Lewyn

The older she grew, the more he avoided her, because Lewyn knew what she wanted, Daenerys Targaryen always made sure she got. Why him now, an old man and failed knight, Lewyn could not guess upon. The Princess deserved someone far better than an aged exile, and as he was apt to do these days, Lewyn imagined a world where the rebellion never happened, where Lyanna Stark had never been born, and Rhaegar's focus and determination remained strong and undistracted in those vital first weeks immediately after Harrenhal. Once Rhaegar ascended to the throne, the King's sister would have been wooed by every knight and lord and boy in the Seven Kingdoms, deserving or not, and with any luck, she could've married someone she genuinely loved, the way his nephew Doran found his wife travelling the Free Cities. Perhaps a gallant young boy like Robb Stark, to cement the crown's ties with the north in that magical world?

Except in such a fantasy, the boy Robb Stark, a decent boy, they said, who'd been murdered because of their actions, their war, would've never lived in the first place. Eddard Stark may well have settled even further in the south, in Starfall rather than the Red Keep, and Catelyn Tully would've wed Brandon Stark and lived as the Lady of Winterfell, rather than a Queen first, then Queen Dowager after. And where children like Robb and Sansa and Arya Stark would've never been born, Elia and her children would be alive in their place...as would his nephew Oberyn. Oberyn's blood was on his hands, Lewyn had come to accept, a direct consequence of his trip to the Stepstones and the conversation he had with Doran.

"What are you thinking about," a soft voice asked next to him. He failed at avoiding her, just like he failed at everything else. Or perhaps, he wanted her to seek him out, or why else would he sit upon his favorite rock overlooking the waters of the Narrow Sea, pretending to seek solitude?

"Home," he whispered instantly.

"I saw it," she whispered back at him. "Home. The castles of my family, the throne that Aegon built. And a stranger sitting upon it."

Obviously he never would have allowed the girl to escape from the city, had she been foolish enough to inform him of her plans beforehand. But part of him wished he could have gone with her, and seen her expressions, her unconcealed emotions the moment her eyes first surveyed the continent of her ancestors, a continent she'd never set foot upon before then.

"Does that bother you?"

It took her some time to answer.

"It feels wrong," Daenerys said, looking at him inquisitively, "but there's many things wrong with this world, isn't there? The Starks are wrong to sit on the Iron Throne...yet my father was wrong in burning them. And Rhaegar was wrong for loving a woman who wasn't his wife."

Lewyn grunted, because there was nothing she said that he could find himself disagreeing with.

"You want this peace, don't you?"

"This false peace?" He did not answer her. "Rhaegar is a good man, and a great king," she continued. "Viserys would not be a good king, by himself, or as a consort to Sansa Stark."

"But...," Lewyn pressed, sensing that the girl was holding something back, whether for his sake or her own, he could not tell.

"But is a bad king worse than a bad war?"

"Bad kings create worse wars."

"Like my father." Lewyn could not deny that, and Daenerys looked away. "They say King Eddard was a good king, even here in Pentos. Yet he committed the basest of treasons, he usurped and took what was not his to take. But Eddard Stark is dead. His children, Sansa, Bran, Arya...even Robb Stark...they never committed treason, did they? They weren't even born, when Tywin Lannister murdered Aegon and Rhaenys."

"They didn't commit treason then," Lewyn replied. "They do now, by sitting on that throne before your very eyes, Sansa Stark is committing treason."

An innocent girl of twelve or thirteen, Lewyn thought to himself. Would you take her head yourself for it, given the chance, given the order? What did you do, when you stood beside Aerys? What more could you be capable of, if Rhaegar was more like his father, and not the man he is? Are you no better, when it comes down to it, than the likes of Tywin Lannister or Gregor Clegane?

"Do you expect her to bend the knee after her father died, then ride back to Winterfell?"

"No," Lewyn said, amused that he was finding himself outargued by a child. But that was incorrect, wasn't it? It was his position, his white cloak, not his mind, that was being out debated by Daenerys Targaryen.

"I'm no longer a maiden," she suddenly volunteered.

"Who?" It bothered him, the speed in which he spun to ask the question. If Lewyn Martell were the man he should have been, such a statement would have meant nothing to him. Yet the words struck him deeply, and Lewyn wondered whether what he felt was similar to the feelings a protective father would have towards his child, or something else entirely.

