Young Ned: Year 303
"A coat of red, a coat of gold, a lion still has claws..."
"The Rains of Castamere," Ned asked, perplexed.
"I like the song," Talla answered with a giggle. "I mean, I know the story's, a bit...grim..."
"I can't imagine anything grimmer," Ned laughed, brushing the dust off his coat. He'd ridden alone, and girl very much betrothed to the son of the Lord of Highgarden had sneaked him in through a hidden gate on the side of the castle facing the mountain. With Lord Randyll and his son Dickon in the capital, many of the men in the castle had been sent by the Hightowers along with one of their many sons in order to guard the most dangerous prisoners Talla's manor held, one small woman and three smaller children.
"I don't think the Lady Cersei likes me much," Talla had said, guiding him through the tunnels, one hand holding his. "But her children are delightful. Except the Rykka girl...she's a bit much..."
"Well, it's not like Jenny of Oldstones is all that cheerful, isn't it? That's your favorite, right? But, I mean, if you really listen to the words..."
Fuck the songs. Ned leaned in, grabbed her small frame, pulling her over in his direction and kissed her as he did at Highgarden. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw wine spilling onto her bedsheet.
Talla wasn't wrong about his favorite song. It had been the first summer of his young life, that calm night in Blackmont, the crisp mountain air a refreshing relief from the blistering heat of Starfall, when they'd sang together, and Ned remembered butterflies fluttering through the air during the day, and fireflies at night.
"The maesters say this summer will be a long one," his father had said. He'd been happy too, Ned thought. His father rarely smiled, not after everything which had befallen his younger siblings during the first rebellion. Less than seven moons after that day, neither his father nor his mother would ever smile again.
"Did uncle Arthur ever love a woman," he'd asked, on the short ride back down the Torentine to Starfall.
"He spoke his vows young," came the reply, his voice suddenly cold. "Never had a chance, I don't think."
It had been his mother who'd pulled him aside, the last morning before they were to arrive back home. His beautiful mother, whom he last remembered lying sick and agonized in her bed, tormented by both the disease, and the memory of a husband so recently passed.
"Why do you ask, sweet Ned? Has your heart been captured by another?"
She'd laugh if I tell her it's Lady Talla, he'd thought at the time. She was older, and he doubted father would ever approve of him marrying someone from another kingdom, much less the Reach.
"I was just thinking," he answered instead, avoiding his mother's question, "if I'm ever worthy to carry Dawn..."
"Oh Ned," mother had laughed, the most delightful sound. "Many Swords of the Mornings have married, you know that. Your father would be disappointed, he'd chide the maesters for neglecting your lessons."
"I know. But...after unc...Ser Arthur...would it be right?"
His mother looked around carefully at first. Satisfied that no one was listening, that father still lay asleep in his tent, mother whispered to him. "I have heard whispers, perhaps, that Ser Arthur did indeed love another. Some say it was Elia Martell..."
"Queen Elia?"
"The very same," mother replied, while his mouth hung agape. "Don't ever mention this to your father."
"I understand." His uncle. And Queen Elia? How could that be? "Was it...after he said his vows?"
"I doubt it," mother had replied, shaking her head, though Ned thought she wasn't entirely sure in her pronouncement. "I think...if any of the stories are true...Queen Elia would have been your uncle's inspiration. He would not need the Queen's love to love her. But more importantly, to serve her."
Her lips tasted like wine, same as at the tourney. Seeing Talla setting her glass upon a nearby table, Ned gently lowered her onto the bed, and his own body atop of hers.
"Oh." She giggled again, as one hand slipped underneath her gown, his fingers pressing against her hips at first, before running them upwards along her smooth skin and onto her breasts, which he found fit so perfectly inside his hands.
And what would Arthur Dayne think of me now? Seducing a woman, not out of love, but out of trickery?
Or, from a different perspective, out of duty?
Beric may very well deem him worthy of Dawn after this. But, much as Ned respected the man, much as he could love him as his own father, that was not his decision to make.
"Don't live for the past," his mother had said to him, while they both heard the shuffling of his father waking in the tent. "I know it's...different, to be a Dayne, than any other house. I can't begin to understand...I don't think I ever will. And your father might well say differently, but...from your mother's heart, Ned, listen to me, the only thing you can do in this life, is live for yourself. Not for ghosts you've never met."
