Sansa
The Tyrells had been no strangers at court during her childhood, and Sansa could not recall anymore from whom she'd first heard about the fabulous gardens of their castle. As a child she had begged her father to bring her to Highgarden, but the only ventures afforded her outside of King's Landing had been to the lands of her ancestors, visiting one or another of her uncles at Riverrun or Winterfell. Then father had died, and her first moons as Queen saw her presiding victorious over a great battle. Only afterwards did they decide that it was important for her to learn how to become a Queen Regnant, which meant hours of study with the maesters and only the occasional trip to her Small Council meetings, much less anywhere outside the capital. So by the time Sansa finally arrived to the grandest manor of the Reach, the only castle in all seven kingdoms which could rival the Red Keep, they always told her, she saw only poison in the roses and daisies and tulips, snakes in their undergrowth.
No shortage of words extolling these gardens had failed to reach her ears over the years. When Margaery came and spoke to Robb of their love, she regaled Sansa about the wonders of her gardens. When Loras Tyrell sparred and laughed with Robb and joked with Renly on his visits to the capital, it was regarding the beauty of these flowers and arrangements he spoke of, rather than her eyes, her laugh, her smile, the hair and braiding she'd had poor Jeyne spending hours that morning perfecting. When Mace Tyrell arrived in the city to serve as her Master of Coin, it was of his grand castle he spoke of, rather than the state of her kingdoms, her treasuries, the granaries that was her duty to see full before winter came.
"Your Grace."
"Lord Renly."
Sansa had wondered about her one time Master of Whispers upon arrival. Knowing better than to ask for the man who could be assisting her directly, she inquired instead as to the whereabouts of Loras Tyrell.
"Oh, out riding with Lord Renly," Mace had replied innocently. So Renly had chosen to attend, unlike her kingly husband, who remained locked in his own chambers in the Keep, as he'd been since the priestess. Neither of her uncles by blood were present either, though Sansa did not begrudge either's absence. Edmure's last foray out of Riverrun had been enough struggle, and he had a new son to care after now. Benjen had to prepare the North for winter, and considering the fact that they would let neither aunt Cersei and her children leave Horn Hill, nor allow for visitors, there was really nothing to lure her uncles in towards attending the tourney of a most unfriendly court.
"I see the Seven Kingdoms have been blessed by an heir, since my last time in King's Landing."
Curse these gardens, Sansa thought, just as she watched whilst Margaery Tyrell approached their way, almost as if she were purposefully intent upon interrupting their conversation, before it could become useful to her.
Renly saw too the approach of his lover's sister, and smiled most graciously at the woman.
"The Stormlands are well," he continued, in a voice low enough to not be heard, but not too low to appear suspicious. "It lives up to its name, of course...lightning darts through the skies quite often. We watched the stars the other night, the Lady Shireen and I, we looked to the Evenstar, and even a falling star across the way."
"Queen Sansa," Margaery exclaimed, as Renly kissed politely the lady's hand before departing without another look at his Queen. "My most sincere congratulations on the birth of a healthy and wonderful son."
"Lady Margaery." Sansa forced a smile, fighting the urge to turn away immediately from this woman whom she had once wished so badly to befriend. Jeyne had been right, after all, Robb's betrothed was not to be trusted. "How fares your marriage with Prince Viserys?"
"Oh it's wonderful," Margaery gushed, "he is a true dragon, just like your son will be one day, I imagine. He takes well to the sun here. While I'm most happy to accompany our father back to King's Landing after the tourney, I do believe that I can talk my beloved into coming south to Highgarden after my father's duties to his king are complete, rather than Dragonstone, oh, what a bleak place that is, I've heard."
What of the last Prince you claimed to have loved, Sansa struggled not to scream at the woman. You deserve Viserys, for leading Robb astray. And your father's duties were to me first, before he betrayed me to grovel at Rhaegar's feet.
"Yes, children are a blessing," she mumbled, wondering just how long she would have to maintain her courtesies. Her own child was being attended to by Jeyne, and Sansa gave thanks for her friend, because she truly did not know how she could function without her.