"It doesn't matter," she replied dismissively. Without warning, she placed both her hands against his head, and he felt his body frozen in agony as she moved her head, her lips, in his direction. To his relief, she only planted a light kiss upon his forehead, and Lewyn thought he could breathe again.

"I will always...care for you," she said, still holding him inside her hands, "but I won't wait for you forever, Ser Lewyn."

"You're thinking of running away again, aren't you?" Slowly, he brushed one of her hands away from the side of his head, and she removed the other. "I don't know how you did it last time, but I..."

"Rhaegar will allow it."

"He will?" At first, he thought she was lying, but Lewyn knew full well that Daenerys Targaryen, whatever person she was, whatever woman she would grow to be, was not a liar.

"He said he will allow you to accompany me, wherever I go. To protect me," she added. "But that he won't order you to come with me."

"What if I say no?"

She looked at him sadly, as if he'd already made his decision irrefutably. "Some of the Unsullied who survived with Connington will sail with me. Rhaegar offered me Connington too, but...," Daenerys shook her head dismissively.

He knew what she wanted to do, the girl had vented to him her dreams practically her entire life. To sail the seas, to visit all the Free Cities she hadn't yet seen, to ride with the Dothraki in the Great Grass Sea, see the tall pyramids of Slaver's Bay, stand below the walls of Qarth. Now, with at least the semblance of peace declared between her brother and the Iron Throne, Lewyn wouldn't have been surprised if the girl held even the intention to visit the very Wall of the North herself.

And Rhaegar was giving Lewyn permission to free himself from his vows, were Daenerys was telling him the truth. Granted, he'd still be serving the royal family, protecting one of its own...but Lewyn wasn't going to fool himself that it was the same thing, travelling the world with a beautiful Princess. East, west, south...to Dorne, even? To see his family, or what remained of it...little Arianne and Quentyn, to walk amidst the Water Gardens again?

"I can't," he heard himself saying. "My place is with the King."

It was the truth, even if it broke her heart, even if it broke both their hearts. Yet, this fantasy that he would find happiness or enlightenment travelling with the Princess, that he was anything but the cloak he'd worn since he'd been little older than she, was a lie. Stripped of his cloak, and his vows...the King he'd stood beside every day since that fateful day on the Trident, where he'd dishonored both Rhaegar and Robert by his actions, Lewyn Martell knew he was nothing.

And he tried to feel nothing in his heart as he watched Daenerys Targaryen walk away from him without so much as another word.


Arya

"You're the Queen now, you have to at least pretend to like this place."

"I don't dislike it," Sansa insisted, as they walked through the courtyard of Winterfell, a smaller one compared to the many in the Keep, but cozier in a way, and more comfortable, Arya thought. "I wouldn't want to come here during Winter though."

It didn't escape either girls' notice how they all stared at them unabashedly, from the servants to the guards to Lady Cersei's children alike. While their father was the King, he'd also grown up in this castle, and he was no stranger to many of older men and women who remembered a younger Ned Stark before he'd gone to live with Jon Arryn and Robert in the Vale. Father always treated it like home, whenever he returned, ambling through the halls and talking to everyone in the castle like it was his own. Arya knew she and Sansa were strangers here comparatively speaking...especially Sansa. Robb always had Jon, so had Arya, Bran was good friends with Tommen, she even watched Rickon running around happily with Rykka this trip, but Sansa...

Kendron was older than her, and Mycella too young, though age made little difference, considering that Arya considered Jon amongst the best of her friends, even though he was six years older than she. She heard the whispers even before they named her Queen, that Sansa thought herself too perfect, too fancy, too highborn, for their northern cousins. Arya believed that once too, though she'd come to realize that it wasn't pride that kept Sansa from embracing their northern kin, but because she felt too...different. She'd been the queen of her little roost of hens even before they put a crown on her head, but here in Winterfell...it seemed as if Sansa knew she was supposed to be the blood of the First Men, she was supposed to feel at home in the North, and the fact that she didn't made her feel...scared? Maybe even ashamed, to better make friends?

