of her bed.

“Hello, Arya.” Sansa says with a resigned sigh. She won’t be enjoying a moment of peace before midday meal, it seems.

“Do you know how bored I was?” Arya demands as she sits up, dark gray eyes glaring at her sister sharply. “I’ve nothing to do but play with Bran and listen to Maester Luwin go on and on about Brandon the Bad!”

Sansa rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “Bran is only two. You shouldn’t be pestering him so much. But you should do well to listen to Maester Luwin, or else you’ll turn out like that Brandon.”

“I’m not going to steal brides all over the North!” Arya pouts, showing no signs of wanting to leave. “Maybe I’d have paid more attention if he talked about one of the Kings of the North who fought wildlings and ironborn! Or maybe even the ones who fought the Boltons.”

“It’s not always about bloody battles.” Sansa hopes that Mother shows up and takes Arya away. “And if you paid attention to Maester Luwin, maybe you’d know that Brandon the Bad pestered the North so much with his terrible attitude that his own sister threw him out of the Broken Tower.”

“You won’t throw me out like that… would you?”

“No, but others might. If you don’t learn how to behave yourself.”

Arya falls quiet for a moment, scowling at nothing in particular. Then, finally, she hops off the bed. “It’s not fair, you know. Why do I have to stay behind while you all ride off to watch a beheading?”

“It’s not some fun mummer’s play.” Thinking of the man who had stared at her, spoke of her, is enough to make her body turn cold from fear and hot with rage. “You’ll understand when Father takes you along next year.”

“Maybe.” Arya sticks her tongue out, then makes her way to the door. “Well, I suppose Mother is looking for me now. I’ll be seeing you later?”

Sansa shrugs. She loves her sister, she really does, but the younger girl can be a handful sometimes. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

As soon as Arya is gone, she moves to her bed to smoothen the sheets. Servants will surely tend to it later, but it’s such a little thing that it’s no bother at all. Besides, she has been raised not to be a burden to the people of Winterfell, especially on such a busy day. It’s always been that way — Arya makes a mess while pestering everyone and Sansa cleans up after her before they both get into worse trouble. Would it really hurt to be a bit less… wild?

Sudden movement catches her eye. Taking a step back, she watches a large spider scuttle out of her sheets and atop her favorite pillow’s covers. No. No, no, no, no. Her mind goes blank from terror as she stumbles backwards, unaware she trips on the fringes of her soft blue rug. She could see nothing but the monstrosity on her bed, and she could hear nothing but the blood rushing in her ears.

Her screams ring out of her room, echoing through the hallway beyond.

Chapter Text

As Ashara estimated, their guests arrive a few hours after their midday meal.

They assemble at the courtyard, dressed in their finest clothes and jewelry adorned with Northern gems. Even poor, sweet Ned couldn’t resist Ashara’s insistence, and replaced his worn-out clothes with gray velvets that had been painstakingly embroidered with silver wolves, smoky black silk, and a heavy white cloak lined with thick fur. After all, they have to do their best to impress not only their kin, but also Ashara’s stepmother, whom she barely knows at all.

To Ned’s left are Robb, Torrhen, and Jon, pristine in their matching clothes. Houses north of the Red Mountains might hide their bastards — and supposed bastards — in shame, but Ashara will have none of it. They are her charges too, though they may not be of her own blood, and deserve their place in this household. Besides, keeping Jon hidden whenever they have guests might draw more attention to the boy than any of them would want.

To Ashara’s right are a red-eyed Sansa and a sullen Arya, who still refuse to meet each other’s eyes. Though she would rather reconcile them, she believes that they may need some space. After all, Arya’s pranks have gone too far this time and it won’t do either of them good to force them to make up. All Ashara can do is pray that they could at least try to be civil to each other, even just for tonight.

Farther right, Theon and Arvis stand at the ready, dressed in their respective Houses' colors too. Both are quiet today, perhaps in anticipation of their guests. Arvis, who hasn’t been in Winterfell that long, keeps fidgeting with the chain of gold and yellow topaz that his mother had given him as a parting gift.

Little Brandon, meanwhile, sleeps in Ashara’s arms. He is barely two, after all, and far too young for all of this. He’ll have time to meet their guests once he’s had his nap, and perhaps a warm cup of his favorite broth.

Soon, the first of their guests ride in — Oberyn Martell, to Ashara’s concern. She had received word that a representative from Sunspear would join the Daynes traveling North, but she hoped it would be one of the cousins that she barely knew. Having Oberyn around will make things more difficult, so everyone will have to work twice as hard to keep the peace.

Princess Elia’s younger brother is exactly as Ashara remembers — graceful, handsome, and a pain in the ass. Even in his pale red winter cloak and cream winter clothing trimmed with gold, he looks every bit the viper people claim him to be with a sword hanging from his hip and a spear strapped to his saddle. His dark eyes scan the group as he dismounts and approaches, flashing a smirk at Ashara.

She must thank the old gods again that Father was wise enough to let her marry Ned.

Behind Oberyn is a boy of about eight or nine, bundled up in a muted blue cloak that’s clearly too big for him. His hair, Ashara notes with a jolt, is the same silver-gold that most Targaryens have, though more gold than silver in his case. As dismounts clumsily next to Oberyn, Ashara notes that his eyes seem more blue than purple. This must be Oberyn’s Lyseni son that Father had mentioned in one of his letters.

A second child follows him — clearly another of Oberyn’s brood. She is taller and more graceful than her brother, perhaps a few years older, with curly black hair and light brown skin standing out against a winter cloak the color of sand. Though her nose is red from the cold, she holds her head  high with pride as she draws the courtyard’s gaze. Ashara takes note of the bow and quiver of arrows on her back — Arya will waste no time in pestering her, surely.

