"You do understand that I am upset, don't you?" Daenys asks rather harshly. Her little sister is more vexing than usual. "Can't you just leave me alone, for once?"

"I think you're being stupid," Maega answers, her small nose scrunching. "Stupid. So what if Devon asked Lysa to the dance. It's not the last party of earth."

"Go away!" the older sister screeched, though the yell was muffled in her pillow. "Go bother someone else. I am in no mood to indulge you."

Maega sighs and almost repeats her earlier words, but think better on it. "You should take a leaf out of Lyanna's page. You know, she must have faced a similar situation. If we open the book and read some more-"

"How can you think about that stupid book now? It's just a story, Maega." Her temper is easily riled when her heat suffers. Maega pats her back awkwardly.

"You don't have to read. I'll read this time. I'll even bring you tea." Her offer is met with a scowl. Maega's eyes beg, and before long Daenys' gaze softens. "Please, please, please." Her begging seems to work too. Daenys melts under her insistence. "Come on, say we can."

"Fine," Daenys agrees. Her voice is somewhat lifeless, but she wipes her tears away and puts on a brave smile. "My silly, wise sister. Go find the book. I don't quite remember where I've put it."

"Yes!" Maega is out at the speed of light. Daenys doesn't even have time to marvel at it before her sister comes back. She opens the book, and for the first time she reads to Daenys.

280 AL

Rhaegar looked upon his daughter indulgently. He did so enjoy spending time with his Princess. Rhaenys was currently playing with a piece of parchment, her brows furrowing. The quill trembled in her hand, but she brushed the lines on the paper as she wanted to. Her Septa had suggested that she be fetched her colours, but Rhaenys had refused quite firmly, claiming that she would make an exercise in penmanship. Her father had laughed and handed her both quill and parchment, waving the Septa away with a gentle gesture.

"How goes your writing, daughter?" he asked while his fingers claimed one of the lemon cakes on a silver tray. At her age she knew not her letters, yet that did little to damped her mood or her desire to practice said letters.

Rhaenys looked up at him with a smile. She shook her head. "I am not done yet, father." She used the most charmingly serious voice she was capable of producing. His daughter preferred blood oranges to lemon cakes, so it did not surprise him see her fingers reach out for that. "How do you write your name?" she asked suddenly.

Beckoning her closer, Rhaegar hoisted the girl up, placing her in his lap. Rhaenys had held on to her quill and the paper was easily reached by his longer limbs. He could not help ruffling her hair when he saw all the lines criss-crossing over the white surface. Rhaegar took her small hand in his, closing his fist around hers. He found an empty spot and placed the tip of the quill a millimetre away. "Pay close attention," he said, lowering the position until the tip scratched the paper.

Elegant even when writing, Rhaegar rounded the letters with his usual grace, the ink flowing. The meticulous brushes were not impeded by Rhaenys. She knew to allow her father to guide her through the strokes. For his part, Rhaegar was pleased by it. "There you are."

"Write mine," she demanded with a giggle. And knowing he could not refuse her, Rhaegar once again took the quill, dipping it in ink. Rhaenys followed him with her eyes, marvelling at the graceful form. "And mother's. Write mother's name too."

He imagined she was much like any child left without a mother, but sometimes her hunger for knowledge caught him by surprise. Elia's absence was a void he could not seem to fill with all the stories and all the pretty pictures. In that moment it seemed that he had chosen a wise course of action in starting his search for a wife. Rhaenys needed a mother, someone to care for her and a person she could rely on and come to love.

Writing Elia's name on a piece of parchment felt forced and foreign. Before their marriage they had not exchanged letters. After, they were in the company of one another on a daily basis. Even so, Rhaegar had never felt more alone than in those first years of marriage. What a thing it was, to be surrounded by people and yet to feel utterly alone and lonely.

Not unlike many marriages with persons outside of his own House, the prospect of Rhaegar wedding Elia hadn't been enthusiastically met. Rhaegar himself hadn't been exactly thrilled by it. Yet he knew well his duty even from a young age. But his mother had only another son, and no daughter for him. And so, Dorne lent a helping hand in the form of their oldest Princess being given to the Crown. For them the bargain they struck was quite rewarding, and not only in and of itself.

