Young Ned - Year 299

"In the name of Sansa of House Stark, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, I sentence you to die."

One smooth swing of Beric Dondarrion's sword and the man's head left his neck, and Edric Dayne took a step back so not as to let the blood dirty his armor.

"Did you have to execute him," the boy they called Ned asked Lord Beric later that night, while they ate a meal of dry venison at camp.

"He was a deserter," Beric said, taking a swig of the wine before handing it back to his friend Thoros, the former Red Priest from Essos.

"I actually spoke to him the other day," Ned said. "I was rounding the horses at the rear, and one of them almost stepped on his heal. His name was Bonno, he's from a small village by the Bronzegate, and he missed his wife and daughter." Pausing, he observed their small band sitting beside the fire. Thoros was in another world by now, as he was every night, but the young Lord of Starfall saw that both Lady Brienne and Lord Beric, whom he squired for, were studying him intently. "He told me his daughter must've just had her seventh name-day. I think that's all he wanted to do, go and see her."

"Duty's not what you want to do," Brienne lectured, turning down the small jug of wine from Thoros with a firm shake of her head, "else anyone would be able to fulfill it with ease."

"Maybe that's all he wanted," Beric agreed, "to see his daughter. Maybe he's a coward, and he's afraid of the bandits..."

"Or the ghosts," Ned interrupted, looking around nervously the dark woods, "the ghosts of Summerhall."

"Aye, maybe your friend Bonno's afraid of ghosts. Or it's all of it. But it doesn't matter what he wants, it's what the Queen demands of him, of all of us."

"We met the Queen, remember," Ned said, recalling that first horrible battle he'd seen with his own eyes, and fought with his own hands. "She doesn't seem like the kind of person who'd want people killed just for running away."

They all said he'd probably been amongst the youngest to fight in that battle, and Ned could vividly recall the way his throat closed up in horror as he shoved his sword through the back of a fellow Dornishman, just before he'd been about to slit Lord Beric's throat. How different was the next day, when he'd been rewarded for that brutal kill by getting to meet the Queen herself.

"It's the Queen's law," Beric said firmly. "She'd want it carried out, I've no doubt."

It wasn't that Edric had never seen a deserter executed before, but he'd never met one, spoken to one, before he'd been killed, until today. And it was only recently that Lord Beric had to be the one doing the executing, after Stannis named him the acting Warden of the Stormlands, while the Lord of Storm's End spent his time advising the Queen of the armies of all her seven kingdoms.

"You fought at King's Landing," Lady Brienne said across the fire. "You saved Lord Beric's life. One day, Lord Edric, you'll see battle again, whether it's against bandits, or another army of Targaryen sellswords. That man Bonno may be the one to get your back, to save your life. Or, he'd be the one who'd condemn your life, or Beric's or mine, by running away, because he's scared. Or even because he wants to see his daughter, it's still running away. Then who will protect his daughter, if the Targaryen sellswords win, if they kill all of us, sworn to defend Her Grace's kingdoms, and the enemy is allowed to ravage and reap all the towns and villages as they will?"

"One day," Lord Beric continued, stopping himself from polishing his sword to look Ned in the eye, "you'll be the one who'll have to lead men, and execute deserters. Maybe with Dawn in your hands."

"Maybe," Ned muttered, though he doubted it. One small part in a battle was a far cry from being able to claim the ancestral sword of his family. Killing poor men like Bonno wasn't it either, he thought. The great Arthur Dayne, his uncle, the last Sword of the Morning had been the kind of knight who'd protected men like Bonno, and his family, Ned would've liked to think, except, that wasn't exactly all true, was it? Even the great Arthur Dayne had merely stood to the side while the Mad King burned women and children alike. Had that been part of his duty as well?

"They say King Arlan the Short made camp close to here," Beric said, obviously trying to change the subject, "before he marched north into the Riverlands and claimed that kingdom for his own realm, in the same clearing where they'd build Summerhall hundreds of years after."

"That's Arlan of House Durrandon," Ned said, trying to recall from the last time Beric had told him the stories of the old Storm Kings, "First of His of Name?"

"Third," Brienne corrected. "First of his Name was King Arlan the Avenger."

