Tyrion
"I finally have it!"
"Have what," his brother, who proved far better company than their father, asked, two Lannisters riding next to each other across the frozen wasteland.
"The everlasting words for House Lannister of Castle Black," Tyrion proclaimed proudly. "Winter is Here. Roarrr!"
Jaime rolled his eyes, but unlike their father, he laughed, and not entirely out of politeness either. "How the mighty have fallen," he remarked with a smirk. "I swear sometimes, seeing father fuming endlessly might be the only worthwhile thing to come out of this rotten exile business."
That, and your former proximity to the Lady of Winterfell.
"I'm shocked, brother," Tyrion pretended to gasp. "Here I fumed for years in envy, that father would finally be forced to pay attention to one of his children, albeit the one he liked most anyway."
Jaime shuddered. "You know what they say about men coveting what they can't have, some quote by sickeningly learned scholar or rotten king of the sort you'd probably had memorized as a child? I've always been envious of father's benign neglect of you and Cersei, to be honest."
"Yes, very benign." Before them loomed the walls of Winterfell. Tyrion did not attach much hope towards the success of their mission. Neither did Jaime, and it seemed an odd thing, that Tywin Lannister would be the most hopeful of their brood of lions.
Or, father knows better, but remains happy for his sons to carry out a meaningless task regardless.
They were ushered in to the Great Hall of the castle with the usual northern coldness, and waited for some time before the Lord of Winterfell joined them alone and escorted. Obviously they could not stipulate in the raven's scroll the necessary discretion of their trip, but Tyrion thought that Benjen Stark was intelligent enough to understand that this was no simple request for provisions or men, even if winter was indeed along its merry way.
He looks fatter, Tyrion thought, since the last I saw him.
"Lord Benjen," Jaime greeted, patting Tyrion upon his shoulder, "I believe you've met my brother before."
"You accompanied Queen Sansa," Benjen Stark recalled.
"Yes, those were the days," Tyrion recalled, "before all this treason business and what not. Except, alas I know too well now that the treason never ended, did it? That's why I'm here in frozen north, and my uncle..."
"You did remain loyal to Queen Sansa, didn't you," Benjen questioned, his narrow eyes facing the brothers from across the hall. "Else you wouldn't be here." There was a wary glance exchanged in Jaime's direction as well, and Tyrion worried just how much awareness Benjen Stark might possess towards a possible and devastating truth of their recently intertwined family. He'd meant to question Jaime, truly question his brother, on their ride to Winterfell, because were the worst to be true, then it would inexorably affect their mission, if not their personal well-being, yet he could never begin to fathom as to how to broach the subject with Jaime.
"Many of us were betrayed," Tyrion said, seeing that Jaime was happy for his brother to do all the talking, despite his rank, and the fact that he'd been acquainted with Benjen Stark far longer than Tyrion. "King Eddard banished my father and brother to the Wall, it's true."
"Justly," Benjen snarled.
"According to many," Tyrion said, equivocating. "Yet the past is the past. King Eddard is dead...betrayed by the same men who betrayed my family. And yours."
"Hmmphf," the northman grunted. His eyes danced across the table, as if searching for a glass of wine that was not present, a sentiment Tyrion could sympathize with. "Cersei...," he began, his fingers shaking, his head looking about the chambers, as if plagued by an unseen ghost.
"She's a good woman," Tyrion said, trying to calm the man.
Benjen laughed. "If you know your sister, you truly do...she's not the easiest woman to be married to."
"I can imagine," he heard Jaime whisper next to him, then both he and Benjen looked about the room nervously, towards anyone except each other.
"But she's my wife. She's the mother of my children. I love her. I love my children. And she's been far more patient with me, than I deserve."
"She is the daughter of Tywin Lannister," Tyrion continued, after waiting for the man to finish, "and the wife of the Lord of Winterfell. It shows you how craven are these men whom my uncle chose to join in treason, to so freely insult our great houses."