Her fingers tickled as they ran across his back. Hurriedly, he threw off all the layers of his shirt as she unbuttoned her nightgown, until they both lay naked together from the waist up, Talla arching her back and rubbing her chest against his. Her fingers now dared explore more aggressively than his own, as they reached into his trousers, and Ned shook as she ran them up and down his length.
"Are you ready for this," Talla gasped, her eyes shut as she grabbed at him.
"I am," Ned replied, readying himself as if he were preparing for a battle. "Are you?"
"No."
One word, whispered devastatingly, stopping him his tracks. Then, she started crying.
"I...I can't do this, Ned."
"You can't?" He pulled his body off of her. "I thought...is it Ser Loras? You told me...about him and Renly...how he could never appreciate you..."
"I know," Talla continued, gasping, out of unhappiness rather than pleasure, wiping the tears from her eyes with one hand while covering her exposed breasts with her other. "I know. Yet, I...I still love him, I can't help it, Ned. I thought I could forget him, with you, but..."
He stood up. Clenching his teeth, he picked his shirt and vest up from the floor, and pulled them back across his body.
She whimpered at him from her bed, not having moved. "I'm sorry Ned. You came so far, for me, but..."
"It's fine, Talla." Fully dressed, Ned picked up his belt, feeling the sword striking his leg as he buckled it around his waist. "I know the way back out."
The Lord of Starfall ran from her room, he could not bear to spare another look at her. The castle was mostly empty, and Ned paused, spying the backs of several guards standing at attention by the wing of the castle where the Lady Cersei and her children were being kept. Humfrey Hightower had ridden back to Oldtown for some new niece or nephew born to one of his sisters, taking most of his men with him, but having come alone, Ned was in no shape to risk a battle against the hundred or so Hightower bannermen who still remained to guard the hostages.
Beric would be pleased regardless, Ned thought, running down the empty tunnels back to where his horse awaited him in the woods, regardless of how his balls felt at the moment. He knew the castle now, he knew the defenses, and one in particular which remained unguarded. Perhaps Ser Arthur would be happy too, maybe it was his ghostly fingers from the great beyond which touched upon Talla Tarly's heart at the very end, so as to preserve Ned's honor while completing his duty at the same time.
By the Gods, fuck honor, and fuck the great Arthur Dayne!
Riding through the night along the narrow road, he saw a wagon carrying in the opposite direction. A rough and burly man steered it through the gathering fog, a common butcher, Ned thought. Forgetting that he'd not donned his lord's cloak and armor for this furtive expedition, Ned was expected the man to yield to him, only to be nearly ridden off the road in the last minute, before swerving his horse, nearly falling in the process.
"Watch it, boy," the butcher spit at him.
I'll split you open, you useless piece of scum.
He felt his hands gripping the hilt of his sword before he'd even realized it. Gritting his teeth, he took instead the reins of his horse and continued riding east back towards the marches.
Trystane
"Any day now?"
Ser Lewyn nodded. Trystane was grateful for his visits. His great uncle was much better company than most of the men who guarded his room, though they did not speak so much as often as simply sit in silence next to each other, Lewyn sharpening his sword, Trystane gazing out the small window, staring across the Blackwater Bay, and thinking how he may never see the Water Gardens again.
"The maester says within a fortnight."
"What happens to it, if the child looks like a Martell?" Trystane wasn't sure whether or not he wanted the child to be his or not. His fate was sealed, no matter. But if the child were to be a Martell, it would be destined to suffer, and Trystane could not bear the thought, that any more of them had to suffer for his sake, Sansa especially.
"Even if he resembles the Queen," Lewyn muttered unsteadily. "I worry...any child not Valryian in feature..." he paused, coughing, before placing his arm around Trystane. "Varys has assured me the child would be taken care of. There are wealthy merchants and princes he knows of across the Narrow Sea, whose wives are barren. So long as no one ever learns the truth of this, so long as you speak nothing of this at Castle Black, the child will not pose a threat to Rhaegar. And the child will live, and live well, probably. Better than either you or I."
"At least I'll see Jon again," Trystane said, forcing a laugh. "I bet he misses me."
"He'd be a fool not to," Lewyn replied, patting him upon his back.
"He'll ridicule me endlessly for this," Trystane said, trying to think of pleasant thoughts while staring down at his feet. He felt naked, without his sword, and white cloak. "I'm well used to the northern climes already...though they say it's twice as cold at Castle Black than it is at Winterfell. And just as winter comes, no less."
"It's a better fate that most would fare."