The first he ever saw of Elia, was a miniature portrait of hers. It was not customary, but he was the Prince, and as such they endeavoured to endear his betrothed to him. In person, Elia was not much different from the picture they painted of her. She was tall and elegant, at that time a bit taller than him even. He'd been just a boy, for all he had four and ten years to him. She was already a woman when he married her. Not that he begrudged her the experience. Rhaegar did think he was quite unable to force himself into feeling more than a vague sense of pity for his departed wife.

The Dornish had always given their love freely, with much more ease. Rhaegar used to think that it was all that heat and the sand. Elia had made him a man. Gentle, witty Elia had cupped his face in bronze hands and kissed him in a way that no other woman had before. She had enjoyed teaching him, but with time the novelty wore off and she craved something more, something different. And Rhaegar understood and stepped. Despite sharing a bed, they did not share their hearts as well.

Caring for her child had been that something different which she sought. Affection had always come easy to Elia, and her daughter had felt the full benefit of it even before she was born. No one had been more important than her daughter and her needs. Swaddled in the finest layers of cloth, Rhaenys had taken a semi-permanent residence in her mother's arms. Elia was proud of her daughter, and not at all bothered by the fact that it hadn't been a son. In Dorne both were just as important after all.

For Rhaegar Rhaenys became a reality only when they placed her small, wiggling body in his arms, just little after she'd been borne. He had marvelled at her size and the image so close to her mother's. Glancing at her now, Rhaegar could tell that she would grow to be just as tall as Elia. Although her hand was small and delicate, her fingers were elegant and long, her skin kissed by sun and her eyes dark and clever. If anything there was more of Elia in his daughter than he had first thought. And for whatever reason, the fact bothered him not at all.

Something slithered against his leg, distracting Rhaegar from his memories. Balerion purred in contentment when Rhaegar scratched the cat behind its ears. Balerion, such a fitting name. The cat was black and incredibly big. Rather rotund with a coat of black fur and golden eyes. It was also the most impertinent house pet Rhaenys had yet to acquire. What with its habit of stealing chunks of meat from the kitchens and chasing ravens and pigeons alike, Rhaegar was not surprised. The only thing that baffled him was his daughter's attachment to the little beast. His namesake would have been proud.

"Balerion!" Rhaenys exclaimed, finally noticing the tom rubbing against her father's leg. She bent down and picked him up despite her father's protests. "Oh, papa, Balerion is a nice kitty."

"There was never any doubt of it, my Princess." Nay indeed. Rhaegar's wryness was only meant to point out that while the cat's niceness was never in question, its suitability as a pet for his daughter was another story altogether. For, of course, the animal was magnificent in its own way, from the tips of its sharp claws to the insolent wag on its tail. Likely the best knew its superiority and was not at all averse to showing it.

A little too young to observe all the subtleties and nuances of an adult's speech, Rhaenys was happy to pet her cat, brushing slim fingers over dark fur. As to what was the source of the incredible gift that was the black Balerion, the king had never been exactly sure. He just knew that one day his daughter came in cradling a swarthy babe with two rectangular ears and too-sharp claws.

Reaching over the girl and her cat, Rhaegar took a blood orange and broke it into pieces. Rhaenys always eager for a treat accepted the proffered morsel with all the grace a child her age could muster. "Careful, Princess. If you bite off my fingers, I might have to seek revenge."

Her eyes widened comically, but she still scrapped his finger with her tiny teeth. Balerion jumped off of his mistress, and scurried away, slinking under the nearest object that could offer shelter. Rhaegar used one arm to hold the girl where she was while the other one was utilised for a greater cause. Now, if he remembered correctly, his little Princess was easy to get a smile out of.

Even a laugh was no tricky matter. Rhaegar used the oldest trick in the book. It seemed his fingers could do more than write beautifully and feed her sweet morsels of food, or so Rhaenys found when her knight in shining armour turned traitor and elicited from her peels of laughter which no doubt made Balerion scratch at the door in a poor attempt to escape the room. Alas, she had to face the music, for the melody had been of her own making.

"No!" she screeched gleefully, fighting against the arm holding her. "No more, no more!"

"You admit defeat?" Rhaegar spoke over her subsiding laughter. Instinctively he brushed back a strand of hair that had flown from its rightful place.