"Aye," Beric agreed, "the Avenger spread the realms of House Durrandon all the way to the Blackwater, but it was his grandson, Arlan the Short, who took it to the Trident, and far beyond."

"My father believes that Arlan the Short was the greatest conqueror we'd seen in all seven kingdoms," Brienne reminisced, "until Aegon Targaryen came."

"And he did it without dragons," Beric said with a smirk.

"What about the Avenger," Ned asked. "He won his share of wars too, didn't he?"

"Aye, he did," Beric said, a quick look to Thoros to confirm that the old man was now fast asleep in the dirt. "But it was easier for the first Arlan, he had less borders to defend, he could conquer mindlessly, without thinking. And he made enemies he didn't have worry about, because he died, and left them for his son and grandson to handle."

"It was his grandfather's idea to marry Arlan the Short to Marys Blackwood," Brienne continued the tale, "earning them the enmity of House Teague in the Riverlands."

"Arlan knew war was coming, so he prepared, long before had to fight."

"Was that when made war with Dorne," Ned asked, remembering his own lessons in Starfall, remembering that his ancestors had probably fought and tried to kill those of Lord Beric's. And were he not his squire, he would've probably been riding with Anders Yronwood attacking King's Landing instead, rather than defending his Queen.

Beric nodded. "King Arlan marched down the Boneway, defeated the Dornish armies first at Wyl, then by the mouth of the Rocky River. He took Yronwood, and had all of Dorne at his feet for the taking."

"But then we made him surrender?"

"He made peace willingly," Brienne corrected, "without fighting another battle. He married all but one of his sons and daughters to Dornish houses, the Martells, the Yronwoods, and Fowlers."

"Arlan the Short made war," Beric said, "for the purpose of making a peace, and gaining a new ally. With Dorne secured to the south, he could embark north, without fearing an attack by the traditional enemies of his kingdom."

"Three years before the Blackwood Rebellion broke out in the Riverlands," Brienne said, her blue eyes ringing in admiration for their subject, same as Lord Beric's, "the Stormlands and Dorne made war against the Reach, together. Arlan led an army who'd reached the gates of Highgarden, while the Dornish Fleet captured Oldtown harbor."

"Again, the Storm King made war, to make peace. He married his heir and last unmarried child to the daughter of Garth the Fat, but because he trusted the Gardeners less than he trusted the Martells, Arlan insisted that his new gooddaughter accompany her husband first to Storm's End, then to war."

"To keep her a hostage," Ned knew.

"Aye. Arlan had gold sent to Highgarden and Oldtown too, to keep the peace regardless. So when the war along the Trident finally broke out, Arlan could march north to fight on behalf of his wife's family, knowing that his own lands were safe from the prying eyes of his former enemies."

It seemed that war was all he'd known of the last few years, even in the peace there were bandits to apprehend, endless lands upon the marches to patrol, in case the Martells, his liege lords yet traitors to the crown, decided upon treason again. At night he dreamed of war. In the day, he helped Lord Beric make war, and now at dusk, they talked and he learned the words of war, before the circle rang anew again.

"King Arlan could've been the greatest conqueror the seven kingdoms had ever known," Brienne said, finishing the story, and his lesson, Ned realized. "His lands stretched from the Narrow Sea to the Sunset Sea. But had he not known not just when to make war, but also when to make peace, he might've taken the Riverlands all the same, but lost his own home after the war."

"When to make peace," Ned recited, etching these stories into his mind and memory. Casting a stare at Brienne, then Beric, he had his own question. "What about when to show mercy?"

Beric winked knowingly, acknowledging that his young charge had managed to turn the tables on them. "They may seem similar," the Lord of Blackhaven began, "mercy and peace. But there is a difference."

"What is it?" Ned saw Brienne turn her head too, eager to hear what his uncle by marriage had to say.

"Mercy is mercy," Beric said thoughtfully. "It flows pure from the goodness in the hearts of men...and women, nothing more, and there's no purpose to it, just a vague, ambling thought, the wisp of an idea. Peace can be merciful, and peace can be purposeful. But peace without purpose is no mercy, because it leaves you unprepared for the next war. And the next war will always come."