Next come a dozen guards bearing the Dayne colors, dressed for the cold yet clearly unprepared to truly face it. Half of them escort a pair of wagons carrying chests of clothes and personal belongings. Behind them is a modest wheelhouse, far from the elaborate monstrosities Ashara had seen during her time in King’s Landing, but sturdy and lovely nonetheless. Based on the mermen carved on the corners, this must have been lent by the Manderlys as a show of northern hospitality.

Lady Mallina Dayne steps out first — a tall, willowy woman not much older than Ashara herself, wearing a cloak and thick winter outfit in the gold and greens of House Jordayne. Her lustrous black hair is braided elaborately despite the long trip and adorned with golden leaf-shaped pins. Her skin is more amber than olive, and deep lines are etched on her smooth face, making her look older than she truly is. Pursing her lips, she scans the surroundings warily as she helps her daughter down the carriage.

Little Allyria, the half-sister neither Ashara nor Arthur ever met, hops out with as much grace as a girl of nine can muster. Unlike her mother, she is dressed in the colors of House Dayne and definitely looks the part too. Her hair is silver, like Sansa’s, let loose around her face in gentle waves to keep the cold at bay. As she draws close hand-in-hand with her mother, Ashara notes that her eyes are a darker shade of violet.

Lady Mallina curtseys to Ned before kissing Ashara’s cheeks, a deep frown etched on her face. “I don’t know what your father was thinking, sending Allyria to this cold wasteland. There’s nothing for you to teach her that she can't learn in Dorne.”

That was… certainly a greeting.

“Arthur and I will keep her safe, as will Ned and Lya. We will teach her all we know,” Ashara says as she kisses her stepmother’s cheeks in turn. Oh, she knows too well what Father was thinking when he made his decision, but it’s not her place to say so — unless she wants to cause unnecessary chaos, that is.

Lady Mallina sniffs, absolutely oblivious to the glares the Starks have been giving her. “We could even have settled for the marches, if he truly wanted her to see the world outside of Dorne. But no, he wants her to freeze to death here surrounded by northern savages and the prince’s whore.”

Ashara smiles as she feels the people around her begin to tense. “Might I remind you that this is the Warden of the North’s home, my lady? You would do well to be more polite in front of his household.”

She is not the type to threaten guests, but she’s read enough from Father’s letters throughout the years to know that it is the only way to make his second wife back down. Sometimes, she still wonders if things would be different had father made better choices. He had been wise enough to offer — no, insist — on making Lyanna stay in Starfall for her safety near the end of the war  with Arthur and Arram before leaving to spend a year in Tor. Why couldn’t he have been wiser when it came to finding a second wife too instead of settling for the first offer he received? Had he just thought it through, then he wouldn’t have had to deal with both his advancing illness and his wife. 

For a brief moment, Lady Mallina opens her mouth as if to argue, but thankfully decides against it. Instead, she steps back to roughly pull her daughter forward. “Then, if you may, I present my daughter, Allyria.”

The girl casts a fearful glance at her mother before curtseying with her free hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Lord and Lady Stark.”

“Winterfell welcomes you as its ward, my little lady,” Ned greets her with a solemn bow. “And we extend our hospitality to you and your escorts.”

And with that, the servants arrive with bowls of bread and salt while more pleasantries are exchanged. Oberyn is even bold enough to kiss the back of Ashara’s hand, then Lyanna’s, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m glad neither of you have wasted away from the cold yet,” he quips.

“I’ve learned to live with it,” Ashara admits. It was hard getting used to the cold, and even harder to get used to northern ways, but she embraced them all the same. “It’s not so bad, really.”

Oberyn’s black eyes flit to Bran. “Oh, yes. I can tell you are enjoying your life here. And what about you, dear Lady Lyanna? How fare you in this cold”

“Please, Prince Oberyn, I was raised here.” Lyanna rolls her eyes, aware that he also knows the truth. “You really don’t know what cold truly is until you experience our winters.”

“A plan for another time, then.” Oberyn turns to Ned afterwards, a knowing smile on his face. “And our dear Lord Stark, of course. Has Ashara thawed you out yet?”

Ned keeps a straight face as he regards the prince, though his eyes sparkle with playful mirth. Oh, how the years have changed him. “Believe me, she has done more than thaw me out.”

Oberyn laughs at that, then motions for his children to approach. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing my little Sands — Daeron and Sarella.”

“Worry not, my Prince.” This time, Ned finally smiles. “They are certainly more than welcome. After all, we have our own fair share of Snows.”

After a long morning and a busy afternoon, Jon is inclined to enjoy this feast more than he usually would. It’s not that he hates feasts — far from it — but unless it is a feast to celebrate something simple like a name day, such celebrations often come with guests. And guests often offer him and Torrhen nothing but curiosity, scrutiny, or sometimes even outright disdain.

This feast is no different in that regard. Lady Dayne makes no secret that she is displeased with the seating arrangements. Not only was Prince Oberyn given the seat of honor as a member of House Martell, now she also has to put up with two bastards sharing the high table with her, seated with the other Stark children, the wards, and her own daughter. Father and Lady Ashara wouldn't have it any other way, of course — they have both always insisted that Jon and Torrhen are part of the family. After all, according to Lady Ashara, it’s just like how it's done in most parts of Dorne.

There's plenty of curiosity too. More than once, Jon has caught Prince Oberyn staring at him. The man doesn't say anything, though, and seems content with exchanging incomprehensible japes with Aunt Lya and Lady Ashara.

Regardless, it is a good night for a feast.