"The Tully's, the Arryn's," Jaime continued next to him, "four great houses, that Rhaegar and his men have insulted."
There was a hidden rage in his brother's voice. Indifferent as he was, by temperament and by duty, towards the politics of the Seven Kingdoms, it was not politics which held his heart, but the plight of his beloved sister.
"Yet what can we do," Benjen's voice suddenly exploded in a rage, his fist pounding at the table. "Act, call my banners, keep discussing this treason with the two of you, and they'll slaughter Cersei, they'll kill all of them, my innocents..."
The three children you love most, Tyrion could guess, having met the odd and standoffish heir to Winterfell, the only one lucky enough to have remained in the north during Rhaegar's coup.
"That's why we're here," he said, trying his best to remain calm. "We want to help you, my lord. And we wish to free our sister, our nephew and nieces. They're innocent, they have no part in these games we played."
"Ned never wanted to play these games," Benjen muttered under his breath, not entirely at his audience. "He just wanted to save Lyanna."
"No," Tyrion agreed. "And Sansa never wanted to play any of these games either. She did her duty as Queen. It was all she knew, and she did as they told her to do, until they betrayed her, and forced her into a marriage with her worst enemy."
His words were sincere, though Tyrion also uttered them in order to further gain the man's trust. Yet, Benjen raised his head to regard him with renewed suspicion, perhaps even hostility in his eyes.
"What do you want, Lord Tyrion? Or should I ask, what does Tywin Lannister want, that he's too afraid to ask in person, so he sends his two sons to speak in his place?"
"We want to help Cersei," Jaime replied immediately.
"We share common interests," Tyrion said at the same time. "Cersei. Her children. And I can't speak for Jaime or my father, pledged as they are to rise above the politics of the seven kingdoms for twenty years now, but fresh in my vows, I myself still feel indebted to your niece, whom I failed, whom I should have counselled better."
The older man continued glaring at him at first, before relenting, his shoulders slumping as he sank into his chair.
"They're pretty words, dwarf. But it's too late. You did fail her. I failed my family. We're all failures, and there's nothing we can do now."
"My father believes differently."
The suspicion returned as quickly as it receded. "Your father means to act against Rhaegar?"
"It would not be out of the question," Tyrion replied carefully.
"What does he expect, as a reward for breaking his vows? The Queen's pardon? The restoration of Casterly Rock to himself, or the Kingslayer?"
"I can't speak for my father entirely," Tyrion began, watching Jaime bristle at the slur, knowing that they were both being tested, "but hypothetically speaking, I believe a wife, a family, and an Iron Throne thrown in for good measure would be quite the ample prize for such a pardon, wouldn't you think?"
He's not throwing us out of the castle, that's a good start at least.
The standoff continued. Then Benjen laughed. "What can the great Lord Tywin do? March south with all the Night's Watch against Rhaegar? They'd slaughter my family, and his, all the same."
"I don't know," Tyrion admitted. "I don't think he knows yet, either. Not any specifics, anyway. But there could be ways, speaking again...hypothetically. There are still men in the Westerland who do not forget Tywin Lannister, or the fates which befell the Reynes and Tarbecks. Perhaps a mission to King's Landing on behalf of the Watch, warning the King of some grave and terrifying threat beyond the Wall. Send men men to travel south, in the direction of Horn Hill, under the pretense of begging the Crown for more recruits..."
"Rely upon the good name of the Night's Watch," Benjen interrupted sternly, "for your father's treachery?"
"Perhaps the reputation of the Watch may be stained forever, speaking hypothetically again. Would it not be worth it, for the safe return of your family?" The moment he finished speaking, Tyrion realized he'd made a mistake. Some things were more sacrosanct than others. Especially the Watch, in the North, in the castle of the Starks. He tried another route. "My father knows that there's nothing he can do without the permission of Winterfell. He has plans, ideas, but he can't realize them on his own, not with Winterfell lying between him and his only grandchildren."
The Lord of Winterfell clasped his hands together, shaking his head about unsteadily as he pondered the poison spit forth by his mouth.
