Young Ned

When he'd been younger, Ned Dayne had seen with his own eyes the beautiful the Water Gardens of House Martell, visiting Lemonwood and the Salt Shore along the way. Those beautiful shorelines had been idyllic sanctuaries for the most pampered highborns in all of Dorne to lounge in, but there was nothing calming about the straits of the Summer Sea running below the towers of his own home. But then, House Dayne had never been one to rest easy upon their laurels.

His aunt Ashara had not been the first Dayne to end their lives jumping from one of the towers in Starfall, but at least they'd found her body when it washed ashore several days after, upstream along the Torentine river. Most of the other bodies disappeared, buried under the furious torrents and eddies of the ocean below, the trenches here deeper than the God's Eye, his late mother had once warned him, even though they formed the immediate shore below the castle. Certainly, it was no place to go swimming, not by the castle, the closest spot being a rare calm section of the Torentine a half day's ride away.

My Uncle Arthur was killed by a Stark. My Aunt Ashara killed herself because of the same Stark. Yet I ride, fight, and kill, serving that man's daughter.

What a stranger coincidence still, that they call me and he by the same name.

It was what it was. Last he saw his aunt Allyria, the last Dayne alive beside himself, and their distant cousins in High Hermitage, she who'd married Lord Beric only five moons after the Battle of King's Landing, the new Lady of Blackhaven had told him to let old grudges die, to think not of revenge against House Stark, but to serve them as loyally and nobly as Ser Arthur did the Targaryens.

"We are soldiers, us Daynes," she'd whispered to him. "Our claims are not to any kingdoms, not since Nymeria's War, or even to play kingmaker and the such, but to our sword, our name, our honor, our valor. Claim Dawn, like my brother Arthur, wield it as justly and nobly as he, and you'll make your father proud, and...wherever they are...Arthur, Ashara..."

Yet they'd almost given him a kingdom, until the Martells finally submitted to the Crown. He'd returned to an empty castle save for the castellan and the few guards and servants, now that Allyria was fully installed in Blackhaven. It was his respite, this nearly abandoned home, from years of war even as the seven kingdoms found peace, yet he and Beric and sometimes Brienne patrolling endlessly for bandits in the Kingswood, or for evidence of further Martell treachery amidst the marches marking the border between Dorne and the Stormlands. But Beric had returned home to attend to his newborn son for a few moons, spurring this brief visit for Ned to this native land he'd made war against, that he'd almost usurped.

He avoided the temptation to follow the winding stairs up the Palestone Tower and stare into the milky smooth surface of Dawn, his family's ancestral sword. When he'd been a child, Ned had always dreamed of claiming it, this fantasy that fair maidens and young lads would sing his songs they same way they did of Ser Arthur, who seemed to be better love under King Eddard's reign than the one that preceded it, despite the fact that he'd fought on the losing side.

At least he'd put House Dayne on the winning side this last war. Like his illustrious uncle at a young age, Ned was far from a stranger to war now, he'd killed men from Essos, men from Dorne, and bandits from the Gods knew where the vagrants had migrated from. There was nothing joyous in killing, yet, he'd felt nothing so awful afterwards either, even when it was that one fellow Dornishman during his first battle.

But Ned sensed there was more to it than just duty. He'd slain three bandits on a raid in the Rainwood, one a boy barely older than himself. When the skirmish was over, he'd felt disappointed, not because he'd enjoyed the killings and wished there were more to kill...but there'd been...a certain, inestimable flow to the fighting, a dance, perhaps, and looking back upon it with sober eyes that night, he'd felt like he'd been in a trance. So did he in fact wish for more battles, for more men that he could kill, with or without Dawn?

