A TIME FOR WOLVES
I
A cloak of grey and white fell about her shoulders to pool at the floor of her chair, and wolves wrought from silver pinned her dark hair back into a braid so unelaborate to possibly be called southron. Amongst the black and red of the dragons whom surrounded her, it was clear to the Great Hall that she did not belong. The people of King's Landing had never extended any love towards her, that much was always clear; but now they regarded her with a loathing sharper than the edges of every sword in the room.
Lyanna Stark—for though her name had long been Targaryen, nothing could truly strip the north from her—was not afraid.
She did not tremble under the wrath of dragons, as so many in the hall were now. Nor was she enraptured by the flames of wildfire that burned in the King's eyes as he turned his gaze upon her.
For there was something far more frightening than a man who believed himself a dragon and sat upon a throne built of blood and iron.
A thick blanket of snow covered the city of King's Landing for the first time in decades. The chill had crept up on the realm as quietly as the unceasing flurry of snow that currently fell outside, and Lyanna knew that nothing would be able to prevent the horrors that followed in its wake. The lanterns that lined the Great Hall had diminished to ash as the royal family entered, led by a gust of wind as cold as their own cruel hearts.
Fire could not kill a dragon, but wolves were not afraid of the cold and Lyanna could not help but smile as the chill embraced her. Only a few days before, a flock of white ravens had flown forth from the citadel to herald the coming of the one thing that could unite all seven kingdoms in equal fear.
The room had held its' breath as the royals took their seats at the head of the hall. Lyanna sat beside Rhaegar as she always had; clad in Northern colours with her skin of ivory and eyes of steely grey, she was the picture of the Starks of old, and for the first time in twenty years it felt as if the wolves had their claws in Westeros once more. She was six-and-thirty, and though her dark hair was now streaked with silver and her face lined with age, she still retained an essence of the former beauty that had almost torn the realm apart.
It had been two decades since the Starks of the North were banished from the realm to spend the rest of their days in exile—stripped of every title, every piece of land, and every vassal that was once loyal to them. For twenty years, only the history books spoke of the Northern Lords. But the North remembers, Dragons, and no fire of yours will ever burn hot enough to hinder the coming Night.
Lyanna still remembered the moment the rebellion ended. In the hall where she sat now, the North fell, and House Targaryen reassured their power over the realm for years to come. Upon hearing of her apparent kidnapping at the hands of Rhaegar Targaryen, her brother and father rode immediately for the capital. Brandon, usually so wild and unpredictable, had known to keep his mouth shut so their father could treat with the king. Rickard Stark had always been a sensible man and his demands had been nothing less than reasonable. He asked only for his daughter to be returned to him, and for Prince Rhaegar to be disciplined befittingly for the folly of it all.
According to the rumours that had scattered throughout Westeros, Rhaegar had stolen her against her will and trapped her in a tower, deep in the mountains of Dorne, out of her reach of anyone who meant to take her back. It hurt Lyanna to think that her own father had been so quick to believe the disgusting lies, when the truth had been so far from it.
I hadn't meant for it to go so far, but I did not belong with Robert Baratheon, father, any more than I belong here, amidst dragons and serpents and roses.
And the King—the Mad King—with his perverse sense of pleasure and no regard for justice or mercy, had bared his fangs and smiled. "Burn them."
The words had resonated through the hall in a deafening wave, but no one had done anything more than gasp and watch, suspended in horror as the Knights of the Kingsguard bound the wolves' hands behind their backs and knocked them to the ground. They were unarmed and guilty of no crime but loving their family, and you meant to let them die for it.
Lyanna cast her grey eyes over the Knights who were present in the hall now, and wondered whether they would have done the same. Honour bound though they were to obey their king, the Gods could never forgive coldblooded murder.
Yet who was she to talk of honour, after all. She had run off with a married man while betrothed to another—one whom was ready to start a war in her name if that's what it took to get her back. If you truly believe Robert rebelled because of love, then you are still as naïve as the girl whose head was filled with dreams and songs.
In truth she'd been in King's Landing at the time, albeit hidden away until the time came for Rhaegar to reveal his intention of marrying her; or so he said. As soon as she'd heard what was happening, she'd burst into the Great Hall and—with little concern for her own life and the consequences such an action could bring about—had thrown herself between her brother and father, and the dragon who wished to cause them harm.
