Chapter Text
Ravens fly over the Seven Kingdoms on whirlwinds of icy snow. One of them perches on a window sill.
The Young She-Wolf sleeps peacefully. She is no longer a child, but she is not yet a woman: come spring, she will be ready for her bridal cloak.
The raven caws.
The Raven caws on the Crypts' keystone. Lyanna is fascinated: she has never seen a three-eyed bird!
“Hey, where are you going?” she laughs as the Raven flies through the door.
Lyanna can't help but chase after it, curious to know where the bird is going. She's not afraid of Crypts, her. When she was a little girl, it was her favorite hiding place when she played hide-and-seek with Bran and Ned.
Lyanna knows the Crypts like the back of her hand, so she's surprised when the Raven stops in front of a door she's never seen before. It's huge, made of weirwood, decorated with dragons of red resin and silvery-gray direwolves.
Someone is singing past the door. Lyanna doesn't understand the words, but the haunting melancholy is so vivid it fills her eyes with tears.
The Raven caws, and the door opens.
It is a godswood, but not Winterfell's. The air is sweet, and smells like spring, a multitude of primroses and violets and red tulips sprout among the blooming peach trees and magnolias.
The Raven hops, leading her to the Heart Tree.
There is a young man under the tree, his song makes her heart quiver as deftly as his long fingers pluck the harp's silver strings.
Lyanna has never seen such a handsome boy, even handsomer than her cousin Byam!
His silvery blond hair frames a face with superb features; the red and black velvet doublet suggests a slender but strong build. When the young man looks up at her, Lyanna feels her heart leaping into her throat, like a salmon ascending a stream. She has never seen eyes of such color, like the violet lapis lazuli of Granny Arya's necklace.
The young man stands up and approaches her. He's tall, though not quite as Brandon. He asks her a question, but Lyanna has never heard this language and doesn't know how to answer. And even if she did, she can't take her eyes off his lips.
They look so … yummy.
Lyanna doesn't say a word. She stands on tiptoe and brushes the young man's lips with hers. This lad may be just a figment of her imagination, but she won't marry anyone else.
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***
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Ravens fly over the Seven Kingdoms on whirlwinds of icy snow. One of them perches on a window sill.
The Dragon Prince sleeps soundly. His bed is celibate and chaste, bereft of brothel perfumes and the scent of sex.
The raven caws.
The Raven caws on the keystone of Summer Hall's entrance. Rhaegar is intrigued: he has never seen, let alone read, of a three-eyed bird.
Rhaegar spurs his horse, determined to follow the Raven through the ruins. Summer Hall is where he retreats to reflect upon the prophecies weighing on his shoulders.
He is the Promised Prince, his is the Song of Ice and Fire, but how and when the prophecy will come true is a secret concealed from him.
A feminine chant reaches his ears.
It's a lullaby, sweet and tender, though Rhaegar cannot understand the words.
The Raven guides him to the Godswood, yet when Rhaegar arrives there, it is not Summer Hall's. A huge Heart Tree, with a melancholy face carved into its trunk, is reflected in a black-water pond. The snow is deep and the air still cold, but patches of snowdrops sprout where the sun kisses the ground, and winter roses are in bloom, spreading their sweet scent.
A maiden is singing, rocking the Targaryen cradle to a lullaby rhythm.
She is beautiful, but with a wild, unadorned beauty, so different from the artificial one of court ladies. Her hair is brown, laced with winter roses, her face is long, her complexion pale, and her cheeks as red as someone who loves to ride at breakneck speed. Her garb under her fur coat is simple, made of gray wool and a blouse hugging her up to the neck, so different from the lavish creations of silk and Myr lace fashionable among the court ladies.
The maiden raises her beautiful gray eyes to Rhaegar without pausing to rock the cradle. Her smile is sweet and tender, but is like a velvet scabbard for a Valyrian steel sword.
