13 Time to grow up, Princess

Chapter 13 –

Rickard Stark was no fool.

He knew his daughter did not want to marry her betrothed, Robert Baratheon. 

He knew that forcing her marriage sooner on her would make her despise him more than she already did. But he had no choice.

Rickard stared sternly at his daughter, met by a defiant glare that was the very mirror of his own stubborn will. 

Beneath the surface defiance, he saw a flicker of something else…fear, perhaps? Or the wounded pride of a she-wolf cornered. 

A pang of sympathy warred with his mounting frustration.

At least she has a spine, he mused grimly. 

Pity the brains to go with it seem to have gone missing.

The solar felt charged with a volatile energy. 

Benjen fidgeted beside Lyanna, teary-eyed and pale, his small hand a vise-like grip on hers. Brandon stood stiffly near the hearth, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. The ancestral portraits that lined the walls seemed to watch the scene unfold with silent judgment.

Rickard placed the damning letter on the heavy oak desk. 

Two parchments, one bearing Benjen's hasty scrawl and addressed to Lady Ashara, the other…that one bore the weight of a thousand poor decisions.

"Lyanna," he began, his voice deceptively calm, "I believe you have some explaining to do."

Lyanna glared back, defiant, but a flicker of uncertainty danced in her usually bold eyes. She clutched Benjen's hand, her knuckles white, her attempt at bravado cracking slightly.

Brandon shifted his stance, a muscle twitching in his jaw. 

"You sought an audience with the Crown Prince," Rickard continued, his tone hardening. "Care to shed light on why you would dishonor your House, dishonor your betrothed, in such a reckless manner?"

The defiance in Lyanna's eyes flared into outright anger. "Dishonored?" she spat, her voice rising. "Dishonored by whom? Father, everyone seems determined to shame me before I even leave Winterfell!"

She wrenched her hand free from Benjen's grasp, trembling slightly. "Robert," she hissed, the name dripping with venom, "my oaf of a betrothed! He can't even wait until our wedding night to whore around, to parade his bastard before the realm! And you expect me to bear it with a smile?"

Rickard leaned back on his chair, the lines on his face etched deeper by the weight of his daughter's words. "If you felt slighted by Robert's actions, Lyanna, there are honorable ways to address those grievances. Running off to the Crown Prince…a married man…." His voice sharpened. "Do you even grasp the danger you've courted?"

Lyanna's voice cracked, tears of fury blurring her defiant gaze. "Don't you see, Father? They all do it! Robert, Rhaegar…even Brandon!" Her words hung heavy in the air, the accusation ringing clear.

Brandon stiffened, shock replacing the anger in his eyes. "Lyanna–" he began, but she cut him off.

"Robert won't keep to our vows! The prince won't either!" Her voice rose to a near shriek. "And Brandon, the dutiful son, he beds Lady Barbrey, the wife of his good-friend, Lord Willam, a man he calls his own foster brother! And Ashara…he tried to charm her at the tourney, knowing full well Ned set his heart on her!"

The solar fell into a stunned silence. 

Rickard stared at Brandon, his face hardening into a mask of icy displeasure. 

Brandon shifted, guiltily in his place not meeting Lyanna's vicious accusatory glare "H-how?"

"You're not as discrete as you think you are, dear brother!" Lyanna smiled nastily "The letters you received from her, hidden oh so secretly with the lumber crates. I know everything!"

"L-lyanna … I" Brandon spluttered.

"Enough!" Rickard shouted. He was glad he had dismissed Rodrik and the guards for the morning. "I will discuss Brandon later!"

Right now, Lyanna remained the wildfire threatening to consume them all.

Focusing back on his daughter, Rickard spoke, his voice laced with a weariness that cut deeper than anger. "Lyanna, even if you sought…petty revenge…there were other paths. Why the Crown Prince?"

Lyanna's anger flared anew. "Other paths? I tried, Father! The Reach boy at the tourney…he would have gladly taken my maidenhead! Robert would have been none the wiser. And then I would have married the lumbering oaf!" Her eyes glittered with fresh tears. "But you drove him away, and the others! Frightened them all off!"

Rickard blinked in confusion. "I did no such thing, child. If they chose to distance themselves, that was their decision."

