Hello again, sorry for the long wait, but I'm finally back, with the longest chapter so far (and a very much non-canon idea that I included in ASOIAF mythology which I'm really nervous about whether you folks will like it). Thank you for your patience and for the support you've been giving this story and I'm sorry for any grammar or spelling mistake.

"A messenger from the castle, my-Your Grace."

Nobody paid any attention to the guard's almost-slip, not even the king who was supposed to be offended. It wasn't an uncommon error these days. The king's death, the new king's quite rushed coronation, the march to Duskendale, the upcoming siege – the events that were shaking the Seven Kingdoms (the Crownlands more than the rest) had come so quickly one after another that there was little time to adapt to the new circumstances. Luckily for everyone involved, Rhaegar wasn't a man who cut off men's tongues for confusing his former title with a very recent one. Jon doubted he himself had got used to the fact that was now King.

He drained the goblet of wine a servant boy had only just brought him and took his place at the table on Arthur Dayne's left. Both of them had barely left Rhaegar's side since they had ridden out of King's Landing; one of them stood guard every night in front of the crimson tent that served as the headquarters and Rhaegar's temporary sleeping quarters. Jon didn't mind it; he breathed more easily knowing Rhaegar was safe and watched over by his friends, men that could be trusted. Arthur was the only member of the Kingsguard chosen to accompany Rhaegar on this journey; the remaining five Kingsguard had been left behind in King's Landing with the task of watching over Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys. The knight was seated on Rhaegar's left, while the place on the prince's – the king's – right was reserved for Tywin Lannister. As he glared at the empty seat, Jon wished Rhaegar would send the Hand (and the rest of his father's Small Council) away and install men of unquestionable loyalty in their place. Those people were loyal only to themselves and their greed, be it for gold or power – with the exception of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard maybe. Rhaegar should surround himself with people he could trust they wouldn't stab him in the back at first opportunity. Jon, for example, would serve his friend honourably and faithfully until the end of his days, with no ulterior motive.

(Alright, maybe one ulterior motive – hopeless as it was.)

He allowed himself one long gaze at his friend, inconspicuous among all the expecting gazes that were directed at Rhaegar. The sight made him swallow hard; Rhaegar's handsome features looked too much like those of his dead father at the day of the pyre. In the light of torches and the shadows that shimmered opposite to the dance of the flames, his skin was as pale as his hair and the skin under his eyes was darker than his irises. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he never complained about lack of sleep, as though he was actually running from it.

"Send him in." When he spoke, he sounded as weary as he looked. "And send word to Lord Lannister."

The guard nodded and left the tent. In a few moments, a black-haired man wearing Darklyn colours stepped inside and bowed respectfully at the king. The fake display of loyalty and humbleness made Jon's blood boil; he bit his lip to prevent himself from snorting resentfully. If Lord Darklyn and the men who served him were so loyal to Rhaegar, why hadn't the gates of Duskendale been opened yet?

"Your Grace." The man straightened up and pulled a piece of parchment from his coat. "I bring word from my master."

Without a word, Rhaegar gestured to a servant to take the parchment from the man's hands and bring it over to him. Everyone watched in silence as the letter passed from one pair of hands to another. Rhaegar's eyes skimmed through the words swiftly, almost greedily, as though a great secret was hidden in them.

Jon hoped his friend's eagerness was motivated only by his desire resolve this matter as soon as possible, rather than concern for the Hand's daughter. The girl was just a nuisance who had managed to land herself into a trap and now had to be rescued. Rhaegar should be gathering allies and ruling the Seven Kingdoms at the moment, not wasting his time on saving her. It was only the power her father held and the wealth of her House that made her important. Jon had never seen Rhaegar show the slightest bit of attention or even speak to her during the months she had spent in King's Landing; he didn't seem interested in her in any way. The thought made Jon smirk to himself proudly; it took more than a pretty young face to fool his friend.

"Your master says nothing about Lady Lannister's welfare." Rhaegar said, dropping the letter onto the table almost leisurely, as if it was of no importance.

Then he raised his head and locked eyes with the messenger again. The exhaustion was gone from his features, as though it had melted into his skin, adding another layer of pale marble to the already perfectly sculptured cheekbones. The man shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other under the weight of his gaze, as if just a mere glance burned him.

Rhaegar didn't take his eyes off him for a single moment.

"Is she in good health?" His tone danced on the thin line between a question and demand.

The man shrugged his shoulders.

"She was in good health when I left, Your Grace."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he didn't like the implication the answer held. However, before he could speak again, the Hand walked into the tent.

"Your Grace." Tywin Lannister bowed his head briefly and straightened up even as Rhaegar nodded in acknowledgement of his presence.