They'd sit in a warm room by the fire, because they always needed a fire, even on nights during the summer, the last time they'd come here all together with father and Robb, their family complete. The younger children had gone to sleep, Kendron was hiding somewhere because he was always hiding, so it had just been her and Robb and Jon and Sansa. The two older boys traded jokes and insults, Robb had snuck somehow a pitcher of ale that he'd shared with Jon, while Arya sat in between them, daring herself to utter a dirty word or two in front of the older boys. Behind them all sat Sansa, watching them contently while she knitted herself some pretty dress or another. But Arya had caught the ever present smile on her sister's face whilst she sewed, even when they weren't throwing out dirty jokes, and knew in her heart that Sansa was just as happy as she was.

"You should go north with grandpapa and Lord Tyrion," Sansa encouraged. "I know you've always wanted to see the Wall."

"Trying to get rid of me already," Arya teased.

"It would make for a quieter trip back to King's Landing."

"They'd never let me go," Arya said wistfully. How many years would it be before they'd let her do her own thing, she wondered? She was five away from her majority. Hopefully they'd give her a few years to herself, before they'd have her marry some dumb lord whose skill with the sword wasn't even as good as hers.

Sansa would be Queen, really the Queen by then. Maybe she won't make me marry, if I tell her I don't want to. Not until I found someone for me, be he a lord or a butcher's son.

"I could order them to let you go," Sansa insisted next to her.

"Don't lie to me," Arya nearly spat on the ground, "I know how it works. You can't even go to the chamberpot without your Council giving you permission first."

"Well," Sansa huffed, pretending to be mad at her, "I suppose I shouldn't even try to do anything nice for you."

Ahead of them, by the armory, Arya spied a familiar wave of dark hair, and was about to run and greet her cousin before she felt Sansa's hands tugging her back.

"What?"

"We should go see where mother is," Sansa muttered nervously.

"You don't want to see Jon," Arya asked, confused, as her sister looked away. Arya definitely wanted to. He'd fought in the battle at the Bite, they'd said, and Arya needed to know what it was like to kill a man, how many men he killed, did anyone hurt him, or come close to hurting him...

"Arya! San...Your Grace!"

It was too late for her sister, who frowned unhappily as she walked along with Arya in Jon's direction.

"He makes me think about Robb," she heard Sansa whisper to her, before they got too close to him. It made sense, it was impossible for Arya to see Jon too, and not think about all the happy times they'd shared together, with both older boys, but...

Jon wasn't just Jon now to Sansa anymore, was he? He was also Rhaegar's son, the son of their enemy, who'd conspired to kill their father and Robb. Obviously Jon had nothing to do with it, Sansa had to know that their cousin would have mourned Robb just as much as they...but...while Jon was just a cousin to Arya, he was a cousin, and a threat to her Throne too, wasn't he, now that Sansa was Queen.

Arya hoped that wasn't the case, that her sister wouldn't be so dumb as to mistrust Jon because of that, because that's exactly what their enemies would want, Starks mistrusting each other. But then, Sansa had been acting very oddly recently, when it came to Robb. There was a lingering sadness, obviously, same as when they talked of father, but with Robb, Arya sensed something more than just melancholy in her sister's eyes. She seemed almost...skittish? Nervous, anxious, whenever his name was brought up?

Such dark thoughts were forgotten as she jumped into her cousin's arms, feeling his strong hands wrapping around her back, hugging her tightly inside his embrace. Then he hugged her sister, and everything seemed normal, so maybe all her worries were useless, that there was nothing wrong with Sansa's feelings towards Jon, except what she'd just told her.

"I've got presents made for you." Jon gestured for the smith, standing nearby. "First, for Your Grace..."

"Call her Sansa," Arya interrupted, "or it'll get to her head."

"Sansa's fine," her sister agreed with a smile, as Jon handed her several large, dark objects of what looked to be armor.

"I heard you fought in the Battle of King's Landing yourself."

"I did not," Sansa denied, as if she still believed such things to be improper for a lady. "I stood on the walls far from the battle and watched."

Jon laughed, and placed his finger over his lips. "Don't tell anyone here then, all the Northern lords are absolutely eating up the idea of their fierce Stark Queen raising her sword and leading her men in battle against the wicked Targaryens."

"I guess I won't disappoint them then," Sansa said, holding the armor and running her fingers carefully along its surface. "Is this leather?"

