The Dragon's Cold War

by HouseLannister558

In an alternate ASOIAF world, Robert Baratheon dies at the Trident, slain by Arthur Dayne. Rhaegar Targaryen wins the rebellion and marries a resentful Lyanna Stark. The North, hating the Targaryen Dynasty, becomes a hotbed of espionage and assassination attempts, leading to a tense cold war between the North and South. Rhaegar's rule over the Iron Throne is fragile!

5. Lyanna II

LYANNA

The blinding light seared through the gloom of the cell, and Lyanna squinted against the assault. Her eyes, unaccustomed to the sun after days—weeks?—in shadow, burned with the intrusion. She hissed low, wolf-like, as she raised a shackled hand to shield her face. The chains, heavy and rusting, clinked as she moved, biting anew into the raw flesh of her ruined wrists.

The sound of boots on stone heralded the arrival of her visitor. She sighed as the figure emerged from the light, a gaunt man in faded grey robes. Sow's Horn maester. Not for the first time, his eyes swept over her with thinly veiled disdain, lips pressed into a bloodless line. Yet, duty compelled him, and duty he would fulfill, however grudgingly.

"News from the Riverlands?" Lyanna asked, her voice low and hoarse from disuse. It was the same question she posed every day he came, though the answer—or lack thereof—never changed.

The maester gave her the same curt silence, his glare a silent rebuke. He motioned for the guards to unlock the cell, and they moved briskly, checking the chains that bound her wrists before allowing him entry. Lyanna's lips twisted bitterly as the iron was tugged and tested. As if I'd use these small hands to strangle him, she thought, though the idea was not without appeal.

"What of my men? Are they safe?" she pressed, her voice hardening.

His fingers prodded the edges of the healing gashes that marred her arms, smearing a pungent salve over the angry red lines. "These wounds will heal well enough," he muttered, his tone flat, almost dismissive. "In time, you will not even see a scar."

The maester's eyes did not rise to meet hers. His hands moved instead to the wound at her shoulder blade, where Rhaegar's sword had bitten deep. He peeled back the bandage with care, revealing flesh stitched together with coarse thread. The sight should have revolted her, but she found she could only feel the weight of it, the ache that lived beneath her skin.

"This one will leave a mark," he continued, spreading the salve thickly. "But there's no sign of infection. The scar may even fade, eventually." He pressed a clean cloth over the wound and secured it with steady fingers.

Lyanna scoffed softly, her lips curling into a bitter smile. "No scars," she repeated, her voice dripping with irony. "Isn't that the dream of every prisoner?"

The maester didn't look up, didn't respond, his focus entirely on his work. To him, she was just another body, another task to complete before moving on. But as his hands moved to the next gash, she couldn't help but think that scars weren't always on the skin. Some wounds ran deeper, carving themselves into bone, into the soul. And those, she knew, never truly healed.

When he reached to examine her left wrist, his lips thinned further.

"These bones…" he muttered, as if to himself. "They will likely never mend properly. You may lose some function in this wrist."

Lyanna let out a sharp breath, though her expression remained unchanged. She didn't care. As long as her sword hand held true, the rest of her body could rot. Her focus was singular, her purpose unshaken. She'd survive. She'd recover.

Her fingers curled instinctively, testing their strength. When she looked up, her grey eyes burned with a cold fire.

As the maester packed his vials and tools, his gaze lingered a moment too long. Perhaps he saw something in her expression, a shadow of the wolf, prowling just beneath the surface. Whatever it was, he quickly looked away, muttering a curt farewell before retreating from the damp cell.

Lyanna watched him leave, the door slamming shut and plunging her once again into the suffocating dark. Her hands ached, her body protested, but her resolve remained steadfast. She would endure. For her men. For Ned.

When Lyanna first awoke after her fight with Rhaegar, her body had throbbed with pain, a dull and insistent ache that flared as she shifted on the rough stone floor. The iron tang of blood lingered in the air, and the chill of the dungeon seeped into her bones. It was only when her eyes adjusted to the dim light that she saw him—the ever-smug Ser Arthur Dayne, standing just beyond the bars. His expression was calm, composed, as if her capture was nothing more than a minor inconvenience in his otherwise perfect day.

"So," she murmured, her throat raw, "I'm a prisoner."

The Sword of the Morning inclined his head, his smirk cutting deeper than his famous blade ever could.

She sighed and slumped back against the cold wall, her thoughts racing. No doubt her men had been crushed, their blood likely staining the walls of Sow's Horn. Her plan had failed, unraveling spectacularly, and now she lay here—beaten, broken, and bereft of her forces. She cursed silently. It had all gone wrong.

It was Thorin's fault, Lyanna had decided bitterly, her fury burning as hot as the torch Ser Arthur Dayne held. Thorin of House Bole, her newly appointed commander, had proven every bit the oaf she had suspected him to be. His reckless bravado had cost her men dearly.

"We'll use siege towers to take the walls," he had proclaimed, his dull eyes alight with excitement as he tore into a chicken leg, grease dripping from his fingers. It had sounded so assured then, so simple in his coarse, blustering tone. Yet, when the assault began, the folly of his plan became painfully clear. The siege towers moved sluggishly, hampered by the muddy ground and relentless volleys of arrows raining down from Sow's Horns' walls. Her men were slaughtered in droves, scrambling and dying for a futile cause.

When the battle turned grim and progress stalled, Lyanna had taken matters into her own hands. She had spent precious moments surveying the castle walls from the shadow of a crumbling outpost, her breath steady despite the weight of exhaustion. The outer defenses, bristling with archers, had loomed high and unyielding, a wall of stone and steel. But as her gaze had swept the perimeter, she had spotted it: a narrow section, half-hidden by creeping ivy, where the stones had shifted and left a jagged gap. It had been tight, barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Not ideal, but it would have to do.

A trio of guards had patrolled nearby, their eyes squinting against the afternoon glare, scanning but not truly seeing. Most of the garrison had been drawn to the walls, their focus fixed on the siege towers creeping closer, their shadows long on the bloodied earth. These three had remained behind, perhaps anticipating a stealthy assault, but their watch had been lax, more habit than true vigilance.

Lyanna had assessed the rhythm of their patrol—slow, predictable. She had signaled her men with a curt nod, her fingers brushing the hilt of her blade. They had moved as one, silent and sure-footed, their steps muffled by soft grass and churned soil. The air had felt heavy, thick with dust and tension, every breath a conscious effort.

The guards had never stood a chance.

Lyanna's sword had flashed in the sunlight, slicing across the first man's throat before he could utter a sound. He had staggered forward, choking on his own blood, as her men had descended on the others. The second soldier had managed to draw his sword, but not quickly enough. A blade had sunk into his gut, and he had crumpled with a groan. The third had fumbled for his horn, panic in his eyes, but a dagger had found his heart before he could sound the alarm.

The bodies had fallen quietly, their deaths swallowed by the cries of the distant battle.

Lyanna had crouched beside the nearest corpse, wiping her blade on his tunic. She had given her men a brief, steadying glance before slipping through the gap in the wall. One by one, they had followed, slipping into the castle's shadowed depths like wolves stalking prey.

She could still hear Thorin's derision from the war council days before. "House Hogg's men will expect an infiltration," he had said, his voice laced with condescension. "It's foolishness to waste soldiers on such a doomed venture. We should focus all our strength on the walls, Lady Lyanna, not sneaking about like common thieves."

But Thorin hadn't been the one wading through blood and mud, scaling the walls as her men died around him. And Thorin hadn't been the one inside the castle, blade in hand, carving a path through House Hogg's defenses. No, that had been her. Thorin might bear the title of commander, but it was Lyanna Stark who had made the desperate choices when his stupidity left them faltering, and it was her men who had paid the price for his folly.

Thorin would not hold that rank much longer, she had decided. Perhaps she'd send him back North, where his blunders would cost fewer lives—or none at all, if the gods were kind.

"If I'd had Yohn Royce's command," she muttered to herself, venom lacing her words, "we might not have lost so many men." But the Bronze Yohn had abandoned her cause, riding back to Riverrun like the loyal dog he was.

The memory of that day burned hot in Lyanna's mind, sharper than any blade. The battle had turned from grim to disastrous once inside the castle walls. A soldier loyal to House Hogg, sprawled against the stone, blood seeping from a gash in his chest, had smiled at her through teeth stained red.

"Prince Rhaegar's forces are here," he croaked, his voice a mockery even as his life slipped away. "They're slaughtering your men on the walls. It's over." He laughed then, a wet, gurgling sound that dissolved into a bloody cough before his head lolled forward.

Lyanna had gone cold. The fire in her veins from earlier dimmed into something colder, sharper—an icy clarity born of desperation. Without a word, she and a handful of her men carved a path through the chaos in the courtyard, racing to the top of the castle walls to survey the battlefield.

Her breath caught, and she saw her own shock mirrored in the pale faces of her men. The scene below was a slaughter. Her forces, pressed tight against the castle walls, were caught in a storm of arrows and boiling oil raining down from above. From the hills beyond, Targaryen infantry surged like a wave, their armor glinting in the failing light. Her men were trapped, pinned between the castle and the advancing forces.

They were caught on both sides.

Lyanna wasn't a seasoned war commander, but even she knew what this meant. Their rout was inevitable. They had not anticipated Prince Rhaegar and his forces reaching Sow's Horn so quickly. Every raven she'd received had placed the prince far to the north, still days away from reaching Sow's Horn. She had believed there was time—time to claim the castle, fortify its defenses, and ready for a siege.

She had been wrong.

She'd misjudged their speed, their resolve, and their distance. The Crown Prince had moved with the urgency of a wildfire, his forces sweeping south like an unstoppable tide. Her men had paid the price for her mistake.

Her mind raced as the weight of the battle pressed down on her. The plan to take Lord Hogg prisoner and force a surrender was no longer viable. If they waited any longer, there would be no army left to command. Lyanna could see only one way to salvage what remained of her forces.

"We open the gates," she said, her voice steady despite the chaos around her. Her men turned to her in disbelief.

"Open the gates?" one of them echoed, wide-eyed.

"Open them," Lyanna snapped. "We'll give our men an exit, draw them inside the walls to regroup. We'll hold the courtyard and force the enemy to fight for every inch they take. It will be bloody, and there will be losses, but we'll save who we can."

It was a gamble, and she knew it. The smallfolk inside the castle would be caught in the fray, and their blood would stain the stones before this was over. But she could see no other way. If they stayed as they were, her forces would be annihilated, scattered to the winds.

"Better bloody than butchered," she muttered, gripping her sword tighter. "Move. Now."

When Lyanna and her men fought their way to the chains and hauled the portcullis skyward, the effort cost them dearly. The clash in the gatehouse had been a bloody, desperate affair, each swing of the sword met with stubborn resistance. But at last, the rusted iron groaned upward, and her forces poured through the gates in a tide of battered, bloodied men. Desperation gleamed in their eyes; some could barely stand.

