Sansa

"Go, wife. Make this peace, and I will be in your gratitude."

Oh, what a valiant king, who sits by the gate while he bids his wife to make parley.

The Queen Consort rode forth towards the banners of the mother's family, recognizing the man sitting unsteadily upon his black steed as her uncle Edmure, whom she'd not seen since she'd been a child. It had taken some time, but enough banners had been gathered apparently for their procession down the King's Road, where they met now the King's men at Sow's Horn. While the banners ahead were many, a comforting sight, Sansa did not forget overhearing Ser Lewyn, who'd taken Ser Courtnay's place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, saying that they still outnumbered the Tully armies by nearly three thousand men.

"My Queen," Edmure bowed his head, surrounded on either side by two of his knights, a Blackwood, Sansa recognized by his armor, and a Frey, probably one of her uncle's many new goodbrothers. "Your mother summoned me to your aid. I apologize I answered the call far too late. I see that you have been betrayed and captured by the usurper, but ride with me now, our camp will be your sanctuary, and today marks the day we truly renew the war against your enemies."

His fingers shook as he spoke, and Sansa did her best to give her uncle her most comely smile. In a way, perhaps it was better his late arrival. Knowing now the actual intentions of the Tarly's, had her uncle arrived at King's Landing coinciding with the traitors, Randyll Tarly may well have routed them, in the name of his proper Queen, of course, or found a way to poison or undermine Edmure in one way or another, the result being yet another death rewarded to the family of her mother and grandfather's.

"Lord Edmure, your loyalty and faithfulness to the Crown is to be admired. Your fealty to the Crown will be rewarded. But there is no war, my husband Rhaegar took his crown most lawfully, by the assent of the lords and the sovereign powers granted to the Regency Council. I am his wife by law...and by heart. I beg of you, uncle, let us avoid further war and bloodshed where there needs none be. Stand down your banners. Return home, and let your men prepare their homes and families for winter. King Rhaegar understands your devotion, that you marched in the capital in good faith, believing yourself to be in the right. He will forgive your actions, and those of your bannermen, so long as this field remains unsullied by blood at the end of the day."

This had not been the response her uncle had been expecting. He looked uneasily at the two lords beside him, wondering why his royal niece, in such desperate need of rescue, had not run panicked into his arms. "Queen Sansa...I don't understand. Rhaegar Targaryen is a criminal. While the Targaryens have long been the enemies of both your father's family and your mother's, at least Prince Viserys was merely a child, while his brother Rhaegar raped and abducted your aunt Lyanna. How can you live with this, with...marrying the man your father would have slain without a second thought, the man who's responsible for your father's death?"

Believe me you, uncle, no need to further remind me.

"I have been assured that King Rhaegar loved my aunt Lyanna." She was careful to say this as an opinion, which she could change, rather than establishing as a fact the alleged words of the High Septon's diary, discovered so many years after the man conveniently died during the Lannister sack of King's Landing. "Many mistakes were made and many...miscommunications created the tragedy that resulted in my father's rebellion."

It was as far as she could stomach of her own tongue insisting upon Rhaegar's "innocence" that first war.

"Your Grace," Edmure stuttered, looking even more nervously to his bannermen. You'll thank me one day, when you realized how I saved you from disaster and defeat this day. "I...you don't realize the difficulty I've had in rallying this army for you. I've had to marry a...a fair lady of House Frey," he looked amicably at the Frey knight, careful not to offend the man with his apparent distaste for the match after the fact.

"Then be assured that your Queen offers you her fairest blessings for your marriage. Go home to your wife, I bid you, Lord Edmure, and look after her, as all your bannermen look after their own. I have my duty beside my husband now, I carry his child, and the heir to both our houses. My two brothers reside in the Red Keep, at King Rhaegar's mercy, and I am most happy to have all my family by my side, without further burdening my good and faithful uncle."

Yet the valiant knight sends me out before the battle. Rape or not, is this why aunt Lyanna died on her birthing bed, under his so called care?