"Aye," Jon nodded. "I pray you won't have to fight in anymore wars. But with...Rhaegar still out there...well, Winter is coming, isn't it? Even far in the south."

"Thank you, Jon."

"It's a bit big for you, sister," Arya commented, watching Sansa try and fit the breastplate in front of her body. She would've laughed at her, watching her sister stumbling clumsily back into the Maegor's Holdfast after the battle, except the battle had been a serious occasion, and she had been truly scared, though Arya would never admit that to anyone, not even mother, or Shireen.

"You'll grow," Jon said with a chuckle, before bending down into a crouch and turning towards her. "And for you, little one..."

"Hey," Arya protested, "I won't always be this little."

"Well," Jon replied, reaching around his back to draw out a thin object, "when you do grow...if you do grow, I'll need to get you a bigger sword than this one."

Arya's eyes widened as they fell upon the thin blade being presented to her by her cousin. Grabbing the small hilt, feeling it fit perfectly within the palm of her hands, she backed away from both Jon and Sansa, and swung it carefully several times through the air. The tiny weapon felt so light in her hands, flying and whirling quicker than she'd first anticipated. Pointing the tip of the sword at her own eye, she saw to her satisfaction that it was indeed sharp, deadly sharp. It was far different than any practice sword she'd ever held, even Syrio's sword, which he'd let her hold once, but Arya was confident her dancing master would be delighted with this new weapon, which she'd known from the moment she took it in her hands, was truly hers, and would be, forever.

"...say all the best swords have names," she heard Jon tell her.

Looking devilishly at Sansa, recalling all the times her sister bored to her death, sitting and sewing in her room, then back at her own needle like blade, Arya knew exactly what she would name it.


Sansa

He looked older than she'd imagined. They'd spoken about Dornish boy her uncle Benjen had taken captive in battle, and it was easy for her to have thought him to be a child, and to forget that she herself was still one too. In reality, she judged Trystane to be close to her own age, a bit shorter, and a bit more timid and shy than she would imagine an enemy of hers to be. But then he was a child, Sansa reminded herself, that just as she'd never had any say in having to sit on the Iron Throne, Trystane Martell was probably the last reason Dorne chose to go to rebel against her.

"You're Prince Trystane," she said, walking up to him as he ate by himself in the corner of the meal hall. On the far side sat Lady Cersei and several of her children, whom she wanted to avoid this morning, sneaking into the room from an opposite corner with Ser Balon by her side. The Lady of Winterfell had never been anything but nice to her, but there always seemed to be something hidden behind her smiles, as if she were holding back a bitter pill in her mouth even as she tried suggesting not so subtly that Sansa ought to take her older daughter into her service as one of her ladies in waiting. Which Sansa was not averse to once the girl was older, because she did like Myrcella though, like everything else, she figured she'd need to get her Council's permission first.

"I...yes...Your Grace, I guess that's me."

She could not begrudge him the awkward response, it had been an odd way to initiate a conversation with a stranger, but though Sansa had thought for a long time about talking to the boy, and knew exactly what she wanted to ask him, after a year on the throne she was becoming far more accustomed to been addressed to, than the opposite.

"I hope my uncle is treating you well." They told her he was behaving, well, like a good hostage, but still Sansa wanted to tread carefully, and not go out of her way of making an enemy out of the boy. From across the room, Myrcella, Tommen, and Rykka watched her curiously, wondering why the Queen was bothering wasting her time with a traitor. Lady Cersei smiled, a perfunctory one, Sansa could tell, before turning her attentions back to Kendron, the heir to Winterfell having few interests, they told her, aside from sitting beside his mother and reading his books, usually at the same time.

"He does," Trystane replied nervously, looking around to see just who was watching them, probably guessing this was some sort of royal trap. Sansa tried smiling, to assure him that her intentions were not ill. "The food here is...different," he said, poking his fork at a gray slab of meat, "and the winds at night...but, they feed me well, I guess, but..."

He has kind eyes, Sansa thought. Sad ones too. The boy was cognizant enough to avoid offending the niece of his hosts, but his dark eyes couldn't hide the truth completely.

"It's not home, is it?"

"It's..., it's different from Sunspear, Your Grace. Or the Water Gardens."