He proceeded to seat himself on Rhaegar's right and instantly took the parchment into his hands. After a few moments of silence, he put down the letter and shoved it with more force than necessary across the table towards Arthur.

Jon refused to fear Tywin Lannister, but he couldn't deny that the cold gaze the Hand shot the messenger sent shivers down his spine. If looks were weapons, Tywin Lannister's gaze was Dawn, or Blackfyre – or both. In any case, it made the messenger visibly swallow hard and the rest of the people in the room squirm uneasily. Only Rhaegar didn't seem to be affected, but because of where he was sitting, he couldn't see the murderous glint in the emerald eyes of the Warden of the West.

"You can tell your master that the only terms acceptable to us are that he surrenders peacefully and returns my daughter unharmed." The Hand spoke out of turn, but nobody, not even Rhaegar, called him out on it. "If he complies, we might reconsider his fate."

Lord Lannister hadn't uttered a single word of actual threat, yet Jon could feel it hang forebodingly over them. The messenger nodded quickly, to confirm he had understood the message he was to carry back to his master as much as out of desire to avoid the Hand's glare. He seemed ready to turn on his heel and run back to Duskendale without waiting for Rhaegar's permission; it was his luck Rhaegar wasn't inclined to prolong his suffering.

"If your master surrenders peacefully, he has my word that he will be treated with mercy." The king said solemnly, unaware that his Hand's expression froze at his words. Jon could tell Tywin Lannister had no intention of being merciful, whatever the outcome. "He is surrounded and outnumbered. He would be wise to accept our terms."

The black-haired man nodded once more, keeping his eyes fixed on the silver-haired man. He already began to bow when Rhaegar said: "He has until sundown tomorrow."

After a moment of silence, the man in Darklyn colours nodded with his back bent and then left the tent on much shakier legs than he had entered. The moment he was gone out of their sight, Tywin Lannister stood up and turned to Rhaegar.

"Your Grace." His expression was unreadable as he bowed his head.

Jon couldn't guess what was on his mind and the suspense unnerved him. Everyone knew the stories (and Rains) of Castamere and the ruthlessness of Tywin Lannister. If Denys Darklyn surrendered, would Lord Lannister go behind Rhaegar's back and exact his own vengeance on the man who had taken his daughter captive? He seemed to hold his emotions firmly under control, even a little too firmly; it wasn't hard to imagine he was planning his retribution at that very moment.

Rhaegar waved his hand absently, providing the lord with the dismissal he was asking for. A few moments later, the three younger men were left in silence.

Never the one to keep his thoughts to himself, Jon spoke first.

"It certainly seemed Lord Lannister didn't need us to negotiate." He said ironically, causing Rhaegar and Arthur to raise their heads to meet his eyes. "I don't see why he would need our help to get his daughter back."

The fire that had been burning in Rhargar eyes while they had been talking to the messenger had already been on the brink of dying out when Jon's remark made it burn out, leaving ashes in its wake. The king sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose; he had managed to hide his weariness from their guest and the Hand, but it was clear he had reached his limits.

"We have talked about this, Jon." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "My presence here has nothing to do with Lord Lannister. Lord Darklyn has neglected to pay his debt to the Crown. If I don't deal with this quickly and efficiently, people will think I'm weak. I can't have that."

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation, any way one looked at it. However, Jon couldn't help thinking there was more to Rhaegar's motives than proving he was worthy of the crown.

"We could attack the town." He gestured to the entrance to the tent and beyond, where the darkness concealed the walls of Duskendale. "As you have said, they are surrounded and outnumbered. We could defeat them in a few days, instead of waiting for months for them to starve. You can't afford to lose so much time because of some silly girl."

A shadow passed through Rhaegar's violet eyes, making Jon reflexively bite the inside of his cheek. In all the years they had known each other, Rhaegar had never looked at him like that, so…warningly.

"Cersei Lannister is not 'some silly girl', as you have put it." His voice was cold, an emotion very similar to anger dangling in it. "I won't risk any harm coming to her."

The king's words felt like a hit to the chest, knocking the breath out of Jon's lungs. To say he was taken aback was an understatement. Why should they care about a stupid little girl? How could it be in her power to cause a rift between him and his friend?

"Since when is she so important to you?" He had forgotten himself in his shock, dared question his king. "She is just…"

"She is important." Rhaegar interrupted him sternly. He got up to his feet and leaned his hands on the table in front of him, his gaze burning into Jon's. "That is all you need to know."

Jon's mouth hung open as his skin filled with gooseflesh and his heart began to race. He was too stunned to even speak; on the other hand, he was too inclined to say something that would turn Rhaegar even further away from him.

This was a side to Rhaegar he had never witnessed before. Never had anyone been important to Rhaegar before, not enough for their importance to be put into words.

For some reason, Cersei Lannister was. A weak, pathetic little girl.

