Once she dreamed of romance
Once she imagined she lived in a castle
Once she held the world in her hands,
Once was a long time ago,
Far far away-when she was young
she looked towards the future
Eyes full of promise, a heart filled with joy
How had her road twisted so harshly
Can these two women be one and the same?

Far, Far Away - Blackmore's Night

In her dream, she was a bride once more.

She was seventeen once more and the hair that rippled down to her waist was as dark as polished wood... soft and thick and shining with but the one thread of silver running through it. The women who had dressed her hair that morning had tsked when they'd seen it and told her that it was not to be wondered, she had known too many sorrows for her years... and then they had tucked that strand away because she would not let them snip it off as they wanted to. They had buried the shame of it away, under the pearls of the diadem that had once graced Queen Naerys' brow, Naerys of the Thousand Sorrows, Naerys the pale sister of the Knight of Tears. They had buried it as she would bury her secret sins and shames in her heart - she could bury it but could never snip it off, it had become too much a part of her.

For remembrance. As a reminder, she had thought as they they cinched the waist of the white gown tighter. Maiden's white, though the world knew that she was no maid. There were some who thought it unseemly - a deflowered bride might wear pink or blue or yellow, but never white. But it had been Robert's command - as though by robing her white he might make a maiden of her once again, claim the sweet young girl he'd lost his heart to and the prize he'd fought a war for. She could not blame him. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it.

There were snowflakes on her gown, snowflakes lined with sparkling crystals that flung back a seven-tinted rainbow light when the sun shone on them. Snowflakes in summer. They did not cool her. She could think only of a man roasting in his armour.

Jon Arryn had her ride through the streets of King's Landing in an open chariot that day. They have seen their new king, he had told her when she'd chewed her lip and fought back tears. Surely they should be allowed to see his queen?

The roads to Baelor's Sept were lined with men, women and children, agog with gossip and rumour. They had thought to see the Maiden herself, an enchantress whose beauty had driven kings to damnation. They had heard the lays and the ballads of the winter rose the dragon and the stag had contended for. They had brothers and sons who had died on both sides of the Trident for her. The stench of spite and malice and even resentment was choking.

Cersei Lannister and Lysa Arryn had ridden before her, the one in wildfire-green, the other in river-blue. Their beauty was like a flame and when men saw the pale, faded girl behind them they whispered that the new king seemed like to be as mad as the old one. The women were kinder - there were some among them who had kissed their lovers for the last time when their kings had called their banners. They had bidden their own sweethearts goodbye with the same smile stitched on their faces, the same grief in their eyes.

In Baelor's Sept, she was caught in a firestorm of spangled light. The crystals flashed by the flickering light of the candles and the magpie-bright eyes of those who had come to see her wed lingered and feasted on her. They measured her, peeling back the layers of silk and skin, stripping her to the bone and finding her lacking.

You were as white as a corpse, Cersei would later tell her. Jaime was ready to catch you, he said he was sure you'd faint.

Robert had been hale and hearty enough for the both of them, though. She had whispered her vows to him and he had boomed back at her. A mummer's farce, those vows of eternal constancy were. Robert had his own rooms at Chataya's, in the years to come he would bed half of her ladies-in-waiting. And she... well, Varys saw to it that she was generously supplied with the silver-haired, lilac-eyed love-slaves of Lys. If he found it passing strange that she favoured them best, those pale shadows of the man she claimed had raped her, he kept it to himself.

Eddard had stripped off her maiden's cloak because Father and Brandon were dead. They were as dead as though she had killed them herself, fanning the flames under Father and hanging the noose around Brandon's neck. No, they would tell her, Ned and Robert, it had not been her, it had been Aerys... but she knew better. They loved her. Of course they would lie to her.

My father's colours, she'd thought, staring at the puddle of white-and-grey silk at her feet. "Smile," Robert had whispered to her as he draped his black-and-gold cloak about her shoulders. "I have a surprise for you."

The surprise had turned out to be Rhaegar Targaryen's tarred head, of course. In life, she had not recognized it at first and Robert had been forced to explain. In the dream, the head was still fresh, tendrils of silver-gold hair floating about it. But the mouth had dripped blood and the eyes had been torn out and in their place, maggots swarmed out, crawling down his sculpted face, his beautiful face.

I took my warmhammer and I smashed into his damn chest, I smashed right through and I heard the ribs cracking and he screamed, Lyanna, it was the sweetest sound. He screamed out and I smashed again and all the time I was only thinking of you, what he'd done to you and I laughed, I laughed...

And then she had woken up.

She woke up sweating, as though from a fever, and stripped off the covers. There were two little mounds in her bed and it was a while before she could remember that those were her children, three-year-old Alcuin and five-year-old Dagna. She saw precious little of them these days and so she had taken to having them sleep with her. Robert never shared her bed when she was with child.

"Gods be good," she whispered, kissing their foreheads and making the sign to ward off the Evil Eye over them. Elia's babes had been a prince and a princess, younger than her own little ones when the Lannisters came for them. Lannisters and winter and the White Walkers, she thought as she rang for her maids. Who will promise me that Dagna will never be slaughtered under Robert's bed, as Rhaenys was under Rhaegar's? How will I keep Alcuin safe in my arms when Aegon was not safe in Elia's?

