The Pen is mightier than the Sword

Chapter 11 – The pen is mightier than the sword.

Meredith fussed over Luke, her movements deft as she cleaned his wounds and applied soothing salves. 

Caelum, perched on a nearby stool, remained silent, his bright blue eyes wide and haunted.

Meredith's brow furrowed in worry as she noticed his unusual stillness. "Caelum, honey –"

Luke cut her off with a pained sigh. "It's alright, Meredith. He saw..." His voice trailed off, then he gritted his teeth and continued, "... they attacked us. Give him time, Meredith. We… " He swallowed hard. "Caelum saved me. He… he did something, with his eyes, and the men…more magic. He spewed fire from his eyes…. Please, give him time."

Meredith's gasp echoed in the silence. 

She'd heard rumors when she had left the tourney encampments, whispers of knights found charred by the tourney grounds. Whispered accusations flew of the King's madness, while some blamed bandits and thieves.

But to find out from Luke, to know her boys had been at the heart of it...

"Fire?" she whispered; her voice barely louder than a breath. 

Shock mingled with dreadful fear.

The Prince of the realm wanted her boys dead.

Caelum's new terrifying power scared her even further. It was hard to believe.

Luke nodded grimly. "From his eyes, Meredith. He… burned them." He closed his eyes for a moment as if reliving the horror. "He saved my life."

Caelum shifted uncomfortably. "I just wanted them gone… so Luke wouldn't be hurt."

She did not know what to think. It beggared belief.

She had hoped that they would not fall into further dangerous situations, prayed to the Seven for some help with her little brother's magic.

Instead, a larger danger loomed over them now, and more terrifying magic had been cursed onto Caelum.

A wave of nausea washed over Meredith. 

Magic. 

Fire. 

The prince's assassins... This was no longer the realm of farm work and childhood mischief. Her boys were in a perilous world of princes and prophecies, a world she had no inkling of how to navigate.

Yet, forcing herself to breathe, she refocused on the task at hand. 

The poultice to prevent infection in Luke's shoulder needed warmth to infuse properly. 

Her gaze flicked to the inn's hearth – a few measly embers, barely enough to boil water. A trip downstairs for more firewood would be necessary.

Luke seemed to read her thoughts. "Caelum," he began, his voice cracked with pain his shoulder sent through him, "we need that poultice warm. Do you think you could try… using your magic to heat it?"

Meredith started to protest. 

Asking a child, a frightened child, to summon the terrible power that had saved them... it seemed cruel. 

But before she could voice her anger, Luke continued.

"It might help, Cael. You need to learn how to ... how to control it." He winced. Guilt for asking it if Caelum was clearly written in his cerulean eyes.

Caelum took a shuddering breath and nodded. 

Meredith saw a flicker of determination in his eyes, replacing some of the earlier fear. "Can you... can you put that bowl on the table, Meredith?" He gestured towards the wobbly piece of furniture near his stool.

"Are you certain, Caelum?" Meredith's voice was thick with worry.

He nodded again. "Luke's right. I have to learn. Or I might hurt myself... or someone else..."

Swallowing down her fear, Meredith placed the bowl where Caelum indicated. 

A terrifying awe clashed with her instinct to hide away Caelum, to protect him for everything that would hurt him warred within her.

Just months ago, her deepest prayers to the Seven were for his health. To take away the curse they had placed on his health.

It seemed the Gods had chosen to give him that health, along with a curse far more terrifying than the last.

Caelum closed his eyes, a visible tremor running through his small body. Then, in a terrifying echo of the previous night, his eyes snapped open, glowing crimson. A soft beam of blazing heat lanced from them, perfectly centered on the bowl.

The mixture warmed instantly. Meredith fought back a cry of alarm.

Whatever this was, it wasn't just some trick of the light. 

Her mind whirled, searching desperately for a solution, a way to protect both Luke and Caelum thrust into a world they were all ill-equipped to handle.

With trembling hands, Meredith checked the now-warm poultice, its herbal scent sharp against the lingering metallic tang in the air. She turned to Luke, and slowly untied the torn tunic sleeve he had tied to his shoulder to close the wound.

For the first time noticed the true ugliness of his wound - not a clean gash, but a jagged tear where the knight's sword had failed to bite cleanly through muscle. 