In that moment – since that moment – Jon hated her.

"I don't want to argue with you, Jon." Rhaegar's features softened slightly, but the dismissal in his voice was still loud and clear. "Go get some rest."

Then and there, Jon's self-control was put to the ultimate test. He wanted to argue, to make Rhaegar see reason, to save him from his own foolishness. The girl wasn't worthy of his attention, his care. What had she done to earn it? Nothing. She had not clashed blades with him in the training yard, over and over again. She had not laughed with him. She had not made him laugh. She had not stood by his side at his father's pyre. She had not stood by his side half of his life.

"Jon."

It wasn't even Rhaegar who had called his name in that tactful tone. Arthur's eyes, almost the same shade of violet as Rhaegar's, urged him to keep his peace. If he didn't know Arthur as well as he did, Jon might have hoped that beyond the cautioning expression the knight was actually on his side. However, he knew perfectly well Arthur wasn't warning him for his sake, but for Rhaegar's. If Jon insisted on objecting, he might even defend the prince's – the king's – argument for him, allowing Rhaegar to surrender to the flow of his thoughts – thoughts of her.

Frustrated with the blindness of his friends, but not wanting to say anything he would later come to regret, Jon bit his lip and forced his neck to bend stiffly in Rhaegar's direction. He left the tent in silence, with his teeth and fists clenched. Instead of heading for the nearest fire, where a group of soldiers was eating and laughing, he walked behind Rhaegar's tent, into shadows. In his fuming state, he was in no mood for company.

"Thank you for intervening. I really don't have the strength to argue with him as well." Rhaegar's voice startled Jon.

He was standing at the back side of the king's tent, close enough that he could hear his friends, who had withdrawn deeper into the tent so they could speak in private.

His conscience urged him to leave. He shouldn't eavesdrop on them.

His curiosity wouldn't hear of it.

"As far as everyone is concerned, you have no interest in Lady Lannister." Arthur pointed out calmly. "Your determination to see her freed confuses him. And everyone else. Jon is just the only one blunt enough to ask."

A short pause.

"You never asked me why she was so important that I would risk being caught practicing swordplay with her in the dead of night."

Rhaegar's words caused Jon's eyes to widen in bafflement – and indignation. The Lannister girl was so important that Rhaegar had risked bringing his father's wrath upon himself just to spend time with her? And he hadn't even thought of entrusting Jon with the secret?

"I trust your judgement, Your Grace." Arthur said simply. Jon couldn't see the man or even his silhouette through the thick fabric, but it wasn't hard to imagine a shrug of shoulders accompanying his words.

His nails ran into his palms, but in his exasperation he barely even noticed the pain. Why couldn't Arthur see the truth? If Rhaegar was smitten with the girl, his behaviour, albeit beneath him, could be excused. But why didn't Arthur warn him of how foolish his fondness of her was? He should kill this fancy in its roots, not encourage it.

"You always have." The gratefulness and genuine affection in Rhaegar's voice struck another painful chord. Jon took a deep breath, pushing the bitterness away. "Why do you trust me so implicitly, Arthur? I have wondered."

There wasn't even a moment of silence, of hesitation.

"I have known you as a prince, but also as a friend. I have yet to see you fail me in either role. Why shouldn't I trust you?"

Another pause. A long one. Jon's lungs started to burn with the lack of air.

"You never fear I might disappoint you?"

Rhaegar sounded so unlike himself, so vulnerable. Jon's heart ached for his friend, diminishing the anger and bitterness he felt. He wished he could reassure him, tell him he had faith he had in him too.

"If I may be so bold, Your Grace," Arthur said solemnly, "I hope you will allow me to be honest with you before you make any choice that might disappoint me."

Again, silence lingered and lingered, for so long Jon thought all the words had been said.

"If I chose Lady Lannister as my queen, would that disappoint you?" Rhaegar's voice came from a greater distance than before; the matter was obviously preventing the king from sitting still.

Unlike his friend, Jon was petrified. He held his breath and didn't let it out until Arthur spoke again. Rhaegar couldn't be seriously considering this, could he?

"She is rich and from a powerful family." One could hear in Arthur's tone that he was choosing his words carefully. "Everyone thought your betrothal would be announced during our visit to Casterly Rock last year."

Rhaegar didn't reply. Jon pricked his ears, but all he could hear was the laughter of the men by the fire.

"Until the feast on our last day there, you didn't seem interested in her, or the prospect of marrying her."

"I learned something about her that evening that changed everything – then." For some reason, Rhaegar stressed out the last word. "Now, I'm not sure that even matters. But between now and then, I…" The king's hesitation wrapped around Jon's throat and cut off breath from his lungs. "I've grown fond of her."

Jon couldn't – refused to – believe his own ears. How? When? Why?