Thankfully it had only take one night with her husband to get her with child. The most Sansa could say on Rhaegar's behalf was that he did not further force relations between the two, not that his body stood in the best shape for such activities. Immobile, his ugly legs twisted and scarred, all her beloved king could do was lie lamely on the bed while Sansa grit her teeth and went through the motions atop the old lecher, praying for him to finish the deed as soon as he physically could. It was justice, she figured, if Rhaegar had indeed been lying about his professed love for Lyanna, in that the man was certainly in no shape to force himself upon another woman ever again, though Sansa would personally prefer it if he were castrated first before she slit his throat.

"Your Grace," the Blackwood lord said with a polite nod to Edmure, "I met your brothers, both of them, I was present in King's Landing when Prince Rickon was presented, and I wish the best for them. Bran is, close to marriageable age now, isn't he?"

"The former Prince of Dragonstone," Sansa said, yet another of her family's titles usurped, this time by Viserys, "is three and ten years of age, so I'm assured that a betrothal will be considered in a few years."

"Well, we all look forward to that day, don't we? And for Prince Rickon's betrothal also."

"Thank you, Lord Blackwood," Sansa said knowingly, figuring that the man, Tytos, his name was, had a better understanding as to their situation. "I appreciate your sentiments, I truly do. And as a token of my gratitude, I'd love to invite my good friends to the capital, dine with you further, but the city is still fragile after everything."

After everything Rhaegar did. And Baelish. He'd screamed, oh how he'd screamed and cried in agony, when they'd lit the fires beneath his feet. She should have enjoyed it more, she should have concentrated her thoughts on how nearly everything bad that's happened in her life, Father, Robb, even mother, in a way, had been the Littlefinger's fault. Yet even in the end Sansa hadn't been able to shake off entirely in her heart the trust she'd once held for the man, the love even, from a familial standpoint, for someone who'd been always there for her, even though her mind understood they'd all been in the worst of ways.

"Your Grace," Edmure said, rearing his horse with a disappointed look on his face, not understanding that by yielding he was saving his own life. Though she couldn't say what she truly wanted to say, Sansa could only hope he'd come to know soon enough, whether through his own eventual understanding, or the counsel of his vassal lords, that their war wasn't finished, merely paused, until it one day became a winnable one, somehow, someway.

"He won't give us trouble," Jon Connington grumbled while she rode back into the Targaryen camp, and Sansa thought that if it were up to him rather than his king, the man would go ahead and slaughter an enemy willingly retreating.

"My uncle understands his duty to his King and Queen," Sansa said coldly, fixing her eyes onto the bald crown of his head rather than the hilt where his sword hung, "and his Queen's orders were as clear as she could make them."

Perhaps she should have given more thought as to how she could have handled the situation more advantageously to herself. But her head did hurt, her entire body really, because Sansa hadn't lied about carrying Rhaegar's child. And short of somehow hinting in front of all of Rhaegar's generals that Tytos Blackwood should sneak into the Keep and rescue her brothers, then ride to Horn Hill and take her aunt Cersei and three cousins back to Winterfell, then sail to Sunspear and bring Arya's Needle within striking distance of Rhaegar's throat, there hadn't much of an alternative on what else she could have further conveyed to the Riverlords.

Hurry up and let me bear the damned child, so my mind can think again.


Rhaegar

"Theon, is it?"

"And his sister Yara," Varys said, arriving at their camp after the Tully banners had already marched away, armed with yet more letters telling of the rather troubled state of his realms. "I'd expect them to come seek us out, sooner or later, in support of their cause."

"And?"

"Our agreement was with their father. Not with the children, and not with Balon's brother. It would do us no good to interfere into the family affairs of the Iron Islands...particularly when there's little they can offer us for our support."

"What if we assist them against Euron Greyjoy, give them lordship over the Iron Islands, but only on the condition that they give up their crown?"

"The crown we gave them, that we agreed to recognize for all perpetuity?" The Spider did not seem to eager for the idea. "Not the worst idea, Your Grace...certainly it wasn't our intention to allow the Iron Islands to raid us at will over the next thousand years. And were the rest of your kingdoms more whole than they are now..."

"Nothing back from the Eyrie then?"

