Lyanna
King's Landing was still burning in places. Victory was always at the expense of someone, and the Lannister army had certainly taken a victor's toll from the denizens of the capital.
Lyanna shut the window of the carriage and smothered a sigh. The three other ladies beside her— handmaidens collected at their brief visit to Highgarden — all covered their noses with rose-scented cloth. Lyanna understood the compulsion, but resisted herself; this city was to become her home.
The journey to King's Landing had been arduous, and Lyanna had more than once wondered if it would have been better to die in that tower than face what was to come. Not even a day had been given to mourning her brother's death, fearful as they were of further agents from the crown. Her tears were dried up at this point, but the emptiness in her chest was still raw as the moment she saw his body. Even Ser Oswell, normally immovable in the face of things much worse than a clean death, had shared her tears despite her imputing him no blame for her brother's choice. Her beloved brother had died, as many others had, for her and Rhaegar's decisions. All Lyanna could do now was honour the sacrifices of Ned and everyone else that had suffered for it.
At first light the next day, Lyanna had departed North with Ser Oswell, while Ser Arthur had travelled swiftly South for Starfall, and with him Lyanna's heart — her son. Lyanna wanted nothing but to ride south with him. Perhaps to hide in Dorne, perhaps to flee to Dragonstone with the remaining royal family, or to Essos and further. But, she resolved herself, and had to over and over on her journey away from him. She knew flight led only to Aegon's — Jon's — death. Her son would be better raised in the North, seen as a bastard, rather than on the run as a king. The life of a fugitive was not one he had been born for. It was not the life for the son of Rhaegar, born at the price of a war, and for the usurping of his father's house. No, her son had been born for much greater purposes than that. And, there was but one way she could ensure it came to pass.
"Lady Stark, we have arrived at the Red Keep," came the muffled sound of a guardsman through the carriage door.
Lyanna stood, pressing down the creases of her dress. It was a beautiful grey and black, embroidered masterfully with the sigil of her house — her old house. No one besides Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur knew that though, of course. The dress, and most everything she now owned, was a gift from the Tyrells. The recently disgraced house had been most accommodating on their stop via Hightower. Mace Tyrell already resided in King's Landing for the coronation, and was obviously eager to show generosity to the new order. There would be a lot of that in the coming years, as the victors of the rebellion imposed their newfound power in ways beneficial to their allies and friends. It was a situation she was keen to exploit.
As she waited for the door to be opened, she marvelled at her own patience. Travel up the Rose road had been an exercise in such that she'd rarely had to endure. She'd wanted nothing but to steal a horse and ride off ahead, to pull out the harsh braids and let her hair flow free. But she couldn't. She would not do anything that might jeopardise her position. And, not that she could admit to anyone, she had also been recovering from a laborious birth.
Lyanna hid her nerves with a smile for her companions in the carriage. They were sweet girls, but vapid and clingy, hoping to please their soon to be queen. Not the type that Lyanna would be surrounding herself with in the coming years.
The door opened and Lyanna accepted the waiting hand of a tall Lord. She fought to keep from shading her eyes from the brightness. Glowing white flagstones, gleaming armour from hundreds of gathered Knights, and the baking sun bore witness to her arrival. The walls of the red keep rose around them, square and stalwart like those of her childhood. The heat though, that was much more like Dorne.
Finally, her eyes settled on the man before her, imposing and powerful as Ser Gerold had been, only young, and bearded, and in the prime of his life. Recognition settled in. This man she had met briefly, once before, and was now King. Robert Baratheon.
Lyanna dipped in a careful curtsy, hoping it was passable enough for a king. She rose, and looked him up and down. The man that killed her husband. Already, she felt sweat on her brow. Her tongue was heavy and coiled in her mouth at the sight of him.
"My lady," he said solemnly.
She smiled, and her tongue uncoiled like a viper. "Usurper."
The whole court of gathered nobles and knights seemed to freeze.
The corner of Robert's mouth twitched, then a slow grin spread across his face.
