Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The woman was trembling.

“Come now,” said Caroline. “What is it?”

The woman shook her head. She had sought the queen in her private chambers rather than petition the king and his Small Council at court. Yet she was afraid. Caroline offered her another glass of water.

“I didn’t know whom else to go to,” she said, finally gaining a measure of calm. “I hope I haven’t presumed wrong. He—he is your goodbrother, after all.”

Caroline concealed a look of distaste at the mention of Damon Salvatore. Queens were not supposed to be free with their emotions. “He is my brother by marriage, yes. But the king is sworn to protect the weak and innocent and if Ser Damon has done wrong he shall want to know. Go on.”

“He took my Andreah to bed, Your Grace. After, he threatened to cut my tongue if I complained. He—he said I should be honoured my daughter’s maidenhead was taken by a Salvatore of Storm’s End.” The woman darted a nervous glance around the solar, pausing at Klaus who cut an impassive figure in his pristine white cloak. “She doesn’t eat, she doesn’t speak. Who would have her now, Your Grace?”

The queen listened gravely and sent the seamstress on her way, promising to speak to the king. When she had left, Caroline leaned back on her seat, weary all of a sudden. “I should apprise Stefan of his brother’s misdeeds.”

“He is inspecting the armoury, Your Grace.”

The corridors of the west end of the Red Keep were narrow; their arms brushed, but never touched.

“Am I wasting Stefan’s time with this?” Caroline mused aloud. “This might seem beneath a king.”

“His Grace has always had a stake in his younger brother’s affairs,” Klaus offered.

“What do you mean?” Her inquiry came out blunter than intended.

“This was when Damon came to visit us at home.” Klaus was one of the Mikaelsons of the North. The eldest brother, Elijah, ruled as Lord of Winterfell. Klaus had taken a vow to serve and protect King Stefan, who had once been a ward at Winterfell. “He was younger than Stefan but livelier, more prone to mischief. He would steal food from the kitchens, sneak wine during feasts. Once he even entered the women’s bathhouses and caused a commotion.” They came upon a turn and Klaus gently steered her out of the way of a squire clutching a towering pile of helms. “While His Grace never took part, he was always aware. I'm sure King Stefan would want to know of this.”

He’s telling me something. Caroline turned her head towards him but Klaus walked on calmly, his Kingsguard cloak rippling in the soft wind from the high latticed windows. Then, Stefan was the doting older brother, she told herself, and now he was the king. He belonged not just to his near family, but the entire realm.

“Caroline. What are you doing here?” Stefan looked up from the sword in his hand, frowning.

“A moment, Your Grace,” she replied, cutting her eyes to the master armourer, who immediately bowed and left them alone.

She sketched out the situation in a few words. “You must do something, Stefan. This is not the first time.”

“I can hardly clap my brother in chains and throw him into the dungeons.” He ran his thumb down the sharp edge of the blade.

It’s no more than what he deserves. “Of course not,” she said in an agreeable tone. “He is not a commoner, but the king’s brother. Which also means his conduct reflects on you.”

“We don’t know even know what happened. We only have the girl’s word, or rather, her mother’s.”

Caroline’s temper flared momentarily. “It’d be different if it were a lady from court, wouldn’t it? Well, I believe the lowly seamstress. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Stefan sighed, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Don’t make me choose, Caroline.”

Here it was again. Further proof that Stefan loved Damon more than her. Why do I keep torturing myself? She hardened her face and stared at her lord husband in silence.

“Fine,” he finally said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll remove him from court.”

“So that he continues his raping elsewhere?” she said sharply, forgetting herself in anger. “As long as it’s not in front of your eyes, is that how it is, King Stefan?”

“Enough! Have a care, you’re before the king.” A cold mask slammed over Stefan’s face. She recognised this aloof expression from court. This was Stefan Salvatore, ruler of the realm. Caroline steeled her spine. “I’ll remove him from court and send him back to Storm’s End. There’ll be less…distractions there. Isn’t this what you want?”

What she wanted was to have Damon’s privileges withdrawn, to exile him to a land across the narrow sea, or better yet, to put him to trial and chop his head off. But Caroline knew there was no use arguing with Stefan further. She inclined her head and said softly, “I apologise, Your Grace. I knew you would do right.”

Once she was outside, Caroline gathered her skirts and stomped down the passage. Klaus kept up with her easily.

“You were right, ser,” she said lightly. “Stefan continues to turn a blind eye towards his brother’s doings.”

Klaus who had heard everything through the door, gave a slight nod.

“I suppose sending Damon from court is better than nothing,” said Caroline, resigned.

“I wish him a safe journey. I’ve heard the channel is besieged with storms this time of the year,”

“That would solve all our problems, wouldn’t it?” she replied wryly. “Especially fitting since he’d be heading to a castle called Storm’s End.”

A twitch of upper lip was the only indication of his amusement. Ser Klaus Mikaelson was a northerner through and through, brooding and solemn at most times. It had become a sort of game for her to see how many times she could coax a smile out of him.

Lately it seemed like she was winning.

The gardens were suffused with the sweet scent of roses. Caroline walked among the bushes, admiring the rainbow of colours on display. There was a deep rich red, the likes of which she’d never seen before, imported all the way from the Summer Isles. Another shrub hung heavy with flowers a lovely damask, as pale as the gown she currently wore, whose dagged sleeves and bodice were cut in a style reminiscent of home. More of her clothes were from Casterly Rock than King’s Landing, Caroline realised. What does that say about me?

She bade her handmaiden to fetch Donovan for her, partly because she wanted to reward the head gardener for his excellent work, partly because she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

Sharing a bed with Stefan the night before was the last thing Caroline had wanted to do. She could sense a similar reluctance from his side. But the realm needed an heir and so they had done their duty—and if there was a distinct lack of passion in the proceedings, no one was wiser.

