Rhaegar has been squiring under Jon Connington for three weeks when the news of the attempted assassination reaches him.
He finds the entire situation odd for a... Number of reasons.
The first being that Ostara Baratheon is neither the Heir of Storm's End nor is she betrothed to anyone of importance. Assassinating her would do nothing but anger Steffon Baratheon, but even then it wouldn't create a fight or animosity of any kind, not when there's no way to track the assassin, and if starting a fight between Noble Houses was the entire point then something would have been left behind by the assassin.
But neither the Baratheon party nor the Lord of Casterly Rock had been able to find anything linking the dead assassin to a Great House.
Rhaegar runs the brush in his hand over Jon Connington's destrier and purses his lips.
He doesn't remember much of Ostara Baratheon.
She'd been four years old the first time Rhaegar had ever seen her and their only true meeting had been when she and her family had come before the royal court to congratulate him on his Name's Day.
But he remembers Robert speaking of her.
A strange girl.
Isn't that what the boy had said? A strange girl with a strange love for ancient texts and distant eyes.
Rhaegar hadn't thought much of it at first, too preoccupied with whatever he'd been doing at the time to actually pay attention to his cousin's words, now Rhaegar wishes he had.
He supposes none of that matters now.
The assassin is dead, his head crushed to nothing more than bone fragments and mush, and the Baratheon's are aware of the threat.
And the Baratheon's are not one to take threats lightly.
~X~
"You're distracted." Jon Connington remarks.
Rhaegar looks up from the armor he's been polishing.
Jon Connington stares at him through pale blue eyes, one fiery brow raised in question. There is no laughter in his face, no joy. If Rhaegar didn't know any better he would say that the Knight he is squiring under is discontent with his life.
But Jon Connington is far from discontent, of this, Rhaegar is sure.
"No, My Lord." Rhaegar lies.
"You've been polishing the same spot of armor for the past three minutes." Jon remarks.
Rhaegar doesn't glance down but he does move the cloth a little to the left.
"Want to tell me why you're so distracted?" The fiery haired man asks.
And the silver prince supposes he could tell Jon Connington. He's trustworthy enough and his mother wouldn't have allowed his father to let Rhaegar squire with the man if he wasn't loyal to the Targaryens.
But how willing is he to keep Rhaegar's secrets?
Most wouldn't keep them even with the threat of treason attempting to stay their tongues.
Rhaegar stares at the man a bit longer and decides that a few questions wouldn't hurt.
"What do you know of Ostara Baratheon?" He asks.
"You've heard about the attempt on her life then." Jon remarks, eyes burning.
"Yes, I suspect the whole of the Seven has."
"I've only met her a handful of times over the years. She's a good girl."
"Is she strange?"
Jon Connington leans back and glances away from Rhaegar for a long moment before turning to meet the silver haired prince's gaze. Something burns in Jon Connington's eyes. It's almost... Protective.
"Listen to me, boy." Jon's voice is little more than a growl. "Don't you go listening to rumors like that."
"But is it true?" Rhaegar demands, pointedly ignoring the fact that what the man just did would be considered treason in his father's eyes.
Jon sighs, runs a hand over his face, and shakes his head.
"In a sense."
"What does that mean? I don't understand how oddities could warrant an excuse on her life." Rhaegar retorts, a bit angry because she's six fucking years old.
A child.
No one should even consider harming a child, whether the child is of noble birth or not is of no consequence, Rhaegar doens't think it's right.
"She has Targaryen eyes."
Oh.
Oh.
That makes... Sense. In a sick, demented, twisted sort of way.
The Blackfyres had been crushed, their house destroyed, but not all of their sympathizers had been caught and dealt with. Some could very well be living within the Seven Kingdoms waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike a blow at the Targaryens and those who support them.
And what better way to do both than to assassinate a Baratheon child with Targaryen eyes?
It would certainly enrage his father.
His father, who believes the blood must be pure, would not hesitate to crush those who would seek to harm a Targaryen.