"Regroup!" Lyanna's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "We stand our ground here!"

Her orders were echoed by her captains, their voices carrying over the chaos. For a moment, the strategy held. Her forces recovered, forming a ragged defensive line at the gates. They held firm against the trickle of Targaryen loyalists who surged forward, trying to breach the entry. Arrows flew and blades clashed, but her men stood their ground. Slowly, it seemed, the tide was turning. Hope flickered in her chest like a fragile flame.

The loyalists were bloodied, faltering in their attempts to break the defensive line at the gates. Her soldiers pressed their advantage, and more of the men surged through the narrow opening, abandoning the gore-slicked castle walls for the relative safety of the courtyard's defensive line. Lyanna dared to believe, for a moment, that the worst might be over.

Her hopes shattered like glass at the frantic arrival of a young Umber squire. His armor was smeared with blood, though she doubted it was his own, and his face was pale with panic. He skidded to a halt before her, breathless and wide-eyed.

"My lady!" he gasped, voice high with urgency. "Some of the men—they've broken the line! They've turned to pillaging! They're despoiling the smallfolk inside the sept!"

Lyanna's stomach churned, fury sparking to life. She had no time to demand why or how; the truth was plain enough. Discipline had fractured under the strain of battle.

Not again, she had thought. Not another Maidenpool.

Driven by fury, she'd abandoned the fray at the gates, her blood roaring in her ears as she sprinted deeper into the castle. The clash of steel and the cries of the dying faded to a distant clamor behind her. Every pounding step hardened her resolve, each heartbeat a drumbeat of defiance. If blood must be spilled, let it be for honor. But the madness at Maidenpool—her men's madness—would not taint their cause again. She would see to that, even if it cost her life.

The air within the castle was thick with the stink of fear and death. Shadows danced on stone walls, cast by guttering torches and the orange glow of distant flames. Among the scattered debris, her gaze caught a flash of green— a discarded hood, ragged at the edges. A fleeing commoner's, most likely.

Lyanna snatched it up, her fingers brushing cold, damp fabric. No time to consider whose it had been. She tugged it over her breastplate, the green folds hanging low and uneven, pooling over her wrists. A lady in a commoner's garb. No matter. Stealth would serve her better than a blade now. Let them see a peasant, not a wolf.

Hiding her blade beneath the folds, she pressed on, each step lighter, quieter. Her breath came shallow, controlled, as she slipped through the darkened corridors. Ahead, a door creaked open, the faint murmur of cries spilling out. Lyanna's grip tightened on her hilt, and she felt the weight of her name, her blood, her duty pressing against her chest.

When she reached the sept, she shoved the heavy doors open with a resounding crash, expecting to find her men pillaging and despoiling as the squire had claimed.

But what she found froze her in place.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood serene and terrible, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light, his blade still wet with the blood of her men. Around him lay the broken bodies of her soldiers, scattered like fallen leaves.

He hadn't noticed her. That much was clear. Lyanna turned and ran, her heart pounding in her chest. She needed time—just a moment to think, to act, to survive. In the chaos of the sacking, she spotted a young girl, wide-eyed and frozen amidst the carnage. Lyanna hated herself for what she was about to do, but desperation clawed at her. She grabbed the girl, pulling her close, and pressed the edge of her dagger to the child's throat.

"Shhh. I won't hurt you," she whispered, her voice low and urgent. "Just play along."

The girl's gaze flicked to the wolf sigil half-hidden beneath Lyanna's loose hood. Recognition bloomed, and with it, panic. Before Lyanna could stop her, the girl screamed, the sound piercing through the thick of the battle. Instinctively, Lyanna pressed the blade closer to silence her, the sharp edge grazing the girl's skin.

Then she heard it—the deliberate, steady sound of boots on stone. Her blood turned to ice.

She turned her head slowly and saw him. The Dragon Prince. The man who had brought ruin upon her friends and family on the battlefield, whose father had set the events of her life spiraling into chaos and bloodshed. Rhaegar Targaryen stood there, his silver hair streaked with grime and gore, his chestplate stained crimson. His violet eyes, so calm and detached, locked onto hers.

Rage surged within her, a tide of bile and fury that threatened to choke her. Her vision blurred with it, and for a moment, she wasn't herself. She felt the dagger press harder against the girl's throat. A part of her—small, dark, and vengeful—whispered that she could do it. She could take this innocent life, shatter the calm façade of the Crown Prince, make him feel her wrath.

But another voice, louder, cut through her haze. Lyanna Stark did not harm the innocent.

After much pointless back-and-forth with the prince, Lyanna's patience snapped. His words were calm, measured—infuriatingly so—each one dripping with the entitlement and righteousness that had brought her world to ruin. She met his steady gaze with burning hatred, her fingers tightening on the dagger still pressed to the trembling girl's throat.

But she couldn't do it.

With a sharp intake of breath, Lyanna released the girl, shoving her away with enough force to send her sprawling to the bloodied ground. The child scrambled to her feet and fled, vanishing into the chaos. Lyanna barely noticed, her focus narrowing to the prince before her.

If anyone deserves my wrath, it's him.

Her hands tightened around the hilt of her blade. She could feel the weight of it, the cold steel an extension of her fury. She raised her sword and dagger, her movements fluid and precise, her breathing steady despite the storm raging in her chest.

Without a word, she attacked. If she was to die today, it would be with her blade aimed for his heart, her fury burning brighter than any fear of death.

Lyanna had discarded her hood moments before, baring her face and the partial armor that clung to her bruised body. She wanted him to see her, to know exactly who had come for him, the woman his family had wronged beyond repair. Recognition flickered across Rhaegar's face, the crack in his composure brief but telling. Shock, not fear. He knew her.

"Lyanna Stark," he whispered, the name barely audible over the chaos around them.

There seemed to be no more words after that. Their blades spoke instead, clashing in a furious rhythm. Lyanna fought with the unrelenting fury of a storm, and for moments at a time, she had the upper hand. She could see it in his face, the flicker of shock as he struggled to keep up with her relentless speed. Yet Rhaegar countered with skill and determination, each swing of his sword reclaiming momentum until they were locked in a brutal stalemate.

He's holding back, Lyanna had thought bitterly, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword. The way he had moved, the measured precision of his strikes, it hadn't been the frenzy of a man fighting for his life. It had been control, restraint, as if he wielded his blade like a musician playing a harp, careful not to unleash its full fury.

Rhaegar brought down his blade with a cruel swing, narrowly missing her head before it sank deep into her shoulder. She did not scream. Instead, she gritted her teeth, enduring the sharp pain as the blade tore through muscle and sinew.

With a ferocity that seemed to come from the depths of her rage, she wrenched herself free, pulling away from him as the blade ripped from her flesh. He barely had time to recover. His guard was down, and her next strike came faster than he could parry.

When her blade finally found purchase, slashing across his thigh, she saw the prince stagger as blood darkened his riding pants. A dark satisfaction surged through her as she caught the flicker of pain breaking through his composure. She had struck him, wounded him, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe she could end his life. Lyanna didn't hesitate. She brought down her longsword with devilish speed, a strike meant to cleave his head in half. But Rhaegar was fast—faster than she had expected. He rolled out of harm's way, the blade narrowly missing its mark and slamming into the blood-slick mud.

It was then that she saw it: the change in his eyes.

Near-death had awakened the dragon within him, and it burned bright and violent in his gaze.

No holding back now, Lyanna thought darkly.

The tide of the battle shifted rapidly. Rhaegar's strikes grew harder, faster, each blow forcing her backward. She felt her strength waning, her movements slowing, until she found herself sprawled on her back in the mud. His steel boot pressed lightly, almost mockingly, against her hand, pinning her weapon beneath it.

But Lyanna Stark would not yield.

She thrashed and clawed, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as Rhaegar's forearm moved to her throat. His pressure tightened, intent clear. Stars danced in her vision, but she refused to let darkness claim her without leaving her mark. Her hands frantically searched the muddy ground until her fingers closed around a jagged shard of glass.

With the last of her strength, she drove the shard into his belly, twisting it savagely.

Lyanna would make him suffer before she died.

Blood flowed freely, staining her hand and his armor, and for the first time, she saw him falter. He didn't scream—Rhaegar Targaryen was too proud for that—but his grunt of pain was raw, animalistic. His eyes flared with violent determination, and Lyanna knew she was dead.

He grabbed her hands, wrenching them from the shard with brutal force. Before she could react, he slammed her wrist repeatedly into the ground. The sharp crack of bone breaking echoed through the chaos. Unimaginable pain shot through her, leaving her breathless, but she clenched her teeth against the scream clawing its way up her throat.

She would not give him the satisfaction.

Her wrist throbbed in agony, bone and flesh protesting the repeated blows, but she held her gaze steady. She would not give him the pleasure of hearing her scream, nor the satisfaction of seeing her beg for her life.

She stared back at him, her breaths shallow, chest heaving, but still defiant.

And then, with a swift, cruel motion, he brought the hilt of his blade down on the side of her head.

It struck with brutal force, and everything went black. The world dissolved into a blur of pain, then nothing at all.

Her mind drifted from the lost battle to her conversation with Ser Arthur Dayne, a man as immediately recognizable as any in the realm. Dark hair, striking violet eyes, the unmistakable mark of House Dayne, a bloodline as ancient as it was proud.

"You know Rhaegar lives," he had taunted, the words sinking like a blade into her gut. Lyanna's heart dropped, heavy with the realization that her chance to strike a blow to the loyalists had slipped through her fingers. She had hoped, foolishly, that she had killed Rhaegar, and in doing so weakened the forces loyal to the crown, might even break the peace talks Jon Arryn was desperately trying to push forward. But now... now it had all failed.

Her head throbbed with the aftermath of the fight, each pulse a reminder of the blood and pain that had coursed through her veins. Ser Arthur's voice broke through the haze, steady and clinical, as he informed her that Rhaegar's wounds were not fatal. His breath was shallow, his body unmoving. Though he had not stirred all day, his life was still tethered to him, stubbornly clinging to the edge of consciousness.

So I've been out for an entire day, Lyanna had mused darkly, the bitterness souring her tongue.

"Hopefully, the Stranger takes him and he does not wake," she spat, blood still lingering in her mouth from the previous day's struggle.

Arthur Dayne simply laughed, a laugh as cold as the steel of his sword. "I doubt it, my lady. Prince Rhaegar is too important for the stability of the realm. The Seven are not cruel."

Mirth twinkled in his violet eyes, amusement at her pain, no doubt. Lyanna's fists clenched in frustration.

"Maybe one day, we can cross blades, Lady Lyanna," he said, his voice light, yet dangerous. "I would love to test that wolf blood of yours."

The words stung, sharp as any wound. Anger flared in her chest, hot and wild. She slammed her fists against the bars, demanding Arthur open the gates. Let him face her as a man, one-on-one. But deep down, Lyanna knew it was a fool's wish. She couldn't even defeat Rhaegar in single combat. Against a legendary swordsman like Ser Arthur Dayne, she stood no chance. It was madness. Her wrist was ruined, shattered beyond repair. She would not last a second, she knew.

