1 A Dragon Prince

Rhaella Targaryen

Rhaegar was a shining, handsome prince on his seventeenth name day. She could not help tearing up just a little bit, watching him at his harp, long graceful fingers plucking each note, entire audience enraptured. Every mother prayed only for their son to grow into a fine man, healthy and wise and good. Rhaella's prayers had been answered most soundly.

All except for one.

Her eldest son still needed a wife.

Secretly, Rhaella was relieved that with Viserys, she had given a brother, not a sister-bride, to Rhaegar. She could not forget her wedding day those many years ago. Rhaegar, Rhaella was determined, would marry for love if Rhaella had to kill Aerys for it (she was not at all frightened; such a thought crossed her mind. Her children were her world).

However, Rhaegar had yet to love a woman. He never said so explicitly, but Rhaella knew from simply watching him. Day in and day out, that strange boy seemed to only have eyes for his harp and his books - and perhaps his lance occasionally, though even that was more out of duty than anything. There were countless pretty young ladies at court, and Rhaegar never once turned his head. Even a whore would have been acceptable, but her son remained like Baelor the Blessed reincarnate.

Aerys, meanwhile, sent men across the seas to pick a bride for their son, but moons and moons waxed by, and not a name left Aerys's lips. Rhaella wondered what game her brother was playing. Or was he just a petulant child picking through his plate?

Then Tywin Lannister asked to speak with Aerys alone at the tourney in Casterly Rock, and it all made sense.

Cersei Lannister was still young but already an exquisite little lioness. Her green eyes showed strong wit, much like Joanna's had. But of course, that was where the hand's plan was doomed before it started. Rhaella shook her head as she watched Tywin return to the feast, face livid. Lord Lannister, you dug your grave when you wed the lovely Joanna, thought Rhaella.

She was sorry it didn't work. She would have liked to have Cersei as a good daughter so that she and Joanna could truly be sisters - but Joanna had passed away already from the birth of her second boy, so perhaps all of it would have been moot.

Suddenly, Rhaella realized she couldn't sit back any longer. She had just witnessed Aerys throw away an excellent chance for their son's happiness over a jealousy feud. She would not let Aerys's stupidity risk her son's future a second time.

"I fear you are going about this the wrong way," she told the King one night. "Cersei Lannister... princesses in Essos... they may be beautiful, but they are not the blood of the dragon."

"Whose fault is it that?" Aerys spat. "Seventeen years since Rhaegar and not a single girl lived from your cunt."

Rhaella kept her voice calm. "Targaryens are not the only ones with the blood of the dragon."

Aerys raised his head, and Rhaella knew she had him.

The King announced Rhaegar's betrothal to Elia Martell of Dorne a fortnight later.

Elia's mother was no Joanna, but Rhaella had liked her nonetheless when she had been at court. Dancing black eyes, warm skin, and vibrant laughter. It could do well to thaw some of Rhaegar's melancholy, thought Rhaella. Even Aerys might appreciate the Dornish blunt humor and sharp tongue.

When Rhaella saw Elia Martell, however, she began to think if her meddling had been right, after all.

It was not that Rhaella didn't like Elia. On the contrary, she did at first glance. The young woman was slight-framed, hips just as narrow as Rhaella's own, and easily short of breath, but she had a certain unique charm. Her eyes were not emerald gems like the Lannister girl but deep-set, dark, and tilted at the corners. They were most striking on a soft heart-shaped face, and Rhaella was sure she did not imagine the hint of playful mischief behind the mask of courtesy. Rhaella also approved of the way Elia held herself- not an ounce of self-pity, but none of the arrogance Cersei had, either.

Rhaella watched her son approach his future wife; a smile erupted on his face like fire, his eyes lightened up, Elia blushed from his rich purple eyes, despite her olive skin, one could see a light blush on her cheeks.

Rhaella smiled; perhaps things could finally get better, despite not living a happy life; seeing her son pleased like that was worth it.

Rhaella thought they were still young; soon, he would be a king. Given time, they would warm to each other more and have their own children. Over dinner, when Rhaella witnessed Rhaegar chuckle at something Elia quipped - Rhaella relaxed. Yes, they would. They were both good children, and neither had known love yet. Passion would be something they would learn together. It would not be like Rhaella and Aerys repeated.

At Dinner, Rhaella had watched both of them like a hawk, her son talked with Elia through the whole night. He listened closely whenever Elia was talking about something. During the dinner, Rhaegar even started singing a Dornish song for her, one that brought Elia to tears.

Rhaella, of course, told Ser Barristan to report everything to her, he had guarded them that night when the Prince walked Elia back to her bedchamber, the knight told they shared a kiss, and Rhaegar was telling her that she could call him Rhaegar, with Elia saying only if he called her Elia, instead of 'My Lady' or 'My princess.'

Rhaegar said that he agreed with the first one but not with the second one with a sincere smile.

