Jon - Year 298
It was the first time in years he'd felt the bite of the cold air upon his skin. Winter was coming, they all said on the march back to Winterfell. As wave after wave of grizzled soldiers rode past Greywater Watch and Moat Cailin, news trickled in from further north, of mornings which saw the brittle grass frozen over, and several reports of summer snows from Deepwood Motte all the way down to White Harbor. It'd been the longest summer in memory, a memory which took up most of his life, but many thought this year would finally see its end.
They'd avoided all such portents riding through the hills above the Bite, searching for any remnants of the enemy invaders. The battle had served its purpose for the enemy, it had seemed, it'd bought Rhaegar's man Jon Connington time enough to march further east, and though they'd given chase, there had been no signs of the invaders save a few stragglers here and there, hiding in the hills. Sooner rather than later, Jon heard the grumblings from the men, that they'd fought in the south far enough, it was time to return home, especially with winter coming, to tend to their hearths and harvests.
"Will there be direwolves?
The boy had taken to trailing him on the march back, seeing as Jon was one of the few in the northern camp who didn't threaten several times a day to kill him slowly and bleed him like a stuck pig.
"North of the Wall, young Prince. They seldom venture south of it."
"Not even in winter?"
Jon paused, holding his horse still as he tried remembering whether any of Old Nan's stories ever told of the creatures roaming the very woods outside of Winterfell.
"Probably not."
"Do you spar boy," he asked one day, traversing yet another barren section of the Kingsroad, Jon recognizing that they were but only two or three days away from home.
"I'm better with my spear than my sword," Trystane answered, shivering through his thin southern robes, and Jon reminded himself to find a proper wolf's pelt for the boy as soon as they arrived in Winterfell.
"Ser Rodrik would get a kick out of that," Jon said, chuckling. "I'll show you a few things myself, if I have time."
"You will?" The boy's eyes were eager, as if he'd already forgotten that he was their hostage. "I'd be no match for you, Ser Jon."
He'd given up reminding the boy that northern men rarely took such titles. "No, you won't be. But you'll be a better sparring partner than Tommen, that's for sure."
Or Kendron, Jon knew. The heir to Winterfell, less than two years younger than Jon, clearly preferred his books to the sword, and Jon wondered if Benjen had already given up on the idea of training his eldest son into becoming a feared warrior. It'd been Jon he'd taken to war, after all, not his own heir.
"Git me another glass," his uncle muttered, on what was to be likely their last night on the road, "an' one fer yerself too."
"Are you sure, uncle Benjen?"
He nodded wordlessly, and Jon went to fetch the ale. It was strange, his uncle had barely a drop of the stuff further south, when all his lords were drunk night and day alike, celebrating their grand victory over the southrons, yet the further north they rode, the more ale the man consumed.
Makes sense, Jon mused, handing his uncle the glass. I'd drink more than he, had I the Lady Cersei for a wife.
"Why didn't we go to King's Landing," Jon asked, sipping upon his ale slowly. "I'm sure they would've had many a grand feast, to celebrate the war, an' us winning it fer them."
"Hmmff," his uncle spoke into his ale, "We've bin...'way from Wint'fell t'many...nights a'ready. Any longer, and I'm cup home t-...t' new fair er'd lads...in'sted o' just one."
His one finger still raised in the air, Benjen Stark broke out in a loud bout of laughter, almost maniacally so.
"Two new fair haired lads," Jon tried to translate. Sadly, he become too good at deciphering his uncle's slurred speech on the latter half of this trip.
"Aye," he replied with a grin, a strangely bitter one, Jon thought. "I...I bit t'honerble Jaim'a' Lan'ster's come ta Winterful twice er thrice a'ready, askin' fer supplies an' men an'..."
"What do you mean?" Suddenly, it felt as if all the ale he'd drank had already drained from his blood, and something changed in Benjen's eyes too, as if alerted by his astonished tone.
"Not a word," Benjen ordered with a whisper, voice instantly strict as he held one finger to his mouth. Though Jon could smell the ale on his breath, his uncle's gaze...and his voice, seemed far more cognizant of the two of them than just mere seconds before. "D'yer understand?"
"I...I understand?"
