280 AL
The wind was blowing unusually harsh for a summer evening and the air was chilly. The sun was an inch shy of hiding underneath a sea of earth to sleep the night away, but people walked the streets even so. Dogs roamed the roads as well, in search of food nu doubt. Near a dingy little cottage, three men sat on logs, outside the hovel, their faces hidden behind dark hoods. Cloaks blew in the strong breeze and curses followed the fluttering of cloth.
Among the three, there was one who tapped his foot. It was clear that he was the impatient leader of the trio by the way which the others avoided rising his ire. Even sitting down it was easy to tell he had a wide frame. He was doubtlessly a tall, strong man, a warrior of some sort. Of course, the sword at his hip gave him away easily too. It might be that he was some lordless knight, or a sellsword.
While none dared approached the free, curiosity was still expressed at the fact that they had been sitting in that same spot for a few good hours. Mayhap it was another member of their party they waited for, but that could have been easily done in one of the man taverns where alcohol and wenches were to be had. Or perhaps it was a merchant they awaited, but then they would have better luck at the docks.
Whatever the explanation was, no one suffered such an intense curiosity as to head their way and question them. It was quite clear they would not welcome an interruption of whatever it was they did. So the good citizens of King's Landing shuffled about, turning a blind eye to the three mysterious figures at the old abandoned cottage.
For their part, the two acolytes were busy, each with his own task. One of them was polishing an old sword that looked better fitted to grace a smith's fires than the hand of a warrior. But he took great pains with his task, thus it was to be assumed that the object held some value and was therefore to be taken care of. The other man, the shortest of the three, lovingly held a piece of mutton in his hands and took bites of the juicy meat every few minutes. He would chew long and then swallow, and which he took another mouthful of meat.
Faint lights had started appearing at windowsills. The people were making use of the many candles they had to light the approaching night. Darkness was not a comfort.
The three men did not budge even when the sun had sunken into the ground, leaving behind not even the faintest of glows. The night was lit by a round moon that gave light, but no warmth. At the very least none would be sightless.
Somewhere a dog barked and closer by a cat yowled. King's Landing became deceptively quiet as the people within prepared for sleep, ready to give way to another kind of life, that which thrived under the silvery moon's watchful gaze.
From further down the road a couple of men were coming. The tallest of them was carrying a thick rug that stood uncommonly straight. The giant did not even seem to feel the weight. The man that followed had a wicked look on his thin face, and he continuously rubbed his hands together for some unknown reason.
The leader of the small band gathered in front of the cottage renounced his disguise. He pulled the hood of his cloak back to reveal a head of dark hair and deep blue eyes. Though he looked a little rugged and unkempt, his likeness to a nobleman could not be mistaken. He was, in fact Robert Baratheon, the one and only. Apparently loosing one's lands and titles did not despoil one's visage. The loss of his birthright left him with quite few funds, though, and that Robert could hardly abide. Never in his life had he needed to lift his hand in labour for food. That had unfortunately changed, yet he would not go alone.
When Tywin Lannister had accosted him, Robert had had his misgivings. The Lion and the Stag were not enemies, but neither were they friends. Yet Tywin had seen fit to seek out a man stained by the crime of rebellion and offer him aid. Robert had been naturally curious and his curiosity had been promptly satisfied.
According to the Lion, the King had taken an interest in his wife. Robert had seethed at that. Rhaegar Targaryen had caused him the loss of his parents. He was not willing to hand Lyanna over too. At least not without a fight. Surely his wife had seen the error of her ways and was perfectly content to return to his side. Pride would not allow him to think any differently, nor would his heart. Sweet Lyanna would be his, Tywin promised, so long as he fled with her to Essos. The King had few men there and virtually no power.
The plan itself was brilliant. One of Tywin's men was to sneak in his wife's chamber and hide her in a rug. He would then claim he was ordered to get rid of the rug and take her out the gates. After that she was to be delivered straight to Robert's awaiting arms. Aye, Robert much liked the sound of that. There was very little risk in such a scheme, for him and for Lyanna. Tywin was a shrewd man who would not be caught. If not for the sake of the mission itself than for his daughter.