Rhaegar approaches her with awe. The maiden's smile softens even more as she turns her gaze to the cradle. She asks him a question, but Rhaegar doesn't understand her words.
Rhaegar looks inside the cradle, and his heart skips a beat.
Swaddled in a gray wolf skin there are three dragon eggs ready to hatch.
And when his lips brush the maiden's thin ones, Rhaegar knows that he is not the one who shall fulfill the Prophecy, but a child born from him and the mysterious maiden in his arms.
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***
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Ravens fly over the Seven Kingdoms on whirlwinds of icy snow. One of them perches on a window sill.
The Grandmaester is still awake in the Red Keep, troubled by a missive's arrival.
The raven caws.
“Shoo, shoo!” mutters Grandmaester Pycelle, waving his hand toward the crow perched on the windowsill.
He paces back and forth, unsure about what to do. He can't hide the truth from King Aerys any longer: as soon as Lord Baratheon arrives at Storm's End it will become obvious that, indeed, he has found a bride for Prince Rhaegar. Lady Rhaenella Velzorin, a maiden of the finest Volantene aristocracy and with the purest Valyrian blood.
“Everything was going so well…”
The Citadel Archmaesters are not going to be happy with this bride! To be honest, he doesn't give a damn about his confreres' intrigues; he only followed the Council's directives because they agreed that only one woman in the Seven Kingdoms must be queen-to-be.
Lady Cersei Lannister.
Why else did he forge Lord Baratheon's last letters and convince His Majesty that the mission failed? But now, all his plans will fall apart because of a Volantene whore!
“No, no. There's still time. She might have an accident, fall ill…"
Grandmaster Pycelle freezes.
He runs to the shelves, frantically pushing aside books and jars.
His lips stretch into a sneer.
Here it is, the vial that will secure Lady Cersei's crown.
He must be careful in administering the Tears of Lys. And by the way, that Volantene whore isn't accustomed to Westerosi climate and food…
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***
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Ravens fly over the Seven Kingdoms on whirlwinds of icy snow. One of them perches on a ship's bulwark.
The Storm Lord and his consort laugh at the antics of the tattooed-face fool. They sit side by side with a young woman who painfully resembles his Shiera, though her eyes are the color of lilacs.
The raven caws.
The storm hits suddenly, shortly after the Windsproud entered the Shipwreck Bay. The waves, rising higher and higher, crash against the ship's side and push her closer and closer to the reefs.
“Brace yourselves!” shouts Steffon, casting a desperate glance at his wife Cassana and Lady Rhaenella.
Not even an hour would have been enough for the Windsproud to safely make it into the harbor. Not even an hour, and his wife and he would be reunited with Robert, Stannis, and baby Renly. Not even an hour, and Master Cressen would have sent a raven to the Red Keep, announcing the arrival of the crown prince's bride-to-be.
A violent roll knocks Lady Rhaenella off her feet. Steffon grabs her by the arm, preventing her from tumbling. “Are you all right, my lady?”
Lady Rhaenella nods, her face green with queasiness.
Cassana wraps an arm around her shoulders. “ Fear not, my lady: the Seven are watching over us,” she whispers softly, then raises her nose to the mast, lit by a sphere of bluish light. ” See? The Crone's Lantern will protect us."
Lady Rhaenella glances at the mast top, before clinging to Cassana's arm with both hands.
A wave, three times higher than the others, hits the Windsproud; the keel breaks on the reefs like an egg.
The salty water engulfs Steffon in a whirlpool so potent that, for a while, the Storm Lord doesn't know up from down.
“Cassana!” he shouts as soon as he resurfaces.
“Stef--!”
Another wave overwhelms him, ropes entangle him, pieces of wreckage strike him — stunning him, wounding him, dragging him down.
As the water fills his lungs, a prayer fills Steffon Baratheon's mind.
Oh Mother, let my Cassana live…
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***
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Ravens fly over the Seven Kingdoms on whirlwinds of icy snow. One of them perches on a window sill.