"Worse," Varys replied sadly, handing him another scroll, speaking while his King's eyes grazed upon the grim news. "Following the example of Dorne, Lady Lysa Tully has proclaimed her son King of the Mountain and Vale, declaring their lands independent as it was, in the days before the dragons."

How did his father do this? At least the Mad King had men such as Tywin Lannister to watch over their shoulder, much less straighter traitors such as the Starks and Robert Baratheon.

"The Eyrie would be more difficult to take than even Dorne," Connington opined.

"Not a wise target for us to make direct war with," Varys agreed.

Rhaegar knew his spider well enough to understand the inference. "Indirect war then?"

Varys nodded. "I'll see what I can gather of the men who've sworn fealty to their new king past the Bloody Gate. Oh, and one last letter for Your Grace to peruse."

There was something to the Spider's eyes that sparkled, indicating that this could be news he'd actually like for a change. The King took the parchment and read it carefully.

"A rider from Winterfell...," he muttered.

My son.

"They're several days past Castle Darry," he said, his back shifting up high in his seat. "Ser Lewyn, we ride tonight."

"How many of our men ought we spare," Connington asked.

"None," Rhaegar answered, shaking his head vehemently. "It won't do to scare him away, bringing an entire army. We'll go alone."

"Are you sure, Your Grace?"

"This could be an ambush," Connington persisted, agreeing with the Spider. "A trick by Edmure Tully, or even his sister."

Must they constantly remind me of my many enemies, when I have enough trouble forgetting them on my own accord?

"Doubtful," Rhaegar answered firmly. "Not when we hold the Queen, and so many of her kin."

"At least let me bring fifty good men to accompany you," the restored Lord of Griffin's Roost insisted. Connington would not let it rest, he'd argue forever, Rhaegar knew, especially where it concerned the safety of his King.

"Twenty," Rhaegar relented. "And they'll stay behind," he ordered after the fact. "Much will need to be discussed...I must have my discretion with him."


Young Ned

Lord Beric was a decent liar. Ned had never seen his uncle by marriage lie before, but then he'd never the need. They'd been at war for so long, and it was with the sword and lance in which they fought their enemies, whether Rhaegar's armies, or their remnants after the rebellion, or the assorted and never ending array of bandits which would plague the villages and countryside until long after he and Beric died. But his uncle had warned him, before their meeting with the Tarly host leaving King's Landing, to forget their oaths they'd made with Renly Baratheon by the banks of the Wendwater.

Because the Tarly's were as much their enemies, in secret of course, as Rhaegar Targaryen and his Spider, if not more so.

"...I remember travelling to Horn Hill once, Lady Cersei. I was merely a lad younger than my squire, Lord Edric here, but I remember it being a grand manor, with beautiful gardens..."

"Yes, I'm sure it'll make the prettiest of cages," the Queen's aunt said dismissively, rolling her eyes, her thin arms cradling the youngest of her children, a girl no older than eight, with the dark hair he'd expect for a Stark.

In truth, though Ned had not lied, he'd not told Beric the truth either, that once he'd heard about this particular procession, he'd been secretly very eager about it, losing sleep each of the last four nights. Nodding politely to the other Stark children riding south to be held as hostages for Gods knew how long, a pretty golden haired girl and a nice fair haired boy, none with a red mane like their cousin the Queen, Ned noticed, the young Lord of Starfall rode towards the rear of the caravan, trying to not make it too obvious as he peered without turning his head into the windows of each wheelhouse. Luckily, the march soon came to a stop, servants exited to light fires to cook suppers for knights and hostages alike, and a young girl in a dark brown dress stepped out of one of the wheelhouses he'd ridden past earlier.

"Lady Talla!"

To his disappointment, the girl startled when he called her name, her dark eyes looking him up and down as if he were a stranger.

"Seven blessings to you, good Ser..."

"Oh, I'm not a Ser yet," Ned said, his voice wavering before the girl in ways his sword never did in battle. "Far from it...you don't remember me, Talla?"

Again her studied him in bafflement, until they finally fell upon his armor, and the sigil upon his breastplate. Placing her hands upon her cheeks, Talla Tarly gave a delighted shriek, before quickly restraining herself again.