We're more alike than we'd both realize, Tyrion thought. The last child, the youngest, never expected to lead. Then we get our chance, except we both fail most egregiously.
"You're considering it," he continued, to try and break the silence. "That's good."
"I am," Benjen muttered quietly. "I never thought I could entertain such treasons." He sighed, and Tyrion wondered how his father would react, when he returned to him for once with a great success under his belt.
"We are the ones who have been betrayed. Your family. Queen Sansa. How can you call it treason, when it's conducted against the basest of traitors?"
"You're a clever man, Lannister." Benjen chuckled again, though Tyrion did not like the sound of his laugh this time, for it sounded too much like defeat. "I wish I were as clever as you."
It was delicate now, Tyrion knew. Say the right words, and he'd had the man convinced. Or the opposite, just as likely. "I'd say we're all better off leaving the cleverness to my father, Lord Benjen."
"If there were even a chance, I'd send you back to your father with what you both want to hear, with what I myself would wish to believe. But...," Benjen snorted, shook his head, and rose to leave. "I'll forget this audience. You came asking for provisions, and I'll send you back with several wagons full of it."
There was no point in asking further, much less begging.
"That could've went worse," Jaime said, as they rode north through a snowstorm, trying not to squander the grain they carried, the only prize they would bring back to Castle Black for their father.
"Yes," Tyrion muttered, taking a healthy swig of his ale so that he might not have to feel the actual sensation of his frozen fingers snapping off his hands. "He could've thrown us into the dungeons, or sent us to Rhaegar in chains."
Though he wondered. Were Lord Benjen known as a more clever man, then Tyrion could at least report back to their father a certain implication, that perhaps the onus lay upon now Tywin Lannister to come up with a more solid course of action, before further courting the Lord of Winterfell with treason. But Tyrion did not have that certainty, though he wondered whether he ought say the same anyway, so as to buy some measure of hope for his father, however unwarranted. Or himself, for the matter.
Lewyn
"It's about time we did something about the Sparrows."
The King's Hand paced the small room, speaking almost as if to himself, considering that Rhaegar sat dazed and barely cognizant of their discussion.
"Certainly their elevation was necessary, if distasteful," the Spider agreed, "but in the long term I can only imagine the movement to have a most destabilizing effect, especially in light of Baelish's murder of all the septons, the fact that they're the only representations of the Faith in quite a few castles and keeps across the realm."
"Indeed," Tarly agreed unhappily. "I've heard word of some houses in the Riverlands converting to the Old Gods, Houses Smallwood and Lychester, maybe more. Not that I give two damns who wants to worship their damned trees or not, except their obvious implications for a Stark restoration."
A twitch in Rhaegar's eye, so at least the King was listening, and his mind still reactive to any threats to his throne, finally taken however the means. As if any of them ought to be surprised by the mess they would inherit, considering their victory was achieved only by sowing as much chaos, causing as much suffering as they could, throughout the Seven Kingdoms. While Lewyn did believe the Spider when he disclaimed any knowledge of the Sept's destruction, on his and Rhaegar's behalf, the massacre, such awful suffering never could have happened had Rhaegar died that day upon the Trident, and his one surviving Kingsguard with him.
The Gods be real, losing sleep is the least we have to worry about when it comes to punishment of the divine sort, accepting and reaping so eagerly the rewards of that terrible crime. Something worse lay just around the corner, Lewyn had felt it lingering unseen ever since boarding that ship back to Westeros for his King's impending coronation.
"We've received appeals for the King's justice," Varys said, pulling out a drawer full of letters, "many of them concerning the actions of the Sparrows. Though, there are houses who have benefited who, as a result, have rediscovered their vigor for religion."
Yes, and none more so than our happy few.
Tarly sighed, taking the letters and flipping through them one after another. "We can't make a move against the High Sparrow now. But we need to slowly wean the country off his cause."