A fresh wave of anger and fear washed over her.

"Lie still," she instructed, her voice steadier than she felt. 

Gently, she pressed the poultice into place, her gaze flicking between Luke's pain-etched face the horrifying cut on his shoulder.

Luke, wincing, continued his tale. "Caelum... he used his magic too much, I think. Passed out right there in the clearing. I… I had no choice, Meredith." His voice dropped. "I burned those men. Burned their bodies and dragged Caelum further into the woods."

Meredith gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. 

She understood why he did it. But it was horrifying nonetheless.

"Why?" Her voice cracked. "Why would the prince want you boys dead?"

Luke took a shaky breath. "Caelum… he overheard them. The prince and Ser Arthur Dayne. He…" He paused, the words lodged in his throat. Then continued slowly, "The prince, he talked about… about prophecy. Visenya… something about Lady Lyanna being the key…"

"The prince thinks that she considers me to have her heart." Luke's voice held a mix of bitterness and disbelief. "That I'm some… distraction for her."

A flicker of jealousy, as swift and unexpected as a summer storm, sparked within Meredith.

 Lyanna... the beautiful and spirited she-wolf. Had she truly captured Luke's heart? 

But she shoved the feeling aside. It was absurd, a highborn lady and a farm boy - a foolish, fleeting fancy. Just like her and Parmen Crane.

Caelum finally spoke, his soft voice heavy with urgency. "We have to warn her, Meredith. Somehow. Tell Lady Lyanna about the prince…"

Luke's voice broke the oppressive silence, laced with a weary finality. "No. No, Cae. We talked about this – we can't make ourselves enemies of the whole kingdom." His eyes met Caelum's, a silent plea for understanding. "You're just a child. They'll kill you."

Caelum's chin lifted, defiance blazing in his eyes. "I can't just do nothing, Luke! I have to help!"

"And how?" Luke's voice rose, frustration finally breaking through. "We can't even get close to her! And we have no proof, none except…" He gestured vaguely towards Caelum, the word 'magic' left unspoken. 

He knew he was being cruel, but terror for his brother warred with the cold logic of their situation. "They saw how those men died. They'll call you a demon, Cae. Everyone will!"

"I know!.... I – I heard what that Knight called me last night." Caelum admitted, his voice cracking in pain "I understand that others will do the same… and I promised already on Ma, that I am not telling anyone about my magic. I'm not going to do that, but I still must help!"

Meredith, her heart aching, tried to intervene. "Caelum, honey, listen to Luke. He's right. You're just one small boy. It's...it's not your job to save everyone."

But Caelum's stubbornness flared. "I hear them," he whispered, his eyes looking somewhere far away. "Hear them when they're scared, or hurt, or need help. What kind of person would I be if I just ignored it all?" A spark of anger mingled with the pleading in his gaze. "I said I wanted to be a knight, didn't I? Knights help people. Always."

Meredith's throat tightened. 

Oh, this sweet child, cursed with a terrible gift, and yet his heart beat true as any knight's.

Luke sighed, the sound heavy in the small room. "Caelum, think. We have nothing, no proof. Even if, by some miracle, we reached Lady Lyanna, she'd never believe us without something to show. And if word of this, of your accusations, reached the prince…" He trailed off, unable to finish the thought. 

Execution for treason, or worse….

"I know." Caelum's voice was small, the defiance starting to waver under the weight of their reality. "I'm not stupid, Luke. You taught me to think. Just…just give me time." He turned away, a small, trembling figure retreating into himself. "I turned my eyes away from the brothels, you said there was nothing I could do, that I have to give them space. But this… there's a way. There has to be." He closed his eyes, a single tear escaping. "I just need to find it. I can't ignore this just because I'm too craven to find out what could happen to me."

"Brothels?" Meredith's voice was sharp, her protective instincts surging to the fore. "What's he talking about, Luke?"

Luke hesitated, glancing at Caelum's hunched form. "He... he hears things, Meredith. Everything. When we were in the town..." He swallowed the image of his little brother's wide, haunted eyes after the first time it had happened. "Those places, with the women... Caelum can hear everything."

