In the weeks following the incident at Felwood Ostara has begun a sort of correspondence with Prince Rhaegar. It hadn't been a conscious choice necessarily but she hadn't actively worked to stop it either.

His first letter had been more polite then anything. Rhaegar had called her Lady Ostara, which had made her snicker, and he'd asked after her health. There'd been nothing to give Ostara the impression that he'd want to continue writing to her or that he'd want to hear anything personal from her, so she'd written him back with all the expected titles and formalities and had told him that Maester Cressen had said she'd be perfectly well after a few days rest.

Three days later another letter arrived informing her that Rhaegar was pleased to hear that she hadn't been harmed. The prince had asked what she'd been doing to keep herself busy, likely having heard from his mother that Ostara had not actually listened to Maester Cressen and could be found wandering the Keep at odd hours. Ostara told him that she had enough books to read that it helped keep her mind occupied for the time being.

After that more and more letters were sent back and forth between them.

If pressed, Ostara might have said that she and Rhaegar were... Friends? Perhaps acquaintances would be the best word to describe their relationship. Because they never really spoke of personal matters but they'd discuss things that interest them and what books they liked reading most and why.

Ostara never, ever mentions her magic. Nor does she mention the small trunk of seeds and materials Phil had left for her. She doesn't think it would be a good idea to mention it to Rhaegar at the moment. Neither of them are particularly close to the other and Ostara would never write such a thing on paper even if they were. So she doesn't mention it to him.

With a sigh Ostara finishes her letter and places it off to the side so the ink can dry. She'd usually have done it with magic but right now her magical core is still so depleted that she's decided that mundane tasks will not be performed with magic. Of course, she still uses her magic so as to help her core replenish but nothing overly taxing and not as often as she'd like.

A knock on her door pulls Ostara's attention away from the letter and to her mother who has stepped into the room with a yellow monstrosity draped over her arm, Alise hovering int he space behind her. Ostara raises an eyebrow as her mother drapes the cloth across her bed.

"Come try it on." Her mother commands and Ostara pushes away from her writing desk to do as she asks.

Up close the dress isn't as awful as Ostara would have expected but it's not as lovely as some of her gowns either. Sunshine yellow with black antlers embroidered into the bodice. It's another play dress, thank the Gods, but it's still of better quality then most of her play clothes usually are. Which is suspicious.

"Does it fit nicely?" Alise asks once Ostara's pulled the dress over her head, already kneeling to begin pinning and measuring.

"The sleeves are a bit tight." She says in reply and the seamstress hums thoughtfully.

"You're outgrowing so many of your dresses I'm having new ones made. You'll grow into them." Cassana remarks from where she's perched herself upon Ostara's desk chair.

Ostara nods, "May I keep some of my other gowns?"

"Until you've outgrown them entirely, yes."

"Have you already been given an order, Alise?"

The older woman glances up, brown eyes warm, and shakes her head as she says, "Not quite yet, Lady Ostara, your mother wanted to discuss fabrics and such with you first."

Ostara turns to her mother. "May I have more play clothes? Preferably breeches and tunics?"

"Why?"

"Because it would be much easier to run and play in breeches and tunics then dresses. If you'd prefer I can make them myself." She says.

The thought obviously doesn't please her mother because she purses her lips and says, "I'll not have you running around in poorly constructed clothing, Ostara. You've yet to learn how to mend a tunic properly and you're asking to make your own clothes? Alise, please have two sets of breeches made and a few tunics as well. If Ostara's so determined to act like a boy I'd have her looking, at the very least, presentable."

"Of course, Lady Baratheon."

Ostara holds her arms out and allows the older woman to take her measurements. She allows her mother to dictate which fabrics she'll wear and which colors, all of them a bit brighter then Ostara might have chosen but lovely all the same, and when talk of jewels get brought up Ostara doesn't even try to dissuade her mother from looking into hair ornaments.

Why? Because her mother has just ordered her trousers and shirts. Clothes she'll be able to get dirty, clothes she'll be able to make potions in without having to worry about sleeves or skirts getting in her way. Her mother didn't have to do that and so Ostara will gladly wear whatever her mother tosses at her if it means she'll be able to get more trousers and shirts in the future after she's outgrown this pair.

By the time Alise has finished taking her measurements Ostara is near to bouncing with her excitement and once the seamstress leaves with promises to start making Ostara's new gowns as soon as possible the young witch flings herself at her mother, hugging her a bit tighter then typical but too happy to care.

"Thank you!" She cries and Cassana laughs as she strokes back her hair.

~X~

Ostara.

The girl in question snaps her book shut and turns to look at the being standing by her bed. She raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything as he moves to hover over her.

Ostara, come.

"Where are we going this time?" She asks, already placing her book aside and standing.

You will see.

She changes into one of her older play dresses, a dark blue thing that hides stains relatively well. Phil waits for her to dress before taking hold of her wrist and pulling her into the darkness only to deposit her moments later in a room covered in dust and spiderwebs. Ostara coughs as she pushes off of the ground and moves to stand near the only window that isn't completely destroyed.