Young Ned forgot that night whether he dreamed of war and conquering, of men losing their heads and daughters losing their fathers, or of peace and mercy, and the differences between the two ideas. He did remember waking that morning, however, to the smell of smoke, and the sound of ominous and thunderous cracks in the distance.

"What's going on," Ned asked, running out of his tent and barely catching in time his armor, thrown haphazardly to him by Lord Beric.

"Fire," he cried, "coming from the ruins of Summerhall!"

"What should we do?"

"Run," Beric replied, in a barely concealed panic. "Ride, as far away from here as you can!"


Daenerys

"I am the true blood of the Dragon. The Throne is mine, by right, by force, by the will of all the Gods. Accursed be those who oppose me, whether it be the Usurper himself, or all those who would fight for him, and bleed for him, and die for him, for naught but false causes and vile plunder! So shall I not rest my waking eye, so be it with fire, or with blood, my ire immortal, let war ravage the land, let my kingdoms burn to ash, yet so I will breathe, and loathe, until the Gods consume my enemies, under the weight of their sins, until blades of lightning split their hearts asunder!"

The crowd burst into rapturous applause, and Daenerys bowed shyly, fighting the urge to linger further along the stage, before running behind the curtains. It was only the end of the second act of Phario Forel's play, The Realm's Delight, but to Daenerys, who played the title role, this was her fondest moment every night.

"Good job," complimented the Lady Crane to her, as all the mummers gathered for the short intermission before the second half of the play began.

"Thank you," Daenerys replied, to the woman who played her erstwhile enemy, the Lady Alicent Hightower. "It's by far my favorite speech in the thing."

The older woman laughed. "That, and not the one you give before Izembaro feeds you to the dragon," she said, referring to the actor and troupe leader who played her rival claimant, Aegon the Usurper.

Daenerys raised her hands in the air indignantly. "I bloody die at the beginning of Act Four. It gets boring back here, you know, waiting and listening to you doing all your brilliant work, begging Cregan Stark to spare you, or kill you, in the same damn speech."

"Maybe one day we can switch it up," Lady Crane answered with a wink.

"Do you mean it," Daenerys asked, unable to hide her excitement. Of course they'd give her the role of her ancestor to play, they didn't even need to waste coin buying her a wig, and she'd enjoyed it at first, knowing the crowds ate it up, the oh so rare and spectacular sight of an actual Targaryen playing one of the most famous, or infamous, Targaryen Queens of all time.

She'd never acted before, but Daenerys found it surprisingly easy reciting the lines of this wonderful and terrible woman. There were times she forgot who she was, standing on that stage...daughter of the Mad King, sister of Rhaegar and Viserys, the youngest dragon alive. Instead, she felt in the deepest recesses of her heart the rage of the scorned Half-Year Queen, her sense of grievance for all who'd betrayed her, her disappointment, her rightful wrath. Only after it was all over, and she'd waited for the show's completion, then stepped out on stage with the rest of her crew, did she remember herself amidst the exhilarating din of the cheers, the applause, the love.

And they loved her, all of Braavos did. When she first started she slept in the small bunkhouses with the other mummers, but by their fourth show, they'd gathered enough acclaim to have caught the attention of the city's wealthy merchants and nobility, in addition to the fishermen wives and cobblers who typically attended their theater. A wealthy widow, who'd been married to one of the city's last Sealords, decided to take in the entire troupe into her palace in the hills overlooking the city, and sure enough it seemed just a repeat of all the years she'd spent in such palaces from Pentos to Volantis and in between, except there was something for her to do in the daytime, rather than lounge endlessly in waiting.

"Look at the way they look at you," the Lady Crane whispered to her, the entire troupe gathered on stage after the play to soak in the endless applause, and Daenerys could detect a hint of jealousy in the actress's voice.

"They love to hate you," she whispered back. "That's special, to have the ability to create something, someone from yourself, something so horrible that would so inflame the hearts of others..."