Would he claim the sword, and find himself a better killer? The best killer? Just how good could he be at this awful thing? Arthur Dayne had been the one to slay the Smiling Knight in single combat, after all, yet how did those who'd suffered under the reign of the Mad King see his uncle, except as the same villain reborn? Just how unsullied was the blade of his family, given the blood it'd shed of men, and maybe even women, who'd fought against a cruel tyrant, and rightfully so, Ned believed. Broken vows or not, selfish as his intent may or may not have been, hadn't the actions of the Kingslayer been the most honorable of all Aerys's Kingsguard, if judged by result?

And if he were ever allowed to take Dawn for himself, and the Queen or one of her princely heirs order him to slaughter women and children, or do nothing whilst they were raped or burned, would he be as true to his bonds of fealty as the great Ser Arthur Dayne had been? Could it be, even, that the sword had betrayed its master, that it had been Dawn who'd allowed Ned Stark to kill his uncle, the sword itself having judged his cause, if not his person, unworthy of its avail? At least such cruelties were unlikely with this Queen, he'd met her after all, she'd been beautiful, yet also kind, and not a minute after, had he not seen the manifestation of her generous spirit, when she not only spared the Targaryen coward and invader, but offered herself to him as a bounty and balm to his defeat?

What truly great knight could Ser Arthur have been, had he served a Queen like Sansa Stark?

The day was late, and the boy they called Young Ned rested uneasily in his empty castle, wondering what its ghosts thought of the legacies they'd left behind, now resting solely upon his shoulders.


Trystane

"Prince Trystane?"

The shy girl with hair the color of gold offered him her hand, her fingers clutching a fistful of flowers.

"Are they for me?"

The girl nodded, shyly, yet also very eagerly. "I picked them with father and Tommen on our ride this morning."

"Thank you Myrcella," Trystane replied, taking the flowers from her, wondering what he was to do with them after, without hurting the girl. She was still a child, a pretty child, and less of one than she'd been the day they'd first brought him to Winterfell. Also, becoming more besotted with him, Trystane knew, in less childlike ways with each day, and probably more so in the years to come.

"I'll miss you," the girl said, almost crushing the flowers he'd taken from her as she hugged him tightly. "I'll write you, I'll tell you all about King's Landing, when I return."

"I can't wait to hear it, Cella."

Though Trystane wondered when, or even if he would ever see her again. Myrcella was accompanying her mother and brother south not just to bring her before the court, so as to begin the process of arranging the prospects of marriage for the two fairer haired children of Lord Stark, but also because it was an open secret that the Lady Cersei hoped that the Queen would finally take her elder daughter into her service as a lady-in-waiting. Myrcella knew of all this, of course, but no doubt the girl still harbored a secret hope that she could talk her mother out of staying in the south, instead returning to Winterfell, and wedding her favorite Dornish Prince beside the Godswood.

"I wish you could come with us."

He wished so too. Trystane did not need a maester to tell him that the Lady of Winterfell would never deign to approve a marriage between her jewel of a daughter and the youngest traitor child of a traitor Prince. And though he saw her as his own sister now, because she'd been indeed completely a child when he'd first met her, Trystane knew come the day the Lady Myrcella Stark grew into a beautiful jewel of a woman, he, or anyone, would be lucky to have such a sweet soul as his wife. Were that possible, except even if the Lady Cersei and Lord Benjen did give them permission to wed, assuming generously that Trystane would ever be permitted to wed anyone, rather than having to take one set of vows or another...well, he could want her, he could very well love her dearly, but always his truest heart would forever belong to another most precious flower.

"Just us scoundrels now," Jon remarked, watching their carriage leaving the gates of Winterfell. Rather than hug or passionately embrace the other, the Lady Cersei had simply kissed her husband's hand politely, before departing with her three younger children. There would probably be no talk of a marriage for Rykka for the time being, a shy girl of seven, but Cersei could not bear to leave without her youngest daughter. So all the fairest inhabitants of Winterfell would go south, the castle now solely the domain of three Stark men, and one Dornish hostage.

"Don't be pissing in the open now," Lord Stark chided his nephew with some bemusement, "you hear?"