It was the day of the tourney, held in honour of their unborn child and funded by the gold of Highgarden. Olenna Redwyne's granddaughter has come to court, she thought grimly as she stepped into the outer robe of white lawn and the kirtle of soft blue silk. This tourney will not come without a price.

The maids combed her hair with a spear from a champion of the fighting pits of Meeren - it was said to bring luck and of late, she had felt the need for luck. You are as ignorant as a bogwoman with your follies and your superstitions, Father used to say but Father was dead, wasn't he? He would have done better with some luck on his side too...

They brought out the necklace of interlaced sapphires and emeralds for her, on a bed of wine-red velvet. It had been Shiera Seastar's once but after she had borne no children, had passed down the line of the Targaryen Queens. The Usurper had taken the Iron Throne and his queen had taken the enchantress's necklace. It was said that her mother, Selenei of Lys had cast her spells on those jewels, charms to keep the wearer young and beautiful forever. Lyanna took a peek at her strained, white face in the mirror and decided that all the magic had gone out of it.

"Lyanna." It was Ser Barristan who had kept vigil outside her door that night. She smiled in answer - of all the men she knew in the Red Keep, this was the one she trusted the most. Jon loved Robert and he loved Robert's children - but her, no.

Barristan will always need a king to protect, Rhaegar had once told her. "Such a long face?" he said lightly.

"I've always had a long face," she told him. "When I was a little girl at Winterfell, my brothers used to call me 'Lya Longface'."

He fell into step behind her. "There's something I could show you that would make you smile."

"What is it?"

"A surprise." He turned down a flight of stairs, letting her trail after him. She loved surprises. Years of knowing better had failed to diminish her childish enthusiasm for them.

A narrow stone balcony, red-and-purple with tangled vines in flower, overlooked a private court. She peeked down and saw Robert and Bran sparring, the father with his warhammer, the son with his sword. Robert be careful. You might hurt him, she itched to say but she thought better of it. Bran was twelve, in a few years he would be a man grown. It's good that Robert's paying attention to him, she reminded herself, wincing as her husband's warhammer sliced through the air, as Bran ducked just in time. He could care less about all the others... it's only that Bran's the one big enough to really be taught to fight that he cares at all.

The boy stumbled and fell flat on his back. "I yield!" he yelled quickly and laughing, Robert reached down to help him back to his feet.

"That's the disadvantage of a sword," Robert was telling him, as Bran poured a pitcher of water over his head. "A warhammer, that's what counts, I taught the Targaryen that on the Trident when I-"

"Mother!" Bran yelled, spotting her. He waved madly and laughing, she waved back at him too. "Mother, did you see me? Did you see how good I was, I almost knocked Father out-"

"-And in a few years you'll truly be knocking Father out," Robert said indulgently, ruffling his hair. They were mirrors of eachother, when you looked at the boy you could see what the man had once been.

Is this what Jon sees when he looks at my boys? she thought, feeling like crying. Is that what Catelyn Tully sees when she looks at Ned and then at my boy?

"Your mother's not interested," Robert said, cutting short Bran's prattle. "She's always had a penchant for swords, eh Lyanna? Big, hefty, shiny things. All women like flashy things, best you don't fall into that trap, Bran, when your sweetling wants you to parade around with a pretty sword. A sword might look nice but when it comes to business, your warhammer-"

"Brandon taught me to love swords."

Bran made an 'O' with his mouth and abruptly, Robert shut up. A handkerchief materialized and she took it from Ser Barristan - she had not realized that she had been crying. Child-bearing, she thought furiously. It addles a woman's brains... I could have drowned this one in my belly with moon tea, as Lysa said I should. Why didn't I?

Because you wanted a boy named Jon, she remembered. A boy with winter in his face.

"Mother," Bran said. "Mother, can I ride in the tourney today? I'm big enough-"

"No," she barked. Had he been hoping to catch her unawares? First Alcuin wants a sword, now Bran wants to ride in a tourney. Will Joff be wanting an army next? "No, of course not."

"Why?" Bran wailed. "I'm big enough, Lord Arryn said Father rode in a tourney when he was my age and-"

She stared at him incredulously. "You're twelve," she said. "Gods bless you, when your Father rode in the Vale he did not contend with the greatest knights in the Seven Kingdoms. And he was no prince, not heir to-"

"I have three brothers," Bran said sulkily. "Maybe I'll have another one and-"

She wanted to slap him. "And having three brothers gives you the right to cripple yourself?" she hissed, leaning forwards. "Or get yourself killed when you're just a little boy?"

"I wouldn't get myself killed or crippled," he explained patiently, as though she was overreacting. "I'm just saying, if you're worried that I shouldn't ride because I'm a prince-"

"Brandon," Robert intoned. "Listen to your mother."

She stared at him. Twelve years old and he thought he was big enough to ride against grown men - and women too, seeing that Brienne would try her hand today. You were fourteen when you rode at Harrenhal, she remembered. You thought you were plenty big enough - can you blame him? She had been taller then than Bran was now, but he was brawnier, better trained, stronger. He was nearly as good a rider as she'd been too, but... no. No, he was still a little boy. Four or five years would be time enough.