"We need to rebuild the Faith," Rhaegar said suddenly. They were all surprised by his proclamation, though they all acted with varying degrees of success not to show it. The pronouncement was wisdom of the obvious kind, much easier said than done, but Lewyn found it at least encouraging that, after so many moons of malaise since that disastrous visit by the priestess, their King was stirring back to life.
"Prince Doran has the right idea, we need to appoint more of our own Septons, separate from the Sparrows. Even Lysa Arryn's doing the same in the Vale, gods knows what kind of men she's appointing, but it would seem that the Crown's the only party that's not benefiting from Baelish's destruction of the Faith."
"Yet how can the Crown act separately from the High Sparrow," Varys said deep in thought. "He is the Faith embodied now, any actions by us would lend to the appearance of bypassing the very High Septon we chose to appoint."
"If it can't be above, then it comes from below," Randyll said after a long contemplation. "When the court returns from Highgarden, we'll have Tyrell and Lord Kevan and Monfred Velaryon instruct their men to search the villages for wise men of character...because they known their own lands better than the Crown. Send ravens to men we trust also, Renly Baratheon and Lord Bracken in Stone Hedge, instruct them to do the same. The Hightowers will be difficult, I've heard Leyton's become a genuine convert in his old age, but...I know his son. Baelor's a reasonable man, I'll make a point to summon and speak with him about the matter."
Varys nodded, agreeing, though deeply absorbed in his own musings. "The High Sparrow has not been the fiercest proponent of rebuilding the Great Sept. We need ourselves a new temple, if we want to win the Faith back from the fanatics."
"I'll speak to Mace," Randyll agreed. "Have him send letters to the Iron Bank."
They all looked to the King, whose purple eyes returned to the present. "Very wise counsel, my lords," Rhaegar replied blandly.
It did not present a good harbinger, they all knew, for the King to refuse to travel to the first grand tourney conducted in his name and under his reign. Then so Rhaegar's Hand insisted on staying behind in the capital as well, despite the tourney being held within a few days riding of his own castle, for the stated purpose of counseling the King. Lewyn wondered if Randyll Tarly feared what Rhaegar could be capable of, if left alone. Probably nothing, he thought, besides mulling alone in solitude, providing evidence that the realm did not need a firm and guiding hand for it to sustain, not atop the Iron Throne at least.
But what if it was Randyll Tarly who ruled in all but name, same as Lord Tywin before Harrenhal? A Targaryen sat upon the Throne, an heir with the blood of dragon and wolf to succeed him one day, and a realm restored to peace, so long as they could gradually solve the problems like the Sparrows, which Lewyn trusted they could, able men like Tarly and Lord Kevan and the Spider. But what a realm they oversaw, Dorne and Vale independent, and the North lying somewhere in between? Lewyn could not help but wonder whether it would not be better for the Gods to take Rhaegar in his sleep one night sooner than later, and let the Stark girl reign as regent for her son, perhaps bringing at least the North and maybe the Vale back into the fold. Except Lewyn knew well enough that any power given back to the girl would result in a bloodbath, starting with himself and the significant amount of lords who'd turned their back upon her because of the plots of the Spider and the Littlefinger.
Yet you continue on, knowing there can never be peace, because of the choices of the Prince you choose to serve. Not for the realm. Not for yourself.
Seven hells, maybe they all get struck by the plague, Viserys included, and we sit the Princess Daenerys upon the throne.
"Your Grace," they all stated obediently, bowing as they took their turn of leave.
And he could not just forget that audience with the red witch either. Lewyn had always known that Rhaegar had been driven by some special destiny, a purpose, since the Prince had been but a boy. That a priestess of the fire religion could have encouraged such determinations was only a surprise in that it was a servant of R'hilor, as opposed to a more common sort of witch. After all, Rhaegar was far from the first Targaryen to become enraptured by the prophecies of an enchantress, though Lewyn had always guessed that his Prince's purpose originated with the same woods witch brought forth to the court of Aegon the Unlikely, or its hearsay, rather than a priestess of a god of fire.
