The light struck fine spears through the row of lancets, the rosy hue joined by the sapphire light and golden glow seeping into the King's solar. The stained glass, a fixture seen mostly in the wealthy septs seemed somewhat misplaced, for all they offered a splendid sight to behold. But Rickard was no more interested in the sight than the King who sat before him.
He studied the younger man's face, trying to place the emotions that flittered across. Court life had not suited him, nor any Stark as far as he knew. And it would not begin to anytime soon by the way matters were proceeding. Yet, as he gazed upon the young King, he felt something stir within him. Rickard had not aid a thing of it, thinking it best to keep all he knew to himself, but he was no fool. To the man before him, the tourney of Harrenhal remained more than a ghost of a memory.
In there lay the crux of the matter. When he'd heard about the crown of flowers and the outrage it had caused, Rickard remembered that he'd laughed. He'd laughed because the young dragon thought to win the North over with chivalry. A knight was a thing of the South. Northerners had warriors, bards and the common man. The title these Southrons were so fond of had been picked up out of necessity. The sensibilities which went along with it not so much. To him that crown had meant little and he'd thought his daughter, a girl he'd raised with his own two hands, would think alike.
When Brandon wrote that she swore to unman any brother who touched her spoils of war, he'd been struck dumb. To her it had mattered. He'd not liked the prince in that moment; what man used the tender heart of a girl? And then she'd wedded her Stormlord, the incident behind them. He'd thought the death was swift and permanent.
It was not, as he could perceive. That left only a few explanations. Either the King was a cruel cad who'd not outgrown the games of youth, or he'd been sincere in his sentiment when he'd given his daughter a crown, or time had developed initial intentions into something deeper. Had it been the first case, Rickard was certain Storm's End would have seen much of the dragon. For the latter two, the end result mattered. If the man was sincere in his affection than they had their work cut out for them. His daughter widowhood was not nearly enough to quell the mouths of those who would whisper; and there were many who would. The Lord of Winterfell swallowed a sigh.
What was he to do is such circumstances? Once he'd thought he knew best. Robert had proven him wrong in the ways that counted for his daughter happiness and his house still had to suffer for it, burdened with debts not of his making. And Robert Baratheon had sworn he loved Lyanna as well.
The King escaped his troubling thoughts at a long last. "I realise the timing leaves something to be desired, my lord, but you have a son grown who would fain assume the responsibilities awaiting in Winterfell."
An interesting proposal to be sure. Rickard cleared his throat. "There is still much to do, Your Majesty, in another matter. Winterfell I can well leave to Brandon's hands with the faith that he shall do well by his home." Nay, what gnawed at him was of a decisively feminine nature. "What is Your Majesty trying to gain by this?" After all, that was the most important question of all.
"A capable Lord Hand," King Rhaegar offered. He looked away a moment later.
Rickard did sigh this time. "I was not born yesterday, my liege, nor am I blind or deaf." He slanted the other man a look, searching for a particular mutation in his expression. The King did not disappoint. "'Tis not a new practice which Your Majesty employs."
"It is one that has yet to disappoint," Rhaegar Targaryen said. "But my lord forgets that I have no need to ask."
"I do not forget," Rickard countered. "A budding reign is when the king is at his most vulnerable. Your own lord father, may the gods rest him, was much like Your Majesty at the beginning of his reign. What guarantee would I have that I'll not follow the fate of the Lion?"
"I need the North, my lord. The kingdoms of the South have strong ties to my house. Yours, I fear, does not." He was a clever one. Rickard nodded his head, waiting for what came next. "Recall, my lord, that at one point, a promise had been made between our houses."
He stopped to think a moment upon what promise the King spoke of. "Aye, I recall," he said in the end. "I also recall it was not made by the winning side. Your Majesty is under no obligation to fulfil such terms."
"Indeed. But the time for it is long past." A decent enough move if one where to consider the current situation. Under the condoning eyes of the Queen, Dornish lords had once more begun to swarm the court. Not a disaster in itself, and yet, the rest of the realm would much protest their presence. "I have a daughter, and you a grandson close in age to my Rhaenys." How appeasing, to know that the King did not mean to take Lyanna for nothing.
The King continued. "The Lord of Storm's End is already here, and I shall call for my good-brother's firstborn son as well. It would be most advantageous for the future lord of Winterfell to be part of it as well."
Knowing a bribery when he saw one, Rickard considered the man before him silently for the new couple of heartbeats. He had not made any counter demands to what he offered. "One must consider one's options carefully, my liege. And yet, old fool that I am, I find in this I do not wish to be careful. Is my daughter that which you demand as payment for the benevolence?"