"We hold with no such folly in the north," she told him icily. "War is no game and I count a tourney one of the foulest bloodsports. Your uncles would too."

"My northern uncles," Bran corrected her, frowning. "Uncle Renly wouldn't-"

Uncle Renly who'd be like as not to take your throne, she thought, her temper rising. "Brandon, if I hear one more word out of you-"

"There's no fun in the north!" Bran yelled back at her, his eyes flashing. "I don't want to go to Winterfell, I won't, I tell you, you said my place was at the heart of the realm, well I'll-"

"Brandon." Robert touched his shoulder and the boy quietened, though there was still a look in his face that Lyanna did not like. "I will not have you speak so to your mother - she knows better than a green boy. Go to your room."

"But I-"

"Now." Robert's voice was seldom so sharp when he spoke to his firstborn son. "The king commands it. Ser Barristan, escort my son to his chambers and see that he is ready in good time for the tourney." Ser Barristan beckoned and pouting, Brandon left the court.

"Lady wife." He looked up at her. "You look awful."

"Lord husband." She studied him. "Would that I might say the same of you." Drink had puffed his face and his waist had thickened and swelled, but he had weathered the years considerably better than she had. He had never drunk to excess - she and Jon had seen to that. He still trained on the courts and now when his sycophants called him 'stately', they weren't too far off the mark. He had never taxed his brain with much thought and so his hair was still as black as his sons', while hers was lined with grey.

"You could do something about your hair," he said plaintively. "I don't care what you say about white hair being dignified. And that necklace of yours - isn't it supposed to keep you beautiful?"

"It is," she allowed. "But it only works on Targaryens." And a true Targaryen queen would be beautiful enough, necklace or no necklace. "The spell won't hold on an unsurper's queen." His lip curled, he did not like that. He did not like to remember that his throne was built on children's corpses, his crown sealed with a better man's blood. How she enjoyed that look on his face, the way it turned slowly purple...

"Damn you, woman-"

A good general knew the art of an orderly retreat. She spread her hands out conciliatingly and said, "Peace. You don't need me to be beautiful. You only need me to sit on your council, you only need me for the children."

"Fat lot of good you are as a mother," he snapped.

I know, she thought, feeling a twinge of guilt. They love Cersei and Renly more than they do me, their own mother...

"Your mothering's made Bran soft," he said.

"He's twelve," she protested. "Would you have me let him ride in the tourney?"

"When I was twelve, I'd-"

She ticked them off on her fingers. "Been champion of the melee, slain the giants of the hill clans as you rode at Jon's side, survived a snowstorm, had your first woman - yes, anything else, my puissant warrior?" She gave him a hard look. "Bran is heir to the throne. I agree that he's no child but I'd rather that he spent his hours sitting on the councils, than in playing with lances. What use are lances to a king?"

"When he leads armies-"

"No." She said it flatly and as she said it, she thought of another prince who had once led an army. "No, he will not lead an army. His place is not at the head of an army, like some common soldier, it's at the heart of the realm. His life is worth more than that."

"He's my son."

She lost her temper. "And a precious father you've been!" she snarled. "You'd turn him into some whoring, wine-sodden, berserk, uncouth boar like you if I let you, wouldn't you? You won a throne-" over a better man. "But who's kept it for you over these years? Jon, that's who." And me. But you'd laugh and say a woman's only good for one thing, if I told you, wouldn't you? "You've had good counsellors, but what's to say that Bran will have the same luck? In the north, we hold that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. The man who sits the throne should pass the judgment."

She named Robert's son for her brother, for remembrance, as a reminder. She'd pictured him growing up to be like Brandon, but he's turned out to be southron through and through. That will change when we go to Winterfell - Ned and Ben, his true uncles who love him so well, will be there and in time he will forget that he ever doted on Renly.

"Fuck you northerners." His voice was a rumble. "If I let you have your way, you'd have him hacking off heads now, wouldn't you?"

She thought about it. "Yes," she said steadily. "If he's old enough to want to play at the games of war, he's old enough to take a man's life. It's time he knew how it was done."

"Such a tender, loving mother." All the anger had gone out of him now, as quick as summer lightning over the sea, and he seemed amused now. He was like that. Was Rhaegar ever angry? He was so very gentle, but he must have had his times... "I suppose you're right about that though. If he's had his first woman, it's time he took-"

"What?"

"Lyanna, for pity's sake, if you're going to faint don't do it in front of a balcony."

She clutched the railings and stared at him incredulously. "Do you mean to tell me that-"

He scuffed his feet, looking sheepish. "I was going to wait," he said plaintively. "For his thirteenth nameday, see. It's in two moon's turns so I thought it would be a nice present for him, he'd be curious and I thought it best if his father helped him along the path, so's to speak... Jon was never much use where women were concerned and I had a few rough patches with poxy whores. But Bran's a prince like you said and we gave him the princeliest time a prince could want, a nice, clean place, the prettiest, youngest girls you could want, really, Lyanna don't pull that face."

"Who's we?"