His great uncle's words were deathly true. Everyone, from noble lord down to peasant, knew of the grisly fate of Ser Terrance Toyne, who dared love one of The Unworthy's many mistresses, and was rewarded for his love by being hacked to death, one piece of his body after another. And that had been just a mistress. Of course, Rhaegar was nowhere as mad as the worst of his ancestors, but Trystane knew that his relatively kind fate, including the imprisonment inside his own chambers rather than the Black Cells, had everything to do with the fact that Ser Lewyn Martell had dedicated most of his life to the King's service. Adding in also a father who may well make war against the Seven...well, Six...actually, Five Kingdoms, should he have suffered the fate of Ser Terrance.
"I worry about her," Trystane mumbled.
"You shouldn't speak of her," Lewyn scolded, though his voice sounded tired and resigned. "Especially not to anyone besides myself."
"What happens to her then, after this?"
"His Grace cannot mistreat her," Lewyn explained. "Their marriage brought peace the realm. Rhaegar gained his crown not through conquest but through marriage, and the invitation of Sansa's Regents, acting upon her behalf, through her sovereignty. In the eyes of the law and the realm, his claim is unquestioned only if he remains connected with the Queen."
Trystane nodded. "If the child is not Rhaegar's...she'll have to bear him another?"
It wasn't the picture of Rhaegar lying with her which bothered him, he'd long gotten used to that idea, however horrid. But Trystane worried how Sansa would fare in her ordeal alone, and without him by her side afterwards.
"Once Rhaegar has two children that are unquestionably his, the Queen will be sent to Riverrun. This has been agreed by the King himself." He then rose to leave, but reading his unease, Lewyn relented. "I'll watch over her for you, Trystane. I promise you that."
Leaving Trystane sitting upon his bed, Lewyn suddenly turned, bent down, and hugged him, Trystane rising to his feet and wrapping his arms across the older man's white cloak in return. They'd never hugged before, and Trystane worried, wondering whether there was something Lewyn knew that he was not telling him.
"It's a mess," he said, releasing his grand nephew. "But I'm grateful for the time we had together. It's a blessing I never expected to receive. I never thought I'd see family again. Especially after hearing about Oberyn."
"I'm grateful too, Ser Lewyn." He thought the man's eyes were welling up, as his great uncle turned and shut the door behind him.
And my time with Sansa. How can I be grateful for it, when we were meant for so much more?
He'd loved her, from the first time she'd sat down and spoke to him in the great hall of Winterfell. He came to King's Landing for Sansa and Sansa only, though he'd never expected for her to love him back, thinking that the best he could wish for was to admire her from the court, and perhaps give his life protecting hers one day. But he'd known, within a fortnight of his vows, they'd both known, though neither said anything about it for nearly a moon.
Then came that first night together. He'd followed her all day, it had been one of the worst afternoons of her first pregnancy. She'd been in such pain, rubbing her head in court, disappearing for nearly an hour in the privy, and arriving by her door that night, he couldn't help but lean his head inside.
"I hope you feel better tomorrow, Your Grace."
"Ser Trystane." She said his name with a smile. It hadn't escaped his notice, how often she did smile for him. And how little she smiled for anyone else in the castle.
And the way the sound of his name emerged from her mouth terrified him entirely.
"I'll make sure I keep the grumpkins away from you tonight," he'd replied nervously.
Sansa laughed at that, but it was a sad laugh. Everything about her was sad. Not for the first time did Trystane harbor then the most uncharitable thoughts against the King he'd sworn his life and sword to. How dare they break and batter so horribly this beautiful woman before him?
"Please," she'd said, rising laboriously for him, to pour for him a glass of wine.
"I can't." It was a vain protest, though Trystane knew it was not the wine he truly coveted, significant improvement as it was from the Northern swill he'd finally gotten used to. "I'm on duty."
"I can't either," Sansa had replied, rubbing her belly, the smile never leaving her face. "Better I see it given to someone who deserves it."
He didn't reach to kiss her, she didn't reach to kiss him. They just both knew, and came together, as if the currents of the great Trident river, destined to meet always the tides of the Narrow Sea.
It was meant to be. How could it not, something so perfect, so natural, so right?
I'll see you again, he thought, lying in his bed alone, the moonless night offering him little comfort while the irritated squawk of a raven echoed through his chambers. I know we'll meet again.