It started out with the guests’ entrance, of course. First came Lady Dayne, all sharp edges in her green and gold dress. Though she raised her nose at Father and his fancy silver-embroidered velvets, she had allowed him to escort her into the Great Hall, refusing to meet anyone in the eye.

Next came Prince Oberyn himself, escorted by Lady Ashara. Handsome and confident, he commanded the attention of everyone in the hall as he walked between the wooden tables. Jon could certainly understand why. Judging from the stories he had been raised with, that man is everything a prince should be — handsome, confident, and well-dressed. If Lady Dayne’s stories are to be believed, he is quite intelligent and dangerous too.

Allyria Dayne followed the prince, accompanied by Robb himself. Winterfell’s newest ward seemed content enough, happily asking question after question about Winterfell, the godswood, and even the glass gardens that she had already heard about. Robb answered them all as politely as he could, though he kept shooting his parents nervous looks.

Behind them were Sansa and Arya, hand in hand with Sarella Sand, chattering away about archery. Many lords would have taken offense at the sight of their trueborn daughters mingling with bastards, but this is Winterfell, where its lady’s words and ways hold almost as much sway as its lord.

Finally, Jon and Torrhen entered with Daemon Sand. The boy was nice enough despite being a prince’s son, telling them stories about the famed Water Gardens of Dorne where he had spent most of his life in, and the sisters he was raised with — bold Obara, graceful Nymeria, gentle Tyene, and all the others. When asked about Lys, though, he could say nothing. It seems he has never been to Essos at all.

The last to enter were Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Arthur, and the wards Theon and Arvis. Toasts were made as soon as everyone was seated, and platters of food finally arrived — a rich stew of beef, onions, and carrots, roasted meats, mushrooms stuffed with goat cheese and drenched in butter, fresh-baked bread, berry tarts,and Sansa’s favorite lemon cakes. A bard in scarlet and gray plays a lively tune that echoes through the smoky hall. 

And now, on the second hour of the feast, Jon is feeling full and content. He doesn’t even care about the dark looks Lady Dayne keeps sending her way, or the scrutinizing gaze from Prince Oberyn. A part of him thinks the glass of sweet summerwine Father had allowed them to drink has also helped his mood improve. Just a little. It helps too that Aunt Lya approaches them every now and then to offer them her favorite berry tarts, always pressing the biggest piece she can find in Jon’s hand with a smile and a wink.

Conversation flows freely with the children all seated together. Prince Oberyn’s children seem to be genuinely enjoying their company and even Allyria seems keen enough to befriend them too. At the beginning of the feast, it was all about Winterfell, the North, and the fabled direwolves. Now, however, as they creep farther and farther into the night, talks have turned to Dorne. Though the children of Winterfell have heard tales of Dorne from Lady Ashara and Ser Arthur, who have been raised there, and Aunt Lyanna who had visited just once, they take in tales of Sunspear and the Water Gardens, Starfall and the Tor, and even food both appetizing and strange.

“I’ve also been to Hellholt last year,” Daeron is now saying, seated with a mug of mulled wine in hand like a king holding court. “Father’s paramour is Lord Uller’s daughter, you see. She wanted to present her daughters to him, but Father also insisted on taking a few more of us. So it was me, Tyene, and Nym, since we couldn’t come with him when he rode to the Reach for some tourney. We stayed there for three moons — you should have seen my other sisters’ faces when we returned.”

“I would’ve come too, but I’ve been in Hellholt before,” Sarella explains between dainty bites of lemon cake. “Father wanted to give the others a chance to see it too. Oh, but we all had a good laugh when they returned and found out Ellaria was with child again.”

“Hellholt?” Torrhen finally takes a swig of the wine that Father allowed him to drink. “I’ve heard of Hellholt! Isn’t that where a dragon got killed?”

“Meraxes.” Jon remembers that story well. Maester Luwin has told them plenty of stories about dragons and the Targaryens of old. Thinking of the mighty dragon shot down by one lucky bolt never fails to fill him with both awe and dread. “Mighty creature with silver and gold scales, if the stories about her are true.”

Allyria nods shyly, glancing at her Mother nervously. To everyone’s relief, Lady Dayne seems too busy drinking her wine and glaring at the other tables. “

“The dragons should have known better than to invade Dorne,” Daeron scoffs. “Still, it would’ve been wonderful to see one.”

“I know.” Jon sighs. In his mind’s eye, he can see them, still — wondrous beasts of legend in every color one could imagine, raining fire and death upon any who would stand in their way. But the dragons danced and paid for it with their lives, and now only their bones and the old stories remain.

Torrhen nods along flashing a teasing smile. He may not be an eager reader like Jon, but he and Robb certainly know the books he’s been pestering Maester Luwin for. “Still thinking about Caraxes?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Jon thinks of the mighty red beast painstakingly drawn on the book Maester Luwin showed him.

“If the stories we heard are real, then he certainly was the one of the most fearsome.” Robb nods along. “I wouldn’t mind seeing one, if I had the chance.”

“I don’t mind seeing one either,” Arvis muses. “From a safe distance, anyway.”

“Don’t we all?” Sarella smiles softly. “I asked Lord Uller about Meraxes’ bones when I was there, but he never answered me. Just gave me more lemonsweet and told me stories about his ancestor who became Princess Nymeria’s husband instead.”

“Maybe it’s hidden in some secret cellar. Or decorating his dungeons to scare prisoners.” Arya’s face lights up with every idea that comes out of her mouth. “Or maybe someone stole them and —”

“Arya!” Sansa lets out a bone-tired sigh as she takes an unlady-like bite of her lemon cake.

Theon smiles at Jon’s sisters indulgently before turning to their guests, not one to be outdone. “Oh, Winterfell has its own fair share of mysteries too. Take the crypts, for example.”