"Renly helped. He's closer to the boy than I thought and he said golden hair and green eye and so we went to Chataya's and there was this fresh young thing, Dancy, I think she was called. Anyway, we were going to wait but then you'll be taking the children to Winterfell this month and north of the Neck you can't buy a good woman for gold so..." He trailed off.

She rubbed her head. The world was spinning too fast. "Perhaps Jon did have a point when he said we'd do best to betroth the boy soon." And perhaps we might have taken Margaery. Renly bought the girl and the swords of Highgarden - curse me for a fool for not seeing it earlier.

Robert waved a hand negligently. "Ah, let him marry for love."

She stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Let him marry for love." His eyes turned misty and he looked more gormless than ever. "As I married you for love."

"You most certainly did not. As I recall it, Father wrote to you when you were sixteen and you wanted so to be Ned's brother that you'd have taken me if I was scarred and bearded like Selyse Florent."

"Well, yes," he admitted. "Ned was always more of a brother to me than Stannis and Renly. But I meant after the war, after I took you to wife-"

"You couldn't just have abandoned me then," she pointed out shrewdly. "It would have been the height of absurdity - fighting a war for a woman and then sending her back home."

He looked uneasy. "I never told you, did I?" Without waiting for an answer, he explained. "Jon said I'd do better to take Cersei. On the one side, he said, I could have the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, the gold of Casterly Rock and Lord Tywin's friendship."

She wrapped her arms about herself, shivering. Cersei as queen. And what would become of me? "And on the other side was the deflowered girl, the damaged goods."

He flashed her a dazzling smile. "Love tipped the scales, sweetling."

She had to laugh at the absurdity of it. Robert did not love her. He loved the idea of her, Ned's little sister, as wild and sweet and desirable as a white hart. A trophy. "Speaking of love," she said, "Renly and his roses came back last night. Did you catch a glimpse of his little bride?"

He blushed. So he had.

"She's as beautiful as the dawn isn't she?" This is the way it should be done, she decided. I should have confronted you like this, before you took Cersei to your bed. "Her lady grandmother and Renly will have coached her. They'll send her to your bed before the month is up."

"Lyanna-"

"She's a pretty girl. Fine jewels and new gowns will become her and I do not begrudge her if she asks you for them," she said steadily. "But if you truly love me, as you say, you will give her nothing more than gems. No royal charters, no deeds, no promises, no matter how trivial they might seem to you." She looked at him steadily. "Do I have your word?"

He flinched. "I never-"

"Do I have your word?"

He threw up his hands. "Damn you woman, yes," he snapped. "Curse all northern women for harpies."

And curse all southron men for lechers. She smiled at him. "Oh, and one more thing. Cersei gave you a girl and there's naught to be done about that. But should Margaery whelp, you'll have the babe drowned with moon tea, understand? Your by-blows are one thing but I will not face your great bastards, I will not have your brothers' wives flaunting them in my face and smiling their sickly-sweet smiles." Without waiting for an answer, she swept away.

This, she thought absently. Is how a queen should act. She must not think of herself, she must endure all insults to her person if they are to the good of her kingdom. She must rise above it all, in the name of the greater good. Rhaegar would have been the first to tell me so. If that was so, then why did she feel so cold?

A tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair stood beneath the banner of a fiery stallion, a burning city behind him.

A Clash of Kings

When she entered, the council chambers were empty save for the man who stood by the window. He turned at the sound of her footsteps and a smile like summer broke out over his face.

"Auntie crone!" he sang and with three great strides he was at her side, holding her close and hugging her.

I can see why the children love him so. Renly was a scoundrel and a rogue, a liar and a traitor-in-the-bud. He would come for her children's throats when Robert was dead, but all the same he was as much an enchantor as Selenei of Lys had been. He had only to stoop to kiss her cheeks and resentment and mistrust fell from her shoulders, like a winter's cloak ill-suited to the warmth of summer. When she looked up into his face, she saw the laughing boy of eight he had been when she'd first met him. The boy who'd commented that she wasn't too bad-looking, but compared to Lady Cersei she was as haggard as his Estermont great-aunts. When she'd heard, she'd given him permission to call her 'Auntie crone' and 'Auntie crone' was what he would call her to the end of his days.

She rubbed the fabric of the cloak the draped his shoulders. Forest-green velvet, as soft as sin. "Beautiful," she whispered. Everything about Renly was beautiful - Robert had been like him, but coarser. "You'll have to send me the pattern so I can have one made for Robert and the boys."

"Thank you." He studied her face. "You look awful," he said, drawing out a chair for her. "Has Robert been whipping you again?"

"No more than I deserve," she said as he poured a cup of wine for her. "It's not him - it's the baby." Well no, it's not. It's just ugly old me. "You'll know, soon enough, when you get Margaery with child." She gulped the wine down, Arbour gold that warmed her pleasantly. "I'll never forgive you for not inviting me to your wedding."

He took the chair opposite her as the other members of the small council began to filter in. "Highgarden's over a hundred leagues from King's Landing," he pointed out. "And I knew you'd not leave the heart of the realm for a mere wedding when you haven't even left it to see your own home for seven years."