Cersei Lannister - 281 AC

Cersei's impression of the tourney thus far was that it could not hold a candle to the jousts her father had held in Lannisport a few weeks before her eleventh name day. That had been her first sight of the Prince of Dragonstone and the night she had vowed before the Maiden that she would be the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

A beaming page had already brought her word of Jaime's arrival--delayed because every village had thronged with smallfolk wishing to see the brilliant young hero who had crippled the fearsome Smiling Knight, thereby allowing the Sword of the Morning to strike the death blow. His first bout--with Robert Baratheon of Storm's End--was not until the following day, and the jousts had started late after the mystery knight of the previous day failed to appear.

Prince Rhaegar had returned after an hour or so, carrying the knight's shield, and announced with a shrug that the mystery knight must have been a green man, for he could find neither hide nor hair of him. Cersei was convinced that he was lying, though she could not think why.

She had her favor in her hands already, a red silk scarf with a border of lions picked out in gold. However, a hush fell over the crowd just as the herald opened his mouth to announce the day's champions. She turned toward the royal stands and realized the King had risen to his feet.

"What's happening?" Leonella Lefford, daughter of one of her father's bannermen, cried out. Cersei's heart pounded as the six members of the Kingsguard made their way down from the royal pavilion to the grass. Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, the White Bull himself, stepped forth and called out in a voice to rival the herald's, "I call forth Ser Jaime of House Lannister."

The crowd was murmuring loudly now. Traditionally, seven knights were chosen for the Kingsguard, but Ser Harlan Grandison had died some two months past. Soon afterward, she found a letter in her father's rooms from Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, agreeing to come to King's Landing to discuss a betrothal between Jaime and his younger daughter Lysa. When Jaime stopped in the capital on his way to Casterly Rock, she took one of the many secret passages from the Red Keep into the city and found him at an inn near Eel Alley.

It was the perfect plan. She would be queen, and Jaime would be a knight of the Kingsguard. She knew well the story of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his doomed love for beautiful Queen Naerys, married to his false brother Aegon the Unworthy. He would be with her always, her knight, winning glory in her name.

If I cannot win it for myself with a sword, he will win it for me. Jaime would be the jewel of the Kingsguard, perhaps even Lord Commander someday. Years later, the songs would be of them, the lions of Casterly Rock, as dangerous as they were beautiful.

Jaime looked like a king himself in his gold-chased armor, the lion's head helmet tucked beneath his arm. The Lannister arms shone brightly on his red cloak as he knelt before the Lord Commander.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, in the name of King Aerys of House Targaryen, second of that name since the Conquest, you have been called to a great office. To protect the King on the Iron Throne with your life and serve with all honor in the Kingsguard."

The roar of the crowd was deafening. The occasional lady's sob punctuated the cries and whistles, for not since the Sword of the Morning had such a young and handsome knight renounced the love of all ladies to serve his King with all his heart and soul. Cersei knew better. She smiled and pressed her lips to the scarf in her hands. She would find him later tonight and give it to him.

Ser Arthur clasped Jaime's hand as the Lord Commander pinned the snowy white cloak onto his shoulders, obscuring the Lannister lion beneath. Cersei could see a page in red and gold livery running at full-tilt toward the rookery from the corner of her eye. You are too late, dear Father. He is mine, and I am his.

King Aerys watched from above, his smile positively predatory. Why shouldn't he be pleased? Jaime would be the champion of this tourney and many to come. He would bring more glory to the court than had been seen in years.

Emerging from the greetings of his new Sworn Brothers, Jaime knelt before the King. Cersei could hardly bear to look on him, instead of raising her eyes briefly to the Prince of Dragonstone who waited in the pavilion while his father greeted the newest member of his Kingsguard. Prince Rhaegar was frowning down at his father--perhaps even he hadn't known that Jaime was to be invested today.

The King looked down at Jaime, his yellowed teeth visible in a distorted grin. "My dear Ser Jaime, we accept your oath and service. Your first charge will be to ride to King's Landing to guard the queen and Prince Viserys."

Jaime blinked up at him, and Cersei could see the confusion on his face even from where she stood. Something had gone wrong, something... She began to twist the scarf in her hands, trying to catch Jaime's eye.

"You heard, Ser Jaime." The smile had vanished from the King's face. "We do not repeat ourselves."

"If I may, Your Grace," interposed the Lord Commander, "Ser Jaime is heavily favored in the lists tomorrow. It would not do for him to leave so suddenly. I'll go in his stead if you feel the queen is unprotected."

"No, Lord Commander." King Aerys turned to the stands, and Cersei would swear by all the gods that he was looking straight at her. "Let this be a lesson to House Lannister. You are ours. Body and soul. Do not think to rule the dragon anymore."

Cersei was standing before she knew it, her cry lost amidst the thousands in the stands. She saw Jaime rise to his feet, staring unseeing at the ground while the Prince and Ser Arthur Dayne pleaded in vain with the King. Finally, the King roared for silence, and a hush fell over the crowd.

"He'll win no glory here," he said, glaring at Jaime. "He's mine now, not Tywin's. He'll serve as I see fit. I am the King. I rule, and he'll obey."

Rhaegar Targaryen - 281 AC

His jaws were clenched, his face was red, his eyes narrow. Rhaegar prayed he would not do something stupid. That might be his end. But Jaime Lannister managed to swallow his anger, though the effort was obvious. He inclined his head, bowed stiffly, and when he spoke, there was only the slightest of quivers in his voice. The boy seemed to have more control over himself than the Prince had thought.