Caelum shifted slightly, but didn't turn around. "I didn't go in," he mumbled. "You said to give them space, that we couldn't help, and I understood. But this…this is different." His voice trembled with a mix of desperation and stubborn resolve. "We're just being cravens, too scared to do anything!"

"Cae..." Luke began, his voice heavy with frustration and fear, "you don't get it! This isn't just about you getting hurt. It's me, it's Meredith, it's our parents, your parents, the Tyrells... The prince would drag everyone connected to us into this!"

Caelum's retort died on his lips. 

He stared at the floor, his small hands clenched into fists. 

Meredith saw it then, the way his shoulders slumped, the flicker of despair that replaced the fiery determination. 

This wasn't just about Caelum's desire to be a hero. 

He truly couldn't bear the thought of all those lives ruined because of him.

Her heart went out to him. 

Caelum, so desperately wanting to do right, to live up to what he saw as the oath of a true knight.

 He'd already done it, time and again in Harrentown, using his strange powers to help – finding the lost child, saving that girl at the buttery, saving Lord Reed… All small acts, but each born from his good heart and bolstered by the uncanny curse the gods had bestowed upon him.

"Luke…" Caelum's voice was barely a whisper, laced with guilt. "You always tell me to be brave, to help those in need…"

Meredith finished applying the poultice on Luke's shoulder and turned to look at her little brother "Luke won't let either of you go back to Harrentown. You know that. And I won't let you either." She looked at them both, her chin lifted. "But I know you, Caelum. I know that heart of yours, and it will drive you to do something, even if it's dangerous. You want to do the right thing. Well, maybe we've been thinking about this all wrong. Neither of you can go near that tourney, but… I still can."

Luke's hand shot out, halting Meredith mid-motion. "No," he said, his voice thick with a protectiveness that bordered on desperation, "you can't. Meredith… those men were meant for us, the prince wouldn't hesitate sending more for you should he find out! This isn't your fight. If you get hurt, I couldn't…" He trailed off, the thought too painful to voice.

"Our only concern is Caelum," he continued, squeezing the boy's shoulder in a silent plea for understanding. "The gods can watch over Lady Lyanna. And even if, somehow, you did reach her, she has no reason to believe you. They'd drag you before the king... accuse you of slander…"

Meredith moved to undo the bindings around Luke's hip, preparing to apply the poultice there. The wound wasn't as deep as the one on his shoulder.

"Luke... look at him." Her voice was soft, yet firm. "Caelum will do something reckless, you know he will. If I can, I'll guide him, help him. The gods clearly intend their magic to work through him - he's their champion now. You helped him these past days, now let me bear some of the burden."

Luke's eyes were troubled. "Meredith, I... I don't want to see you hurt." The admission hung heavy in the air, his heart aching for the girl who'd cared for him and Caelum with unwavering devotion.

A bittersweet warmth flickered in Meredith's chest. 

"I can't stay here forever, Luke. I came because Willas and Garlan would be with the Dornish princess and her... cousin. I'm not needed for their meals today, but tonight's feast… " She shook her head, not needing to finish the thought. "I have to be at Harrenhal either way. I could take this chance, try to pass a warning to Lady Lyanna."

Luke winced as the poultice touched the raw gash on his hip. "And what good will that do? She still won't believe you..."

Caelum, who'd been silent, perked up. "She doesn't have to! Just… know there's a chance it could be true."

Luke scowled. "That just throws you into the dragon's maw, Meredith! And Lady Lyanna –" He rubbed his face in frustration. "From what I've seen, she's bold. If she even considered your words true, wouldn't she confront the prince? Put herself in even more danger?" His voice softened, despair warring with the urge to simply shut this all down. "Gods, I can't believe we're even having this conversation…"

Meredith's mind was already working, frantically searching for another option. 

Then, it struck her. "I don't speak to Lady Lyanna in person. A letter… I could pass one discreetly."

Luke paused, Caelum brightening considerably. 

He sighed. "If we're doing this… Lady Lyanna is the wrong person. She won't keep quiet, she'll act, and then she's truly in the prince's crosshairs. A letter, but not to her. One to her father, Lord Rickard, or… or her brothers. No name, just… what we know." 