"This is not fair," she whined softly, still trying to break his hold. But when she felt his fingers start moving again, she promptly gave in. "I yield!" Her frown was not long to stay however, for Rhaegar assuaged the sting of her loss with another tasty treat, and set her on her own two feet.

His timing had been perfect for in the next moment her Septa came in, and the smile on her face faded. "Come child," said the generously rounded woman, holding her hand out. "You must allow His Highness to attend more important matters now."

Biting her lip, Rhaenys looked at her father with eyes big and round. But it seemed that no help was to be had from him. Rhaegar bent over slightly and kissed her forehead, then her cheeks. "Off with you then. Go and play outside. It is such a lovely day."

"Will I see you later, father?" she asked timidly, her small hands catching in the fine silk of his tunic.

"Your Highness," the Septa corrected her, earning herself an angry glare from the child. "Address His Highness properly, child."

"We shall see," Rhaegar replied. He did not take note of the disappointed small face or the pouty lips, for his own problems had started piling, and now that he was so close to tackling them, his daughter's presence proved a distraction.

"Very well, Your Highness," the child groused unhappily. She gave a stiff bow and hurried out the door, leaving behind a bewildered Septa and a sighing Rhaegar.

This was also one on the many reasons a mother would soothe the poor child. She needed someone who would be capable of spending time with her without having to divide their attention between her and whatever other work required said attention. He nodded the Septa away.

Septas, in particular the Septa looking after his daughter, were valuable. Of course she instructed the Princess, giving her all the knowledge she would ever need. But it was not enough. Children also needed a loving hand, a gentle smile. He knew that. Having grown with a distant father and a mother more suited to court intrigue than the rearing of her own children, he was well-aware that even the brightest septas, septons and maesters of the age could not fill that void.

But in the light of current events, his daughter needed only to exercise a little more of her patience. No doubt she would feel better for it once she had a comforting mother to wrap her in her arms.

Rhaegar removed the paper on which his daughter had conducted her experiments. He needed to concentrate if he did intend to see his daughter later. There were just so many things to do and so little time he could spend thinking them over.

And the tourney on top of it all. It was of his own making, Rhaegar knew that well enough. But even so, there were times when he wished for a few moments of peace and quiet. As King he could not have that. A pity. Truly. Even more so as he had never asked for the crown. He could not help being born into the inheritance.

"I insist that you do not quarrel," Lyanna growled, her fingers digging into Robert's arm. But those blue eyes had turned thunderous, and she feared that there would be no stopping him.

Stevron Frey, on the other hand, did not seem quite so decided upon battle. "Lord Baratheon, perhaps we should find an amiable solution."

"Pox on it!" Robert cursed. "Damned Freys. If you can't handle your sword, boy, then don't wag you tail at me."

"Robert!" Lyanna chided. "You are scaring the children." Her hiss earned her a glare from her loving husband and a silent warning to keep her silence.

Turning to her slightly, Robert gave the first signs that he'd heard everything she had said to him up until that point. "If you do not bite that tongue of yours, I will not hesitate to discipline you like your father has not yet done. I am Lord, and you, my Lady. Do not force me."

Seemingly thankful for her intervention Stevron bows to Robert. "Come now, Lord Baratheon. My sister is of delicate constitution. Surely, you would take pity of such young a girl and not frighten her further."

Tyta Frey clutched the reins of her brother's horse, her slight frame trembling, but her eyes burned. She was younger than Lyanna, not by much, but enough to see that she was a maiden not yet flowered, and a skittish little thing by the looks of her. All men seemed to frighten her. Lyanna could not blame her for those reactions. Robert frightened her most of the time.

Stepping away from her enraged husband, Lyanna trudged forwards, making her way at the girl's side. She took her by the shoulders."Now, now, Lady Frey, there is no need to tremble so. Would you not like to ride with me in the wheelhouse. I find that your company appeals to me." She then glanced to the Lord Frey present. "I beseech you, my Lord, allow me this small favour."

"Well, if Lord Baratheon has no objections." Stevron dared a look and was very surprised by the change in Robert, as would most people, Lyanna assumed.

One of the very vexing habits of the man's was to be as changeable as weather. One moment he was cool and collected, the next he raged to the heavens and back, and then he smiled as if nothing had happened. Robert busied himself with knocking the air out of the young Lord Frey with a well-placed slap to the back of him.