"This might have been home for me," Sansa said, looking around at the drab stone walls surrounding them, where unlike many of the well lit chambers of the Red Keep, it seemed the only thing lighting the room were the nearby torches, even on a sunny morning. "We're the first Starks to have a home outside of Winterfell...you don't have to lie to me, it's a pretty boring castle."

Again she smiled, to show him she was being friendly, and felt relieved seeing Trystane feeling comfortable enough to laugh alongside her.

"Have you ever been to King's Landing," she continued asking, "or the Red Keep?"

The Dornish boy shook his head. "I heard it's a huge castle, taller than even the Great Sept of Baelor!"

"It is," Sansa said, though it didn't feel that large to her, not when she knew where most of the hallways and corridor led. Not as well as Arya, probably, but there were few wings of the castle she called home that she hadn't visited at least once, Sansa figured. "My favorite places are the gardens, they have flowers of all colors, brought over from all the seven kingdoms. There was this little bench I would sit, when I was a child, smell the sweet lavender scents and listen to the waves crashing below."

She missed it already.

"You'd love the Water Gardens," Trystane suddenly spurted out, forgetting for the first time that he was a traitor speaking to the Queen whom he'd betrayed. "It's not big like the Red Keep...and our gardens probably aren't as beautiful as yours, but...they're pretty nice too. There's fountains in every corner, you can hear them splashing wherever you walk, and the sound of the birds chirping..."

He trailed off, and Sansa regretted making him sadder, reminding him about a home he may never see again.

"I'd like to see it one day," she said absentmindedly, realizing only after she said them the absurdity to her statement. Even though Dorne had made their peace and sent over to them all the gold her Small Council had demanded, no one was under the illusion that Prince Doran, the father of the boy before her, was happy with the peace, and would not take the first opportunity he could to get his revenge on losing the war. Remembering why she came here, Sansa tried as subtly as she could to bring up the subject. "Did my brother Robb like the Water Gardens, or Sunspear?"

Trystane's eyebrows winced into a frown, and Sansa could not tell whether he was remembering, or trying to think of a convincing lie to tell her.

"He wasn't someone who cared that much about flowers or gardens, that's for sure."

"Sounds like Robb," Sansa recalled with a smile.

"He'd go out riding a lot. At first my brother Quentyn would join him, but I don't think he could keep up with your brother, so a lot of times he'd leave in the morning and take rides by the shoreline by himself. He liked watching my uncle Oberyn practice with his spear too. And Areo's longaxe...that's my father's captain, he kept asking him to teach him how to fight with one."

"If only he'd learned that before Pyke," she heard herself muttering, shutting her mouth before she could blurt out any more undiplomatic mistakes.

Did it happen so quickly, Sansa wondered, though she knew better than to speak it, that he'd be sparring with the likes Oberyn Martell one day, then getting betrayed and murdered by the same family less than one year after?

It was too late, her true feelings towards his family had already come out.

"I'm sorry," Trystane whispered, his eyes downcast.

"It wasn't your fault," she tried assuring him, "you weren't the one who made the decisions."

"It wasn't uncle Oberyn's decision either, I don't think he wanted to join the rebellion at all."

This she did not know. Did Petyr know this, or her Council? Did it matter anyway? The war was over, and the man in question dead, killed in her name.

"Was it because of your sister, Arianne?"

Recognition dawned in his eyes, she thought.

This is why you sought me out, he was probably thinking. This is why you bothered with me, because I'm nothing except another hostage for you, except I know something you don't.

"I don't think Arianne loved Robb like," he finally stammered, after some time presumably deciding whether or not he was going to confide in her, "like my uncle Oberyn loved Ellaria, his paramour. But she wanted badly to be his Queen."

Robb had never mentioned the Dornish Princess to her, or her brothers and sisters, she'd gathered as much. But it appeared now that they hadn't been complete strangers, at the very least.

"Was he in love with her?"

It was a prettier alternative to asking whether her brother was a bad person, a scoundrel. Again, Trystane took his time in responding, taking a bite of steamed carrots and chewing carefully as he thought through his answer.

"If he was...I didn't know about it. I've seen courting...he didn't act like someone who was courting my sister, walking her through the gardens, singing songs for her, anything like that. They talked, I don't think he was ever rude to her, but...I don't think he wanted Arianne to be his Queen."