"That'll be you, uncle, once we can no longer see her from the walls, and you have yourself yer first cup o'ale." Jon turned to his oldest cousin in Winterfell. "About time you joined us, Kendron. Bet the boy Trystane can take his drink better than you by now."

"I think I'll abstain," the heir to Winterfell replied rather haughtily, standing with his usual slouch. "I've work to do."

Kendron Stark was little liked in the castle, Trystane had gathered enough in his years here, and liked even fewer, somewhat tolerating his father, showing actual affection for none but his mother. But the young man, an odd looking thing with Lord Benjen's dark long mane but his mother's green eyes and cheekbones, did seem to have a talent for numbers and figures, having taken over many of the aspects of his father's Lordship that he could manage from a desk, rather than on horseback.

"Come Kendron," Jon pressed, "pissin' yer pants is more fun than you'd think."

The boy, older than Trystane but younger than Jon, did not dignify his cousin's remark with a response. Not that Kendron had any wish to ride south, Trystane guessed, except that time away from his mother made him more...pissy, than even the usual. But there'd been no need for him to join his family, because the future Lord of Winterfell had to marry a woman from the North, after all, and the betrothal had already been made with Alys Karstark, to be carried out once the younger girl came of age.

Alas, there was no son to join the father when they three gathered for a drink in an empty Great Hall that night. The bitter northern ales tasted strange to Trystane, and though he'd only had the occasional sip of a Dornish red before he'd gone to war, based on memory alone he would guess he still preferred the meads of his homeland to this Northern...swill, as his uncle Oberyn would've called it. But the company wasn't the worst, Trystane thought. He missed his uncle, and he missed a few of his Sands, though not all of them. But Arianna had been Arianne, and Quentyn'd spent most of his life in Yronwood, Areo Hotah didn't speak, period, so there'd been few to drink or spar or make crude remarks with at home.

"I wrote to Queen Catelyn today," the Lord of Winterfell said, in a sober tone. "I'd expect Roose Bolton to ask the Queen to legitimize his bastard, after some time in the capital."

"You don't want it to happen," Trystane asked.

"If Ramsay is legitimized a Bolton, then he'd press his son for Myrcella's hand."

"Lady Cersei would never allow her daughter to wed a bastard," Jon explained to Trystane, a strange look in his eye.

"I'd refuse him, of course," Benjen Stark continued, "but it'd cause unnecessary trouble. Especially if we can nip it in the bud, before it'd ever arise."

"Myrcella tells me Lady Cersei wants to wed her to Edmure Tully," Trystane said. The poor girl had not liked the thought.

Lord Benjen shook his head. "He'd be too old for her. There's no need for alliances like that, not unless there's war to be had. But we're at peace, and besides, the bond between Starks and Tully's already sits upon the Iron Throne."

"Loras Tyrell then," Jon asked, curious as well to their cousins' prospects, the men eager for gossip only when not in sight of their womenfolk. "Edric Dayne, perhaps, or...if we speak of a Dornishman, maybe your brother Quentyn?"

Jon was teasing him, no doubt aware of the girl's fondness towards him, and Trystane did not know just quite how to respond to his barb, but fortunately Lord Stark interrupted his unease. "Cersei aims high, no doubt. I'd been happy with a Manderly or Flint for Myrcella, a Mormont girl for Tommen...but she wants to see at least some of her children married back into southron families. But great houses though...I'd settle for a Mallister or Royce...or even a Frey."

Jon eyed his uncle skeptically. "A Frey? You must be drunker than I'd thought."

The Lord of Winterfell laughed, and shook his head. "Aye, probably not a Frey." He looked towards Jon. "Have you given any thought...about the raven that came the last moon?"

"Lady Margaery?"

Benjen nodded.

Jon paused at first. "Lord Tyrion tells me it'll help Queen Sansa secure the Reach, but...he also writes that Queen Catelyn is opposed to the match."

"Aye, and I would not want to be on the wrong end of Queen Catelyn's wrath."