"Bwaaaahaha", he erupted with booming laughter.
Lyanna covered her mouth and giggled, her head light with the rush of blood, as if she'd just run up the stairs of a tower.
The courtyard of nobles, following the example of their king, rang with loud, if uncertain, laughter.
Robert's laugh slowly ceased, and he winked at her, before turning to the gathered crowds. "Your Queen!"
A rumbling cheer of voices and stamping feet followed.
"Lady Lyanna!" some called. "The Stag and the Wolf!" yelled a knight from the Reach.
Lyanna fought a blush that betrayed not embarrassment, but a rising panic at the wrongness of the situation.
"I am not your Queen yet," Lyanna pointed out, amidst the cheers.
Robert smiled at her. "No, but we will wed on the morrow. I would do so now, if you had not just travelled half a kingdom."
She blinked in surprise at his eagerness, and he grimaced, leaning in to speak to her softly. "The vultures are circling. Cercei Lannister has been like a cough I can't shake these past moons, sent by her father, I'm certain. If not for the need of their gold to fix this bleeding kingdom, I would have them thrown out of this city."
Lyanna thought she spied the woman that must be Cercei. She was beautiful, and dressed in Lannister colours. Golden hair was woven in an intricate braid atop her head, and adorned with jewels in the likeness of what one might mistake for a crown. Behind the beauty of her face, however, was a cold smile and still colder eyes. Cercei caught her staring, and Lyanna was the first to look away.
It was not the first time Lyanna had received such a look from Cercei Lannister. Just a year past, as the crown of flowers was lowered atop her head at the tourney of Harrenhal, many eyes had judged her similarly. "Perhaps she wishes to follow your example as usurper. She looks a queen already."
"Hah!" Robert grinned at her. "Queen of the vultures, perhaps."
Lyanna smirked. "Though by rights the title King of the carrion belongs to her father. I think that would make her a princess, rather than queen."
Robert looked at her with amused surprise. "You've a sharp tongue for a Stark. Or was Ned inhibited even among family?"
Lyanna laughed. "My brother took more after Lord Arryn than Lord Stark, I believe. Brandon was the chief among us in the lack of inhibitions, though I daren't say I've proved to be not far behind." Lyanna trailed off with a touch of sadness, and Robert seemed to catch the direction of her thoughts.
His smile slowly faded, and his eyes drifted over her head to the procession behind her. "Ned— is his body with you?"
She took a deep breath. "His bones are on the way to Winterfell, your grace. Along with his sword." She paused. She did not knpw how she might say the following if it were true, so acting normally was an impossible task. "And…"
Robert frowned. "And?"
"Ned's bastard son also travels to Winterfell. Accompanied by Ser Arthur Dayne."
He did not react as she anticipated.
"A bastard! Hah! I knew he had it in him!"
Lyanna looked at him in surprise, and Robert cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon my lady, I don't know how a king should react to such a thing. But, I am glad that Ned sowed more offspring before his passing. The realm could use more like him." Robert sighed, and scratched his beard. "Arthur Dayne still lives, eh? I don't suppose that leaves much doubt over the bastard's mother. I am surprised the Dayne's allowed them north."
"I insisted." Lyanna said firmly, hiding her pleasure that the bait had been taken. "Young Jon has a brother, Robb, in Winterfell. He should grow up knowing his father's family."
"Robb and Jon, eh?" Robert said, smiling fondly with distant eyes. "Aye, the boy should grow up with a brother."
A steward stepped nervously towards them, interrupted hesitantly. "Your grace, my lady, the feast awaits."
Robert seemed to arrive back to himself and turned to the steward and the gathered Lords, Ladies, and Knights. "You hear that? Lady Lyanna arrives at last and the feast awaits! The war is now truly over!"
Lyanna let the cheers roll over her as the Usurper took her arm. Her legs were weak, and her heart felt ready to flutter away, but she felt a deep sense of relief. Jon was safe, and Robert was to take her to wife. She would endure the cheers of victory that were to her the sound of roaring failure. Rhaegar might be dead, his armies defeated — or their Lords bowing the knee — but the true king of Westeros, her son, the hope of the living, was alive. That was victory enough, for now.