Then, there was the question of just how much truth there was to the prophecies, which seemed to align, both of them conveniently enough pointing to a direct descendant of Aegon V Targaryen as some great hero reborn. Except, the priestess had changed her mind, hadn't she, due to the actions of none of than the honorable Lewyn Martell, in saving the life of his prince in the most dishonorable manner.
According to the priestess then, Rhaegar surviving at the Trident had forestalled some cataclysmic war arising from beyond the Wall. Shouldn't such news be cause for great celebrations, shouldn't Rhaegar cheered along with the witch, shouldn't he, Lewyn Martell, the aged Lord Commander who would likely lose a duel to any whitecloak under his command save perhaps Boros Blount, be acclaimed as the greatest hero the realm has ever known? Certainly not, according to the deathly mood in the room upon the witch's departure, or from his king's demeanor ever since.
"Ser Lewyn, a word?"
His mind still lingering upon his ghosts, Lewyn nodded absentmindedly, following the Spider into a darkened corridor.
"I share your concern regarding the Sparrows, Lord Varys," Lewyn began, though he knew the Spider did not need him for his wisdom concerning the order.
Probably Dorne, Lewyn thought. Probably some plot against my wayward nephew, something that'll get more Martells killed.
Yet for my honor, for my vows, I must follow.
But it was a different Martell than the one Lewyn had in mind that the Spider brought up.
"Your great nephew Trystane, he is taking well to his new place in the capital, is he not?"
Lewyn frowned. What did the Spider care about the boy? Did he care enough to wish to involve Trystane in any of his infernal plots?
"I know Rhaegar granted him his place in the Kingsguard solely on my behalf," Lewyn admitted carefully, seeing no immediate way of escaping this conversation for the moment. "But Trystane works hard, he's a good young man...I hate to say it, but the years in the north was good for him, I think."
If Doran stays his stubborn course, Trystane's the only family I have left, my own blood, that I'll see before my wretched life finally ends, may that day come sooner than later.
"I'm sure they were," Varys said cryptically, in a way to suggest that he believed exactly the opposite. "Young Trystane's skills with his sword are admirable. He is handsome, he is charming...perhaps maybe he'll follow in his uncle's place one day, as Lord Commander."
Lewyn smiled, he couldn't help himself. That he had the chance to spar, in the waning days of his life, with a boy of his own blood, after so many years away on the opposite side of the Narrow Sea, was a blessing he'd never expected for himself. "I'd hope so. You're right, he is young, and he has much to learn still, when it comes to leading..."
"When it comes to discretion," Varys interrupted, all traces of friendliness vanished from his countenance. "When it comes to sense."
Lewyn growled, as if a beast inflamed. "What are you saying, Spider?" Let the Spider play his games, but not with his young grand nephew.
Rather than flinch, or hiss back, Varys merely held one palm out towards him in supplication. "Please, my good ser," his tone seemed to beg now, "I mean young Trystane no harm. He's the kind of man the Throne needs, a young and hopeful face, beckoning towards a better future, and I'd merely wish to protect him."
"Protect him from what?" Lewyn was far from assuaged.
"Protect him from himself." Varys continued, while Lewyn stood confused and speechless. "I believe your grandnephew and the Queen are romantically involved."
There it was. The words were said, the most horrible of truths. Somehow, Lewyn was not surprised. Suddenly, it all seemed so obvious. Neither Trystane nor the Queen had been blatant about it at all, yet it apparently hadn't been completely unnoticeable to Lewyn, the way Trystane's eyes grew distant whenever the Queen's name was mentioned, the way his shoulders, his entire frame stiffened when she was nearby. The Queen he could little read, except her open disdain for everyone in the Red Keep.
Except Trystane.
Gods, how could either of them be stupid enough to act on it? Do they even know what great danger they put themselves in? Or does she care, is she trying to destroy us all, even at the sake of her own life, and her brothers', her son's?
"How do you know?" The words emerged as a threat.
