Chapter Ten: The Dragon Prince

A/N: Game of Thrones on Sunday! SO EXCITED! In honour of such an event, I worked hard to complete this chapter for you guys - and although brief, the end hails the introduction of Aegon Targaryen...finally! Hope you enjoy!

Robb had wanted to skewer Theon where he stood, but he had long since learned that a King could not do anything he wanted. Lyandra remained in her tent, as silent as the statue of her namesake, and she hurled things at anyone who entered, sobbing and raging. Robb was disturbed at how changed his sister was, but also suspected that it was due to her experiences in King's Landing as well as Theon's attempt to force himself on her.

Catelyn had been irate. It was her hand that had caused the bruise across Theon's cheek, along with other battering he had sustained from Lyandra's struggles. She had insisted that Robb banish Theon for such an abhorrent act, but Robb had a better idea. He sent Theon to the Iron Islands to form an alliance with his father, Balon Greyjoy. It killed two birds with the one stone, for it got rid of Theon – much as Robb dearly wished to teach him a lesson before his departure – and would perhaps also result in more allies.

There had been another departure: Sansa returning to Winterfell. Lyandra had absolutely refused to leave her mother and brother, and due to her traumatised state, Catelyn had agreed to let her oldest daughter stay for the time being. Robb had attempted to talk to his little sister, but whenever he entered her tent and sat down beside her, she would curl her knees to her chest and hold herself tight, staring at the ground as if she could burn a hole through it. After Sansa had left, Lyandra had become even more solemn – and so Robb had come to a decision.

"Do you really think this will work?" Samaria asked doubtfully, biting down on her lip and glancing at Lyandra's tent as they reached it. The two girls were mere acquaintances, but that was why Robb believed his idea would work. If Lyandra could just talk to someone it would be beneficial for her wellbeing.

Robb inspected his wife with a critical eye. They had been married a few months now, but there was no sign that she was carrying his child despite the fact that they had been quite sexually active. She flushed endearingly under his gaze, raking a strand of hair behind her ear and tilting her head to the side in silent question.

"I think we should try," Robb sighed heavily. "I owe it to my sister to try and make things better. I should have been more careful, I should…"

"Robb." Samaria caught his hands in hers and kissed him lightly on the lips. "No one could have predicted Theon's actions."

He couldn't help but smile. Once upon a time, when he had promised to marry a Frey girl, he never thought that she would make him smile, or that he could perhaps love her. But Samaria had proved him wrong on many an occasion. She released his hands and cautiously stepped into Lyandra's tent, inspecting the dark-haired girl carefully.

"Lyandra? It's Samaria."

"I know who you are." The words were hoarse and Samaria knew she had started off on the wrong foot. Lyandra looked across at the older girl. "I'm not stupid, you know."

Samaria gnawed at her lip worriedly. "I only came to see how you were doing."

Lyandra pointedly ignored her. Normally Samaria would have thought this rude, however considering Lyandra's circumstances – the marks on her back, Theon's attempt to get between her legs – Samaria could excuse her behaviour. She sat beside Lyandra, making no attempt to put an arm around her. Physical contact from both Robb and Catelyn had been received negatively by Lyandra.

"I miss my father," the dark-haired girl whispered, "I miss him more than ever."

Samaria could not honestly say the same. Her father was old enough to be her great-grandfather, and he had never really paid her any close attention until the prospect of marriage to Robb Stark came about. She offered Lyandra a grim silence.

"Your father was a kind and honourable man. I suppose…in some way…I wish I could have had a father like that."

"Truly?" Lyandra glanced at Samaria. The sullen light had faded from her eyes and instead surprise had taken a hold of her features. Samaria reached out and hesitantly took Lyandra's hand in her own. The younger girl did not pull away and a genuine smile crossed Samaria's lips as she acknowledged Robb had been right after all.

"Truly."

"How does my brother treat you?" Lyandra asked suddenly, turning the topic of conversation back to Samaria. However, she did not mind so much – at least Lyandra was beginning to come out of her shell.

"Robb is a very kind man. I am lucky to have him."

"I suppose I just need to find a nice man of my own," Lyandra murmured, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. However, considering how things had changed in Westeros, she somehow doubted she would ever marry for love.

"I will not do it." The glare Lyandra shot Robb across the dinner table could almost have frozen their wine solid it was so icy. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Of course, Robb's suggestion made sense. He had sent Theon to the Iron Islands in order to forge a tentative alliance with the Greyjoys. He had married Samaria to secure an alliance with the Freys. Now it was Lyandra's turn to play a part in the quest for more allies.

"Don't be immature," Robb frowned at her. This was not Robb Stark, benevolent older brother, but rather the King in the North and the Lord of Winterfell. He would show Lyandra no clemency, for she was not just sister, but another subject who was expected to obey his commands. "Quentyn Martell is hardly an old man. He is said to be quiet and studious. Who knows? Perhaps he might be able to tame you, little wolf."

"Don't mock me," Lyandra snarled, clutching the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. Frost, sensing her anger, immediately stiffened and growled. "He is a few years older than you, by the accounts. I have also heard that he is not handsome."

Robb could have rolled his eyes. He could have, but he didn't.

"You are being very shallow, Lyandra. Joffrey is widely considered to be handsome, and look what a monster he is. Quentyn will serve as a good husband. Can I at least expect you to engage in a reasonable, diplomatic conversation with Doran Martell?"

At first, Lyandra had questioned her right to speak in Dorne at all. However, Robb had ascertained that in Dorne, women held equal rank to men, and Lyandra speaking up for herself would greatly impress Doran, giving him more of a chance of agreeing to betroth her to his oldest son, Quentyn. According to rumours, while the Martells professed loyalty to the throne, they still stung over the death of their beloved Elia. The wound was only festering over time, and it wouldn't be long before the Martells agreed to go against the Lannisters.