What Caroline abhorred even more was having to apologise to her lord husband yet again. Before Stefan could roll over and fall asleep, she had said how sorry she was for putting him in such a testing position. It was easier to whisper the platitudes in the dark where she didn’t have to see his face—her “womanly emotions” had overwhelmed her; Damon was sure to be “reformed” after a quiet life at Storm’s End—she played the role of the accommodating wife too well sometimes. Stefan had squeezed her hand briefly. “I know this is not what either of us had wanted, dear Caroline. But I hope we can make this work.”

It was the first time he had acknowledged aloud the less-than-ideal circumstances of their marriage.

The dark-haired shade of Elena Gilbert had loomed over them since the beginning. Caroline had known this, and yet married him, with the rather naïve hope that they would grow to appreciate and respect each other, that she would rule by his side. Stefan was never unkind, but he was never anything towards her. On good days he tolerated her as the mother of his future heirs. On bad days he looked at her and saw a dead woman’s face.

Caroline embarked on her solitary stroll along the garden path, pleased that she had a moment’s respite from the burdens of a queen.

But among the roses lurked a viper.

Damon Salvatore came into view, hands clasped behind his back. His casual pose was belied by the intent, predatory glint in his eyes.

“Sweet sister,” he called out. “It’s a nice day for a walk among the flowers, isn’t it? Thought I’d come here on my last day in King’s Landing.” He’s drunk.

“Are you going somewhere, Ser Damon?” she asked, all smiles.

“That charade of innocence might work on my brother,” he hissed. “But I know whose hands are behind this.” He was close, impertinently close, but Caroline refused to back away.

“You will have to enlighten me, ser. I fear I’m not abreast with the latest goings on at court.”

“What did you do to convince Stefan to send me away to Storm’s End?” She could smell the beer on his breath. Caroline longed to smack him hard. A lady’s armour is courtesy, she said to herself, a lady’s armour is courtesy. “You’re leaving for your home? I’m sure we shall miss your lively presence at court.”

“Tell me.” He gripped her arm. “Did you put that pretty cunt of yours to good use?”

Anger clouded her vision. She wrenched herself away and shoved him. Damon regained his balance and gave her a shark-like grin, threatening to loom even closer.

“How dare you speak to your queen like that?”

“There’s that fire I remember very well…” he leered. She was about to do something she would regret when-

“Your Grace, you called?”

It was Klaus, stepping out from between the shrubs as if he’d been lurking there the whole time. And he probably had. Caroline had dismissed him before entering the royal gardens but it seemed as if he’d been following her all along. Never had she been this thankful for his stubborn disobedience.

“Your wolf’s never far behind, is he,” Damon remarked. All the same, he scrambled back and regarded the Kingsguard with wary eyes.

Caroline composed herself. “Yes, Klaus. Ser Damon seems to have imbibed a bit too much today. Please escort him to his chambers and make sure he stays inside. He needs his rest for the long journey on the morrow.”

Damon was ready to argue until he took one look at Klaus and suddenly remembered that the northerner was one of the most dangerous knights in the Seven Kingdoms. Klaus’s face was blank but icy rage emanated from every pore of his body. The grip on his sword was deceptively loose; he could be quick as death if provoked. Damon shrank.

Later, Klaus found her in her solar while she was finishing a batch of correspondence.

“I’ve posted guards outside Damon’s door. They’ll ensure he gets up to no trouble.”

Caroline nodded her thanks. Klaus hesitated at the door. “What is it, ser?”

“Your Grace, what Damon was speaking in the gardens…it was borderline treason. He should not go unpunished.”

She put down her quill. “I’m used to it, that’s all I can say.” Her smile was a tremulous thing. Caroline had, in fact, met Damon before Stefan. He was beautiful, charming and she had fancied herself in love with him. She thanked the old gods and new she had not eloped with him, or infinitely worse, given her maidenhead to him. The Forbes of Casterly Rock do not marry second sons, her mother had said. Perhaps Elizabeth Forbes knew more than she let on. For soon thereafter a match was arranged with Damon’s elder brother, Stefan, the Crown Prince. Giuseppe Salvatore died from a stroke in a moon’s turn and Caroline found herself the queen to a realm she loved which, in turn, did not always love her back. “And after all, it is his word against mine.”

“Not if I add my voice. I was there too.”

“It’s the king you serve,” she reminded him. “Not me.”

“I swore to protect the king’s person and kin.”

Caroline rose and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Let it be, Klaus. We’re getting rid of the crow as it is. Let's choose our battles wisely.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Klaus paused. He drew something from his pocket. It was a winter rose, a blue so beautiful it took her breath away. “This used to grow in the glass houses at Winterfell. I had a sapling planted here. It finally bloomed today.”

He bowed and presented the flower to her. “For you, my queen.”

The petals were slightly crushed. Stroking the velvet bud, she inhaled its fragrance. “Thank you, ser.”

Klaus nodded and left, his white cloak sweeping a gentle arc behind him. Caroline tucked the rose behind her ear and turned to her looking glass.

The blue matched her eyes perfectly.

The Gilberts of Highgarden had arrived at King’s Landing. Lord Gilbert had been invited to fill a vacancy on the Small Council and he had elected to bring his entire family and retinue. Stefan would be seeing them for the first time since their oldest daughter, Elena, had died.

Grayson Gilbert was a gracious and loyal man. By all appearances he seemed to have moved on from the past. All the same, Stefan fretted about their coming for days.

“I should not have invited him in the first place,” he confessed to his wife one morning. “But who else could we have chosen? Lord Gilbert was the most able man.”

“Me,” answered Caroline.

Stefan laughed as if she had made a particularly funny jape.

“And why not?” she bristled. “I’ve given you counsel on previous occasions. I’ve presided over the Small Council the time you were in bed with the shivers. Lord Saltzman came to me when the problem with the Dornish succession arose.”

