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Lyarra III
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She goes through the rest of the week in a haze, deaf to Lady Catelyn (not her step-mother, not even the mother of her half-siblings but her aunt) and her cutting words, deaf to young Arya's pleading to placate her with a game of knights and dragons (she barely flinches at the latter, but some miracle). Lyarra wonders through the waking hours slowly, the summer's cool wind nothing more than a gentle caress against her cheeks whereas other's flush from the touch. She remains unaffected, warm as ever. A dragon in her chest and now there is one in her mind too; it drags her to a state of awareness she could have blissfully gone through her life ignorant to. Now, whenever she sits at the dining table ignoring Catelyn Stark's glares, she peers helplessly at Arya and Sansa, desperately trying to pick out the few features they share. But where Sansa's cheekbones had once ridden high, they didn't cut quite as sharp as Lyarra's. Where Arya's skin is pale, Lyarra's is porcelain. Where Robb's frown presses firm into the traditional Stark line… Lyarra's tilts ever so slightly at the corners, lips too well-formed, too curved with the distinctive cupid's bow. She's not one of them, not really. It's painfully obvious, it's been staring her in the face for far too long. Where no full-blooded Stark can truly carry a tune, where Sansa's voice is the only delicate thing among the latest batch of Stark children, Lyarra is gifted. She gets that from her father, she thinks, somewhat hysterically. Her father who was known to bring all whom listened to tears. Could she do that? If she picked the right song, got the right voice? Fa-Eddard had politely asked her to stop signing in the presence of company after her first attempt and Lyarra had assumed it was Catelyn talking through her husband. But, but what if it was the Lord of Winterfell attempting to drown one of the key features she shared with her actual father? To smother that resemblance before any could take not of it? It's not exactly like he could have plucked the purple from her eyes and replaced it with the traditional Stark grey.
"Ned? What's wrong?" Snapping to attention, Lyarra chances a glance over to her- over to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, her innards flipping when she notices just how very pale Eddard Stark seems to have suddenly become.
"Father?" Thankfully, it seems that Robb's voice is enough to drag the man back from whatever he was seeing, a piece of parchment caught in his hand. Lyarra's eyes land upon the seal and her heart stops. Red and black. Red and black and though she can only see part of the seal, she knows it instinctively. She's been seeing it so very often in her dreams that it now resides behind the lids of her eyes, seared into her mind, forever present and haunting. The sigil of her father's house. Targaryen.
"Dragonstone has been taken." Silence falls upon Eddard Stark's declaration, Sansa's fork the only noise as it slips through her fingers and rattles against the silver of her plate.
"Ed?"
"Dragonstone has been taken and a boy claiming to be Aegon states he shall now be pressing his right for the Iron Throne." Lyarra… Lyarra cannot breathe. As mayhem descends upon the hall she remains seated, muscles refusing to cooperate and allow her to inhale, so that not only is her voice robbed of her but that of her ability to draw breath too. She'd been dreaming of him, dreaming of Aegon Targaryen but it hadn't quite clicked, hadn't settled in her mind what that boy being alive would mean. Of course he wouldn't hesitate to press his claim for the throne; what does he have to lose? His sister dead, mother and father gone the same. The only family he has is in exile, one he was too young to feasibly remember and another not even born when an attempt on the crown prince's life had been made. They'd never even met. Aegon Targaryen has nothing left but to press his claim. His claim and… and-
"Dragons," Lyarra whispers, finally able to breathe once again for all the good it will do her. Her voice is lost in the crowd as her father calls for order once again and Lyarra can no long remain within this hall. Maybe her mother had once sat upon this very seat, maybe it had been where Sansa resides. Maybe she hadn't taken her food in the great hall at all because what does Lyarra know of Lyanna Stark? She died tragically young, started a war because of her kidnap or elopement with the Targaryen prince… and she somehow managed to ensure Lyarra was passed off to Eddard Stark upon her death. Her death which left Lyarra an begrudgingly welcomed ghost in the stronghold her mother had once called home. Rising to her feet, Lyarra leaves her plate untouched as she near flees the hall.