But she would never bow. Not to Rhaegar, not to Arthur Dayne. The wolf blood ran hot in her veins, and she would die fighting before giving them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

She had not seen the mocking face of Ser Arthur Dayne since her first day in the cell. It had only been the maester's visits and the maids bringing her food, and for that, she was thankful. The thought of stabbing out those pretty violet eyes of Dayne's with her fork was a tempting one.

The days bled into one another, mundane and repetitive. Eat, piss, shit, be inspected by the maester, sleep. A dull cycle fit for a prisoner, not for the blood of the wolf. Yet, even in this stagnation, something unexpected came one day, shattering the monotony.

A red-haired, red-bearded man barged into the prison, fury blazing in his eyes. His mouth trembled with barely contained rage. Lyanna stood tall, eyes narrowing, uncertain whether this was an assassin sent by Rhaegar's loyalists. But no, this man did not have the build of a sly assassin. He was bulky, a warrior by the looks of him.

"You!" the man shouted, voice thick with anger. "You dare raise your sword against the crown prince!"

His spit sprayed across the bars of her cell.

Lyanna scoffed, her lips curling into a sneer. "And who are you, my lord? One of Rhaegar's war commanders, perhaps? Or a minor lord of some unknown land?"

The man's fury only deepened at her words, his nostrils flaring as his face turned a deeper shade of red. He gripped the bars of her cell so tightly his knuckles whitened, the iron creaking faintly under the strain.

"I am Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the cold stone walls. "Sworn liege to the Crown Prince and true servant of House Targaryen. And you, Stark—" He jabbed a thick finger in her direction. "You are nothing but a traitor and a savage!"

It hit her like a slap. Jon Connington. Of course. His fiery red hair and beard should have been a clue. She had heard his name more than once in war councils, Robert Baratheon's voice booming with disdain when he spoke of the man.

She let out a loud belly laugh, the sound echoing in the cold stone walls of the cell. "You're the man who refused to fight Robert in single combat?" she taunted. "You let your men be slaughtered at Stoney Sept and fled like a coward. No wonder the Mad King stripped you of your lands and titles."

Her words were venom, each one twisting in his gut like a blade.

Connington's face turned crimson with rage. "I have come here to warn you, Stark. If Rhaegar does not wake and succumbs to his wounds, I promise on your Old Gods, you will die a painful death."

With that, the Lord of Griffin's Roost sneered at her, spun on his heel, and stormed out of the prison, leaving Lyanna standing there, the fury of his words hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

Hours passed in the dim silence of her cell, marked only by the distant drip of water and the occasional skittering of rats along the stone floor. Lyanna sat cross-legged on the cold ground, idly toying with the fork they'd left her from her last meal. The tines were dull, no good for stabbing, but she ran her thumb along the edge regardless, imagining the feel of Ser Arthur Dayne's smug face beneath it.

In her boredom, she found herself humming an old tune, one she and Benjen used to sing when they were children, running wild in the woods of Winterfell. The melody faltered as she remembered the way her brother's laughter had echoed off the trees. How far away that life seemed now. She clenched her jaw and forced the tune from her lips again, louder this time, as if to drown out the ache that threatened to creep in.

The silence of the dungeons was eventually broken by the clang of boots on stone. Lyanna's ears pricked at the sound, her body stiffening as the noise grew louder. Keys jingled, and then the door to her cell creaked open. Two guards stood there, their faces shadowed beneath helmets, crimson and black cloaks draped over their shoulders, the colors of House Targaryen.

"On your feet, Stark," one commanded, his voice cold and sharp as steel.

Lyanna rose slowly, her wrists still tender and raw beneath the shackles they'd left her with. She met the guards' gazes with unflinching defiance, her lips curling into a faint sneer. They wouldn't see fear in her, no matter what came next. Rough hands seized her arms, the iron shackles clattering to the floor as they were removed. In their place came coarse ropes, the fibers biting into her raw skin with every tug. The guards' grip was firm, and they said nothing more as they dragged her from the cell.

The winding stone corridors felt endless, lit dimly by the wavering flames of distant torches. The air smelled of damp and decay, heavy and suffocating. Lyanna's boots scraped against the floor as they pulled her along, her mind racing. This was it. Surely, they were leading her to the castle grounds for beheading. Surely, this meant Rhaegar was dead. The thought sent a shiver of satisfaction through her, even as dread coiled in her belly.

When they emerged into the night air, she blinked against the sudden glow of candlelight. The square was alight, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows against the castle walls. Men-at-arms stood in rows along the center, their torches held high. Banners flew in the still night, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen alongside the gleaming pink swine of House Hogg. The men's faces were set in grim lines, their glares cold and unyielding as they fixed on the center of the castle grounds.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she took in the scene. The raised platform in the center. The way the crowd's murmurs stilled as she was hauled forward. This is it, she thought. They mean to behead me. Good. Let it mean Rhaegar is dead.

She straightened her back, her bound hands clenching into fists as she walked toward her fate, her steps steady and unyielding despite the chill that crept up her spine.

Lyanna was not taken to the square after all. Instead, as the guards dragged her forward, she caught sight of the executions. Men knelt on the blood-streaked ground, their heads forced low, the executioner's blade gleaming in the torchlight. The first head rolled with a sickening thud, and a murmur rippled through the watching crowd. Bandits, likely, Lyanna thought, taking in their ragged armor and the hard lines etched into their faces. War always brought bandits.

Lyanna frowned, her mind racing. This wasn't for her. Not for her execution, at least.

Her path veered from the scaffold, and soon she found herself ushered inside the main hall of House Hogg. The contrast was jarring. The air here buzzed with activity, the mingling of voices and clattering objects filling the space. Squires scurried about, clutching parchments or tending to weapons, while handmaids flitted past, their arms burdened with fabric and platters. The savory tang of roasting meat wafted in from a distant kitchen, though Lyanna's stomach churned too much to care.

Her eyes darted to the freshly hung banners adorning the stone walls, the crimson and black of House Targaryen vivid against the drab interior. The three-headed dragon loomed above the bustling oak tables, a silent reminder of who ruled these lands. Something was happening. She could feel it—a tension in the air, a purpose behind the hurried movements of the servants and soldiers alike.

She was ushered past the throng of servants without ceremony, their frantic preparations a blur of motion and sound. Trays of roasted meats gleamed under torchlight, goblets were polished to a fine shine, and garlands were draped across the beams of the hall, filling the air with the faint scent of crushed herbs. It was a feast they prepared for, though for what purpose Lyanna could not yet divine. The guard at her back gave her a rough shove, forcing her forward through the chaos, her wrists aching from the bite of the rough ropes.

They came to an oak door at the end of the great hall, the wood worn and dark with age. Without pause, it was thrown open, and she was thrust inside. The cold air of the stairwell that followed pricked at her skin, the winding ascent cruel on her ankles, already sore from days of pacing her cell. She climbed in silence, swallowing her pain, her fury her only armor. Each step was a reminder of her captivity, the ache in her limbs a drumbeat of defiance.

At the top of the stairs, they entered a corridor lined with heavy doors, the walls dimly lit by a single flickering torch. Her captor shoved her again, sending her stumbling into the first room on the left. She fell hard to her knees, the stone biting against her exposed hands. Anger surged hot in her chest, and she twisted to glare up at the man. His scowl met hers, the pink swine sewn boldly onto his chest. She held his gaze with burning defiance, her silent promise as sharp as a dagger: If I ever have the chance, I will slit your throat.

"On your feet, Stark," he growled.

"That's enough, Ser," came a voice from within the shadows of the room, low and rasping.

Lyanna froze, her breath caught in her throat. That voice—it was a phantom, clawing its way out of the deepest pit of her memories. Her stomach turned, bile rising as the shadows shifted, and a figure stepped into the faint light.

Her heart pounded as she straightened, forcing herself to stand, her chin high and her eyes burning with defiance. She would not cower. Not now, not ever.

The man stepped closer, and the light revealed him. Violet eyes, pale skin, and hair like spun silk, though his face bore a haggardness she had not remembered. The scent of milk of the poppy lingered on him, clinging to his clothes like a ghost.

Rhaegar Targaryen. He lived.

The sight of him struck her like a physical blow, the weight of her failure crashing down on her chest. Her mind raced with curses, with hate, but outwardly she betrayed nothing. Her storm-grey eyes met his, cold and unyielding as steel.

"Lady Lyanna," Rhaegar said, bowing slightly at the waist.

Lyanna's mouth fell open, caught between disbelief and fury. Was this mockery? She nearly laughed, but the sound died in her throat. His face betrayed no signs of cruelty, no glint of jest in those violet eyes. If anything, he looked solemn.

She scoffed instead, a cold sound that echoed in the stillness of the room. "My lord," she replied, her tone clipped and cool, deliberately withholding the proper deference. The omission did not escape him; a flicker of amusement briefly lit his gaze, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

"Imprisoning a lady in a cell for over a week, treating her like a common thief, denying her even the smallest decency... and yet you have the audacity to courtesy before me?" Her voice remained measured, steady as stone. She would not let Rhaegar Targaryen, prince or no, see any crack in her composure.

Rhaegar inclined his head slightly, a tremor visible in his hand as he used it to steady himself while stepping closer. The light of the torches illuminated him fully now, and Lyanna stiffened. His face was pale and gaunt, his lips cracked, and those beautiful solemn eyes duller than she remembered. Fresh bandages wrapped his shoulder and abdomen, the white cloth stark against his wan skin.

For a moment, guilt flared within her—a quick, sharp pang that cut deep—but she buried it as swiftly as it came. He was her enemy. Remember that, she told herself.

"You did nearly kill the crown prince," Rhaegar said lightly, his voice tinged with a teasing lilt. "Some of my men would have seen you hanged for it. Lucky for you, I've woken."

Lyanna pressed her lips together, refusing to rise to the bait. Her fingers itched to lash out, to strike the faint smirk from his face, but she held firm. She would not play his game. Her silence, cold and unyielding, spoke louder than any words could.

She took a step forward, arms bound tight against her sides. The dim candlelight flickered as she moved, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Targaryen guards tensed, their hands moving to hilts, half-drawing steel as she drew closer to the silver-haired prince.

Rhaegar Targaryen's violet eyes met hers, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his sharp features. The smirk faltered, slipping away as her face came fully into view. For a moment, the air between them seemed to still, heavy with unspoken tension.

He inclined his head, a command as clear as any shout. His hand rose next, palm outward, and the men, reading both gestures, hesitated before sliding their blades back into their scabbards

"Has Lady Lyanna been harmed?" Rhaegar's voice was soft, yet laced with steel, each word deliberate. His gaze swept over her, cold and assessing. Fury simmered beneath the measured calm, a storm barely held in check. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances before shaking their heads, their faces blanching.