Tywin planned to have his daughter, Cersei, wed the King. He claimed that Lyanna was an impediment as she had fascinated the King and taken away his attention from Cersei. Robert refused to trouble himself with such schemes. He told Tywin that as long as Lyanna was given back to him, he would take her far away from the King and his clutches. Cersei and her father were more than welcomed to him and his crown.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the two men with the promised rug. Anticipation coursed through Robert. His heart thumped loudly in his chest at the thought of seeing Lyanna again. First though, he would have to make sure she was unharmed. His two comp-anions stood to their feet too, at attention.
Robert nodded his greeting towards the hulking beast carrying Lyanna and towards his less pleasant companion. "You are late," he said nonetheless. "It is past the time we were to meet."
"Ah, but 'tis not our this blame. 'Twas the lady who could not ready herself in time," the slighter man answered, his lips curling into what might be termed a smile. Robert's eyes narrowed. "Fear not, my lord, we were able to persuade her in the end. Though I must admit the Septa was a nuisance."
"What Septa?" Robert questioned. He, of course, knew that they were trying to annul his marriage to Lyanna, but he hadn't been aware they'd made quite so much progress. "Have you left any witnesses?" He cursed inwardly.
"None, my lord. We know out job," the same man replied again. He scratched at the few hairs on his chin that he called beard. "The Septa met the end of my dirk for behaviour. She has the audacity to tell us the girl was under the King's protection." He laughed. "Foolish woman."
His partner did not seem quite as enchanted by the whole story. In fact the mountain of a man looked rather out of patience. Robert cleared his throat. "And you are certain you were not seen?"
"By none," the man who had been silent until then spoke. He put his burden down and unrolled the carpet. "Here's your woman."
And indeed as the rough material parted a prone figure made its appearance, gaining more and more freedom of movement as the rug unfolded. A small woman with dark hgair and equally dark eyes looked up, stunned, at Robert. He gazed at her in equal surprise and distress. Only Robert's temper got the best of him a bit too soon.
Aye, she looked like Lyanna up to a certain point. She was slight in frame, but fairly buxom, unlike his bride. This woman's hair was also a touch darker, leaning towards raven. The direwolf on her dress was the only sign to identify her as a Stark by. And it was much too obvious. Even Robert was aware of that. He caught the woman by the chin and forced her to face him. The urge to yell was upon him to quickly to stifle. Instead though he allowed a fierce growl past his lips.
The woman trembled violently. Tears formed in her eyes. "Please, my lord," she began, perhaps seeing the rage in his stare, "I beg of you, have mercy. I only did as I was told. Please. Please," she wept and begged, one of her hands touching his.
He pulled back as if he'd been burned. "This is the wrong woman!" he yelled at the two who had delivered her. The woman had crawled closer to him and was hugging one of his legs, crying. Robert shook her off. "Where did you find this wench?"
"She was the only woman with the Septa. And she wears the direwolf. Perhaps your bride had changed in your absence," one of them said mockingly.
Not in the mood to be mocked, Robert pulled out his sword. "You gave me the wrong woman," he insisted.
"If you don't want her give her to your men." The suggestion made the woman weep harder and plead louder. Robert threw her a withering look. She took no notice of it. "Better yet, give her to me and you can find yourself a new wife."
"Silence!" Robert hissed between gritted teeth. "You," stop crying," he ordered the woman. "And you two, tell the Lion that he had made a mistake. This is not my wife for all she wears the direwolf embroidered on her dress. Find the real Lyanna and bring her to me. If not tell me her location and let me do the work myself."