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She nestles herself away, high up in the broken tower where the wooden beams are rotting to one side, the open window allowing the approaching night's chill to spill inside. She remains there in silence for a time, listening to the bustle of the staff beneath, the clomping boots of the guards passing by. But there's none of Bran and Arya's usual cheer, none of Theon's brass bragging. They mood is terribly sombre and it is with a heavy heart that Lyarra slowly begins to sing, up in this place where she is nothing more than a songbird who shall never touch the ground. For a few sweet hours, she is able to pretend that she shall never be dragged back to earth, that she is a bird soaring free. But even birds must rest. Even dragon's must sleep and that requires leaving the air, acknowledging that earth's pull. It is just her pull comes in the form of Eddard Stark.
"I have known the glory of a great sun, tasted the moon's own lustre, oh, I have breathed in the night's expanse of stars. Yet never before have I held such a thing, as your tender kiss and the emotions you sing, you breath new life into this unworthy lover. Dear Rhaeaerys. Sweet Rhaeaerys. My beloved, dear Rhaeaerys."
"The Dance of Dragons." The sound of Eddard Stark's voice has Lyarra hunching in on herself, shoulders drawing tighter as her arms come to rest in a comforting hold around her waist.
"The second song," Lyarra agrees quietly, staring out across the expanse of dusking sky, stretching across the horizon that the window so clearly captures between its stone pillars. There is no snow today but perhaps that is appropriate. She is the only Snow that needs reside within Winterfell, here only on the good graces of the man she'd been brought up to believe her father.
"Lyarra, are you well? I am aware we are in for… turbulent times, but…" his voice drops off into silence, as if struggling to unearth the words that would comfort her. She who is freshly ten and three, one month into another year of successful survival. Lyarra swallows, heart in her throat, belly full of fire. She wants to confront him, she realises. Wants to scream and demand answers. To know the truth with iron clad certainty from the only man alive would could give her it. Her lips part but nothing comes out. Desire chained by the deep wish to not have the world fall apart around her. Still a bastard, but not of House Stark. Of House Targaryen. Who is to say Aegon will not claim her as the property of his house, as is his right as her… as her half-brother? Who is to say she is not safer here?
"I'll manage," Lyarra chokes out, brushing back the tears that begin to spill down the curve of her cheeks. Her Valyrian cheekbones that she got from her father. Eddard Stark pulls her into a tight hug and for the first time in her life, it feels so terribly wrong.
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Aegon III
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"The ravens will have arrived by today, if not yesterday, Your Grace." Aegon considers the words of Monford Velaryon as the Lord of the Tides stands before him, his hands clasped behind his back. Aegon nods slowly, eyes dragging across the room, taking note of every face upon his hastily cobbled together council. Of those within the room, he only truly trusts the bastard of Driftmark and that is without mentioning just how far he trusts him (about as much as he could throw him). However, it is clear to see these people have missed Targaryen rule, have lusted for it like hounds for blood. Monford had professed plans to reinstall a Targaryen dynasty through Viserys Targaryen (his uncle? His descendant?), the second son of Aerys. However, now that Aegon has surfaced, plans had been scrapped, schemes rewrote. Balerion casts a large shadow and manoeuvres must be made for the lords of Dragonstone to step out into the light. Aegon has cast his eye over the plans Monford made, secret messages passed between Prince Doran (his uncle? A salty Dornishman) and the Lord of the Tides, looking for any form of trickery. But it all appeared to check out, so it is with a tentative trust Aegon allows the man to sit upon his war council. He has his eyes on every last one of them, has yet to sleep within the castle rather than surrounded by Balerion's protective scales. It is a tiring way to live.
"Good. I will deal with the North first."