"I have my ways." Quickly, Varys moved to assure him. "No one else knows, who shouldn't know, I promise you that."
He needed to be cautious, Lewyn realized, more cautious than he was being now. Nothing the Spider said was ever what he meant, none of his games were ever what they appeared. Whatever his intent was in informing Lewyn, it was not out of charity towards either member of House Martell.
"Why are you telling me this," he asked, "and not the King?"
The Spider smiled his dangerous smile.
"Courtesy," Varys said deceptively, slithering his way from one side of the hall to the other. "And prudence."
"Prudence?"
He winced, the eunuch, not an unfamiliar affectation from the man, but a strange one for the circumstance. "I do worry about our good King's state of mind. Ever since that night, with the priestess, I fear he has been...unwell."
It was an open secret in the Keep, yet Lewyn was just beginning to understand the ominous implications. Not for the first time did Lewyn wonder at just how out of his depth he stood, under the Spider's web. But he'd never thought it remotely possible that he could be the one entangled inside the web, much less because of Trystane, a young man he was growing to know and love anew. There was no sense in fighting it, his only choice was to play along, and see what lay on the other side of the Spider's labyrinthine mind.
"So what then?"
"I've told no one else," Varys said calmly. "I don't intend to. I believe we ought to be cautious, considering the fragile state of...things...everywhere. And I believe you ought speak to Trystane too, once he returns...on such matters of caution."
Rhaegar
It bothered him, how little he thought of Lyanna these days. Her beautiful face haunted him through every day and night of his exile, not a moment passed when he did not yearn for her indomitable spirit beside him, to help him endure the suffering. Yet, Rhaegar also knew that Lyanna might not have stood by him, after the war. She hadn't been too happy with his father, the awful business with the northern lords, that last time they saw each other, his child already growing in her belly. She hadn't listened to him either, when he'd protested that there was nothing he could've done, that had he been at court, none of it would have happened.
So he'd ordered Ser Arthur and Gerold Hightower to take her to Dorne, keep her safe until the war was over, because nothing short of joining Lyanna's brother in open rebellion against his own father would have pleased her. And both the Lords of Winterfell and Storm's End would have cut him down before deigning to listen to his pleas of truth, not that a Prince ought ever beg before his vassals.
"Trust me, my love. It'll all be well, I'll see to it."
He'd believed those words, riding off into the war. Lyanna hadn't, so she'd had the last laugh, after all. Of course his father wasn't fit to rule, but Aerys needed to be deposed through a Great Council, with the consent of the lords and the realm alike. Not through rebellion, so as to encourage further warfare anytime some petty lord had a grievance, justified or not, against the crown.
Not that Ned Stark's grievance wasn't entirely without justification, and Rhaegar prayed that the Quiet Wolf would survive the war. He had planned to pardon the man, the usurper who would take his crown within the year, so that he could make peace with Lyanna, House Stark, and the North. As to Robert Baratheon, if the Gods were good, he could die, especially seeing that there was already talk about how the man's thinnest sliver of Targaryen blood could make him worthy to sit upon the Iron Throne. Lyanna would shed no tears for Robert's death, no one would, save Arryn and the Stark boy, but the former ought be grateful enough for a pardon after the war, and the latter pacified once the awful rumors were put to bed, and Lyanna raised to her rightful place as a Queen of the realm.
He'd loved her. She had been his great love, perhaps the only woman his heart had ever craved. But it was not the ghost of Lyanna, but his newest wife, who consumed his thoughts these days. Rhaegar knew well enough that whatever his feelings was for Sansa Stark, it was not love, not towards a woman who so openly despised him in every single manner. Yet the more she defied him, the more he wanted her, in every possible way, to claim her as his own. He'd lain with her, seen her body, bare and luscious and full, the opposite of both Elia's and Lyanna's, he'd received only the barest minimum of what she was willing to give him, and Rhaegar could not deny his desire for all which he did not have.