The matters were settled easier than Lyanna had anticipated. Tyta seemed grateful. The moment they entered the wheelhouse she burst into tears. "I thank you, my lady. I thought he would kill my brother, your lord." Her sobs were not commented upon. Old Nan kept quiet, stitching away, and Alys had elected to ride at the back of the party that day.

Lyanna had forgone the pleasure of riding for a more simple gratification, that of not exchanging more than the necessary pleasantries with Roberts. As it happened, Tyta's presence was a comfort and a blessing. She was a sweet girl, and once her tears had run dry she even gained some courage.

"You are Lord Stark's daughter, are you not, my lady?" she asked in a small kind of voice, as if she feared of attracting something unpleasant by being too loud.

"Lyanna will suffice, child, and yes I am" the young woman replied, her voice of a surer brand. She gave her a sharp smile, not unkind in nature, but not by any measure meek. Something about Tyta put her at ease.

Sniffling, the girl bowed her head. "Tyta is my given name. I would much prefer to be called that."

"Oh, look at the two of you," Nan commented. "How young, how beautiful, how fresh. These fruits do not keep." The warning in her tone made Lyanna throw her a suspicious look, while Tyta just seemed baffled.

"Nan, do not scare young Tyta. I will have no nonsense of you." Why ever did she feel the need to defend the child, Lyanna did not know. But this girl put her in the mind of a colt yet afraid of even a passing shadow. She reminded Lyanna of herself in a strange way. "Do not mind her, Tyta."

"Ah, but do mind," the crone disagreed with practised ease. Her gravelly voice penetrating deep into her audience's ears. "When the storm comes, take care that it does not knock you off your perch."

"Nonsense," Lyanna murmured in Tyta's ears and felt a sense of triumph at the younger's giggle. "You must learn to take my Nan's words with a good dose of humour. She should have gone with the mummers."

"Girl, the North is no place for those mummers," Old Nan replied. Her hearing was still sharp when she chose to employ it. The problem was that most of the time her frailty served as the better alternative. "You would do best to heed my words."

Tyta leaned her head I with deference. She had not yet gotten used to having the crone around. If Lyanna had any say in it, the girl would soon learn to make light of all those terrible, dreadful stories her Nan was fond of. She did like the defiant set of the girl's mouth. Much like her, indeed.

Ahd here she had been thinking with dread that Robert would force her to ride with him. The journey was not exactly short, and he would have had ample time to order her on a horse. But now, thank the gods, he could not do so. For he was to keep Stevron's company, while she would get better acquainted with the young Frey girl. To think that she might a few days in which no more than ten words would be spoken between the two of them.

Her joy was cut short in a rather abrupt manner when she realised exactly the nature of her thoughts. One's life must seem very bleak if she took such joy in knowing her own husband would not speak to her much for a period of time. Did she truly loath Robert that much, that even a short exchange between them was a burden? She considered the question with utmost care. She tried to be objective, she did. But there was nothing for it but to conclude that her displeasure for Robert was an ever growing monster fed by his behaviour and the improprieties she witnessed on a daily basis in his company. It was not very kind of her, Lyanna supposed, but she was not about to change her mind.

"Have you ever been to King's Landing before?" Lyanna asked, suddenly excited at the prospect of conversing with someone so close to her own age.

"Not one," Tyta answered. "But Lythene, one of my older sisters, insists that it is the most wonderful place, and that I am the luckiest girl that father allowed me to go there. You see, she is to be married shortly, and could not come herself."

"Won't she miss your presence at her wedding?" Lyanna bit the inside of her cheek. Walder Frey had many chi8ldren, perhaps sparing one daughter had been no hardship to him.

"Oh, no!" Tyta exclaimed. "Lythene and I never quite got along. And she has my sister Morya in any case. They were always very close to one another."

It would be unseemly to ask whether they were full sister or not. And besides Lyanna could not think it mattered. She had seen that blood ties meant little in this world of theirs. Perhaps friendship was more valuable to have, and better suited to force away the loneliness that lingered.

"I'm afraid unity is not the term to best describe my family." The blush on Tyta's face as she said the words elicited a small smile from her hostess.

"You come from a large family. Where there are many it is quite natural for dissention to follow," Lyanna assured her. Even among her siblings, all things considered, there had been occasional quarrels.