What she sees elicits a strange response.

Miles upon miles of ash coated land meets her gaze, the remnants of building peaking up through the layers of destruction. The land is no longer lush and green, there are no more people in the streets or dragons in the sky, and the city does not glow. Ash and dirt and a red sky is all that remains of the Valyrian legacy. It's incredibly sad.

"Why have you brought me here?" Ostara asks, not looking back at the being lingering in the corner.

So that you would remember.

"Remember Renaehra? I remember her."

No, you do not.

Ostara turns to look at him after a long moment and crosses her arms over her chest. Phil merely gestures for her to look about the room, for her to explore, and she does. Walking around and wiping down bits of furniture and one of the large tables in the center of the room, careful not to step on too many of the dried plants littering the ground. She's rummaging through a cabinet in the back of the room when she realizes that this room was a work room.

Someone made potions here.

The work table is made of granite, there's a cauldron tipped over in the far corner, tools are spread in a line across a shelf, and all of the plants on the ground are vaguely familiar to Ostara.

"What is this place?"

Your home, once, Phil says as he pushes open a heavy stone door, lifetimes ago.

Ostara follows him down a flight of stone steps, only stopping to cast a bubble-head charm around her face, and the further down they go the more Ostara sees. Bodies are spilled across the floor, slaves and dragon lords alike, one portion of the ceiling is caved in where a dragon had been killed in the sky and plummeted into the Vaelmaereon's home.

Phil ignores them all, the children and the slaves and the beasts whose bodies are nothing but bones peaking out of ash and dust. He ignores them but Ostara cannot. Because the skeleton with the dragon rings and the dragon hide armor is Malaevor Vaelmaereon, and the littler skeleton with the petrified dragon egg curled in it's grasp is Baenna. She can picture their faces so clearly and it hurts her to see them this way now.

But their bodies slip from her line of sight as Phil leads her up another flight of stairs and to a room that might have been a bedchamber once.

Without much thought Ostara moves further into the room. There's a dressing table full of jewels in one corner and a grand bed in the other, the wardrobe is full of the remains of silk and satin gowns, and the trunk at the foot of her bed is full of armor. There's a sword resting on top of the pile and Ostara grabs hold of it without thinking, the familiar weight of it bringing forth years of muscle memory not her own.

It's time to go, Phil says and Ostara turns to look at him.

"What if I don't want to leave yet?"

You will come back in time, he promises and his hand raises toward her as he speaks, but first you must learn.

Ostara nods and places the sword, her sword, back into the chest which she closes with a kind of reverence she would have thought impossible. Then she returns to Phil's side and allows him to take her back to Storm's End, all the while wondering why he would bring her to this place.

~X~

She wakes in bed, the remnants of a man's laughter and a woman's playful taunting lingering even as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. Ostara twists to look at Rubeus, shocked to find him not occupying his usual place at Ostara's feet. When she throws her covers back to search for him she finds out why.

The sword, Renaehra's sword, had been placed at her feet sometime in the night alongside a roll of parchment that tells Ostara, when she opens it, that her plants have been taken care of and by the time she returns to the Vaelmaereon Keep they'll be grown enough for her to use in her potions. Ostara crumples the parchment and burns it before turning back to her sword.

Is this what Phil meant when he'd claimed she needed to learn? Surely it must be. Why else would he bring her the sword?

Ostara bites her lip as she drags it from her bed.

She'd always heard that Valyrian steel made the best swords. Lighter and stronger and sharper then even the finest castle-forged steel. The Targaryens have a few still in the Red Keep but nothing so amazing as this. Renaehra hadn't bothered with golden pommels inlaid with jewels, she'd been above that apparently, but the actual blade has a dragon carved into it.

Vagos.

He'd been Renaehra's bonded dragon and he'd died during the Doom.

Ostara bites her lip before rushing to pull the trunk from beneath her bed so that she can store her sword safely without anyone finding it. Then she changes into a simple dress and rushes from the room. Her father always goes to his study before breaking his fast and it's almost time for the morning meal. If she hurries she can still catch him.

So she runs faster, ignoring the startled cries and shrieks of servants as she rushes passed them.

When she reaches her father's study Ostara bangs once on the door before bursting in to find her father halfway out of his seat.

"Father," She says and his eyes widen, "I need you to teach me to wield a sword."

Her father blinks once, twice, three times before shaking his head and saying, "Ostara, you cannot learn the sword."

"And why not?" Ostara demands.

"Because I said so."

"You let Robert and Stannis learn how to fight."

"Stannis and Robert will be men one day."

"But I'll be a woman and wouldn't it be best if I could defend myself against, say, bandits."

Steffon leans back in his chair, lips pursed, and stares at her. Ostara thinks he wants her to back down first, which is silly because Ostara's never been one to crack first. So instead of taking back her request Ostara walks over to her father and takes his hands in her own.

"Please father? I've never wanted anything so much as I wanted Rubeus but I want this so badly."

"I will consider it."

"Truly?"