He rubbed his forehead, exhaustion warring with a flicker of desperate hope. "By the conversation Caelum described last night, the prince, he was wary of Lord Stark. He wouldn't dare move rashly if the Starks knew of his… intentions." 

Luke met Meredith's eyes, "If we do this, that's it. That's all I'll allow. Are you… can you even pass a letter discreetly?"

With practiced hands, Meredith finished dressing the wound on Luke's hip, her movements gentle yet efficient. 

She gathered the used poultices and herbs. "The feast," she murmured, as if to herself, "that's where there'll be an opportunity. The prince is meant to sing... the lords will be gathered. It can be done."

Luke sighed, the sound heavy with weariness as it filled the small room. 

Luke's sigh, the sound heavy with weariness as it filled the small room, transformed into a ragged cough. 

His gaze settled on Caelum, warmth mingled with a familiar worry tightening his chest. "Caelum, I love you. You know that. And your heart... it's the heart of a true knight. But you can't rush into everything, fire blazing." He reached out, squeezing Caelum's shoulder. His touch felt icy against the boy's skin. "You've got to learn to use this too." 

He tapped his temple. "Think, plan, weigh the dangers - otherwise…" He choked back the rest, the image of his brother's small body lying twitching clutching his pained eyes too vivid still etched in his mind.

A silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft crackling of the inn's hearth.

Meredith looked between her two boys, her heart caught in a strange mix of pride and fear.

Luke was right. He had always been right.

Caelum's bravery was a double-edged sword. 

Recklessness could do more harm than good. 

And yet, how could she stifle the very thing the gods had seemingly chosen for him, the thing that burned so brightly within his young soul? Their terrible curse seemed to be guiding him towards a destiny she couldn't fathom. 

She placed a hand on each of their hands. 

"We'll figure this out," she said, her voice quiet but strong. "Together. Luke teaches you how to use your mind, and I'll help you with…" She hesitated, unsure how to phrase the next part, "… with the rest. And Caelum, you'll listen. That's the most important part."

She didn't offer false promises, empty assurances. 

They were walking a precipice now, caught between the monstrous power of the kingdom and the terrifying potential within a boy of five name days.

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

The feast hall pulsed with life with vibrant tapestries, gleaming armor, and the savory scent of roast boar hanging heavy in the air. 

Meredith, tucked in a shadowed corner, kept a watchful eye on Lord Willas and Lord Garlan. Now, they were engaged with the chubby Princess Arianne and her dusky-skinned companion, her bastard cousin, Tyene Sand, whispers and giggles filling the air.

"I saw a real dragon!" Arianne declared, her eyes round. "Or...nearly real. Father said it was just a tapestry, but it moved, I swear it!"

Willas scoffed. "There are no dragons left, Princess. Not since the Doom."

Garlan's eyes widened. "What about the ones they say the prince keeps? I heard they're beneath the castle!"

Tyene giggled, revealing a gap where a tooth was missing. "Those are just stories to scare naughty children. Like the tale of the Night's King..."

Across the hall, Lord Mace Tyrell, his jovial face flushed with wine, held a goblet aloft in a jovial toast to Oberyn Martell. "Convey my congratulations to Prince Doran, on the birth of his son."

Oberyn smiled, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "I will, Lord Mace. They named him Quentyn, you know."

Lord Mace smiled his cheeks red with wine. "I am touched, Prince Oberyn. Quentin will be thrilled when he hears of this."

At the center of the hall was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, seated on a raised dais. Harp in hand, he looked unbearably handsome, the picture of a noble prince. 

Internally, she seethed. Those graceful hands had signed a death warrant for her two boys.

She turned her attention to the far end of the hall. 

Princess Elia, delicate and pale, was seated with the Queen and a Kingsguard knight – Ser Lewyn Martell, if Meredith wasn't mistaken. Did she know, Meredith wondered, about her husband's twisted designs for another woman?

Lady Alerie and Lady Olenna were hovering near her, trying to engage them in conversation.

Meredith shifted in her seat, the worn fabric scratchy against her skin. 

Across the vast hall, Lady Lyanna Stark sat surrounded by her family, her fierce elder brother Brandon, the quieter Benjen Stark just a few years younger than her, and that hulking storm of a man, Robert Baratheon. 