She couldn't remember much of what happened next, but that she'd been vaguely aware of Rhaegar warning her to stop, and the way the King's eyes had lit up as they settled on her instead. There was a hunger in his violet depths—so unlike Rhaegar's—as if he was sizing her up, like some sort of prey waiting to be devoured. And then her Prince too, stepped in front of her and ordered his father to reconsider this madness.
Lyanna was never sure what it was that made the King change his mind, perhaps some last trace of humanity, a sudden sense of mercy—though most likely it was at the word of the spider who so loved to whisper in his ear. Nevertheless, the next thing she knew, Aerys was heeding his son's advice and choosing to exile the Stark's by charge of treason in their assistance to rebel against the crown. Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn were pardoned for their crimes and all at once the rebellion was over before it had even had a chance to begin. Along with the hope of a kingdom not governed under the tyrannical rule of dragons.
Lyanna too had been pardoned at Rhaegar's insistence and he took her as his second wife in order for the child that grew in her womb not to be bastardised. His first wife, Elia, had barely survived the birth of their second child, Aegon—everyone knew she could not suffer a third. You wanted a Visenya to complete your song; I gave you one and lost a child in the process, yet I still could not keep you happy for long.
A maniacal laugh that had so often sent a shiver down her spine broke her from her reverie, and at once Lyanna was back to the present. She inclined her head to look at the throne in which the Dragon king sat. Though in truth, he looked no more a dragon up there than a frail old man who refused to give in to death's lure. Anyone could see that the burden of the crown weighed heavy upon his crooked shoulders—even the chair itself seemed to deny his right to sit there any longer. Stitches ran up the length of his sleeves where the iron swords had sliced through to the papery-thin flesh underneath. At sixty years of age he was feeble and gaunt, his skin a permanent wan colour and dotted with an array of purple liver-spots. The realm had stopped anticipating when he'd finally pass years ago. Old age is no suitable death for a dragon. He is like to outlive us all. If they were lucky it would be the chair that rid them of him in the end.
Though in truth he was now no more than a figure-head to a thousand year old dynasty. The real power in this game of thrones fell to those of the sharpest minds and the coldest hearts.
It was Rhaegar who the realm looked to for aid now.
"The city's poorest parts cannot withstand this coming winter, Your Grace." The man before them was tattered and filthy, with but a few threadbare rags to cover him. Lyanna had no doubt he derived from Flea Bottom. "The autumn has been wet, and the rain has flooded our houses. Unless we're given help soon, few of us will have any shelter to protect us from the cold."
His expression remained piteous, but his tone laid blame to the city's current lack of patronage, and he could bet himself lucky that the King did not take note of the insult. He would not be as forgiving as the rest of them.
"We are aware of your conditions, but I'm afraid there have been other matters that the crown must needs attend to. The well-being of a few Flea Bottom residents has never been paramount next to the needs of the realm." Rhaegar's tone was even, though his lilac eyes were detached and glazed over, as if his mind lay elsewhere. Lyanna found it was rare these days, to have his attention focused solely on the present.
The petitioners face turned to a mask of fury. "And are we not part of the realm, m'lord? Do we not deserve as much consideration as the rest of ya'?"
A wave of protests rang out over the hall—few in agreement, but most in outrage that a mere commoner would talk to royalty in such a way. And no more so than the prince's brother, Viserys.
"How dare you question your prince?" The younger Targaryen hissed. Lyanna almost rolled her eyes; he was all for family pride when it was someone else who threatened to taint it. "He is the heir to the kingdom and you will address him as such—"
"Brother, please. I'm sure he meant no offence by it." Rhaegar's words appeared calm, but there was a veiled threat etched into the lilac of his eyes, as he turned his gaze upon the smallfolk. You fool; didn't anyone ever tell you not to wake a sleeping dragon.
The peasant sunk into an ungainly bow, his large red nose practically touching the marble floor. "O-of course not, Your Grace. F-forgive me, I truly meant no offence."
He cast a hurried glance to the man sitting the throne. Though the days when commonfolk and noblemen alike were burned for the pettiest of crimes, were far behind them, the king was still known for having a twisted sense of mercy. And if he wanted someone to burn, not even his son may be able to stop it.
"Please. Speak freely." Rhaegar assured him with a gentle flicker of a smile.
The man swallowed noticeably, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to be out of the dragons' line of vision. "It's only that, well, I have a family, a child—a babe, really. Without supplies, I'm afraid we won't last the rest of this year."
The desperation was clear in his eyes.