"Edric? Edric Dayne?"

"Ned," he replied with a nervous chuckle. "Edric sounds so fancy."

"As it should be, for the Lord of Starfall!"

Hesitatingly, she approached him, and wrapped her arms around the back of Ned's neck for the quickest of hugs, before pulling away.

"You've grown quite tall! Gosh, how many years has it been, since that tourney at Blackmont?"

"Nearly six." He'd been a boy of eight then, the feasts at the castle up the Torrentine had been one of his last truly happy memories, before the sickness took both his parents, and before he'd been thrust into a life of war and camp and riding between the one and the other.

"And you're quite a soldier, I hear," Talla gasped. "Oh, father would love to have you marching with him, he's having quite a difficult time with it all in the capital."

Beric told him Randyll Tarly was a traitor. Brienne believed this too. It was time for Ned to lie, as uncomfortable as it made him. Or at least try doing so. "I can't believe your father's the Hand to the King. It must be quite the honor."

"Oh it is," Talla replied. "And I'm to marry Loras Tyrell, have you heard?!"

Instantly, he reached over to hug the older girl, because in the briefest of moments Ned had been cognizant enough to know that he could not hide from her the disappointment in his face, and that he did not want her to see it either.

"Oh Talla, I'm so happy for you. I hear the Knight of Flowers is the greatest swordsman in all Seven Kingdoms, the next Ser Barristan the Bold, they say!"

"Oh, I doubt Ser Barristan is as handsome as he. And to think, father had been thinking of betrothing me to a Fossoway, before his appointment!"

By that time, he'd already pulled away from yet another fleeting embrace, and though he'd regained his countenance, his face couldn't help but flinch once more at her words gushing over her new betrothed.

"Well, I'm happy for you regardless," he replied, trying not to breath too hard.

"Oh, I'm just so glad to see you again, Lord Edric, it's been far too long!" She looked around, a few of her handmaidens setting up a ring of stools next to a fire. "Won't you join us for supper?"

The invitation no longer sounded as grand as it would have minutes before, and Ned looked around nervously. "I should return to Lord Beric, I don't want him to worry that I've wandered off somewhere."

"Well come find me," Talla said with a giggle that seemed to stir up his entire body, starting from his toes and working its way up, "once Lord Beric is assured he hasn't lost his squire."

He managed to hold back his dejected sigh until he found himself within sight of Lord Beric again.

Not just any knight, but the Knight of Flowers. And I'm just a dumb squire. Thus one more reason for him to bemoan Randyll Tarly's treason, and subsequent ascension.

Just how would she feel about you, if you do have to make war against her father one day?


"I talked to one of the Hightower boys," Beric said by the fire, as the sun set once more upon another day where it'd been cold before it'd been dark.

"Which one," Ned asked, doing what he could to hold a straight face, to pretend to care about the politics of it all, the only reason they'd met the Tarly's in the first place. "There's so many of them, hard to keep track of it."

"Don't I know it," Beric laughed, before lowering his voice. "Theobald, one of Lord Baelor's sons. It appears that it will be his uncle Humfrey will man the defenses of Horn Hill, with most of the Tarly bannermen north at the capital indefinitely."

Ned glanced around too, looking to see if there were any prying eyes, or ears, eager to hear of their conversation, though he figured that Beric had long taken such precautions before he'd first spoke. "All the Hightower men?"

"Some. Five hundred, at least, he thinks."

"All to guard a lady and her three children?"

Beric sighed. "It's not that much. But enough to hold in a brief siege. So long as they can send a raven to King's Landing, I don't imagine it'd be long before Lord Randyll can march with what Rhaegar can spare him."

"We can muster more, perhaps. Especially if Lady Brienne can be sure of the Grandisons, they're no friends to Jon Connington, after all. Still, a siege...unless, if our numbers are better used attacking Randyll Tarly directly. So attacking Horn Hill would be a way to lure him south, to a place where we'd have the advantage in terrain...wouldn't it?"

