There were very few certainties in life. One of them, absolute and inexorable, was death. Lyanna Stark had learned from a very young age the meaning of death. She had been a girl of five when her mother birthed her fifth child. It had been a girl, a perfect, tiny Northern child that promised a long life with a loud wail that shook the keep itself. No more than a moon turn later they were entombing her in the crypts amid tears and shrieks. Her mother's grief had been heartbreaking even for the child that Lyanna was then.
Her next brush with death came in the form of one of her father's hounds. Just as unexpected as the death of her sister had been three years past, her father's dog lied at her feet, closed its eyes, fell into slumber and forgot to wake up. The creature had been given to the earth too, thought with less pomp, to be sure.
The third encounter included an old mare that had to be put out after breaking a leg. Lyanna had cried and cried for hours on end, begging her father to save the horse. All her ten years' wisdom was poured into saving the beast. Nothing came of it, of course, and the mare was still given the axe. The feeling Lyanna was left with, however, had yet to fade. She was reminded of the inescapability of death wherever she went.
And yet, at times, death was a comfort. The enormity wrapped about her tightly, like a chain, squeezing, digging into her flesh, cutting. She wanted to weep and plead against it. But at the same time, it was almost welcome. She took a long breath, trying to calm herself. Her eyes went to the door, the heavy wood door that stood between her and freedom. If she could pick up her skirts and spring towards it, perhaps she'd be able to make it to the stables somehow. If she could only locate them.
Her thought turned once more towards the permanent ending, the point at which she would stop existing, and like her sister, she would find herself entombed in a cold, dark place, never to breathe again, never to see a ray of light. What use did the dead have for light, anyway? The thought brought a small smile flickering upon her face. Light. She hadn't seen anything but the light of candles for the past few days. The young she-wolf looked down at her lap. Her dress, once quite pretty and pristine, had somehow managed to develop stains and cuts. Or had she somehow been responsible for them? Or perhaps it had been the King's men. She did not know. All that she knew was that, if death was to claim her, she wished it would move faster. She hadn't been made for waiting.
The maiden wondered about her brothers and her poor father. Had death robbed her of them? Were they still waiting for the blade too?
The door creaked open. Lyanna nearly jumped to her feet, but she caught herself at the last moment and staved off the impulse. Her frame merely shook with the effort. The light of the candle flickered. For one horrible long moment she thought it would fade, the light, and leave her in the dark. She could not stand the dark. Not on her own.
In entered a tall man. She knew him. But then again, everyone knew him. Lyanna threw the intruder an audacious glare. If he thought to intimidate her then he ought to think on it some more. She would show him that the wolves of Winterfell were not so easily cowed. In particular her own person would not be so easily cowed.
Outside the hall she thought she caught a glimpse of shining metal. But before she could identify whatever it was that she had seen, the door was closed with a loud sound. It left her alone with him. Suspicious, her gaze travelled the distance between them. There was a small desk that separated them, but it would be so very easy for him to go around it. Dread filled her as she looked up into his face.
Oh cursed day. Lyanna held his gaze, more out of habit than a desire to challenge. Amethyst shone warm in the sweet light of the candle. Or mayhap it was a trick brought on my wear and fatigue. He smiled enigmatically down at her, as if to test the will residing within the supple body. He took a seat in the only other chair and rested one hand on the tabletop. His other had deposited a small ledger on the desk and a piece of paper.
"Why am I here?" she asked without waiting for an invitation to speak. They had kept her locked in this room with no windows or even small cracks for what felt like an eternity.
Instead of answering, her companion gave her a questioning look. He went meticulously about preparing a quill and inkpot for use. Lyanna watched his long elegant fingers open the ledger. A shiver ran down her spine. Fear twisted her insides. No answer came forth. It was in itself a type of torture. Lyanna's jaw trembled with the effort of keeping in her screams. She wanted to desperately to shout out, to pick up something and just hit him with it. For the love of the old gods and the new, she would slip into insanity if he did not speak soon.
"I think you know very well why you are here, Lady Lyanna," he said, finally settling upon a page. He held out the paper towards her. Her eyes darted to and fro between his face and it. "Take it, my lady." He let it drop carelessly before her hand had even come halfway through the distance.
A flush of indignation coloured her cheeks. Her fingers wrapped around the paper and pulled it to her, clutching at the thick layer, creasing it without a thought. "Open it," her gaoler instructed, his eyes having fallen to his small booklet as if her presence did not quite make a difference to him.