"Large is not the word I would use for my family," Tyta said after a moment of silence. "They are rather like a small army that must always be fed and tended to. I fear my father may find his halls overrun."

And that was Walder Frey. The man's virility was something of a legend. That and the fact that he changed wives like one changed worn boots. Considering that her young companion might not appreciate the correlation, Lyanna held that to herself. Yet Lyanna did enjoy the wit Tyta exhibited.

"Army indeed," she agreed with a wry curl of her full lips. How could one yield so many children? That man must have some sort of charm placed upon him. "Yet only you and Stevron chose to make for King's Landing."

"Nay," the girl denied. "We were simply faster than the rest of them."

Lyanna had noticed another horse beside Steveron's. "Do you ride?"

"Aye, but poorly so. My father, you can imagine, never had the time to teach me properly, and my brothers were more inclined to mock than to help." Her face reddened as if she was ashamed of her admittance.

"No worries. King's Landing is bound to have some patches of land we may improve your skills upon," Lyanna joked lightly. "But then I find I must ask, how did you journey so fast?"

"Stevron led my horse. I only needed to not fall out of my saddle." And that second admittance made it so very easy to find amusement in the situation. Tyta laughed, her arms crossing over her stomach. She did not mind Lyanna finding the hilarity in it, for she could see that the lady was not unkind. "I have heard that you are an excellent rider."

"Rumours, those. I am good on a horse, but I am sure we can find better riders than me." She took Tyta's hand in her own. "But if you would like, I can do my best to impart some of my skills."

The girl looked as if she'd offered her the starts and not simply a few riding lessons. Lyanna could not claim she was doing it from the goodness of her heart, for her intentions were not without any personal interest. By agreeing to teach the girl, she could extricate herself from any plans her lord might have made for her. After all, once she had given her word, it would not be honourable to ignore it.

Tyta's quick and keen acceptance might have stemmed from the fact that as a child in a family of many more, she had felt neglected. Lyanna could only imagine. But she did truly enjoy her presence. And she thought that it would do her good. For the both of them actually. A true friend. Lyanna had need of that. Someone who understood her, and who better than a charming girl of her own age and of similar disposition. Indeed, she would serve most nicely, Lyanna decided.

King's Landing. A sense of nostalgia swept over her. Lyanna did wish she could have stopped the feeling rising in her breast. Much alike to King's Landing, Winterfell was an important place in her homelands. A capital of sorts. She did do wish to find some way of loosing Robert in the wide city.

Her father's promise rang in her mind. He would help. He would make it so that she never had to lay eyes on the man again. Lyanna had to believe that in the end her father would save her. The prospect of sharing a life with Robert weighted heavy on her mind. She did not want that. Not for herself, not even for her worst enemy. Though Lyanna could hardly speak of enemies. She had none.

Robert Baratheon, the bane of her existence. If she could only close her eyes, and make him disappear. That wretch. How could he look her in the eyes and not see than she desired to marry him no more than she wanted to kiss a poisonous snake.

"Rumours are enough for me," Tyta whispered, reclining against the cushions. "Especially when I have had the pleasure of meeting you in person."

"Can I just say I hate Robert more and more?" Maega closes the book with a flourish but there is something entirely fiendish in her eyes. "He rather puts me in the mind of a boy we know. Don't you agree, my fair sister?" She smiles at Daenys who looks better by now.

Daenys rolls her eyes. She knows exactly what her sister is saying. There is some truth in it. But she refuses to admit to it. "No," she rebukes Maega without thinking. "Not at all. Devon is better than that. Far better. You know it."

"All I know is that you shouldn't invite him over anytime soon." Maega is quite serious about protecting her sister.

"I wasn't planning to." Maybe she should let Maega work her magic. It would make them both feel better – but most of all herself, Daenys is sure. "Don't do something you'll regret, sis."

"I wasn't planning to," Maega mocks her playfully. "But if I see him, may I at the very least glare at him?"

"No! Act like a normal human being." Daenys shoots her a warning look.

"Like a cross normal human being, you mean," Maega corrects her. "Very well, I won't have my revenge then."

They laugh because they both know that somehow Maega will find a way to extract even a small measure of said revenge. Devon won't even know what hit him.

"Next time you like a guy, make sure he's like the King," the younger instructs the older.

Title from "La Belle Dame sans Merci" by Keats.