Was he practicing lying to Lord Beric now, contemplating so seriously as to how to make war against the Tarly's? Or was he lying to himself, forcing his heart to extinguish old flames.

"Aye," Beric said, unaware of his troubled mind, so it would appear he was lying well enough. If indeed he was lying. "You take well to war, Ned. Maybe you'll be a natural at it. It's not a good thing...but it's what's needed, during these troubled times."

An inadvertent look towards a nearby fire, and Beric noticed, so it would appear not all his thoughts were escaping his attention.

"I saw you speaking to the Lady Talla earlier this evening."

Ned nodded. "I knew her from when we were children. We sang songs together. Jenny of Oldstones. And she played the lute wonderfully too."

He wondered if she could still sing like she had, when she'd been young. When Talla spoke today, her voice still rang to his ears the most perfect of notes, and Ned remembered how he'd asked his mother to learn the harp, so he and Talla could play the most beautiful of music together, once they met again. That child could have never envisioned these circumstances, Ned thought sadly, so many years later.

"You still know her well?"

"Not well," Ned admitted. "Though we're a bit more acquainted after today than before."

"You ought to get even more acquainted with the lady," Beric whispered, though he sounded the most serious, and Ned could guess as to why. "Perhaps you can continue a friendly correspondence with Lady Talla, after we leave back to the marches, and she for Horn Hill."

"I should go speak to her now," Ned asked, though he realized that his permission had already been granted.

Beric chuckled. "Only if you can still remember the words to your songs."

He did. But Ned wondered whether he could ever sing to her, pure of voice and heart, ever again.


Arya

"Pass me a chicken leg please."

"You're going to eat all the chickens in the palace," Andrey Dalt protested.

Arya Stark, Princess of the realm and captive of the rogue Prince rebelling against the man who had usurped her sister's throne, shrugged her shoulders.

"You'll get fat," Andrey said, a friendly, teasing smile upon the boy's face. "Prince Quentyn would never want to marry you then."

"Good." Impatient, she reached into the pot and grabbed the object of her desires. The young man whom she sat with tried to stop her, but she was too quick for him, as usual. "Maybe I'll eat through all of Dorne's gold," she said, after taking a satisfying chomp of the meaty piece of thigh, "and they'll be forced to send me back to Westeros."

Not that Arya actually wanted that. The night before Tyrion left, she'd begged him, nay, ordered the Half Man to help her, to hide her on a ship, and smuggle her back to her sister and family, what remained of it anyway.

"Give Rhaegar another captive?"

"I'll kill Rhaegar," Arya had snarled.

"You can't," the dwarf replied sadly. "You're one girl. And even if by a miracle of the Gods you do so, you'd probably only end up making my uncle Kevan king. Or Randyll Tarly, for the matter. And all your siblings will die alongside you."

"Am I supposed to just give up?"

The dwarf looked at her thoughtfully for some time before making up his mind.

"No. Not if I were you. Not if I've been as badly wronged as you have, as your family has been. I can only counsel you patience. Dorne is probably the safest place for you to reside right now, this side of Moat Cailin, anyhow. And you must remember, Sansa's new husband is now Prince Doran's enemy as well as yours..."

"He plotted to kill my father," Arya snapped. She'd kill the crippled traitor of Dorne first, before killing the crippled traitor who'd forcibly married her sister.

"It would not be the first alliance made out of reasons of convenience only," Tyrion said gently, not reacting in the least towards her wrath, "and not the last. I assure you, Prince Doran is thinking the same thing; that's the only reason he means to keep you here."

"You're saying," Arya asked, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together in her mind, "he'd make war against Rhaegar one day?"

"Or Rhaegar against Dorne. It'll happen sooner or later, I'd reckon." Again the dwarf paused. "Don't give your needle immediately to Doran Martell. Not until you're sure it can help your sister."

She wondered what would've happened had they let Syrio accompany her on this trip. Arya hoped her dancing master was faring well back in the capital. There hadn't been word of any executions with the change in crowns, so he was probably safe, but it did sadden her that the new king had probably sent the man back to Braavos. Part of her hoped that her faithful teacher would sail south instead, and rescue her. But then, she could hear Tyrion chiding her in her mind, what could two do against seven entire kingdoms?