Lyanna did as instructed. She opened the folded paper slowly, painstakingly, her fingers trembling all the while. She wondered what sort of sight she made, unkempt and in a deplorable state as she was. She read the first few lines and threw the letter away from her as if she'd been burned. Her companion looked up from his own reading. "Lady Lyanna, you must read the entire letter." His eyes returned to the ledger.
Unable to remain quiet, Lyanna slapped her hand to the tabletop. "I need not," she declared loudly. "I can imagine the content." She had almost said she knew; that would have sealed her fate. Anticipation churned through her.
The small book was slammed shut. "Did you have prior knowledge of your brother's actions and his subsequent conduct?" came the inevitable question.
Her knees were shaking. Lyanna felt the dread unfurl inside of her. "Nay," she denied vehemently, shaking her head. "I knew nothing." But she had known. She had seen Brandon slipping out of his tent late at night and she knew that there were only so many reasons for which he would do that.
And what had she done? Well, she had pretended ignorance and vowed to escape as soon as she possibly could, for which reason she had gone to her father and without preamble declared that she had changed her mind about the drunken, whoring, hateful character whom the patriarch of House Stark thought a fine match for her. She had told her father that after Brandon wedded his Southron betrothed she would be more than happy to become Robert's wife. At least that way she could be well and truly safe when Brandon's mischief found its way to light, as she'd known it would.
Only it had happened much too soon. Lyanna cursed her luck and the timing of the gods. Had they waited even a few days more, she would have stolen a horse and ran away, and hang the consequences. But nay, instead the King's men had descended upon them just as Brandon and his bride were about to exchange vows. They had arrested people left and right, but, of course, their true target was none other than her idiot brother. If she could, Lyanna would wring his neck, no matter that he was nearly twice her size and three times as strong. Her lips curled in distaste.
A soft hiss distracted her. Lyanna involuntarily looked into the eyes of the man seated before her. "I truly knew nothing of his heinous actions," she trailed off, unsure of how she was to continue. like Robert would have deferred to her speech, if she'd been coy and demure.
The one before her was quite another story. Robert was, in his own way, a naïve sort that she might easily twist with a smile or a pout. The King's bastard looked at her as if she were a piece of furniture, of no value to him in the state she was in and no more to be desired than a poxy whore waiting for a sailor at the docks. In other words, she did not matter to him. Not at all.
"Ser is proper address, I believe," came the rejoinder. "Would you not agree, Lady Lyanna?" A chilling smile came alive in the low light.
But her thoughts turned to her brother, once again, and all the ways she would like to kill in. "Of course, ser."
"But you are truly certain that you knew nothing?" he questioned once again.
"Absolutely, ser." She hadn't known from the start. Once she found out the truth of what had transpired, shortly after the King and his company left for King's Landing, Lyanna had gone to her father, seeking to make haste in becoming a bride herself.
"So I see." He stood to his feet and came around the table, placing himself behind her chair. He leaned in, catching the heavy curtain of her unbound hair and dragging it over her shoulder. His warm breath fanned against her skin, rising goose bumps all over. Something roiled inside of her. Lyanna's breath caught in her throat. Her shoulders grew stiff when one hand descended upon the bone and flesh, resting heavily upon the thick wool of her dress. Powerful fingers dug in. She could hear his long sigh.
"Don't think for one moment that this will save you, my lady. The King swims in wrath and your brother has brought it upon all the heads of your family." The soft words made her heart speed up faster than it ever had. "You are a good liar, I shall give you that. But I am better."
Suddenly her head was careering towards the wooden table. The right side of her face smacked against the tabletop with a thud. Pain erupted beneath her skin, burning and tearing through her flesh. Lyanna cried out, instinctively trying to escape his hold. The more she fought, the harder the press became, until her cranium felt like it might well explode. Colours swirled behind her eyes. Fatigue spread throughout her body. Ever so slowly she gave up the fight.
"I ask you again, did you know what your brother was doing?" his voice, which had been even before had grown slightly rough.
Lyanna breathed in furiously through her nose. "I suspected, but only later. Much too late to end anything," she managed to whimper out through the wave of pain that rolled inside of her. "I beg of you," she tried gaining his sympathy, "what could I have done?"
Not much, Lyanna decided. Brandon had never been good at listening to common sense. But she had never truly thought he would lead them all into the dragon's gaping mouth. With mounting horror she thought about what would follow.