"As I've said, the crown is more than aware of your situation, but…"
Lyanna leaned forwards in her ornate wooden chair. "If I might interrupt, Your Grace…"
The hall was rendered silent at the sound of their future queen's voice. Rhaegar gave her an inquiring look but nodded just the same. "Of course."
Lyanna surveyed the hall. "As you will by now already know, winter has returned to the realm once more, after a long and rewarding summer." Her gentle voice carried effortlessly over the vast crowd. "I assure you now that the crown has everything in order to make sure you are well supplied with any provisions you may need. The autumn was filled with nourishing rainfall, and the harvest most fruitful; the Westerlands have produced enough crops to adequately source us throughout most of the season, have they not, good-daughter?"
The little rose appeared momentarily startled at having been addressed during the petitioning, let alone by Lyanna. For the most part, the princess consort spent these meetings situated quietly by Aegon's side, preferring to let the elder's attend to the matters at hand, while she played at whichever game the Tyrells were partaking in at the present time.
She quickly regained her composure and shot the crowd a dazzling smile. No doubt the smallfolk and noblemen alike, cling to her every word.
"Indeed, Your Grace. In fact, my father wrote to me not a few days ago, assuring me that provisions are already on their way." Her words were sweet and honeyed, but Lyanna could tell that there was little truth to them. You are more intelligent than you look, Margaery Tyrell.
Either way, the crowd appeared to be placated, muttering words of thanks, while a few even applauded their little princess.
Rhaegar hushed the chatter with a raised hand. "There you see, you may all rest easy. As for your homes, we will commission the finest masons in the city to see to their conditions right away. Extra blankets will also be distributed in the coming week if needed. King's Landing has endured every winter thus far, there is no reason we cannot endure the next."
At that, the Silver Prince rose from his chair, the proceedings apparently over for the day. "For now, I'm afraid I must call a meeting of the Small Council. Dragons, if you'd be so kind as to meet me in the council chamber in twenty minutes."
The crowd parted easily for them as they manoeuvred their way towards the doors of the Great Hall.
Rhaegar extended a hand for Lyanna's arm as they began their descent to the council chamber. He inclined his head towards hers, his lips almost pressed against her ear as he spoke. "You're wearing Stark colours."
Lyanna nodded slowly. "I am."
"May I ask why?"
"I thought it might be appropriate." Lyanna smiled wryly. "It is winter after all."
Her husband's grip tightened ever so slightly around her arm. "That may be, though it didn't bode well with my father."
"I noticed."
"Nor with the smallfolk."
"Rhaegar," Lyanna raised her eyebrows at him. "When has anything I've ever done boded well with the smallfolk? It's been twenty years; if they do not love me by now, I considerably doubt they ever will." Yet their love for the Tyrell girl prevails to no end, she thought with reluctant bitterness.
A small crease formed between Rhaegar's brows as he considered it.
"Is that all?" Lyanna asked him.
"One more thing." His eyes searched her face curiously. "Why did you convince them of our surety in resources?"
Lyanna faltered slightly, and the smile slipped from her face. "Winter is here, Rhaegar. The last thing you want the city knowing is that we're unprepared for it."
II
It had long been apparent that meetings of the small council rarely extended as far as the king himself, and were less an organised event, than an assembling of every member Rhaegar deemed trustworthy enough at the time. More oft than not though, it was the Targaryens themselves that attended the meetings, as Rhaegar's mistrust meant he preferred to let his kin sit in on matters of court, rather than those with appointed positions on the small council. Though he'd been spared the worst of it, Lyanna's husband had never truly been able to elude the Targaryen madness altogether.
Not that she faulted him for being weary. Half at court were only loyal to those who offered the most enticing rewards, and the other half were Lannister men, she was sure. Lyanna didn't know which of the two were more dangerous.
While the Dragons' (and their significant others) were not like to betray one another any time soon, they did seem to have a difficult time not arguing for long enough to discuss matters of any import.
Thus far the meeting had included fetching any remaining members to the Dragons' Table, while Prince Viserys complained of everything that had caused him offence that day. "Whose idea was it to hold petitionings with the smallfolk, anyway?"
At that the princess Daenerys had blushed furiously and lowered her head so as not to catch her brother's eye. She had a gentle heart, far gentler than her nieces' or good-sisters'. She cared far more for the smallfolk of the realm than her elder brother deemed wise or at all suitable for someone of her stature.
"We are dragons, sister," Lyanna had once heard him lecture her. "It does not matter whether the commoners live or die, only that they bow to us."
Sooner or later everyone bowed to the dragons.