It seemed that no one was to be trusted. Robert turned towards the woman they'd brought and hauled her to her feet. He would have some answers. "Who are you and where is my wife?" he questioned harshly, shaking her. The woman did not seem inclined to give him a reply. Robert simply tried again. "Tell me what your name is and whatever you know about Lyanna Stark and you will live," he promised. "But if not, I swear to you, I will cut you into little pieces and feed them to you."
"Nay, I beg you," she wept. "I know nothing I swear. They pulled me away from my son and said I had to don these fancy gowns and act a lady for a few hours. I swear that is all. They gave me coin. I needed the coin. My son is ill. I beg you, have mercy." She caught him by the arm. "I know nothing. I know nothing. My lord, spare me. I have a little boy to care for."
Only Robert was beyond caring at that point. He shook her violently one last time and let her fall to the ground. Drawing his sword out once more he used the flat side of it to deliver a few stinging blows. "Do not presume to play games with me, woman!" His comrades came closer, each with a hungry look in his eyes. "Tell me what you know," he insisted through her tears and denial. "Tell me or I'll give you to my men."
"Oh, please! I know nothing," she continued on her earlier path, perhaps thinking it might convince him to release her. Robert had no such plans for the immediate future, at least. He gave a nod to one of the men. The woman was once again lifted up. She grew quiet.
"Very well, just remember that I have warned you." And with that he turned and left.
Rickard pushed his horse at a faster pace even though he knew there was little chance of catching Robert Baratheon. The man had evaded every attempt to have him captured and the Warden of the North was slowly losing patience. He cursed as they once more lost the trail.
"Should be return, my lord?" his squire asked. Domeric was a young man about Lyanna's age and quite skilled with a weapon. He was the Bolton heir and if he had mind enough to keep himself alive, Rickard was sure he would do a good job of it. "The rain will come soon," he warned.
Nodding his head, Rickard turned his horse around. "A pox on Baratheon and all his man," he murmured under his breath. He no longer knew why he had pushed his daughter so hard for the marriage. She had been right to refuse. It would have been easier to rid himself of the plague than it was to drive Baratheon away. "Aye, lad. Let us be on our way back." His announcement produced some cheer among the men. They were tired and they hungered and no doubt man of them had a wife waiting for them to come home.
Though it galled him to return empty handed, Rickard accepted his defeat. He would capture the filthy scoundrel the next time, he promised himself to ease the sting of the pain. The beast underneath him moved easily even through the darkness, not straying from the path. That was lucky as Rickard's mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about his daughter and her new situation.
Lyanna had been moved with the King, within his intimate living space. Rickard had not been sure when Varys came to him with that proposition. The King was an honourable man, but he was still a man. And his Lyanna was beautiful young woman. Even if the King did not want to cause her harm, there were times when such occurrences took place outside one's will. Yet Varys had assured him that his daughter would not be taken advantage of. And it was the best way to protect her. That Rickard could not deny.
And what did it matter where she spent her nights, in the King's bed or in her bed. She was going to be his wife. Aye, his daughter would be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She would have sons and daughter, princess and princesses of wolf blood. It was the very best she could ever have. And Lyanna did seem to take to the King so much better than she took to Robert.
Congratulating himself for a wise decision, the man slowed down his horse. They were approaching the gates. He looked behind him to see his men still following. They had done well by him. He would see that they were rewarded for their efforts. He gave a sharp nod and the company gathered in two orderly rows. They passed under the gates without a word from the guards.
Rickard dismounted. Domeric took both their horses and made towards the stables with them. Rickard, on the other hand, made his way to his own rooms. Special quarters had been arranged for him. He was kept separated from the Lord Hand and his brood, which suited Rickard just fine. He had everything he could possibly need, except the possibility to taunt the old Lion. Tywin had failed. His daughter had failed. The King wanted Lyanna, which was telling. At least for his daughter it was.
On his way up towards his chambers, there were two flights to stairs. The first were wide stone stares that could be climbed with ease and no danger. The second were wooden and they creaked at his every movement. They were sturdy though, for all that it seemed they weren't. The first time he'd sued them he was sure he would fall and break his neck. His fear had abated some, but not enough to make the climb a pleasant one. Rickard finally reached the top of the stairs, tired and out of breath. "I must be growing old and weak in my dotage," he whispered, not without a hint of amusement. What else was there to do really?