Arthur's voice snapped him out of the trance and the pain in his chest grew even stronger.

"It seems as though the choice has already been made."

"It has not." Rhaegar said after a few moments, but his voice lacked the conviction it usually possessed. "I have only…considered it."

"I would advise you not to rush." Finally, Jon thought in relief, Arthur was speaking sense. "There are many young maidens in the Seven Kingdoms who would make a fine match. You don't have to make this decision right away. And it is certainly not a decision to be made lightly."

"I am aware of that." The king said solemnly. "It is why I have asked your opinion."

"I am honoured that Your Grace values my opinion." Arthur, Jon rolled her eyes in amusement, ever the proper knight, even though he'd been Rhaegar's closest friend for years. "I only urge you to consider your options carefully and objectively and not to let your fondness of Lady Lannister cloud your judgement. You are still young. You have time."

"Do I?" Rhaegar sighed wearily, as if he was cracking under the many burdens he carried on his shoulders. "Only I, my mother, my brother and Aemon have remained of our family. The Targaryen name has never been closer to extinction, not even after the Dance."

Only then did it strike Jon that his friend was right. If any harm befell him and his younger brother, the Targaryen dynasty would die out. The strongest claim on the Iron throne would have their cousins in the Stormlands, the Baratheons, Jon's family's landlords.

"Still, you are right." It was Rhaegar's voice that interrupted the silence. "It is a decision I must not make lightly. And not until I am in the right state of mind."

Since the news of King Aerys' death had reached the capital, Rhaegar had not been the same. He had been ignoring his books, his harp and everyone but Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys. Instead of alone, he had been sharing meals with them and sleeping in his brother's chambers. His desire for company was very uncharacteristic and perhaps the greatest proof of how much his father's death affected him. Did he found comfort they provided insufficient? Was that why he considered marrying so soon? Jon wished he would confide in his friends, in the people who cared for him, instead of little girls who could never understand or ease his grief.

After another few moments of silence, Rhaegar spoke again, snapping him out of his musings.

"Thank you for your advice, Arthur." He already sounded distant, but no matter how lost he was in his thoughts, he was never unkind.

Now it was Arthur's voice that came from a distance.

"Your Grace."

Jon's petrified legs finally turned into flesh again, allowing him to walk away at once, heading in an unknown direction, as far from the royal tent as possible. He only then realized how lucky he was not to have been caught. He could just imagine the disappointment that would darken Rhaegar's eyes if he learned that he had been eavesdropping on him and Arthur; he couldn't face that sight in reality. He kept striding further, among tents whose sigils he didn't even recognize, processing everything he had just heard.

Rhaegar wanted a queen to give him heirs, new Targaryens that would continue the line. He wanted Cersei Lannister to be that queen, not only because she was the most reasonable choice, but because he was fond of her.

Jon barely swallowed down his revulsion. These sappy declarations sounded nothing like Rhaegar he knew and loved. Had the Lannisters arranged the kidnapping of the real Rhaegar and placed a fraud that looked exactly like him in his stead? Jon found that a more believable explanation of what he was hearing than the possibility of Rhaegar being – his face wrinkled in distaste – in love with the girl. He had known Rhaegar for years and had never seen him in love. In his mind, he always imagined Rhaegar would only marry for political benefits and would never genuinely love his wife, whoever she might be. He would remain as unreachable to her as he was to Jon. Jon could live with that.

There and then, he wished he had never witnessed that heart-to-heart between his friends. A veil had been lifted and now he couldn't escape the knowledge that he had been living (and would possibly forever live) in the shadow of Cersei Lannister.

"We cannot surrender. If we hand over the girl, we lose our only bargaining chip. We need to negotiate better terms."

Over the table, Denys locked eyes with his master-at-arms, who spoke up the moment the messenger had left the room. Symon held his gaze effortlessly, authoritatively even, as though he was the lord of Duskendale and Denys was a mere servant who had to eagerly jump at his every command. It might be Denys' imagination, but it seemed like Symon's brow arched slightly as he stared back at him, as if to ask 'Why are you still here?'.

Denys despised his good-brother's disrespectful attitude, but as Symon's brothers were married to Denys' cousins, he had no choice but to tolerate him. He was also very skilled with sword, perhaps the finest swordsman in all of Duskendale. As much as it would please Denys to banish him from the city, he knew he would rather have Symon at his side than give him a reason to seek vengeance for such offense. Still, it didn't make putting up with his disregard any easier.

"I have no intention of handing her over." He almost snarled at Symon, but managed to keep tatters of control. He tore his gaze away from the black-haired man and glanced at the rest of the people in the room, Symon's brother Steffon, their cousain Jon and Serala. "We need to let them know that we will not be trifled with."