The Dragons' Table spanned the majority of the Council Chamber; circular and with a width bridging twenty-five feet, Aerys had ordered for it's creation some fifteen years previously. With the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen masterfully engraved into the onyx wood, and great chunks of ruby inlaid where the eyes should be, it was every bit as extravagant and grandiose as the family who sat around it.
Surrounding the table were twelve ornately carved wooden chairs, each with an engraving to match the piece on the table. One was raised noticeably higher than the others—reserved for the king should he ever decide to attend the council meetings—and which Rhaegar Targaryen currently occupied.
"The Greyjoy's are growing unrestful," Lord Jon Connington began. Rhaegar had appointed him acting Hand of the King on his father's behalf while Tywin Lannister attended to matters at the Rock. It had been a unanimous decision by the small council that Aerys was no longer fit enough to make decisions regarding the governance of the realm, and Lyanna had not been one to disagree. She'd found his method of dealing justice always seemed to culminate with the same two words.
"Balon Greyjoy has been searching for a reason to rebel against the crown for years." Connington continued. "Perhaps the winds of winter are all the excuse he needs."
Rhaegar leaned back in his chair and waved a hand dismissively. "We know what he wants. If it comes to an uprising we will just have to bargain with him; we've done it once, we can do it again."
The flippant response tasted bitter in Lyanna's mouth. Balon Greyjoy wants a crown and the north; you are not prepared to give him either.
"Forgive me, my Lord, but last time, the Ironborn only stood down out of fear of your father—considering what happened to the last noble family who threatened to defy him." At this Lord Connington cast Lyanna a weary glance, which she ignored.
"Lord Connington is right, Your Grace," added Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "And if the Ironborn were planning to revolt, now would be the perfect time. They are used to fighting in harsh conditions, and no doubt the winds would be in their favour at this time. Not to mention how unprepared we are for a siege."
"Unprepared?" It was Rhaegar's sister Daenerys who spoke now. "But you told the petitioners—"
"I am aware of that, Dany, but it is nothing you need concern yourself with."
Daenerys looked inclined to object, but quickly dropped it. While Rhaegar's temper paled in comparison to Viserys', it was wise not to rile him during council meetings; no doubt she'd press the subject later though.
"And besides," Rhaegar addressed the Lord Commander once more, "you are talking battle strategy when there is no battle to be fought—and likely never will be. Detached though the Greyjoys are from the rest of the realm, they would not dare attack when they are so outnumbered."
Ser Barristan too, appeared to disagree, though left the matter sated for now.
Rhaegar directed his attention back to Lord Connington. "Is that all, Jon?"
"I'm afraid not." Connington singled out a roll of parchment from the pile before him and handed it to Rhaegar. "It seems the Iron Bank is rather persistent in its pursuit of unpaid debts."
Lyanna tensed at the same time Rhaegar's jaw involuntarily tightened; word from the Iron Bank was something no one wished to receive. A collective groan seemed to disperse around the table, as if each were in synchronised agreement.
The last twenty years had been peaceful there was no denying, but they had also been plentiful. The Dragons' Table alone cost more than they had at hand, and though the Iron Bank had issued countless loans, the crown had been too slack to pay a lot of it back.
We brokered peace with golden dragons, but now the cost is too high. Rhaegar's pride had stopped him from ever asking the Hand for additional fundings—though Lyanna did not blame him. The Lannisters had more gold under Casterly Rock than any other kingdom, but if they were to give Lord Tywin financial control over the realm, he would not be unlike to reach for something higher.
It was Aegon Targaryen's voice that rose above the clamour. "How do you expect to pay back any debts when we don't even have enough gold to feed the realm?"
Rhaegar ignored the slight from his son and instead turned to his Dornish good-daughter. "Arianne?"
She ceased fiddling with the hem of her silk gown and flicked her dark hair over her shoulder, sending a rich fragrance of flowers and spices in Lyanna's direction. "If you wish to lay blame, Your Grace, then I'd begin with Lord Baelish. The Gods alone know how much gold he's needlessly poured into his brothels."
Arianne Martell—Viserys' Dornish wife—had resumed the position of Mistress of Coin, while Lord Baelish attended to 'personal matters' at the fingers. Though Gods knew what he meant by that; no one had heard word from him in months it seemed. Rhaegar had been weary in allowing her the position at first, but it seemed the Dornish woman had a natural dexterity for persuasion. And not just that—though appointing her had not made large sums of money suddenly appear, her flair for obtaining secrets could rival even the Spider.