The smile on Stefan’s face faded. “There’s never been a woman on the Small Council before.”

“The Good Queen Alysanne ruled by her husband’s side in court.”

“Jaeharys listened to her from time to time, as I do to you. But what you’re suggesting…a permanent seat…I fear that cannot be, Caroline.”

“You know I am capable, Stefan.” Her voice was soft, warm as honey. “I was the only child of my parents. Father taught me everything. I sat in court with him, helped him with his lordly duties. You know that.”

“And you know that the other lords would never consent to this.”

“You’re the king,” she threw back.

“I’m nothing without their support.” His hand on her shoulder was firm. He slid it down to her palm, ending in a gentle caress. “I’m sorry, Caroline. There is nothing I can do.” Pressing her knuckles to his lips, Stefan took his leave.

The sun had just dipped past the horizon when Klaus appeared to escort her to the Great Hall. Traditionally the Kingsguard dressed in all white—tunic and breeches of boiled white wool, white-enamelled armour, boots of supple white leather, and a fine silk cloak of matching colour. Today, while his cloak was as pristine as the snow-covered fields that surrounded Winterfell, his armour was scaled in grey. Twin direwolves snarled at his shoulders, onyx eyes shining in the night.

“It seems we match, ser,” said Caroline.

The gown Caroline wore to the welcoming feast was of a Myrish lace seemingly spun from moonlight. Embroidered panels of silver-grey peeked from between the folds of her skirts as she moved. Her attendants had brushed her blond hair until it gleamed.

“You look positively radiant, Your Grace,” said Klaus as he offered his arm. “No one will be able to look away.”

Caroline knew that they were merely words of courtesy, so why did her heart start racing?

Stefan met them at the doors of the Great Hall, resplendent in the black and gold colours of House Salvatore. He took Caroline’s arm, relieving Klaus. “You look beautiful, Caroline,” he murmured. The Kingsguard fanned behind the royal couple as they swept down the centre aisle.

Great and small nobles alike cheered as the king and queen were seated on the dais. The hall was illuminated with a hundred torches highlighting the gold in her hair and the muted silver of her dress. Klaus was right. All eyes were on her. Except for my husband’s.

For the guests of honour, the Gilberts, were here and at the head of the procession, on her father’s arm, walked a ghost.

Lady Katherine Gilbert was the spitting image of her older sister—her brown hair was done in the intricate braids the southron preferred, her eyes bore the colour of rich earth. She was clad in fine silk embroidered with the golden rose of Highgarden. On her neck shone the famed Moonstone Necklace, which had once belonged to Elena.

Stefan clutched his goblet, pale, shaken, and yet unable to tear his gaze away from her.

And Caroline, taking in the perfectly polite miens of the Gilberts, felt like an absolute imposter. She knew that they knew that if the course of history had flowed another way, it would have been their Elena in her place, sitting and laughing at the place of honour by her king’s side.

Ser Jeremy Gilbert kept stepping on her foot. The youngest of the Gilbert brood, recently knighted, had yet to earn his spurs in the ballroom. He winced whenever he stubbed the queen’s slippered toes, and the more he fretted, the worse his dancing grew. Caroline took pity on him and said, “You’ve been a lovely partner, ser, but I’m afraid I am quite exhausted.” Jeremy bowed deeply, blushing.

The last course (lemon cake with a dollop of cream) had been cleared away and the merry-making had begun. Caroline was in no mood to partake in the festivities. She had danced the requisite number of dances a queen was supposed to—with Stefan, Grayson Gilbert, Jeremy, and Alaric Saltzman, the Hand—and smiled through it all until her cheeks hurt.

Back on the dais, Katherine Gilbert nodded at Caroline as she took her seat. She complimented her on the arrangements and the warm welcome they had received. “It was kind of you to dance with Jeremy, Your Grace,” she said. “It’s not often a young knight receives such an honour.”

“It was nothing. Your brother is a courteous man.”

She gave a tinkling laugh. “I still think of him as the boy who used to run around with a wooden sword slashing at flowers. Mother was most wroth when he destroyed her favourite lilies.”

“I was sorry to hear of your lady mother’s passing.” Miranda Gilbert had died of childbed fever. It was not uncommon in women of her age. Her newborn had outlived her only for a day.

A cloud passed over Katherine’s face. “She is with Elena now.”

Caroline was discomfited. Everyone had been so careful to talk around Elena and here was her sister, bringing up her name in the queen’s presence. “I never had the good fortune to meet Lady Elena. Will you tell me about her?”

“Elena was as gentle as the rain. She was kind, soft-spoken, and her laughter lit up the hearts of anyone who heard.” Her eyes met the queen’s. “I must confess, it was hard growing up in the shadow of such a well-loved sister. There were times I envied her, hated her. I wish I could take all that back.”

Caroline knew a thing or two about being in Elena’s shadow. But she kept quiet and gestured to a serving man to refill both their cups.

Stefan approached the dais, a grin on his broad face. He extended his hand and requested Caroline for another dance. He was in good spirits, she noted. The welcoming feast had gone off spectacularly.

“I would if my feet didn’t hurt so,” she said, smiling. “You would think I’d know better than to wear new shoes the night of dancing.”

“Perhaps if Lady Gilbert would oblige?” Stefan turned to Katherine, who accepted with pleasure.

The sight of Stefan and Katherine swaying to the lilting music was like a punch to her stomach. The golden rose and the golden stag. They made a handsome pair.

The wind ran its salty fingers through her hair as the queen clutched the railings of the pleasure barge. The smelly, crowded port of King’s Landing was behind them and Caroline inhaled the crisp air gratefully. The deck was a beehive of activity. A troupe of musicians battled valiantly with the forceful wind. Moon Moon pranced about the deck juggling knives. From time to time the fool would stagger and threaten to send a blade through a spectator, then dramatically snatch it away at the last minute. Loud, relieved laughter followed. Ladies of the court congregated in a rainbow of colours and jewels, picking at the delicate sweets and cheeses laid out at a trestle table.