Everyone around him nodded in agreement, but it took a few moments of thoughtful silence for a suggestion to be made.

"We could cut off one of the girl's fingers and send it to Tywin Lannister." Steffon proposed coldly, without any emotions in his voice. Unlike his older brother, who had his every thought (especially those about Denys' unfitness to rule Duskendale) written all over his face, one could never guess what was happening beyond the mask of stone that was Steffon Hollard's face. He spoke about delicious food with the same expression as about spilling blood of a young girl. Symon annoyed Denys to no end, but he preferred him to Steffon, who slightly terrified him. "Each passing day that he doesn't comply with our demands, we cut off another finger. That might persuade him to hurry and accept the inevitable."

As revolting as he found his good-brother's idea, Denys couldn't come up with an objection that wouldn't make him look weak. Losing a finger wouldn't ruin the girl completely, but it would be proof enough that they wouldn't hesitate to harm Tywin Lannister's daughter if the Hand failed to yield to their demands. They had gone too far, crossed too many lines, to withdraw now. He had to see this through.

"Fine." He nodded at Steffon. "One finger a day."

"And what if Lady Lannister runs out of fingers?" Symon cut in mockingly.

"Pity." Denys deadpanned, determined to silence the man. "She sewed so skilfully."

Symon's stunned expression was worth putting up with his blabbering. It felt great to finally put him in his place.

"I agree with my lord husband."

The four men turned to the only woman in the room. Serala smiled lovingly at him and he found himself returning her smile lazily. He loved bathing in her affectionate gazes, her lustful ones even more.

"She does sew so skilfully." Her green eyes never left his. "It would indeed be a pity to cut off her delicate fingers. Once they are gone, they won't grow back. She will be considered damaged and therefore unsuitable for the role of the king's bride."

Denys raised his eyebrows at her warningly. She ought to know better than to question his decision. Did she really think that the thought had not crossed his mind? Tywin Lannister would be furious if his daughter emerged from this ordeal in any way damaged, but he had only himself to blame for forcing their hand. His wealth and power would guarantee his daughter a fine match, no matter how many fingers she had on her hands.

However, he nodded his permission to Serala to speak her mind, hoping deep down she might have a smarter, cleaner solution at hand. She had the luxury to appear weak; he didn't.

"I suggest that we cut off her hair instead of her fingers." Her tone sounded commanding rather than hesitant. "She will not be damaged permanently and Tywin Lannister will still get his warning."

Denys could have kissed her right there and then, but he reined his enthusiasm in, deciding to save it for their bedroom. Why had he doubted her? Serala had proved time and time again she was the only one in this town he could truly rely on. Her intelligence had just saved him from having to mutilate a young girl. Denys was willing to go far to get what he wanted, but some things he just didn't have the stomach for. In all truth, he was going to let Steffon stain his hands with Cersei Lannister's blood; it didn't seem like the younger Hollard brother would have minded anyway.

"Serala has a point." He nodded, turning to Steffon. "Cutting off her hair will do."

Steffon nodded, neither pleased nor displeased. Out of the corner of his eye, Denys saw Symon frown, but the black-haired man for once kept his mouth shut. His scowl probably had more to do with the smartest plan coming from Serala than the plan itself. It was another reason why Denys loathed his good-brother; Symon despised Serala because she worshipped gods other than the Seven and because he believed she didn't treat him with respect he thought he deserved. Denys knew it was only a matter of Symon's wounded pride, because Serala had told him herself that Symon had made advances at her and she had spurned him. When he had asked her whether she had been tempted by Symon's offer, she had grinned and said: "I might have been, but then I thought of the look on his face when I refused him and I just couldn't miss that opportunity. I wish you could have witnessed it; his face was redder than my hair."

Denys looked at Serala again. She was gazing at him in anticipation.

Cutting off hair was a less messy ordeal than cutting off fingers. He would be there to witness it.

Denys passed his good-brothers by and offered his arm to his wife. Despite her long green gown, Serala kept up with his pace easily as he led the way.

Two guards stood at the door that led downstairs to the dungeons; they let them pass with a slight bow of head. They descended about two dozen stairs until they found themselves in a narrow corridor, surrounded by cells on each side. Only the furthest cell contained a prisoner, precious as though the locks of her hair were actually pure gold.

Denys grinned to himself in amusement. They had come to steal it.

The last time Cersei had shed so many tears, Mother had just died.

Every time the thought crossed her mind, her sobs intensified, until her whole body was shaking and she wept until utter exhaustion pacified her cries. Then she would catch her breath and the cycle would begin anew.

Her hair. Her beautiful long hair. Golden like the sun. Her pride.

It was gone.