"Lord Baelish has been absent for months. It is your responsibility as Mistress of Coin to ensure our debts are being paid, is it not?" Rhaegar asked incredulously.
"That is true..." If the remark bothered her, it did not show. "And I assure you progress has been made. But we cannot continue to borrow gold from the Tyrells and the Martells; they have their own kingdoms to run after all."
Rhaegar leaned forward in his chair. "Then what do you suggest we do?"
Her eyes narrowed, as if in contemplation. "Perhaps take measures to prevent the king from indulging in needless trivialities, for a start. And re-open some of the trade markets with Essos—Gods know we'll be needing extra supplies now that winter is here. Do this, Your Grace and perhaps the Iron Back won't turn to some other…benefactor, for what they need." With a flutter of her long lashes and a smile that could tempt even the most devout septon of breaking their faith, Arianne leant back content in her chair.
After a long moment, in which the entire room seemed to hold its breath, Rhaegar signalled to Lord Connington. "Send word to Lord Baelish at the Eyrie. Tell him the king requests his presence at court right away." The prince rose to leave, seemingly finished with the proceedings for the day. "If that's all, Ser Jon—"
"If I might have a moment of your time, Your Grace?"
The council cast their eyes over the speaker—the Master of Whispers. He held a look of burden about his powdered face, though Lyanna was quite sure it was false exaggeration. His voice was high and soft and well-suited to his council title, though something about it made Lyanna's flesh crawl. Never trust a man who deals with secrets and whispers.
Rhaegar reluctantly settled back into his chair and allowed Lord Varys to coo on. "I'd hoped a more suitable occasion would present itself for the deliverance of this most…unsettling news, Your Grace, though I fear I am running out of time." As if on cue, the eunuch's eyes began to water and he quickly held a hand up to dab at them. Lyanna fought the urge to roll her own.
"What is it, Lord Varys?"
"As always, it seems my little birds have proved to be most useful." He extracted a slip of parchment from within his sleeve and handed it to the prince. "Thankfully, they were able to intercept this message before it reached its recipient."
"And who might that've been?" Rhaegar asked, eyeing the letter sceptically.
The spider's face grew solemn. "Once you've read it's contents, Your Grace, I feel you'll fear the same as I; that there is a spy within your midst. One whom reports to neither Lannister or Targaryen." For a fleeting moment his deceitful eyes locked on Lyanna's, and a shiver ran down her spine.
She inspected the parchment from her seat next to Rhaegar. The seal was unbroken but gave no inclination to whom the letter was written by, for no sigil marked it.
Rhaegar broke the seal and unrolled the parchment carefully, as though the paper itself could be laced with poison. All eyes were painstakingly fixed on his reaction.
But as his dark lilac eyes roved over the contents, all colour seemed to drain from her husband's face, and for some reason Lyanna felt as if her blood was running cold.
"Well?" Viserys questioned franticly. "What does it say?"
Rhaegar had always been a quiet and reserved man, never one to raise his voice unless absolutely necessary. He found it far more effective to deal with matters diplomatically through peaceful discussions, and thus rarely found the need to. But he was still a dragon, and—though no one was like to admit it with the king still around—he was by far the most dangerous of them all.
And that was why fear seemed to grip Lyanna's heart at his next words, and the dangerously quiet tone in which he uttered them.
"Everyone who isn't a Targaryen, leave now."
No one moved.
"Get out!"
There was a hurried scraping of chairs as those who weren't dragons by birth fled from the room. Lyanna too, made to leave but Rhaegar caught her wrist before she could rise. "You can stay."
And no one perceived the look of satisfaction on the Master of Whispers soft plump face as he left the room in a lavender aroma.
"Father?" Aegon probed carefully once the room had been cleared. "What is it?"
Wordlessly, and without casting her a glance, Rhaegar slid the parchment over to his wife. Lyanna took it with shaking hands.
There was a deafening pounding in her ears as she read over it, and she was only vaguely aware of her husband's voice in the background. No; Lyanna's thoughts were disbelieving but it didn't stop the wave of excitement that gripped her at the possibility that maybe—just maybe—her eyes were not deceiving her. It's been so long…
As Lyanna's eyes reached the final line she felt the heat of every Targaryen's gaze settle upon her; but for the first time in a very long time, she did not tremble under the threat of wakening a dragon's wrath.
"…It seems that winter isn't the only thing returning to Westeros at last."
The Wolves are coming home.