In his youth, Rickard had been the fastest of his siblings and the also the one who got in the most trouble. His parents had said he had the blood of the wolf in him. Brandon had it too, his oldest son. And Lyanna, she showed some signs on it. But Rickard had been right wild in those days. It was a wonder he had lived as long as he had. Of course, age had tempered him as he was certain it would his children. They would grow up to make him proud.
He could not help wondering about Brandon though. His thoughts turned towards the boy. He had foolishly run off with that girl he claimed to love. Had he yet realised his mistake? Barbrey Dustin was her father's puppet. She danced to whatever tune was played without a thought to those around her. She was not the right wife for his son and Rickard could only hope Brandon would come to his senses. What a sorry situation to be in. The passion of youth could be treacherous and hurtful. Brandon would suffer and he would rise stronger from the ordeal, his father was sure.
Opening the door of his chamber, Rickard looked around. Food had been placed on his table, awaiting his arrival. There was little need to waste the thoughtfulness, so he sat down and took a sip of the soup in his bowl. The taste was rich and sweet. The soup sported a light colour, creamy; its consistence thick and beyond a shadow of doubt filling. The bread was white and warm, evidence that his meal had just then been prepared. Rickard swallowed a chuck of bread and then some liquid, enjoying the way it warmed his insides. It was just what he needed after a ride in the cold night. "This is quite good." He would have to remember this at the next banquet the King would host.
A knock on the door interrupted the pleasant meal. With a grumble Rickard stood out of his chair and turned towards the noise. He made himself open the door, though he would have liked to ignore it. The only reason for which he did not was because it might be new of Robert's whereabouts. Determined to solve whatever problem had arisen at such late an hour, Rickard pulled on the door, opening in.
Before him stood Varys the Spider. Confusion bloomed upon Rickard's face. "My lord Varys, what brings you here?" The Spider rarely made visits to his allies. He much preferred the darkness. In the shadows he was free to watch and listen to his heart's content. "Do come in," Rickard finally invited him in. He took a couple of steps back to make way for the other man.
"I see I have taken you from your meal. My most sincere apologies," Varys spoke then in a sympathetic tone. Rickard was not quite sure what to make of the comment. He chose to simply nod his head. "I am sure you are wondering about my being here." For a man, the eunuch had too light and airy a voice.
"I would be lying if I said I wasn't," the host acknowledged. "So, my lord, what brings you here at this late an hour?"
They both sat down before an answer could be had. "Am I right in presuming Robert Baratheon has escaped once again?" Rickard shook his head. The eunuch smiled. "I thought so. The longer he is at large, the more the risk grows that we shall never find him again. I should think a more permanent solution is needed, my lord. Wouldn't you agree?"
"And what solution do you have in mind?" Rickard sighed. "The King would have him captured and chained, awaiting trial. To disregard his command would be treason, and punishable by death."
"Aye, willing and wilful disregard would lead to death." The man tittered, hiding thin lips behind a soft hand. "But I do not mean for you to lose your head, my lord." He paused then in order to take a lemon cake in his hand. "Robert is a fierce fighter. He will oppose those who try to capture him. Perhaps, by chance, an arrow might catch him in a weak spot."
The Gods only knew that Rickard would kill Robert with his bare hands, but the King wanted to dole out punishment himself. Of course an accident he could not be blamed for. And yet, when monarchs were not given their desire, they did tend to hold it against the person who robbed them of their pleasure. It was a risk. The question was if he was willing to take it or not. Rickard thought the matter over for a few moments. If the King did feel wrath he feared it might extends to Lyanna. "I have a daughter to protect, my lord. She has suffered enough." He eyes the eunuch with curiosity. "Why are you so bent on having him dead?"