"The North, your Grace?" Aegon hums in agreement, testing the edge of the dagger that House Celtigar had gifted him upon swearing their fealty. Fashioned form dragonglass, the handle is decorated with a scale like pattern, the grip excellent. He presses the point ever so slightly into the tip of his forefinger, watching the bead of blood bloom into existence. The council are quiet as they watch him, watching as Aegon rubs the blood between finger and thumb, watch as he glances across the painted table. All they seem capable of right now is watching, all they seem to have done is parade about on tip-toes. The sheer number of daughters that have already conveniently come to visit their father's is indication enough of what they all hope to achieve. But in that respect, he is also an unknown. His temperament, his intellect, his abilities. All they have been exposed to is his valour, his ability to walk into hostile territory with nought but a dragon at his back and declare himself a king.
"Yes, the North. Given the blood relations the current heir shares with the Riverlands and the links to both the Eyrie and the Baratheon pretender, they need to be dealt with first… What do you think, Shireen?" The terrified little girl can barely look at him and Aegon forbids himself from gritting his teeth in annoyance. He has been nothing but kind to the little girl, the heir of the Baratheon that had been sitting upon his rightful seat at Dragonstone, he has gone out of way to ensure she is cared for while her mother resides within her chambers as a hostage of the war he has begun. (The face of another, Orys, haunts him as he looks upon her. Targaryen and Baratheon had been close once). That he has the full intention of positioning the innocent Shireen as the next head of the Baratheon line at Storm's End is inconsequential. He needs her, if not loyal, that at least not plotting. It doesn't appear as if she has a single malicious bone within her body right now. She is not Orys, that much is clear. He is loathed to look for friendship elsewhere.
"His Grace makes an excellent point. It would be a surprise if Prince Oberyn was not already at sea making his way to Dragonstone," one of the many lords comments, shrewd eyes flickering to glance in Aegon's direction, to see if he is paying them any attention. He relaxes back into his seat, aches for the presence of Visenya or Rhaenys. It was them that had taken charge of running the kingdom, that much the memories can tell him. He had only ever stepped in when required and it had given him no pleasure to do so. They had been capable and, consequently, he had been left to his own devices, left to his research. That is not to say he is incapable of ruling. Without them, without Orys, the prospect is less appealing. None the less, the kingdoms must be reunited and it cannot remain stable beneath the Baratheon pretender.
"I will fly North tonight," Aegon concludes, shoulders rolling. Suddenly he's too contained, too restricted. Though he takes no joy from warfare, though he does not lust for battle, he is longing for a spar, to feel the sweet ache of effort in his muscles. "Aurane, if you have the time for it, a spar?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
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Lyarra IV
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She's flying again. The wind whips against her face, neither cool nor warm but undeniably present. The clouds are thick around her, an endless field of muted white, so plentiful the sun's pitiful attempts to shine even a morsel of light through is met with unabated failure. It is glorious, the air beneath her wings, the hundreds of scents that curl in a cocktail at the back of her throat. There's such power in her fingertips, such haunting hubris but it is all so very well deserved. What resides higher upon the food-chain than that of a dragon, after all? Lyarra inhales and Meraxes exhales.
Beside her, the dark gold dragon, the smaller one, soar. Above, casting a large shadow even with the lack of clear sunlight, the black dread that the boy who is almost a man grown rides covers them. There is no rain and the temperature too high for snow to fall, the summer heightened by the three large beasts that race through the sky. She scents the air, tongue flicking out to taste as her eyes spot the settlement below. The deep grey stands proud among the light layering of snow, the towers almost fingers reaching high, the centre-bed playing at mimicking a palm. She follows the black one's lead, circling high in the sky, peering down, focusing in on the broken tower that shows such wear; even if she were smaller, she would not consider landing upon the feeble structure. She knows that broken tower!
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Lyarra Snow slams back into her body with a startled gasp, bolting out of bed before she can think better of it. She races for the door, throwing the heavy wood back and paying no attention to her state of dress, to the iced stone that slaps at her feet. Were she any other, perhaps she would notice the sting of cold but Lyarra has never before done so, she would not begin now.