Lyanna scoffed, disbelief twisting her features. "And why would they do that? Unless they were warned off…"

"Enough of this madness!" Rickard's voice echoed in the room. "Lyanna, there were a hundred young lords at Harrenhal. Tell me, why fixate on a married man with a kingdom hanging by a thread on his shoulders? A prince who dishonored you, dishonored his wife before the whole realms? What did you intend to happen? Be his secret whore? Did you think he would have set aside his wife for you, are you that starry-eyed, Lyanna!"

Lyanna's defiant words, spoken with such bitter conviction, hung in the air like a poison mist. "At least with the prince," she scoffed, "it would have been my choice. One night, and then Robert gets what he thinks he bargained for. He would have been none the wiser."

Rickard's shoulders slumped. A deep, weary sigh escaped him. He stared past his children, as if seeing ghosts flicker amongst the portraits of their ancestors. "Lyarra…" he whispered, his voice barely audible, "forgive me."

The weight of failure settled upon him. 

He'd raised his daughter as he had his sons – granting her freedoms, teaching her of honor, assuming that was enough. 

He loved Lyanna fiercely, but he never truly understood her as Lyarra would have. 

He was a warrior, a Lord, not a father in the way a young girl needed.

Gathering his resolve, Rickard reached for a heavy scroll upon his desk. 

He pulled free a smaller, folded parchment tucked within and slid it across the polished wood towards Lyanna. "This was on my bed the day before the last joust, back in Harrenhall," he said, his voice flat.

Lyanna's brow furrowed as she opened the note. Her initial scoff transformed into a gasp of shock and then a bitter laugh.

"So the prince wants to father a bastard on me? Not exactly news, Father," she said, venom lacing her words. "I'm not a fool – I would have taken moon tea, disposed of the evidence. But…" Her voice caught, a hint of hurt edging its defiance. "...it seems you don't know me at all, do you? Don't trust me even an inch with my own life."

Rickard met her accusing stare with a somber gaze. "You are right, Lyanna. I don't know you. Not as I should." His voice carried the weight of years of regret. "But I am learning. When you laughed with him at the feast, when I discovered you'd snuck off to ride with the prince before the jousts… I thought the letter was a cruel jape, but seeing you smile with the prince, openly insult Lord Baratheon? It seems my instincts weren't wrong."

A flash of pain crossed Lyanna's face, cutting through the defiance. 

It wasn't his lack of trust in the prince that truly stung, it was his lack of faith in her.

The hurt in Lyanna's eyes sparked into renewed defiance. 

"Is that all you see, Father?" she spat. "Some scheming harlot whispering in the prince's ear? Do you truly believe that's what I want?"

Her voice rose, laced with bitter envy. "Why does Ned get to choose his bride? Ashara, with her laughing violet eyes and gentle heart… And Brandon, free to tumble any woman he pleases, putting horns on his betrothed even before they wed! Robert beds whores and fathers bastards dishonoring me before half the realm, yet I'm to keep my vows and smile sweetly?"

She sank back into her chair, a mix of exhaustion and despair washing over her. "Even Benjen…he will get to choose his bride too, but me? I'm just a pawn, to be bartered away for your damned alliances!"

Was this all jealousy then? She was jealous of Ned. 

He truly did not know his daughter at all.

'I am so sorry, Lyarra' Rickard swore.

"Enough!" Rickard's voice cut through the air like a blade. 

His face was stern, the mask of the father replaced entirely by the hardened visage of the Lord of Winterfell.

"Enough." He repeated. He looked at all three of his children now, pinning them under his gaze "You have spoken enough, now you will listen."

Rickard fixed his icy gaze on Lyanna. "An affair with the Crown Prince," he said, his voice low and measured. "Do you truly believe this would be a victory, a defiance of Robert? No, girl. The moment word spread–and spread it would, for the prince has no care for his wife's honor, or yours–you would be branded a whore across the Seven Kingdoms."

He paused, letting the harshness of his words sink in. "Rhaegar would make certain everyone knew of your…dalliance. He craves your submission, the very thing you refuse Robert. With a bastard in your belly, he would bind you to him, whether you bore a crown or not."