Rhaegar Targaryen gave him a long look. "You are certainly more direct that I thought you would be, Lord Stark." The quill he'd been holding was placed upon the dark wood of the table. "I hold you daughter in high regard, but I do not make these propositions for her. She is Lady of Storm's End and I the ruler of the realm; I cannot demand the allegiance of my own subjects." What a clever way to avoid the question. The King had understood him, Rickard was certain, and yet, he's chosen not to admit to anything. What a strange thing to do.
At least he could be somewhat at ease with the knowledge that this was a man who would not have the carelessness of his own father. If his daughter so chose to indulge his wiles, which, by the act of them both Rickard did not think was far from the truth thing, he could at least hope for discretion. Appalling as the notion was of his daughter being a mistress to any man, Rickard was no stranger to the compromises of life.
He had made his fair share and he expected all of his children to do the same. "And when shall the official naming take place?" Time to seal the deal, he supposed. There was little use in procrastinating over the matter. Handship and influence in the King's court was not something he'd dared dream of. And yet there they were, beckoning him.
"In three turns all shall be settled," came the King's promise. "Then we shall speak more of these matters. That would be all, my lord." He nodded his lave for Rickard to stand and see himself out, the King's attention falling to his own documents.
It had come to it at last. Who would have thought that a meaningless crown of roses should bring about such a fortune. Rickard ought to send word to Winterfell and have more cuttings of such roses planted. Who had need of any vegetable? Lyanna should be pleased with it at any rate, for she'd always asked him when he was going to have more roses planted for her."
She would have her roses. And she would have a King. All that she needed was a husband to complete the set. And glad he was, in that moment, for the existence of Rosbys.
Rickard took his leave of the King, allowing the man to see to the matters of state which littered his table. He had much to plan, and little enough time to arrange for it. He should also write to Winterfell, seek word after Brandon. He ought to have arrived at the keep.
As he climbed down the stairs, the old wolf felt a chill travelling up his spine. And yet, even so, he found no reason for worry.
"If she has a head cold then I am the Maiden," Elia hissed at the lady-in-waiting who'd delivered the news to her. No head cold necessitated the changing of bloodied sheets, nor would an acolyte see to it at the request of the King himself. Nay, aught else troubled Lyanna, Lady Baratheon, and the Queen would not rest easy until she found out.
And find out she would, Elia had decided no more than a split moment later. She beckoned one of her women forth and had her bring out a warm pelt. "I wish to see the state of her for myself." Despite the protests of her companions, Elia would not be moved. Nay, the Lady of Storm's End had once more managed to turn her world upside down. She would not go through that a second time.
With such thoughts in mind, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms joined by the foremost of her ladies, proceeded to make her way to the rooms occupied by said woman. Once and for all, she would clarify to that impertinent creature how matters stood. Let her then claim innocence for having taken not only the attention of her husband but a dragon besides for her own progeny, as if mere vassals should dare compare themselves to the ruling house.
No sooner than she'd arrived at the bedchamber door, she perceived noise coming from within. A shrill sound permeated through the wood, latching onto then Queen's very soul. The door did not deny entry to her, yet the sight within was most unexpected, and for some reason, as soon as her eyes fell upon it, Elia wished she could retreat; that she'd not come to Lyanna's sickbed.
Upon the high wide bed, the waxen figure of the lady sat resting against a mound of pillows. In her lap a dreadfully ill-mannered beastling snapped irritably at another woman, a servant by her garb who looked frightened. Lyanna Stark said nothing, her gaze remaining fixed upon a point ahead of her, unfocused eyes giving no inkling as to what went on with her.
Elia would have none of that. "You," she called to the servant woman, "leave us." Her order was met with an astonished stare. Elia gritted her teeth. "Do not test my patience, least you wish to know the touch of the horsewhip. Out!" Fear was a strong motivator and out the door the woman went.
Sidestepping the mess upon the floors, the Queen made her way to the other woman's bedside, ignoring the dragon seated upon her lap, spitting hisses still. "I commend you powers of pretence. It is a skill I wish I had," she said, expecting the charade to end. But nay, her foe made no move. "Cat got your tongue?" she taunted, hoping yet to get a raise out of her.
A second time she was denied. Without thinking, she made to grab the she-wolf by the shoulder. Yet hardly had her hand proceeded to do so before she was swiftly met with the stinging bite of her creature. The cry she let out spoke more of her surprise than of pain, for the blasted wyrm had no bitten hard.