“Crypts?” Sarella, who had been ignoring Theon’s japes throughout dinner, suddenly sits up straight to pay attention.

“It’s where Starks have been buried since Winterfell was built,” Robb’s face brightens. Of course, he knows the crypts well enough. How many times did he sneak in there with Jon and Torrhen throughout the years? “Most of the time, only Kings in the North and Lords of Winterfell ever have statues down there, but there have been some exceptions through the years. It's so ancient that many passageways have caved in, but we explore it, sometimes.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing much, really. Just old tombs and statues. But we haven’t wandered a lot yet.”

“Yet.” Theon leans closer, his smirk turning into a genuine smile. “We all heard the stories. Some say there’s treasure down there, buried with those old kings. Then there’s the ghosts — or so, Old Nan says. I tried my hand at exploring too, but maybe its secrets will only show themselves if there’s a Stark around.”

“There aren’t ghosts in your crypts, right?” Allyria glances at the Starks, biting her lip.

Sansa gives her a reassuring smile. “Absolutely not. I’ve been down there a few times — to put flowers on their graves, that’s all — and I’ve never seen any ghosts either. Or treasure.”

“Maybe we just haven't looked enough,” Torrhen argues.

Daeron glances at Sarella briefly before turning back to his new friends. “Or maybe it only shows its secrets — or its ghosts — at night.”

They sneak out as soon as Lady Ashara takes Bran to the nursery and the dancing begins.

To avoid drawing too much attention from the adults, only four of them head for the crypts — Jon, Robb, Torrhen, and Daemon. They promised to take Sarella and Arya on another day, though for now they have to hope they don’t get into too much trouble.

No one stops them, to Jon’s relief. Most of the guards still on duty seem content to raise their hands in greeting, nothing more. They pass by the shadow of the First Keep and the edges of the lichyard, the cold night breeze whistling past headstones. Eventually, they make it to the entrance of  the crypts — an old, heavy ironwood door surrounded by unassuming granite walls. On either side are two torches, lit by the patrolling guards to ensure no one is creeping around where they shouldn’t be.

Robb grabs one of the torches this time. They always take turns leading their little expeditions, and tonight won’t be any different. He pushes the door open and takes the first three steps down the spiral staircase before motioning for the others to follow. Torrhen goes next, then Daeron, and Jon brings up the rear, second torch in hand. He closes the door behind him with a careful, practiced move.

Down and down they go, past empty levels held up by sturdy granite pillars. Jon has been to this place plenty of times, often accompanied by Robb and Torrhen, and sometimes even Arya and a reluctant Sansa. Thrice, they’ve brought the wards along too, though Theon prefers to explore alone, without having to keep children in line. Hah.

A thirst for adventure spurs their every excursion, coupled by curiosity over their forefathers both legendary and half-forgotten. But he’s dreamt of the crypts more often than he’s ever visited, too. The door is always open to him in those dreams, bright and warm and inviting. He always knows he has to go down there, that there’s someone — or something — waiting for him, but he never seems to find them. All he ever finds are the statues of dead Starks, from Uncle Brandon, Grandfather, to all the Stark lords and kings that came before them. They all stare at him with their gray stone eyes, kind and proud like Father’s, though they say not a thing as he walks.

When he wakes after such dreams, he always feels reassured of his place in Winterfell. It’s just as his elders always say — he may not be a Stark in name, but he is one by blood.

“If Old Nan’s stories are true, then this place is larger than Winterfell itself,” Robb says as their footsteps echo loudly. “She says it was built by the same magic that raised the walls and the First Keep.”

Jon knows that story too well. Thousands of Starks are said to be buried within these very crypts from the days of Brandon the Builder and his kin, during the Age of Heroes where horrors and wonders both walked the land.

This time, they go past the level where Grandfather, Grandmother, and Uncle Brandon are all buried. Robb leads them down one of the more intact levels they’ve ventured into, until they reach the line of statues marking the graves of the Starks who lived over a hundred years ago. The lords all have statues made for them, sitting on stone thrones that pale in comparison to House Stark’s high seat and stone direwolves curl at their feet. Behind them are the stone vaults containing their bones, and on their laps are iron longswords that still gleam in the flickering light.

“Father says those are meant to keep spirits at bay,” Jon finds himself explaining to their guest.

Daeron smiles, though he eyes the statues curiously. “Is that why you never found ghosts?”

Soft chuckles echo through the vast cavern.

Jon glances at the statues surrounding them — those of Cregan Stark, known as the Old Man of the North, and the sons and grandsons that followed him. Farther back, hidden in the shadows, are statues of two or three more Stark forefathers who lived and died before the dragons danced. There are even more graves here than those of the Lords’, bearing the names of some of Cregan Stark’s three wives, children, and grandchildren called Winterfell their home. House Stark had thrived so much in his days that this level could not contain all of his kin. However, Jon sees some Snows, like Torrhen and him, buried as Starks in all but name.

Perhaps someday he will have that honor too.

Though they have ventured far deeper than this before to visit the graves of ancient Kings in the North, they have never sought Cregan Stark until the day Maester Luwin taught them about the Dance and the Hour of the Wolf that followed. That was three moons ago, and they didn’t linger long lest they miss their lessons with Ser Arthur and Ser Rodrick. However, this is as perfect a time as any to continue their little foray.

But Jon remembers the warmth all too well — a warmth that began as a tingle in his gut when they first stepped into the level, spreading through his body the closer they got to the tombs. It was like standing next to a crackling fire, or taking a sip of mulled wine after a long day in the training yard. It was strange, as neither Robb nor Torrhen seemed to have felt something similar, and simply thought he had eaten too much when he brought it up. The warmth had receded when they left, turning into nothing but a strange memory.