"Wake up! Wake up! We're under attack!" Slamming her hand against Robb's door (the first she comes to) Lyarra barrels on before one of the bannermen can catch her by the arms, making for her father's door.
Prior to this, she would have never dreamed of baring in on him, of all but ramming the door down with her body, but this is not an every day occurrence. Both occupants of the bed jolt up at her sudden entrance, Catelyn Stark screeching in shock as Eddard Stark blindly grapples for a sword.
"We're under attack!" And maybe there's something like true panic in her face because even the woman who has demoralized her at every opportunity takes a moment before she leaps on that opening.
"Ned, your bastard-" Whatever had been about to leave the Lady Catelyn's lips is not something Lyarra shall ever find out, for in that moment, the world outside is lit ablaze. The windows glow orange, she can feel the heat, even behind the glass. Dragon-flame. Turning her eyes upon Eddard Stark, Lyarra meets his horrified gaze before she can bear it no longer. She flees the room, sprinting down the corridors, unsure where she plans to go, what she plans to do. She had seen this coming, had been within the mind of what is quite possibly the very beast that is lighting up the world outside. She can hear terrified screaming, can hear the fearful calls and all she can do is hastily search for the nearest bow and arrow. It shall do little against a dragon she knows. If the Old Gods bless her, she may be able to shoot one on the eye. But she will never take one down. Hysteria bubbles in her chest but she pushes it back, shoves it down and seals it up tight. There is no time for thinking on the consequences of the first ill-thought-out plan to enter her mind.
She burst out onto the bridge between the armour and the Great Keep just as the flames cut out. They hadn't been cooking the inhabitants of Winterfell, instead licking at the night's sky just above the keep. Of the few guards below that had been standing on duty throughout the night, Lyarra can see that they are laced in sweat, faces red, as if they had burnt from merely looking up the fires that had lit up the night. Swallowing, Lyarra swings the quiver over one shoulder, scrambling to notch an arrow. The second the projectile is in place she flicks her gaze up, searching for the source of the flames. Even in the dark of night it's hard to miss.
The dragon is huge. She'd known that, had seen it before. But it is very different to look upon the beast as a dragon herself and then to stare up at it's great bulk as a very fragile human. By the Old Gods, she is perhaps no larger than one of it's talons; it could devour her in one bite, it would be possible to wheel a horse-drawn carriage down it's gullet and still have room for more. His wingspan only made his size more obvious; the dragon could stretch and it would swallow all of Winterfell beneath its shadow, along with a good chunk of Wintertown too. How she could have possibly believed it possible to land a hit upon him, Lyarra does not know. If Aegon wishes it, they are all dead. The very fact that no flames currently douse the keep is the only indication that it is not his intentions as of present. There are women, women and children screaming and crying and mean shouting; it's all tinged with fear, Lyarra can taste it upon her tongue. But no, it is not she who can taste the emotions, humans are not capable of that and she shoves the thought (sensation) away. All is silent when the great black shadow roars; it sends rumbles through the very foundations. It's a wonder the broken tower does not collapse beneath the siege.
"Silence! I want everyone in the courtyard! Everyone!" She knows that voice, knows the deep timbre, the unyielding iron coated by velvet tones (Meraxes? Meraxes!). He… he had said everyone. And Lyarra Snow, bastard child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark is indeed part of everyone.