Even Lord Rickard Stark, usually stoic and imposing, seemed slightly less severe beside his spirited daughter.

Her fingers brushed against the parchment hidden in her blouse - Luke's desperate scrawl, the warning they hoped would reach Lord Rickard. If only there were a way to pass it without drawing suspicion...every watchful eye in this place seemed fixated on Prince Rhaegar.

The thought of him brought her gaze back to Lyanna Stark. 

Could this girl truly have her heart set on Luke? 

The difference in their stations was a chasm too wide to bridge. And Luke...he didn't love Lady Lyanna, not like... Meredith cut the thought short. 

There was no room for foolishness of the heart in their situation.

Lady Lyanna's attention, however, seemed entirely captured by the prince. A strange, captivated look filled her eyes, mirroring the melancholy that hung heavy in the air as Rhaegar's song began.

A hush fell over the feast. His voice, though not particularly strong, carried a haunting beauty that pierced the boisterous atmosphere of the hall.

"Beneath this crown, a restless heart beats, 

Bound by duty, yet yearning to be freed. 

A captive spirit, trapped in gilded cage, 

While dreams take flight on an unseen stage."

Tears welled in Lady Lyanna's eyes, her small hand clutching at her skirts. 

Beside her, Robert Baratheon shifted uncomfortably, his large hand hovering, then retreating awkwardly.

Meredith's own heart twisted. 

The song... it was dangerous. 

A siren's call to a young and ardent heart. 

"Through shadows I walk, though light seems so near. 

A whisper of hope, a melody I long to hear. 

Though paths diverge, and fate may twist and turn, 

This flame within ice, forever it shall burn."

A heavy silence hung in the hall, people enraptured by the hauntingly beautiful music from the harp.

Meredith fought back a shiver. 

The prince was more than a handsome face and a skilled hand with the harp. 

He was a strategist, every word calculated, every gesture a piece on a dangerous board. 

And it seemed Lady Lyanna was poised to fall straight into his gambit.

Meredith stifled a sigh, feigning mild embarrassment. "My apologies, Anya. A touch of nerves, I think. I need to use the privy again." In truth, her bladder was the least of her worries. The parchment tucked beneath her bodice felt heavier with each passing moment.

Anya, her attention hopelessly captivated by the Prince's song, waved Meredith off with a dismissive hand. "Drink less water, girl. You'll be running to the privy all night," she chided, her eyes never leaving the raised dais.

"Just a moment then," Meredith murmured, edging away from the table. 

The hall throbbed with life – the clinking of goblets, bursts of boisterous laughter, and the lingering melody of Rhaegar's song. 

Each vibrant thread seemed to tighten the noose around her neck. She needed fresh air, a moment's respite from the suffocating splendor.

Anya narrowed her eyes, just as she stood to leave, but then a sly gleam entered them. "Or perhaps a turn about a certain handsome knight in training?" She nudged Meredith playfully. "I've seen you watching Parmen Crane, lass."

A blush, thankfully genuine this time, crept up Meredith's cheeks. "Don't be ridiculous, Anya!" she stammered, a welcome distraction from her true purpose. "I'll be back before you miss me."

Slipping away, she navigated the crowded hall, grateful for her plain servant's garb that rendered her practically invisible. 

The corridors beyond were mercifully dim and quiet, a stark contrast to the overwhelming sensory assault of the feast. Here, amongst the shadows and stone, the desperate urgency of her mission pulsed through her.

Lord Stark's chambers were well-marked. All High Lords of the realm were given chambers to reside inside the castle for their stay. The Kings quarters being the largest.

The guards from each house guarded the section that Lord Whent had granted to them.

Lord Whent had done his best to make the sprawling fortress comfortable for his noble guests. Tapestries softened the harshness of the walls, and braziers warded off the ever-present damp chill. 

Each of the Great Houses had been assigned a section, often an entire tower, with guards posted outside to maintain both privacy and security.

The quiet hum of voices drifted from one of the chambers within the Tyrell section - a murmur of conversation, accompanied by the sound of clapping flesh, moans and grunts were clear from one of the chambers. 

They were supposed to be empty. 

Meredith hesitated. 

Her path to the Stark quarters lay directly ahead, but the urge to linger, to eavesdrop shamelessly, find out who occupied the rooms.