That is, until today.

The feeling has returned, odd yet comforting. It seems to tug him onwards as his group approaches Cregan Stark’s grave. As Torrhen tells the tale of the Hour of the Wolf, Jon casts his eyes up to the statue’s face, looking for any resemblance he might find. He notes the long face and the hint of kind, solemn eyes that remind him of Father. In the flickering light, the statue seems to gaze at him, proud and wise in equal measure.

“Are you well, Jon?” Robb asks. “You haven’t said anything in a while.”

“I’m fine.” He glances at his brother and smiles before motioning to the statue. “I was just thinking of Cregan. He reminds me of Father, but sadder.”

Torrhen follows his gaze. “Outliving three wives would make anyone sad.”

Daeron sighs softly. “My mother was not even wed to my father, but he still mourned her death — or so, Nym tells me.”

The four of them stand in silence for a moment, gazing at the image of a fierce man who had brought northern justice to the south. As the heat seeps through his fingers, however, Jon looks down and notices something unusual.

Most of the statues that he has seen in these crypts stand upon knee-high bases made from a single block of stone, often the same one from which the statues themselves have been built from. Cregan’s, however, stands upon a base that has been extended in front with cracked flagstones that seem far newer than the rest of the statue. This extension seems to be a third the size of the original base, and whoever made it must not have known how to do it well. Small pieces of stone have fallen away from one corner, revealing what seems to be a hollow interior.

“How strange.” Jon creeps closer and crouches, touching the ruined corner curiously. His fingers begin to tingle from the still-spreading heat.

The others join him, peering at the same base he had noticed. Torrhen picks up one of the fallen stone fragments as he frowns at the hollow interior. “Did someone try to hide something here?”

“It must be treasure,” Robb says. “Just like the stories say.”

“Won’t you get in trouble?” Daeron asks, taking a step back even as he watches them curiously. “That belongs to your ancestor, after all.”

“It’s not his statue nor his actual grave,” Torrhen points out.

More pieces of stone crumble away, revealing more of the space within. He sees flashes of blue and white — jewelry, he thinks. “Look, I think I see sapphires.”

Jon, ignoring Robb’s warning, pries off a few more stones. Soon, he catches a better glimpse of what’s inside — two glittering objects shaped like eggs as big as his head, nestled on a silk cloak of black and red. They seem to be encrusted in jewels that glitter brighter than any northern gem Jon has ever seen. One is a rich, vivid blue like that of a winter rose, streaked with pearlescent white. The other is a light yet striking purple, like the amethysts Lady Ashara loves to wear, with stormy whirls the color of dark steel. 

“What are those?” Torrhen asks, wide-eyed as he takes in the sight of the strange objects.

“Eggs, maybe?” Daemon shakes his head at the thought, snorting. “But what kind of creature would lay eggs that look like that?”

Robb turns to his half-brother, an eager look on his face. “You found them first, you can touch them first too — if you’d like.”

“Are you sure about this?” Jon asks, the strange heat in his body now reaching his toes. “You’re the trueborn.”

“Of course! Go on.”

“Very well, then.”

Jon reaches out in an attempt to pick up the blue stone, The heat, which has been strange but bearable since they first arrived here, suddenly flares into a burst of pain, however. He takes a step back and screams, the sound echoing through the crypts.

Chapter Text

Watching the children go about their day is one of Lyanna’s simple pleasures. Since the day she returned home at the end of the war, she has fancied herself the governess of every child that lives in Winterfell, trueborn or not. It is the only way to distract her from the weight of her secrets and the guilt she must bear.

And tonight, the children indeed are thriving. Facing their Dornish guests, they all seem to be playing their part as perfect little hosts — or at least, as close as they can be. Though the occasional bickering can’t be avoided, the children seem to at least be avoiding things from escalating further tonight. Even Sansa’s dress seems free of the food and grime that Arya loves to fling at her, though the back of Theon’s cloak won’t be surviving the night in a pristine state.

Around Lyanna, conversation flows as freely as the ale and wine. That’s how feasts ought to be, after all, though the polite conversation on her side of the table has long given way to bawdy jokes and discussions of the past. The dangerous stories are left unsaid, of course, though Lyanna is more than happy to speak of the more pleasant parts of her time at Harrenhal that had nothing to do with Rhaegar and Elia.

“Dancing with Ned was the best part of the tourney,” Ashara is saying with a dreamy, girlish smile. “How could I not?”

“He tripped on your skirts,” Oberyn points out. “And he was so dazed that he spilled wine on his doublet after your dance. Even dear Arthur wouldn’t let you hear the end of it all night.”

“We wouldn’t let Ned have some peace either,” Lyanna points out with a bright grin, remembering her brother’s face that night. It’s easier than thinking of a prince’s song — that damned song that set her down the path of no return. “Brandon thought they would elope before the tourney ended.”

Foolish, impulsive Brandon. He was spared from a worse death in King’s Landing by Father going in his stead, but he still died a terrible death nonetheless. If only he listened to Lord Hoster after the battle at the Stoney Sept and married Catelyn Tully instead of chasing after stragglers that far outnumbered his men. But Lyanna has learned long ago that things rarely go the way everyone wants them to be.

Jon and Torrhen are both proof of that, though their circumstances may be different from each other.

“So sweet, wasn’t he?” Ashara carries on, sighing like a lovestruck maiden. “I knew right then that if I were to choose a husband, it had to be him.”

“You said as much back then,” Arthur points out. “In fact, you wouldn’t stop talking about him — except when we caught you kissing under Mad Danelle’s bust. Or was it more than a kiss?”