"I'm afraid I've failed my dear Viserys so far in that regard," Margaery continued absentmindedly, "but I pray to the mother every night..."
It confused Sansa, whether she truly believed in this farce or not.
Better you remain barren. Else it'll be the blood of your children on my hands when I order them executed, once I take back my throne.
"Queen Sansa, Lady Margaery!"
A third feminine voice interrupted their chatter, and both Sansa and Margaery turned to see their mutual goodsister, whose belly looked ever the rounder upon the Princess's shorter stature. Instantly Margaery reached over to carefully hug the woman, while Sansa just watched the two bitterly from a distance. All the lords were leaving towards the stands, where the jousters were to soon commence the tourney with the first bouts of the festivities. Seeing Trystane standing nearby, ready to guide her to her seat at the center of it all, a makeshift throne for her if only because of Rhaegar's absence, Sansa left the two women and began her walk towards her place. Then, she felt a tug upon her arm, and saw the small and pale hand of Daenerys Targaryen.
"Your Grace. May I borrow you, for just a few moments?"
Trystane shrugged. "Princess Daenerys," Sansa said politely, trying to think as fast as she could any excuse to avoid conversing with anymore of her extended dragonspawn family. "Perhaps later tonight, I'm afraid I'll be late for the tourney."
But Daenerys laughed her off. "You're the Queen, the ranking member of court in the king's absence. They'll wait, as they should, they won't dare start the tourney without you."
It was true. Rhaegar's decision had been a relief, as his absence meant the tantalizing prospect of perhaps even one night alone with Trystane, though they had to be especially careful on this trip, considering her quarters consisted of a tent in an open camp, or chambers inside an enemy's castle, all with the overbearing presence of the Sparrows in every corner. Seeing no way to refuse the woman, Sansa nodded her assent to Trystane, watching out of the corner of her eye her lover following them as Rhaegar's sister led the small procession into a nearby garden, surrounded by high hedges.
One of them had to break the silence, discontent as either woman was to merely wander about, only pretending to admire the flowers and manicured bushes. When it came finally time to relent, it was the dragonness who spoke first.
"I know you have no love for my brother Rhaegar."
This again. Sansa turned to rebuff the woman, but Daenerys's attentions had returned to the roses. The nerve of her. "Are you here to assure me he's a good man? That he loved my aunt Lyanna, that I should love him as Lyanna loved him?"
"No."
It was a simple statement, yet one that irresistibly beseeched for more from the woman being addressed. It was an art form, her manners of speaking, and Daenerys was quite good at it, Sansa could see. Yet, she resisted. If the Princess wanted to state her meaning, then she would not beg it out of her.
"He's not a bad man," Daenerys gave in again, Sansa grateful for this smallest of victories. "And he's my brother, I love him, I always will. But I can't say that he's a good man anymore. Not with everything he's done."
"To my family," Sansa heard herself saying before she could catch herself. Was this Rhaegar's way of drawing out her treason, with honey from his pretty sister? If so, then she needed to be better guard herself of it.
"To you," Daenerys insisted, her purple eyes looking up at Sansa's in all sincerity. "Whatever the...history between our families, you hadn't been born then. You spared Viserys, when you could've had him killed. Yet my brother tore you down, one piece of your crown after another. You didn't deserve that."
So it was a ruse. Sansa knew she ought refuse the bait, to proclaim her love and loyalty to her king and husband. But her mouth could never allow her to utter such falsities, because what was treason against Rhaegar when it came to treason against her heart, her family? So she remained quiet, and they walked.
"It's funny, isn't it." Daenerys relented once more, speaking when Sansa refused to. "Tywin Lannister murdered Rhaegar's wife and children, and his son Jaime...yet...here I am, marrying a Lannister, carrying his child." Once more she paused, and once more Sansa bit her tongue. "Apologies, I forget that you and Lancel..."
"He means nothing to me," Sansa finally blurted out, unable to control herself. But she wasn't speaking against Rhaegar, was she, so let her spit her bile to her heart's content. "Nothing happened between us, Princess. He's nothing to me."
Because I finally know now what true love is, not what it pretended to be.