"I agree with her," Jon continued. "With my...blood, a marriage with a Tyrell could threaten Queen Sansa's power."

"Or help it," Benjen countered. "Queen Catelyn knows you, I do, you'd never usurp her daughter's claim...although, it's probably not you she fears, but any children you may have."

"I've heard all my life of Lady Margaery's beauty," Jon said, a rare dreamy look in his dark eyes. "Aye, if they could assure me the woman's barren, I'd jump into that marriage headfirst."

"I'll bet you'd jump into her with something else first," Trystane remarked, and they all laughed and drank some more.

"It'd be wise to wait, at any rate," Benjen counselled. "The Queen marries Viserys in a year, after she reaches her majority. Any questions of succession would be better settled by then, especially if she births a son. Maybe you ought write the Lady Margaery, bid her wait." He narrowed his eyes at Jon. "Nay, beg her wait."

"Aye," Jon laughed, "maybe I will."

Trystane had a feeling he wouldn't though. Though northern traditions allowed for very few knights and squires, he'd served the last few years as Jon Stark's squire in all but name, despite the fact that the man was only four years older than him. And when they talked, after they'd sparred, Trystane somehow learning a new skill or move each time he crossed swords with Jon, they spoke of joining the Queensguard together. Except the prospects for that weren't great. The oldest of the Whitecloaks was Ser Dustin Hunter, a man of nine and fifty, and Jon had in mind to ask the Queen to take his place when they next saw her at her wedding. Torrhen Karstark was the next oldest, so Trystane would likely have to wait many more years, hoping that they didn't get too impatient and make him take the Black first.

He'd lived far longer than he'd suspected he would, when they'd caught him, a cowering and frightened boy crying for his uncle. And the North wasn't as bad as he feared, with Lord Benjen being a good man, new friends like Jon and Myrcella or even sweet Tommen Stark, though Trystane wondered if his lack of hatred for his new home and captors ought to bring his family shame. But then, he'd only known the North of the Long Summer, hadn't he? The Starks were right, the Starks were always right...Winter was coming, and Trystane Martell still held narrowest of hopes that he would find himself somewhere warmer, once it did arrive.


Sansa

"I won't lie to you, Your Grace. It's not ideal."

"I know it's not ideal," her mother thundered back at Petyr. "What can we do about this? How did the Septon even get his grubby hands on these letters in the first place?"

Sansa could not fathom what was worse, that all the city and soon all the country would hate her for this, or the fact that these letters, these deepest secrets of her very soul, which she'd so foolishly revealed into words, were being read and passed around by all these men, all the men of the Faith from across the country no less, gathered now to pass judgment upon her soul, it seemed, rather than selecting the next High Septon.

"I spoke to Roose Bolton," Petyr replied. "He believes the young man's Septon or Septa may have found them, if Ser Lancel were sloppy enough to leave them lying about..."

She wished she could die. She wished she had died, that night witnessing the battle atop the castle walls, that a stray arrow may have flown into her chest and ended her right there and then. They would've remembered her a young and brave Queen, who'd given her life to save her country, rather than now, a...a whore, probably, looked down upon by her own court and Queensguard.

"Please," she begged, lifting her head out of her blanket, "tell them not to punish Ser Balon. I...I practically ordered him to cover for us, he had no choice, he was just doing what he was told..."

Her mother's reply was curt. "Ser Balon's the last thing we have to worry about, Sansa."

Just Sansa. Not Sansa dear, or dear child, or love. The morbid thought occurred to her, that at least her grandpapa was no longer alive to see her shame his family and their name in such an awful manner.

But he can see me from one of the heavens...he would've known all this time. And father. How badly must they both hate me?

Her uncle Petyr sighed worriedly. "I'm afraid that Septon Argus has...made it known his sympathies with Septon Mychel and the Sparrow factions."