"As you wish, your Grace." The new member of the Kingsguard mumbled. "I will ride at first light."

Aerys seemed pleased. He nodded and dismissed the boy with a flick of his hand, so careless and casual as if he was shooing away some servants.

Rhaegar could almost see the waves of rage welling up inside of Lannister. For a moment, it looked as if he wanted to say something, but Rhaegar caught his look and shot him a warning glare. The boy turned on his heel and walked from the solar, his snow-white cloak trailing behind him. When the door shut with a loud bang, Aerys chuckled.

"Have you seen his redhead? Such an angry lad, that one."

Rhaegar cleared his throat.

"Father. Was it wise to send Ser Jaime away? So shortly after making him a member of the Kingsguard? He might get behind the real reason for his announcement."

His father grunted.

"Ser Jaime swore a holy oath to protect the royal family until his last breath; he has no choice but to obey me, whatever I want him to do. So if I want him to fulfill his duty and ride back to King's Landing to protect my wife and son, your own mother and brother, from the hired knives of our enemies, he will do just that. No matter if it fits him or not."

Rhaegar frowned.

"I know you see danger for our family luring at every corner, father, but any knight of the Kingsguard is fit for the task you gave to Jaime Lannister. Sending the boy away only enrages him and his father, too."

Which is your intention, I have no doubt.

"Because there is a danger for our family luring at every corner, Rhaegar! Do not talk to me as if I was some frightening old hag!", Aerys scolded him, his indigo eyes darkening in anger.

"I know they are there, waiting in the shadows for us to turn our backs on them so they can stab us between the shoulders. They are everywhere, and I want to know my family protected!" he had raised his voice with every word he spoke until the solar rang with it, loud and high and mad. Rhaegar hid his contempt behind a mask of calmness. He had learned long ago not to flinch from his father's wrath. Showing fear meant showing weakness in Aerys Targaryen's eyes.

The King had not finished yet, though.

"I do not care about Tywin Lannister.", he declared, calmer now, "his firstborn son is under my command now, and he won't inherit Casterly Rock. Tywin's wretched dwarf child is his heir, oh, how the old lion is raging. I can hear his roars from the Rock he's hiding under, even here."

He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile, falling quiet for a second as if he was actually listening to Tywin Lannister's screams.

"In truth, I do not want this son of his here. He likes me not, whatever he has sworn. Words are wind, and this one is false; with his smiles and cheers and golden hair, I can feel it. I do not want him here to plot treason concealed by festivities. Let him guard the Queen and Viserys; your brother is closer to his age than the rest of my kingsguard, after all."

Rhaegar lowered his eyes to the ground and bit back any comments that might have enraged his father again. Instead, he said:

"Whatever you think is best, father. You are the King."

And let's see for how much longer.

That night, he dreamed of dragons. He often had vivid dreams, and just as often, he saw dragons in them, and fire, and things that happened long ago or would happen in a hundred years or never. He had read about that in a book once when he was still a boy. Some of the blood of Old Valyria used to have such half-real dreams that would reveal them the past or future, so the prophecies those gifted ones made would undoubtedly come true one day.

Many of his lines had told about such dreams they had experienced themselves, so Rhaegar knew that he was not the first one to have had meaningful dreams. They used to frighten him as a boy, but now he found himself drawing strength from them, looking forward to falling asleep so he could once again be endorsed by the visions sleep granted him. Sometimes they seemed more real to him than the world he found whenever he woke, more intense and true.

This night it was different, though.

He dreamt he sat on a dragon's back, flying through cold thin air, so high up that he could touch the clouds. The dragon beneath him was a fearsome beast, all teeth and claws and muscles, fire made flesh between his thighs. Its scales shone like polished emeralds, the crests running from its neck to the tip of its tail a rich bronze. The leathery skin of its wings was bronze, too. For a while, they were gliding through the air, swiftly, the heat of the reptile's body seeping through Rhaegar's breeches, its muscles working underneath his palms. Then, the dragon dove through the thick blanket of clouds, and he could see the land underneath.

It was a battlefield. From high above, all the Prince saw was a slaughter, the screams of dying men and beasts carried up to him by a cold breeze. It was snowing, too, and deep below, he saw spots where the snow had formed heaps forty feet high and even higher.

In other places, it was completely gone, molten away by vast fires, but the snow kept falling, and even as Rhaegar was watching, the black burnt earth vanished under layer after layer of fresh white snow. Men were scattered everywhere, dead and alive and dying. Heaps of corpses became heaps of snow while soldiers scrambled over them. Rhaegar could not make out any banners, but it seemed to him as though some of the men were moving unnaturally, clumsy and slow, almost as if they had yet to learn how to use their bodies.

Suddenly, a shadow fell on him, and as he raised his head, he saw another dragon, larger than his own and as black as a starless night.

Balerion, the Black Dread, Was his first thought, but this dragon was smaller, and besides, Rhaegar had never heard of Aegon the Conqueror fighting a battle in snow and ice.