These desires confused him. If anything, Sansa was entirely the opposite of her aunt. Lyanna was all fire on the outside, but once he'd gotten past her defenses, Rhaegar had discovered the sweet and loving girl hidden beneath her rough and wild exterior, the armor bequeathed her naturally by the Gods. She'd given herself completely to him, her heart, her body, those wonderful yet agonizingly brief fortnights before their last, bitter parting.
But Sansa...her armor was all meekness and courtesy to everyone save himself, and he alone could feel her fire underneath, simmering and barely contained inside her heart, Rhaegar knew it, because how could a woman so passionate in her hatred not be passionate entirely elsewhere. He wanted her, yet Rhaegar cursed his feebleness, because even were the Gods themselves to possess her heart, and transform her into his most obedient and loving wife, his infirmities would always prevent him from claiming her truly, and taking her as his own, as he did Lyanna.
The Dragon must have three heads.
What was the point of it all?
It wasn't that the priestess Kinvara had made him look a fool, before Ser Lewyn, Varys, and his wife, especially his wife, who gloated through her eyes like she was the Mad King herself, watching burn those whom she condemned. It was the cruelty in which the witch had gloated similarly, as if taking a personal glee in his suffering, his betrayal, his failure, when it had been her words which had driven him towards war, failure...towards losing his family's great dynasty for twenty long years. Perhaps, had he never encountered upon her before Harrenhal, all his other plans may have come to fruition. The Great Council called, his father deposed peacefully, sent to live out his years in Dragonstone, his mother and wife alive, his children by Elia grown, man and woman today.
Yet I never would've loved, as I did love, if it hadn't been for the witch.
He'd taken Lyanna for himself, because it had been his duty.
And because he wanted to.
Because he was the dragon, the blood of the man who'd taken Seven Kingdoms, because it was his will, his right. His blood had built Westeros, bound it as one, making it the wonderment and envy of all from the Sunset Sea to the mountains short of Yi-Ti. Not a red priestess, who reigned over but one temple in a city disunited and divided from its neighbors, doomed to endless war and irrelevancy. He'd seen the great cities of the east, and magnificent as they were, they stood but ants in comparison to his realm, his kingdom, built and forged through hundreds of years by the blood of his family.
The Dragon will have three heads.
Maybe the priestess was right. Or this was a test. He'd gone so far already, with Lyanna...Harrenhal...the Sack of King's Landing, Pyke, the Great Sept. All this to make him a king in fact as well as name.
And so they'd won. And so his duty must continue, regardless of the mad ravings of a crazed witch
Prophecy or not, he would reign, as had his ancestors. He would retake all his kingdoms, as had his ancestors, he would build and restore the seven kingdoms as had the Conciliator. And he'd claim his wife, because she could not deny him forever, because he was the dragon, and she rightfully his. Because it was her destiny, their destiny, and no petty lord, no witch, no man or woman alive had the right to deny their rightful king.
Sansa
It troubled her very soul, how the sight of the Red Keep, her home, her castle, now filled her heart with dread as it loomed above their procession in the last days of the march from Highgarden back to King's Landing. The Queen had no real urge to travel to the seat of a family who had so grossly betrayed her, yet time away from royal captor had felt the most freeing, even if she still fell under the eye of other smaller, pettier captors. The frustration endured, when she could only see and not touch her beloved, but thankfully the return journey had yielded them several wonderful nights together, with much of the court distracted, exhausted, and recovering in one way or another from the long and raucous fortnight celebrating the return of the dragon.
The trip had not been done entirely without purpose either. Sansa could at least be assured of the loyalty of those whom Renly trusted. Were she lucky, then Dorne could be gained not for her cause, but for the cause of herself and Trystane together. There were whispers too, of unhappiness in the Riverlands, obviously, though is was discouraging the amount of river lords who came eager to pay fealty to men like Kevan and Mace and Connington, rather than the Queen and niece of their liege lord. But there was unhappiness in the Westerlands as well, she'd heard the faintest whispers of discontent in some houses at the usurpation of Lord Tyrion, who'd restored the reputation of the kingdom in the eyes of a few, and from others, grumbles about how the acting lord in Casterly Rock, her formerly beloved Lancel, was falling into the sway of the Sparrows.