Oswell looked from brother to sister, not entirely certain he wished to be a part of the conversation. After all, a furious Ashara Dayne was not unknown to him and her temper rivalled her own brother's. He still recalled the knocked out teeth and the fistfuls of blood Arthur had drawn from the last poor bugger stupid enough to incite his ire.
"Out of all the irresponsible choices you could have made," the woman chided, hands gesturing emphatically, "this one takes the lemon cake. How dare you? How dare you put us all into such danger?" She'd be spitting nails soon, Oswell considered, at the rate she was going. There were times when he was glad a wife was out of the question. One look at these fine ladies and his head already throbbed. Not even the tightest cunt in all the Seven Kingdoms was worth the pain.
"How dare I?" he questioned back, impertinent as always. He seldom allowed his sister the victories she came seeking. "The last I checked it was the King's doing."
Oswell nearly gaped. He'd expected the King to be involved, to be sure. Rhaegar Targaryen had showed little of his famed control where the she-wolf was involved. But even so, Arthur admitting it so baldly was most unexpected. Was he not supposed to protect the King? Even from his own furious sister if need be. He did not say as much, however. It was rather entertaining a mummery piece.
"Arthur," Ashara hissed, "do not start with that. If ever the King thought of such a thing, your encouragement only pushed the thought into deed. This is the same story as the apples from the orchard. Only this time, it won't be a mere strike to your wrists."
If only she knew the sort of adventures they'd been through, she would change her mind. True enough, Arthur was usually the one whose insistence landed them in all sorts on interesting, to say the least, situations, yet if Rhaegar did not wish to he would not.
"Now, my lady," he interrupted, "'tis unfair to blame your brother. His Majesty and the lady are grown individuals."
"Do not even try that," the Dornishwoman warned. "I hope you have a plan to right this, brother, for from where I'm standing it does not look a good image. Not all of the Red Keep sleeps at night, you know."
"Would you care to name anyone who would go against the King then?" Arthur challenged seemingly unconcerned. To be fair, it was not as if anyone would be starting any wars of Lady Baratheon. Her own husband was only bones after all. He'd no need of a wife.
"Very well, I shall give you a name, Tywin Lannister. What do you think of that?" She waited for no answer, much too busy making her escape.
Oswell blinked at his friend. "Do you think 'tis the Lion's hand?"
"Poison is the weapon of women and cravens. Nay, he'd have sent something more reliable than that if he were the one plaguing her." Arthur sat back down. "'Tis almost as if the gods are against the match."
"Might be they are," Oswell could not help but offer.
Sacrilegious thoughts aside, Arthur considered as he followed Rhaegar to the chamber of the one person he seemed concerned with more than with aught else, the king was entirely too preoccupied. He'd known his friend's disposition, of course, and he'd been certain any such attempt to bring him and his lady together would result in quite a bit of strife.
What he'd not envision were assassination attempts. Certainly, Lyanna Stark had her enemies, yet for such a creature as she it was peculiar to think that anyone, even those the most put out by her presence would feel the need to use poison.
Of course, her state explained Rhaegar's own state, which oscillated somewhere between gnawing worry and murderous rage. It had not taken him very much time to come to the conclusion that it had been no mistake that Lyanna had swallowed whatever vile contents had been given to her and he'd had her servant woman taken in for further investigation, to no protest from the lady herself. In turn, every minute in which he was not closer to the answer of what had actually transpired, the King was more and more enraged.
Normally, Arthur would pester him out of such a dark mood. But even he feared jesting upon such matters. The dragon who held a she-wolf in saintly regard. One would have more luck trying to piss on the Fate and not having a septon's knife in their chest for it. To be sure, his friend had an affinity for the lance. More painful that.
Might be he'd have a word with Lady Lyanna when she felt better. There had to be aught she could do to aid his friend in that regard; at least convince him that she was not likely to leave his side for the next few thousand of years or so.
Now that he thought about it, Arthur wondered if he should not broach the subject of she-wolves wedding to him as well. Rosby, may the Father keep the crazy bugger, was willing to have the woman provided that a modicum of care was applied. But the King, well, he'd seen dogs fighting over a bone before. It was no pretty sight.
Once matters had settled a tad, he concluded after giving it some thought. Were he to even murmur such words where they were, Arthur would be feeding the mice. The notion had his grimacing. He still had so many tourneys to win. In fact, he still had a lot left to do, which list involved being of aid to the king although the man's temper was nothing easy to live with. And they said Aerys was the mad one. The son was madder and covered it better.
Having finally reached the door that held behind it Lyanna Stark, Arthur made himself useful by standing near the entrance with an appropriately frightening glare for a couple of squires who had for some reason decided to look with interest at the King.