Ned’s face turns beet-red at that and he quickly glances at Lyanna. “I did not dishonor her, at the very least.”

Unlike Brandon. Handsome, fiery Brandon who thought with his cock rather than his head. Had he wed poor Catelyn instead of taking her maidenhead and riding off to his death…

Soon, the conversation turns to the lords and ladies of Dorne.

“Ryon wasn’t pleased when your father approved the match,” Oberyn notes with a laugh. “He couldn’t believe that you would be marrying someone you knew for scarcely a week. The fool always thought he’d marry you.”

Arthur shrugs. “Stories of northern sapphires were enough to convince Father. Besides, he would rather see Ashara happily wed. He never had the luxury of a happy marriage, after all.”

Ashara leans forward, eyes gleaming as she glances at the sullen Lady Dayne to Oberyn’s right. “Well, he might have had a second chance had he wed someone, anyone but Mallina.”

They all laugh at that. The woman has been nothing but haughty and unpleasant, and the she-wolf would like nothing more than to pelt her with pie crumbs.

Oberyn rolls his eyes. “Traveling with her was such an honor — or should I say, horror. I’ll never understand why your father accepted the match.”

Arthur smiles sadly. “He couldn’t find a new bride in Harrenhal, so I suppose he had to settle for what he could get. Especially with Aram’s shaking sickness taking a turn for the worse.”

“Alas.” Ashara takes a sip of wine as her purple eyes gaze at something distant. Unreachable. It’s the same look on Ned’s face when talks turn to Brandon and their parents. “If only Father knew that Aram would live long enough to sire a healthy heir.”

“Perhaps we can visit Starfall once the children are older,” Ned offers. “So you and Arthur can see your nephew too.”

A shadow falls over Arthur’s face. He glances at Oberyn before turning his attention back to his good-brother. “The king won’t be happy if I head south of the Neck.”

“We’ll find a way,” Ned insists, the ghost of a smile on his face. Ashara and the children have truly changed him, Lyanna thinks. “Perhaps we can leave before the end of the year.”

Oberyn’s grin widens as a glint of mischief flashes in his eyes. “Perhaps there is something in you that’s worth looking at after all, Lord Stark.”

Lyanna catches a glimpse of the boys rising from their seats, with Oberyn’s son quick to follow. They all slip out through the rear door and the gallery beyond. Lyanna just smiles and watches them leave — they’re more than welcome to play after a hearty meal. There are enough guards stationed in Winterfell to keep an eye for any trouble that might arise.

The conversation then takes a more relaxed turn once more as they talk of more idle matters — of sand steeds’ strength in tourneys, lemon cakes, and the styles of sapphire necklaces that have steadily grown in popularity among Northern ladies. Lyanna lets her mind drift away to Elia, whom she hasn’t heard from for nine years. There had only been one letter, shortly after news of her disappearance from King’s Landing made it to Dorne, passed through a harried-looking raven that barely survived the flight to Starfall.

Alive. Safe.

Those two words are all she ever got, but they were enough to put her heart at ease back then. But now, with Oberyn here in the flesh, Lyanna can’t help but wonder if more news will finally reach her before the week ends. Though she looks forward to learning something, anything, about Elia’s current situation, she also fears that it might be more dire than expected.

As if understanding her thoughts, Oberyn’s gaze turns to her, curious and searching. He takes one last sip from his goblet before setting it down on the table, a crooked smile spreading on his face. “I’ve had more than my fill tonight — a walk before bed might help me. Would you grace me with your presence, Lady Lyanna?”

Well, then. It seems they are about to discuss the real reason for his visit sooner than later. Lyanna smiles and rises to her feet. “I would be honored, my prince.”

They both leave for the courtyard, paying no heed to the curious eyes following them. The guards and servants will whisper — they always do — but it doesn’t matter to Lyanna anymore. Rumors have followed her from the day she returned from the south, and she quickly learned to rein in her temper. Letting the rumors spread would be better than countering them with one wrong word that might reveal the truth and more.

“So where are you taking me this fine night?,” Oberyn asks as the cool breeze caresses their faces. “I hope it will be somewhere where our noises won’t be overheard.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes at that, suppressing the urge to pinch the man’s arm. “The crypts it is, then.”

“Not the godswood?” Raising a dark eyebrow, Oberyn follows her through the courtyard nonetheless. “I heard that no one can lie before your people’s heart tree — not without suffering consequences.”

Lyanna shrugs and keeps walking towards the crypts. “Aye, that’s true. But with all the Dayne servants and guards in this place, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them stumbles into the godswood drunk. Besides, the boys might have taken your son there.”

“To scare him?”

“Oh, no. They’re there to brag about their knowledge of the old gods.”

They soon make it to the entrance of the crypts. One of the lit torches usually hanging by the entrance is missing — a patrolling guard must have taken it when night began to fall. Lyanna takes the other remaining torch, promising to return it once all has been said and done. She leads the way down the familiar path, through the spiral stairs and past the empty upper levels of the crypts.

She heads straight for the place she knew throughout most of her childhood as Mother’s tomb. Harrenhal and the events that followed brought rapid change to this solitary place, however, and both Father and Brandon have joined Mother in her repose too soon. Far too soon.

Ignoring the statues that seem to stare at her in disappointment and blame, Lyanna places a hand on the oldest tomb in the hall. The stone feels as cold and lifeless as she remembers, but it carries memories of soft dark hair and laughing blue-gray eyes. “Mother was the first to be buried here. I was seven when she died, taken away by a chill in the chest. I barely remember her voice or her face.”

“A cruel blessing,” Oberyn notes before turning to the statues looming over them. Resentful. Vengeful. “These are your father and brother, then?”