It was a different audience she faced here, than that court in the Red Keep, which felt a lifetime ago. And while bitter memories still remained from that day, bending her knee before a stranger, the judgments of dozens of old men and ladies who'd betrayed her family, who'd scorn her name and everything about her, even when they knew nothing about her, Daenerys could not deny that her brief hour standing before Sansa Stark's court had opened up a brand new world for her. Suddenly, her entire existence was no longer limited to just her brothers, Ser Lewyn, Connington, and all the other hanger-ons to Rhaegar's travelling court and mummery. She saw knights, and lords, and ladies, banners flying in the air with sigils she could barely keep count of...all the stories of her native country come to life, and in that moment, Daenerys knew that need her as he may, she could no longer stay with Rhaegar, as his little pet, for the Gods know how many more years.

"Come, Princess, have some wine with me?"

"I thank you for the offer," Daenerys replied demurely, after they'd returned to their patron's mansion on the hill, "but there's some lines I want to work on, in the third act, when the riots begin in King's Landing..."

It was Denbe, the young man who donned a silver wig to play her uncle Daemon. He'd been her second, after the boy watching over the boats at Magister Illyrio's palace. She hadn't let him touch her in several moons though, not since she'd found out he'd been spending many a night with the wealthy widow. And Lady Crane too once, though that affair ended many years before she'd come to Braavos.

"My good Princess..."

A soft voice startled her the moment she walked into her bedchambers, and Daenerys jumped, eyes turning towards a dark figure sitting in the corner of her room. There was a small knife by her bed drawer, and if she could reach it...

"Lord Varys?"

"It's been some time, hasn't it, child?"

"I'm no longer a child." Her eyes narrowed, knowing there was only one reason why the Spider would have come to Braavos to seek her out. Yet, she had to ask. "Why are you here?"

"A favor, actually," Varys replied, standing so that his face was revealed under the light of the small candle by the doorway, and Daenerys saw that he held in his hands a thick bundle of papers.

"What kind of favor," Daenerys asked carefully, her guard dropping once she realized she was out of danger, both from dangerous strangers, or brothers who missed her company.

He's not here to retrieve me back to Rhaegar? I can stay? Does Rhaegar approve?

Rather than answer, Varys handed her the loosely bound volume. She read the words on the parchment at the front. "A Romance of Wolf and Dragon..."

"A friend of mine, a budding young artist in Pentos, had the thought to write this tale years ago, a tragic one, really, of a dashing young prince, a husband, a father, yet destined to fall in love with another. I thought, with all the success this retelling of the Dance of Dragons has enjoyed here, this story would fall right in line, once your audiences start craving something new..."


Tyrion

Who knew sitting on the Small Council was so much work? Of course, things had gotten much more difficult since the death of Hoster Tully, not long after they'd returned to King's Landing from their expedition north. And it did puzzle Tyrion, the man had seemed fine the entire trip, the frigid climes of Castle Black not enough to put a dent in the old man's constitution, yet the fever burned through the old man like dragonfire less than two moons after they'd returned to the Keep. The Queen and her mother remained in mourning for some time, which while unfortunate, did not affect his work. But Jon Arryn was aging too, and with such aging, Tyrion could tell the man was slowing, in body and in mind. He'd even caught the elderly Hand dozing off during several Council meetings, though only for a second or two at a time.

"...we did have four ships return to Lannisport intact," his uncle Kevan continued reading sulkily in his corner. "They say more were captured by the Ironborn, though the possibility of recovering those ships, or the men, remain slim."

That particular war had not always been so grim. The Lannister fleets had moved slowly, first the blockade off Fair Isle, then creeping further north along the shore in the direction of Pyke. But then one stormy night, Gawen Westerling led the fleet in a sweeping action past Pyke and under the noses of the Greyjoy fleet, establishing a beachhead on the island of Harlaw. The Greyjoys, led by Balon's brother Euron, raided the coast between Banefort and the Crag in retaliation, but such actions were expected, and the pirates quickly beaten off while Lord Gawen then led the fleet westwards, taking the island of Orkmont. The plan was Old Wyk and Great Wyk next, not to actually capture the castles on the islands through lengthy sieges, but to raid the land in the similar manner of the Ironborn, while ever squeezing the Greyjoys on Pyke day by day, one dead pirate after another.