"You understand this," Benjen shrieked through his hushed voice, grabbing Jon close to him with both hardened hands. "Tommen and 'Cella...I...I love them, y'understand? They're my childrin, I'm th'one who raised them, who fed them, who sat with them when they're sick, not Ser J..."
For a moment he thought his uncle was close to choking on his ale. Then, Benjen let out a loud burp, and normally that would've been a laughing matter between the two of them...but not tonight.
"I understand," Jon replied, feeling the weight of all of winter upon his shoulders.
Tyrion
She was a small woman, Tyrion thought, almost as small as the Queen's younger sister. While the ladies of Keep were far from prudes, the court of the Direwolf was, according to most who'd lived through both, a much more austere court than the ones under the Mad King and his Targaryen predecessors. King Eddard had never kept any mistresses, so far as most of them knew, and Tyrion doubted the new Queen would ever take up the habit when she became older.
Unless the Prince Viserys is what many say him to be.
But Viserys's younger sister was a different dragon altogether. Where the Prince's eyes seemed panicked at all times, where his body seemed to sway as unsteady as the wind even when standing indoors, Daenerys Targaryen seemed the perfect picture of composure from the moment he'd laid his eyes upon her. Her thin cream colored dress, almost clear under the light of the mid-afternoon sun when they'd first met and greeted her at harbor, revealed far more than her eyes, every curve and contour of the girl's body laid bare for all the lords and ladies to bear witness to. It was almost as if she were challenging them, I dare you to stare, I dare you to judge me, who are any of you to judge me, and though his thoughts were fleeting, and far from treasonous, the man they called the Imp couldn't help but wonder. He was undeniably loyal to Queen Sansa, and did not expect his loyalties to ever change, but by the Gods, this girl of seven and ten years was without a doubt the very reason seven entire kingdoms had venerated the Targaryens for almost three hundred years.
"Queen Sansa," the youngest of the dragons bent her knee before the little girl perched atop the Iron Throne. The Queen had chosen to wear a drab grey dress today, reminiscent of her northern roots, though the edges of the fabric were lined with gold and purple patterns intertwined.
"Princess Daenerys," the younger Queen answered calmly, "I understand you have come to King's Landing bearing a flag of truce. Are you here to accept the terms of the Crown, and to surrender the claim of your brother Rhaegar to the Iron Throne?" Her face remained as impassive as the Targaryen girl's, but Tyrion knew his charge well enough by now to know that Sansa Stark was most nervous when she appeared her coldest.
"I have, Your Grace." The words, so monumental in a way few in this room could even perceive, came gracefully, not grudgingly, but not easily either. Tyrion resisted the urge to clap his hands together in joy, before the girl continued. "And I have not."
Some of the gathered gasped, but others continued holding their breaths, knowing that such things as peace and surrender did not come as easy a child's dreams.
"What do you mean," thundered Jon Arryn across from the Queen Dowager, the two of them standing by the base of the steps and the closest to the Queen herself, aside from her Queensguard. "Are you here to waste our time, girl?"
"How you spend your time is entirely up to you, Lord Hand." The girl seemed completely unfazed the harsh words and tone of Jon Arryn. "My brother does not know I am here...though I imagine he's well aware of it now." She then returned her violet eyes towards the Queen. "I come here, Your Grace, of my own accord."
He could hear varied and confused mumbling from the lords and ladies around him, before Stannis spoke first.
"Is this a trick? A ruse, to get to your brother somehow?"
"It is not," Daenerys replied contemptuously, as if Stannis Baratheon were a common cook, and not one of the most powerful and feared lords in the realm.
"Are you fleeing from Rhaegar," Tyrion ventured to ask, "do you wish to join your brother Viserys in the Eyrie, or would you ask for a place in Her Grace's court?"
"You must be Lord Tyrion," the girl replied, amusement in her violet eyes as they studied him, as if he were the stranger in the Throne Room, the intruder, instead of her. "My brother Rhaegar and I remain on the best of terms...though I imagine he'll be...temporarily displeased with me upon my return, but such feelings will pass, I'm sure. And I remind you, my lords, that should anything untoward happen to me, King Rhaegar will treat it as a provocation, an act of war."
Baelish spoke. "Are we not at war right now?"