This was why she liked Andrey Dalt. All the Lannister men, including scarred dog Clegane, had sailed away with Lord Tyrion. Sers Arys Oakheart and Lymond Lynderly, the two Queensguard who'd accompanied them south, had been sent to stay separately at the Water Gardens and Lemonwood, respectively, leaving her alone in a castle full of hostile strangers. So at least Andrey sparred with her, and the older boy was good enough to beat her most of the time. Prince Quentyn was even older, yet he'd found himself on the ground within minutes the first time Arya had convinced him for a match in the gardens, and Doran's eldest son had avoided her ever since, a relief for both of them, Arya figured.

"I have to piss."

"Go do it then," Andrey muttered impatiently. He'd been enjoying his wine tonight, and seemed ready to fall asleep. She's caught more than once the young knight awake with a startle, after his head had just plopped drunkenly into a nearby fountain.

Arya looked hesitantly towards the nearest privy, where a bevy of girls they called the Sand Snakes stood guard, eyeing her with hostile eyes.

"I don't think they like me."

Yawning, Andrey pointed to a small garden nearby, fenced in by hedges taller than Areo Hotah. "Go there, no one will see you."

The Princess eyed the older boy skeptically. "Promise me you won't follow me and peek."

Andrey Dalt chortled. "I've no wish to vomit out four legs of chicken right about now."

And three more glasses of wine than me. Probably can't stand now, either.

It was a good spot, quiet, with no one but birds and one butterfly to spy upon her. Finding a suitable spot in between two small trees, she was about to undo the laces of her trousers when she felt something hard and metallic press up against her back.

"It's a spear, girl," a deep but feminine voice sang softly from the shadows. "Don't try it, or you'll die, and Obara's robes won't even be sullied by your blood."

"Lady Ellaria," Arya said, recognizing the heavily accented voice of the Sand Snakes' matriarch. "Your Prince change his mind about keeping me around?"

"My Prince," Ellaria scoffed, and as she approached her from underneath the shadows, Arya could see the contempt lighting her eyes under the full moon. "No lady, just Ellaria is fine."

She'd been the lover of Doran's brother, Tyrion had told her, who'd died by swords raised under the Stark flag during the last rebellion. "What do you want with me?"

Rather than answer, the woman reached forward, fingers slipping into her belt and stealing her Needle from her. Instinctively Arya shifted her shoulders to keep the woman's prying hands away from her most treasured object, but a painful jab reminded her of the lethal weapon pinned against her back.

"Behave girl. Next time, I will draw blood," the voice behind her threatened.

"You're pretty good with this, aren't you, Princess?"

Her first thought was to threaten to kill the woman, but Arya bit her tongue.

"Your skills have not been unnoticed," the Dornishwoman continued. "I wonder if Nymeria can whip this out of your hands. You definitely wouldn't stand a chance against Tyene though, unless you can throw this sword as well as you point it."

With a grin, Ellaria placed her sword back into her hilt, and Arya felt the pressure relent from behind her. She spun and turned, recognizing the oldest of the Sand Snakes, Obara, Ellaria had just called her.

"If you want to get better," the older girl said, wearing the same smirk as her adopted mother, "there's a passage by the statue of Nymeria, a set of old stairs leading down to the beach. The cliffs are tall there, and you can't see it from the castle. It's where we train. And Elia's been itching to have a go at you."

"You want me to train with you?" There was no grin to suppress, because Arya was more confused and suspicious of the offer rather than intrigued. Though she was intrigued.

This time it was Ellaria who spoke, and her words were bitter.

"Oberyn's dead. And for what? For that useless old man to put a crown on his bitch of a daughter's head?"

"Prince Oberyn died fighting the northmen," Arya stated plainly.

"He died because his brother's ambition has always far exceeded his brain," Ellaria's whisper nearly screeched out loud. "Why would anyone believe it, whether Stark or Targaryen, whether Tully or Arryn or Baelish ever care so much about putting a Martell on an Iron Throne, except Doran? He failed," Ellaria continued snarling, "he sacrificed a brother and son for his failure, yet now he decides he wants to reward his failure with a crown upon his own head, while Oberyn's bones lie underneath the dirt."