Lyanna scoffed, disbelief battling with a flicker of fear in her eyes. "He wouldn't…"

"And why not? Lyanna, open your eyes! The Targaryens are not like us. The King…the whispers of his madness, they're no longer just whispers. He delights in burning men alive for his twisted pleasure. It had been just rumors until Harrenhall, but the murder of those Knights? It was unquestionably the King himself!"

Rickard's voice took a dark turn. "The prince's madness is different, but just as dangerous. He believes in mad prophecies, believes he must father a child on you, to complete the set of three. You are but a means to an end, a pawn in his deluded game. Whatever scheme you had decided to cook up, in your petty revenge on Robert, you would have been a pawn all the same."

"This alliance. Stark, Tully, Arryn, and Baratheon. This was meant to protect House Stark from the devolving madness of the Targaryens. They have shown themselves to be no friend to the North, or any house for that matter. They levy taxes with unreasonable rates, call House Stark loyal dogs in the midst of court, treat us nothing more than savages of the realm. And you wanted to lay with one of them!" He jeered.

"You didn't think about the Baratheons did you? I had thought you were no fool," Rickard continued, his voice laced with a warning, "The Baratheons have risen in rebellion for less. Lord Lyonel Baratheon declared independence for the very same reason, leading to a blood rebellion from the Storm Lands. Robert holds his honor lightly, true, but he is a proud man to his core. Do you think he'd suffer the humiliation of knowing the Crown Prince had bed his bride?"

He let a grim silence settle. "This is not a game, Lyanna, you're courting war. The peace your grandfather bargained for would shatter, placing us all in danger."

Turning back towards her, he softened his tone slightly. "I secured you a powerful match, child. Lord of one of the Great Houses, ruler of a vast domain…and he already worships the ground you walk on. Mold him, bend him, as you see fit…but from a position of power, not as some disgraced outcast."

Lyanna paled, the full weight of the potential consequences crashing down on her. "He…he would never have found out," she stammered weakly, "I would have been careful…"

Rickard shook his head, a mix of pity and exasperation in his eyes. "At Storm's End, surrounded by Robert's men? You think none of them would have whispered in his ear, seeking favor? Robert's an oaf, but he's no fool, Lyanna. The truth always has a way of finding the light."

A flicker of desperation crossed Lyanna's face. "But I wouldn't have been happy!" she cried out. "Isn't that what you want, Father? For your children to find happiness?"

Her defiance wavered, replaced by a deep-seated longing. "All the freedom in the world, and for what? I wanted to choose for myself, just once…"

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "You raised me like Ned, like Brandon, but I…I'm not them. Should I have asked your permission to breathe, Father? Is there a list of approved breaths I should have consulted?"

Rickard sighed heavily. The echo of Lyarra's accusing words – forgive me – rang through his mind. He was a warrior, a Lord, but here, in this moment, he was failing as a father. "I raised you as I knew how, Lyanna, with honor, and with strength." He paused, choosing his words with care. "It seems I was wrong. Your brothers may have chafed under their limits, but you craved them, and I was blind to it."

A heavy silence fell over the solar. Rickard stood slowly, reaching for a worn leather sack beside his desk. He tossed it at Lyanna's feet with a thud. "A thousand gold dragons," he said, his voice flat. "Enough to start a new life far from here."

His gaze hardened. "You want freedom, Lyanna? Here it is. That is enough gold to hold you over for the rest of your life, take a ship to the free cities. Braavos would grant you all the freedom and safety you need. We can annul your betrothal. You renounce the Stark name, sail for Braavos, and live as you please." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "But you leave alone. Your actions have consequences, and you must bear them on your own."

Lyanna stared at the sack, a storm of emotions warring within her. 

Here was the freedom she desperately craved.

Yet, when she spoke, she did not have the strength to claim it. "I …. I am sorry, father" she finally stammered, as the full weight of her reality came crashing down on her shoulders.

Rickard's frown deepened. "I thought as much," he said with a touch of grim satisfaction. "You desire the trappings of freedom, Lyanna, but not the burden that comes with it. Duty...it's a heavy word, I know."

He leaned forward, his voice softening but still firm. "Yes, your duty is to wed, to bear Robert Baratheon's heirs. It's not fair, not as nan's tales would have it. But we don't live in those tales, child. We live in a world of hard choices. It's past time you grew up."