"She is the Lady of Winterfell," Rhaegar continued, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "And she will be treated as such."

With a snap of his fingers, he beckoned the nearest guard. "Fetch the maids. See to it that Lady Lyanna Stark is cleaned and cared for." His gaze returned to her, softer now but no less intense. "Remove her bindings. I will not have her as a prisoner any longer."

The soldiers hesitated, their glances shifting to Rhaegar as if he had grown three heads. Lyanna could see it plainly—the confusion, the silent plea in their eyes. This is the woman who tried to kill you, their looks seemed to say. But none dared voice their thoughts. They bowed their heads instead, cutting the bindings from her wrist, and retreating quickly to their duties, leaving only the tense silence in their wake.

Rhaegar's face, illuminated by the candlelight, was inscrutable. Yet there was something in his expression—remorse, perhaps, or guilt—that unsettled her. The kingly air he projected did little to mask the weariness in his eyes.

Lyanna's mind raced. Why was he doing this? She was the enemy, a Stark, a wolf among dragons. Surely, he didn't believe for a moment that she wouldn't drive a knife into his throat the first chance she got.

And yet, as she rubbed her aching wrists, unbounded for the first time in perhaps weeks, she found herself wondering whether he truly expected otherwise.

Lyanna's frown deepened, her anger bubbling over. "What are you doing?" she spat, the words sharp, confusion and fury entwined in her voice.

For a moment, Rhaegar said nothing. He merely stared at her, his violet eyes unreadable. Then, with a weary sigh, he sank onto the lord's bed, the weight of the world in his every movement. His hands rose to his face, fingers pressing against his temples as if to ward off an unseen burden.

"What a mess my father has created," he muttered, voice low, the words more to himself than to her. His shoulders slumped, a man crumbling under the weight of his name.

Lyanna felt her confusion burn away, replaced by the familiar, hot surge of her wolf's blood. Her nostrils flared, her fists clenching at her sides. "It was not your mad father who rode through the Riverlands, killing Northerners," she snarled, her voice sharp and unyielding. "Nor was it your father who broke the Stormlands and left them in ruin."

Her words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike, but Rhaegar did not flinch. He lifted his head slowly, hands falling away from his face. His gaze was solemn, heavy with something that looked like regret.

"War is never so black and white, Lady Lyanna," he said quietly. "You should know that, given you and your men have scorched much of the Crownlands to the ground." The final words struck like a lash, cold and stinging, leaving no room for retort.

"Stop calling me that!" she all but shouted, her voice echoing off the stone walls. The title felt like a chain, binding her to a role she had never asked for. She was more than a name, more than a daughter of Winterfell. And she would not let him forget it.

Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his violet eyes.

"Pardon, my lady?" he said, his tone polite but measured.

"Stop calling me Lady Lyanna," she snapped, her voice sharp. "You called me Lyanna on the battlefield—do not minimize me here, in this castle." Her gaze hardened as she glared at him. Lady Lyanna was, without doubt, a way for the incestuous spawn of House Targaryen to remind her of her place in the world.

Rhaegar bit his bottom lip, a flicker of frustration crossing his face before he sighed. "I meant no disrespect, my lady," he said, his voice calm, though there was a hint of effort in his words. "It is only proper that I call you Lady Lyanna. When I called you by your first name on the battlefield, I was… overwhelmed by the heat of battle. I lost my courtesy."

His tone was polite, and there was no sign of malice in his voice or on his face.

Lyanna simply stamped her foot in frustration and pouted in her standing spot. She would not let Rhaegar's polite, princely act break her resolve.

Before their quarrel over titles could deepen, the oak doors flew open with a resounding crash. Jon Connington stormed in, his boots echoing across the stone floor, anger etched into every line of his face.

Lyanna's mood shifted in an instant, from bad to dark, like a storm cloud sweeping across the sky. Lord Connington shared her expression, his gaze locked on her with barely concealed hatred, his eyes burning with a fury that made her skin prickle.

"I heard of your plan to free Lyanna Stark," Jon Connington said, his voice laced with contempt. He didn't even acknowledge Lyanna's presence in the room, as if she were no more than a piece of furniture.

Lyanna scoffed, her hands instinctively reaching for her sword, but she cursed under her breath when she realized it was not there. She might need to defend herself from Jon Connington's wrath, after all.

"I will not allow this Stark to run rampant around these castle grounds after all of her crimes, and how she nearly killed you, Rhaegar!" Jon's voice rose, his fury spilling over as he shouted. The words hit Lyanna like a slap, and she flinched at the sheer loudness of his voice, her teeth gritting.

She was stunned by the way the Lord of Griffin's Roost spoke to the crown prince—blatantly disrespectful, unafraid, as if Rhaegar's station meant nothing. Yet Rhaegar didn't seem angered by the tone, only mildly annoyed.

"Jon," he said, his voice soft but firm. "I will not have the future…" Rhaegar paused, his eyes flicking to Lyanna for just a moment, and then continued, "Lady of Winterfell treated as a common prisoner. There will be no discussion."

He said it with the weight of finality as if the matter were already decided.

Jon Connington's face flushed red with rage, his fists clenched at his sides. He finally turned his gaze to Lyanna, his eyes filled with disdain, as though she were the source of all his anger.

"Then you are a fool, Rhaegar," he spat, his words dripping with venom.

"Remember your place, Jon," Rhaegar's voice dropped, a warning lacing the words. His face darkened ever so slightly, the first crack in his composed exterior.

Jon Connington grunted, his expression a mixture of frustration and anger, and stormed out of the room without so much as a glance at Lyanna. The heavy door slammed behind him, echoing through the stone halls, leaving the room in a tense silence.

Lyanna stood frozen for a heartbeat, her fingers curling instinctively, aching for the sword that was no longer at her hip. Her gaze snapped to Rhaegar, sharp and unyielding, as if daring him to meet it. His cool, detached expression only frayed her patience further.

"You are soft, Targaryen. Too soft." The words dripped with scorn, her voice low but laced with mockery. "You'd let him speak to you like that?"

Each word hung in the air, a challenge as much as an accusation.

Rhaegar's gaze didn't waver, though a flicker of something passed across his face. He took a slow breath, his lips pressing together. "If I'd risen to every provocation, Lyanna, I'd be no better than my father." His voice was calm, but there was steel in it now, just beneath the surface. "I chose my battles, and Connington was not worth the time."

Lyanna scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest, anger simmering underneath as she struggled to get a rise out of him, but before she could respond, a soft knock echoed through the stone walls. The door creaked open, and two maids stepped inside, their heads lowered in deference to the prince.

"My prince," one of them began, addressing Rhaegar, "we've come to escort Lady Lyanna to her chambers for a bath."

Lyanna turned her gaze back to Rhaegar, giving him a bitter smile. "Well, I suppose that's all I'm good for now, isn't it?" she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just a bath and some scraps of courtesy."

Rhaegar did not respond. He merely sighed, the sound barely audible, before turning away. His steps were slow and deliberate as he crossed the chamber toward the lord's table, where dim candlelight flickered over scattered parchments. Lyanna's sharp gaze did not miss the way his hand drifted to his thigh, where her blade had struck true. A pang of guilt flickered in her chest, quick and unwelcome. She crushed it beneath the weight of her pride.

Chin lifted defiantly, she turned on her heel, allowing herself to be escorted across the hall. Soldiers lined the walls, hands resting on sword hilts, eyes watchful and ready. They'll strike me down the moment I make a move, Lyanna thought bitterly. They'll take my head without a second's hesitation.

"This way, m'lady," one of the maids said softly, motioning ahead. Lyanna's brows drew together at the familiar gruff accent of the North in the girl's voice. A Northerner this far south? She said nothing but filed the thought away.

Inside the chambers, the sweet scent of lavender and fresh wood assaulted her senses as a fire crackled warmly in the hearth. The room was grand, decorated with the three-headed dragon next to the pink swine sigils. Despite the beauty, Lyanna couldn't help but feel a sense of cold detachment. These chambers must be for one of the heirs, or maybe someone else of high station, she thought briefly, but pushed the thought aside. There were more pressing matters at hand.

She tensed at their first touch, instinctively pulling away as they reached to remove her armor, unused to such attention. But when their hands persisted, she forced herself to remain still, swallowing the discomfort that threatened to rise.

"I am more than capable of undressing myself," Lyanna said, voice clipped, her patience fraying, after some time. The maids bowed quickly, retreating to prepare the bath.

Once undressed, Lyanna wrapped her arms around herself, hands crossing over her chest, legs drawn tight. Shame burned in her cheeks, but the maids paid her no mind as they ushered her toward the steaming bath. She sank into the water, biting back a sigh of relief as the heat seeped into her bones. It was the first hot bath she'd had since crossing the Twins, and for a moment, the tension in her body eased.

The maids worked in silence, scrubbing away the grime of travel and battle. They massaged her skin, kneading out knots she hadn't realized were there, and applied fragrant oils that made her smell more like a lady of court than a warrior. Lyanna endured it all, her mind elsewhere—on her men, on escape.

When the bath was done, they brought her before the bed, where two dresses lay waiting.

"Pick one, m'lady," the shy maid whispered, eyes averted. "Lady Hogg chose them for you."

Lyanna's jaw clenched. Fury simmered beneath her skin. She had half a mind to storm out of the castle naked, consequences be damned. The dresses were beautiful—soft silks and fine embroidery—but they were not for her. They were for a courtly lady, one seeking favor or a betrothal.

She would not be humiliated.

Frowning, Lyanna chose the lighter gown—gold and white, simple but elegant. She refused to wear the black and crimson dress, low-cut and stunning, that had been laid out before her. She would not dress in the colors of her enemies. Not now. Not ever.

Once clothed, the maids worked quickly, braiding what little hair they could into a Southern style, leaving the rest to fall loose where it defied them. They adorned her with jewelry and dusted her skin with scented powders.

When they finished, the maids stepped back, their eyes gleaming with pride as they admired their work.

"M'lady, you are truly a beauty fit for the South," one of them said in awe, voice soft with admiration. "Any man would be lucky to call you wife."

Lyanna's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Instead, she grunted in irritation before stomping out of the bedchamber, her steps heavy as she made her way into the adjoining privy. There, she found a tarnished mirror, and the reflection that stared back at her startled her.

The gold and white dress clung to her curves, hanging lower than she would have liked, exposing more of her cleavage than she had intended. Her face, once gaunt from hunger and hardship of war, now had a faint color to it, a glow she couldn't deny. Her hair, though short and wild, had been expertly braided. For the first time, Lyanna saw herself in ways people would describe her—as beautiful. Men had often told her she was beautiful, while women, with jealousy veiled behind their compliments, had said the same. But Lyanna knew the men wanted to despoil her, so she never put much stock in their words. As for the women, she was unsure whether their praise was genuine or simply born of envy.