Tyrion supposed the lesson learned here was that fighting the enemy on their terms, in their field, was a bad idea. The raids had become an end to themselves, rather than a piece of a grander strategy, and given enough time and revealing to the enemy enough of their patterns, what they'd thought was another innocuous raid north of Hammerhorn was interrupted by the entire might of the Greyjoys, a complete and total devastation for the Crown, the Queen...and his own family's repute.

"Just what is it you're expecting to achieve, getting in bed with wolves," his father had questioned him, on his visit to Castle Black.

"Restoring our family's name," Tyrion had rebutted, regretting already turning down his brother's invitation for a ranging expedition, which now appeared a far better prospect than a day spent trailing Tywin Lannister upon the Wall.

"You can do that by marrying, and giving your house an heir."

"You be surprised how difficult that is, when your family's a pariah to the crown."

"So it seems you've solved that problem, haven't you? What with your little trick with the Targaryens."

"My little trick won a war," Tyrion defended, feeling his temper rising, "a war that was far from won, need I compare it to your little trick in King's Landing."

He'd regretted his words instantly, and once it was said, his father sighed and turned away from him, calling in for his steward, a plump Tarly boy freshly arrived to the Wall, to bring him in his evening meal.

"The Crown needs to retaliate," Mace Tyrell proclaimed, pounding his fist upon the table. "Else we'll look like fools."

The obvious move after Hoster Tully's passing was to invite the Lord Paramount of the Reach to take his place on both the Small Council and the Regency Council. With Robb Stark dead, it was the best place in King's Landing they could offer to the most powerful family in the south, even if not everyone trusted the Tyrells, and just exactly where their loyalties lay, during Rhaegar's Rebellion. After a year on the job, Tyrion found creating a spy network out of thin air trying anyway, so they gave him Lord Hoster's position as Master of Law, moving Littlefinger in as Master of Whispers, and Mace Tyrell to fill in his place managing the Queen's coffers.

"We have enough problems to deal with already," Tyrion protested, after observing Jon Arryn's eyes wandering off into the distance again. "It's an embarrassment, to be sure, but the Kingswood fires are a more proximate problem, now that they're threatening the Reach as well."

"It is strange," the Archmaester mused, "I've never heard of so many fires breaking out this long after summer. Winter is indeed coming, we're but a few years away..."

The old man shook his head in befuddlement, and Stannis tapped his fingers impatiently against the table. "Lord Beric arrived at the capital this morning. I spoke to him, they were able to save several stores of granaries. We'll move them north of the Blackwater."

"But we lost quite a bit, didn't we," Tyrion asked, and Stannis nodded silently. "Now, new fires threaten even the storages by Ashford."

"We'll move them south," Mace said, "keep them close to Highgarden."

"Put them all on the Arbor if you have to," Stannis grumbled. "I fear it may not make a difference though. Lord Beric believes the fires aren't natural, that it's...bandits, setting them off."

This confused Mace Tyrell. "Why in all seven hells would bandits set their own forests on fire?"

"Who knows," Ser Cortnay replied. "Give them cover? Raid the villages after everyone's fled?"

"Strange indeed," Baelish added. Crouching his head closer to the table, he whispered, as if there were unwelcome intruders listening in upon their very private meeting of the Small Council. "Some say the tale's stranger. The first fire arose amidst the ruins of Summerhall. They whisper, it's a curse upon the land, set in forth by the ghosts of Targaryen kings and princes past, perhaps even on behalf of the Gods themselves..."

"Rubbish," Mace yelled from his corner, "utter nonsense!"

"Do you believe so," Littlefinger asked quizzically. "Many of these whispers come from your very lands, in the streets of Oldtown."

"Leyton Hightower," Mace asked. "He's getting up there in age, sure, but I've never known the man to speak of ghosts and curses."

Littlefinger corrected him. "I said the streets, Lord Tyrell, not the high tower. There's a man...I know not the name, only that they call him the High Sparrow. He proclaims himself a higher Septon than even our man in King's Landing, yet he preaches his own...manner of the Faith, condemning the High Septon here, calling the Gods to rain fire down upon his head, for his complicity in the corruption of the Crown."

"Corruption," Tyrion burst out. "The corruption of an innocent fourteen year old girl, or is it us who are supposedly corrupt?"