"He is dangerous. That is reason enough," Varys explained. "The might be content to exile him. He is quite, merciful, so very unlike his father."
That much was true. Rhaegar was the firstborn of Aerys Targaryen, who, everyone agreed, hadn't been quite right in the head. There had always been a certain sort of cruelty about the man and of course no one had attempted to temper it. He was the King. He had treated even his family with cruelty. The son was cut from another cloth altogether, but he was still a king. He had absolute power. He could withdraw his mercy at any given moment.
"Can you promise me the safety of my house?" Regardless of what transpired on his hunt for Robert, House Stark had to live on. His legacy should not perish. "I would gladly rid us all of that pest, Robert, as long as I know my children will be safe."
"The King is quite taken with your daughter," the Spider reminded him. "He will make her his wife. She'll be safe enough from some dangers then. But even a queen may have her foes."
"May that foe never be husband or child to her. Those are the worst kind of foes." Varys agreed silently. Rickard continued. There was something he could not ignore. "I have a favour to request, my lord."
"Anything that is within my power," the bald man agreed quickly. Varys always had some plan or another. "What is it that you wish of me?"
"Only your help in finding my son." The quicker he explained, the faster he would have his answer. "Brandon has taken it into his head to run off with some girl. I would have him found. He is still my son."
"The word is that you have disowned him." A plump hand went after another lemon cake. "And yet 'tis but a whisper. Not even I know the truth of it." He smiled benignly and took a bite of his desert. "Your middle son is better suited to running the keep, if you ask me. And even if you do not."
"Regardless of my feelings on this matter, Brandon is my firstborn. I want to know him alive and well. Can you help me?" He corrected himself a moment later. "Will you help me with this, my lord Varys?"
The Spider nodded his head in what Rickard could only hope meant that he would help. Thus they ended their meeting. Lord Varys left Rickard to his food and whatever else there was. The Old Wolf was content to finish his cold soup and eat some mutton. He would think further upon the problems in his life when the day of light came. For the time being, shedding his heavy clothing and slipping under the bed covers was the activity he most favoured. He only hoped that despite the many trials his sons and daughter would find happiness in the world and all would be well for them.
But that was the dream of any parent, to see his children happy. Rickard drifted off to sleep.
Lyanna found herself wandering the halls of Maegor's Holdfast. She had been given one of the large rooms, the Queen's chambers, even though she had no right to them. Lyanna had flushed bright red when she was led in it. The statement was clear to her. For that was what it was; a statement. The King was telling her yet again that he planned to crown her by his side. A sort of giddiness shot through her at the thought and she knew not why it did. But it was there all the same and she could not cast it away as hard as she tried.
Once Lord Varys had brought her to this sanctuary, the little Princess had jumped into her arms, expressing her joy at the sight of one she considered a friend. Lyanna had been deeply touched by the display. The Princess hadn't known her long, yet she was so kind and sweet. It was a testament that her parents were so too. And of the girl's heart too.
Rhaegar had followed shortly after his daughter. He had greeted Lyanna respectfully and had had his daughter sent to sleep so he could talk to her. Lyanna had felt butterflies in her stomach and her tongue had grown thick in her mouth, making it difficult to produce speech. But he had persevered. Rhaegar had asked about details of what had happened and the little that Lyanna knew he took gratefully. He did not, however, ask about the sheets or her maidenly status. He seemed content to know her well and alive. Perhaps it was that which touched her most.
Like a true knight he didn't dare keep her up too late. She had been assigned her rooms and despite the beginning of a protest on her lips, she was ushered in. In spite of the many comforts that awaited her, Lyanna could not sleep. The day had been much too exciting, or she was not very tired. The explanation eluded her. But it mattered very little. She could not sleep whatever the cause was.
So she walked the halls and tried to find something to distract herself with. Anything would do really. She wondered briefly if there were any books or any sort of library in Maegor's Holdfast. Most noblemen read little. They had maesters to do that for them. But some did read extensively, and those usually possessed a small library too. There was one at Winterfell. Lyanna had left all her favourite songs there. How she missed those. It was a true pity she hadn't had some copies made.