"Aye, now off with you. It's time to break our fasts."

Ostara bounces up to press a firm kiss to her father's cheek before darting toward the door where she throws a delighted, "Thank you!" at the man sitting behind the great mahogany writing desk.

~X~

"Ostara," her father says three weeks later when Ostara is making her way from the library to her own chambers, "might I have a word?"

The girl looks up from the old tome she'd found in a dusty corner of the library ignored by many. It's some sort of Maester's book. Medicines and herbs and types of wounds spread across the pages for Ostara to study. Maester Cressen may be a sweet, indulgent man but he's never truly let her take any of his medical books. They're certainly not as interest or detailed as the Medical Journals and books Hermione would read whenever she found herself unbelievably bored but they're informative enough.

She thinks that if she had time to study the plants and herbs used for healing in this world she might be able to come up with something a bit more useful then some of the pastes and ointments used by Maesters in this world.

"Of course, Father."

Steffon presses his hand to the space between her shoulder blades to guide her down the long corridor to his study. It's the most secure place in the Keep considering no one in their right mind would try to barge into the room or press their ear against the door in an attempt to hear what was being said.

Ostara moves to stand by the desk as her father takes a seat.

"I've considered your request and if it means so much to you I will find you a sword master," Her father says at last. "However, this must remain a secret between me, your instructor, and yourself. No one else may know."

"Not even Stannis?"

The sigh that leaves her father sounds incredibly put out.

"You may tell Stannis, you'll tell him either way, and your mother has already been informed. I meant that you may not tell Cerys or any of the other servants, nor may you say anything to the Prince in your letters."

"Of course I won't tell anyone but Stannis."

"Not even Robert?"

"Not even Robert."

Her father nods once before clasping his hands together and leaving them on the desktop.

"Stannis outgrew his old training leathers recently. I'd considered giving them to one of the younger lads training here but then I thought that they should fit you well enough."

"Thank you, father."

The older man smiles, reaches out, and ruffles her curls. He laughs heartily when Ostara smacks his hand away form her head before sending her back on her way with the knowledge that by next week she'll be meeting her new sword master. She can't wait to meet him, or her, because they'll teach her to wield a sword. It's unlikely her father would hire anyone who wasn't at the very least competent with a blade, so Ostara doesn't have to worry about the quality of her education.

Ostara pushes the door leading to her room open, steps in, and closes the door behind her. She smiles at Rubeus as she places her new book on the small writing desk before turning to the chest sitting innocently near her door. Stannis' old leathers are in there, surely, and Ostara is quick to prop the lid open to get at the training gear which consists of a vest and a pair of worn boots.

Anyone else might have been offended at the thought of having hand-me-downs, especially noble born girl who'd never had a single thing second hand in their life, but Ostara's thankful for it. Stannis' old leathers are soft and well worn, they won't pinch beneath her arms or leave her with blisters on her feet thanks to him having used them so often.

Eventually she'll outgrow them but until then they'll suit her needs perfectly.

But just to be sure Ostara tries the vest and boots on and goes to look at herself in the mirror handing above her dressing table.

"Why are you wearing my old leathers?"

"Why are you in my room without my permission?"

Stannis frowns at her as he makes his way to the writing desk where he takes a seat. Ostara offers him a smile before moving to wrap him in a hug.

"Father has agreed to find me a sword master."

"Why?"

"Because apparently girls don't fight and if I'm to learn the sword it must be in secret."

The face Stannis makes is terribly amusing but he doesn't comment on it. Instead he tosses a letter and a small parcel onto Ostara's writing desk and says, "The Prince wrote you another letter."

"How do you know it's the prince who's wrote me? It could be from any of my friends."

"You have all of three friends, Ostara," Stannis comments blandly. "Myself, Cerys, and apparently the Prince. Who else would have written you if not the prince?"

"I have friends."

"Who?"

"Alysanne Tarth."

Stannis blinks at her before shaking his head and making his way toward the door, "Tell the Prince I said hello when you write him."

Ostara glares at her brother's retreating back and only once he's gone does she snatch up the letter and begin reading whatever it is the Prince has decided to write her about.

Cousin Ostara

None of his letters have never begun with such a word. Ostara has always been Lady Ostara in all of Rhaegar's letters to her. So it's a bit odd that he would call her such now. But she ignores it for the time being and continues reading.

I hope this letter finds you in good health.

In regards to your thoughts on Maester Munkun's writings, I find myself unable to see why you would dislike his work. There are some inaccuracies to be sure, but as a whole the book is not so terrible. But if you truly found his word so unbearable I have sent along a book of Valyrian history that I think you might enjoy.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

Ostara reads the letter over twice before tossing it onto the desk and reaching for the parcel. She pulls away the thin brown paper and finds herself staring at a book bound in rust colored leather. It's in impeccable condition and Ostara can't believe Rhaegar would risk such a valuable book's condition on a trip from King's Landing to Storm's End. It's odd, Ostara doesn't know what to think of it. But instead of obsessing over it Ostara sits down to write a reply to the prince.