The black dragon let out a mighty roar, and as it flew past the Prince, he could see a woman sitting on its back, clinging to the scarlet crest at the base of its neck. Her hair was a mane of silver, trailing behind her like a shooting star's tail, her face was calm and beautiful, large violet c eyes framed by long lashes looking out into the world, observing the Battle on the ground. She wore rough leather and linen, garbs fit for riding but utterly out of place in a snow storm. Yet, she did not shiver.

The cold cannot touch the Blood of the Dragon, he remembered.

A shriek echoed from the skies, and through the storm, he could see a third dragon, golden wings beating at the air to force its way towards its siblings. This one was white as freshly fallen snow and on its back...he could see a figure, but the dragon and its rider were too far away to make out details. He saw dark hair, though, blowing in the storm. And that was when he knew.

The black dragon folded its wings and fell from the sky, a good hundred feet, before opening them again, letting them fill with the wind like the sails of some great war galley and regaining balance. Then, it craned its long neck towards the ground, opened its mouth, and spit scarlet flames.

It is burning corpses, he realized, as the fire engulfed a mountain of dead men, the snow melting away with a sound like thousand hissing snakes, the burning bodies filling the air with the stench of charred flesh. Why is it burning corpses?

Snowflakes swirled around him, floated before his eyes so he could not see what was happening anymore. The vision started to fade, white turned to black, and before he knew it, the storm, the battlefield, the dragons, and their riders had molten away like the snow upon the dead bodies.

Rhaegar saw himself in a large field, snow almost five feet deep, yet he didn't feel cold. His eyes searching for any sign of life stopped when his eyes found a dragon staring at him; this dragon was different; his skin was pale blue, almost white, his wings were blue, with deep purple eyes.

DreamFyre

And a man with dark hair deep purple eyes was standing on top of him.

Rhaegar Targaryen opened his eyes and was confronted with the darkness of his bedchamber. The smell of burnt men still lingered in his nose, and his body felt hotter where it had touched the dragon. Next to him, his wife was stirring, mumbling his name.

He wrapped his arms around her slim, fragile body and pulled her closer, inhaling her scent. Elia Martell let out a small, sleep-drunken moan and nestled her head against his chest. He brought his lips to her shoulder and planted a kiss there.

"I have seen our children, Elia." He whispered. Saying it out loud made it come true, reassured him.

Elia gave a silent sigh. "Where?" she asked.

"I dreamt of them. Rhaenys and Aegon and Visenya, they were all there. They rode dragons, Elia. Our children."

His wife chuckled. "All three? We only have one girl, Beloved. And this." She took his hand and rested it atop her swollen belly. "And if the gods are good, they will grant you an Aegon."

He kissed the crown of her head. "I know they will. And a Visenya afterward."

He could feel Elia's eyes go dark with worry, even if he could not see it.

"That would be wonderful, to be sure.", she whispered. She left the rest unsaid.

I might not be able to give you your Visenya.

Rhaegar was well aware of that. Rhaenys birth had been torture, and afterward, his wife had been bound to her bed for half a year. She was sickly even now, carrying his second child, and he dreaded the day his son would be born. Should Elia not survive...he pushed the thought away from him, concentrating on his dream instead.

"I saw them," he insisted. "They were beautiful and strong. They were leading the country to a better future."

And my son...I saw it through my son's eyes. My Promised Prince.

Elia turned in his arms until her face was close to his in the dark. He could feel her breath upon his skin.

"It was a dream, Rhaegar. Whatever you saw, it was a dream. No man knows what the future brings, and no dreams can show it. I know you think differently of it, but all we can do for the moment is wait. We know nothing. Go back to sleep, my Prince."

She kissed him lightly on the lips and retreated, rolling over to her side of the bed, and only a moment later, her deep, calm breathing told him she had fallen asleep again.

She does not understand, he thought. And how so? I can never hope to make her understand my dreams. She has never seen what I've seen.

He lay awake for a long time, staring into the darkness.

I saw my children. All three. It was real. The dragon needs three heads.

But Elia could not grasp the importance of that; She never would. Sleep did not come easy to him that night.

Lyanna Stark

The castle really was gigantic. Lyanna had ridden along the curtain wall for half an hour now, yet she had not circled Harrenhal completely even once. The people she met were all busy, tending to horses or armor, preparing food, washing clothes. The ruined castle was alive with sound.

Lyanna laid her head back and looked up to the closest tower, Kingspyre Tower. Though centuries had passed since Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes had descended upon Harren's halls, spitting fire and claiming blood, the stones were as blackened as they had been the moment after the dragon flames had melted them. What was left of Harrenhal was eerie, haunted. A vast black beast was cowering by the shore of God's Lake, threatening to swallow anyone who came too close.

Nonetheless, Kingspyre Tower seemed to be of a chilling beauty to Lyanna. Looming tall above her, half-eaten by wind and weather, half-consumed and molten down by Dragonfire, the place where Black Harren and all his sons had died screaming was of solemn silence.

Passing it, Lyanna wondered what it had looked like before Aegon Targaryen and his dragons. Another thing to be added to the ever-growing heap of questions she had that she would never know the answer to.

As she rode past the armory, she heard a noise coming from the backyard. She halted her horse and listened attentively. There were laughter and young voices, three gleeful and cruel, one meek and begging. She heard groans as well and the hard thump of boots meeting ribs.