"You want revenge...for Oberyn? Against Doran?"

"You coming, or should I kill you now?" Apparently Obara Sand had not the patience for Arya to finish sorting through all this sordid business in her mind.

The Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, the current heir, by the laws of Dorne, grinned at her captors. "I don't think you would've asked me, unless you already knew the answer."


Rhaegar

It was near dusk when they saw a lone and distant banner upon the horizon. Northern armor, Rhaegar recognized, underneath the flag of a direwolf, a young boy riding at the head of four knights, presumably bannermen belonging to Benjen Stark.

"My son," he whispered, whilst Ser Lewyn readied his hand on the hilt of his sword, in case the Northmen were planning an ambush. It wasn't likely, even Varys believed that, though Rhaegar did wonder whether it came all too easy, that his son, whom they'd clothed as a wolf for twenty years, would so likely to immediately answer the summons from his father.

But what boy would wish to hide forever, away his true parentage? Even Rhaegar, who knew before most that his father had long passed the thresholds of sanity, had agonized and equivocated when the whispers arose that he should depose his father, whether the words came from men wearing whitecloaks, or a woman wearing red. Perhaps Benjen Stark was just a generous man, letting his ward and nephew go, according to his wishes. That, or maybe the Lord of Winterfell never had a choice, because the game was over, the Targaryen restoration complete, and no lord, however well respected in his lands, had the power to prevent a true prince of the blood from riding forth and claiming his rightful inheritance.

The silhouette riding at the head of small procession seemed to be of medium height, with curly dark hair running towards his shoulders. His eyes reminded him of Lyanna's, as he approached closer to his long lost father, spirited and full of will, his face youthful and bright. The northmen escorts accompanied him no further.

"Your name is Aegon," Rhaegar proclaimed, his voice deep, the same tone he'd used the first day he truly sat upon his rightful throne. "We have many things to discuss, in the days ahead, but first, I thought it right for you to know the name given you, by those who birthed you, who loved you even before you were born."

The boy seemed confused by his words. "It's Trystane, actually."

"Trystane?" The name sounded familiar. "Doran Martell's son?"

He nodded, and it was only now that Rhaegar saw the complexion of his skin, not as dark as Elia's, but much moreso than his own, or Lyanna's.

"My father is a temperamental man..."

"He's a traitor," Rhaegar snapped.

"He may be," the boy replied, his impudent voice not relenting before his King. "But I fought for House Targaryen. My uncle died for House Targaryen, and I've spent the last three years in Winterfell as a hostage because of the last war."

"What do you want?"

To his side, Rhaegar saw Lewyn Martell shifting uneasily atop his horse, upon meeting for the first time the youngest of his grandnephews.

"To serve, Your Grace. I ask for a place in your Kingsguard."

What was this business? A joke? A distraction? Yet he knew it would be unwise to crossly berate, much less deny the boy's wish outright, in front of his father's uncle. And Varys would probably leap upon this opportunity in gaining a new hostage against yet another rebellious kingdom.

"It will be considered. Ser Lewyn will accompany you back to the camp." A pause, a thought, then a concession. "The decision will be his."

The boy's eyes widened, realizing for the first time who his companion actually was, and actually rode eagerly past his king, forgetting the reason they'd all ridden this far north from Sow's Horn in the first place. Certainly not to greet some stupid boy and traitor's son.

"Boy?"

"Your Grace?"

"Where's my son?"

Again, the boy frowned in confusion.

"I thought they would have told you," he said, his mount coming to a stop between that of the King's and his protector's.

"Told me what?"

Patience. Not in front of Lewyn.

"The day we received the raven from King's Landing...well...Jon left Winterfell that very night..."

"Left for where?"

Could they have missed him? Or had bandits befallen their group, or was it northern trickery after all?

"You really don't know," the boy repeated uneasily, looking nervously at his elder relation. "The Wall, Your Grace. Jon's pledged himself to the Night's Watch."