It could be years, decades, but he'd take that. Sansa would be an old woman, perhaps, her back hunched, her hair grey, her son sitting firmly upon the Iron Throne, all memories of Rhaegar the Cripple vanished into the dust of history. She could finally then visit him at Castle Black, and she would, Trystane was sure of it, so long as he kept himself alive for her in the meantime.
Or perhaps she'd win her war against Rhaegar, Trystane knew that she was fully capable of it, and without his help either. Then she could release him from his vows, and...
Shaking his hopes away, banishing them from his mind, Trystane began to pray for the first time since he'd cried against the body of his dead uncle.
Daenerys
"He's beautiful."
"He is," Daenerys agreed, cradling her golden haired lion in her arms, her bare arms barely grazing against the clean cloak running down Ser Lewyn's back, next to her. "Are you jealous," she asked, turning her purple eyes upon the older man, whom she'd known all her life.
"Jealous?" The reply was incredulous.
"It could have been your child in my arms."
Ser Lewyn laughed, a nervous laughter, Daenerys thought, though she noticed that he shifted ever subtly away from her.
"You know that's..."
"Impossible," she replied, finishing his sentence calmly. "I know."
"Good," was all he said in return.
"They were the imaginings of a child."
"You're a mother now, Dan...Daenerys. You're no longer a child. You can't been seen acting like one."
She inched herself closer to him. He did not move away. Though she wanted more, she did not need it, Daenerys realized. What they had now felt together was...peaceful. Perfect. And she was content with what it was, not what it could have been.
"I've seen much of the world now," she said absentmindedly. "More than I had before."
"And what do you think of it?"
There was an edge of the dry humor hidden in his voice, taunting her, the same tone she'd remembered hearing as a child. Where had they both fled away to, for so long?
"Some of it I like," Daenerys replied, lifting her son up to her lips, placing the most delicate of kisses upon one pale and chubby cheek. "Some of it's shit."
"Casterly Rock?" Lewyn asked with a chuckle.
Daenerys cast at the older man a dirty look, one eyebrow raised higher than her other. "I prefer the Summer Isles."
"Don't we all," Lewyn replied wistfully.
Were she still a child, she's say something stupid, that they could run away together, and live the rest of their days loving each other in that warm paradise.
But I don't need him to love me like that, Daenerys realized, lying her head atop his shoulder. I know he loves me, one way or another, regardless. And I know I love him, whether as a lover, or a friend. Or just Lewyn.
He froze at her touch, but Daenerys whispered to him calmly, as if he were her child.
"This is fine. This is all I need. This is perfect."
Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to merely enjoy this one blissful moment, and believe while it lasted, that it could last forever, that all the strife and pain and turmoil circling her brother's castle never existed.
"You'll be a good mother," his raspy words sauntered into her ears, "Dany."
Dany.
How long has it been since he's called me that? Since I was a child?
Is that all I'm fated to be? A good mother, a dutiful sister, and nothing more than that, ever?
Sansa
Lying in bed on her side, dreading and awaiting with bated breath her inevitable day of reckoning, the once Queen Regnant of Seven Kingdoms realized that she'd become completely a pariah in her own home.
At least I had all Seven Kingdoms, save some stupid treasonous islands. May Rhaegar never claim the same for himself.
It was Ser Courtnay Penrose who guarded her nightly now, a man who'd once sworn fealty to her and her alone. They'd sent Ser Balon to the Black Cells, for keeping her and Trystane's secret, one more victim who had to suffer for her own stupidity. No one had seen Jeyne since that horrible night, and no one answered her when she cried out, asking about her dearest friend. She'd asked Daenerys, but the King's sister said she did not know, that no one answered her either. For some reason, Sansa actually believed her.
The irony that her only visitor was the sister of the man who'd tormented her in every single way and manner was not lost upon her, yet Sansa could not help but hold back her truest feelings in the older woman's presence, because by the Gods, Daenerys was trying, and Sansa could almost delude herself into thinking that the Princess truly cared. At least it was an unburdened delight when Daenerys brought with her little Lyonel. Dragonspawn as he may have been, he looked more a lion than dragon, and it bothered Sansa that she would prefer the company of this child to her own Baelor, whom they never brought to her, and whom she'd never asked for.
"He looks like a little Tyrion," Sansa had remarked to a beaming Princess, her face lit up with a happiness Sansa could only wish for herself to enjoy one day, however dim that prospect grew.