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She moves stiffly, well aware that rebelling would be a very poor idea indeed. Her entire family (cousins and her uncle and an aunt who isn't really family at all, has never been familiar) is at risk. To act rashly is to sentence them all to death and she dearly hopes every other person present is on the same page. Swallowing harsh and hard, Lyarra quickens her step, ghosting down the stairs and loathing through the corridor. It feels as if she is not truly present, as if this is nothing more than a dream like so many other where Aegon and the dragons are present. But she resides in her own body, she has fingers and toes instead of talons and wings. Her nose is no snout and though there is warmth in her breast, no fire resides in her chest. Not like them. She joins the last few trickles of servants scurrying up from the depths of Winterfell, searching the crowds desperately for her family. Because that's what they are, they are family. No matter what lies Eddard Stark had told his wife, told the kingdom… told her. He still risked his neck, would still have been killed for hiding even the bastard spawn of Rhaegar. As high upon her tip-toes as she can get, Lyarra's head swivels back and forth, panic beginning to bloom in her chest as the people crush together and she fails to see anyone she can rely on. The servants are too busy cowering, cuddling children to their sides (the old familiar ache in her heart for a mother is easy to ignore now, she's so practiced at it) as the guards bravely position themselves to form an outer ring around the people. Lyarra is left alone, lost and utterly unsure. She tries to beg, to ask a guard where she can find the Lord Stark but he brushes her off as another hysterical woman. She wants to scream.
From the darkness the dragon's head appears again, this time with a familiar figure standing atop the crest of its skull. It is the last person she wants to see, no matter how capable she is of recognising him. The straw that has caught alight in the courtyard has flames reflecting in his otherwise silver hair, the lack of strong lighting failing to colour his dark eyes. But Lyarra knows them. They are just like hers. Indigo eyes. Targaryen eyes.
"Where is Eddard Stark." Aegon does not shout but he is heard all the same. He cannot be ignored, everyone is looking at him, at him and the dragon. Her legs shake but Lyarra steels herself, barely able to feel the fingers she has clenched around the bow she never put down.
"Prince Aegon, I assume?" And there he is, Eddard Stark pushing through his people, making his way to the front of the crowd. He has somehow managed to grab hold of Ice in the mad scramble, for all the good it will do him against the black dread before them. Lyarra traces the path he has taken through the crowd, sees a flash of red Tully hair and makes to muscle her way through to them.
Something else gets to her first though.
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Aegon IV
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There's not even a lick of warning before Meraxes is lunging forwards. Aegon snaps out an order for Balerion to halt the other dragon, doing his level best to ignore how the crowds screaming in terror. He knew he shouldn't have trusted them around people, riderless as they are. He's been lulled into a false sense of security, assured by their docile behaviour upon Dragonstone. Passive, quiet, they'd eaten only what they were given and never tried to hunt for more. He should have known there was something wrong. That something is wrong.
People scream, throw themselves out the way, crying and begging for mercy he is in no position to grant. Menaces is not his to command, it is a miracle something such as this has not occurred already.
There's no blood. No blood for teeth do not sink into flesh, the dragon does not devour its prey. There is no prey.
Instead, only a girl remains standing, staring wide-eyed as Meraxes bumps its enormous snout against her forehead in a manner that could almost be described as carefully affectionate. Releasing the hold he has on Blackfyre (what a sword would have done against the dragon he cannot say), Aegon leans forwards, his other hand wrapped tight around the leather he has tied to one of Balerion's horns. Why in the name of the Seven is Meraxes reacting in such a way to the girl? Even more interesting is the look of absolute horror that has stolen over the Stark Lord's face. There's a story here, key components he's missing because that expression isn't the confused relief of a lord who believed his subject was about to die before his eyes. Given the similarities between their faces, he'd guess a family relation. The sheer terror on the man's face even now is cause for concern.
Aegon taps once against Balerion's skull and the great dragon lowers his head, enough for Aegon to jump to the ground. The cobbles are cracked beneath his feet, baked from Balerion's flames or if they were like that prior to his arrival, Aegon cannot say. Instead he begins to approach the girl, no older than four and ten, probably not even flowered yet given she possesses only the slightest hint of womanly curves. She's still enraptured in Meraxes, one hand having risen to brush against its scales jaw. He understands the amazement, it had been a sensation he experienced himself upon gaining Balerion for the first time. Even now, when he reclines into the bulk of his dragon to rest his head, his fingers will crest against his underbelly and wonder how such a magnificent beast could have ever considered him worthy of partnering with. Which is exactly why this makes no sense.