The ceremony was opulent, though not so much as she had feared. The show of force was the most impressive part, demonstrating the supposed unity at the end of the old era, and the beginning of the new. Her dress was beautiful, but simple, as she preferred. The feast was generous, but limited in range.
The crown was rich in friends but low on funds, Robert admitted to her. The Baratheons had lost much in the rebellion, and Winterfell was too far away to aid the occasion. The Targaryens had spent much of their gold in Aerys' reign, according to the King's coin masters.
Lyanna took careful note of it all.
Robert took her to bed on the night of their wedding, and she did her duty as his wife. He was gentle, and awkward.
She was naked beneath the sheets, and Robert sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her.
Lyanna cleared her throat. "I suppose you're more used to fucking whores than queens, your grace."
Robert winced, turning slowly to her.
She gave him a winsome smile. "I am not so fragile. You don't need to be afraid of me."
Robert looked at her with surprise, before huffing out a laugh. "I don't know that anyone has ever accused me of being afraid of a woman, especially a naked one." He let out a deep sigh, and turned away again.
She let him gather his thoughts.
"I find myself afraid," he said softly. "I didn't set out to be king, and I am afraid I shall never be a good one. I did set out to be your husband, but even in that I now find myself doubting. I am afraid, that, despite winning all that I set out for from the Eyrie, despite defeating the mad King, Ned will look down on me from the seven heavens and judge me lacking in it all."
Lyanna shuffled over and placed a hand on his shoulder. "All men fear."
Robert grunted. "A king is not just a man. A king should not be afraid of his duty."
Lyanna shrugged, "I think Aerys could have done with being more afraid when he burnt my father and my brother. He should have been afraid of his bannermen. He should have been afraid of his Kingsguard, whom he forced to choose between breaking one vow or another. He should have been afraid of himself, and what he was becoming."
Robert eyed her with a furrowed brow. "Aye, I suppose he should. You are bold to say so."
"Brandon would oft call me brazen," she said with a smile. "Ned would just call me irritating."
Robert barked out a laugh. "I can't count the number of times Ned called you something of that nature. He would talk of you so often I was jealous not to have a sister of my own. He always-." He suddenly gave a lurching sob, startling her. She quickly placed an arm around his shoulder, though she couldn't reach the whole way.
Robert wept, loudly, and Lyanna found silent tears streaking down her own face.
Eventually, Robert stilled, his face and beard a mess. Lyanna grabbed one of the many pillows on their bed and passed it to him.
He looked down at it and snorted, before wiping his face and clutching the pillow tightly in one hand. "I'm sorry, a king should not—"
"We can figure out what a king should or should not do later. For now, we are mourning."
Robert held his head low, and Lyanna sat with him, her thoughts drifting.
Lyanna jumped as Robert suddenly leapt to his feet, still fully nude. He roared, so loud that Lyanna's hands instinctively slapped to cover her ears.
The roar — the battlecry, for that's what it sounded like — rang in her ears even after Robert's lungs were spent.
Only a moment of silence passed before the doors to their chambers burst open, revealing Ser Barristan, sword in hand. "Your grace!"
Ser Barristan froze, seeing the king and queen both unclothed, and quite clearly unharmed. He quickly turned away, before saying in a calmer tone, "Is everything alright, your grace?"
Robert was breathing deeply, winded, so Lyanna spoke. "A roar of victory, Ser Barristan. Nothing to worry about. Your quick response is appreciated."
Ser Barristan's armour squeaked as he shifted awkwardly. "As you say, your grace." He quickly left the room, and shut the door firmly.
"Bwahaha!" Robert's booming laugh filled the room and Lyanna couldn't help but laugh.