She had never considered herself a great beauty, not like Cersei Lannister, Ashara Dayne, or Catelyn Tully—Ned Stark's wife. They were women who seemed born for courts and crowns, their beauty an asset in a world that valued such things. But Lyanna? She was a Stark of Winterfell, raised among snow and stone, with little use for charms or soft words.

She clenched her jaw, turning her head to hide the throbbing pain in her wrist. The maids had wrapped it expertly, concealing the bruising, but she could still feel the ache from the wounds she had sustained.

A soft voice interrupted her thoughts. "M'lady, it's time to go to the mess hall. The prince is requesting your presence."

Lyanna cursed under her breath. She was in no mood for this. But there was no choice. The iron grip of necessity had her by the throat, and she had to endure. Her steps were heavy as she stalked out of the privy, the maids trailing behind her like a pair of hounds, their eyes glinting with eager anticipation.

As she made her way through the halls of House Hogg, a knot of dread and anticipation twisted in her stomach, as though she were a sheep being led to slaughter.

The soldiers who had once lined the walls were nowhere to be seen. Rhaegar's chamber door stood ajar, empty. Lyanna continued without faltering, the only company a lone soldier carrying a spear, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He was her escort, though it would have been more honest to call him a jailer.

When they reached the mess hall, the sight of it stunned her. It was crowded, alive with noise and laughter, as if a battle had never been fought here only days ago. The great hall—once a place of blood and death—was now filled with merrymaking, the air thick with the stench of roasted meat and ale.

The dais was raised, and upon it, Rhaegar sat like a king, his noble profile chiseled and regal. To his left sat Jon Connington, his eyes still burning with the quiet indignation of someone who had been wronged, and to his right, Lord Hogg—stuffing his face with food and grinning like a bloated fool.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, stood beside the prince, ever watchful, his gleaming armor like a beacon among the less shining ranks. Ser Barristan the Bold, his hair greying but his stance unwavering, stood further down, his gaze scanning the crowd, ever vigilant for the slightest hint of treachery.

Lyanna tried to slip quietly into a shadowed corner, but it did not last long. Her presence did not go unnoticed for long. When Rhaegar stood, the hall fell into a sudden, unnatural hush.

The hall was thick with murmurs, the air heavy with anticipation as Rhaegar stood, his violet eyes scanning the room. He took a moment, his gaze lingering on the gathered nobles, before he raised his hand in a quiet but commanding gesture. The noise in the hall died down, replaced by a tense silence, broken only by the clink of silver goblets as they were set aside.

"Peace," Rhaegar began, his voice calm but firm, resonating through the stone walls. "It is a rare and precious thing, broken not through the shedding of blood, but through the act of pride. The winds of war have blown across these lands for too long. It is time to silence the swords and heal the wounds."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. The nobles shifted in their seats, some with approval, others with resentment, but all listening intently.

"The North and the Crownlands are no longer enemies," Rhaegar continued, his gaze briefly falling on Lyanna, who stood quietly in the corner. "The blood of the Starks has been shed by my father, through an act of unspeakable cruelty. Yet, despite all that has passed, they seek peace. A peace that we shall honor As we move forward, we must remember that it is not the victor, but the vanquished who are the true measure of a kingdom's strength. We ask them to bend the knee not as conquerors, but as champions of peace."

With a final, almost imperceptible glance at Lyanna, he turned toward the gathered men, his declaration now ringing through the hall like a bell tolling the end of an era.

"Lady Lyanna Stark is no longer a prisoner," Rhaegar declared, his tone unyielding, his words like the stroke of a sword. "She shall be a guest of House Targaryen and House Hogg."

The announcement was met with a chorus of indignation, glares of hatred pointed directly at Lyanna. She held her ground, meeting the eyes of those who watched her with open disdain. The air grew thick with venom.

Jon Connington's voice rang out, booming and sharp. He slammed his goblet down onto the oak table, causing it to reverberate. "Silence!" he bellowed. "Your prince is speaking!"

The murmurs of discontent simmered into a heavy silence, replaced by quieter, more venomous whispers. "Butcher," "Northern savage," "whore"—the insults floated through the air, thinly veiled beneath the surface. Lyanna ignored them all, her chin high as she met the hatred with cold, unflinching eyes.

Rhaegar cleared his throat, his next words more measured. "Her men are freed as well. Decreed by me. As you may well know, this war is over. The Northerners are no longer our enemies. The rebel forces will be allowed to return to their camps in the Riverlands."

The hall was deathly still, the tension thick enough to cut through with a knife. Rhaegar's words were meant to bring peace, but Lyanna knew that the war was not truly over, not in the hearts of these men. It was a fragile peace at best.

"But first," Rhaegar continued, his tone now almost jovial, "we feast, to commemorate the peace throughout the Seven Kingdoms."

Lyanna blinked, taken aback. She hadn't expected this—not this leniency, not the freeing of her men. His words hung in the air, and for a moment, she could only stare at him, her thoughts churning.

He truly believes the rebellion is over, she thought, bitterness rising in her throat like bile. Does he have no idea how much we despise his family?

"Come, Lyanna Stark," Rhaegar said, extending a hand toward her, almost mockingly. "Let us unite these lands."

Her heart thundered in her chest. The room seemed to narrow, the walls closing in around her. She could have fled. The doors to the hall were still open. But she knew the soldiers would be on her in a heartbeat. And besides, where could she go?

Her legs carried her, unwillingly, to the dais, where a chair had been placed beside Rhaegar. Lord Hogg was pushed aside with clear resentment on his face, but there was little he could do about it.

As Lyanna ascended the steps to the dais, she could feel the weight of every eye upon her—those of the crownlands, those of her enemies, all watching her with varying degrees of loathing and curiosity. She climbed to the seat and took her place beside Rhaegar, the air heavy with unspoken tension.

Rhaegar's violet eyes met hers, and for a brief moment, she saw something in them, something she couldn't quite place. It was not disdain, not exactly. But neither was it warmth. He merely stared at her, as though seeing her for the first time, and said nothing. He waited for her to sit, then followed suit.

"Let us feast!" Rhaegar's voice rang out, and the hall erupted into a new round of cheers, as if the weight of the world had been lifted.

The feasting men and women may have forgotten, lost in their drunken revelry, but Lord Hogg did not. His eyes burned with clear contempt as they fixed on Lyanna. Whether it was because she had displaced him from his place at the crown prince's side or because she had slaughtered so many of his men and nearly taken his castle, she could not say. But she suspected it was the latter. There was no forgiving the blood she had spilled within his walls, no matter how much wine was poured or how many toasts were made.

"You look beautiful, Lady Lyanna," Rhaegar whispered, leaning toward her as he took a sip from his goblet.

Lyanna did not answer, merely narrowed her eyes, her lips tight. He may have looked regal in his red doublet, his features sharpening as though the life had returned to him, but she would not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him.

She sat stiffly in her chair as the feast was brought before her, untouched. She knew that this gathering was not just to celebrate the end of the rebellion, but to mark Rhaegar's return from his long slumber.

"The Seven have blessed this day," they shouted, raising their goblets in unison. They were fools, all of them, and Lyanna Stark could not help but despise them for it.

Across the table, Lord Hogg leaned forward, his jowls trembling with disdain as he tore into a leg of chicken, greasy juices slicking his beard. "Will you not eat, my lady?" he sneered, his voice thick and slurred. "Perhaps the fare is too delicate for your savage northern palate." He chuckled, bits of meat tumbling from his mouth as he spoke, his eyes gleaming with crude amusement.

Lyanna didn't even spare him a glance. She simply took a slow sip from her goblet, her gaze fixed firmly ahead, as if the man didn't exist.

Lord Hogg's smirk faltered, his jaw twitching with irritation. He snorted in frustration, the sound ugly and guttural. With a grunt, he shoved his chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. His steps were heavy, uneven, as he lumbered off towards his drunken men, muttering curses beneath his breath.

Lyanna allowed herself a brief smile, her lips curling ever so slightly. She had won this round.

The evening dragged on, a blur of music and wine-fueled dancing. Rhaegar sat at the high table, his plate barely touched, his attention divided between whispered conversations with Jon Connington and the distant strains of the lively tunes. When at last he rose, the hall quieted.

Rhaegar looked over the crowd, each movement of his eyes deliberate, the hall falling into a hush as though the very air had stilled in reverence. His violet gaze swept across the gathered lords and ladies, lingering on no one yet seeing everything. For a moment, he stood silent, letting the anticipation thicken like smoke.

"We have bled enough," he began, his voice low but carrying. "The fields have drunk deeply of sorrow, and too many songs now end in lament. But tonight—" His gaze softened, almost wistful. "Tonight is a song of peace."

"House Targaryen and House Hogg banners will fly high on the walls of Sow's Horn for generations to come," he continued. "A symbol of unity. And now, I will ride to King's Landing to restore peace to all of the Seven Kingdoms. Let tonight be a beginning, not an end."

The hall erupted in cheers, louder this time, a fervor born from hope. Goblets clashed in toasts, and voices raised in jubilation. Rhaegar's expression remained composed, but there was a faint, fleeting shadow in his eyes—a man who knew the price of peace.

As he descended from the dais, Lyanna alone noticed the faltering in his step, the slight limp he carried with quiet dignity. His hand hovered near the table, seeking balance, a motion so subtle it escaped the revelers' notice.

Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, and Jon Connington flanked him, silent and vigilant, their presence a reminder that even peace had its protectors. They moved as shadows in his wake, ever watchful, ever ready.

Soon after, a pair of maidservants appeared at Lyanna's side, bowing low before guiding her away from the hall. The stares of men followed her, lustful and hostile in equal measure. She kept her chin high, ignoring the whispered jests and leering eyes.

Once inside her chambers, the maids set to work, unfastening the simple gown she wore and undoing the intricate braids in her hair. The jewelry was stripped away, piece by piece, until she stood bare before them. They slipped a thin nightgown over her shoulders, the fabric so sheer it did little to shield her from the chill.

"Rest well, my lady," one of the maids murmured, bowing deeply before retreating out of the chamber.

Alone at last, Lyanna exhaled, the tension melting from her shoulders. She moved to the candle beside her bed, its flame flickering faintly before she snuffed it out with a whisper of breath. Darkness enveloped the room, cool and absolute.

Lyanna sank into the featherbed, pulling the covers tight around her. The world outside the castle walls seemed distant now, a forgotten dream. She closed her eyes, letting sleep take her.

But even in the quiet, she felt the weight of what was to come.

The next morning, Lyanna woke from the deepest, most restful sleep she'd had in moons. It was the knocking at the door that roused her. She stretched, pulling herself upright, and made sure she was decent before calling out, "Come in."

The same maids from the night before entered, their eyes sharp with purpose. "My lady, Prince Rhaegar rides out with his men to King's Landing. You will be accompanying him." Their tone left little room for argument. They laid out freshly polished riding boots, a well-fitted riding jerkin, and a simple tunic, the fabrics clean and crisp.