The girl shook her head. "My brother Rhaegar has decided upon his terms for peace. I thought I would be the best emissary to deliver such terms. I've no doubt my brother would've disagreed, so I made the decision to sail here myself. Nevertheless, the terms are his."
More murmurs and chatter, and even Arryn appeared lost for words at the audacity of this girl.
"They are," Tyrion asked, wondering, as Stannis said, whether this was some kind of strange and elaborate ruse concocted by Rhaegar and his Spider. Or was this all some childish joke or prank on the girl's part?
"King Rhaegar will forfeit his claim to the Iron Throne," Daenerys began, "but only when my brother marries the Queen and assumes the title of King Consort. Until then, King Rhaegar retains all his current titles, though he will wait and not make war upon the Seven Kingdoms, unless he suspects ill intentions or bad faith on the part of the Queen and her councilors."
"What about Dorne," the man they called Littlefinger asked presciently, "or the Iron Islands?"
"I assume ravens will have already been sent to Sunspear and Pyke, informing them of the King's decision. I would not expect any changes from King Balon, my brother promised the Iron Islands their independence in exchange for their support, and Rhaegar Targaryen is not one to renege on his promises. But no such promises were offered to Dorne, and while neither Rhaegar nor I can truly speak for House Martell, I would not expect them to continue their rebelli...their current stances, now that the support of House Targaryen has been withdrawn."
"If these be the terms," Arryn spoke, "then the Crown accepts." Nothing here had come as a surprise for them, save the messenger herself. Though Connington lived along with some mercenaries and knights, Rhaegar had lost the bulk of his fighting men, including the remaining Dornish fleet, intercepted by Lannister ships as they tried to round Fair Isle. Another surrender, even more hostages for the Crown, and Tyrion wondered if their treasuries were being torn asunder just to feed all of their prisoners from this last war.
"Your brother Rhaegar murdered my father," a wispy but firm voice interrupted them, just as smiles of triumph and relief were breaking out across the Throne Room. "I believe, Princess Daenerys, that's what you would call a...provocation?"
The little girl had spoken little in the capacity of the Queen since the Battle of King's Landing, nor had there been the need for her to do so. The last time she made a choice for herself, no one regretted it the more than Sansa Stark. And they'd given her few instructions for this day, except sit quietly upon the Throne, act politely, and let her councilors do all the talking. Yet she much be itching at the seams now, Tyrion thought. She'll test us, and continue to test us, as we should expect, as is the way of all children as they grow.
Her last outburst had helped end the war, and forge this peace they found themselves so tantalizingly close to. It would only be appropriate for the Queen threaten break it today, in a similarly unexpected manner, but the young dragoness did not seem to take any offense to her accusations.
"I bore no ill will for King Eddard," Daenerys replied gently, as if speaking to a younger sister of hers. "It was war, after all, but I am sorry for his death, Your Grace, and I am sorry you lost a father and brother."
"It wasn't war," Sansa replied, and while her words continued to challenge her, Tyrion had to admire the control in her tone, cold and steady despite the flames surely broiling in the girl's heart. "Not with Rhaegar, not with House Targaryen, not until my father died on Pyke because of the basest treachery."
"I understand," Daenerys said, her voice still tender. Turning her head, she beckoned towards her handmaidens, two of whom carried forward a large and heavy chest towards the base of the Throne. Sers Cortnay and Balon immediately moved to block them, but the Queen nodded her head, giving them permission to continue, and pulling back her guards with one easy motion.
"My brother has asked Balon Greyjoy to return to your family the remains of your father and brother. I understand it's but a small gesture, that nothing will return to you their lives, their love." The girl suddenly dropped to floor, as if she was about to prostrate herself completely, though she held her head upright. "I am in your debt, Your Grace. You spared the life of my brother Viserys, when you could have taken it. House Targaryen chose war, yet House Stark replied it with mercy. For that, I will always be thankful to Your Grace."
Rising, the silver haired girl walked over to the chest, and opened it under the wary eyes of the gathered lords and Queensguard, all ready to spring into action should some vicious or deadly creature of the east emerge from within to attack their Queen. Instead, the lid revealed only three moderately sized objects, oval in shape, and slowly the eyes all in the room widened in awe, aghast as they began perceiving just what exactly the Targaryen girl had brought into the castle.