They were not fools. The moment she'd found herself with child, Sansa knew both their lives were over, along with any great game she still wished to play against Rhaegar. It wasn't Jeyne's fault. Sansa recalled distinctly taking her moon tea each time before any night spent with either Trystane or Rhaegar. Either they'd given Jeyne the wrong concoction, or perhaps the Red Priestess had been right after all, that she was truly cursed by the Gods.
There hadn't been a plan. Nine moons forward, she'd bear a child, and the Queen could only leave their entwined fates in the hands of the Gods, that whomever might emerge from her womb would not be Rhoynar in look or color, a flip of a sailor's dice. Somehow she suspected that she'd be unlucky once more. She suspected the same thing still, despite all of their assurances that no harm would befall her child, whether or not she birthed one with silver hair.
Their fear only encouraged their recklessness. That their worlds could end any day anyway, so why should they hold back? Those nights together had been the most passionate ones either of them had ever experienced in their short time together, and Sansa had wondered whether only the greatest of horrors could bring forth the greatest of pleasures. The inevitable night arrived, and she'd felt relief, Trystane too, Sansa thought, in that at least one of their many terrible uncertainties no longer hung over their heads.
They'd entered the King's chambers separately, her and Trystane, the grim atmosphere of the room betraying immediately the reason they'd been summoned. For what seemed like hours the King merely sat silently, staring at them, the other guests in the room, the Spider, Ser Lewyn, and the King's sister all looking about uneasily. Then, Rhaegar spoke the only words uttered for his audience that night.
"You will both remain in your chambers until the child arrives."
His voice was stone, but Sansa knew her husband well enough to see the fury swirling around in his demonic eyes, understanding that it took an almost unnatural willpower in keeping the king from the outburst that his advisors dreaded, and that which Rhaegar truly desired.
Only later did they tell her that Trystane would be sent to the Wall, that any child who was clearly not Rhaegar's would be sent in secret across the Narrow Sea. It was always Daenerys who informed her of her fate, never anyone else, and Sansa could be grateful, because she knew the Princess took care in informing her as gently as she could.
They'll never allow us one last night together, or even a parting kiss. But will they at least spare us the mercy of one last farewell, before each other's eyes, before they send him away?
Not for the first time did she not gaze outside her window, and think whether a swift fall would be her easiest road ahead. All her plans were dead. Her love, the light of her soul, to be banished to the cold forever. She'd try to carry on her mother's memory, her father's dynasty, but what was the point, when she'd failed for the last time? The Queen gripped her hands against the windowsill. Better than she join them, in whatever lay beyond...except what would she see in their eyes, except disappointment? That's what kept her on this side of the window, fearing that what came afterwards could be worse that the hell she resided in now.
Moving her two hands together, the Queen was about to pray, but then stopped herself.
Sansa whispered to the room, to the bay. "What kind of Gods would allow men like Rhaegar and Tarly and Varys to win?"
Or the horrible ones that came before them. Not that she believed herself any paragon of virtue at this point, but surely she was a better person in the eyes of the Gods than Rhaegar Targaryen. The Mad King had gotten what he'd deserved, but the gods had allowed men like Aegon the Unworthy to live to a ripe old age, hadn't they?
"Better to believe the Gods aren't real," she whispered to herself. Because the alternative was far worse.
Then, the Queen shrieked, her body gave, and Sansa collapsed upon the floor, as if stricken down by the Gods she'd just cursed.
The pain was not as bad as the first time. She felt numbness, even through the blinding pain, while the distant clamor exceeded that of Baelor's birth, maesters and handmaidens scrambling endlessly in and out of her room. Outside in the hallway she heard varied voices ringing about...Rhaegar and his Spider. Lewyn Martell, the coward and spineless man who called himself a knight, who would betray a child of his own blood. Even less welcome voices echoed forth too, the King's brother, Connington, all the worst of her enemies together, as they all congregated on purpose, circling around her like a pack of eager and famished crows. Only Daenerys had actually stepped into her room, holding her hands through the last of it, until they heard together the furious crying of a newborn infant. Opening her eyes, Sansa stared into eyes which belonged to Trystane.
The vultures descended upon her, and through the fog of her tears, she could see Ser Lewyn pushing King inside, a small pack of craven underlings following their broken leader.
Rhaegar's voice demanded the maester first, before all others.
"The child?"
"It's...she's a girl, Your Grace."