He did not judge her, Sansa didn't think, he'd just been concerned for her, same as Lord Tyrion. And her mother hadn't been too mad at her, not for long anyway. But it didn't matter, Sansa could tell how much her stupidity vexed mother and caused her to lose sleep, and regretted everything, from that first day when she'd blushed when Lancel Lannister found her in the gardens and praised her beauty.

But why should I regret loving who I love, wanting whom I want? I sit on the Iron Throne, and almost every man who's sat on it before me has taken whomever he'd wanted. Robb too.

Except look what it cost Robb, and father with him. Could she live with herself, if her own indiscretions could cost her the lives of her mother, or siblings?

"The next High Septon will be sympathetic to the High Sparrow, for sure."

"The High Sparrow would have my daughter stripped of her Crown and sent to the silent sisters," her mother fumed furiously, at no one, Sansa thought, because she couldn't scream at Petyr, since he was only trying to help them both, or herself, because she was still her mother's Queen. "Sansa made a mistake, it's true. But she's a girl, how many girls, how many squires and lads have done so much worse! Remember when you fought Brandon Stark, remember..."

From under her pillow, Sansa heard her mother collapse dejectedly back into her chair. She'd been far too mortified to leave her room since that first day when they'd all found out, letting only her family and Petyr and Tyrion see her, not even Jeyne or Margaery.

"We can't let one of the Sparrows be selected, we simply just can't! They'll put my daughter...they'll put their Queen on trial, the gall of them!"

"The Crown could refute the Septons' selection, make their own choice. It won't be taken well, not at all, but we may not have any other alternative." Hushed silence, before she heard his voice lowered, though still reaching her ears, hidden under her blanket. "I've have heard word, talk of a Walk of Atonement."

Sansa shuddered underneath her sheets.

"She will repent, she will profess her guilt and ask for forgiveness before them all, but...a Walk of Shame? Where was this Walk when Aerys was fucking his whores, or Maegor, or every single fucking Aegon, whatever of His Names, with their sister-mistresses and daughters and nieces..."

This must be so bad, for her mother to swear so vehemently. Sansa had only heard her mother swear once, when they'd found out about Pyke.

"Given her age," Petyr said softly, "and the lack of severity in her...transgressions, Septon Polis has assured me that it may be tempered down. The Queen can keep her wardrobe during the walk, for one..."

"No," her mother snarled again. "I'll not have them humiliate her so, humiliate our families. Kill them, kill the Sparrows, I don't care, kill these Septons who've never had a daughter, who'd forget their own sisters and mothers, who'd shame a young girl..."

"A show of force can be considered."

Sansa shuddered again. Are they actually going to kill people, godly men, or even innocent Septas, because of her?

"...I know for a fact that Lord Stannis is not particularly fond of the Faith," she heard Petyr continue. "If we call his bannerman to...ensure the safety of the city...some may obey, others would question it, but we'd have enough to pacify the streets, I think. Mace Tyrell won't be happy about that, and the Westerlands are far, and Lord Tyrion...I suppose..."

"You speak as if the country is already rising in rebellion against my daughter."

The last war had been all Rhaegar's fault. Maybe Robb's too. Now, would thousands more people could die because of her, and her alone? Because she fell in love? Would their family end up being hated more than the Targaryens, because of Robb and her?

"If we push too hard against the Faith, it cannot be discounted." Every tap of his shoes against the hard floor sounded ominous, as Sansa waited for her uncle to reveal the brutal truth. "Though, outright rebellion, probably not, even if the unrest in the city becomes more serious."

"I'll write my brother to call our banners," she heard her mother say, "help keep the peace in King's Landing if needed. And Lord Benjen..."

"Not the northerners," Petyr warned abruptly.

"Why not?"

"It may...it may be seen as an attack on the faith, by those who worship the Old Gods..." Sansa heard Petyr's breath catch, as if a new idea had dawned upon him. "Lord Nestor is visiting the city, he is a loyal man to Lord Robin, his honor beyond question. I can send your sister and her son too, on a ship to the Vale, under his protection, and there they can call the Knights of the Vale and prepare them for the worst...if it comes to that..."