Robert waddled in, with his breakfast. When he saw her reproachful look he grimaced as though to say that it was her fault that the council was being called so early that he had not yet had time to eat. She had skipped breakfast, herself.

When all had settled and Robert had the grace to swallow down the last of his blood-pie, Jon cleared his throat. "Varys," he said, inclining his head to the eunuch, "tells me that Daenerys Targaryen has been delievered of a healthy child. A son who has been named Rhaego."

The storm that erupted on Lyanna's head made her shrink back. Robert slammed the tabletop with his fist, the noise rippling through the room like thunder. She had no doubt that if Jon had not been there to restrain him, his fist would have met her face. "Damn you!" he bellowed, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. She gripped her hands under the table and tried not to flinch when he glared at her. "Damn you, this is what comes of listening to a woman, a fool woman-"

"-And a man too." Jon's voice was as cold as the snow that capped the high peaks of the Vale. "Her Grace was not alone in her plea that clemency be granted to Daenerys Targaryen. Ser Barristan and I seconded it."

The whore is pregnant. I will see her dead! She bit her lip and looked down, not daring to meet his eyes.

"And this is what has come of it! A son, do you hear me, a son?" He stood up and walked around the table until he was standing next to her. "Look at me, woman," he snarled and she was forced to lift her head, to look into the mad loathing in his eyes. The demon of the Trident, they called him. Did you fear him, Rhaegar, did you fear him as I do now? "Clemency," he said. "You asked for clemency, my lady. Perhaps the whore will grant your sons clemency when she lands on our shores."

She found her voice. "Your sons as much as mine," she said steadily. "You found no clemency for Elia's children." Justice, she thought vaguely, was never even-handed. Children paid for the sins of their fathers. She looked at Lord Tywin's face - it was like the stone masks they lay over the dead, in Dorne.

"Robert." It was Jon. "A child has been born, a son as you forsaw. What of it? The Narrow Sea yet lies betwixt us and the Dothraki savages."

"And I forsee that this child will grow to be the damnation of us all! I forsee that he'll come to claim his kingdom with thousands of those savages! I forsee that when the Dothraki are through, they'll leave our cities smoking as they rape and pillage the land! What say you, my lords?"

"Clemency was a mistake," Renly agreed, his eyes glittering. "The Beggar King is dead but his sister's son will claim his throne one day."

Littlefinger's voice was light, conversational. "They found a most innovative way to kill Viserys Targaryen. Perhaps they will be kind enough to dispose of dear little Rhaego in the same way."

Lord Tywin's voice was measured. "The father commands the greatest khalasar of the grasslands," he said. "Perhaps it would have been better had we acted as Your Grace had suggested. If we had cut down the child when he was still in his mother's womb-"

"We would have been guilty of the most heinous of crimes," Barristan said steadily. "There is honour in facing an enemy on the battlefield, but none in killing him in his mother's womb. I have stood with Her Grace and Lord Arryn on this matter, and I will continue do so."

Littlefinger examined his little fingers. "Honour. Clemency. I'm sure that will be of much comfort to the mothers when the children are ripped from their arms and impaled on Dothraki spears, to know that their queen pleaded for clemency."

She let them quibble over words. Anything she said now would only inflame Robert's temper. Daenerys Stormborn, she had been named. Rhaegar's sister. She had once suggested that they might bring the children back - Viserys might be sent to the Wall, fire and ice, Rhaegar would have wanted that. Daenerys might be wed to Bran - it would truly cement the legitimacy of his rule. Robert had looked at her with frosty blue eyes and said that he wondered at her charity. He had asked her how she could bear the idea of marrying her son to the sister of the man who had raped her, the daughter of the man who had murdered her father and brother.

That had put an end to the matter.

Jon was speaking now, his voice calm and measured. He would bring to Robert to hand, he was more than a father to him. And Robert, grumbling, grunting, grimacing Robert, would listen to him. It will come hard to Robert when Jon's time comes, she thought, glancing at the man's white hair and tired face. He's older than Barristan, seventy if he is a day - how many years does he have left? It will come hard to me too when Jon dies... who will Robert appoint as his Hand?

Jon bought more time for Rhaegar's nephew and Robert leaned back in his seat and directed a look of purest loathing at her. "Women," he muttered, although she had not said a word. That was the way of the world, she'd found out. The woman would be the first one to be blamed.

Lord Tywin was looking at her. "On the happy occassion of Her Grace's pregnancy," he said. "I would like to deliever a present."

She liked surprises but Lord Tywin's surprises had a way of turning... nasty. "That is kind of you, my lord," she said uncertainly.

Lord Tywin nodded and snapped his fingers. The great iron-bound doors opened and two men in Lannister crimson appeared, bearing a bronze shield. A shield with a man's tarred head on it. And all at once she was seventeen again, back in the sept, wrapped in Robert's colours and looking down at Rhaegar's head. She shivered but she forced her voice to be strong. "And what is the meaning of this?" she asked icily. "My lord, if I had prayed for a miscarriage I would have thanked you for your present."

He favoured her with something less than a smile. "Ser Gregor Clegane's head," he said quietly. "I had thought that it might please you."

She studied the head. It was unrecognizable. Most tarred heads were. Still, it was rather large, it might meet the description... "Heads mean nothing and less," she said quietly. "Bring me a body."