The maester held her daughter, Trystane's daughter, and reluctantly pivoted away to present the child to the waiting audience. Rhaegar's eyes widened, and Sansa could feel Daenery's hands, who had gripped her ever tightly since her brother's arrival, leaving her.
She knows too, Sansa thought in horror, her eyes seeing only the violent purple swirling in the orbs of her husband. By the Gods she knows.
"Brother, please," Daenerys whispered, falling down to her knees against one side of Rhaegar's chair, gripping at his arms with her small hands which had been placed in her own moment earlier. "You knew this was a possibility...this should not be a surprise."
The King's hands shook as they closed into two tight fists, and Rhaegar lurched forward in his chair, as if he were choking on his own breath.
"Rhaegar, please," Sansa heard her raspy voice begging. "I'll be good, I swear, I'll be true to you..."
"Kill it."
"No," Daenerys gasped in shock, even though they were precisely the words they both expected well enough to fear.
"Please, Rhaegar," Sansa kept begging, crying even as she felt her throat drying, betraying her. "This is the last thing I'll ever ask of you, please, I beg you..."
Sansa meant every word. For the first time in her life, she felt the furious and undying love a mother would for her child.
I'll do anything for her. I'll sacrifice my life, my soul, for her...for Trystane's daughter.
"Kill it," the King's voice rose, resembling more an awful screech from a hideous and unnatural creature. "Kill it now!"
"Your Grace," the Spider moved in, "we had discussed..."
"Please, my lord," Lewyn beseeched, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard falling to his knees across from Daenerys, by Rhaegar's side. "You promised, for my sake..."
Gods, was the man so naive?
"Will no man obey their king?!"
Heavy footsteps thundered forward. It was Ser Meryn. He'd appeared from nowhere, she hadn't heard his voice all night, and Sansa wondered how Rhaegar could call forth so many whitecloaks in such fear of a newborn babe and a helpless mother.
"Hand the child over," he ordered the maester.
"Ser Meryn," the old man said, trembling, blood from the birthing running down his hands and robes.
"Do it, or I'll kill you too." Meryn Trant's eyes were cold, they'd always been cold and unfriendly, she'd always feared him, and Sansa cursed her continued luck that the King would bring along this particular Kingsguard this night. Or did Rhaegar know all along what he'd intended?
"Please, my husband, I beg you..."
"Your Grace," the maester addressed his king directly, "you can't possibly order this..."
They all begged him, Daenerys, Ser Lewyn, even the Spider, all of them except for Connington, Meryn, and Prince Viserys. The King closed his eyes, rotating his head from one side to another, as if their voices caused him the worst physical pain.
"Please," Sansa cried, her voice barely a scratch now.
It was Viserys who doomed them all. "What are you waiting for, man?"
With that last prompt, Meryn Trant pointed forward his sword, and walked it calmly through the neck of her newborn babe, pressing forward until she saw the tip of the weapon piercing through the maester's back as well. The old man cried out, his voice dry and low, so it was still the shriek of her daughter that Sansa recalled, exploding through her chambers for what sounded an eternity, before all the room seemed to freeze into an eerie, still silence. They all stood as they were, before Meryn had advanced, shocked by the atrocity which just transpired, even Connington, all but Viserys and Meryn. And Rhaegar, who slumped back into his chair with a sigh of relief, as if exhausted after a long day of work.
It can't be. No.
Feeling faint, seeing the candlelight swirling about her, blending with the eyes cast about her in horror and mouths agape, the last words Sansa heard came from the King's voice, now feeble, yet still commanding.
"Kill the boy. Kill the other boys too."
Trystane
There grew a ruckus down the hallway, outside his door. He hadn't been able to sleep, thinking of Sansa. Had the time come yet? Had it already come? Was he already a father, to a child he'd never meet? Still he felt awakened regardless, and rubbing his eyes, Trystane rose in his bed. Hearing the voices growing louder, he thought that they could be coming for him, and reached for his robes, the buttons still loose when his door was kicked open. He saw Jon Connington first, then Lewyn behind him.
"What's happened," Trystane asked groggily. "Did the Queen give birth?"
Then he saw the horror in Lewyn's eyes, and Trystane did not need his question answered.
"Jon, listen to me," Lewyn near but screamed. "You know the King is in a mood. It'll fade, and he'll regret this. Don't do it, I beg of you!"
The sound of metal sliding against metal, and Trystane's eyes grew wide, seeing the pale glow of the sword of Sansa's father, illuminated by the torchlight leading into his chambers from outside.