They scampered off faster than he'd expected. Pleased with himself Arthur waited a moment more before walking away. He'd return in a few hours. The King had a dragon and he had an empty stomach.
He'd come to see her. Lyanna was aware of Rhaegar sitting at her bedside, holding her hand in his. She could even hear his words loud and clear. Her eyes took note of the dragon scampering about the sheets, a piece of fried fish between its jaws. She knew it all, and yet, try as she might, she would not bring herself to react in any manner other than to lie there, a ragdoll in the hands of any who happened by.
He was telling her about Jon and Aegon and how they'd managed to evade the septa set to watch them. There was amusement in that voice, and if she were to look at him, Lyanna was certain his eyes would show it too. That he could still be that way in her presence brought with it a fury of sorts, unexpected to her, as he had no fault. She'd taken the draught. The murdered looked at her through the looking glass.
She was not certain how long he went on before she could summon the will to shift, ever so slightly, so that her face might better align to his. She needed something. Not even she knew what. At her movement, she felt his hands already aiding. But nay, the understanding in her eyes pushed her even further beneath the surface.
She was drowning.
"What is it?" he asked softly, hands cupping her face. "What do you need?" A fresh start, she answered in her mind; a blank slate. She needed to not remember the pain, or the joy or anything in between. "Are you unwell?"
How could he even ask that? She wanted to smack him. She was not well. But his hands lowered around her, pulling her upper body until it met his. The comfort did not aid. It made it a little worse than before. That had been his child as well. She had killed their babe and he just sat there, whispering comfortingly into her hair.
Somehow, not even she knew how, Lyanna felt her hand grab something. Fingers twisted the material, dragging at the sturdy cloth. She ought to curse him. But even if she moved her lips, no sounds came. Had Jon felt thus? Reckoning he was as surprised as she, Lyanna endured another question from him before she managed to give a tug.
Rhaegar eased her back gently. He shook his head, not understanding. But Lyanna had just the way. Her hand fell away to catch his wrist. Weak as a newborn though she be, his hand still followed hers, knuckles pressing into her middle. Under the quiet light his colour leeched away. She wanted him to know that she had done it knowingly, even though she'd hoped there was no babe.
His lips parted, whole frame moving forth with a small tremble. "I do not blame you." Rhaegar shook his head. Was he trying to drive her mad? What did she have to do to make him understand? "You could not have known." Of course she'd known. Lyanna would have snorted in indignation if she could. All she managed however was a choked pitiful noise. But the infuriating man must have enjoyed the torment because the next she knew, he was speaking again. "Whoever did this to you, I'll find them."
She sucked in a breath, closed her eyes and forced her uncooperative body into a lurch. The end result resembled more a lack of balance than anything else. But Rhaegar caught her nonetheless. "This doesn't change anything." But it did. It changed everything. Unable to help herself, she shut her eyes against the tears.
Wolf-mothers fought bears to save their young. She had done nothing less than murdered hers. It did not matter that the child could have been a great man someday or a woman of valour. Nay, she had taken its life as easily as one blew out a candle at night.
The sobs came freely enough afterwards. The worst thing was that they did not aid. The more she cried, the deeper the whole she'd sunken into seemed to grow. She'd dug herself in, but had no hope of ever climbing back out. And she loathed that Rhaegar was there with her. Of all people, it had to be he who saw her in such a light. She'd wanted, selfishly might be, to keep everything from him. A painless, guiltless, tiny lie until everything had worked itself out.
"Lyanna," he sighed her name. "Oh, Lyanna. What will I do with you?" Her head rested against his shoulder, tear soaking into the fine material of his tunic. Another thing she'd ruined. "I think it might be you who does not understand," he said after a long pause. She waited, for what else could she do, for him to go on. "I know why you did it."
And that frightened her as well. Were she a little less in love with him she might have been able to resist going to him that night. She might have prevented it all. Couldn't he see that? It was as clear as the nose on her face. Why did he insist on protecting her? Dratted man, making her heart beat like that. Did he know it? Could he feel it? Such questions.
Darys made a noise, startling her. The moment broke.
Rhaegar pulled away, helping her against her mound of pillows. She felt much like she imagined a lamb did before supper.
She would have to face the world without once she was better. And they would know. Even if Rhaegar did not wish to acknowledge her deed, they would. There was no escape.
And she was glad for it. Why should there be?
Rhaegar pulled her away from those thoughts once more. She felt so tired, drained of everything within. Might be it should have been better to have died along with her child. That would have been only fair; that mother follow babe. Who would take care of it now? It was all alone.
She hated the though of it; babes crying with no one to comfort them.
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