Her head felt too light and too heavy at the same time for her shoulders to bear. She raised her hands to her scalp so often, hoping desperately to find the golden locks still in place, only to break into another wave of tears when her fists grasped air. Jaime's hair was longer than hers now. If she didn't wear a gown, she could easily be mistaken for a boy. She had wished for years that she had been born a son, but now that she at least looked like one, she couldn't stand the image of herself her mind came up with. Jaime would find her beautiful even if she was one-eyed and limped, but what about Rhaegar? Her prince, her beautiful prince, would scorn her if he saw her like this. At least he wasn't there to witness her shame.

Her hair. Her beautiful hair. Gone. Gone…

For fuck's sake, girl, it's just hair!

Instinctively, Cersei put a hand to her mouth, as though she had just hiccupped. She did not swear. Not even in her thoughts. It was improper.

I'm hearing things. She swallowed hard; that sounded too frightening for her liking, so she tried to rationalize it. I am still shaken. That must be it.

You have been shaking so much over such an insignificant matter that I'm going to be sick.

That wasn't good. One voice inside her head seemed to be replying to another. Had she gone mad?

Don't worry, the only one who is in danger of going mad here is me.

Who had even thought that?

Alright, I'll swear every time I fucking say something to make it easier for you. You can speak like a proper little girl and I think we'll have no trouble understanding each other. Shit.

Cersei struggled to pacify her breathing, but the shallow breaths she drew weren't enough to fulfil her need for air, so she kept breathing in a wild rhythm her lungs could barely keep up with. She was hearing a voice – a not very mannerly voice, for that matter – inside her head. It all pointed towards the conclusion that it was not her voice, even though it sounded like her. Because thoughts didn't sound like anyone, they were just…well, thought.

Of course I'm not you – cunt. You didn't really think all your smart decisions were actually your fucking ideas, did you?

Nobody talked to Cersei Lannister like that, even if it was a voice inside her own head. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the words she meant to 'say', all the while glaring at the back of her eyelids.

I am smart and I don't need you. Go away.

Believe me, if I could, I would. I'm not thrilled about being stuck inside a bloody girl of ten.

Cersei frowned indignantly.

I am one-and-ten.

Just my fucking luck. The voice seemed to ignore her. Still, after all this time, it's better than nothing.

Cersei opened her eyes to roll them and then closed them again, focusing on the questions she meant to ask.

If you are not me, then who are you? And how have you even got inside my head?

You may address me as 'Your Grace'. The voice said, but before it could pick the next swear word, Cersei snorted out loud.

I am not calling a voice inside my head 'Your Grace'. I demand you tell me who you are.

And what will you do if I refuse?

After a few moments of furious silence, Cersei realized there was nothing she could do. She couldn't threaten the voice into submission. Father could not enter her head and punish the voice for its insolence.

As for your other question, the voice continued casually, knowing it had won, I am here because you have stuck your fingers where you should have. Quite literally.

What do you mean by that? She asked before she could stop herself.

No matter how many times she repeated the question, there was no reply. She was on the brink of concluding the entire conversation had been a fragment of her imagination when the voice spoke again.

While I'm glad to see you are managing to keep track of the conversation without me having to bother to swear when the circumstances do not call for it, I am not answering you until you address me properly. And you dare accuse me of poor manners.

Cersei bit the inside of her cheek. She didn't want to indulge the voice's arrogance, but curiosity made her swallow her pride.

What do you mean by that, Your Grace? If she were speaking out loud, she would be only a note far from snarling.

There you go. Was that so hard?

Cersei failed to bite back a 'Yes'.

Well, get used to it. The voice said nonchalantly. There are worse consequences of spilling your blood left and right in the presence of dragons.

For a moment, Cersei couldn't grasp what the voice was aiming at. Then she remembered her first Small Council meeting, whose end she had never witnessed. Because she had been busy marking the throne and one of the dragons' skulls with her blood.

It was…When I touched the skull…

A connection was made in blood. The voice finished. Blood is powerful. And bones can last for a very long time, preserving secrets inside them.

Cersei took a deep breath, trying to make sense of what she had just heard.

It has been months since that happened. Not without struggle, she repressed the resurfacing terror she had felt in those moments. Why haven't I heard you until now?

Because I had no intention of letting you know I was here. You would have been more inclined to listen to me if you thought my plans were actually yours. But there was only as much of your wailing about your hair I could take. It would have made even that fool Baelor lose his temper.

It was impossibly hard to argue with someone one couldn't glare or scream at or have them restrained and thrown into the dungeon under Casterly Rock.

I did not wail. Cersei snapped at the voice, wishing she could glare at it properly. It deserved it. Not for as long as you claim I did.

Perhaps not, but it felt like a bloody century to me.

She decided that discussing this particular matter was a waste of time. She had not cried. Much.

So you were actually inside the skull? She changed the subject as subtly as she could. Is that why I felt I was being watched?