Stefan had taken Lord Gilbert hunting in the kingswood, so it fell upon Caroline to invite Katherine and her gaggle of cousins and ladies-in-waiting to sail on the royal barge up the Blackwater. The queen had planned the outing carefully; it was imperative she got to know their guest better.

The lady in question came to stand next to her. Katherine wore a high-collared gown whose severe appearance was undercut by her broad smile and flushed cheeks. 

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself, Lady Katherine.”

“Truly. Your Grace has outdone herself. You must visit the Reach and grant me the honour of repaying the hospitality.”

“Are you planning on going back home soon?” asked Caroline, her tone studiously flippant.

Katherine shook her head, artfully tumbled curls lifting in the breeze. “Not in the near future, no. Father wants me to remain by his side. Court life is exciting, but I do miss Highgarden.”

“While we may not have as great a bounty as the Reach, the royal gardens sure make quite a sight. Ser Klaus brought with him pale blue roses from Winterfell, which have flowered most beautifully.”

“I was looking forward to meeting Ser Klaus.” Katherine made a show of skimming the deck. “I have heard so much about his prowess as a knight. Isn’t he your sworn guard?”

“Klaus Mikaelson is a Kingsguard. His loyalty lies first with the king.” She wondered what Katherine was getting at. “Stefan took him along the hunting party as he's a skilled tracker. If our safety is what you’re concerned about, we have another of the Kingsguard, Ser Tyler, on board with us. Not to mention my household guards.”

Clad in crimson cloaks trimmed with gold, they had come with her from Casterly Rock as part of her wedding retinue. A dozen sworn swords, loyal to Lord William Forbes, her father. They were competent enough at their duty, although compared to Klaus they made for dull company.

Katherine plucked a goblet of iced wine from a passing serving wench. “Did not Klaus and Stefan grow up together? I would have assumed the king would have wanted his closest friend to protect him.”

“Stefan has the rest of the Kingsguard, including Lord Commander Gerard with him. It is the king’s prerogative to extend their protection to his family,” replied Caroline carefully. “I would assume that is why he bade his most loyal ally to guard his queen.”

“Please excuse my impertinent questions. Her Grace is most astute.”

Caroline smiled in response. The girl is clever but quite clumsy in her insinuations. She signaled to a server for some wine. She had wanted to keep her wits about her in front of Katherine but now there was no reason not to enjoy a cup or two.

Another serving girl, brown hair done in braids, presented a flagon in front of the Queen. “Would Her Grace care for some Arbor gold?"

"I was hoping for the summerwine."

"This one, I've heard, is fit for a queen. A rich, deep vintage.”

Caroline nodded. The girl uncorked the pitcher and poured the fine yellow liquid in a frosted cup. Her upper lip was dotted with sweat. The Queen raised the cup to her mouth, and paused.

“Arbor gold, did you say? I don't remember instructing the royal steward to stock Arbor gold on the boat.”

“I do not know anything, Your Grace,” said the girl. “I’m just a serving wench.”

“Here. Take a sip then.”

Her face drained of all colour. “I—I would not dare. I’m not allowed to touch the drinks I serve.”

By this time the guests had started noticing something was amiss. Ser Tyler stepped in front of Caroline. “The Queen commands you to drink, wench.”

The girl was shaking so hard she almost dropped the cup Caroline had thrust into her hand. She took the tiniest sip. Caroline watched her like a hawk until she swallowed.

“Nothing to fear, Your Grace,” she murmured. “A fine vintage.” She coughed, opened her mouth to speak, and coughed again.

“She’s turning blue,” gasped Katherine.

Cords stood out in her neck as the girl choked. She clawed at her throat frantically, her eyes bulging. The cup slipped from her grasp and rolled on the deck. The queen twitched the hem of her skirts back from the spreading golden puddle, staring at the girl who was slowly and painfully dying, aware that it could easily have been her.

The king marched into her chambers in black fury. He took her by the shoulders and crushed her to his chest. “Thank the gods you're safe,” he breathed. “I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”

Caroline’s stoic demeanour threatened to crack. She disentangled herself from Stefan and noticed that two of the Kingsguard had followed their king inside. Ser Vincent was his usual sullen self but Klaus…Klaus was a barely leashed wolf. She met his wild gaze over Stefan’s shoulder and looked away, trembling.

“What of the girl?” she asked.

“The maesters got to her in time. She’s alive, but she cannot speak.”

“Which means we can’t know who sent her.”

“The gaolers will question her,” replied Stefan. “Sharply.”

Caroline felt a twinge of disquiet. The girl's silent, pleading eyes swam before her eyes. “Surely there’s no use of that. She was merely a pawn.”

“We shall see. From now on you will have a food taster beside you at every hour. No morsel or sip shall pass your lips unchecked,” he declared. “Klaus stay with the Queen. Do not leave her side.”

Stefan, who did not subscribe to public displays of affection, kissed her on the forehead and left. Suddenly awkward, Caroline found herself averting her eyes from Klaus.

Silently his gaze travelled up and down her person, as if mere words had not convinced him of her safety. She could almost feel the pads of his fingers gliding over her skin, making sure she was absolutely alright.

A rose in her cheeks. “Ser-”

“When we received the raven…the message was unclear. I—we thought it was you. His Grace was out of his mind with worry.”

“And what of you, Klaus?”

A blue-green tempest rose to meet her tentative probe.

“I will scour the realm for those who meant you harm and bring them to you, gagged and bound, to await your justice.” He knelt before her. “This I swear to you, my queen, on my honour as a knight.”

Already shaken from the day’s events, Caroline was in danger of completely losing her composure. She bade him to rise with the words, “You needn’t scour the realm for that. Turn over any stone in King’s Landing and you’ll find a snake. Besides His Grace commanded you to stay with me at all times. And you know that you must obey the King.”