Her heart quickened, her mind racing. So, this is my fate, the thought lingered, sour and unbidden. Lyanna had known, deep down, that Rhaegar would not allow her to return to Riverrun with her men. She was a highborn lady, and her submission would be crucial to his claim of peace. Perhaps he means to hold me as a hostage, she mused, the thought as cold as the winds of the North.

"I will need my armor," she said curtly.

One of the maids offered a polite, practiced smile. "The armor is no longer necessary, my lady. It is safe, but you must dress appropriately."

Lyanna clenched her jaw but said no more. She let them dress her in the riding clothes, hating how soft and vulnerable they felt against her skin. Her hair was braided simply, and once ready, the maids led her from the chamber.

Two Targaryen guards stood outside, their crimson cloaks trailing the cold cobblestone of the keep. Whether they were there to protect her or ensure her compliance, Lyanna couldn't be sure. The latter thought sent a shiver down her spine.

The maids bade her farewell with low curtsies, disappearing down the hall. I will likely never see them again, Lyanna thought grimly as the guards fell into step beside her, flanking her like prison wardens.

They passed through the now-empty great hall and into the bustling courtyard. Squires hurried to ready horses, and soldiers checked their weapons, their movements brisk and efficient. At the head of the assembly, Rhaegar sat astride a magnificent brown steed, his silver hair gleaming in the sunlight. He was clad in full armor, a prince of legend brought to life.

Lyanna's gaze shifted to her men. Perhaps five hundred remained, huddled on the opposite side of the courtyard, surrounded by Targaryen soldiers. Their faces were hollow, gaunt from imprisonment and months of war. Their clothes hung loose and filthy, and their eyes dull from defeat.

I will not leave them without a word. Straightening her spine, Lyanna turned to the guards. "Take me to the Crown Prince."

They said nothing, only exchanging glances. But Lyanna would not be ignored. She raised her voice, sharp and commanding. "The prince will not be pleased if you treat the Lady of Winterfell with disrespect. Or perhaps you'd like me to shout loud enough for him to hear?"

Reluctantly, the guards grunted and gestured for her to follow, hands resting on their sword hilts as if she were some dangerous beast to be contained.

When they reached Rhaegar, he was deep in conversation with Lord Hogg, but he noticed her at once. His gaze, cool and assessing, flicked over her before he frowned, irritation creasing his otherwise perfect features. Lyanna noticed the slight tinge of color returning to his face, his weakness from the day before slowly fading as he sat tall in his saddle, regal and untouchable.

"Yes, Lady Lyanna?" His tone was measured, though the sigh that followed betrayed his weariness. His silver hair glinted in the rising light, a crown of shadow and flame.

Lyanna's jaw tightened, but her voice remained steady. "I wish to speak to my men before they depart. They fought and bled for my family. I will not abandon them without a word."

Rhaegar tilted his head, regarding her with a flicker of something unreadable. Confusion? Pity? Whatever it was, it vanished like mist on the rills. He inclined his head, a gesture of reluctant consent. He sighed once more, then nodded. "Very well," he said before resuming his tense discussion with the Lord of Sow's Horn.

With what little pride she had left, Lyanna inclined her head before turning sharply and storming toward her men, her steps quick and resolute. I am still a Stark of Winterfell, she reminded herself. And I will not be silenced.

The sight that greeted her was grim. Once, they had been a thousand strong marching on Sow's Horn. Now, only a few hundred remained, their faces hollowed by loss and weariness. The banners of the direwolf and trout hung limp in the damp air, tattered reminders of what had been.

Lyanna swallowed hard, tasting ash and regret. Her men had trusted her, followed her into a campaign that had bled them dry. Should she have yielded when peace was demanded by Jon Arryn? Should she have led them back to the Riverlands instead of continuing deeper into the Crownlands? It mattered not now. The choice had been made, and the dead would not rise for her second thoughts.

She took a breath, steeling herself. "You have fought bravely," she began, her voice cutting through the crackling of sharpening swords and restless horses. "For House Stark. For House Tully. For justice."

The words echoed in the warm morning air, but they felt hollow in her chest. Lyanna clenched her fists at her sides, willing the ache away. She would not let more of her men die for a dead rebellion. No more.

Some lifted their heads at her words, but most stared at the ground, shadows cast long over faces too young to bear such grief.

"We have lost." The words felt like stone in her mouth. "We marched against the dragon and were beaten back. Your brothers, sons, and fathers bled for this cause. And now, we bow our heads—not in shame, but in honor. Remember this."

She paused, letting her gaze sweep over them. "We will return to our homes, heads held high. The bards will sing of us. The maesters will write of what we did here. We stood for something. But now, peace is demanded, and we must give it. For now."

Her final words rang hollow in the air, falling into a silence that stretched painfully. Lyanna raised a fist, defiant, but the gesture met only stony faces and downcast eyes.

A bitter laugh clawed at her throat. One defeat, and their trust was shattered. Trust forged in blood and conquest, lost to a single day of ruin. Rhaegar had suffered worse, yet his men rallied to him still. Why not her?

The answer was clear in their eyes: she was a Stark, yes, but also a young girl to many of them, a maid from Winterfell playing at war.

Lyanna gulped, her throat tight, and averted her gaze from the accusing stares of her men. These were soldiers forged in fire, victorious in battle after battle across the Crownlands. They had been invincible once, or so it had seemed. But this defeat was bitter, a taste they could neither swallow nor spit out, and it lingered like ash on their tongues. The loss had broken more than their bodies; it had shattered their belief in her.

A prickling heat burned behind her eyes, but Lyanna blinked it away. She would not weep. Not here. Not now. Tears would not mend what had been lost. She drew a deep breath, forcing the tightness in her throat to loosen, and turned on her heel.

Before she had taken more than a few steps, a voice, familiar and laced with barely restrained anger, sliced through the clamor of the courtyard. "Will you not be riding with us, Lady Lyanna?"

She stopped, the words striking like a blow. Lyanna turned slowly, her gaze locking on Thorin. His face was battered and bruised, cuts lining his jaw like the marks of a butcher's blade. But it was his eyes—hard, unforgiving—that made her blood run hot. He lived, she thought bitterly. Of course, he lived.

The titles did not escape Lyanna either. Lady Lyanna. A formality, cold and distant. Once, they had called her Lady Ravenclaw or She-Wolf, names spoken with pride and fierce loyalty. But now? Now, she was merely the maid of Winterfell again, a girl weighed down by a name that no longer commanded respect, only expectation.

Her lips twisted into a bitter scoff. Let them strip her of titles, of respect. It changed nothing. She held Thorin's gaze, her eyes hard and unyielding, a silent challenge in the cold morning light. He would find no apology there.

Contempt curled in her gut. His face told a tale of blame, a story in which she was the villain. But Lyanna knew the truth. It was Thorin's plan, reckless and stupid, that had led them here. She wanted to laugh, to scream, to curse him for his hypocrisy. Instead, she scoffed, her lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"No, Thorin," she said, her voice sharp enough to cut through ice. "I will ride to King's Landing with the prince's retinue. At his command." Her tone dripped with disdain. "No doubt to bend the knee and swear fealty to his mad father."

Thorin's eyes flickered, but he held his tongue. He gave a curt nod, sharp and dismissive, before spurring his horse forward to the head of the column. The men followed in somber silence, their horses plodding in a grim procession, while Targaryen soldiers flanked them on either side, silent sentinels of their defeat.

Not one man looked back.

Lyanna watched them ride through the gates of Sow's Horn, their banners limp, their heads bowed. A hollow ache bloomed in her chest. Betrayal. Loss. The weight of it pressed down on her like the cold northern winds.

She sighed, the sound soft and bitter, and began the long walk across the square. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of failure pressing down on her shoulders. The eyes of House Hogg's men bored into her back, a silent verdict passed without a word.

Her boots scraped against the cobblestones as she reached her royal entourage was nearly ready. As she swung into the saddle, Rhaegar caught her eye. He nodded once, a gesture that carried more command than camaraderie.

Then, he began to speak. Of peace. Of prosperity. Of summers yet to come. His voice was melodic, weaving promises from the air. But Lyanna heard none of it. Her ears rang with the echoes of defeat, the whispers of her men's contempt.

And so, they rode south. The gates of Sow's Horn closed behind them, the road stretching ahead, long and unforgiving. Smallfolk lined the King's Road, their eyes sharp with hatred, their whispers cutting through the air like knives as they fixed their gaze upon Lyanna's mount. She could feel their condemnation seeping into her bones.

Meanwhile, they showered the crown prince with flowers, their smiles wide, their waves eager, completely blind to the bloodshed that had brought them here. Their adoration was a cruel mockery.

Flanked by Ser Barristan Selmy and several of House Targaryen's guards, Lyanna kept her gaze forward. Rhaegar rode at the front, Ser Arthur Dayne at his side, their armor gleaming in the unforgiving sun. They rode for hours, the heat relentless, the silence oppressive.

Lyanna felt each mile as a weight upon her shoulders. She was no longer the wolf leading the pack but a lone shadow in the dragon's wake.

They rode hard through the Crownlands, drawing closer to King's Landing, but something was wrong. Lyanna felt it as they pushed deeper along the King's Road. Rhaegar knew it too, his once lax posture now stiffened, his eyes scanning the horizon with a sharpness that had not been there before. Ser Arthur Dayne had drawn his sword, its gleam catching the fading light, as they rode in silence, the atmosphere heavy with unease.

Lyanna glanced at Ser Barristan Selmy, whose normally impassive face was betraying every thought. Apprehension was clear in his eyes, a rare crack in the usually unshakable knight's composure.

Is a force laying siege to King's Landing? she thought briefly, but quickly discarded the idea. The rebellion was over. What reason would any lord have to challenge the crown now?

Yet as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Lyanna knew something had occurred in King's Landing. Hours earlier, they had encountered a steady stream of common folk walking along the King's Road, their faces sunken, eyes wide with fear—clearly fleeing from something. But now, the crowd had swollen into the thousands, each face grim, the air thick with panic.

Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan had moved into position, flanking Rhaegar on either side, their vigilance heightened, watching every shadow and rustling leaf. Lyanna had been assigned three additional Targaryen soldiers, riding close by to guard her. Perhaps they feared she might flee in the growing chaos, or perhaps they had come to protect her from the threat of the surging crowd.

Rhaegar had also demanded Lyanna wear a breastplate for protection after encountering a group of ragged men, their eyes gleaming with hunger, not for food but for the sight of her. They ignored the royal escort, their gaze fixed on Lyanna with a lustful intensity that made her skin crawl.

She recoiled at first, her eyes narrowing when she saw the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on the armor's center. The sight of it stirred something bitter and foul within her, but she pushed it down. This was not the time for petty disputes. Survival, not honor, was her concern now.

When she had asked for her own chestplate, the soldiers had shrugged indifferently. "Not sure what happened to it, my lady," one had said, his voice flat, offering no explanation or concern. Lyanna held her tongue, but the bitter taste of helplessness lingered in her mouth, sour and thick.