Silence.

Cersei grumbled under her breath. Your Grace?

Yes. I'm glad to see you're finally starting to use your mind.

Biting her lip, Cersei forced herself to ignore that remark.

And how did you get there? She intentionally left out the title again, but the voice remained stubborn and refused to speak until she gave in. Your Grace?

When I died – as a human – the bond I shared with my dragon kept me tied to it. The voice explained. I kept living through it, like a part of its mind, like I now reside within you. Its other riders were of my choosing. There weren't many worthy of that honour.

Even against her will, Cersei found herself hanging on the voice's every word. If it was telling the truth, the voice was more than one hundred years old. Whoever it had been, it had ridden a dragon. It had probably been a king or a queen (she hoped to gods it had been a queen), judging by its demands to be addressed as royalty.

But where are the other riders? Why do I only hear you? Your Grace?

From my observations, I have learned that this kind of bond only forms between a dragon and its first rider. The voice replied. Other riders died and moved on to whatever lies beyond this life. The rest of us remained here, whether we wanted to or not.

Cersei thought she'd caught the slightest note of bitterness in that last sentence, but with thoughts, it was hard to be sure. What she had caught was that when spoken to with respect, the voice was quite generous with answers. Cersei found that a little suspicious, but decided not to complain until she knew more. Even if the voice was lying, it did know how to tell a compelling story.

Thank you for the compliment. The tone of the voice's thoughts had a smugness to it Cersei didn't appreciate. As for your concern as to why I'm answering your questions, it's because you wouldn't stop pestering me if I didn't. You might even grow inclined to listen to me. Since I'm stuck with you,it's in my interest that you escape Duskendale and return to King's Landing alive as much as it is in yours. Does that put your mind at ease?

Not really. Cersei felt the speed of her pulse increasing. Instinctively, she swallowed saliva down nervously. Can you always tell what I am thinking? Your Grace?

Even if I can, who would I tell?

Fair point, she supposed, feeling her tense body relax slightly. But not entirely. But can you?

I don't know.The voice admitted outright, as if the lack of knowledge on the matter didn't concern it. It had even overlooked the fact she had not addressed it with a title. Usually I don't want to hear what you are thinking and then I can shut your thoughts out. I don't know what would happen if I tried to pry into something you wanted to hide.

The answer didn't relieve Cersei's concerns, but she couldn't really do anything but hope that the intruder inside her mind would respect her privacy. Desperate for a distraction from the matter, she turned her attention to other questions she wanted answers to.

So, are there…other voices in other skulls? Your Grace?

In some. If the voice was a person in the flesh, Cersei imagined it being a dark silhouette in the distance that was shrugging its shoulders evenly. Some are empty. I am not the first one to inhabit another's body.

She didn't like the voice's choice of words. It made it seem she was just a vessel for whoever the voice had used to be.

Whether you and I like it or not, I am here. So, if you are done with your questions…

Why haven't I heard of this? She cut the voice off in the middle of the sentence. Who else has been…inhabited by…a voice? Your Grace?

It's not like anyone is inclined to admit to hearing voices no-one else can hear. The voice said in a lecturing tone. Still, if you want an example, you need not look further than your prince's late father.

That came as a surprise to Cersei.

King Aerys was inhabited by a voice too?

A few years ago, he cut himself on the throne and decided to pat Syrax's skull with his bloodied hand. The voice said sarcastically, but then became serious again. Rhaenyra's paranoia affected his mind. He would have become far worse than he was if he hadn't died.

Rhaenyra? Cersei's heart beat faster at the mention of one of her favourite Targaryen queens.

A spoiled brat, that one, and mad with loss by the end. The voice deadpanned. Her father got the throne because of the custom that a male heir always comes before a female heir. If male and female heirs had been made equal, her aunt Rhaenys would have been Queen and her daughter after her. In any case, Rhaenyra would have never sat on the Iron throne.

Cersei felt personally offended by the voice's harsh judgement of Rhaenyra Targaryen. She had always been fond of the woman who had fought back against the unfair treatment of female heirs. If Rhaenrya had won – truly won – perhaps Casterly Rock would be Cersei's birthright, not Jaime's.

When men aspire to rise in station, they are admired for it. She snorted crossly. But when a woman wants to rule in her own right, she is scorned for her ambitions.

Ambitious men – and women – must know how to play the game, otherwise they die like flies. Aegon was a spoiled brat too, mind you. It's hard to say which of them was less fit to rule.

Cersei felt a little better now that Aegon II had received his portion of slanders too. Contrary to general belief, being a man didn't make him a better ruler.

If your curiosity is satisfied for now, the voice interrupted the thoughtful silence, We can start planning your escape.