“That I must.”

The smile they shared was secretive, almost playful. However her mood soon soured when she ruminated over who could want the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms dead. The list was long, and not specific enough. Caroline thought of the girl again—young, so young she was, absurdly proud of her hair…her hair…

Klaus was almost at the door when Caroline caught him. He looked down at her hand around his arm and asked, “What is it, Your Grace?”

“It may not mean anything. But. Her hair. It was done up in braids, a southron style. I’ve seen that rarely in these parts, except—except on Katherine Gilbert.”

Chapter Text

The moon danced on the night sky as the queen paced the ramparts of the Red Keep. It had been a few days since the attempted assassination and sleep still evaded Caroline. She would lie listlessly awake in bed for hours, the covers strangling her limbs. The poisoner’s dying, blue face often featured in Caroline’s waking dreams. The girl had been on the road to recovery but a sudden attack of breathlessness last night had turned fatal.

“Couldn’t sleep?” It was the hour of owl. Stefan shuffled in step with her, a painted silk robe is only protection against the nip in the air. Behind, she could make out the silhouettes of the Kingsguard. Klaus was not one of them.

“I could not stand your snoring.”

He regarded her with a small smile. “Careful, I could have you for treason.”

“And risk your subjects finding out your snores are that objectionable?”

The light sound of his laughter gladdened Caroline’s heart. The bubble of hope only grew when Stefan said, “I was going to present this to you on the morrow but perhaps this is a better setting.”

Nestled within the velvet box was a ring—a band of old gold, studded with diamonds, with a large opalescent mineral set in the middle. A moonstone.

Stefan slipped the ring on her finger. It looked pretty as it reflected the light from the burning sconce.  All the same, Caroline felt the stone weighing down in her chest as she said, “Moonstone. All the way from Qarth I presume? I heard Elena Gilbert was wearing a necklace made of moonstones when she died.”

Her husband remained silent.

“I heard she died from falling of a horse.” She had never prodded into Stefan’s past but something made her reckless tonight—perhaps it was because of this small moment between them that never got the chance to bloom into something else, tainted, like everything else, by Elena’s memory.

“You heard true.” Stefan looked like he wanted nothing more than to go back to bed but to his credit, he rested his hands on the balustrade and stayed. “I was with her when she died. We were going to get married.”

Caroline had steeled herself for the revelation, but it hurt. Gods, it hurt.

“We were riding for a sept in the nearest town, somewhere we could be married without anyone recognising us. Father would not have approved—I was the crown prince yet I could never follow my heart. We had planned everything thoroughly. Elena wore plain riding clothes and a hooded cloak. But she could not bear to leave her beloved necklace behind.

“If we would have told anyone where we were going, they would have warned us of the outlaws. They fell upon us just as we were nearing the sept, half a dozen of them. They likely took us for a rich merchant and wife. I slew three before they realised their folly. They began to retreat and I thought we’re safe at last. But Elena’s mount got spooked at the last minute, it bucked wildly, and before I could reach her, she was on the ground in a pool of blood. Her head had hit a rock. And that was that.”

Stefan’s eyes, she was startled to notice, were shining with tears. “Nobody knew of our plan to wed. Elena’s death was taken as a tragic accident and to my relief and shame, Father recalled me to court. I could not face the Gilberts then.” He turned, as if noticing her listening for the first time. “It was supposed to be the happiest day in my life, Caroline.”

She rose on her toes, cupped his face and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for sharing this with me. I understand a lot of things now. I understand you.” And when she removed the ring and placed it gently in his palm, Stefan did not protest.

“Your king is trapped. Death in four.”

Caroline surveyed the chequered board. “I regret teaching you cyvasse.”

Klaus’ smile grew even smugger, if that was possible. “Another, Your Grace?” But Caroline was already setting up the ivory and jade pieces, determined to defeat him this time.

The carved cyvasse set had been a gift from the Dornish Princess. Cooped up in the Red Keep as she was, Caroline had taken to playing the game of strategy with Klaus. As a northerner he had not been familiar with the rules, but had picked up quickly enough. Lately he had been gaining on her and it had taken all her wits and concentration to maintain an even score. Caroline relished these opportunities.

“Have your informers unearthed anything?”

“To my great regret, no. If there is any link between the serving wench and the Gilberts, I have not found it yet.” At her request, Klaus had been discreet in his investigation. She hadn’t even confided her suspicions in Stefan, and after their moonlit conversation, there was even more reason not to—her husband was wrapped in enough layers of guilt regarding the Gilberts to smother him.

“There must be.” Caroline replayed the episode in her head. “The girl insisted I have the wine, and yet did not offer any to Katherine, who was standing right beside me. By itself that’s nothing…if not for the hair.” A thought struck her so abruptly she almost knocked over her spearmen. “Which might have been the exact intent.”

Klaus steadied the jade piece; their fingers brushed. “So whoever sent the girl ensured her hair was done deliberately in braids? The same style Lady Gilbert and her friends are partial towards?”

“A neat trick to throw suspicion on the Gilberts and off the real culprit.”

“I shall make the necessary inquiries, Your Grace. After I win this game.” He had her dragon cornered with a series of covert attacks. Caroline contemplated her moves. One of the upsides to playing cyvasse had been the discovery that in addition to being a formidable fighter, Klaus had a keen political mind. The white knight had mentioned that he’d often assisted his brother, Lord Elijah Mikaelson, in controlling the more truculent of his bannermen up North.

But Caroline had not grown up playing cyvasse for nothing. Spotting an escape route to the mountains, she shielded her dragon from his catapult. Unperturbed, Klaus moved his light horse into position.

“How are the preparations for the tourney coming along?”

“Quite well. If you wish, I could take you for an inspection.”