The Red Keep was as close to quiet as it ever came. Many of the Lords and Knights had feasted late into the night, and the hallways were full of servants clearing up the aftermath. Lyanna had risen before Robert, and, after handmaidens helped her dress, slipped out of the room. She gave a nod to Ser Barristan, who gave her a very stiff nod, before tasking another Knight, one she didn't know, to trail her. She made her way slowly through the halls, at first attempting to side-step the busy servants, but quickly realising that it was futile and they would insist on stopping their duties to bow as she passed by. She made her way out of the holdfast and turned right, past the white sword tower, peering curiously over the edge of of the dry moat surrounding the central keep. They soon found the rookery, and Lyanna had to restrain herself from bounding up the stairs.
"My lady!" said the Knight behind her as she reached the large door at the top of the stairs. "Please allow me to enter first."
Lyanna stepped to the side, favouring the knight with a smile.
The knight knocked smartly, and pushed open the door.
Four maesters were paused in their work at the apex of the large tower. Hundreds of ravens filled the room, each in its own cage. Lyanna wrinkled her nose at the smell, but pressed forwards into the room.
"Your grace!" The oldest of the maesters said, eyes flashing with recognition. They all bowed low.
"Good morning to you, maesters." Lyanna smiled kindly. "I have need of a raven to Winterfell, and some parchment and quill for a letter.
"Of course, your grace. At once." The maester clicked his fingers at the younger man behind him. "If you would dictate the words at your leisure, your grace."
"Oh, I wish to write the letter myself." Lyanna smiled brightly.
The maester looked scandalised for a moment, but after a moment of hesitation, bowed his head. "Of course, your grace. As you wish."
Lyanna sat at a nearby stool and thanked the maester as he placed a parchment, ink, and quill before her.
Lyanna looked down at the parchment and frowned. The words had seemed clear to her in the early hours as she rose, but now the words felt wrong. What to say to a brother who had lost more than even her?
The older maester stood at her shoulder, and she shifted uncomfortably as she tried to ignore him.
"Her grace needs some privacy," came the firm voice of the knight in white cloak. The maesters paused only for a second before bowing and scurrying out of the room.
Lyanna looked over her shoulder and smiled. "Thank you, Ser-?"
"Ser Ronnel Penrose, your grace."
"Thank you Ser Ronnel."
The knight bowed his head and remained guard at the door.
Lyanna sighed and looked back to the parchment.
What to tell her brother, now that she was queen. Ser Arthur, and the letter she sent with him, would tell Benjen all that was too risky to send now. In truth, all she had to do was send a letter confirming that Ser Arthur was to be trusted. But that seemed so little as compensation for the heaviness of the words Ser Arthur carried. But what could a mere letter convey to soothe such a blow?
She shook her head. She wished she could just see him. Benjen had not come south for the coronation — there had not been time to make the journey.
She sighed and stood up. She would think on it, and come back.
"Let us go, Ser Ronnel. I wish to pray."
"As you wish, your grace."
Lyanna smiled as she passed by the maesters. "No letter this time, maester. I will be back when I have mused further."
"We are always at your service, your grace."
The air outside the tower was refreshingly free of bird shit.
"The sept is this way, your grace."
Lyanna nodded. "I pray in the Godswood, Ser Ronnel. We do not follow the seven in the North."
"I- I apologize your grace, I meant no disrespect-"
Lyanna laughed, shooting him a glance. "It is no offence, Ser. Though, if my heathen ways offend you…
"No! Of course not, your grace. I am Kingsguard. I am not offended to do my duty."
Lyanna smiled at him, "I only tease, Ser Ronnel."
Ser Ronnel let out a breath. "I am sorry, your grace. I should not be so ignorant." He paused awkwardly. "Lessons outside the training yard were never my strong suit."
"Me likewise." Lyanna laughed, "Yet here we are, Queen and Kingsguard. Clearly those lessons were not so important as we were made to believe."
"Ser Oswell Whent, in the name of his grace, Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I sentence you to die."
Lord Arryn nodded to the royal executioner, who moved to the block where Ser Oswell lay his head.
Lyanna watched with hidden anguish, her heart heavy in her chest. The headsman approached, and she reached out instinctively and grabbed Roberts arm.