Ostara Baratheon might not be a true Targaryen but her grandmother was. Even if the girl didn't have the coloring commonly found among the Targaryens Rhaegars father would still find the child's assassination as an attack on the family.
"Get back to work boy." Jon commands, blue eyes bright.
And as Rhaegar turns his attention back to the armor he'd been polishing the young prince wonders if Jon Connington isn't telling him the entire truth. The man's silence is admirable. His loyalty commendable. But he is hiding something from Rhaegar.
Something that has to do with Ostara Baratheon.
~X~
Ostara glares at her lap. Her wand is tucked beneath her skirt but it wouldn't do her much good. Even the ward she'd put on the wheel house wouldn't be enough to keep him out. But then... Her wards are a bit weak. She's been focusing her attention more on the magic this world has to offer than the magic Hermione Granger had exceeded at using.
Which had been a stupid mistake on Ostara's part.
One she won't be repeating anytime soon.
When the Baratheon party had left Casterly Rock they'd done so as politely as possible. Claiming that the attempt on Ostara's life had prompted Steffon to command his wife an daughter return to Storm's End until they could be sure Ostara was no longer in danger. Tytos hadn't been offended by their quick departure. In fact, he'd seemed rather relieved.
Ostara doesn't blame him though.
She'd be a little nervous too is she were him.
"Ostara, sweet girl, it wasn't you're fault." Her mother says very suddenly, reaching out to pull Ostara against her side.
"I know."
The lie is easy.
If she hadn't been such an idiot none of this wouldn't happen.
Wards are so easy to cast. It wouldn't have taken long for Ostara to walk the length of the room given to her at Casterly Rock and yet she'd been so preoccupied with her book that she'd put her life at unnecessary risk. But who could have know someone would try to take her life?
That's another thing that has been bothering Ostara.
Who had wanted her dead?
Why?
"I'm glad Rubeus was there." Her mother whispers against her hair causing the younger girl to startle.
Me too.
"Are you alright mama?" Ostara asks, twisting her head so that she can look at her mother properly.
Cassana Baratheon is crying. Cheeks wet with her tears, bottom lip quivering, eyes burning.
"Yes, sweet girl. I'm alright."
Ostara reaches out without thinking. She reaches out and wraps her thin arms around her mother's waist, dropping her head to tuck it under Cassana's chin. They sit like that for several minutes. Cassana's crying stops after a time but she refuses to let Ostara go, instead opting to stroke her daughter's hair and press chaste kisses to the crown of her head.
~X~
"Are you feeling alright, Ostara?" Her father asks the moment she's out of the wheelhouse.
He kneels down before her, blue eyes searching for a sign of any wounds she might have acquired during the attempt on her life. It's not like he'll find anything though. The bruises she'd received upon rolling out of bed and hitting the stone floor healed weeks ago. But Ostara lets her father fret and when he's satisfied she steps back.
"Yes, papa, I'm well."
Steffon nods, wild curls bouncing around his head.
Ostara looks at him for a long moment.
She doesn't think he's been sleeping well. His skin is ashen and there are ugly smears of purple beneath his eyes.
For a moment guilt rears its ugly head but it's gone in seconds.
No, Ostara tells herself, this is not my fault.
Her father could have easily taken naps or eaten a proper meal. She is not the reason he looks haggard and unkempt. Over and over she tells herself this and slowly the guilt fades away into nothingness.
It isn't her fault.
Not this.
"Off you go then. It's late."
"Yes, papa."
Steffon leans down to press his lips against Ostara's temple before moving to go to Cassana.
Ostara leaves before either of her parents can start discussing details of the assassination attempt in person.
~X~
Weaving spells into the stones of Storm's End isn't hard. Ostara merely has to reach down into Heriome Granger's memories and pluck what she needs from her own head. Then she sits in the corner of her room and goes about layering rune upon rune against the stones of Storm's End.
And she can feel it working.