“Stefan told me not to bother with the arrangements this time. It is his wish that I keep a low profile following the incident.” The queen deployed her elephants in an offensive formation. “Hide in my chambers like a meek mouse, is what he means,” she muttered to herself.

Klaus made a peculiar face.

“What, do you not agree with His Grace?”

“Kingsguard swear a vow to guard the king, not to judge him.”

“Kingsguard swear a lot many vows.”

He looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Take the vow of celibacy, for instance. History tells us that is one vow broken the most.”

“Kingsguard swear to keep no wife and sire no children. Some would say that does not mean being celibate.”

“And are you one of them?”

His face, usually a closely guarded vault, cracked open, and for a moment, just for a moment, she caught a glimpse of the roiling emotions within.

“No,” he answered, his voice hoarse. “Although it seems that the gods love testing my resolve.”

A mad urge overtook her, and for a moment, just for a moment, she wished nothing more than to sweep the board aside, take his face between her hands and submit herself to the hunger she saw in his blue-green eyes.

The moment passed.

Caroline dropped her gaze. Seizing her dragon, she flew it across the lapis lazuli tiles.

Klaus picked up the crowned ivory piece and surrendered his king to her.

Lord Alaric Saltzman was a competent enough Hand when he wasn’t in his cups. The faint reek of mead trailed behind him when he came to her chambers with an envoy from the Night’s Watch.

“His Grace is dining with Lord Grayson so I thought I’d place the matter before you.”

The men in black had put forth their annual request for more manpower and provisions. It was a delicate situation. The Crown had to be seen supporting the Night’s Watch, however, with winter coming, the treasury had to think twice before sending its precious stores to a long-decaying institution guarding the Wall. Seven hundred feet high and made entirely of ice, the Wall’s original purpose had been lost to time. Now the Watch dealt with no more than a handful of wildling excursions in a year.

Being of the North, the Mikaelsons were traditional patrons of the Night’s Watch. As such Klaus had many valuable inputs. Caroline called for mulled wine and cheese and together the Hand, the Queen and the Kingsguard managed to hammer out an agreement suitable to the Night’s Watchman and the health of the royal coffers.

The envoy left after being promised his pick of volunteers from the dungeons and the streets of King’s Landing. Alaric drained his cup and followed him out.

Klaus hung back. “I wanted to tell you that I have entered my name in tomorrow’s lists.”

“I wish you all the luck, ser.”

He stepped closer. “If I may be so bold as to beg for your favour to wear…”

That would be unwise, screamed a voice in her head. Caroline looked at him for a heartbeat and sent her maid for her handkerchief. Conscious of his stare, she dabbed a few drops of her favourite scent on it. Klaus took the kerchief from her; their hands touched, lingered. And then slowly, deliberately, his gaze riveted to her, he brought the piece of cloth to his nose and inhaled. His eyes fluttered.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” He bowed.

Later, in bed with Stefan, she was especially urgent and passionate in her lovemaking, and if the face that painted itself on the back of her eyelids had sandy curls and blue-green eyes, the secret was kept firmly locked in her heart.

They could hear the shouts of the crowd from across the river. Caroline was carried in a litter with curtains of yellow silk past the painted pavilions, the banners snapping in the wind, the common folk watching the proceedings.

She was dressed in a gown of deep green, the bodice worked all over with gold thread. Half a dozen crimson cloaks guarded her. Stefan had insisted on the excessive number as a condition for venturing out the stout walls of the Red Keep. Caroline had given in; the queen’s absence from the tourney would have raised unwanted questions.

“Splendid to see you out and about, Your Grace,” called out Katherine Gilbert. “We were worried you wouldn’t come.”

“And miss my husband’s nameday tourney?” She spotted Stefan with the other high lords. He was wearing a newly forged crown crusted with rubies and black diamonds; his hand kept reaching up to adjust it.

“Does Her Grace know which jouster is tipped to win?”

“I’ve heard favourable things of Ser Enzo of Augustine.”

“Not your white wolf?” Smiling, Katherine pointed to where Klaus sat on his silver charger. His scaled armour was as white as milk. A squire held aloft the banner of Winterfell—a direwolf racing across a snowy field. “I wonder whose favour he is wearing.”

The jousting began. Lances pointed, armoured knights rode at each other to the great excitement of the crowd. A hush fell during the fourth joust of the day when a young knight from the Vale was flung so hard from his horse his helm cracked.

Caroline watched with a strange fascination as they gingerly removed his helm to reveal the crushed skull beneath. She had never seen so much blood before. The Gilbert cousins covered their faces and wept as the brave knight’s ruined body was taken away, but Katherine did not flinch.

“Our southron melees are never this bloody,” she murmured. “Poor man.”

“You seem to have been made of sterner stuff,” observed Caroline.

Katherine’s smile was full of secrets. “As my father is fond of saying: recall, if you will, that even roses have thorns.”

The day wore on and a few favourites emerged. Klaus seemed unstoppable, riding down one foe after the next with ease. “At least Jeremy acquitted himself well,” remarked Katherine as Klaus unseated her brother the first time round. “The crowd seems to have gone wild.” They were yelling Klaus’ name as he rode by in a blaze of white.

The jousting ended with a hard-fought match between Ser Klaus and Ser Enzo. Caroline’s heart was in her mouth as she watched them charge at each other again and again. Lances splintered, chest plates dented. The masses cried in unison every time the two knights clashed. Finally, victory went to Klaus. Enzo was unhorsed so violently that he seemed to fly through the air. Klaus stopped to ensure his opponent wasn’t seriously injured before circling the field to claim the champion’s crown. It was only then that Caroline allowed herself to take a breath.

Cheers and applause greeted the Kingsguard on his slow lap of victory. His eyes met the queen’s as he neared the royal pavilion. Caroline shook her head; an infinitesimal gesture. Klaus urged his horse past her and handed the queen of beauty laurel to some fair maiden in the common crowd.