Her boredom was not to be relieved. It seemed that she would do well to return to her own room and lie abed in contemplation if she could not manage sleep. And sleep she did seemed incapable of managing. Lyanna sighed. It was fortunate the Maegor's Holdfast was not as wide as the Red Keep. She would have a hard time learning her way around it if it were. She turned on her heel and tried to creep along the floor silently. It wouldn't do to disturb the rest of the inhabitants just because she could not get hers. Common decency had yet to elude her, though common sense might have slipped through her fingers a time or two.
There was something almost protective about the veil of the night. Lyanna would not tell an untruth; the dark discomforted her, for she knew not what to expect of it. Long shadows and eerie sounds made her tremble in undisguised fright. It might have been all those tales Nan would whisper in the dark, or it could be something more innate, a fear that had been burned not into her heart, but into her soul, passed down through whole generations that had walked the earth before her – people who knew the source of such terror. Lyanna suppressed a shiver. If hers was a simple remnant of gory memory, she never wished to find out firsthand what creature could possible lodge such a fierce fear in the human soul.
A squeak sounded out behind her, cutting through the darkness. Lyanna froze in her place. She debated the wisdom of glancing over her shoulder. For all she knew it could be Balerion, out for a midnight stroll. The gods knew that little fiend took every chance it had. Taking a calming breath, Lyanna willed her heart to beat at a slower pace. She did not relish the possibility of perishing because her heart burst. It probably was just Balerion, and she was being very silly for worrying.
But then something fell against her shoulder and she couldn't help the squeak of surprised fright it elicited. It was, of course, a hand. That she could tell by the grip and a moment later another hand was pressed to her mouth. The strangest thing was that while these hands were firm, they did not apply pressure, not really. Ad the presence at her back was oddly familiar. Her yes narrowed, but she stopped struggling.
Whirled around unceremoniously, she was greeted by the King's visage painted in moonlight. Lyanna would have been perfectly content to admire the work of the gods in fascinated silence, but Rhaegar Targaryen seemed to have other plans. "Lady Stark, what are you doing out this late?" There was something strange about his voice; it sounded almost paternal in quality. In fact, Lyanna was sure Rhaenys had been on the receiving end of many a speech spoken in such a tone.
Far from appreciating being seen as a child, Lyanna bristled at the implied criticism. Still, she had no legitimate reason for being out of her bedchamber. "I could not sleep," she admitted after a few moments of silence. "I thought a walk might hep"
His gaze softened then. "You've had a difficult time." He seemed to speak more for his benefit than hers, but Lyanna nodded along. His brushed his fingers through his hair in what looked to be frustration. Not knowing towards whom it was directed, Lyanna rocked on her heels gently. "Are you certain you would not fall asleep if you returned to your chamber now?"
Shaking her head emphatically was the only manner in which Lyanna chose to convey her answer. "I simply cannot fall asleep," she explained.
Hope bloomed in her chest as the King looked her up and down in silent assessment. Alongside it a sliver of trepidation crawled its way inside her heart. But her curiosity would not be satisfied if she backed down. Lyanna waited patiently for whatever he would say next. Rhaegar did not disappoint.
"I have some documents to revise. If you do not think it too much of a task, you may join me." And that invitation was all that she really needed to glue herself to him. Lyanna followed him down the hall, keeping herself one pace behind him at all times. Three steps behind them walked the Kingsguard on duty – Barristan Selmy is Lyanna remembered correctly. He was also known as Barristan the Bold.
The white shadows creeping across the floor after them did not bother Lyanna, mostly because she knew his presence was a guarantee of her safety as well. Had he been unknown to her she might have worried. As it was, Lyanna knew he would stop outside whichever door the King entered and give them privacy. It was rare for Rhaegar to bring his guard into intimate spaces she'd noticed. They always remained close enough so that any commotion might alert them that they were needed. As far as she could see, it was a perfectly appropriate solution.