Someone was obviously being beaten up, and the three attackers sounded young. Whoever the victim was, he needed help. Without thinking, Lyanna vaulted down from her palfrey's back and stormed towards the noise, ripping a tourney sword from its scabbard as she passed the counter, where several of them lay orderly arranged to be taken up for training. She stopped before peering around the corner to see what was going on.

Three boys stood in a circle, sneering at something lying on the ground between them. None of them could have been older than fourteen, but they were all equally ugly and unwashed.

One of them was kicking the man on the ground – it was a man, Lyanna could see as one of the boys moved a bit to the side - with a boot. Again. And Again. Their victim let out a cry as the tip of the boot took him in the gut.

"P..please st..op-"

"What did the frog say?" one of the boys, the tallest one, with a large mole on his cheek, asked, his voice full of false innocence. "I couldn't quite get it."

The man on the ground seemed to cringe at the boy's words, but still, he made another attempt to speak.

"I...let m-me go. P..lease, Sers, I...ne'er did you a-any h..harm."

"Did you hear that?" the other boy let out an excited squeal "Sers! He thinks us to be knights!" the giggle he let out was both hysterical and irritating.

"Filthy stupid crannogman takes squires for knights. You should have stayed in your bogs."

The three of them howled with laughter. They sounded like a pack of ill-tempered hyenas. When the boy with the pug-nose and an enormous tooth gap lifted his leg to kick the poor man once more, Lyanna knew she had to act.

She stormed towards them, tourney sword in hand, screaming. Her first blow hit the mole-boy across the back, sending him to the ground with a cry of pain. She whirled around immediately to wag the pug-nose boy on his cheek with the broad side of the blade before striking him down with a hit in the guts. As she turned to face the third boy, a small excuse of a squire with watery eyes, unkempt brown hair, and prominent ears, he raised his hands and dropped to his knees, stammering begs and shaking.

Lyanna pushed her hair out of her reddened face and looked at the boys on the ground.

"This is my father's bannerman you are assaulting! Did you know that?" She growled angrily. The boys looked up at her with uncomprehending eyes. "Apparently, you did not. Harming someone's bannermen is a crime and can be punished with death, but I assume you did not know that either."

The boys looked at her in disbelief, with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, but Lyanna could see the first glints of uncertainty as well. The mole-boy spoke up.

" 'cuse me, m'lady, but who's your sire?" he had wanted to make the question sound mocking, but sitting on his buttocks in a puddle of mud, it failed its intention. Lyanna looked down on him, contempt in her eyes, before moving over to the beaten-up man still lying on the ground to help him up.

When she had pulled the crannogman to his feet and brushed off the worst of the dirt on his surcoat, she turned around to the three boys who were now on their feet again as well to answer the question. Supporting the squire's victim, she straightened herself, brushed her hair back, and said:

"My father is Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North. I am his daughter, Lyanna Stark. This man is one of my father's bannermen, like his ancestors before him were for hundreds of years. I would think my father will not like to hear what you did to him."

Now there was no trace of uncertainty or defiance left on the boys faces anymore. They looked downright horrified, pale, and afraid, Lyanna was pleased to see. None of them said a word; they were frozen on the spot, staring at her with round eyes and gaping mouths. Eventually, the boy with zit-covered cheeks regained his voice.

"M'lady," he stuttered, "We..we didn't know...please forgive us we – we...t'was just some silly game we ne'er meant him no harm you have to see...we didn't know m'lady-"

Lyanna cut him off with a flick of her tourney sword. "Away with you. You and your silly games have caused enough trouble for a day."

"But-"

"Away!"

The three boys suddenly remembered how to use their legs and made good use of the regained ability. They turned on their heels and scurried off, and a moment later, they were gone.

The man she'd saved let out a grunt as he loosened his grip around her supportive arm and straightened himself. Only now did she saw how small he was. Barely her height, of slender built, his arms and legs nothing but skin and bone and sinew. Two eyes the color of moss looked her straight in the face from under a mop of tangled, brown hair. Genuine, those eyes were, and calm, though one was swollen and slowly taking on an angry shade of purple.

"I owe you my life, my lady," the crannogman said "it was very brave of you to...rescue me from these brutes. I...I would get down to one knee, but I fear I might not get up again." He grimaced. "A nice sword you have there. My name is Lord Howland Reed if it pleases you."

A Lord. From his look, one would have never guessed Howland to have anything lordly in him. He was very young, even though he tried to appear older by grooming a wispy beard—Six-and-ten, or probably one year more at most.

"I am pleased to meet you, Lord Reed. But may I ask, why did those three attack you?"

Howland made a face. "They have heard the stories about us crannogmen, frog-eaters, bog-inhabitants, poison-makers. They found an easy target in me. I did not provoke them if that is what the lady thinks. I just happened to be in their way.", he shrugged, "If not for you, they might have beaten me bloody. Broken a bone or two..."

Lyanna shook her head in disbelief. How could anyone be so cruel?

"Why weren't you at the feast yesterday?" She asked instead. "I did not see you."

The young Lord looked at his toes, frowning slightly.