"I won't regret it," Connington snarled. Swiftly he turned, pointing the tip of the sword against his great uncle's chin. "Away, Lewyn. I'm not a cruel man, you don't have to watch this."
He's always wanted to kill me, Trystane realized. Ever since the war, because I was young. Because I was weak, because Oberyn loved me, and he hated Oberyn.
"Jon!" He'd never heard his great uncle scream so loud. But it fell on deaf ears.
Seeing Connington rearing his hips, moving to thrust the gigantic blade onto him, Trystane closed his eyes, his last words a prayer before the end came.
"I love you Sansa. Remember me, I beg of you."
Daenerys
"Viserys! Stop it! Stop it now!"
She'd never seen her brother holding a sword before. What was he doing? Despite all his boasts, Daenerys knew, well before she'd heard the whispers of those who'd accompanied him during the last war, that Viserys had never killed a man before. Did he think now that shedding the blood of two innocent children would make him a great knight, when an entire war had proven him otherwise?
"Fuck off, sister!"
"My lord, Your Grace," pleaded the Spider, trailing the both of them in his unwieldy robes, having tripped onto his knees once already, along their frantic pursuit towards the Hand's Tower, "you can't do this! They are princes of the blood! We need them, your brother needs them alive!"
"My brother ordered them dead," Visreys answered with frozen eyes. "They are usurpers, they are traitors, they were born traitors!"
It horrified Daenerys, how closely his voice resembled Rhaegar's during that unbearable, unspeakable scene in the Queen's chambers. But this was no surprise to Daenerys. It had scared her much more, hearing the same tones emerging from her eldest brother, the man who raised her. How could such a man, whom she knew as practically her own father, be capable of such...evil...as to order the wholesale massacre of a child, and young men still practically children?
What about my child? What if he ever saw Lyonel as a threat, what if Lancel ever did something stupid to offend him?
Could it be true? That our blood is truly cursed, that father passed down his disease to all of us, that none of us can ever hope to escape it?
"Viserys, I beg you!" She'd screamed at the top of her lungs, and to her relief, he actually turned, and met her eyes. There was something wild inside them, yet something more lucid too, and Daenerys remembered the brother she'd first known as a child, before they both grew, and brotherly love and affection transformed into a cruel, leering desire. "She spared you," Daenerys gasped, out of breath yet forcing herself to continue to shout, because she did not know for how much longer she could keep the other Viserys at bay, the one who nearly possessed his all for so long now. "She could have killed you, but she spared you. Please, my brother, you owe her..."
"She spared me," Viserys whispered thoughtfully. Then his eyes lit up in fire once more. "That was her mistake. Go speak of debts to your Lannister kin, sister, dragons don't owe them."
"Your Grace," Varys said, advancing on the man while she stood there in shock, unable to understand the fact that he'd just rejected her, that he'd refused her so definitively. Daenerys did not even flinch when Viserys shoved the eunuch with all his strength, knocking him onto the tiles. Then he raised his hand, and Daenerys thought he would strike at her just as violently as well. She closed her eyes, she would not back down, she would not stand in fear of her own brother, either of them.
There was only a slap, stinging against the skin of her face, stinging worse against her soul than any physical pain she could imagine. Then heavy footsteps behind her.
"Ser Courtnay, get them out of my sight so I can do as your King bids."
Rough, calloused hands grabbed her, but Daenerys shrugged the whitecloak off furiously. For one moment, ignoring an unsteady Courtnay Penrose, she stared at Viserys, and thought of challenging him, truly challenging him, this stupid boy with his sword, and seeing just what mettle lay underneath his heart.
No, a shrill voice reminded her. He's wrong, they're both wrong. But you can't. Lyonel needs you.
Slowly, she backed away, the Spider rising from the floor on the side of her eye. Courtnay went to help him up and lead him out, but Daenerys walked away first, not needing some dumb brute escorting her, though she did not even know where her feet would lead her to next.
The truth rang inside her mind...that it was only Lyonel, which kept her from acting further.
Lewyn
He hadn't been there, at the Elia's end, and her children's . Oberyn then died alone in some frozen wastelands a continent away from their home, with only Trystane by his side. He'd thought it a curse then, to hear of his own blood dying left and right, falling like flies, whilst he, Ser Lewyn Martell, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, one of the seven vaunted and anointed by Aerys by the side of men like Gerold Hightower, Barristan Selmy, and Arthur Dayne, remained helpless to do anything to help them, marooned half a world away each time.