Daenerys laughed, an admittedly musical and entrancing sound. "Please, Your Grace, I assure you I bear no grudges towards your mutual history." Her face grew solemn, as the standoff resumed. "I don't expect I'll ever love him. But I will love my child, I will raise him, or her, to be better than their father..."
"What if they forced you to marry Tywin Lannister?"
They both looked at each other, stunned by the Queen's loss of composure, long overdue, but quickly Daenerys seemed to understand her meaning.
"What if you had to carry his child," Sansa continued. Once broken, the barrier felt vanished forever. "What if you bore Lord Tywin's son, and saw in your son's eyes the same eyes who ordered the massacres of your family?"
Her words had some sort of effect on the girl, who now appeared the more sullen of the two. Understanding that their impasse was complete, and won by neither, Sansa took a turn and began walking back towards her eager and awaiting audience.
"I was born in the middle of the worst storm they'd seen in over twenty years, they told me." The Princess's voice drifted in from behind her, her gait having outpaced the shorter woman's, much less Daenerys's condition, yet the way she spoke, as if in a trance, as if telling her still unborn child a story, rather than addressing a Queen, Sansa couldn't help but stop and steal a glance back at the older woman. "My mother died birthing me, on the small boat trying to cross the Narrow Sea, fleeing the armies of House Stark. I was too young to remember, obviously. But my brothers spent the rest of the journey on that same ship, carrying their dead mother, until we reached the shores of Essos."
She expected condemnation in her eyes now, the end of her act, and the resumption of the true feelings and blood grudges which lay between their families, but Sansa saw in Daenerys's purple eyes...understanding? Sympathy, even?
Her hands reached forward towards her, though Sansa did not reach out to her in turn. Nevertheless, Daenerys continued. "From what I hear of your father, he was a just man. He served justice to the Lannisters and their butchers, when many others would not dare."
How dare she even impugn that her father had anything to do with the rebellion instigated by her family?
"Robert Baratheon and my father were provoked into calling our banners, Princess. Your father tortured and burned countless innocents to their deaths, including my family...and Rhaegar...well, whatever he felt towards Lyanna, he still left her to die in a deserted tower in Dorne, didn't he?"
She wanted the fight now, yet Daenerys infuriatingly refused to give the Queen what she wanted. Instead, she looked away, wandered to one side of the aisle, and fingers carefully avoiding the thorns, picked out a rose a deeper shade of crimson than all its neighbors.
"You're right," Daenerys admitted, again sounding sincere. "My father was not a good man. And my brother...he's made his mistakes, he's committed what...acts he believed right." A smile, the first one which looked false to Sansa. "Perhaps it's our fate to suffer the punishments for the men in our lives, isn't it? They make their wars, they claim their women, their kingdoms, and...Princess or Queen...or Queen Regnant, in the end...our purpose to them is little more or less than a common soldier in their armies, a horse in their cavalry, to be passed and used to further their own names and positions."
It was a startling admission, one which condemned her own family in a way that could not have been feigned, not unless Daenerys Targaryen was the best actress across two continents.
"It didn't have to be," Sansa replied without thinking. "It's not the kind of country I would have wished to reign over, where women and children suffer endlessly. I didn't want this war with your brother, Princess, I inherited it, and understand I wi...that I would've defended my family and our right to the Throne because it was my duty to my family, to my country. But had Rhaegar chosen a course of peace...truly pursued peace, rather than war through deception behind the veil of peace, I would have borne no ill will against your family, and let you live in peace in turn."
There was an unexpected twitch upon the Princess's cheeks, as if something she said touched upon Daenerys deeply, though Sansa could not guess towards what it may have been.
"You would have wished to make the realm a better place, wouldn't you? To do something, to use your throne and make a difference."
Sansa nodded. "I don't know how I could've done so. But I never got the chance to try at it, did I?
"You chose Viserys," Daenerys finally remarked, after a long pause of contemplation, "didn't you? It was a good choice, for the sake of your kingdoms. It wasn't a good choice, in terms of the man himself, but it was your choice all the same. Yet, here you are, married to Rhaegar, and here I am, married to Lancel." Walking forward, Daenerys ran her arm through her own, and for some reason, Sansa did not fight her. Arms entwined, the Princess spoke as they resumed their procession, lords and ladies witnessing the strange and rare sight of Stark and Targaryen united, however transitory or false their truce was. Daenerys whispered into her ear, before they were to part and take their seats before the field. "Your dreams are admirable, Queen Sansa. Don't give up on them just yet."