A tremor ran through her as a familiar voice, tinged with a breathlessness that sent a pang of jealousy through her, cut through the stillness.

Lady Elianora Ashford.

Meredith swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to hurry past, but a sharp intake of breath from within the chamber halted her in her tracks.

"For a moment, I thought your heart was set on that lowly servant girl," Lady Ashford was saying,. "That Meredith. I see I was mistaken"

"A passing fancy," Parmen Crane's voice cut in, a grunt accompanying his words. "She was pretty enough, but not worth my time."

Relief washed over Lady Ashford, followed by a throaty moan. "I know what you were truly after," she purred. "That page... what's his name... Luke. You wanted to teach the boy his place for daring to... to charm your sister."

Parmen's response was a surprised bark of laughter. "And why are you here then, bouncing on my cock?"

A giggle, a sharp slap, another moan. "Because I like you, Parmen Crane. And with our families likely to soon be joined... well, now you don't need to wet your delightful cock with some servant…." She trailed off, her words replaced by a sigh of pleasure.

Meredith stood frozen, a wave of nausea washing over her. 

Her cheeks burned, tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. 

All along, it had been a game to him. A cruel way to wound Luke through her foolish heart. 

Just as Rhaegar was playing Lyanna, Parmen had toyed with her.

Wiping away a traitorous tear, Meredith forced herself onwards. 

Luke's words echoed in her head, "Think, plan, weigh the dangers…" She had work to do. 

Her heartbreak could wait.

The sounds of passion pursued Meredith as she fled the Tyrell quarters, a bitter echo of her own shattered illusions. 

Approaching the Stark section, she braced herself for the usual sight of guardsmen posted outside their designated chambers. 

Yet, strangely, the corridor lay empty. Where were Lord Rickard's men?

Unease mingled with a flicker of opportunism. Her task might just be easier than anticipated. 

With hurried steps, she moved deeper into the Stark territory, the direwolf banner marking the entrance to their designated quarters. 

Several rooms branched off from the main hallway, and logic dictated that the largest would belong to the Lord of Winterfell himself.

A gasp tore from Meredith's throat, the sound swiftly muffled by her hand. Her eyes darted towards the room, the heavy wooden door barely concealing the sounds emanating from within.

"Oh, Seven... Ned, don't stop!" A feminine voice, breathless and laced with urgency, shattered the corridor's silence. "Faster! I'm – I'm so close..." Her words dissolved into a sharp cry, the muffled sounds of a body striking the bed reaching Meredith's ears.

Her cheeks burned crimson. 

Was the entire castle of Harrenhal engaged in a... grand orgy? First Lady Ashford and Parmen, now this – and the woman, no doubt Lady Ashara Dayne, had screamed Ned! Of all the luck…

A strangled laugh threatened to escape her lips. 

Meredith bit it back, a wave of giddy absurdity washing over her. 

Her entire world seemed to be consumed by the clandestine affairs of men thinking with their cocks. 

The Prince, Parmen Crane and now Lord Eddard Stark.

"Gods save me..." she muttered under her breath. 

Cheeks flaming, she quickly scanned the remaining doors. 

Surely Lord Rickard's chambers couldn't be far from... Ned's. Her mission, however urgent, could wait a few more scandalous moments.

There! 

The largest chamber, its door slightly ajar. 

A flicker of triumph mingled with her apprehension as her eyes fell on a stack of letters bearing the Stark sigil, resting upon a roughly hewn table. 

She thanked the seven for Lord Eddard Stark thinking with his cock too, clearly the man had sent the guards away to maintain his privacy.

Heart pounding, she retrieved the parchment from her bodice. 

Luke's desperate scrawl, their plea hidden within, felt almost too fragile for the weight it bore. 

With trembling hands, she placed it prominently upon the center of Lord Stark's bed, ensuring it would be impossible to miss. If their words carried any power, if her delivery was timely, then perhaps… just perhaps… a glimmer of hope still remained for Lyanna Stark.

Her task complete, breath held in a silent prayer, Meredith crept back out into the corridor. It was time to return to the feast, to Willas and Garlan, to the dangerous game she played under the watchful eye of royalty. 