Just as suddenly as she'd found herself growing intimate with the wood, Lyanna was released, pulled back without much care for her dignity or comfort. Pain lacerated through every fibre of her being, and not only of the physical kind. She felt sick. Lyanna wondered briefly if she could escape with vomiting all over the man's boots. What was the worse he could do to her, after all that had happened?
"Lord Baratheon would like me to inform you that his offer is no longer standing, my lady." The words came like a punch to the head. Lyanna jumped to her feet and whirled around. She found herself caught between the table and the King's bastard. His mesmerising eyes bore down into hers. "He would have had his own man tell you, you see, but the King has given strict instructions that you are to receive no visitors until judgement has been passed."
That infuriating bastard, Lyanna mentally roared. But Rhaegar Waters walked away from her with an easy step. Gathering his things, he went to the door and knocked even as she craned her neck to better see what he was doing. "I shall have them take you back to your chamber, Lady Lyanna," he said, before sweeping her a mocking bow and making his way out into the hallway.
Damnation. After she had worked so hard to ensure that Brandon's folly would not be her own grave. Indignation and despair made a mute out of her. In the very best of circumstances she might have only impinged upon his pride as it were. That was mayhap the worst of it. To be entirely powerless and faced with a guilt neither deserved nor fairly attributed as such it was.
Not even when facing the three squires has she felt anything its like, the powerlessness that bound her. Woe to him that must be held accountable for another's misconduct.
Brandon and his moronic comport would endure at the very least a few choice words if she had the displeasure of coming face to face with the wretched creature. Lyanna was determined that he would hear of her what their lord father and lady mother ought to have told him long ago.
Rhaegar looked up at the sound of another person intruding into his private space. He stooped scribbling midsentence, holding the quill up, pointing its sharp end towards Arthur who was just closing the door. "Is it taken care of then?"
"Aye." Uncertainty shone in the other man's eyes. "I still do not understand, Rhaegar. The King's orders were not to interrogate them." He sat down in a chair without waiting to be invited to do so. "You tarry, and he will not appreciate this. What reason will you give?"
"If there is anything my father wants more than revenge in this moment, then that is Winterfell." Rhaegar took one of the blood oranges on the table and started peeling it carefully. The skin came off in large strips. "The problem, however, is that not only is Lord Stark alive and well, he had three sons and a daughter besides. And his wife may yet birth him children. There are so very few viable solutions."
He could have perhaps followed his father's instructions. But that would have meant losing the North forever. Rhaegar reached for the knife and sliced through the fruit. "I expect he shall be angry at first, but once he understands, that shall pass."
"But the Princess," Arthur ventured.
"Is dead," came the answer, more a reminder than an attempt at gaining sympathy. "Shaena will not come back to life, even if I chop off every head in the Stark service." She had been burned and her ashes had been safely locked in Baelor's Sept. Of that he held no doubt.
"I still say you have a care," his friend advised. "The Queen is past mourning now. And she will seek retribution for the daughter she has lost. What will you do then? You cannot possibly protect them from every attack dealt."
"Nor would I want to," he cut in. "The Starks are responsible for my sister's death, after all. Why should I protect them? Nay, I mean to use them. An eye for an eye."
"You mean the girl. She is not more than a child, Rhaegar," Arthur pointed out, not with horror. The court cured anyone of such qualms. But there was a sort of distrust that he sensed.
Arthur was, and had always been, entirely remarkable in that he always managed to summon some dredge of sympathy for the most unfortunate souls. He was, as they say, an idealist who had never learned as much as he ought to within his years at court.
On the other hand, he could, at times, be painfully pragmatic.
"Shaena was no older than her," Rhaegar delivered, waving the concern away.
"She is a wilful, wild girl who is as likely to bite the hand that pulls her out of the mire her brother has landed her in, as she is to thank you for her life." His Dornish friend shook his head. "It is not worth the trouble."
Rhaegar sighed and combed his fingers through his hair. "Dayne, if we kill them, we win nothing but a void in the chain of power. Other lords will fight over that seat. Sorting that out will take time and resources which I am not willing to spare merely to fulfil my father's desire for what he thinks to be justice."
"Then take the heads of the men at least," insisted Arthur. "The King will not be pleased otherwise."
"He gave me freedom of decision and I shall make use of that however I deem fit, my friend. There is no use in trying to change my mind." After all, he knew why he was doing what he was doing. "Those men charged with escorting Lady Lyanna the previous day, break three fingers on each one's hand."
"They did not cause her that much harm," his companion said softly. "She was fighting to escape." Rhaegar had heard of her attempt, and knew very well what she'd been charged for it. To price was not fair, was all.