The air in the solar crackled with a different sort of tension as Rickard turned his icy gaze onto Brandon. 

For all his faults, Brandon had always met his father's stare with a mix of defiance and boldness. 

Now, guilt and shame twisted his features, and he avoided Rickard's eyes.

"Brandon," Rickard began, his voice deceptively calm, "look at me. I raised you to be bold, not a craven."

A muscle twitched in Brandon's jaw, but he slowly lifted his gaze to meet his father's.

"What Lyanna said..." Rickard paused, gauging his son's reaction. "About Lady Dustin…is it true?"

The color drained from Brandon's face. 

No words were needed; the guilt written across his features was answer enough.

"By the gods..." Rickard breathed, a wave of disgust washing over him. "You dishonored Lady Dustin, the wife of a bannerman you call your foster brother? And Lady Ashara…" his voice rose, laced with a fury that cut deeper than any physical blow. "You thought to take your own brother's love after bedding his previous intended? What sickness has addled you?"

Brandon opened his mouth as if to reply, then visibly deflated. "I…I love Barbrey," he mumbled, the words lacking any real conviction.

Rickard scoffed. "Love? You would'nt fill your belly at a brothel every new moon if it was truly love. Nay … that was Lust with a petty twist, nothing more."

He stared at his son, this boy-turned-man who embodied everything he'd tried to teach and everything he seemed to have failed at. "Answer me this, Brandon – was it worth it? Was a few nights of pleasure worth betraying your honor? Betraying Eddard so thoroughly? Should I write to him, detail exactly what you have done? Tried to do?"

The mention of Ned sent a fresh surge of shame through Brandon. He paled and stammered out, "Father, I…I'm sorry. I never meant…" His words trailed off, choked with a guilt that was all too real, yet still tinged with a lingering desire to defend himself.

Rickard stared at him in disgust. "Sorry? You think this was a moment's weakness, easily forgiven with those empty words? I barely recognize my own children anymore."

His gaze turned ice-cold. "Tell me, is there a bastard growing in Lady Dustin's belly?"

Brandon shook his head frantically. "No," he gasped out, "no, she…she took moon tea, I swear."

Rickard's anger deepened. "You think that absolves you? Barbrey Dustin is playing a dangerous game, and you, with your lust-addled brain, are her unwitting pawn. She may desire a Stark heir, Brandon. One that would give her claim to Winterfell itself, should our alliance falter."

Brandon stammers "Barbrey… she- she wouldn't! I know her!"

He leaned closer, his voice a chilling whisper. "And when you tire of her, and a new woman fills your eye, what then? When she realizes that you could never be with her? Do you think she will meekly step aside? No, she'll use that child against you, against House Stark. She will cry 'rape', drag House Stark's name through the mud, and bugger us for all we are worth! Which, by the looks of you is not going to be much in the near future."

Brandon's stuttered attempts at defending Barbrey's honor died on his lips as the full weight of Rickard's words crashed down upon him. 

A flicker of doubt, a sliver of fear, pierced through the haze of lust and youthful defiance.

"Father… I" he began, but Rickard cut him off with a raised hand.

"Silence!" Rickard's voice thundered in the silence. "I thought I'd raised you better than this, Brandon. Honor isn't some pretty word you wear on tourney day and discard in a woman's bedchamber."

Finally, Rickard's attention was drawn towards Benjen. 

The youngest Stark huddled near Lyanna, his usually innocent face pale, and eyes blotched with tears.

"Benjen…" Rickard began, but Lyanna interrupted.

"Don't, Father!" she cried out. "Please, I roped him into this mess. He didn't know, didn't understand what I was plotting."

Rickard stared at his daughter, then back to his youngest son. A weary sigh escaped him. He realized that while Benjen was the least culpable, the boy still needed to learn a harsh lesson.

"It's true, Lyanna used you," Rickard said, his tone softening slightly. "But a blind man stumbles into danger as easily as a scheming one. Open your eyes, Benjen. See the consequences of your actions...or rather, how Lyanna's actions could have tangled you in a web not of your own making. Your actions, had you not been caught, had Brandon not been watching the both of you like a hawk would have inevitably led us to war"

'It still might' Rickard sighed internally.