Her heart might be bruised, but it wasn't broken. 

Not yet. 

Not while Luke and Caelum needed her.

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

A tense hum crackled through the tourney grounds. Beneath the vibrant banners and boisterous cheers, an undercurrent of anticipation pulsed through the air as the final joust approached. 

Rickard Stark, usually an imposing figure, sat uncharacteristically still beside his sons, Brandon and young Benjen. 

A Stark should always be in Winterfell.

He had not planned to come south to the tourney truly. But changing fortunes in the South demanded his attention. House Tyrell and its allies had gotten their hands on wealth that strengthened them too much. 

This new wealth quite literally falling from the heavens in their backyard. 

Lyanna and Lady Ashara Dayne stood a short distance away, conversing quietly while pointedly ignoring the man standing awkwardly beside them. 

Eddard Stark between them, seemed just as uncomfortable.

"Who do you think will be the victor, my love?" Robert Baratheon's booming voice cut across their conversation, attempting to draw Lyanna's attention. 

His attempts were met with stony silence as Lyanna openly turned her back on him, instead engaging Ned and Ashara with an animated question.

"...so, where were you two last night? Missed you both dreadfully at the feast," she asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You missed the prince's song. It was so beautiful. You would have loved it."

Brandon, never one to miss a chance to poke fun at Robert, couldn't contain his laughter. "Ah, Baratheon," he chimed in, clapping Robert on the shoulder. "Perhaps if you hadn't been so busy fathering bastards, my sister's forgiveness might be more readily earned."

Robert's face flushed crimson, his attempt at a jovial response dying on his lips. 

Eddard's gentle cough and Ashara's hastily stifled giggle only served to deepen Robert's discomfort.

The tension around Rickard seemed to ease momentarily, replaced by a flicker of amusement in his usually stern eyes.

Yet, beneath the surface merriment, Rickard's thoughts were a tempest. The letter, its shabbily scrawled words burned into his memory, lay heavy in his pocket. 

Treason. 

That was the only word fit to describe the accusation hurled at the crown prince. 

"Forgive the lack of formality, I write to you with a warning, and I beg forgiveness for maintaining my anonymity, my life has already been threatened. 

Rhaegar Targaryen is not the man he seems. 

Madness stirs in his blood, a twisted belief in a prophecy I do not know the words of. 

I Know only this – he sees in your daughter Lyanna the key to fulfilling it. A mother for the third head of the dragon, for Visenya. Protect your family, Lord Stark. Your daughter's life may depend upon it."

The letter still burned a hole in Rickard's mind, despite his attempts to dismiss it as madness, a cruel jape at best. 

His men, questioned after its discovery, had sworn ignorance. 

Yet, a niggling suspicion remained; Ned, usually so dutiful, had apparently dismissed them before retiring for the night. 

Rickard scowled. The boy was no fool, and his involvement with the Dornish Lady Ashara was an open secret.

He'd kept the letter from his sons. Brandon's fiery temper would ignite all too easily, Ned would demand impossible justice, and Robert Baratheon... the man had fiery temper to match Brandon's in truth.

"Just a scurrilous rumor," Rickard muttered, forcing his thoughts away. It was madness to give credence to an anonymous note. The final joust was about to begin, and the crowd was thrumming with anticipation.

Ser Barristan Selmy, the very image of knightly honor, faced the man accused of madness - Rhaegar Targaryen. Lyanna and Ashara squealed in delight, their voices rising above the din.

"The prince will take the day!" Lyanna declared, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "Did you see his skill yesterday, Lady Ashara?"

Ashara nodded, her eyes locked on the prince. "Ser Barristan is formidable, but Prince Rhaegar... he has a fire, a grace that cannot be denied."

Ned, ever the realist, tempered their enthusiasm. "Experience is a weapon too, ladies. Ser Barristan will not go down easily." He might have added that a prince didn't always fight with the same desperation as a knight who needed victory for his livelihood.

Robert Baratheon, nursing his wounded pride, grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. Rickard turned his attention back to the field. Ser Barristan sat astride his mount, a figure of grim determination. 

Far in the stands, a young girl, pretty as some would describe her cheered the loudest for the Knight.