"An admirable trait in anyone, more so in a woman in her circumstances. She was no true threat, yet they still chose to use violence against her. Three fingers each," he spoke decisively. "My orders were clear."
"So they were," Arthur agreed after a moment of silence. "Well, I will leave you to your work then." He stood to his feet, prepared to do exactly as he'd said.
Knowing that Arthur would see to everything that he'd been instructed to do, Rhaegar returned his attention to the letter he had been writing. Of course, the King would be mad at the scheme. But he was ever in a sour disposition, so that would be no true news. Aerys Targaryen was well and truly insane, as it were. That made him the best or worst of allies, depending on his mood. It was very true that he had been angered at the death of his sole daughter, but the King had not meant to do her justice. Shaena was to lie uneasily even in her afterlife, for her father would see what was to be gained from her death.
Rhaegar was in full agreement with the man. It would not do to allow the chance to slip by. Shaena was gone and nothing would bring her back. The Queen could mourn all she liked. Rhaegar had other matters to settle. His sister's death had effectively left the heir apparent without a match. It was time to see how far greed could push the noble families of Westeros. Tyrells and Lannisters, Martells and Arryns, Tullys too. Any of them could provide a suitable candidate.
The issue of suitability, however, was not quite as important as that of acceptability. Daeron was young and impressionable, his mother's son except for his temper. The Queen, Rhaegar was very sorry to think it, was not exceptionally bright, nor particularly skilled. The King had chosen her for her beauty and apparent docility. The son she had given him followed her in both beauty and wit. There had been worse candidates for the throne, his father included. Daeron was malleable, he could still be moulded. If, of course, his choice of wife supported such attempts.
His brother had need of someone who would not hinder him at worst. At best, he needed a paragon. That paragon Rhaegar would have been all too happy to search for, if she had ever existed. Life, however, had taught him that fair maidens were always fairer in songs, their nature rarely a mirror of their outer façade. The more beauty a face exhibited, the less likely it was that such a person might come to care for anyone but themselves. That was not entirely a matter to be harshly judged against. It made Rhaegar all the more capable of setting the puppets a-dancing to a tune of his liking.
It would not do to waste anymore of his time, he decided. There were some answers he sought and delaying any further would only cause more harm than good. Rhaegar put away his quill and stood up, pulling from the papers on his desk a particular one which he had need of in the matters to follow.
Ned pulled on the chain, trying to see if he could possibly loosen the hold. He was not satisfied in his desire. A grimace decorated his features, bleak as the fate that waited them all. He fell back upon the dry hay and looked about the holding cell. He could not believe what had happened. Of all the foolish things Brandon had done in the past, this was the very worst.
Mischief was second nature to his older brother, yet for the most part, even the fearless son of the wolf had known not to tempt dark waters by swimming out at sea. Yet the moment he was presented with an enchanting little creature it seemed that even reason abandoned the young fool and he pursued her regardless of what his behaviour might bring upon those near and dear to his heart.
He should have known. He should have known that Brandon would not be able to help himself. And that had landed them in their current situation It was preposterous. And to have been arrested at his own wedding of all the times and places. Such shame would not be easily washed away. Not for him and not for his bride either. Ned fairly imagined the maiden burned with righteous indignation at the wrong that she'd been done and good reason she had to. A madman would be the one that blamed Catelyn Tully for it anymore than innocent pray was to be blamed for being caught in the cruel steel of a freshly sprung trap.
Something sounded out behind him. Ned gave one last half-hearted tug on the chain before the visitor spoke. "I fear there is no escaping those, unless you have Valyrian steel on you." Ned turned to look at the King's bastard. The dreaded Rhaegar Waters.
"Ser, I have already said all I had to say," he returned harshly, in no mood to exchange even the briefest of conversations with the man who had been tasked to carry out the King's will.
"But I have not," came the unwavering reply. The door opened once again and his father was pushed in by a large man. "Lord Stark, how good of you to join us. I have a proposition for you."
Distrust creeping inside his heart, Ned glanced at his father. What he saw did not offer him reassurance. Slightly bent and haggard, the Lord Stark of old did not seem to fare well in the care of his gaolers. And the man was made of stern stuff. It brought fear to Ned's mind, to think of those with less steel in their veins and how they got along.
"What is this proposition?" Rickard questioned, impotent rage shining in his eyes, a wild flame, even more telling than his form. "What could you possibly wish to speak to us of?"