“He is gallant for a brooding northerner,” said Katherine as the chosen girl swooned and blushed furiously. “Lucky girl.”

Lucky indeed, thought Caroline as her husband took note of the fluttering white handkerchief tied around the victor’s arm and frowned.

Caroline was fresh out of her bath when Stefan called upon her. He was dressed for the outdoors in a red doublet and sturdy brown boots. She sent away her maid who’d been brushing her hair.

“Lord Grayson wants to go hunting again,” he answered her unspoken question. “I’m leaving Klaus here with you. You won’t lack for stimulating company.”

The queer way he said that gave her pause. “Stefan-”

“Ser Marcel will accompany me. Klaus shall be the interim Lord Commander.” He hesitated. “I may not be a good husband, Caroline, but I’m not blind.”

Her mind raced through all the ways she could have given herself away. She had been tight-lipped with her attraction to Klaus, and wasn’t that all it was? A simple physical attraction. No more.

“Stefan. Nothing is happening,” she said firmly. “We play cyvasse together and talk. Where is this coming from?”

“Whispers, from here and there.”

The Gilberts, she knew immediately. “Blatant rumours. You have nothing to worry about.”

Klaus was a Kingsguard for life, her husband’s childhood friend. Those bonds once broken could never be repaired. Furthermore, if the queen were to stray from her marriage bed, it was not only adultery but treason. It did not matter if the king was not held to the same standards. Caroline could, and would be, executed for this.

She knew all of this and yet. Yet.

Stefan tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I want to believe you. We shall talk when I return.”

Caroline watched him go, struck not with guilt but with an inexplicable sense of sadness.

They were riding through the narrow, cobbled lanes when it started pouring. The queen had been distributing bread among the residents of Flea Bottom. With winter on its way, the poor denizens of the city had been depending more and more on these royal acts of charity.

The streets of King’s Landing were dark and deserted. The rain had driven everyone under their roofs. Caroline drew up her hood. Klaus had no such protection—rivulets of moisture twisted down his face.

Her crimson cloaks had pulled ahead with the food wagons. “Do you want to race?” she yelled. Klaus shook his head, laughing.

The warm rain was falling harder now, stinging the eyes. Suddenly Klaus wheeled about and gave a shout of alarm. And in an instant, the street was full of soldiers.

Except they were not like any soldiers she had encountered before. They wore ringmail over plain leather but each of them bore a gaudy rose on the crest. They were ten of them, armed with swords and spears, in front and behind, cutting off any retreat.

Caroline cautiously walked her horse forward. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I am the queen.”

“We know,” came the insolent reply. A flash of naked steel.

Klaus spurred his horse in front of her and freed his own sword from the scabbard. Men closed from both sides. “Run, and do not stop!”

Caroline pressed her heels to her mount and ran. She rode one spearman down before he could stab her horse. A hoof came down on the face of another with a sickening crunch. Klaus cleared a path for her, cutting down three men in quick succession. Caroline broken through the line. Fat drops of water slapped her face as she galloped free. She could hear the steel song of swords behind her, and the scream of a dying horse. A dying horse…

The queen turned. As long as Klaus remained mounted he had an advantage over the men on foot. But they’d finally gotten to his horse. She saw Klaus leap from his saddle and land among the men, sword slashing in the rain. The men closed in around him and for a terrifying second she thought he had fallen.

“NO!” And Caroline urged her horse around and charged headlong into the fray.

The remaining men had backed Klaus against wall. He fought hard, dancing over the corpses of the two he had already dispatched. Caroline wrenched a sword from a body and swung it wildly onto the helm of the nearest attacker. A moment was all that Klaus needed. Taking advantage of their distraction, the Kingsguard pressed on ferociously, hacking and slashing without mercy.

It was all over after that. She found him barely on his feet, blade slick with blood, surrounded with the enemies he had cut down single-handedly. She gave him her hand and helped him up her horse.

Caroline did not remember how they got to the Red Keep. All she knew was that she had to get Klaus to the maesters before he lost too much blood. All she felt was his warm weight on her back, his shuddering breaths in her ear.

The castle walls rose up above them in the grey evening. The rain had abated. Lord Alaric met them at the gates, his face white.

“Your Grace, I—” He caught sight of their blood-splattered, bedraggled state and was rendered speechless.

“We were attacked,” she panted. “Gilbert men, I think. Seize them…seize them all…take Klaus to the maesters now.”

The Hand spoke over her. “Your Grace, King Stefan-”

“Yes, send a raven to Stefan.”

“His Grace has returned.”

“Already?”

“He—I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Stefan lay across the covers of the bed in a room filled with the smell of blood and smoke. The king still wore his boots.

He opened his eyes and gave a weak chuckle. “How is it that you look worse than me?”

“What happened?” Caroline whispered.

“A lion, a thrice-damned lion.”

“What? There are no lions in these parts.”

“Gods know where it appeared from.” He coughed. “I was on foot, on the trail of a stag. Ser Marcel was with me—brave man, he died defending me. All in vain. For it seems I’m not long for this world.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.”

“Caroline,” he said gently. “You only have to look to know.”

She peered down at the remains of his doublet. The gash was deep and long, spanning his chest. Already the bandage was seeping red. Caroline felt for the edge of the bed and collapsed.

“Why are you covered in blood?” Stefan made to lift his head but she pushed him down.

“It’s not mine.” She couldn’t possibly bring herself to tell him about the Gilberts now, when he was on his deathbed. It all seemed like a faraway dream.

“Listen, I have a few things to say. Let Lord Alaric bear witness.” The Hand took down the king’s will, silent tears dripping down his nose. “…as for my heir…you were right Caroline, you were right about a lot of things…we have no child, Damon is unfit…it has to be you.”

Alaric’s quill stopped scratching. “Your Grace?”

