280 AL

The coins clinked together in the small pouch. Rhaegar threw it to Ser Barristan who deftly caught it midair. The Kingsguard did not seem pleased to leave him alone in the alley, but Rhaegar did not think himself in much danger. The street was narrow, flanked by two tall, wide structures which hid from the eyes of all what went on between them, but it was deserted and so it would remain for many hours more.

Ser Barristan gave an uneasy nod and went on his way as instructed. In the meantime, Rhaegar allowed himself to rest against the wall. A peculiar feeling had taken hi over for some time. It was a very strange mixture of unease and tension. Something like a premonition, one might even go as far as to say. The cause of it, the Prince could not name, but the effects were quite clear. The blasted feeling left him exhausted, and not only because of its intensity. A poor sleeper under the best of circumstances, Rhaegar found himself unable to catch even a few short hours of rest no matter that he took care of strenuous matters all day long. He just wished it would go away and leave him be.

Alas, good fortune had never been on his side. The Prince heaved a sigh and drove the thought away. Good fortune or ill, it was his duty to go on as he might. Upon this conclusion followed the knowledge that he ought to stop wandering the streets of King's Landing and see to refining the many plans he'd made since wedding Elia Martell. And he had to think about a way which excluded Dorne.

The trouble was that before he'd taken Elia to wife, Doran Martell had more or less promised to aid him in an eventual overthrowing of the King. Yet as soon as the vows had been said, something seemed to have changed. It was not that Doran had refused to aid, rather that if Rhaegar had the temerity to bring up their prior agreement, the Dornish Prince would find some way to avoid responsibility. That left the heir to the throne in a quandary.

His own father had started suspecting the plot. Whatever else could be said of Aerys Targaryen, the man could simply not be accused of simple-mindedness. Cruel and unkind, certainly, to some even evil; such were the words most usually used to describe the King. But stupidity was not among his many faults, much to his eldest son's displeasure. It was best to act with caution nonetheless, if he wished to retain his head on his shoulders. The Seven only knew what his fate would be if father ever learned of what Rhaegar planned.

As such, one of the Prince's biggest worries was the Spider. That man had spies everywhere. Ubiquitous, inescapable, Varys of the Free Cities was a pest that one encountered at every corner. He seemed devoted to the King, but who was to say what went on in that man's mind.

Further musing were put on hold as his companion emerged from the shadows, pouch no longer on his person. "We should make haste, Your Grace," the Kingsguard offered, agile gaze shifting to the sides. Rhaegar simply nodded in agreement and they begun making away from the place.

"Has the situation of the orphans improved?" He could not help but ask the question. It was rare that someone offered to take in children with no one else, and even rarer that they did so from the goodness of their heart. Or mayhap he ought to say unheard of. But Rhaegar knew of several such establishments and would, from time to time, give coin to them.

"If it has, then I've not seen it," came the gruff reply. It was not unexpected. There were many mouths to feed and few resources. "But those children have a roof over their head. It's more than others can boast of."

And that was the end of it. Rhaegar asked no more and Ser Selmy volunteered nothing else. It was for the best, the Prince assured himself, as he could not possibly solve all troubles of the realm. If anything, he seemed incapable of solving even his own.

The journey to the Red Keep was made in companionable silence, as both men seemed to be lost in their own thoughts. For his part, Rhaegar had returned his attention upon the problem of Doran and how he might convince his good-brother to aid him with more than just words. Mayhap when Elia returned he could persuade her.

The very notion exhausted him. His lady wife was many things, but interested in politics was not one of them. Certainly she wished for a more pronounced independence of her homeland, having not just once implied something of the nature, yet that was more her eldest brother's plan rather than hers. And while her attachment to Dorne was perfectly understandable, Elia seemed to think he ought to feel the same by virtue of being her husband.

Rhaegar might have negotiated more advantageous terms with her had she seemed at all inclined to aid him. But his lady wife was content to wait out his troubles and broach such subjects when she felt it was entirely safe. There were times when he wondered why his mother had made such arrangements for his marriage. Alas, facts were unchangeable.

He'd not entered the keep for long when one of Grand Maester Pycelle's creatures came running towards him. The young boy, not older than nine years perhaps, barely managed to stop himself before colliding with the Prince. Barristan Selmy threw the boy a harsh look, but the child paid him no mind, instead bowing to Rhaegar and spouting a torrent of words the prince could hardly make sense of.

Holding one hand up, Rhaegar silenced the child. "Slower, boy. I cannot understand a thing you say.'