Rickard's gaze softened slightly as he looked at Benjen. "The truth is, son," he said, "your sister's reckless scheme could have brought war upon us all. The Targaryens are mad, and Robert… Had we been caught…."

He didn't need to finish the sentence. 

The images flashed through his mind – Winterfell ablaze, his children dead, the legacy of his ancestors reduced to ashes.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Rickard turned his attention to the task of meting out punishments. 

This wasn't justice, not truly, but it was the only means he had to restore some semblance of order to his shattered world.

"Lyanna," he began, his voice stern once again, "you will remain in Winterfell until your wedding day. No more schemes, no more attempts to flee. And your marriage to Robert Baratheon will take place here, after Brandon's. You will not be permitted to ride any longer. You will stay in your chambers for a moon at the least, leaving only for food, and other needs. Nothing else. Maester Walys will try and teach you how to rule as a proper lady of the realm, if that doesn't work, I will summon Lady Mormont take you for a fosterage, she will come here. You will no longer leave Winterfell till you are married to Lord Baratheon."

Lyanna nodded meekly. 

Tears streamed down her face, but her defiance seemed to have finally broken. 

Rickard felt a pang of guilt, knowing he wasn't endearing himself to his daughter, but this was how things had to be.

He turned to Brandon, his anger rekindled. "You will never see Lady Dustin again. One more whisper of you near her, of even stepping foot near Barrowtown, or another woman who is not Catelyn Tully, and you will forsake Winterfell. You will take the fucking Black. Ned will become Lord Stark, at least I can rest assured he hasn't dishonored House Stark like you have. I will not see our house fall to ruin because of your lusts."

Brandon nodded, shame washing over him. 

Rickard knew he'd have to keep a close eye on his eldest son.

He truly had not known his own children.

Finally, he looked at Benjen, the boy who was both the least and most troubled by all this. 

"Benjen," he said gently, "You will stay clear of your sister. You will not speak to her, try to interact with her in any manner. From now on, double your lessons with Maester Walys. Learn of statecraft, of the burdens of ruling. The future of our house may depend on it."

Benjen gave a small nod. "Yes, Father."

Dismissing his children, Rickard sighed and leaned on his seat. He stared out the window of his solar at the sun in the distant horizon, across winter town.

War had seemed unthinkable to him. Now he realized it was only inevitable.

But, House Stark would not be the one to ignite the fires of War.

Nor would it submit to the madness of the Crown.

The Prince would not stop his attempts at getting his daughter.

The King's madness would not cease, House Stark, the North, and its allies would continue to be robbed for all its worth.

The Southern Houses were strengthening ties, reforging alliances. 

House Tyrell now rivaled House Lannister in wealth, if not surpassed them entirely. 

Already having sold seven pairs of a fallen star to the starry sept, and they had more rocks of similar value in reserve.

House Lannister was looking to reforge alliances with House Targaryen, though it seemed unlikely.

House Martell was scrambling to renew their reputation after the Prince's open dishonoring of his wife. They were already making headway for an alliance with the Tyrells. The Lannisters would soon join their fray. 

House Targaryen's allies were circling despite the insults the house levied on all the great houses.

He prayed to the Gods for hope in the wars he knew were about to come.

x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x

Sunlight battled its way past the heavy velvet drapes, painting a jagged stripe of warmth across the worn oak desk. 

Garlan Tyrell, heir to the finest wines and sweetest fruits in Westeros, was losing the battle with boredom.

"Three plus three, my lord," Maester Lomys droned, his quill scratching dryly against the parchment. "Can you tell me the answer?"

Garlan stifled a yawn, eyes wandering to the sparrows flitting among the roses outside the window. "Um… five?"

Caelum, his attention half on the lesson, and half on the distant chattering of animals far away near the flowing river Mander, blurted out, "Six, Maester!"

Lomys clucked his tongue, an amused quirk to his lips. "Correct, Caelum. Perhaps we can move on to something a bit more challenging. Any suggestions, Lord Garlan?"

Garlan scowled. "Not more numbers, Maester. Please."

His gaze landed on the Maester's thick chain – bronze, silver, an odd black iron … and one shimmering silver link. "Ooh! Maester" he pointed, "Is that a Valyrian steel link? Can we learn some magic instead!"