It made sense, Sansa thought. Margaery was his true love, she remembered the way they looked at each other, holding hands whenever they could, exchanging secret glances across from across the table during suppers. How could her brother fake something as...real, as that? Could Sansa allow herself to hope, that somehow Petyr had been wrong?

"I'm sorry I don't know more," he continued. "They don't tell me anything, really. Not father, not Arianne."

"Is it true that your brother challenged Robb to a duel?" She felt guilty, continuously pressing the poor boy about things he was visibly discomforted by, but Sansa felt like she had to know. And why should she feel guilty? After all, wasn't he a traitor, didn't he owe the truth, however much of the truth he knew at least, to his Queen? Much to her surprise, Trystane burst out laughing.

"Quentyn wouldn't last a minute against Prince Robb in a duel. They did argue though, but that was it."

"Because Robb...dishonored your sister?"

Trystane nodded, and Sansa felt crestfallen again. "Father sent him away, that same day he shouted at Quentyn, and he sent Arianne to the Sunspear. They said...I guess Robb did break her heart. I never saw her after that, then I sailed with uncle Oberyn to the Iron Islands...and I haven't seen her since. I hope she's come back to the Water Gardens though, that was always her favorite place."

The boy was no dimwit, and Sansa had a feeling that, just as she was afraid to give voice to her thoughts, that her brother had been an unworthy cad and scoundrel who'd disgraced his family name, Trystane must have been equally puzzled about how his sister could have suffered a broken heart over a man she did not seem to love, and why he had to join a rebellion against her family for it, and why did his uncle have to die for it?

And why would Robb try and seduce Arianne, if he didn't care for her, and she was the one who wanted to be his Queen? Though they'd fallen in love at Storm's End, Robb had always...well, she'd noticed even before then that he'd act differently, he'd act less like...Robb, whenever the Rose of Highgarden visited King's Landing.

"Thank you, Prince Trystane," she said, forcing a smile upon her lips, "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"It's an honor to speak to you, Your Grace," he said, rising along with her, and bowing properly. "I'm sorry about the...well, treason and war and all. I'd like to try and make it up to you...," he paused, looking away again, past Lady Cersei and her children. "Your cousin Jon is really good with his sword, and he's been teaching me. Maybe when I can be as good as him, or almost, I could serve you in your Queensguard."

As nervous as the boy had been earlier, Sansa noted that he seemed to gain some confidence once he started speaking about Jon and their practicing.

"I would be honored," she said agreeably, before remembering. "And I'm sorry about your uncle Oberyn too," she added, thinking how odd it was to be exchanging so many continuous apologies, back and forth, with a traitor. "If it wasn't his choice to join the rebellion, then we should...I can tell my Council, and maybe they can honor him in some way."

Walking through the hallways of the castle deep in thought, she barely noticed its attendants, or Ser Balon so dutifully shadowing her. There was little truly useful she'd learned from Prince Trystane that she could tell her Council, not that her Council really mattered to her, all she cared about was Robb. Every day since her uncle Petyr had confided in her in the library she'd wanted to run to her mother and ask her what Robb did, was he a good person, the gallant and honorable prince and big brother she'd remembered? She'd foolishly hoped that one boy might know all her answers, that she could prove to all of them, using Trystane Martell, that Robb had always been true to their family, to Margaery...and she could always tell them what she'd learned today, they didn't have to know it came from uncle Petyr, there were plenty of others she could've overheard the rumors from. But Trystane seemed like a good person, and she didn't want to get him in trouble either, not when she was still so unsure about everything.

Of course she could invite, or order, Arianne Martell to court, and make her admit the truth of the matter. That would have to happen after she reached her majority, however, she doubted she could convince her Council to do such a thing, not unless she confessed to them what she really wanted to know. Even then, there would be politics, and stuff like that.

Only three more years, she thought to herself, but it seems so long, three years. Like it's forever.

Then, she could finally try and discover the truth about Robb. But it meant she'd actually have to rule too, and make decisions, very important ones. Wandering the hallways of Winterfell, Sansa Stark could not decide whether she wanted these three remaining years to pass slowly or quickly.


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Notes and Responses: I imagine Rhaegar would be in for a shock if Arya somehow could hatch and ride a dragon. As of now though, I don't either she or Sansa would have anything against Dany.