"Your name," Aegon demands as he gets with an arm's reach of the girl. Finally, her attention is stolen from Meraxes, her gaze finds his and Aegon can barely suppress a gasp. That is Visenya's frown and those-
Aegon grasps the girl by the chin, ignoring the roar of fury from the crowd, the demand from the Stark Lord that he releases her this instant.
"Rhaenys," he breathes for those are her very eyes. Just like that it is as if he can see her every Valyrian feature, the sharp jut of her cheekbones, the characteristic cupid's bow that accompanied the tilt to the edge of her lips. She is of Valyrian blood, that cannot be questioned. But no, she cannot be Rhaenys. Too young, no salty Dornishmen- not a drop of Dornish in her. She's not pure Valyrian either, there's too much Stark but a Stark has never married a Targaryen, nor has it occurred vice... versa...
Aegon laughs, bold and loud and utterly unable to help himself. So, that is how it is. This is how it is. A song of ice and fire indeed. Aegon traces her face once more, his touch gentle now, unhurried. No, this Rhaegar had his Rhaenys and his Aegon. Which can only mean-
"Visenya. Not Rhaenys, but Visenya. My apologies." The blood of the Starks, Kings of Winter and with a great sword by the name of Ice. The blood of Targaryens, descendants of the Valyrian stronghold, of Fire and Blood. Undoubtedly he appears mad to those who watch him now. Any hint of meaning his actions give can be nothing more than smoke in the wind to these Northerners. Madness that has dogged the steps of every Targaryen; there was a price to escaping the Doom after all. "I must say, Lord Stark, when I travelled north to treat with you, the last thing I was expecting was a hidden princess." Eyes, indigo eyes so alike his own, widen in shock, the muscles of her jaw loosening, mouth near hanging open. The expression is all Visenya; Rhaenys has always been able to take a surprise in her stride, to not allow it to surface on her face, but when Visenya has found herself truly surprised- her youthful visage flashes before his mind, overlapping with this dark-haired counterpart that boasts features of both sisters.
"Release her."
"So it's true then." It is not Aegon who speaks but instead Visenya. It is tornado of emotion that could in her voice, the surge of a wave cresting, the crack of thunder before a downpour. He can see the tears that gather in the corners of her eyes, bubbling but not yet spilling over. Aegon brushes a hand across the hilt of Blackfyre, eyeing the man who holds Visenya's attention so. There are a lot of visual similarities between the Lord Stark and Visenya, it is clear they are family. But Aegon has read far too recently about the rebellion, about the two pieces of flint that lit the land aflame. Most importantly of all, he has checked everything over with a clear mind free of any prejudices. Eddard Stark, known for his honour and dowdy demeanour, fathering a bastard child while at war to save his family? His sister dead before he could rescue her? Then a bastard kept in his Keep. It had made no sense. No sense until Aegon had laid eyes upon the girl himself. Until he laid his eyes upon those Valyrian features. "I'm not your bastard. I'm Rhaegar Targaryen's bastard, aren't I?!"
The hush that befalls the crowd is oppressive, more and more head's turning to the Stark Lord for an answer, Aegon himself among them. The prophecy had never stated the child must come of a wedded union, just that there would be an offspring born of fire and ice. It may not yet be time for the prophecy to begin its course, even now. There might be still years to pass by. However, that is a chance Aegon is unwilling to take.
One of the women in the crowd, a high-born lady, breaths out a horrified, breathy, "Ned." The Stark Lord glances her way before his spine seems to crumple inwards, his shoulders hunching.
"No. You are no bastard, Lyarra. Rhaegar took my sister as a second wife. You are of my blood, but you are trueborn."
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Still tentatively hopeful for a 4 chapter finish, but now I need to go figure out how I'm going to manage that (it might end up with a sequel at some point from the looks of it, seeing as Aegon kinda bopped me over the head and grumbled 'what about this'. (He is described as a bit of an enigma).
Tsume
xxx