Young Ned
Lord Beric performed well, riding through several rounds before falling to Ser Balon Swann, a reputable member of the Kingsguard who had been recognized worthy by the great King Eddard himself, unlike the scoundrels and mere boys Rhaegar had seen fit to appoint after the usurpation. The second day saw the melee, a chaotic contest won by a scarred man from the Westerlands by the name Clegane, Beric whispering into his ears that he'd served Tyrion Lannister most loyally, who'd served Queen Sansa most loyally in turn, until they'd all been betrayed by the underhanded tactics of the Targaryens and the treacherous Martells.
"All the Marcher lords are with us," Beric had whispered to him, while they rode the short distance from Blackhaven to Summerhall. "Crow's Nest too, the Conningtons have taken nearly half their lands since the restoration."
"Convenient for us," Ned replied, "better that Rhaegar's adept at making enemies. The Morrigens surely help our tally." Griffin's Roost was far from the marches, and the King's new Master of War spent most of his days tending to the politics of the capital anyway, but they both knew that the long exiled Jon Connington proved a dangerous threat to their plans, whenever the war came, whether it was one year or ten years from now.
"Aye," Beric agreed. "Red Ronnet too, he's got no love for his uncle, not after he took Griffin's Roost from him. Hatred of a common enemy makes just as reliable of an ally as actual loyalty and fealty. They won't teach you that, most knights, but it's the truth."
What you're saying is that Ser Arthur would've never told me that, were he still alive. Or maybe it's something he should've known, but did not.
"Lord Edric, you came!"
"Of course I did," he replied, finally finding the courage to seek her out that second night. "How could I not," he asked, as they embraced, her dark brown hair running across his eyes while they did so, "when you're here...when I could come and celebrate with the rest of the realm?"
Talla withdrew from their embrace, but Ned could not fail to notice that she taken both his hands into her own, and seemed reluctant to release them.
"Oh, I pray...I wished to everything you'd come. But...your Prince Doran has declared Dorne separate of the Seven Kingdoms, hasn't he? Does this...would it be war, if he found out?"
Ned laughed nervously. "So long as I don't declare any of my bannermen against my Prince." Not that he would ever declare his own banners, a substantial amount, Ned understood, on behalf of Rhaegar. But they were available, he'd assured Beric, after his last visit to Starfall and High Hermitage. Obviously they had to remain in Dorne for now, considering the state of diplomacy, or lack of it, between the kingdoms. "Prince Doran is not a tyrant, he has nothing against his subjects travelling freely, especially for diplomatic purposes."
"Ohhh," Talla said with a hush, covering her mouth with one hand as she stared at her old friend in wonderment. "Are you here," she whispered, "for a secret diplomatic mission?"
You couldn't imagine it. He embraced her again. "I come to see old friends, Lady Tarly. Come, have a drink with me, and tell me of these guests you have in your father's Keep..."
She'd never drank so much before. Ned had never seen it at least, though he could still count the times they'd met each other on one hand. Just how well did he know this woman anyway? A more romantic soul would claim to love her, to go to sleep dreaming of her and thinking of her when he awoke, but even at his young age, Ned had seen too much of war and the world to actually believe the songs of children. Yet it was true, that he did think of Talla often, that he did dream of her at night, marveling at her quiet beauty, at the shy young woman she'd grown into all these years later. And he could not deny she was the reason in which he could not sleep as easily, the closer the day of the tourney approached.
"...an' Dickon would win everything, if he's here. But father needs him at the capital, it's a shame, but the' say they'll b'more tourneys, wi' Rhaegar now..."
"You should tell your father to hold the next one in Horn Hill," Ned suggested politely.
Talla burst out laughing, drops of wine spilling from her mouth onto his hands. Ned laughed politely, and took in a drink of his own.