Rather than answer directly, Littlefinger looked down upon a batch of papers he had brought to the meeting. "'A girl sitting upon the Throne, our lords, princes, and warriors swearing fealty to a woman is an Affront to the Father Himself! A child sitting upon the Throne, who worships the false Gods of the north, whose ancestors worshiped the false Gods of the north, is an affront to all the Seven...'," Littlefinger shrugged, "some of his preachings."

He heard his uncle Kevan sighing. "It's certainly a unique situation. A girl Queen, ruling solely upon her throne, is...would be, unprecedented, to be sure."

"She's the rightful heir," Tyrion replied back, knowing well how his uncle thought, "appointed by law..."

"Appointed by Hoster Tully and Lord Arryn, really," Petyr countered, "two men, albeit powerful men, out of millions in the Seven Kingdoms." He raised his hands in the air, as if to apologize for his heresy. "It was the right decision, our Queen is wise and just, and I am forever loyal to her...but, Lord Tyrion, you must see that now, with the war long over, there would be many in the realm who would object, wrongfully, sure, yet object all the same towards a Great Council composed of only two."

"We were at war," Jon Arryn interrupted, suddenly alert after hearing his name called out, "our King and Crown Prince dead, it was all we could do at the time!"

"A questionable choice," Stannis said, "but the choice is made, so we all have to live with it."

His uncle spoke again. "You're not the only one who hears whispers, Lord Baelish, I hear mine too."

"And what would those be," Tyrion asked.

"Certainly a girl sitting solely upon the Iron Throne goes against all Andal traditions," Kevan stated. "But we have time, two more years before the Queen reaches her majority. While many lords don't trust the Queen herself, they trust us, the men who advise her. And they trust your lordships at this table, who make up the Regency Council, and hold the entirety of the Crown's sovereign power, until she does reach her majority."

Tyrion eyed his uncle skeptically. "Are you suggesting we raise Viserys to King Regnant, rather than Consort, once they marry?"

"It's you that sits on the Regency Council," Kevan Lannister said innocuously, "not I. But I imagine that such a move will certainly appease many in the realm."

"Viserys is a fool and an idiot, I'm afraid he'll unappease them rather quickly afterwards."

"So get rid of him and break the betrothal," Kevan said plainly. Normally, Tyrion would've expected the honorable Jon Arryn to object at once to such a plot against his new and rather royal ward, but it seemed the old man's mind lay in another world once again.

"Who would you suggest her marry then," Tyrion asked, unhappily observing how the Small Council meeting was somehow devolving into a Lannister family argument. "Loras Tyrell? Her uncle Edmure? The child Sweetrobin, or by the Gods, would you happen to just innocently and by sheer chance suggest a King Lancel of House Lannister..."

"I will have no accusations of any personal ambitions of that sort on my part," his uncle replied indignantly, "especially not from you. I don't care if we un-name her, then name Bran in her place, so long as it solves this...problem we have."

"Break the betrothal," Littlefinger interjected, "and we risk war with the Targaryens again. Put Viserys on the Throne, and we'd have a fool for a King. Make the girl give up her crown to Bran, and they'd think us to be the fools." Finished with his summarization of their rather uniquely awful choices, Littlefinger laughed mirthfully. "Perhaps the Targaryens had it right after all, when they'd just marry them all together."


Sansa

His bare skin felt so smooth under the touch of her hand, his voice so gentle and delicate, when he serenaded her with his poems, his lips so soft, when placed upon hers.

"I love you," she whispered, finally breaking their kiss.

"I love you more, my Queen," the boy replied, holding her tightly in her arms, and Sansa sighed at the unfairness and injustice of it all. Huddled amidst the trees of her favorite gardens in the Keep, with no one but Ser Balon aware of her secret, their secret, the Queen thought of the day she would reach her majority, and they would bring Visreys Targaryen back down the Kingsroad and into her life. But why would she want that prince, when she already had one so fair and beautiful in Lancel Lannister?

"I can't wait," a raspy sound emerged deep within her throat, "one day, we can finally..."

"Let that day be today, my Queen. A man can only beg..."