Their pace slowed as they neared the vast throng of refugees, eyes flicking nervously to the trees lining the road, ever watchful for hidden assassins or thieves. Lyanna caught fragments of the common folk's mutterings—whispers thick with dread. One man spoke in hushed tones of a golden knight who had saved the city, opening the gates for the Lions to enter. Another murmured that the Mad King had unleashed wildfire, burning the streets to cleanse them of wolves and stags alike. Others spoke of Queen Rhaella seizing the throne from her husband, Aerys. That in the ensuing battle, Aerys had turned into a dragon, burning down the Red Keep. Lyanna scoffed at these tales. They were nothing more than fanciful stories spun in the heat of panic.

The royal procession did not halt until a small force bearing the Targaryen sigil rode up from King's Landing. Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur Dayne immediately stiffened, their hands instinctively moving to their weapons, prepared to defend their king. But the riders dismounted without a sound, their steps silent as shadows. One of them knelt, presenting a parchment to Rhaegar with solemn reverence. The air seemed to thicken with tension, as if the very earth awaited the king's command.

Rhaegar took the letter, reading it with furrowed brow, before shaking his head, his face tight with displeasure. He dismounted his steed and began to pace, his boots striking the earth with a rhythm of frustration.

After several long moments, he stopped and sighed heavily. "We will make camp in the woods," he said, his voice heavy with command. "I will not have our men riding through thousands of smallfolk in the dead of night. We do not know who is friend or foe, and we would be overrun on these roads."

A look passed between Jon Connington and Arthur Dayne, their faces set with the same grim understanding. Without a word, they nodded, and the forces turned off the King's Road, riding into the forest. They eventually found a clearing to make camp, and within moments, the forest was alive with the sound of tents being erected and soldiers taking their positions. The King Guards circled the perimeter, hands on the hilts of their swords, their eyes scanning the shadows.

The camp was alive with movement, men shouting orders, horses neighing, tension thickening the air, pressing down like the oppressive heat before a thunderstorm. Rhaegar had called for a war council as soon as the lord's tent was raised. She had watched from the tree lines as Jon Connington had leaned in close to the Prince, speaking in hushed tones, before they both entered the tent, followed by Lord Hogg, who had traveled south with them. Lyanna shifted uncomfortably, her thighs sore from hours in the saddle. She tended to her horse, securing it beneath the flickering light of the fire. The Dornish soldier beside her stood vigilant, his dark armor gleaming beneath the firelight. The watchful eyes of her three Targaryen guards never strayed too far from her, though she had no thought of fleeing. She had never been this far south before, and in the blanket of night, the dense woods would swallow her whole if she tried.

The Dornish soldier had told her they were near Hayford's Castle, but what did that matter now? The forest, the fire, and the men in their armor—they all seemed to blur together, drowning her in a sense of impending danger.

She stared into the flames, the crackling fire doing little to quiet the storm rising inside her chest. The shouting inside the lord's tent grew loud, a raised voice, sharp and angry. What was happening? What had they uncovered? She couldn't say, but something in the air was wrong—so wrong.

Then, a soldier emerged from the tent, his form blocking the warmth of the fire. Lyanna tensed, ready to snap at him for blocking her view of the flames, but the words caught in her throat when he spoke.

"My Lady, the Prince has requested your presence in the war council."

The words landed like a sudden blow. Lyanna froze, caught off guard by the suddenness of the summons. She hadn't expected this, not at all. She didn't reply, merely nodded, her mouth dry. She followed him into the tent. The heat of the air hit her immediately, the scent of brewing soup mixing with the sharp, piney smell of the forest outside. The air was thick with it—something foreign, something uneasy.

Inside, the atmosphere was stifling, the tension hanging heavy in the air like a sword poised to fall. Rhaegar sat in the center, his dark eyes unreadable, though Lyanna swore she saw something flicker behind them. Jon Connington and Lord Hogg stood at his side, their faces grim, their words low, as if the very walls of the tent could hear too much. Lyanna swallowed, the sense that something was about to break growing sharper with each breath. The walls themselves seemed to hold a secret—a secret no one was yet ready to speak aloud.

"Lady Lyanna." Rhaegar rose from his seat, a scattered array of parchment strewn across the table before him, each page heavy with the weight of decisions yet to be made.

"Prince Rhaegar, you have requested me?" Lyanna said meekly, lowering her eyes in a practiced display of humility. It was not the time to anger the crown prince, not when she was his hostage, though the thought twisted her stomach. She did not yet know if he shared his father's penchant for cruelty, for burning his subjects in the name of his delusions.

Rhaegar hesitated, a flicker of amusement passing across his face before he spoke again, his tone measured but strained. "As you are of high birth, and we are to be... close allies with House Stark in the coming moons, I think it appropriate for you to understand the events unfolding in the realm." He paused, biting his tongue as if reconsidering his words. "You should know what is happening."

Lyanna said nothing, merely tilting her head. This was strange, why would the crown prince want a lady of Winterfell involved in the politics of the realm? She could only guess at his motives, but it was clear she wasn't being given a choice.

She made no move to speak, her exit blocked by the soldiers surrounding the tent. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixed upon her, the lords and soldiers silently watching, searching for any sign of weakness, any crack in her composure. But Lyanna would not give them that satisfaction. She merely bowed her head in acknowledgment before taking a seat, as if this were a courtesy she owed them.

Her gaze flicked around the tent, noting the disdain in the eyes of Lord Hogg and Jon Connington, their faces hard and unforgiving. Arthur Dayne, standing behind Rhaegar, seemed amused by the spectacle, while Ser Barristan Selmy remained a stoic, unmoving presence, his expression unreadable.

Rhaegar cleared his throat, bringing the tent's focus back to him. "I have deemed it important to inform our allies of affairs that will directly affect them." His gaze locked on Jon Connington for a moment, the challenge in his eyes clear before he looked back to Lyanna.

"My lady, we have received a parchment and a raven detailing some recent events that have transpired in King's Landing." He glanced at the parchments with a quiet sigh before returning his gaze to Lyanna. "King Aerys is dead. Slain by his own pyromancers."

Lyanna's breath caught in her throat. The man who had destroyed her family, who had threatened to burn Winterfell to the ground—the madman who had plunged the Seven Kingdoms into war—was dead. Was it truly over? She dared to hope, but the emptiness in Rhaegar's eyes told her he was not lying.

He continued, his voice steady but with an edge that betrayed his emotions."My mother, Queen Rhaella, has written to me, informing me that she holds control of the Seven Kingdoms for now. She would not allow the realm to fall into the hands of more ambitious lords. She has acted as my regent in my absence, awaiting my return to King's Landing."

Lyanna's mind whirled. So the whispers were true, at least in part. She shivered, wondering what else the smallfolk had gotten right.

Rhaegar's jaw tightened, his eyes flashing briefly with anger before he spoke again. "It seems my mother has been in private cahoots with Tywin Lannister for the past few moons. He was to march to King's Landing under the guise of offering aid... and sack the city. His goal was to dispose of those fiercely loyal to my father and to take the Red Keep, imprisoning Aerys for his crimes."

Rhaegar's distaste was palpable, his lip curling ever so slightly, but Lyanna found herself admiring his mother's pragmatism. Before the battle at the Trident, the loyalists had been on the brink of ruin, with many doubting they could win the war at all. It was wise for Queen Rhaella to prepare a backup plan, even if it meant bending the crown's authority. Survival often required such hard choices. Perhaps it was not the entire Targaryen bloodline that had been tainted by madness. Lyanna clung to the hope that, for the safety of the North, there might yet be reason among the chaos.

Rhaegar finished, still staring at Lyanna. "I will be crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms in the coming moons. Your lord brother, and all the Northern lords, will be in attendance. They will swear fealty to the crown, and I will personally see to it that those who wronged your family are punished."

He continued, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips, momentarily breaking the dark tension. "I was planning on taking the crown from my father anyway. He has plunged this realm into madness for too long. My mother... she was the braver of the two of us and acted first, though it was irresponsible." He muttered the last part under his breath, as though regretting the confession.

Rhaegar's face, once pale from his critical wounds, was now flushed with color. His eyes softened as he turned to Lyanna, a look of pleading in them. "I wish for us to forget any animosity between us. I am not your enemy, and you are not mine. We begin anew, with a united realm."

His words hung in the air, heavy with hope. His gaze shone with a glimmer of optimism.

Lyanna nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Of course, your grace." But inwardly, she scoffed. Rhaegar truly believes he can win me over with promises of peace and flowery words? She was no fool. The pain of her family's destruction ran too deep to be undone by a few kind gestures.

Jon Connington cleared his throat, his voice cold and cutting. His face remained etched with anger as his gaze shifted from Lyanna to Rhaegar. "There's still the matter of Flea Bottom, your grace. Your father did something despicable there—burned it to the ground perhaps, though we do not yet know the full extent of the damage."

Rhaegar nodded, his expression hardening. "We can only pray to the Seven that enough of the smallfolk were able to flee before my father's wildfire consumed them all."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, heavy with the unspoken weight of the devastation.

Lord Hogg spoke next, his voice low but urgent. "What of your mother and Lord Tywin? Surely, there must be some form of punishment for them. This is treason. The Lord of Casterly Rock marched on King's Landing, and your mother... she conspired against the crown. No matter how deranged your father had become, treason is treason."

There was a brief silence as the words hung in the air, a tension settling over the gathered lords. Lyanna understood immediately, the topic they had been avoiding had now come to the forefront.

Lyanna couldn't help but smile inwardly. Lord Hogg had misspoken, his words coming out sharper than intended. She could sense the discomfort in the air, the uncertainty of how to deal with treachery within the royal family. She knew they were all treading carefully now, unsure of where their allegiances might truly lie.

Rhaegar's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "You speak the truth," he muttered, "but this... this is a delicate matter. My mother acted as she did to save the realm, though her actions may have been rash."

"Rash!" Lord Hogg all but shouted, his voice rising with anger. "The queen is a traitor to House Targaryen!" He continued raving, his words tumbling out in a reckless rush, stupidly unaware of how much deeper he was digging himself into the pit.

Jon Connington's eyes flashed dangerously. Without a second's hesitation, he rose from his seat, his anger coiling like a snake ready to strike. He circled around Rhaegar, his fury palpable, and in an instant, his fist connected with Lord Hogg's mouth with a brutal thud.

"You will not speak of King Rhaegar's mother in such a callous tone, Lord!" Connington bellowed, his face flushed with rage. His red beard quivered with each word, the fury of a man loyal to his king and his bloodline.

Lord Hogg staggered back, his mouth bleeding freely, stunned by the force of the blow. He gaped in shock, clutching his face as if he couldn't believe what had just happened. Blood dripped from his lip, staining his fingers, but his anger was far from spent. The room fell into an uneasy silence, everyone watching as the tension in the air thickened, the lines drawn more clearly than ever.