"They can't hold two in the same Kingdom, silly Ned! Maybe Casterly Rock next time, er Lannisport. Oh!" The more she drank, the more Talla kept swaying into him as she spoke. This time, her head fell upon his shoulder, and rather than move away or fidget, she rested there contently, her hair draping down his back. "M'be if there's peace agin', Starfall...you can have it in your own castle, imagine that, Ned."
"That'd be wonderful, Talla. I hope you'd be there."
Lowering his head, Ned looked into her eyes as he cradled her soft body against him with his left arm. Yet something seemed off. Her words were joyous, yet...
"Talla. What's wrong?"
"Whaddoya mean, Ned," she replied with a nervous chuckle. "Nothing's wrong, tis a fine tourney, a finer night, and I wouldn't rather anywhere else, er anyone..."
She kissed him. Her tongue tasted like the sweet wine they'd been drinking all night, the nectar he'd always imagined out of her her. Breaking away, he looked around them, seeing that every man still up seemed just as drunk as Talla, if not more so. Then, he took her lips again, and drank to his heart's content.
"Oh Ned, that was wonderful," Talla said, gasping as she broke away to catch her breath. This time, it was Ned who grabbed his cup for a deeper sip of the wine.
"What about Ser Loras," he asked hesitantly. "Aren't you still betrothed to him? And this is his castle, we're his guests..."
"Bugger Ser Loras," she replied with surprising vehemence.
"He's a good man. He's a fair man."
"He's...," Talla began, her voice catching, "he...oh, the things they say about him...and Renly...Baratheon! I...I can't...father mustn't know, but..."
The tears inevitably came, and Ned wrapped both his arms around her as she wept gently against him. Loras's secret had certainly been known to Beric, who'd not so subtly suggested to Ned that he should find some way of revealing it to Talla at the tourney, when he sought her out. It was his duty, and yet he'd dreaded it, knowing how the truth about her betrothed could break Talla, even if Ned were the one who could benefit from it, and through him, the Queen. The fact that she'd somehow already found out already should have made the ordeal easier for Ned, but seeing her heartbreak with his own eyes killed him, even though he hadn't been the one to break her heart. Not yet, anyway.
"I want you Ned." The tears had dried, and he felt her kissing him again now, her light and delicate lips brushing against his neck, his chin, back towards his lips. "I want you, I don't want Loras Tyrell, I want you."
"I want you too, Talla." There was no falsity to his words. They were entirely his own, and not Lord Beric's. "I really do."
She pointed over to a nearby tent, one belonging to one of her handmaidens who didn't have her own room in Highgarden, with the castle was at full capacity. "My ladies won't say a word, I promise y'." Rising, she took his hand, dragging him into the direction of the tent.
"We shouldn't," Ned forced himself to rebut. "Not now."
"Why not?" The way she cried, it looked as if Talla were the younger one, rather than he.
"It wouldn't be right," Ned replied. "You've had a lot of wine tonight."
"I don't care," Talla protested sullenly. "It's not the wine talkin', it's me talkin'..."
"And we're his guests," he reminded her.
Talla nodded, understanding sadly. Then, her eyes lit up, as an idea burst forth upon her wine-soaked mind.
"Ye' shoul' come t'Horn Hill, Ned! After the tourney...I'd love t'be you t'be my guest. Come alone, Ned, an' I promise you, I'd be a much bett'ir host than Lora'sss...Tyrell."
They kissed again, their lips lingering upon each other's longingly, until Ned drew away reluctantly for the last time, kissing gently her forehead before he left.
"Promise me you'll come."
"I promise."
Walking back towards his tent, he reckoned that Beric would be most satisfied with the fruits of his night. He should be too, he'd gotten nearly everything he'd wanted from her. Her lips. Her heart.
Her trust.
Yet he felt worse now, than that night when he'd first killed a man in battle.
Trystane
The night was no longer so young. Lords and knights scampered across the grounds below the castle walls, stumbling over squires who'd collapsed in the middle of the field out of sheer drunkenness. A Kingsguard could not indulge such, not while on duty anyway, and unlike his other sworn brothers, Trystane's duties never came to an end, not when it came to his Queen.