Entering a well lit room, Lyanna took a moment to adjust her eyes to the sudden flood of light. Candlelight was by no means harsh and for that she was glad. Lyanna headed for a chair near the hearth and put her hands in front of her, allowing the flames to warm her. Raising her head, she angled herself so she might look around the premises and inspect the room at length.
Her expectations were fully met in neatness, but she was fairly surprised to see a golden harp sitting innocently near a window. Lyanna stood to her feet and walked towards it, barely aware that Rhaegar had sat down at his desk and was watching her intently. She admired the craftsmanship, her eyes trailing after the twining vines that climbed the frame. Her hand reached out instinctively, like a child. She touched the cool metal, tracing the indents and protrusions with the tip of her finger.
"Do you play, Lady Stark?" came the unexpected, but not unwelcomed, voice of her host.
She turned to face him, a blush covering her cheeks. She had forgotten his presence for a brief moment. "Nay, I have little talent with instruments." Never before has she felt quite that inadequate in front of a man. "But I do enjoy listening." What did it matter if she played or not, Lyanna though, not without an ounce of anger directed towards her own person.
Rhaegar nodded once before picking up a piece of parchment. "Perhaps I shall play for you one day, my lady," he said absently. Lyanna breathed in relief.
Leaving the harp where it stood, she turned her attention to the many piles of paper on the King's desk. Walking somewhere behind him, she leaned slightly over his shoulder, trying to read. But it was not words written on the paper. Columns of numbers stretched down towards the bottom edge and annotations stood out on the margins. "What is this?" she found herself asking, hands gripping the back of the King's seat.
Looking away briefly from his work, Rhaegar met her eyes. He leaned his head slightly to the side. The action gave him a boyish air. "It is the full expense of the tourney." He pointed to one of the columns, "This is for the food." He moved to another. "And this is the drink. Here we have the additional servants whose services will be temporarily engaged."
"Is it not the Master of Coin that should oversee these arrangements?" Lyanna questioned, confused. "I thought it his duty to watch over the funding of such events in the realm."
He put the paper down and invited her to have the seat beside him. Lyanna obeyed the silent command. Her mind was already working through the logic she had used. It was clear that she had overlooked something.
"Tell me, Lady Stark, who is responsible for the wellbeing of the realm?" His voice was smooth and relaxing. There was no trace of anything malicious, but the question had been asked in earnest and it expected a reply of the same kind.
"The King, Your Majesty," Lyanna answered automatically.
"Are you certain?" he insisted. "Not his Small Council? Or solely the Lord Hand?"
"The Lord Hand and the Small Council are advisors, Your Majesty. The power of decision falls to the King." Lyanna set her hand in her lap demurely. "He may certainly be advised in his choices, but ultimately it is the King who decides."
"In natural order any decision if followed by result. The King is responsible for those as the decisions are his." Rhaegar gave her a reassuring smile. "The Master of Coin has supplied me with information about his intended actions. As King I am to approve these actions or not."
Nodding her head in understanding, Lyanna looked once more at the paper. She noticed a fourth column of figures. "What does this pertain to?"
A chuckle followed at the heels of her question. "That would be my brother's armour."
"Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I though the Prince was on Dragonstone." How could he possibly make the journey to King's Landing in such short a time?
"Since the tournament has been set back, I have agreed to allow him to participate. Just this once." The answer surprised Lyanna. She glanced at him as if to ask for an explanation. "He is yet young, Lady Stark. I haven't a mind to allow him to injure himself by acting recklessly."
"Ser Barristan was but a child himself when he entered the lists as a mystery knight." Only after the words had left her mouth did Lyanna remember her place. An apology started forming on her lips.
However Rhaegar gave a low laugh. "So he did, Lady Stark."
A/N: Title from William Blake's "A Divine Image"