Feel the heady pulse of her magic seeping into the very foundation of her ancestral home. Mixing and joining with the ancient spells that have already been woven into the stones. It's not Ostara's magic, it's different, but it's strong and it had been cast with the intent to protect those of Baratheon blood... Ostara's spells don't dismantle the ones already there.
If anything Ostara's spells just add to what's already there.
But she's not finished yet.
And with a trembling hand Ostara grabs the knife she'd transfigured out of a feather she'd pulled from her pillow.
It glints in the glow of the lights floating above Ostara's head.
With deep breath Ostara presses the blade against the pad of her thump until blood wells up around the blade. Red and thick and shiny. Ostara doesn't give herself time to think about the pain that flares in her hand as she drags her bleeding finger across the rough stones where she's been laying her runes.
She whispers things in a language that her memories tell her is Latin. Ancient wards that ensure no enemy of the Baratheon house will step foot in Storm's End.
It's the best she can do at the moment.
Tomorrow she'll go through the book He left her and see if there's anything else she can do.
~X~
"Was she hurt?" Steffon whispers into the darkness of his bedchambers.
Cassana stiffens beside him.
"No," she replies. "The Maester found no sign of injury."
Good.
"I suppose I owe that bloody cat of hers then." Steffon mutters dryly, his attempt at humor earning him a brittle laugh.
"It's a beast, Steffon." Cassana remarks bitterly, "It isn't a human. It isn't civilized. It protected Ostara because Ostara is it's master. If that beast knows loyalty he only knows it for Ostara."
You're right. Steffon wants to say.
Instead he pulls Cassana closer and closes his eyes so that sleep might take him quickly.
And that night Steffon Baratheon dreams of a world covered in ice, men made of bone and rotting flesh rising from beneath the ground, and a woman with wild purple eyes starring at him from across a battlefield of fire. And the urge to run to her is strong. Because she might be older, her face might be colder, her eyes wilder, but this is Ostara. This warrior woman with a weapon of some sort held in her hand and a Shadowcat at her side is his daughter.
Ostara, who loves books and big words and ancient legends.
Ostara... Who's eyes have always been so very old, so filled with sorrow.
Steffon finds that it's impossible to be surprised that this is what Ostara is. A warrior, a soldier, a woman leading an army of shadowed monsters that breathe embers and smoke at the night sky.
A dream.
It is nothing more than a dream.
This is her destiny, a voice whispers in his ear.
The thunder of dead feet hitting the ground and the rumble of all consuming fire dying as icy breath ghosts over Steffon's ear.
He cannot turn.
He cannot move.
And then there are fingers pressing against his temple, a searing ice-cold pain seeping into his brain. It is an agony Steffon has never before felt. Inescapable and cruel. For a moment Steffon wonders if he is dying. Wonders if he is twisting into something other than what he is.
But the pain fades and the Lord of Storm's End is left in a darkness that shifts and shivers around him.
~X~
Steffon wakes panting, sweating, expecting to find himself... Somewhere.
He isn't sure where he expects himself to be but he thinks it might have something to do with whatever dreams plagued him in the night. They're forgotten now, only the feeling icy breath on his skin and a panic in his heart remaining.
No matter how much Steffon tries to remember his dream, for surely it must have been important for him to feel like this, he cannot recall anything more than terror.
So the Lord of Storm's End sighs and allows his eyes to wander.
The sun has yet to rise but it's light enough out that Steffon thinks there's merely an hour before the sun rises above the horizon.
Something in the corner of the room catches his eye.
His sword, Steffon realizes when he turns his head to look at the weapon leaning against the wall across from him, is not where he left it the night before but he cannot bring himself to care about that at the moment. He's too busy studying the blade. Minutes pass in the time Steffon takes watching his weapon and in those minutes a ghost of a thought flutters through his mind.
Ostara should learn to wield a blade.
For her own safety.
If she were to know the basics of sword play, at the very least, then perhaps another attempt on her life will not be so easily made.
Yes, Steffon thinks, it is better she know.
He is unaware of the shadowed figure standing at his beside.
Unaware of the smile that stretches the hooded being's mouth.