The maester of Dragonstone and the midwives hurry around the Pierced Sun's Daughter. The air is filled with the smell of blood, and the Morning Star's violet eyes are filled with tears as she cradles an infant.
The crow caws.
The Raven caws, perched on an orange tree, the overripe fruits tinting the snow-white marble with their blood-red juice.
Elia frowns--she has never seen a three-eyed raven. But she shakes her head and continues her walk amid the Water Gardens' fountains and citrus trees, cradling her baby girl to her bosom.
The gardens are unusually deserted and quiet, were it not for the fountains' gurgling and the crow's cawing. She tells herself it may be because it's noon, her brother's children guests are cozied in the cool shade of the rooms; but despite the sun is high in the sky, the air is as sweet and mild as if it were midwinter.
“I wonder where Uncle Doran and Uncle Oberyn are,” murmurs Elia, kissing her child's forehead.
The Raven soars from the orange tree, landing on the pavement a few steps away from her. It caws and hops, as if to encourage her to follow along. The bird leads her down a path Elia doesn't remember, and down a stone staircase as cold as death.
The raven perches on an archway keystone marking the entrance to an unfamiliar nook of the Water Gardens.
The air grows cold, as if Elijah has entered her elder brother's palace's snow house. Citrus trees make way for bare trees and conifers, fountains to a black-watered pond; gravel becomes snow. It's a Godswood with the largest Heart Tree Elia has ever seen in her life. The trunk has a melancholy face carved into the bark. In front of it, a couple is exchanging nuptial vows on behalf of the Old Gods.
The boy is fifteen or sixteen years old, as handsome as Rhaegar but brown-haired and brown-eyed, wearing Targaryen black and red. The maiden is slender and straight as a spear, her hair like ripe wheat adorned with winter roses, clad in wolf's fur.
Elia jumps at the footsteps behind her. She holds her child tighter as she turns around.
It is a man of indefinite age dressed in black like a Night's Watch brother, his skin as white as fresh milk except for a wine birthmark on his neck and cheek. He stares at her with one eye red like a white rabbit's; the other socket is empty, akin to a pit of darkness. He is clutching a weirwood bow and aims an obsidian-tipped arrow at her.
“I have nothing against you and the infant, my lady,” the man says, drawing the bow further.
Elia steps back, trying to protect her baby. “Who are you? Why do you want to kill us?!"
The man doesn't lower his bow; on the contrary, he draws it even more. “For the sake of Men, the Prince Who Was Promised must be born from the union of Ice and Fire. You are not the one I have designed for the Prince. Besides, regard my deed as a mercy, for the affliction within you will condemn you to a slow and painful death: you will not see the infant's first winter."
“Wait! Is the maiden intended for Rhaegar the one he told me about? Is she...” Elia swallows. “Is she real? Is she not a figment of his imagination?"
The man frowns. “She is as real as the infant in your arms, my lady.”
“Is she Cersei Lannister?”
Relief washes over her as the man shakes his head. “Lannister gold is the doom of Valyria, my lady.”
“‘Let me live, then,’” Elia replies, steeling her back to look as lofty and regal as her mother. "If I die today, the Small Council will force Rhaegar to marry Lady Cersei once the mourning is over. But if you let me live, I swear by the Seven and my child that I will do my utmost to help Rhaegar and the maiden."
The man loosens his grip on the bow. “Even if a death more painful than childbirth awaits you?”
Elia snorts. “One more reason to meet the maiden.” Her voice grows pleading. “I am a mother, shouldn't I ensure that the one who comes after me will take care of my child as if it were her own?”
The man doesn't answer, but keeps staring at her with his red eye like that a white rabbit's. And at last he lowers his arrow and bow. “So be it. But know that if you do not keep your word, a fate far worse than death shall await you, the infant, and every man, woman, and child in the Seven Kingdoms."