"I...I do not feel suited for those feasts, my lady. They are for great lords and ladies and kings even, but not for the likes of me. I may style myself Lord, yet I am but a crannogman....besides, I do not own clothes befit such occasions."

Lyanna felt rage growing in her belly.

"That is not true! You are every inch as important as any of the other attendants! It would be best if you came to this night's feast; you will enjoy it, I am sure. And as to your clothes...I am sure one of my brothers has garments that will suit you well."

"But, My Lady...this is not necessary, this –" "I insist on it. I promise you; you will be treated as the Lord you are, and should anyone try to do otherwise, I still have this." She raised her blunted sword and smirked playfully. "You will see. It will be marvelous."

Howland did not look convinced at all, yet he nodded slowly. "What about those three squires, though? Will you tell your father?"

Lyanna looked at him, his bruised face, dirty clothes, and considered. Then, slowly, a smile crept over her face, a mischievous smile, eager and confident.

"They will get what they deserve, Lord Reed. I promise you, I will see to it."

After 3 Days

"It was you."

Grey eyes wide, Lyanna shook her head vehemently. "I don't know what you mean, my lord," she said, though the color draining from her face gave the lie to her words. "You've – You've made some mistake."

"I haven't. I almost never do, and I'm sure I haven't now." Rhaegar looked her up and down, measuring her height against what he remembered of the mystery knight; it fit. The knight had seemed so slight, so slender, nearly swallowed by his -- her -- rattling armor. "We had thought mayhap some stripling lad, another Barristan Selmy, but no... no, this makes far more..."

"You mistake," Lyanna insisted, though her legs felt weak beneath her, and she knew her hands were shaking. "No doubt you had the right of it before, some youth over-eager to prove himself--"

"You must have borrowed the armor from one of your brothers. You ride like a vision. You could unseat half the knights here, maybe more, and yet you chose those three, so deliberately. Why?"

Lyanna's jaw trembled; the truth welled up in her like a swollen river against a weak dam, too forceful to be denied. If Prince Rhaegar had guessed, her secret was already lost. "Because it was the right thing to do," she replied, managing to keep the fear out of the low timbre of her voice. "Their squires shamelessly beat and tormented one of my father's men, a crannogman of the marshes." Rhaegar stared at her, unreadable as ever, as though she were some wild thing new-crept out of the forest.

Feeling the suffocating pressure of the silence, Lyanna blurted out in continuation, "The squires received a fair reprimand at my hands, but I could not do enough to make them regret it directly; mayhap their liege knights will have better luck teaching them honor." Still more silence. "I had to defend him. It was my duty as a Stark, and-- and it was right."

"You mad, reckless thing." There was no heat in his words, no anger, not even an expected note of censure -- Rhaegar was stating a fact, like any he might have learned from a book. His hands descended heavily on her shoulders. Lyanna tried to draw away, but he held her fast. "My father's on the warpath, gods know why, but he's got it in his head this mystery knight means him harm."

"I never--"

"Of course you never, but my father is a very paranoid person." She looked up, and through her streaming dark hair, she met his eyes and saw there the emotion she had not been able to identify in his voice: wonder. Lyanna Stark had awed this great Prince, this noble Targaryen lord. Now it was his turn to shake his head, not in denial, but in utter disbelief.

"I meant no harm by my actions. I know the King sent you to find--"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Do not think of it. You speak true; you are no threat to him, no harm. I see of no reason he should know. Your secret is mine." Then, a sudden light came into his face, transforming him with the same brilliance as when he played at his harp.

Something had fallen into place for him, had suddenly made sense of a grey and murky world. Lyanna saw the change but had no notion what had caused it. There was a new intensity in his gaze upon her. "Extraordinary," he repeated. "I suppose no less should be expected from the Great House of Stark."

Lyanna lifted her chin slightly. "I hope I serve my House and my family faithfully and well," she said.

A smile answered her -- a real one, not the ghostly imitations that so often crossed the Prince's face. "You have quite caught me off my guard, Lady."

"I have! That's quite an accomplishment, getting a prince off guard," Lyanna spoke through her sweet smile.

Rhaegar chuckled at her words. "If you want, I can walk you back to the camp; my father won't know of who you are, he still thinks is Jaime Lannister," Rhaegar said with a bitter taste on his mouth; the kid was still young and foolish and didn't know my father's true nature.

Lyanna thought of his words but wasn't sure whenever to accept, Lya thought the Prince would be more menacing, yet he looked like an ordinary man.

"Very well"

Ashara Dayne

Prince Rhaegar had played his harp for the assembled crowd earlier in the evening, and it should have surprised no one that he sang of Summerhall and grief of Jenny of Oldstones for her dead Prince of Dragonflies. Ashara even saw Lady Olenna scribbling down lines that caught her attention, no doubt meaning to add them into the masque. Claiming a glass of Arbor gold from a passing servant, she perched on the edge of the high table and considered the room.

She would ask Princess Elia if she noticed anything odd during the Prince's song. Ashara had been too busy wincing at the words and eyeing the guests she knew had once been closest to the King. The Lannisters and their bannermen. The Tyrells and the lords of the Reach. The Starks she paid no mind; Winterfell to her seemed as distant as Old Valyria, and the northern lords had the sense to stay as far away from court as they could. However, most of the guests had drunk enough of Lord and Lady Whent's wine that they barely noticed the words, applauding the Prince as mightily as any famed musician from the Free Cities.