Her own eyes caught in childish fascination, Sansa Stark rose from her seat and walked tentatively down the steps, as if her legs carried her body downward against her will, her Queensguard swarming to her side along with her mother and grandfather. Yet no one stopped the Queen as she approached the gifts, and bent down to touch them with her own tiny hands.
Her breath caught as she ran her fingers over the scaly objects, and the Queen looked up at the older woman in wonder.
"They're dragon's eggs?"
Daenerys nodded, and Tyrion thought the girl's eyes were suddenly close to tears.
"Ancient ones," Daenerys replied, "they've turned to stone, yet...they're the last of its kind, the last known in the world." Her voice barely approached a whisper as she spoke, as if their words were to be reserved as a secret between Princess and Queen. "The Magister gave it to me as a gift, for my sixteenth name day. Now they're yours, Your Grace...the last of the dragons."
The little Queen turned her eyes down at the priceless artifacts, then back at Daenerys, then back and forth several times before settling on the Targaryen princess. No words were exchanged between the two in that moment, but Tyrion thought that there was a look of...something...reflected in the eyes and demeanors of both girls. Sadness? Loss, melancholy?
Understanding?
"I thank you, Princess Daenerys," Sansa finally replied in a tone that seemed almost warm.
"It's the least I can do," the princess said in return. "May this gift bring about a new peace between our families, which will soon be one."
"Prince Viserys," the Queen suddenly remembered. "I'm sorry, would you like to visit him? We didn't know you were the one coming, not until two days before, but I'm sure my Lord Hand can provide an honor guard to accompany you to the Eyrie, you will be safe, I promise you."
"Your offer is generous," Daenerys replied demurely, her small feet backing away a step and a half from the Queen. "But I must return to my brother Rhaegar across the Narrow Sea, he worries much for me, and I'm afraid he may suspect foul intentions, where there are none, should I stay away too long."
"I understand," the Queen said. Approaching the young Princess, she reached out her arms, and the two girls clasped their hands together. "I wish you a safe journey, Princess Daenerys, and good fortune."
Letting out a heavy sigh of relief, Tyrion watched the girl's servants follow their Princess out of the Throne Room, her presence there already that of a ghost's, and wondered if it had been all a dream.
Sansa
Samtha was dead. She'd cried, but not as much as she would've, Sansa thought, before the whole war business began. It was sad, but she'd known much greater sadness, and had so much more weighing upon her heart now, since the coronation and the war. And her friend, her sweet handmaiden who adored her and treated her nicer than even Jeyne or Margaery, except her uncle had declared for Rhaegar, so they had to remove Samtha from court and send her to Storm's End as punishments for sins she'd never herself committed. Sansa thought to visit her one day, to bring her back to court once she had reached her majority, and more time had passed after Rhaegar's Rebellion, but the Gods insisted upon cruelty. The rainy climes of the Stormlands never agreed with Samtha, who'd become sickly, they said, before she even reached the castle. The poor girl never recovered, Renly had written her, coughing up blood nearly every day. By the end, they said her body was emaciated, and death when it came was more an act of mercy than punishment for the poor girl.
Death was never ending, once it came into her life. The war had killed Samtha, like it'd killed so many. Her treasonous uncle, killed at the Battle at the Bite's Edge, had in essence murdered his own niece by his actions, dragging her to join him in death. They at least waited until after the audience with the Targaryen girl to tell her the sad news, and Sansa was thankful that she did not make a fool out of herself once again in front of the entire country.
"I'm sorry," she heard Arya say softly, entering her chambers. "She was my favorite, out of all your ladies."
"The war's over," Sansa whispered, forcing a cough in her throat so as to keep herself from sobbing. "Praise the Seven, may Samtha be the last to die so unfairly."
"Everyone dies unfairly, all the time. It's the way of the world."
"I know," she replied, eyes wandering to the gift the Targaryen girl had given her. "Maybe I can change that, as Queen. What else use is there to my crown, anyway?"
"You will. You'll be a great Queen."
At first she had to give her sister a second look, expecting her words to have been uttered in jest, a typical smirk upon her face. But there was none, Arya was as serious and as solemn as, well, as Sansa had ever seen, since the day they found out about father and Robb.