“Aye.” Lyanna closes her eyes, fighting the tears welling up in them. “You know what happened to him, surely.”

She remembers it all too well, as much as she would like to forget everything — the tears she shed in Elia’s arms, Rhaegar’s futile pleas, and father’s screams, all drowned out by the Mad King’s laughter. Just thinking of it is still enough to make her stomach churn. She looks up at Father’s statue, with its stern, disapproving gaze, and wonders if the gods will ever forgive her for causing all of it.

The levity fades from Oberyn’s face, replaced by a terrifyingly grim look. “How could I not know? Elia wrote to me all the time, like she promised before we parted ways at Harrenhal. I’ve barely enjoyed two weeks with my paramour when she wrote about your arrest, and what the king forced you and Rhaegar to do.”

“Forced. Yes, that’s one way to describe it.” It is true that Lyanna had grown fond of Rhaegar and Elia during that blasted tourney, but to be a terrified girl forced to marry a prince on pain of fiery death… She can still feel the king’s hands on her body sometimes — it makes her feel filthy and it takes all of her strength not to claw her skin out.

“Elia was already fond of you, even before you were taken to King’s Landing.” Oberyn smiles sadly. “She feared for your life when she heard of what happened to you and Rhaegar, and left Dragonstone to be at your side when she received news that she summoned your father to stand trial before him.”

“That trial was nothing but a sham.” The king had made her watch every excruciating moment of it, flanked by Rhaegar and Elia. And they could do nothing at all, not even when Father was declared guilty and burned to ashes by wildfire.

The smell of smoke and charred meat remains a terrifying memory, sometimes threatening to choke Lyanna when she lets her thoughts stray too far. But Oberyn knows and understands as much as Ned and Ashara — or so, Lyanna wants to believe.

“I’m sure that Aerys was already convinced that your father ordered his death with you as its blade.” Oberyn rolls his eyes. “And they say I’m half-mad. Hah. And he even had the gall to ask for your older brother’s heads too, did he not?”

“For daring to teach me how to wield a lance.” Lyanna shudders. “But he asked for the heads of the Lords whom he believed were conspiring with Father against him.”

She remembers receiving news of it in Dragonstone — Starks and Baratheons, Arryns and Tullys, all raising their banners against the Mad King while the Daynes remained quiet so they could safely provide information to the North.  And in the midst of it all were stories about the poor Lady Lyanna, forced by the Mad King to marry his heir and spirited away to unknown lands.

“And the war that followed took another of your family away, did it not?” Oberyn’s gaze moves to Brandon’s statue. Brave, foolish, Brandon.

“He would have lived, had he used his head. He was meant to marry Catelyn Tully after their battle at the Stoney Sept, or so I heard, but he chose to chase after some stragglers and get himself killed. He did stay long enough in Riverrun to leave a child in his betrothed’s belly, though.”

“I’m surprised the old fish still marched with you after that.”

Lyanna smiles sadly. “Oh, he was livid. To hear Ned tell the story, it seems they were fortunate that Ashara had come to Riverrun when Ned marched south so she could help with the preparations for Brandon’s wedding.”

“And what did Lord Tully gain from it?” There’s always something to gain and to lose after such scandals — every highborn lord and lady knows that, and Oberyn is no exception.

“A grandchild who will eventually be legitimized as lord of Moat Cailin, or marry the next Lord of Winterfell.” In one more year, little Torrhen will be learning about that part of the agreement. Lyanna can only hope that he doesn’t mind the sudden inheritance. “Elbert Arryn marrying Lysa Tully further appeased Lord Hoster, I suppose.”

“As ambitious as Mother oft said, it seems.” Oberyn shrugs. “Now, if you must know, I am here to pass a message and ask one question on behalf of my sister.”

A soft chuckle escapes Lyanna’s lips. “I expected as much when you arrived. Go ahead.”

Oberyn tugs a slightly-crumpled scroll from his belt pouch, rolled tightly and sealed with garish blue wax. “Here. Nine years is a long time, is it not?”

“It is.” Knowing that someone holding a piece of Lyanna’s heart is somewhere out there, living in constant danger with her child. She knows they will not know peace — not as long as Robert sits on that blasted throne with the Lannisters casting their shadow over him — and there is nothing that can be done about it. Not without putting everyone into danger and plunging the realm into war. In the end, it’s still much better than remembering that another piece of her will forever lay in the Trident, shattered beyond recognition and burned in a pile of broken bodies.

Fuck it all.

She clutches the letter tightly, resolving to read it later. There are things better savored alone especially after nine years of silence. Tears will be shed, that much she knows, and she would rather bear the burden by herself.

“We meet every year, on her name day.” At least Oberyn doesn’t seem intent on making her read the letter. Perhaps he understands in his own way. “Doran and I have ensured she and Rhaenys are as safe as can be.”

“So she did get the daughter she wanted,” Lyanna muses. She and Elia once spent hours talking of daughters they would raise together, teaching them embroidery and music, how to wield courtesy like a weapon, and how to negotiate with a blade or bow. “I hope Rhaenys is as fierce and strong as the Queen that Never Was.”

A look of pure glee lights up Oberyn’s face.. “Oh, she might be even fiercer. She is a lovely girl — all Elia, save for her eyes. Elia would have talked of her sooner, had sending messages not been too difficult or dangerous.”

For Lyanna, a small blessing like this is enough. Elia and Rhaenys are alive and safe, and that’s all  that matters. Sending a message to Winterfell, whether through raven or Oberyn himself, would have roused suspicion had the Daynes not given them this opportunity. And for that, Lyanna will be thankful even if Mallina Dayne is quite the bitch.  

“I will read all she has to say tonight, then, and if you are willing then I would ask you to pass on a message to her on my behalf.”