"Wait!" Robert called out.
The headsman paused, great sword held aloft, as Robert stood from his seat.
"It is in my name that the guilty is sentenced. It is my hand that shall swing the sword."
Tears sprung unbidden to Lyanna's eyes, as the familiar words of her Father were spoken. Robert met here eye and she realised that the Northern mantra was for her.
She let the tears flow, because now she had an excuse for them as Ser Oswell faced the block with a look of pride on his face. She only wished she could save him like he was saving Jon.
"Look away, my lady," said Jon Arryn gently from her side.
She did not. Oswell had earned the nightmares it would cause.
The blade fell, and the body was carried away. In short order the floor cleared of blood; the head-block moved to the side of the hall.
The court simmered at a low murmur in the wake of the execution. Lyanna eyed Ser Barristan, and the man's face was pained.
Robert returned to her side, and Lyanna tried not to stare at the specs of blood on his cuffs.
"Ser Oswell cannot taunt you with captivity any more, my Lady." Robert says softly, his eyes hard. "And Ned has been repaid."
Lyanna forced a smile in return. Robert was truly thoughtful. It was a shame he would never understand.
Jon Arryn held up a hand and silence returned to the court again.
"In absence, judgment is spoken of Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard."
The name shot through those gathered like a ripple. Lyanna's heart beat loudly in her ears.
"By decree of his grace, Robert Baratheon, Ser Arthur Dayne is stripped of the white cloak of Kingsguard. He is stripped of claim to title, or land, or inheritance. He is hereby banished from the sight of the king, on pain of death. May the gods judge him justly for his part in Rhaegar's crimes, and may he find absolution in obscurity."
Lyanna watched the reactions as the relief hit her. There was some surprise, but no real shock, or anger. That was good. Ser Arthur needed to live in obscurity. Robert had done as she requested.
Jon Arryn waited for silence to once again descend, before nodding to the guards by the door.
"Ser Jamie Lannister."
Now came the loudest murmurs. Lyanna couldn't help the glance to Lord Tywin, who sat surrounded by the Westerlands Lords, a strangely satisfied look on his face.
Lyanna turned as Ser Jaime walked in the room. Kingslayer, they called him. Lyanna had cursed him when she first heard. What sort of craven would stab his king in the back. A Kingsguard no less. But, now looking at him, she realised, he was barely out of childhood. A boy.
"Your grace," Ser Jaime bowed his head and knelt before them.
Jon Arryn cleared his throat, a look of distinct displeasure on his face. "Your judgment today is not for the killing of the Mad King Aerys, an act for which you have already been pardoned. Your judgment is one of oaths, and their sundering."
"I swore oaths to his grace, King Robert," said Jaime firmly.
"As you did to Aerys," John Arryn intoned, leaving all present hear the silent 'and you killed him anyway'. "Such oaths cannot be forgotten."
Jaime opened his mouth, but managed to hold his tongue, to Lyanna's relief. She hoped he would take this as the favour to his family it was meant to be.
Ser Barristan stepped forward, and the fight seemed to drain out of Jaime in an instant. He bowed his head.
"Ser Jaime Lannister," Ser Barristan began. "In the name of his grace you are hereby stripped of the white cloak of Kingsguard and restored to your former titles and holdings. The realm thanks you for your leal service to this most sacred order."
Ser Barristan unclipped the white cloak that sat around Jaime's shoulders, and it tumbled to the ground.
Ser Jaime rose, bowed stiffly, and turned on his heel to march out of the room.
Lyanna sat back in her seat and observed as the room dissolved into chatter. The throne room was full, still, but after today the Lords of the realm would be returning to their holdings with their rewards and punishments. Lyanna took a deep breath as she resolved herself. There was much to be done today. Lords and ladies to greet, ladies in waiting to be chosen, and plans to be made. Lyanna didn't have to disabuse herself of any notion that she knew what she was doing here. However, there was no choice in the matter. The path was set, and in the game she was playing, she, and all those she cared for would either win, or die.