Rhaegar sighed deeply, a long, exasperated sound, rubbing his forehead as if the whole situation was wearing on him. He raised a hand, signaling for his men. "Take Lord Hogg outside," he commanded, his tone heavy with exhaustion. "Get him to a maester for mending."

Jon Connington returned to his seat, his knuckles stained red from the blow, his breath steadying as Rhaegar's gaze found his. A brief but silent understanding passed between them.

"I will decide my mother's and Lord Tywin's fate when I am crowned king," Rhaegar said quietly, the words laced with a quiet, simmering anger. "Not a moment before, Lord Hogg."

The Lord of Sow's Horn, now muttering curses under his breath, nodded begrudgingly, his pride shattered along with his jaw. He took a shaky step forward, wincing at the pain, before soldiers moved to escort him out of the tent, his humiliation complete.

The meeting continued as Rhaegar laid out the plans for the smallfolk fleeing from King's Landing and the bandits who had turned the city into a wild, lawless place. Those who had survived the "cleansing" were easy prey for the roving gangs of thieves, and Rhaegar spoke in clipped tones, detailing how they would meet up with gathering loyalists along the King's Road.

With the strategy in place, the meeting broke. Lyanna was the first to leave, her mind spinning with everything that had been revealed. Lyanna made her way from the tent, her footsteps muffled in the soft earth. The cool night air was a stark contrast to the heated tensions she had just witnessed, and for a moment, the silence seemed to wrap around her like a cloak. Two men from House Targaryen stood guard outside her tent, their eyes following her every move. They gave no words of greeting, only nods of acknowledgment, ever watchful, as she passed.

Inside her tent, the atmosphere was far less suffocating. She sank into the furs laid out on the ground, trying to find some semblance of comfort in a world that had turned increasingly foreign. The weight of exhaustion pulled at her, but sleep did not come easily.

As she lay there, the familiar sound of the wind rustling outside seemed to beckon her into slumber. Her dreams began to unfold in fragments, disjointed and fleeting, yet vivid. The snow fell thickly, blanketing the land in white, a frozen world that felt as if it had been suspended in time. She could see the towering walls of Winterfell in the distance, the ramparts now covered in frost, and the echoes of her childhood seemed to rise around her like the whispers of a forgotten world.

In the heart of the snowstorm, her brother Ned appeared, young again, laughing as he played beneath the blanketed sun. The warmth of the moment wrapped around her like a comforting embrace, and for a brief instant, the weight of her present worries lifted. But the peace did not last.

From the shadows of the crypts, where the Stark ancestors lay, a figure emerged, a boy with dark hair and dark eyes, staring at her from across the cold stone floor. He was not someone she recognized, yet his gaze was familiar in a way that unsettled her. He seemed to be watching her, waiting, as if he knew something she did not. His presence felt like a whisper of something forgotten, a warning, or perhaps an omen.

Lyanna woke with a start, her heart pounding in her chest, the remnants of the dream still clinging to her mind. The taste of something bitter—something that felt like both the past and the future, lingered on her tongue. She couldn't shake the sensation, as though something was slipping through her fingers, just out of reach.

With a frustrated sigh, she shook off thoughts of the dream. She needed to focus. She needed to move forward. She swung her legs off the side of the bedroll and stood, stretching her stiff muscles.

As she stepped out of the tent, two new soldiers of House Targaryen stood stationed at the entrance, their eyes sharp and watchful. Their presence, as always, reminded her that she was no longer free, not really. But she was alive, and she would continue to be, if only for a little longer.

The light of dawn filtered through the trees, casting long, pale beams onto the forest floor. She squinted against the bright sunlight, her eyes stinging, before she made her way to the nearby river. The water was cold and clear, and she dipped her hands into the stream, splashing her face. The chill helped clear the fog from her mind, but the unease—the sense of foreboding—still clung to her. The soldiers stood nearby, silent, ever watchful, their eyes following her movements with precision.

Once finished cleaning her face, Lyanna made her way back toward the camp, where the men were already preparing to depart. The sounds of the camp breaking down—fire extinguished, tents packed up, horses saddled—filled the air. The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, strapping on armor, sharpening their swords and axes, each of them looking like the warriors they were trained to be.

Lyanna mounted her horse, adjusting the reins with a steady hand. Her eyes scanned the camp, noting the tense energy in the air as the men readied themselves for the journey to King's Landing. She knew they would be on the move again soon, and she would have to keep her wits sharp.

Flanked by the soldiers, Lyanna rode at the center of the procession, the rhythmic thud of hooves against the earth carrying them ever closer to the capital. The King's Road stretched ahead, a twisting path of dust and hardship that seemed endless. She could feel the weight of every mile, each one heavy with the promise of chaos yet to come. The world outside the forest had changed, and now they were riding straight into the heart of it.

As they traveled, they passed more and more of the fleeing smallfolk. Their faces were hollow, eyes empty with despair, as though they had been stripped of all hope. Some carried lifeless babes in their arms, their faces grim and unyielding. Others fled with nothing but their meager possessions clutched in their hands. The road was littered with the bodies of those who had not been quick enough, the old and the infirm, children and women. Some were clearly victims of a struggle, their clothes torn and their faces bruised. Others, Lyanna saw with a sickening jolt, bore the unmistakable burn marks of flames. The Mad King had burned Flea Bottom. The thought passed through her mind like a jagged shard of ice.

The royal procession moved steadily on, and though no one dared approach the Targaryen banner, Lyanna could feel the eyes of the smallfolk on them. Their gaze was filled with mistrust, with hate, and for the first time, it was not directed at her but at Rhaegar's forces. She might have laughed at the irony of it, but instead, she felt a deep sense of empathy for the common folk. Their pain was palpable, and it weighed on her.

As they neared King's Landing, Lyanna's eyes fixed on the gleaming, imposing silhouette of the Red Keep, towering above the city—untouched, unharmed. The sunlight reflected off its walls, mocking them. The sight made her stomach churn.

She could smell it now, an acidic, almost suffocating scent that filled the air.

Wildfire.

The very stench of it burned into her mind, evoking images of her father and brother, their final moments consumed by that same maddening fire. She did not know how she could picture it, but she could almost hear their screams, feel their pain, as if the flames of the past had reached through time to scorch her soul. This was the poison her family had tasted before their lives were violently snatched away by the Mad King's madness. Rage stirred in her, hot and fierce, ready to explode—but she forced it down, suppressing the fury that threatened to boil over.

The closer they rode to the city, the more foul the smell became, thick and suffocating, crawling into her lungs. Many of the soldiers in the front covered their faces with cloth, but Rhaegar sat tall in his saddle, breathing it in, unfazed.

This is your father's doing, a wave of bitterness washed over Lyanna. She looked at Rhaegar, who remained unshaken by the devastation around them. His face was unreadable, but she could sense the quiet weight of the moment settling on him.

The Dornish soldier, who had been with Lyanna since the forest, murmured to himself, his voice tinged with disbelief. "The Iron Gates... they are gone..." His words seemed to hang in the air, an odd mixture of shock and reverence.

They had now reached the twisted remnants of the road, what the soldiers called the Rosby Roads, and Lyanna's gaze swept over the landscape, trying to make sense of the scene. She had heard stories of these roads—of the bustling trade and foot traffic, the heralding banners of House Targaryen flying high along the path, leading into the gates of King's Landing. But all of it was gone now. What she saw was a broken, lifeless stretch of earth, marked by the scorched remains of structures and the jagged ruins of walls that had once stood proud.

Lyanna frowned, catching his words, but their true meaning didn't strike her until they reached the Iron Gates. As they passed through, a chill settled over her, a sense that something was terribly wrong. She had never ventured this far south before, but even she could see that this was no ordinary sight. What should have been a bustling road now lay abandoned, its streets eerily silent, the air thick with an unnatural stillness. The familiar hum of life had vanished, leaving only the echoes of what had once been.

Lyanna's gaze shifted past the Iron Gates, piercing through the thick smoke that hung heavy in the air. As her eyes adjusted, the true horror of what lay beyond came into view.

In place of Flea Bottom was a massive crater, a gaping wound in the heart of the city, still smoldering with fire. The air was thick with smoke, and the crackling of the fire filled her ears as she took in the devastation. Some stone buildings clung to the edges of the crater, but they were unstable, broken, and crumbling, like everything else in sight. There was nothing left of the once-thriving district but ash and charred remnants of what had been homes and shops.

The cacophony of the men's reactions broke out immediately. Some cursed loudly, their voices thick with disbelief, others stood frozen, unable to comprehend the sheer scale of the devastation. The smell of burnt flesh and smoldering stone hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the innocent lives lost.

"Gods, what madness is this?" Jon Connington spat, his hand shaking as he took in the sight. "How could anyone—how could he—do this?" His voice trembled, a mix of anger and confusion.

Another man, his face twisted in a grimace, muttered, "There were children in there... families. They didn't deserve this." His gaze shifted from the ruins to the men around him, as if seeking answers that weren't there.

Lyanna's heart pounded in her chest. She had known that Aerys Targaryen was cruel, but this—this was something different. These were not soldiers on a battlefield or traitorous lords. These were families. Children. The helpless victims of a king's madness.

She had seen the horrors of war before, but nothing had prepared her for this. The stench of burned flesh and charred bones assaulted her senses, and everywhere she looked, there were remnants of life—children, fathers—burned beyond recognition, scattered like refuse across the ground. The destruction was total, and the scale of it was beyond anything she could have imagined. This was the work of the Mad King, and it filled her with a disgust she could not put into words.

Some of the soldiers began to retreat from the scene, turning their horses away from the stench, but Lyanna could not bring herself to move. She remained frozen in place, her eyes locked on the carnage before her.

Rhaegar, too, did not move at first. He simply stared down at the wreckage, his face draining of all color. Slowly, he dismounted, his movements slow, deliberate. He walked toward the edge of the crater, as though drawn by an invisible force.

"We must head back," Jon Connington's voice broke the silence, his tone sharp and filled with urgency. "We'll take Rosby Roads and head through the King's Gate. This is where the bulk of the Lannister forces marched through." His words seemed to hang in the air, but Rhaegar did not acknowledge them.

Lyanna watched as the men nodded, some already turning their horses around, ready to gallop out of what remained of Flea Bottom, away from the destruction. But Rhaegar remained still. His shoulders sagged, his face unreadable, but there was something there—something in the slump of his form—that made Lyanna's heart tighten.

Then, slowly, as if the weight of the destruction before him was too much to bear, Rhaegar sank to his knees. His hands, trembling, reached up to his face, as if he could wipe away the horrors he had witnessed. His shoulders hunched, and for a long moment, he seemed as though he were trying to hold himself together, as though the king within him still fought against the man he had become.

But the grief, the shame, the crushing weight of it all was too much. It overtook him. The proud and once unyielding Targaryen crumbled in the face of the devastation, his hands falling to his sides.

Then he wept.