No, this is the curse. This is far worse.
There was nowhere for him to go. To seek out the King, whom he followed so far already, whom he was doomed to follow until his dying breath, even if Rhaegar ordered the next war against Dorne, and the inevitable massacre of every last remaining Martell? The Queen's chambers, stained with the blood of a daughter, a grandniece, never given a name? Certainly not Trystane's room, would they even bother to clean it, would they send his bones back to Sunspear?
No, why would they, they'd just probably have his remains tossed into the Blackwater. And they'll probably order me to do it too.
There was the girl. He needed her. Only she could make it better. She understood too, Lewyn knew.
Dany understands more than anyone, the curse of her name. And those bound by duty, by vow or blood, to serve and follow the dragon to the bloody end.
Yes, he wanted to see her. But he did not want her to see him. A failure, the worst failure in all seven kingdoms. An old man, useless and impotent, a waste of a life lived and given to weakness. She was weak too, she would take him in now, as she would have before, but Lewyn Martell did not deserve such a woman. He did not deserve anything, not a family and house name as magnificent as the one he bore. Not the love of a young nephew rediscovered. He served the dragon, followed him all his life because, in the end, were the gods real, Aerys and his son were the only masters a man of his sorry comport had been deemed in their wisdom worthy to follow.
He ended up alone in his chambers, though Lewyn could not recall the journey back. Slowly, he unbuckled his belt, placing his sword neatly onto his bed. Then his fingers reached to undo his cloak. Holding it before him, Lewyn eyed the fabric. The side facing outwards was white and brilliant, but inside hid the imperfections, the stains, the burns, the scars written from all the ordeals starting with the Trident, all the tears and marks as he'd accompanied his prince and his family to safety across the Narrow Sea. Lewyn had ordered the foreign tailors to mend around the bruises, so that he could always carry with him the weight and memory of his failures.
What a stupid, summer child I had been, not knowing what was to come.
Slowly he tied one end into a knot, the Meereenese knot a sailor had taught him in Volantis. Fists pounded against his door. Lewyn ignored them. He was still bound by his word to obey their orders, that was true. But not for much longer.
The pounding grew more frantic. Lewyn focused on his knot.
"Lewyn? Ser Lewyn, please?"
It was a feminine voice which called from the other side.
"Daenerys?"
"Lewyn!"
"Dany..." his voice trailed off in a whisper.
"Please, let me in!"
An idea came into his mind. Leaving the cloak for the time being, Lewyn walked towards his desk, and took out a quill along with a blank sheet of parchment.
"I'm sorry for Rhaegar," her voice continued shrieking from outside. "He's awful, we've both known this...but I can't believe..."
"Stay with me, Dany," Lewyn said calmly as he wrote. "It'll be alright."
"Are you hurt?! Are you unwell? Please tell me!"
"When they find me tomorrow morning," he continued. The note written, he placed the quill down, and set the piece of paper back into the drawer.
A grave pause from the other side. "Find you? What do you mean?"
"There is a note. I've placed it on the second drawer from the bottom, you'll be able to tell, the ink is still fresh. I want you to give it to the Queen, when you have the chance."
"Please, Ser Lewyn," the voice screamed with increasing franticness. "Whatever it is you're thinking, I beg of you..."
Satisfied, holding the cloak reverently with both hands, Lewyn stepped atop his chair, then his desk, running the unknotted end of the cloak around a wooden banister near the ceiling, fastening with his fingers a smaller knot, yet just as tight as the one below.
"I...," he began, as he secured the other circular end around his neck. "You...you meant...you were good for me, Dany." Tears streamed out his eyes now, had he not cried so, since hearing of Elia? "Too good for me. You were the only...good...and pure thing in my life, these last years. You. And Trystane."
Taking one last look outside his window, he saw the shadows of snowflakes fluttering through the frigid night's air.
I brought this upon us all. I sailed to seek Doran, to incite him towards new wars.
I'd thought I was wiping away the sufferings of our past. But I inflicted new horrors none of us could have ever imagined.
The screams continued, they worsened, but it was too late, and soon they would not matter. The tips of his shoes dangling by the table's edge, as he prepared to breath his last, Lewyn Martell prayed that there would be no one, be they Gods, or men, women, or children, to greet him afterwards. He did not deserve such tender mercies, but a man could still dare to hope.