"I come here to protect you," he'd said to her, his first night assigned to protect her, to stand alone with her through the night. Having donned a white cloak at the age of six and ten, amongst the youngest to ever be such honored, Trystane knew his appointment had little to do with his own prowess and abilities, than moreso his family name. That of his great uncle, who was Rhaegar's most dutiful servant. And that of his father, who'd all but made war against his once ally and king.
"Yes," the Queen had answered rather truculently, brushing her hair against the mirror deep in her chambers, "of course you have. Do so then, but be quiet about it please."
"You don't understand," Trystane had protested, daring to step foot inside her room. "I promised your uncle Benjen, I swear it. I come to King's Landing to protect you. Not Rhaegar, not his siblings, but my Queen, the Queen I serve solely. He would not have let me leave Winterfell otherwise."
It'd been reckless in hindsight, because Sansa could have screamed at his intrusion, and he would've lost his position at once, at best. But there'd been nothing to hide then, they weren't lovers, the mere idea unthinkable to Trystane at the time, though he could admit that it was not a concept entirely absent from the most secret of his desires.
But his words had caught her interest, the fact that her uncle had willingly given up a hostage, though one of diminishing value.
"My uncle Benjen belie...he trusts you?"
Trystane felt his heart breaking, right then and there, the way his Queen looked at him. She was so alone, so depressed, so bereft of hope as she sat before him, wanting so badly, Trystane could see in her sad blue eyes, to believe the words of a stranger, to trust him, even though Trystane would have not advised it himself, were it not himself, but another man. He swore then in his mind, before the vulnerable girl who yet dared to hope, that from that moment not a breath he would take that wasn't taken on behalf of his Queen.
"I learned from Jon," he said carefully, "my years in Winterfell. I was useless with a sword during the war, all of Ser Lewyn's ministrations wouldn't have been close to enough to get me this white cloak. But Jon...he's the best swordsman I've ever known, and thrice the man. I owe him my skills, my life, my measure as a man. It's he you deserve here, by your side, not me...but I promised him too, before he left for Castle Black."
It seemed overly dramatic to him now, but at the time it felt the right thing to do. He had knelt, then unsheathed his sword, holding it in his hands before the Queen, staring dumbly at him, hairbrush still in hand.
"I pledge to you my sword, Queen Sansa of House Stark, First of Her Name. I pledge to you my life."
My heart, he did not dare to say at the time, though she probably knew that already, Trystane realized now. His heart had been transparent to her from the very beginning.
It's always belonged to you. From the moment I met you. Every cold and bitter night in Winterfell, since you left, I've thought of you, my heart's needed you.
"Lord Beric Dondarrion," he asked, entering a small tent at the edge of the small city which had formed for the purposes of the tourney, and would disperse just as quickly after.
"Seek the banners of the lightning lord," Sansa had instructed him, sending him off with a discrete kiss.
"They can be trusted."
"How do you know?"
"I just do."
The man's eyes studied Trystane carefully, before recognizing him, probably from his youth combined with his cloak, he figured.
"Ser Trystane."
With the older man he saw a boy a few years younger than himself, with golden yellow hair, and sharpening his blade by the small fire. This was good, he needn't wander across the other side of the castle to seek the man's squire out after this.
"You must be Edric Dayne," he said politely, "Lord of Starfall."
"Ned," the boy replied, looking up at him for the first time. His eyes were friendly, yet...there seemed something off about them. "Ned's fine."
"Lord Ned then," Trystane said, before turning back to Beric. "Is the Lady of Tarth not present?"
The Lord Beric cocked his head at his words, and Trystane saw that the young Lord of Starfall was no longer holding his sword so casually.
"The Lady Brienne is tending to her father in Evenfall Hall," Beric replied, though his voice sounded more like a hiss. Trystane saw an empty chair across the fire from the two, and gestured without words, seeking permission to join him. Beric nodded, though reluctantly, he thought.
"My apologies for my intrusion, my lord," Trystane began, unsure of exactly how to convey his message. "Her Grace instructed me to seek out the Lightning Lord, the Evenstar, and the Falling Star."
"Did she now," Beric muttered, ignoring a questioning glance from his squire. Trystane did not miss Beric's careful look towards his own sword, within an arm's reach of him.