Caelum leaned forward, the simple sums and animals forgotten. 

For the first time today, he wasn't gazing wistfully at the window, but fully focused on the Maester and that single, gleaming link.

Maester Lomys chuckled, a touch of fondness in his voice. "Magic, Lord Garlan? Alas, those are tales for children. What we learn at the Citadel are the higher mysteries, the knowledge that shapes the world."

Caelum leaned further forward, his fascination overcoming his usual shyness. "But, Maester... is it true, is there magic that let a man know of things leagues away, or set things ablaze with just his gaze?"

The old Maester's smile faded slightly. "The higher mysteries often involve sacrifice, Caelum. Blood, or life... or something more precious still. And to learn those…" he paused, "…dark arts, The Citadel has forbidden the practice of such knowledge, or the practice of the art itself."

Garlan, momentarily intrigued, piped up, "Must've been fun, eh, Maester? All that magic stuff?"

Lomys shook his head. "I preferred the study of healing, the mending of bodies. Now," he clapped his hands lightly, "back to our numbers. Unless either of you wish to join the ranks of the hedge knights who can barely count their own coin?"

Caelum remained fixated on the Valyrian steel link, his mind churning. 

Had the Citadel the answers? 

Could those mysteries explain why the gods burdened him with this strange power? 

Garlan, oblivious to Caelum's turmoil, leaned over and whispered, "That Valyrian steel, it's pretty, isn't it?"

Caelum nodded absently, his mind worlds away.

"Father's going to get us Valyrian swords! One for Willas, one for me." Garlan puffed out his chest. "Strongest metal there is, you know? Maybe I'll let you use it when we're knights together!"

The Maester, surprisingly attentive to their whispering, cut in sharply, "Lord Garlan, Caelum – focus, please! Or I shall start giving you extra reading to for the night."

Then, with a sigh, he softened his tone. "Valyrian steel is indeed a marvel, Lord Garlan, but no longer the pinnacle of metals. That honor now belongs to the star metal, found after the great star fell a few years back." His eyes twinkled, as he looked straight at Caelum. "It even glows with its own light! But it's stubborn, refuses to yield to our forges. A pity, for a sword of such metal, would have surely added to House Tyrell's glory."

Caelum's heart skipped a beat. 

The entire star, glowing in the darkness of the barn... his secret, and the weight of the destiny it brought with it burned in his mind.

Garlan, noticing Caelum's distant look, nudged him with an elbow. "Hey! If they ever do make a star-sword... you could use it! I will have Valyrian Steel, and you can be Ser Caelum Starborne, the Starwielder!"

"A-ah! That would be the dream wouldn't it?" Caelum stammered.

Internally, Caelum recoiled at the very thought. 

His magic was to be learned, mastered, so he would cause no harm, be a great knight, save people's lives, not to lead armies. 

But the destiny that the Gods had designed for him was not his. 

He fingered the cool crystal star shard around his neck, hidden beneath his tunic, the strange 'S' symbol etched upon it flashing in his mind.

Maester Lomys sighed, the weight of teaching two distracted boys settling heavily on his shoulders. "Very well then," he conceded. "If daydreams are more appealing than knowledge, I shall give you a task to occupy your minds. Learn your sums, and by tomorrow be prepared to recite the lineage of the Ninepenny Kings, from Maelys the Monstrous to the fall of his wretched band."

With a final warning glance, he dismissed them. "And don't be late for your riding lessons! You have a realm to rule someday, young Garlan, it would be unseemly to fall from a horse."

Garlan let out a whoop of delight, momentarily forgetting his fascination with swords and magic.

Caelum, swept along by his friend's infectious energy, found a flicker of his own enthusiasm returning. 

The weight of destiny forgotten, at least for now.

They scampered down the castle corridors, the echo of their laughter bouncing off the ancient stones. As they reached the stables, the tangy smell of hay and horses filled the air. 

Wilbert Orme, the stable master, stood waiting, his weathered face creased in either a smile or a scowl – it was always hard to tell with Wilbert.

His stable hand Igor held the reigns to the two destriers that were awaiting them.