"The body, most unfortunately, had been cast to the dogs."

"A dog for the dogs," Renly chuckled.

"Ser Ilyn will vouch for his head though," Lord Tywin said. "As will I. Do you doubt my word, Your Grace?"

She was hemmed in on all sides. A quick glance at Jon's face told her that this was not the time to voice her doubts. "Of course not," she said. "Your honour is well-known throughout the Seven Kingdoms, my lord." The honour of a butcherer of children. She gestured to the head, stomach roiling. "Justice has been served, no more, no less. I do not take this for a present, though I do thank you for serving the king's justice so swiftly." It had not been swift at all - it had been thirteen years in the brewing. "This must be sent to Dorne." Gouty Doran will be grateful, but Oberyn will laugh in our faces. He will want a body to go with the head.

"And so it shall," Jon promised her. "Dorne, where Prince Doran and his fair heiress, the Princess Arianne, reside." She could see the plot forming in his mind - Arianne Martell was ten years older than Bran but even so... there was much to be said for the plan. The spears of Dorne against the swords of Highgarden, the Martells pitted against their rivals, the Tyrells. She would consider it.

"Well then," Robert said, rising to his feet. "That's that, then. Now we can get on to the bloody tourney, wine and wenches..." Without a second glance at her, he stalked out of the council room and the small council began to disband.

"Lyanna." Jon touched her arm gently. "I was hoping that you might walk with me."

He was so very gallant. Sometimes he frightened her as much as Robert. I am like the bear tied to the stake, hemmed in by the dogs, she thought, glancing at Renly who was cracking a joke with Littlefinger, at Lord Tywin who spoke in a low voice to Maester Pycelle. They will come for my children as they sleep. She shivered - this would not do. This was the path to madness, that Aerys had once walked. Renly must have poisoned my wine.

"Yes, of course," she said sweetly, taking his arm. "I would love nothing better." And pasting a smile on her face, she let him lead her away.

"When you know what passions rule a man then he is yours. Tell me, Lyanna, what do you think rules Lord Tywin?"

That was an easy one. "Pride."

"Littlefinger?"

"Love," she said, smiling. "Littlefinger loves Littlefinger." And the sparkle of golden dragons. And the colour of chaos.

He studied her. "What rules you, child? Is it fear? Or guilt, remorse?"

Remembrance. "I could tell you," she teased him. "But then I'd have to kill you." That was the catchphrase of the season - the whole court was in love with a new playwright and his wit and one-liners spiced their conversations.

"So you've learnt the rules of the game," he said dryly. "I remember when I first saw you - you weren't quite seventeen then, were you? A little corpse bride who would run crying to her brother. I offered Cersei to Robert but he wouldn't hear of it and I always wondered why... well, he had the right of it, I see now."

She beamed. "Having Cersei as queen would be like setting wildfire to a dry tree."

"She would have wrought more ill than you have good," he agreed. "But it's not a game, child." His face hardened. "You and Renly and Littlefinger, you think you're playing a game, don't you? That it's all about how well you know the rules, how clever your moves are, how quick - it's not a game, not for a moment." His grip on her arm tightened. "It's lives you're playing with. You knew that once, but you seem to have forgotten. You learnt it in the north, all to forget it in the south. These conspiracies, these intrigues, what do you think you achieve by them? Would you turn your allies into your enemies by your own folly?"

Under his gaze, she blushed guiltily. "Renly and Littlefinger are no allies of mine," she said stiffly. "You know that, Jon. Renly has always thought overmuch of himself and when Robert is gone, he'll move against my children. And Littlefinger - well I'd have to be more foolish than you think me to put my faith in him."

He did not reprimand her. "I meant Lord Tywin."

She pressed her lips together. "He is no ally of mine." Ned had known the Lannisters for oathbreakers and traitors. He had warned her.

"He won't be if you continue to insult him as you did today," Jon pointed out shrewdly. "What did you hope to achieve by implying that his word was false, that the head he offered to you was not Clegane's?"

"What proof do we have that it was Clegane's?"

"His word. The word of an honourable lord."

The word of a butcherer of children. The word of the Kingslayer's father. "If I believed every man's word-" she said heatedly.

He threw her a withering look. "And this is what comes of dealing with a woman," he said softly. "Oh spare me your histrionics," he snapped when she opened her mouth in protest. "You've done good work, I will never deny that you have not. You have your silvercloaks and your orphanages, your schools and the strength you've raised at the Wall. Robert was in the right when he raised you to the small council. No king since the first Jaehaerys ever raised his queen to such an honour." His smile was warmer now. "Perhaps you are not so far from Alysanne after all."

They walked in silence for a while, past lords and ladies who cleared a path for them and bowed deeply. She liked this homage, though Ned would have called it vain. The years in the south have ruined me. It would be good to go back home, back to Winterfell where she could dress in breeches and splash in mud puddles if she wanted. She could bake batches of lemon pies and build snow-castles with her children.

"How old are you?"

She blushed as she said, "Thirty."