"We must all do our duty," Robb continued, picking up his goblet and swilling his wine. Samaria glanced between them – the teenage King and his fuming younger sister. "Your duty is to marry not for love, but for convenience. Don't be a child about it. You may not love Quentyn at first, but that doesn't mean you cannot learn to."

"Excuse me." Lyandra's voice was curt as she pushed herself to her feet. "I find that I no longer have much of an appetite."

Robb sighed heavily as his younger sister stalked from the tent. Samaria placed a hand atop his, and he couldn't help but relax. His wife had a way of being able to calm his frustrations with a simple, gentle touch. He leaned across and kissed her cheek. Samaria herself was proof of a marriage for duty that had become a thing of love. He did care for her, he knew that now, even if he hadn't realised it before.

"I must send her in the morning," Robb said heavily.

Samaria tapped her fingers lightly against the back of his hand. "Can it not wait?"

"Unfortunately not," Robb admitted, raking a hand through his dark curls. "I fear that the longer we procrastinate, the more time we are giving our enemies to snatch up potential allies. It is a long ride to Sunspear, and Lyandra will need to leave as soon as possible."

Samaria was still a little uncertain. Although Lyandra appeared to have recovered quite well from the incident with Theon, she was still mourning the death of her father, and the scars on her back were a testament to the time she had spent in King's Landing. In truth, Samaria thought that Lyandra had become a very lonely girl indeed. She pitied her, but she would not dare say so, for Lyandra would never accept her sympathies.

"She won't be angry at you forever," Samaria assured him, realising why Robb was so concerned about the whole issue. "Once she sees how well she can get along with Quentyn, she will be thankful."

"I hope so," Robb said, swallowing the lump in his throat. It felt like his entire family was falling apart, and he was powerless to stop it.

Lyandra raked her windswept hair out of her face as they settled down to camp for the night. It had only been a few days since she had left her brother's camp. She had farewelled Catelyn whole-heartedly, being on the verge of tears, but Robb had received a rather frosty goodbye. She was his little sister, yet he would sell her out for the sake of this war her stubbornly insisted on fighting.

"My lady, are you well?" Ser Donnel Locke, leader of the party Robb had sent with Lyandra, looked up the dark-haired girl with concern. She had been very quiet since their departure, and he could not tell if she was seething or grieving. When he looked at her, he could only see resigned acceptance framed by dark hair. She was growing now, filling into her body almost apologetically.

"You needn't concern yourself with me, Ser Donnel." Lyandra dismounted her horse and smiled as Frost bounded towards her. Robb had contemplated having the direwolf remain at the camp, but Lyandra had put her foot down, insisting Frost accompany her south. If Lyandra could not accept her direwolf, then he could not accept her. The girl raked her dark eyes out of eyes again as the capricious winds blew it across her faces. She watched the party beginning to set up tents. "How long until we reach Dorne?"

Ser Donnel scowled at the mention of the journey's length. "Still another week or so at the least, my lady. I would be more like to say close to two or three. We ride fast, without wheelhouses to delay us, but nonetheless, Sunspear is not close to us."

Lyandra exhaled deeply. It was going to be a long and lonely journey, with only Frost as her trusted companion. She knew the men Robb had sent with her, but they were mere acquaintances. Even when she reached Sunspear, and her possible betrothed, they would all be strangers to her. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing that even Samaria could be present, just to tell her stories of her adventures in Winterfell, knowing that the older girl would listen intently and laugh in the right parts.

A sudden shout made Lyandra spin around and caused Ser Donnel to draw his sword. There seemed to be a brawl going on across the other side of their small camp. Ser Donnel sighed and rolled his eyes, sensing that perhaps this was a drunken scuffle. However, when he saw the man with thinning red hair carrying a head, he immediately stiffened, knowing that something was horribly wrong. This man was not one of theirs. He turned to face Lyandra, eyes urgent.

"My lady, go back to your tent and wait until I come and fetch you. Go!"

Lyandra, suddenly frightened, hastened to obey Ser Donnel's firm command. She swept closed the folds of her tent and summoned Frost to her, fisting her hands in the direwolf's thick warm fur and holding her close. If she listened carefully, she could hear talking – although she didn't quite know what was being said. Frost growled and Lyandra stroked her, silently willing her to remain quiet. Whoever these people were who had arrived so suddenly – with the head of one of the scouts, no doubt – perhaps they would think this was just an expedition Robb Stark had sent south. They didn't even need to know that she existed.

The tent flap opened and Lyandra looked up sharply, expecting to see Ser Donnel striding in to tell her that everything was alright, that the other party had departed. Instead it was a young man who entered, perhaps a year or two older than Robb. He sauntered towards her with the grace of one who has been born into nobility. He was very handsome, with silver hair and…violet eyes? Lyandra's heart started to beat faster, remembering the lessons she'd fidgeted through as a child. The Targaryens were dead, all of them. This man – no, boy – had to be a Blackfyre.

"They call you a noblewoman?" The boy sounded dryly amused. "I see a scared little girl with a wolf to protect her."

Frost snapped her teeth, and Lyandra pushed herself to her feet, glaring. Already she disliked this boy. Already he seemed to think he was better than her. She drew herself up to full height, along the young man before her was tall and muscular, and easily towered over her.

"I am no little girl. I am Lyandra Stark, sister to Robb Stark, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell. Who do you think you are to disrespect me so?"

The young man's violet eyes glittered. "I am Aegon Targaryen, one of the last of the great dynasty who once held the Iron throne. I will take back what is mine not because the throne is my right, but because it my responsibility. And now that I have you in my keeping, Lady Stark, I think that goal will be all the more achievable."