“Certainly. I would not deprive my sister of such bliss. However, she would also like to hear an answer to a question that has been plaguing her for years. The boy that your brother presented to Robert that day — Jon — is he yours?”

“Aye. His name is Daemon. A dangerous name, though Dorne loved the Rogue Prince’s tales from what I’ve heard.” Lyanna closes her eyes, feeling the weight of the decision on her shoulders. It will always be there, haunting her until the end of her days even once Jon finally learns the truth. “Ned had come up with the plan before he even found me — he and Ashara had already considered the possibility that I would be with child as soon as Lord Dayne’s letter made it to Riverrun.”

Oberyn nods thoughtfully. “And who, pray tell, was supposed to be the mother?”

“Wylla — one of Ashara’s bastard cousins who accompanied her after her wedding, She has enough Dayne looks for Jon to be safe should he look like a Targaryen. When the war started, she accompanied Ashara when she marched south with Ned, and joined the washerwomen in Ned’s army so she could guide him to Starfall, to me, once it was safe to do so. She stayed in Starfall afterward.”

“Now I understand. But when are you planning to tell him the truth?” At this question, Oberyn crosses his arms and graces her with a scrutinizing gaze.

“We agreed to tell him on his tenth nameday,” Lyanna admits. “Ashara and Ned had already planned to tell Torrhen the truth about his future legitimization at that age, so —”

The rest of her words are drowned out by the echoes of an ear-splitting shriek somewhere further down the crypts. She exchanges bewildered glances with Oberyn — that’s one of the children, she’s sure of it. 

Without a word, she runs towards the stairs with the prince at her heels. She dashes down to the level where she believes the scream to have come from, the sound echoing not in the halls but in her head. Simply hearing it had filled her with dread, all but assuring her that something had happened to Jon. She immediately catches a glimpse of four children near Cregan Stark’s grave. One is Robb, sitting on the floor with his arms around a trembling and weeping Jon. Torrhen and Daeron Sand are crouched beside them, fear and concern on their faces.

By Jon’s feet are two oddly familiar round objects nestled on a clearly Targaryen cloak, glittering in blue and purple.

“Shit,” Oberyn mutters under his breath.

Lyanna steps forward, capturing the children’s attention. She has to keep herself from running to Jon’s side, knowing she would lose her composure once she does. Her son is hurt and she wasn’t there to stop it. She was close. So close. “What is happening here?”

“We don’t know!” Robb trembles and exchanges scared glances with the others. “We just went here to show Daeron some tombs and tell him about the Hour of the Wolf. But we found these strange things under his statue then Jon… Jon…”

Torrhen’s face twists into a look of horror. “He touched one of them and fell. Screaming. Aunt Lyanna we didn’t do anything bad, I swear!”

“I understand.” A little exploration in the crypts shouldn’t be harmful. Every Stark child has ventured here safely — after all, what did Cregan Stark’s grave hold save for stories? Taking a deep breath, she takes a few more steps and kneels by the children. “Are the rest of you unharmed?”

“Yes, my lady,” Daeron squeaks as his father places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “But Jon — I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I don’t want him hurt!”

“You’ve done no harm,” Lyanna reassures him.

She kneels beside Robb to Jon into her arms. She gently places a hand on his forehead, trying her best to fight back tears. The skin is warm to the touch — the same oddly feverish warmth she felt when he was a newborn. Her son stirs, his dark gray eyes watering as he looks up to peer at her.

“Aunt Lya?” he croaks.

Mother. He should have been calling her Mother. Fuck Robert. “What happened, Jon? Are you well?”

“I… I don’t know.” Her boy puts on a brave face even as his eyes water. “We found… stones. Cregan’s statue.”

“The others told me about it. But what happened to you?”

“I touched them and it hurt and I thought I was burning. We thought they were eggs.”

Eggs. Of course, that’s why the glittering stones on the ground look familiar. She remembers seeing one of them, in a brief moment of bliss between the horrors of King’s Landing and the tense peace of Starfall. She remembers it well — a heavy red thing streaked with vivid copper, recovered from the ruins of Summerhall.

It was cold to the touch, but she does not have the blood of the dragon, does she? She fears what it means for her son, or the eggs he found within these walls.

“Don’t worry — we will see what can be done with those stones. It would be better if you rest tonight, don’t you think?” She glares at the eggs as she helps Jon sit. “First, we’ll have to get you back to your room.”

“We can help him,” Torrhen offers, face still pale with worry. “We won’t say a thing, Aunt Lya, I promise!”

“As you should. Ned will have to know about this, but still…” She sighs and turns to Oberyn and Daeron. “Not a word, yes?”

“Not a word,” Oberyn swears. “And I’ll make sure Daeron keeps quiet too.”

Daeron nods solemnly. “B-But Lady Lyanna, there’s something else you must know. Something odd.”

Lyanna turns to him, even as she helps her son rise with her help. “What happened?”

The boy scratches his head. “We touched the stone too. They felt… well, not hot like Jon says. Not really. They were warm to me but…” He glances at Robb and Torrhen.

“When we touched the stones, they were as cold as the statues,” Robb explains.

Huh. She glances at Oberyn, who simply raises an eyebrow. This will have to be a question for another day, then. But all she can think of is 

“That will be a problem for Ned, not ours.” She hates how the lie escapes her lips so easily. After tonight, she knows they won’t be able to hide this secret far longer. Especially not if something happens to those eggs. “Robb, would you mind putting them back where you found them? Ned and I will come back for them in the morning.”

Many questions and even more unspoken answers hang in the crypt’s stale air as they all slowly head back to the courtyard. It’s going to be a long night, and an impossibly longer week.