“Let it be known that Caroline Forbes of Casterly Rock inherits the Iron Throne after me. That is my decree.”

“Stefan-”

“You were right, Caroline,” he repeated, his voice growing laborious. “You are the most able man for the job.”

“Not like this,” she sobbed. “It was never meant to be like this.”

She held on to his hand long after he stopped speaking, long after Alaric took his liege’s signature on the will, long after peace stole upon the face of the man she had never loved yet grown to appreciate in her own way.

Messages were brought to her as she kept her bedside vigil. Klaus was out of danger but would need a few days of rest; Lord Grayson hadn’t returned with the rest from hunting; the will had been read to Small Council with no objections from their side; the bodies of the attackers had been identified—sellswords, paid to wear the golden rose of Highgarden on their person.

Someone else then had been behind the attack, and perhaps the poisoning as well. She thought of the clumsy, persistent way she had been personally targeted and wondered who hated her with such passion. Dimly, the answer registered in the fog of her mind.

A deep and sonorous clanging filled the air when Caroline finally roused herself. Wiping the tears off her cheeks, changing out of her blood-stained clothes, the queen headed out the door, heralded by the mournful tolling of the great bell.

Her desk was piling up with letters. She had stayed up past midnight keeping up with the correspondence. It had been a fortnight since Lord Alaric had sent forth the proclamation to the corners of the Seven Kingdoms and the responses had finally arrived. Her parents’ was the first—Casterly Rock swore its allegiance to her. Many more expressed doubt. She decided to invite the lords to a Great Council where the legitimacy of the late king’s will could be established and Caroline could convince them in person of her capability as a ruler.

A muffled conversation at her door and Klaus shouldered his way through. The sight of him, thinner but not too worse for wear, brought a smile upon her face. As soon as he’d been able to walk Klaus had sought her out. He hadn’t left her side since.

He handed her a letter sealed with grey wax and stamped with a direwolf. Its contents were signed Elijah Mikaelson, Lord of Winterfell. “The North is yours, Your Grace.”

The queen nodded. “Meanwhile Damon Salvatore is raising arms at Storm’s End. He claims that he is Stefan’s true heir and that no woman can sit on the Iron Throne.”

A dark cloud passed over Klaus’ face. “You were right about him. He sent the sellswords. I recently found that the serving girl shared his bed before he left. Damon is the one who wanted you dead.”

Her blood boiled whenever she thought of that despicable worm. “Oh, he tried to be clever, pinning the blame on the Gilberts, I’ll give him that.” Not that the Gilberts had been fully innocent. Lord Grayson had absconded from the kingswood itself, his daughter had followed him not long after with her retinue. They may not have been guilty of attempted murder but they had schemed to depose of the queen while Stefan was alive.

“Is Ser Jeremy finally talking?” Her crimson cloaks had seized the youngest Gilbert before he could escape the capital. He had been since confined in the tower cell, a large and comfortable room, which did not disguise the fact that he was effectively a hostage.

Klaus filled in the outline of the Gilbert plot. What the House lacked in lineage they made up in wealth and ambition. Elena had been groomed to become the queen ever since she was a child—the path that led her to the crown prince was anything but random.

“Ser Jeremy claims that she genuinely fell in love Stefan.”

They’d never know for sure but Caroline wanted to believe that was the truth, if only for Stefan’s sake. It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, his voice sounded in her ear.

“And after your marriage, they switched to other tactics,” continued Klaus. Rumours, suggestions, whispers; Katherine’s uncanny resemblance to his lost love—all employed strategically to make Caroline fall out of favour with the king and install Katherine as the new queen.

“They were close, so close,” said Caroline. The same gods who had sent the outlaws years ago had sent the lion this time. Stefan had died and the Gilberts, having lost all power, had fled to the Reach. “They cannot do anything now. Katherine may be cunning but she loves her brother too much. They’ll remain obedient as long as we hold Jeremy.”

The roses had their thorns pruned. The threat of Damon’s rebel army still remained. Winning over the great lords would be an uphill task, but Caroline was confident of victory. There was one matter left.

“These rumours the Gilberts were circulating...what were they?”

“That the queen was a grasping shrew, arrogant and power-hungry.” Klaus paused. “That she was unfaithful to her husband with members of the Kingsguard.”

“No, I think there was only one name bandied about.” She smiled. “Although her feelings couldn’t possibly have been reciprocated. How could they, when the knight in question was the king’s sworn sword, had been boyhood friends with the king?” A note of vulnerability crept into her voice.

The Kingsguard took one step closer. “Good friends don’t always make good kings. Perhaps his loyalty shifted when he met another—someone compassionate, just, brave, and wise. Someone full of fire and passion. Someone as capable of standing up for a common seamstress as of charging madly into a fight on horseback. Someone he could…fall in love with.”

The queen blinked back sudden tears. “When did you know?” she asked, soft as a kiss.

“The day we received news of the poisoning. There we were, racing through the kingswood, Stefan pushing his horse to go faster and faster.” He took her hand in his and every brush of his thumb was a burning thrill down her spine. “I was right beside him, my stallion foaming at the mouth, the reins straining in my hand and it took everything in me not to outpace my king and come rushing to you, Caroline.”

It was the first time he had taken her name. The promise-filled intimacy of it made her gasp.

Klaus was not done. “I know I’m not worthy of even the dust beneath your feet.” The knight drew his sword and fell to his knees. “But I pledge my service to you. My sword is yours, my life is yours, my body, my blood, everything that is me is yours, my queen.”

It was the hour of the wolf, appropriately enough, and Caroline had never felt as powerful as she did now looking down on Klaus kneeling before her. She touched his shoulder. “Rise, Ser Klaus Mikaelson, first and foremost of my Queensguard.”

And thus the first command by Queen Caroline Forbes, First of her Name, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms to her Lord Commander was to shut the bedroom door.

“And Klaus? Stay.”

“Always.”