That much, at least, was a blessing. And by now, the dancing had indeed distracted them from even that memory. She herself was quickly losing track of her long string of partners.

"You seem far too serious for a feast, my lady," a man's voice said near her in a thick Northern burr. "If I may be so bold."

Ashara glanced up from her wine. The knight, clad in Stark colors, was her age or perhaps a bit younger, some childish roundness still in his cheeks. He was flushed with wine, his grey eyes alive with laughter, and his hair pretty as a girl's. Ashara refused to indulge her desire to twist one of those dark curls around her finger and steal a kiss. After all, he was a northern boy; he might faint from shock. "They say the lords of the north must need be bold to spare us all from the depths of winter. Are those not the Stark words?"

"Spare me from my family's words," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "I must confess, my lady, that I am here on a mission."

"A mission?" Ashara drained her wine and set the glass on the table behind her. "Pray do tell."

"I'm afraid you seem to have stunned my younger brother." He made an expansive gesture toward the table where the Starks and their allies gathered. There, beside the laughing figure of Robert Baratheon of Storm's End, was the young man she had seen earlier. "He's been staring at you all night, and it was all I could do to draw out of him that he'd encountered you earlier this evening and thought you were the fairest lady he'd ever seen."

"That must make you Lord Rickard's heir." Ashara held out her hand. "I am Ashara Dayne, and I serve Princess Elia."

"And the Sword of the Morning..."

"My elder brother," she confirmed, hiding her smile. So many young men, it seemed, blushed like maids for Arthur, though he wouldn't have noticed even if he weren't sworn to the Kingsguard. "Should I be insulted that the young men flock to him rather than me?"

The young Lord Stark kissed her hand. "They would flock to you, lady, if you would have them."

"But not you among them, surely. Or are the rumors of your betrothal false?" She could not recall who the lady was, but she was not in attendance.

"Nay, I am betrothed to Lady Catelyn Tully of Riverrun; that much is true." There was a trace of defiance beneath the words that gave Ashara pause. Something more lay beneath the words; that much she could tell. "But that is of no consequence tonight. I am here to beg a dance from you on my brother's behalf."

"Will he not ask me himself?" As she looked across the room at Ned Stark once more, he met her eyes, and his cheeks grew red. "I am not so frightening, surely."

"If Lord Robert were to know, poor Ned would never hear the end of it. Will you be my brother's savior, my lady Ashara?"

"Every woman longs to save a man," she finally said, giving him her hand. "Lead on, my Lord. Although, do tell me your name that I may remember you to my brother."

"I would prefer to be remembered to you, lady. Brandon Stark, at your service."

Ashara smiled at him and saw with satisfaction that blush had begun to creep up his neck. "A builder like your namesake?"

"I fear not, my lady. Just the future Lord of Winterfell."

"Just the future lord of Winterfell," she mimicked, the northern consonants tripping her tongue. "I would speak more with you, Lord Brandon."

"And I with you."

"Some other night, perhaps," she said, curtsying. Then, dropping his arm, she advanced the final few steps to the contingent flying the blue and white eagle of the Eyrie. Brandon Stark's brother was seated beside the black-haired giant of Storm's End, one of the favorites of this tournament, and his eyes widened in shock at the sight of her. "I told you I would find you, Ned Stark," said Ashara, biting back a smile.

Robert Baratheon slapped him on the back. "Dance with her, you fool, before she changes her mind. Or, better yet," he turned to Ashara, blue eyes dancing with drunken laughter, "I'll go in his stead."

"Nay, Lord Robert, the invitation has yet to be refused." At which point, Ned Stark grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the center of the hall, Robert's laughter echoing behind them. Northmen were turning out to be far less boring than she had suspected.

At the last minute, she saw, from the corner of her eye, a slender young man in grey clothing clearly intended for someone much larger. Pinned at his throat was a badge of two lizards--one Ashara did not recognize. Her frown must have caught Ned Stark's attention, for he made a half-gesture toward the young man in the corner.

"Howland Reed, my lady, of Greywater Watch. The crannogmen do not normally venture this far south, but he said he'd had a dream of this tournament." As if suddenly realizing what he'd said, he stared down at the embroidered hem of her skirts. "Which sounds very foolish, I imagine..."

"Not at all, my lord," Ashara replied, only half in bemusement. The dragons may have died long ago, but the magic had not wholly died with them, and it was said the crannogmen of the neck could trace their blood back to the First Men. Ashara met Howland Reed's eyes--the green of moss and swamp trees--, and it seemed for a half-second that she stood at the window of the Palestone Sword, gazing down at the ocean infinitely far below.

"Lady Ashara?" Ned's face swam back into her vision. "Are you all right?"

She tossed her head and smiled. "Of course. I was just miles away for a moment. By all means, let us dance and think no more of it."

When she glanced back over her shoulder, the crannogman had vanished.

283 AC

Rhaegar stood motionless on the tower of Joy; this morning, he would leave, his father had ordered him back to the Red Keep; the silver prince cursed himself mentally, how things could have gone so wrong.