"You're being awfully nice to me," Sansa said, not being able to help herself from grinning just a pinch. "Are you planning your own rebellion against me already?"
Her sister laughed, then walked up to Sansa and hugged her where she sat.
"You're getting easier to be nice to," Arya said, her chin resting upon her shoulder.
"What do you mean," Sansa asked suspiciously.
"You used to be much more awful," Arya said, drawing away. She shrugged. "You called me horseface all the time."
"That was Jeyne," Sansa countered.
"You said it too."
The Queen shook her head, though as she thought back, she knew she couldn't entirely deny her sister's accusations. "You must've been pulling my hair, or spilled gravy on one of my favorite dresses, or something hideous of that sort."
"And you called Shireen hideous."
"I did not!" But again, Sansa could not fully deny it in her mind. There'd been no shortage of times her sister and her friends had enraged her, when they were all younger. She would never call Shireen hideous today, it was unthinkable...but Sansa knew what she could have said and done before, in a different lifetime, it felt like, so vastly different from how she'd had to act once they put a crown upon her head.
"To be fair," Arya added with a grin, "I did dare her to whisper to Loras Tyrell that you fart all the time in your sleep."
"It's your fault," Sansa shouted, laughing as she picked up a small pillow nearby and threw it at her sister, who dodged it easily. "Everything's always your fault!"
"What'd you think of her," Arya asked, when they'd both calmed down.
"Daenerys?" Her sister nodded in affirmation. "Pretty," Sansa said thoughtfully. In truth, she barely recollected now the scene from earlier today, even the face of the dragon princess a complete blur in her mind after hearing about Samtha. "A lot more...royal than Viserys, anyway, she's more of a proper lady than he is a proper knight. And I certainly doubt she'd be a rapist, like her other brother."
"Maybe she's like Jon," Arya said thoughtfully. "Her coin landed on the right side." Slowly, her eyes turned towards the three dragon stones that now belonged to House Stark. "I can't believe she gave you those dragon eggs."
"What of it," Sansa replied, "they're just rocks. Interesting rocks, for sure, but..."
"I asked around," Arya said, her voice dreamy as she walked over towards the chest, bending down and feeling the eggs with her own hands. "These things would've cost the magister who gave it to her quite a fortune."
"Well that's what magisters do, isn't it? They have fortunes, and they spend it on silly things like dragon eggs."
Cupping both hands around one of the stones, Arya lifted the egg out of the chest, and walked it carefully over to Sansa, holding it as if it were the greatest treasure in the world.
"Don't worry," Sansa scoffed, "I doubt it'll break if you drop it."
She placed the egg upon the dressing table, and both girls stared at the object as it tilted over, settling unevenly onto its side. "To think, a few hundred years ago, and this could've been the next Meraxes, or Balerion the Dread." She turned to Sansa, an unmistakably mischievous look in her eyes. "We should try to hatch them."
"Don't be stupid, these eggs are too old, they won't hatch, or they would have done so already, hundreds of years ago." She touched the egg her one hand, feeling the edges of each perfectly curved stone scale rubbing against the tips of her fingers. These were real, Sansa knew, not just some mummer's joke from the Targaryen girl. They were too perfect not to be. "Besides, only Targaryens can hatch a dragon. Or tame them afterwards."
"Your children will be Targaryens."
"Maybe," Sansa shrugged, recalling her uncle Petyr's words. "Maybe not."
"A lot can happen between the beginning and the end of a betrothal."
"What are you going to do with them?"
"They're practically Targaryen sigils, I can't exactly decorate the Throne Room with them." She turned her head suspiciously towards her sister. "Do you want them?"
Arya laughed, though her eyes lingered covetously on the priceless object.
"They'd be useless for me, I suppose. Though maybe I can sell them, and get myself a few Valyrian steel swords with the gold."
The picture of her tiny sister holding up a sword as large as father's seemed beyond ridiculous. Though father had indulged her with her 'dancing' master, they'd all thought it was a passing fancy for Arya. Yet she continued to train tirelessly with the Braavosi man, even after father's death, so who was Sansa to make more trouble for herself by ordering an end to her sister's lessons? Besides, they told her that Arya was actually beating squires her own age in sparring matches, and Sansa did not know whether to be proud or embarrassed of her sister.