Poor Daenerys. Sansa would almost pity her, if her goodsister weren't a Targaryen. Yet she had a feeling that if anyone could correct the course with Lancel in the Westerlands, it was the King's sister. And she would sincerely wish Daenerys all her blessings and luck upon the endeavor, for the sake of her person, were it not for the fact that any instability in the west would ultimately benefit her own cause, once she could put all her fractious and thus far, unseen and unknown pieces together against Rhaegar.
"Your Grace," Trystane said politely, kissing her hand upon escorting her into the Throne Room, her body shivering in excitement knowing just what Trystane was capable of when his kisses were not at all chaste. "I believe Ser Balon has your shift tonight."
"Is that so," Sansa asked, careful to withhold any emotion or joy at the prospect. "I fear I've been the worst burden on this trip, Ser Trystane, and I thank you for your patience with me."
Trystane bowed, but Sansa remained in the room, so he stood to the side to continue watching her, until someone else relieved him. The Queen walked up to the throne, once belonging to her and her alone, and touched at one of its handles. Her father's throne, won through blood, bequeathed rightfully to her by blood, by right, yet why was it that she dared not sit upon it, considering all the small acts of defiance she'd already made against Rhaegar since the usurpation?
"The King requests your presence," a deep voice announced, echoing against the cavernous walls. It was Lewyn Martell, interrupting her brief moment of peace, just herself, her love, and her throne. Rhaegar's Lord Commander nodded to Trystane, gesturing without words that he would take over now the supervision of his King's unruly Queen.
Careful not to gaze longingly at Trystane as she departed, the Queen followed the older man into the King's chambers, wondering at the irony of how she could hate this usurper's accomplice so much, yet love his blood relation ever more deeply. Rhaegar sat in his chair, facing outwards towards the small window. Ser Lewyn announced her, and Sansa stood where she was, refusing to bow, or pay the King any of her courtesy or respects.
"She hated him," Rhaegar said, turning his eyes to meet her. "Robert. She never wanted to marry him."
"Robert?" What nonsense was he uttering now? Just how deeply had his mind become entrapped in his sordid past, while he lingered alone in the Keep when the rest of the realm turned up at Highgarden. "Robert Baratheon?"
"You believe him to be a great man, don't you? A martyr. The handsome young and valiant warrior, who gave his life for the sake of Ned Stark's crown." Closing his eyes, as if the mere mention of his former rival caused him physical pain, Rhaegar continued. "Lyanna chose me. Not Robert. He wasn't worthy of her, he never was. He'd birthed several bastards by then, Lyanna knew it, that's why she chose me."
Robert bore bastards, so Lyanna chose you, a married man with two children?
He's mad, she thought, her skin prickling up in fear. He acts calm and regal and royal, but in his heart he's as truly mad as his father.
"My lord," she said, yielding to him in tone because she was now actually afraid. Sansa looked questioningly at Ser Lewyn, whose face revealed nothing, as usual. "I fail to understand..."
"You will be worthy of your title," Rhaegar interrupted her very abruptly. "You will do your duty, as Queen, to your King, to your country. You will resume your place in my chambers at night, until you bear a second child for me."
Her heart raged at his sudden and unexpected pronouncement. I will die before I birth another dragonspawn, Sansa wanted to scream. Yet, a part of her soul wanted to just give in, so that she call Rhaegar to keep to his word, and allow her to leave King's Landing, and her captivity, forever, once she'd fulfilled her so-called duty to the house of the dragon.
And thus give up my rightful place in the capital? And yield forever my family's name and dynasty?
Without another word, Sansa turned to leave to her own chambers. She would think, she would contemplate, she would plot and rage in her mind, but none of the roads ahead, that she could envision, seemed one she wished to embark upon, and any hopes she held for herself, her family, for Trystane, seemed so impossibly distant.