The girl... Rickard frowned. The knight was never seen without her, a small, dark-haired child no older than Lyanna. Some whispered she was his paramour, but Rickard knew better. The man loved her like a daughter. 

It brought a rare smile to his face – a bit of genuine happiness amidst all this courtly falsity.

The tension coiled through the air, a sharp intake of breath before the final act. A hush fell over the tourney grounds as the herald's voice boomed through the stands.

"Lords and ladies, knights and commons!" he proclaimed, his voice amplified by the stillness. "Behold, the ultimate contest! Our valiant Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, faces the legendary Kingsguard knight, Ser Barristan Selmy! Let honor and glory be their guides!"

A roar erupted from the crowd, a thousand voices merging into one thunderous wave of noise. Lyanna clasped Ashara's hand excitedly, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, it will be magnificent!" she breathed. Robert Baratheon grumbled under his breath, but even his sulking couldn't dampen the contagious anticipation.

The two contestants appeared at opposite ends of the field. Ser Barristan, astride his destrier, was the embodiment of a seasoned warrior, his armor gleaming, his lance held steady. Across from him, Prince Rhaegar sat tall in the saddle, his silver armor reflecting the sunlight, transforming him into a figure both beautiful and menacing.

The signal was given - a blast of trumpets that sent a shiver down Rickard's spine. The knights lowered their lances, spurs dug into their horses' flanks, and they charged. The earth trembled beneath thundering hooves, the air crackled with the promise of a mighty clash.

Time seemed to slow. Rickard saw the split second before impact, the lances aimed true. And then, a blur of white and silver as the knights met in a splintering explosion of wood and steel. The crowd gasped, a single, collective sound in the sudden silence.

Ser Barristan, for all his legendary prowess, was thrown from his saddle, his body tumbling in the dirt. Rhaegar, lance miraculously still intact, circled back, a triumphant victor. And then, the noise returned with a vengeance as the spectators found their voices, cheering their prince, the dragon of the realm.

The crowd erupted in cheers, a wave of sound crashing over Rickard like the icy waters of the North.

A roar erupted from the crowd, a thousand voices raised in triumph for their beloved prince. "The Dragon prevails!" the herald's voice boomed once more. "Victorious, Rhaegar Targaryen! Now, let us witness as our gallant prince bestows the crown of Love and Beauty upon his chosen Queen!"

Another cheer rose from the stands as the herald placed a delicate wreath made of blue winter roses upon Rhaegar's outstretched hand. 

Rickard watched, his unease replaced by relief, as the prince wheeled his horse around, the crown held aloft.

Towards Princess Elia he rode, her pale face a mask of strained composure. Her pregnancy clearer now, after the days of the tourney. Her daughter Rhaenys sat upon her lap, clapping heartily with the crowd.

The letter was a jape then.

But the white destrier didn't stop. 

Rhaegar continued past Princess Elia, past her stricken expression and the silent shock emanating from the royal enclosure. 

Onwards he rode, towards the Stark contingent. His violet eyes, usually veiled and melancholic, burned with a purpose that chilled Rickard to the bone.

The lance dipped, and the crown of winter roses settled gently into Lyanna's lap.

A gasp, deafening in its shared nature, swept over the tourney grounds, followed by absolute, disbelieving silence. Lyanna stared, wide-eyed, at the flowers, the vibrant blue a stark contrast to her paled cheeks. Brandon's face flickered with shock and outrage, Ned's face went deathly pale, and even Benjen, too young to fully grasp the implications, looked stricken.

The shattering of the stillness came from an unexpected source. Robert Baratheon's laughter, harsh and grating, broke the tension. "See, my lady? Even the prince cannot deny your beauty! A compliment, a tribute!" His words hung heavy in the air, false joviality thinly masking the simmering anger beneath.

Rickard's heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. The Gods were cruel indeed. The letter had been prophecy, not treason. Here, in front of half the realm, was the proof. But what could he do? Accuse the prince of madness? Of scheming to steal his daughter? The kingdoms would mock him. War was unthinkable, yet submission equally impossible.

"Old Gods," he whispered, a ragged prayer escaping his lips," guide me. Show me a way to save her."

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(A/N) Kal El is never going to not try and help. But our boy is learning to use his head. People fuck a lot, especially when drunk.