"Dorne," her mother suddenly realized. "I hope it doesn't come to war...but...even if we can avoid the worst here...the relationship between the Crown and the Faith will be tenuous, for some time. We'll need new allies, especially if we lose allies like Mace Tyrell or, Gods...the entire Reach, Seven Hells knows they were already this close to marching on King's Landing with Viserys three years ago."

Sansa peeked her eyes through her blanket, seeing uncle Petyr stand up in excitement.

"You're right, Cat! The Dornish worship the Seven, but in a much more lenient manner..."

"We spoke of Arya," she heard her mother whisper, "and having her meet Prince Quentyn, see if a betrothal could be...agreeable..."

"It might have to be done regardless, agreeable or not..."

So she'd curse Arya too, in having to marry some stranger she did not want or love. Although, if Quentyn Martell was as nice as her younger brother, Sansa supposed her sister could do a lot worse in a husband.

"She can sail for Sunspear," Petyr suggested. "It's a risk, but we'll send several whitecloaks to escort her."

"Is it enough? Can we trust Prince Doran to not try something?"

"We have his son in Winterfell."

So her love for Lancel would now put both her sister and the nice young Prince Trystane, along with so many more innocents, into harm's way.

"I don't trust it," her mother protested. "Not unless we send an army with her."

"Not an army," Petyr suggested, "but...a hundred or so men, perhaps, as an additional deterrence. We can't spare any of Stannis's...next to that, the Lannister presence in the capital is the most significant."

"And I...," she heard her mother hesitate, "Lord Tyrion is a clever man. And I do trust him...I think."

"You're right," Petyr agreed. "Good thinking, Cat. If there's an agreement to be made, he'd be well positioned to negotiate the terms. And were the Prince Doran to still harbor any ill intentions or grudges, I'd guess Tyrion Lannister would be quickest in unraveling them, before any of us. If he senses danger for the Princess Arya, we'll instruct them to send ravens, then sail back to King's Landing immediately."

"Will that cause a war with Dorne," Sansa asked, sneaking her head out from under her sheets, "if we flee like that..."

If we flee like Robb did, she'd almost said. If she had one wish, Sansa would have the Gods take her now, because she could not bear the thought of yet another war, this one caused by herself. The Silent Sisters didn't sound like the worst thing, either, if she could step down...

No, you don't want that. They'll keep you a prisoner in some tower, give you awful food, you won't be able to wear the clothes you like, or even sew the clothes you like to sew. Your hair, you'll have to wear like they tell you, plain and hidden. And you'll never see Ser Lancel again, you'd never get to love anyone, you'd never get to have children to hold...

You're a Queen, Sansa Stark. Stop being afraid, stop being a child, and act like a Queen.

"Let's worry about what's in front of us first," her mother replied uneasily.

"I thought it was the Queen shits, the Hand wipes," Arya said to her, when she visited her later that night. "Not the Queen's sister."

She'd brought her lemoncakes. Arya was the one who was wronged, who would now be punished for her crimes, yet Sansa still sat helplessly in her room, letting her younger sister be the one to comfort her.

"Uncle Petyr's been doing a lot of wiping already," Sansa said, feeling the words of apology rising, yet stuck in her throat. She forced them out. "I'm sorry Arya. I know you don't want to get married...not now, anyway. And Dorne is...well, I don't know what Dorne is, it's different, I suppose, than King's Landing. Or even Winterfell."

"Mother says it won't happen immediately," Arya responded dejectedly. She could not put off marriage forever, they both knew, whether to Quentyn Martell, or anyone else, much as Sansa had the feeling that if Arya could have it her way, she'd never marry anyone. "I'll have my Needle though. I can watch Tyrion's back for you."

"Will you refuse," Sansa asked, forcing a smile upon her face, "if you challenge Prince Quentyn to a duel and beat him?"