"I would not be so hasty in offering my dismissal were I you, my lord" Rhaegar Waters cut the Lord of Winterfell off. "It might prove your salvation." A heavy silence followed his words. Ned shifted uncomfortably, weighed down by the allure of the promise, yet unable to let go of his distrust enough so that he might believe.
"Save my life, will you?" his father spat. "And what would cost me, ser? Gold Dragons and Silver Stags? Or perhaps it is land you desire?" Ned did not understand. How could the King's bastard possibly gain land from them?
"I have no need of your coin, or of your land. What I do need, however, is your name." The bastard settled himself comfortably down as if he had no care in the world and a floor covered in dirty straw was a perfect spot to rest upon. "You know as well as I do that your eldest son's folly has put your house at great risk. But do you know, my lord, that the King ordered me here with the expectation that I would see all your heads mounted on the walls of the keep?"
His father paled. Ned looked between the two of them, hesitant and troubled, his neck stiffening in pain at the notion of flesh being cleaved. "Why didn't you?" he could not help but ask when his own father offered nothing but sullen silence. "Do you not wish to restore your sister's honour?"
"Of course I do," the silver haired man answered with a thin smile. The cutting gesture nearly made him shrink, but Ned pushed his tongue against his teeth and willed his body to remain still. "But there are ways of doing so without sending you all to your graves."
"Why should we put our trust in you?" the head of House Stark demanded, seeming to come back to himself now that a line of rope had been offered and he might drag himself away from danger.
"What other choice do you have, my lord?" Rhaegar laughed. "Your life for a name, to my mind the price is reasonable enough. But you have of me time to consider if that is your will. I warn you though, give me your answer before we reach the day is out and we begin our journey, else there is naught I can do for you."
Lysa Tully was about of an age with Lady Lyanna. Rhaegar looked at the girl who has stealing glances at him and blushing whenever he met her gaze. Her older sister was a veritable block of ice though. Rhaegar expected that she was the one whom fortunes had favoured over the younger sibling. Catelyn Tully's eyes flashed with something akin to hatred. Rhaegar could barely hold in his amusement.
Her reaction was understandable, given what she had lived. All the same, however, it made for a truly amusing scene.
"This situation is rather unpleasant for all of us," Hoster Tully remarked blandly. Rhaegar nodded dutifully. "My daughter, ser, is not at fault in this, I swear to you."
"Peace, my lord," Rhaegar murmured. "His Majesty does not blame your daughter for the debacle. After all, she was not present at Harrenhal. I daresay the whole situation would have been much different if she had." But mayhap not. Brandon Stak had had knowledge of his betrothed even as he betrayed her. Her presence or lack thereof was negligible.
"But surely this will affect both of them," Lord Tully continued. "A parent cannot sit idly by when the honour of his children has been besmirched."
Rhaegar lifted the wine cup to his lips and took a small sip. Lysa Tully would do tolerably well, he decided. "There will be no such repercussion as the ones you imply, my lord. His Majesty will arrange matters satisfactorily for all involved."
"But, ser," Lysa jumped in, "whatever shall happen to…," she trailed off, glancing shyly at her older sister.
"Were it of my choosing, my lady, proper punishment would be doled out," he answered calmly. "Yet I cannot rightly guess what the King's decision will be in this."
The older sister stood to her feet swiftly. "Pray excuse me, father, ser, I must see to my duties."
"But Cat, you have barely eaten a bite," Lysa spoke softly, almost fearfully.
Aye, she would do indeed. Rhaegar looked between father and daughter, waiting to see what Lord Hoster would do. "There is time enough for your duties, daughter," the man tried to stay her departure. "Come, sit."
"If Lady Catelyn must away, then I say we do not hold her from her duties," he suggested. Lord Hoster changed his tune. Such strange creatures, these nobles. They would not have paid him any mind had he been any other bastard but the King's.
The hall resumed its usual din. Rhaegar slipped from his place without much care. He followed quietly after Catelyn Tully. But the lady stopped in the middle of the hall and turned towards him with all the rage of a storm.
"What is it that you want, ser?" she asked with irritation.
Rhaegar smiled charmingly at her. "I do not intend to hold you long, my lady. I have a favour to ask of you, if you will."
The woman flushed with indignation. "What may I do for you, ser?" Fury ruled too strongly in her, Rhaegar considered, countering her violent impatience with his calm manner.
"Pray see to it that your master pays a visit to Lady Lyanna's bedchamber. We should not want her to wither and expire from neglect." Surprise painted the female's features, but Rhaegar did not linger longer in her presence to determine more than that.
He returned to the great hall and slid back into place.