The boy drew in one long breathe, offered an apology, then began anew. "A raven has come from the Princess, Your Grace. I was told to let Your Grace know as soon as possible." Which probably meant that the child had been looking for him. "The King wishes to have words, Your Grace."

Of that Rhaegar did not know what to think. At first he thought it might have been personal correspondence. Elia had been known to send him ravens when he was away, or if she herself was undertaking some journey. But if the King was involved then matters were much more confusing.

His father held little to no affection for his wife, for some reason Rhaegar could not fathom. As ladies of the court went, Elia was accomplished and mannered, at times even kind and gracious. Westeros had had worse candidates to queenship. Whatever the cause was, the King had been content to keep it to himself and Rhaegar had never questioned his father on that. After all, what did it matter what the man thought of his wife?

Knowing very well that he ought not to delay any further, Rhaegar made his way into Maegor's Holdfast and, upon reaching his father's solar, knocked gently on the door. He was allowed entrance and, to his great surprise, saw even his mother in the room.

Upon meeting his gaze, Rhaella's eyes filled with tears. That unsettled the Prince even further. In all the years in which he'd known her, his lady mother had but rarely cried and never before his father. Shedding tears had always been a private affair for her. Suspicion roused, he bowed to his father. "You have summoned me, Your Grace?"

"Indeed." There was something cruel about the look in his father's eyes as he spoke. "A raven has arrived, I've no doubt you have been informed." At his nod, the King held up between his fingers a piece of paper. "'Tis about that wife of yours."

Rhaegar would have reached out for the slip of paper but he did not trust his father not to be mocking if he so did. Instead, the Crown Prince waited patiently for the older man to continue. But it was Pycelle who gave the proper explanations. "Her Grace had encountered trouble on the road," the maester said.

Elia had never proven herself to be of a particularly sturdy constitution. If anything, she was rather sickly. That particular defect, they'd been assured by the bride's family, would pass as it stemmed from a recent head cold. Even if he'd not been inclined to believe such words, Rhaegar had been prepared to overlook the defect when it became apparent that Elia's suffering were not at all the result of a chill.

Yet it seemed to him that this could not possible be about a common cold. There was far too much fuss being made for that to be a reason. "What has happened to my lady wife, maester?" he questioned, his voice oddly detached, strange even to his own ears, as if it did not belong to him.

Lyanna rushed into the hall as if the very snarks and grumkins of the legends were chasing her. She did not even stop to look over her shoulder as she jumped over the threshold and barrelled past one of the servants who shrieked and promptly dropped her burden. Lyanna did not stop. She simply called out an apology and darted for the stairs.

Behind her came her younger brother, who was simultaneously yelling after her and brushing the light snow from his cloak; all with a charming scowl painted upon his features. Whatever quarrel was between them, the servants knew not to attempt any action. If they proved unruly their lord father would see to it that they were properly chastised.

However, any such attempt would have proven useless as the sole daughter of the family, having reached the top of the stairs, looked down at her brother and promptly declared herself the victor. "I told you I would win." Her triumphant look was in no manner quelled by the despondent expression Benjen Stark sported.

"You cheated," the younger one protested, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you hadn't tripped me I would have won."

"I didn't trip you, you crawler. That you've done all by yourself." Her denial was met with an indignant yell from the other sibling. Benjen hurried his pace, running up the stairs, and he was just about to make a grab for his sister when, unexpectedly, his foot slipped on the carved rock and he fell forward. his head smacking against the sharp edge.

Both children let out simultaneous cries, one of horror, the other of pain. Lyanna rushed to Benjen's side and tried to haul him up, but the inert body was proving to be more a trial to move than she would have thought.

"Gods be good, what has happened here?" the shrill voice of Lyarra Stark reached the ears of the conscious child. The mother bent to pick up the boy. "How many times have I told you not to race up the stairs?" But the cries of the distraught woman were utterly lost on Lyanna.

The young she-wolf could only watch as blood pooled from the wound her brother sustained.

She'd not meant for any of it to happen. It was simply that, since young, she and Benjen had competed at everything, and anything for that matter. And somehow they'd always made it out unscathed, or at least with little more than bruised knees.

It was quite simply unbelievable that Benjen should be so gravely injured.

Father, who had been attracted by the loud sounds in the hallway no doubt, happened upon the scene just as Lyarra cradled Benjen to her chest. He looked at Lyanna and, with a grimace, beckoned her over. "We must speak, you and I, daughter. This cannot continue on so." Lyanna fairly knew what her father wished to speak of with her, and, truthfully, had little desire of fearing. But Rickard Stark did not seem in the mood to spare her. "'Tis time you stopped acting a child."