"A child," he said dismissively before she could point out that she'd borne seven of those. "I have more than twice as many. When your father was still a babe in swaddling cloths, I bent spear against the mountain clans. The gods will give you more wisdom when they give you more years. I have faith in you."

He had never praised her so. She had always been under the impression that he misliked her. "You do?" she asked incredulously.

"I hope my faith will not be misplaced," he said amiably. "When I am gone, it will be you ruling the kingdom. You and Robert have had your spats but when the time comes, he will look to you. No, spare me your lamentations - you will be among the first to rejoice when the reins of power pass to you, I know you well enough."

"I am not so bloodthirsty."

"It is not bloodthirsty to desire an old man's death. Valar morghulis - you have been studying Valyrian, tell me what it means, child."

"All men must die," she said quietly. She had been studying Valyrian for a year but she had heard those words before. Rhaegar had whispered them in her ear when she had wept and begged him to take her with him. Arthur had said them the day before her child was born, the day before Ned came. The day Rhaegar made me promise. The day I made Arthur promise. "Men have lived to a hundred," she said, trying to make light of the matter. "You are too good for the gods to take you away from us so soon."

"The gods take only those who are good," he said absently. He was right. "It is testimony to my sins that they have let me live so long. I would have liked to see Robert's children wed, to hold their children's children but it will not be." There was a dreadful finality about those words. She wondered why he cared more about Robert's children than his own. "And you, girl," he said sharply, "I trust you're not thinking of stealing my Hand's badge?"

"I'd rather be the power behind the throne," she said demurely.

"And who's to be the power on the throne while Robert makes merry, I wonder?" He frowned at her. "Lord Tywin, that's who. You'll see to it that Lord Tywin's made Hand - he's the only man I'd want stepping into my shoes. He is hard, yes, but he will be just and your sons will be needing his friendship. Marry the girls to his nephews, the one's who'll inherit Casterly Rock. The seat of power will not pass to the Imp nor to Cersei's whelps, I'll wager. I won't have you play the girl and cast him off because you don't like him."

"Robert might want someone else." She'd make sure that he wanted someone else.

"He'll want your brother," he said bluntly. "Ned's a good lad and I love him more than my own son, if truth be told. But he's a lad still, there's no skirting around that. He hasn't Tywin's years or his swords or his experience and what's more, his place is in the north." His eyes narrowed. "And if it's Ned you coax Robert into choosing, I'll hound you from the grave."

She laughed and his face became kinder. Gently, like a father, he touched her face. "The little corpse bride," he said. "How you've grown up. Once you'd tremble and fall to weeping when you heard Rhaegar Targaryen's name spoken. And now you have it in you to stand up to any man in the realm - me, Lord Tywin, Robert... Is he kind to you, child?"

The question caught her unawares. Was Robert kind to her? Some days he made her laugh and some nights, he made her cry. He was the father of her children but he had it in him to kill her firstborn. He listened to her and then dismissed her as nothing but a woman. She hardly knew the answer herself. "It's a woman's lot," she simply said. "He gave me a crown and that's all I ever wanted."

"Smile," he simply said. "You look sweeter when you smile. Smile and remember that bad as it, it can always get worse."

Well. That was consoling.

Jaime escorted her to her place in the stands. "You look-"

"Awful, I know," she admitted. "Everyone's been telling me. I'll wager you a groat the Tyrells are praying I'll die in childbed this time - they sent Margaery to Renly's bed but she's like to be a maid."

"You might let a man finish," he said, nonplussed. "I only meant to say that you reminded me of someone."

"Rhaella?" she asked, settling down next to Cersei.

He gave her a brief smile. "No. Aerys."

In contrast to Lyanna wearing white, Cersei was all in black. Stannis was still sulking at Dragonstone - she knew Jon had had a strange letter from him and Cersei said he was memorizing family trees and pouring through books of lineages. Today, her sunlit hair fell in a fashionable tumble to her naked white shoulders. Half the young ladies of the court, including Lyanna's elder daughter, had imitated her hairstyle - though Margaery wore her hair like Lyanna. With her crimson lips and brilliant eyes, Cersei was as beautiful as a maid of sixteen. A pity that Robert had eyes only for Renly's rose-bride.

Ser Loras was riding down the length of the lists, throwing white roses to all the maidens. For Princess Daeryssa, Lyanna's elder daughter, he had a red rose. "How sweetly she blushes," Cersei said idly. "The sister snares the father and the brother snares the daughter."

"I thought Daeryssa doted upon Robert's squire," Lyanna said, surprised. "That cousin of yours, Lancel?"

Cersei laughed. "Oh sweetling, you are far behind the times. That was last month - now all the girls are wet for Loras."

"I am a poor mother to know nothing of my daughters," Lyanna said. She studied the Knight of the Flowers. "Too girlish."

"You are a poorer judge of beauty than you are a mother," Cersei said. "I count him the third handsomest man alive, now. And if he would look beyond the men he would find my bed most warm."

"The first will be your brother," Lyanna said. "But who do you call the second?"

Cersei pointed to a tall young man, mounted on a prancing blood-mare. His hair was the same bright silver as his armour and as he rode down the lists, armour and hair flashed in the sun. For one heartstopping moment she thought it was someone she knew. "The Bastard of Driftmark," Cersei said lazily. "Aurane Waters - I see you find him as dashing as I do."