"M'lord Garlan, Caelum" he grunted, a rough bow accompanying the greeting. "The Horses are saddled. Let's see what those fancy lessons are doin' for ye."

With Wilbert's gruff guidance, they revisited how to tighten their stirrups, swing effortlessly onto the saddle, and sit with the proper posture. 

Then, with a final check on their mounts, they were off, trotting through Highgarden's sprawling grounds and eventually towards the Briar City.

"So," Garlan puffed out, struggling slightly to keep his horse steady, "you think that Maester was mad about us not paying attention?"

Caelum chuckled. "A little, I suppose. But he knows you'll charm your way out of extra lessons with Lady Olenna!"

Garlan grinned, his eyes sparkling. "Don't worry, Caelum! If Maester Lomys gives you a hard time, I'll smooth it over with Grandmother. She likes you too, you know."

Caelum felt a warmth spread through him. "Thanks, Garlan." Despite their differences, there was a genuine bond between them.

As they passed through the massive gates of Highgarden, the Briar City unfolded before them. A chaotic tapestry of narrow streets, sun-baked brick houses, and bustling markets, it stretched between the castle's outer two walls. The maze-like city never failed to make Caelum feel a mix of awe and unease – there were so many places to get lost in.

Wilbert Orme led them through the winding streets, his gravelly voice barking instructions. "Keep those heels down, Lord Garlan! Back straight, Caelum, let the horse guide you!"

Both boys struggled to maintain the perfect posture Wilbert demanded, Garlan occasionally sliding down in his saddle with a giggle.

Suddenly, Caelum's ears twitched. Over the din of the market, a faint cry pierced the air. "Help! Thief! Guards!" It was barely audible to a normal person, but to Caelum it rang as clear as a bell.

Keeping his face carefully blank, he feigned panic. "My horse! He's bolting!" With a sharp pull on the reins, seemingly accidental, he turned his horse and raced towards the source of the cry.

Wilbert bellowed after him, "Caelum! Control that beast!" He spurred his own horse, Garlan close behind, struggling to keep his seat but grinning from ear to ear.

Caelum's heart pounded. 

He couldn't reveal the true reason for his abrupt change of direction. 

Yet, he also couldn't not help when he'd someone cry for help.

A flash of movement in an alleyway caught his eye. 

A man, clutching a bulging purse, sprinted for the shadows. Just behind, another man waved his arms frantically, shouting for the guards.

Sweat prickled Caelum's brow as he feigned a struggle with the reins. "Whoa there!" he shouted, his voice a believable mix of worry and effort. "Steady, boy, steady!"

Underneath the act, he carefully steered his horse, subtly cutting off the fleeing thief's route into a shadowed alleyway. Just as Wilbert and Garlan thundered up beside him, he let out a gasp of relief.

"Whoa!" he managed, "Finally got him under control!"

With a bellow of "Not so fast, thieving scum!", Wilbert was off his horse and after the thief. The much older man moved with a speed that belied his weathered appearance, tackling the surprised thief in a cloud of dust.

Garlan, gasping for breath, managed to squeak out, "Wow, Caelum! You... you led us right to a thief! That was –" He searched for words, "– like the most fabulous luck I have ever seen! That was the most exciting thing ever! You found adventure faster than Willas ever does! I can't wait to tell him!"

Caelum chuckled amusedly, patting the horse he had been riding. 

The magic that the Gods had cursed him with, was useful to help people in need. That he would not deny.

But, the destiny that came with it?

That was his and his alone to carve for himself.

x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x

(A/N) Well, that finally settles that. 

Rickard Stark is not an idiot. He was forewarned, and as they say, forewarned is forearmed.

He did a shitty job of raising his children, like Ned did a shitty job of raising his too.

This seemed a bit necessary. Lyanna was never going to take her wedding being preponed well. Further, she was being groomed by Rhaegar at the tourney, and the man was succeeding.

She needed her eyes opened, for there to be any effect on her whatsoever. She didn't grasp the true consequences of her actions, she would have been okay being labeled a whore, but that's all she thought it would amount to. She was essentially saying damn the consequences.

Anyway, I will not be uploading for close to a week. I have an exam coming Sunday. I needed to close this before I took a break. Hopefully, see you all next week!