"Her Grace told me you share mutual friends," he continued, bemoaning just how badly he was failing her right about now. "A good friend of Ser Loras Tyrell, whom is to be trusted."
"Go on." This time it was Beric who looked at Lord Edric, as if motioning to his squire to hold his sword, for now at least. Or strike at him the moment his guard was down, Trystane could honestly not tell the difference.
"I know we fought on opposites sides during the last war, if not the same battlefield. I...I served Lord Benjen Stark as his ward, I served House Stark. And I still do, because I serve the Queen."
"Of course you do," the boy Ned interrupted rudely. "You're her Kingsguard, you'll serve her or good King Rhaegar will have your head for it."
Of course they didn't trust him, why should they?
"I promise you, I am devoted to Queen Sansa. And no one else." He sighed. "I don't know what else I can say to you."
Please don't make me fail you, my love.
Somehow, his last statement caused the two to relent, first the boy Ned, who looked at Lord Beric for his further approval.
"What does Queen Sansa wish you to relay us," Beric asked, his shoulders still tense.
"My father is the Prince of Dorne," Trystane said, allowing his body to relax, forcing himself to vulnerability before these two strangers. "As of now, he recognizes fealty to neither House Stark, nor House Targaryen."
"Trustworthy man," Ned said, the first time he truly spoke out of his own volition, "isn't he?"
"Yet he is your Prince and liege lord," Trystane rebutted. Rather than back down, the boy glared at him with his blue eyes, daring him to challenge him further. But pride in himself or his family name was not why Trystane had come seeking these men, or this boy, in particular. His tone softened. "Understand, Lord Ed...Ned, that as a loyal Kingsguard and servant to King Rhaegar, I cannot seek out my father in Sunspear, I cannot speak to him, or even send a raven."
"But Ned can," Beric said, his bushy eyebrows narrowing in understanding. "As Lord of Starfall, Lord Edric has every right and reason to pay fealty to Prince Doran in Sunspear."
Finally, they were closing in towards the same page. "Her Grace asks after the safety and comfort of her sister, before all."
"As she should," Beric replied promptly. "Your father's actions in taking the Princess Arya are disgraceful, and degrade your family name before all seven kingdoms, whether they pay fealty to the Iron Throne or not."
"I agree wholeheartedly," Trystane said, his eyes downcast, wondering whether he would be doomed to pay for the sins of his father until his dying day. "But things can change, can't they? My father is an ambitious man. He wished to place a...child...of his, beside the Iron Throne. And he wishes to see his grandchild sit upon it one day. The last time he tried forcing it, and that was very wrong of him. But...," he coughed nervously, "speaking as the son of Doran Martell...perhaps such ambitions can be realized more naturally, this time."
Understanding dawned in both their faces at the same time. The boy's not as dim as I'd thought.
"This is Queen Sansa's message," Beric asked, Trystane feeling himself under as much scrutiny as he'd ever been subjected to.
"Her sincerest wishes," he replied. "Mine as well."
There was a long pause as all three of them, a man, a boy, and someone in between, glared at each other over the night's fire.
"I am loyal to Dorne," Ned finally said. "I am loyal to your father. I do believe that it is finally time I paid my respects to my Prince."
He did not speak like a Dornishman, Trystane thought, but then he'd heard that the boy had accompanied the lightning lord for nearly six years now, that he was more probably more Andal than Rhoynar after so much time. But then Sansa told him too, that he spoke like a Northman, the years in Winterfell having left its mark upon the former hostage.
What interesting allies she is able to make, in whom she inspires the most absolute loyalty.
"I shan't intrude upon you longer," Trystane said, rising. There was little in casual conversation he could think of, now that his message, his Queen's message, had been properly delivered.
"Prince Trystane," Ned rose too, and the two Dornishmen clasped their hands together. "I'll give your regards to your father."
It was one thing to speak treason, Trystane thought, walking back through the cold night, a night permeated by the tidings of winter even this far south. It was another to act upon it. And so they had finally acted now, and how delicate would their necks be, how well would their constitutions hold, for the bloody aftermath that was sure to come?