"I'll try to get father's sword back," Sansa said, watching her sister place the egg back into its place in the dark brown chest, "once everything is completely settled. You can have it. Maybe you can use it to slit Viserys's neck, if he annoys his Queen too much."
She was joking...but was she really? Deep down in her heart, Sansa had a feeling that her sister would kill for her, if she asked, even at the risk of her own life. Rising, she walked over to the exotic looking treasure chest. Both girls looked at the stones one last time, before Sansa lowered the lid and clasped it shut.
"We'll bring them with us to Winterfell," she finally decided. "Uncle Benjen can take care of them. I'm sure there'll be thieves who'll try to steal them, maybe he can keep them in the crypts, they'll be safe there."
Rhaegar
"What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that I'm tired of hiding."
Rhaegar sighed knowingly. The more she grew, the more Rhaegar understood that his child sister, no longer a child now, was no gentle flower, to be placed in the background and simply admired upon by others, nothing more. And while Daenerys's growing restlessness was far from the main imperative for his need to retake the throne as soon as possible, Rhaegar knew his sister would not be satisfied in Essos forever, and that a match had to be made for her in her native lands. Not that it would be easy, he needed a good and powerful house of good repute, of course, but Rhaegar also knew that not any lord would be able to handle a woman such as Daenerys Targaryen.
"It was dangerous," Rhaegar snapped. "They could've taken you, killed you even..."
"And lose this high ground of righteousness they stand upon now?" Daenerys scoffed. "Not the Starks, not the Arryns, not even the Tully's or Baratheons."
He looked towards Ser Lewyn, who merely shrugged, and wondered whether the knight had helped the girl make her escape. Lewyn had always had a soft spot for his sister, and if there was anyone in this palace who would help her...but then Lewyn Martell was a man of honor too, as much of a true knight as the likes of Arthur Dayne. And he, like Rhaegar, would never let Daenerys put herself in harm's way either. He had a feeling that whomever it was that let his sister slip through, he'd never find out, because what obligation did they have to him, a King on the precipice of abdication, or so they would have them believe?
"What'd you think?" There was no point in arguing further.
"Of what?"
"Of the Queen. Her court."
"Competent," Daenerys replied, after some thought. "The Imp seems interesting, as he ought to be, having tricked Viserys into losing the war. But otherwise, they're just a bunch of boring old men, older than even the two of you. They're tied by family," she continued, wandering the veranda as she spoke and thought at the same time, "obviously the Queen Dowager and Lord Hoster seem especially protective of Queen Sansa."
"The girl herself," Rhaegar questioned.
More contemplation. "I wouldn't underestimate her. She's young now, but...there's a strength in her eyes. They say she's the most southron of Ned Stark's children and yet...there's a...she doesn't seem to have the northern wildness to her, but...maybe a northern stubbornness...she will not yield easy, once she's older...not to Viserys, not to you..."
"The old men who are keeping her in power will die, once she's older," Rhaegar heard himself insisting. Something didn't seem right, in her voice, the way she observed him and took in his words, and when he looked again at Daenerys, Rhaegar felt ever the more lonelier. "You like her, don't you?"
Viserys abandoned me. Would you abandon me too, sister?
But Daenerys merely laughed off his suggestion. "I met her for all of two seconds. Certainly I was not disappointed..."
Footsteps echoed from the chambers, and the man they called the Spider joined them along the veranda, looking more satisfied and, dare he say, happy, than Rhaegar had seen in some time. Daenerys looked briefly startled by the man too, before regaining the impassive look in her face. She then turned to Rhaegar again.
"I know you'll continue your plans, you and Lord Varys. And you are my King, I will be loyal to you always. But..."
"But what," Rhaegar responded more harshly than he meant to. "You want me to give up, surrender, be done with it all, let your fool brother sit in that throne with this wolf girl you so admire now?"
The Dragon must have three heads.
Can I trust her?
She looked to Varys first, a knowing glance exchanged between eunuch and princess, before Daenerys replied back to Rhaegar. "Do what you have to do, brother. I have no say in such things, but...I do ask you...whatever has to happen, will happen. But, when it comes to the girl...and our brother...to consider for them compassion, if you can, if it's at all possible."