The Queen sighed sadly. Sitting on her perfect knight's lap, she withdrew her hand from under his shirt, feeling the soft hairs upon his chest. Running her hands down into his vest again, knowing that this was as far as she could go, as far as either one of them could, in expressing their love for each other, she kissed Lancel on his cheek again and again and again and again, taking in his musk, his smell.

"The Queen must remain a maiden," she chided him, biting his nose softly while she spoke, "until she's properly married. But then afterwards, the Queen will be able to do as she pleases, can't she?"

The very thought it made her so excited, and she took his lips again. "You'll be my mistress, Ser Lancel. And then, you can do whatever you want to please your Queen."

"Mistress," the young man said thoughtfully, before returning his beautiful green eyes dreamily upon her. "And how many mistresses does the Queen plan to take, Your Grace?"

"As many as I want," Sansa replied, enjoying teasing the boy, enjoying fully this power she had over him. "Aerys had dozens of them, you know..."

"Dozens," Lancel asked in mock horror.

"Dozens," Sansa insisted, running her hands through his hair. "Although," she pretended to contemplate, "maybe I'd want only one. Or two. Or maybe three, but no more than four, I promise!"

Though they both knew she was joking, that there was no one in the world she wanted besides the handsome knight in front of her, in the back of her mind Sansa knew it not the best idea to draw any comparisons of herself to the Mad King, even in jest.

Your father took no mistresses, a voice chided her inside her head, sounding suspiciously like her mother.

But Robb did, she remembered. He did whatever he wanted to do, and he wasn't even a King yet.

"Must you go," she protested, knowing that their time was almost over, as even Ser Balon could only give them cover for so long. And she despaired, knowing that even though majority and marriage would free her, it would only free her so much, and in all likelihood they'd still have to spend the rest of their lives like this, only able to love each other in secret, with hidden glances and stolen kisses.

If only both of them made it to the rest of their lives.

"I have to," Lancel said, standing up, buttoning his shirt properly. "Father says he expects the Ironborn raids to get worse. I have to help lead our banners, with Lord Gawen's passing."

After all that, all she'd have of him would be this sad note, of farewells, and what could never be's. Close to the edge of the garden, she spied Ser Balon's silhouette and pulled her knight aside one last time. Her knight, she savored the thought, in every way, she'd been the one to raise him to knighthood, after all.

"Promise me something, my love."

"Anything for you, my Queen."

"Write me every day," she whispered, resisting the urge to take him into her arms again. "Tell me about the war, about your home, about the enemy, the men you lead, everything."

"I will, my Queen," Lancel answered, sealing his promise with a kiss.

"I'll write you too," Sansa said, her hands aching for her quill already, "I promise."


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Notes & Responses: First, the battle in the north. Based on past research I've done on raven flight speeds in Westeros, they go pretty damn fast. For a past fic, I was able to establish that they can travel from KL to Highgarden in a day, and a few days, less than a week maybe from KL all the way to Winterfell. So not that much time would've passed between the battle in KL and the battle in the North.

Secondly, Sansa promising to marry Viserys was just a proposal, nothing formal. It's not approved by her Council, and Rhaegar hasn't approved those terms either, certainly not by the time of the second battle. Connington especially would take his orders from Rhaegar, not Viserys, so from their standpoint, they're still at war. And since Benjen hasn't heard word of Rhaegar accepting any peace (which doesn't happen until Dany comes to KL in chapter 10), he's treating Connington as a hostile army.

Dany here is the second heir to a brother she admires, rather than the first heir to a brother she dislikes. As such, this story envisions her to care much less about the throne, conquest, etc. If anything, she wants to escape, to live her own life away from the shadows of her history. She doesn't get dreams about hatching dragons, so to her, those eggs, if anything, are an unnecessary burden, holding her down. Giving them away allows her to symbolically shed her history, and find her own purpose in life.

Finally, the diary is canon, and for me, canon is non negotiable. The only thing I will change in an AU are things that would logically have changed as a butterfly effect from the point of divergence forward. In this story, that point is the Trident. The diary and Rhaegar's wedding happened before that, so it's cemented in stone as canon in this story as well. I don't read a lot of other GOT fics, so I can't say how often it's used by other writers.