Cersei did have many more questions, but decided to set them aside for now. Escaping Duskendale was priority. She could talk to her…partner once she was free. She did still harbour some doubts about the voice trustworthiness, but whoever it was, it was the only ally she had. Perhaps it could indeed help her escape Duskendale. That should prove whether she could rely on its advice or not.

What do you have in mind? She asked.

Her question was met with silence.

She rolled her eyes without even opening them. Your Grace?

The next time you are brought food, ask to speak to Lady Darklyn.

She raised her eyebrows instinctively. Why? Cutting off my hair was her idea. She's not going to help me.

Lord Darklyn's initial plan was to cut off your fingers. The voice pointed out. When they locked you down here, she told you that whatever happened to you, you needed to know it could be much worse. By suggesting they cut off your hair, she saved you from living the rest of your life with a few fingers less. Hair grows back. Fingers don't.

Cersei clenched her fists mechanically, checking whether she still had all ten of her fingers. When put like that, Lady Darklyn's actions were seen in a different light.

But how can you be sure?

She strikes me as a smart woman. The voice said as if that was the only explanation necessary. Her husband is fighting a lost battle and she knows that. She is hoping that helping you might save her from whatever punishment your father must have already come up with. If you do get a chance to ask for her to be spared, do it. You need smart people on your side and they are becoming more difficult to come by.

Cersei still wasn't convinced, but since she didn't have any other ideas, she decided she might as well follow the voice's plan. She would speak to Lady Darklyn and hope the voice was right about the red-haired woman. And that she hadn't gone completely mad because she followed the instructions of an unknown voice residing inside her mind. The voice claimed sharing mind with Rhaenrya had slowly been driving King Aerys mad; at least Cersei's voice seemed level-headed and sane, if far from pleasant company.

Well, I was never really known for being good-humoured in my previous life, why change now?

Cersei sighed and rubbed her eyes as they got used to the weak light in the cell again. Was there a way for her to ensure she never ever bled again?

A woman lay in the snow, breathing shallowly, as if every breath might be her last. The locks of her hair, bound together in a long, snake-like braid, appeared white under many snowflakes that covered them, almost as pale as her skin. She was wearing dark armour that fit tightly against her body, hugging her curves sophisticatedly, in a way no gown ever could. She was stunningly beautiful, even in her final moments, magnificent as an eternal goddess.

Only one worshipper knelt at her side as she died. Where she was silver and black, like moonlight in the night, he was all golden, like the sun. Words fell from their lips, but the wind that roared around the pair made them unintelligible. They must have struck a chord, because the woman found the strength to raise her hands and intertwine her fingers with his. She pulled their coupled hands closer and placed a loving kiss on his knuckles, a parting gift. The two were blind to the winter, the cold, the earth, the sky, everything but one another.

The man shook his head and made as if to yank his hands out of her grasp, but with strength a woman on the brink of death should not possess, she held his hands pressed against her chest.

"Please." She begged him, tears forming in her eyes. "Please."

Two swords lay nearby on the white ground, their blades crossed like siblings, like lovers. There was no blood on them.

Until there was.

In a heartbeat, the man ran both swords through the woman's stomach.

For a split of a second, just before the blade had struck, her eyes had widened in suddenly awakened terror, her lips shaping words: "No, Vis…"

The words turned into scream that was swallowed by the storm, as were the man's sobs. His tears soaked the blades, mixed with her blood and froze on her skin, making it seem she was covered in rubies.

The snow became smeared in red.

The wind grew colder. The storm grew stronger. The day grew darker.

"Not blood." The woman's whisper went unheard, but it was clear on her blue lips. "Not strong enough. Blood within blood."

A shadow rose from the spilled blood, like a young tree towering above its roots, reaching for the sun. But there was no sun in the sky, not there, not anywhere.

The man reached for the swords, but the shadow was faster.

"Blood is powerful, boy." A voice so powerful not even roars of the storm could match it spoke. Old and young, male and female, dead and alive, all at the same time. "You should have known better than to spill it so carelessly."

The man died, struck by one of the swords, the blade splitting his heart in half.

The shadow took the man's place and leaned closer to the woman, as though it would kiss her.

"Thank you, mother." It whispered against her lips, making it impossible to distinguish whether it spoke affectionately or mockingly. "Your children will join you soon."

Tears fell from her eyes and turned into ice on her cheeks.

The snow remained red.

A/N: Just in case you had trouble following the part in Cersei's POV, at the beginning of that "conversation", Cersei couldn't really discern between her thoughts and 'the voice's thoughts', so it's all written in italic. Later on, Cersei's thoughts were written in italic, and the voice was "speaking" in bold italic. Just wanted to make that clear and I didn't want to write it in the first A/N so I don't spoil the chapter. That's all for this update, I hope you liked it :)