He grunted, suddenly eager for his sister to leave, so soon after fretting over her from the day she went missing to the day she sailed back to Pentos. "Very well."
Recognizing his mood, the change in his demeanor, she curtsied to him first, then Varys, before departing.
"Bittersweet, isn't it," the Spider finally muttered, after the girl had disappeared down the long corridors. "They grow older...yet we grow even older still."
"You have news?" Suddenly he was eager to be rid of the Spider too, and even Ser Lewyn, solitude being the sweetest drink Rhaegar could imagine at this moment.
Lord Varys smiled, and withdrew from his robes a small, worn booklet. "The High Septon's diary."
Rhaegar's eyes widened, and he took it eagerly from the eunuch, careful not to displace the page Varys had marked out with one finger as he handed it to his King.
"It's true then," he muttered in astonishment, his eyes greedily devouring the vital page in question.
"The Citadel is not the easiest place to extract such...artifacts," Varys said as he read, "but nothing is entirely impossible, given the will and the resources."
It was true, and the truth was the truth, it had always been. But the truth did not free him, because Rhaegar had always known the truth, yet it'd never mattered, had never helped him before or since, and so quickly after his brief bout of joy, he felt his mind slipping back into despondency.
"They'll never believe it," he grumbled, shoulders slumping, his thin body sinking back into his wheelchair. "They never believed me before, they'll just claim it's a fake, another lie..."
To his chagrin, Varys did little to comfort him. "You're right," the Spider said, agreeing, "they won't believe the truth...for now. Men believe what they want to believe, Your Grace. They don't want to believe the truth today...but one day, they will."
"How? Why?"
"Our friend in King's Landing remains," Varys said, taking back the small booklet and returning it to its hiding spot deep inside his labyrinthian robes. "He'll continue to work with us. And we have something on our side, far more dependable than such a flip of the coin, as is the vagaries of war."
"What's that," Rhaegar asked, eyes never leaving the spot where the Spider had rehidden the diary.
"The hearts of girls and men."
Petyr
"A raven, Lord Baelish, from the Eyrie."
Petyr opened the scroll, noting its seal, and the signature of Lyn Corbray, castellan of the castle sitting at the heart of the Vale, and one of his own men, bought and very well paid for. It seemed that the young Prince Viserys had taken well to his surroundings already, bedding several of the servant girls and even a granddaughter of Lady Waynwood, at least one of them rather forcibly.
"So soon," Petyr muttered to himself, "so impatient, the young..."
Taking out his quill, he wrote his instructions to the man, to keep quiet, so that word of this would never leave the Eyrie. And moon tea, copious helpings of it, especially for the serving girl whom Ser Lyn speculated was already with child, though he figured that Corbray had enough sense to have that taken care of already.
Be rid of any of the girls if you have to, he wrote with a finishing flourish, by any way you deem respectable.
With one last look at the letter he'd received, he flicked the thin piece of parchment into the fire and watched it burn.
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Notes and responses: I imagine there's some truth to what Petyr's saying. After all, Tyrion did admit in the last council meeting that he'd not been previously aware of the "incident" with Arianne. Yet, I'd probably guess that LF isn't telling Sansa the whole truth. And if both Arianne and Doran seem like they're acting OOC...well, I'd imagine there'd be a reason for that perception, and perception may not always match reality.
As for why not wed Jon and Sansa...had Robert taken the throne, they could've at least claimed some legitimacy for his reign through his Targaryen blood. Because they crowned Ned instead of Robert...or Stannis, the entire political foundation of House Stark, and the entirety of their political legitimacy, their mythos, rests on the complete illegitimacy of House Targaryen, on the story, the fable, the fact that they'd forfeited completely their right to rule. If men like Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully had their way, Ned wouldn't have ever told anyone the truth of Jon's parentage, even without Robert in the background...but it'd been too late by then for them to put that genie in the bottle.
So now, for them to have tried to wed Sansa to Jon would be acknowledging some legitimacy to House Targaryens claims, and undermining the legitimacy of House Stark which they'd been working so hard to build over the intervening years. That's why, had Sansa not acted herself, they never would have suggested a marriage to Viserys either (right now they're just going along with it, especially Jon, because breaking the betrothal now would be a huge loss of face and honor).