"Don't think there's any man I can marry then, outside maybe one or two of your Queensguard."

Reaching her arms out, she took Arya in, and hugged her sister fiercely. There was little more time, they'd sail tomorrow, Lord Tyrion rounding their escort as they spoke. With all the Sparrows wandering the city, the Queen would not accompany her sister to the docks, which meant their last goodbye would be had by the gates of the Keep. But even that felt too public for Sansa, so she would to bid her sister farewell here, where it was just the two of them, damn the rest of the world.

"I've won one war once," Sansa joked knowingly. "If they bother you, if they threaten you, I'll lead my armies to the doors of Sunspear myself."

Her words prompted Arya to look at her sister in disbelief. Awaiting some fresh new insult from her sister, Sansa had not expected the next words which came out of her mouth.

"You had your fun. I'm glad for it. I just wished it was someone better."

"Better? Who?" Looking around nervously, she leaned in to whisper into her sister's ear. "I told you that Loras Tyrell is a...is a...sword swallower! Remember?"

"I don't know," Arya shrugged. "Ser Balon?

"Ser Balon? He's...he's old!" Not that old, and Sansa adored him, he was her favorite of her Queensguard, and the kindest to her too. Not handsome like Loras or Lancel though.

"Better old and ugly than stupid."

"Lancel's not stupid!"

She swore her sister rolled her eyes at her.

"He was stupid enough to get caught, wasn't he?"

Sansa nodded, looking away.

And so was I. Which meant I was stupid enough to trust him.


Catelyn

In a way, she'd lost both her daughters, one to the Throne, and now one to the farthest province on the continent, to a strange family she knew little about, save their treason. Catelyn Tully loved both her daughters, she loved all her children, yet she'd always found it puzzling, that Arya did not ever gossip or dream about fair lads and princes, not like Sansa, not like herself or Lysa or any other girl her age she'd known. The Gods curse them all, such an attitude just did not blend well with highborn women like herself, especially the daughter of a King.

The castle seemed quieter with Arya gone, though Catelyn wondered who was more restless, herself, or that man from Braavos Ned had sailed over the Narrow Sea, to teach her daughter how to swordfight, out of all things.

"You're getting her hopes up," she'd argued with her husband at the time. "You'll make her actually believe she can be some knight or soldier, then she'll hate us even more when she has to marry and her new husband makes her give it all up!"

But then Ned had died, and Catelyn did not fight it immediately afterwards, because it made Arya happy, and kept her mind away from tragedy. Then, she'd been too busy to stop it, having to help her other daughter and the Council run seven kingdoms. And because it made Arya happy, and because she'd lost so much of her family already, so all a mother wanted to keep her child happy. A bitter smile crept upon Catelyn's face. Perhaps it was for the better, this alliance of necessity, because Dorne may be the one place outside Bear Island where'd they'd tolerate her younger daughter's more unladylike inclinations.

She filled the days writing letters, not just to her brother, but all the lords and ladies sworn to them along the three forks of the Trident. At night, she wove her prayer wheels, and kept them close to her heart. Would it matter at all?

The Queen Dowager turned her head out the window, where the dimmer sun of Autumn threatened to set over the Great Sept of Baelor. Her ears were alert, awaiting the dreaded sound of the trumpets arriving from that direction, announcing the selection of a new High Septon whose first priority would be to persecute her sweet and innocent daughter. What would come after that, what she'd have to do...

She heard it first with her ears, then felt it after, the floors...the entire city, nay, all the known world shaking and trembling in rage. Then she saw it, a sight which would scar her the rest of her life, the horrible fire overtaking like a fiery tidal wave the spot where the Great Sept had stood just mere seconds earlier, the sickly colors blending on the horizon against the setting sun, leaving only dark shadows looming over the great temple and all the streets nearby, collapsing into themselves as if the Gods had already rendered due their judgment upon them all.