She turned her face away grimly. "He wears a Targaryen face. I find him loathsome."

Cersei had the grace to blush. "Forgive me, dear friend," she said, laying a gentle hand on Lyanna's shoulder. "I ought to have been more tactful. But the question still remains - who do you find to be the handsomest man at court?"

"Renly," she lied, knowing that the answer would please Robert if he came to know. "He looks so very like Robert." But her eyes lingered on Aurane Waters and when the Mystery Knight, clad in golden armour and bearing the white-hart shield passed by, she did not spare him a glance.

"Our Mystery Knight rides well," Cersei said dryly, as he won a bout against Ser Hugh of the Vale, Jon's last squire. "A pity that he seems so small of stature."

The Knight of the Laughing Tree... he rides so well. A pity that he seems so small of stature. "Bran," she said slowly, glancing over to where her sons sat. She could only see the backs of their heads, for they were seated below her. "Bran, come here."

The boys squirmed and wriggled in their seats and finally Joff and Gendry turned around. "I'm sorry, my lady, truly I am," Gendry said, looking abashed. He was only a few months younger than Bran and when they were dressed alike, it was hard to tell them apart. "Bran ordered me and I couldn't say a thing, he said he'd send me to the dungeons if I didn't..."

Robert stopped flirting with Margaery long enough to lean over and put an arm on her shoulder. "Don't you fuss over the boy," he hissed and she could tell he was still seething over Daenerys Targaryen. Robert had a positive mania where the Targaryens were concerned. "I let him, I'll accept responsibility for him."

She shook him off and pursed her lips. "I hope you'll accept the responsibility when they lay his corpse before you."

"Lyanna," Cersei began. "A boy must have his sport-"

"Would you say that if it was your son riding down there?" she asked fiercely and after that Cersei was silent.

She chewed her lips until they bled, but her fears proved baseless. The Mystery Knight rode against two men and yet there was naught to suggest that the defeated knights had the faintest inkling that they had lost to the crown prince. Robert did not give it away, though he beamed and ignored Margaery. Cersei applauded him and whispered that she remembered another crown prince who had rode as well.

He is my son as much as Robert's, she thought as the name of his fourth opponent was called out. So wild, so wilful. She had been a fourteen-year-old girl. He was a twelve-year-old boy. There was no difference. This time he was to ride against Brienne of Tarth and she beckoned the woman forwards before the match began.

"For pity's sake, be gentle on him," she whispered. "That's Bran."

Brienne's homely face registered alarm.

Robert overheard. "But not too gentle," he insisted. "Knock him off his horse if you have to. The boy didn't put in his name for a game - he put it in because he wanted to be tested. He's not a babe to be coddled by his mother - give it to him hard, give it to him fair, that's all I want."

Lyanna winked at Brienne. "Yes, Your Grace," Brienne said, bowing from the saddle. On two legs she stood as tall as Robert. On four legs she towered over them all. Cersei found her a delight. "I'll knock him off his horse."

And she proceeded to do just that.

"You're a fool."

Bran winced as the compresses were put on his head. "I know, Mother," he said humbly.

"I'm so proud of you."

He grinned. "I know that too. What did Father say? Was he-"

"Prouder than words can say," she said. He'd probably buy you a brothel right now, if I let him. "He wanted to come but I told him to stay, lest they all find out who the gallant Mystery Knight was." She stroked his cheek. "And the melee begins soon, in any case. He'll be riding there."

Bran curled up closer to her. Clearly he was too tired to even beg to see the melee. "I don't like warhammers," he mumbled. "I like swords just like you and Uncle Brandon used to, though I pretend I like warhammers because it pleases Father. And I'm sorry about what I said about the north."

Now if only you said you were sorry about loving your Uncle Renly more than you do your Uncle Ned and your Uncle Ben I'd be perfectly content. "It's all forgiven, love."

"Mother." His voice was hesitant. "Will you always forgive me?"

"What did you-"

"Nothing!" he protested. "I didn't do anything - well, not much really, but still even if I do. Something really bad I mean, like-like say, killing someone. Not in a war or anything but just if I lost my temper and-"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she said amiably. "I doubt you'll be going around killing people anytime soon." He had a temper, true, he'd once whipped Gendry but there... it was only a boy's high spirits. He was her blood, Robert's blood - she could not believe that he would do such a thing.

They sat in the darkened tent together and presently he fell asleep, his head on her lap. Just like old times. The world span too fast but at times like this, she could pretend that it stayed still. She could pretend that she was a girl back at Winterfell, before Rhaegar, before Robert, and it was her little brother, not her son, who slept with his head in her lap. She could pretend that the baby she carried she was the first one, the one she'd given away.

The world does not spin so fast at all, she thought, falling into a reverie in which no promises, nor remembrances figured. And outside the walls of the tent, Robert cut through a swathe of men as he laughed and Thoros lit his twin blades. Cersei blew kisses to her brother and Daeryssa's favour was wrapped around Ser Loras' arm. And the red woman, whom no one knew, watched it all and a strange smile twisted her face while the prince slept like a babe, on his mother's lap.