He was supposed to be the King, one who healed the wounds left by his father, and yet he had made such a huge mistake.

Rhaegar knew it was his fault that Lya's brother and father had died, is my fault, Rhaegar told himself, and if that wasn't enough, he had put Elia and their children in danger.

And for What? For a Prophecy, Rhaegar swallowed and prepared to leave the tower, Lya had wanted to go as soon as word came that her brother and father had been burned and strangled, but sickness had caught her, the wet nurse warned them she wasn't in condition to go anywhere.

The door opened, Rhaegar turned to see his old friend walking inside; despite being friends for many years, Arthur not once had disagreed with his Prince, but when Rhaegar ordered him to stay and protect Lyanna and their unborn child, he had argued so much with him that at one point Ser Gerold had been afraid that Arthur might punch Prince Rhaegar.

Not able to handle the silence, Rhaegar turned fully at his brother in all but blood.

"Speak Arthur, you know I always let you all speak freely" Rhaegar spoke with a slightly hurt tone, despite being his kingsguard, despite what they thought might be against what he said, Rhaegar always let them speak; he didn't want them to feel with him like how they felt with his father. God forbid...

"I want to come with you," Arthur said, his purpose clear.

Rhaegar was about to deny it again when they heard the door opening, and it was Lya walking, her face pale and tired.

Rhaegar was about to help her walk when she raised her hand to stop him and glared at him.

"Ser Arthur is coming with you," she stated with a tone indicating that he could do nothing to change her mind and that he should accept it. Arthur smiled at Princess Lyanna, despite hating himself for doing it, he told her last night and asked for help to convince Rhaegar to let him come with him.

"You need him more than I do; no one will come here, everyone is busy with the Rebellion, not that many people even know this place even exists," Lyanna spoke.

Rhaegar looked at her eyes and saw she wouldn't change her mind; Rhaegar had never seen a Wolf in his life, but he was sure that Lya had the eyes of a Dire Wolf; she was stubborn like that.

Rhaegar took a deep breath and thought of it; the silence grew around the room, almost drowning them.

After what felt like forever, Rhaegar put his hands on the table; he gave his second wife a look before turning fully at Arthur.

"Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell will stay here, Arthur. You're coming with me."

That day Rhaegar Targaryen left the tower, followed by Arthur Dayne leaving behind Lyanna with Ser Gerold, Ser Oswell, and five loyal guards of House Targaryen.

Before he left, Rhaegar promised to meet again soon, with their child in King's Landing.

Arthur Dayne - The Battle of The Trident

The booming voice of men slaughtering each other boomed in his ears like bells, his sword and hands wet with blood, the smell of blood and mud everywhere around the Battle, after each strike a men fell dead on his feet, Arthur had lost count of how many people he had killed today, he didn't even remember their faces.

His eyes kept his King close; if he fell, they all fell with him.

Another boy rushed at him with a sword; Arthur blocked his strike before plunging his second sword on his belly.

Arthur didn't even hear him scream from the pain, his guts on the mud, his eyes still not understanding what just happened to him.

Arthur strikes again, again, and again, more and more men fall as more blood fills his armor, he spits the blood of someone else from his mouth.

The taste of iron on his mouth, the rain was wetting his face with blood.

His eyes searched for his next opponent, only to see the antlers on top of his helmet, his mighty hammer smashing down man, their chest crushed, his eyes filled with fury.

He looked like a man-made of steel. He wore heavy plate over chainmail, dull grey steel dinted and scarred in Battle. In his chest was the Deer of Baratheon.

At that moment, nothing else existed for Arthur; every sound suddenly went away; it was silence, his eyes only at his enemy.

Without thinking, he marched towards the man, Dawn on his hand like a third arm, his breath visible in front of him as the Baratheon turned and saw his famous sword.

"DAYNE"

The Baratheon cried, swinging his mighty hammer at his chest; Arthur jumped back just in time, the hammer hit nothing but air.

Arthur knew one fail, and he's dead; the Baratheon's eyes looked furious behind his helmet. Arthur saw the plates of iron coming together around his shoulder, knowing where to strike the giant man.

Arthur moved smoothly and fast towards the Baratheon, who used his hammer to block his sword, moving his hammer upwards, and swung it down only to hit the mud, Arthur suddenly on his right, Baratheon was about to raise his hammer again when the blade pierced his forearm, the part around his forearm had no iron to protect it.

He roared in a fury, ignoring the pain, raising his hammer again with all his strength; he swung at his chest; Arthur didn't try to block it, taking three steps back, he thought to strike before he could swing again.

But the Baratheon didn't allow himself to have any pause before swinging again; his hammer met nothing but air as Arthur jumped before the hammer could crush his legs.

With one move, his first sword pierced his knee-deep, cutting through muscles and bones; the Baratheon cried again, his knees surrounded as his body fell on one knee before Arthur pushed his sword Dawn deep into his shoulder, the blood came out like wine from a bottle, cutting through his body like cutting through a cake.

Everyone seemed to have stopped fighting; Arthur heard many men scream the name of the Baratheon.

"Lya-Ly-Lyanna," The Baratheon murmured before his body fell on the muddy ground. The War was Over.