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Chapter Text

He returned on the hottest day of summer.

Elia stood at the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, Rhaenys clutching her hand, Aegon wrapped in silks and resting against her chest. She had dressed in the red and black of House Targaryen rather than the sun-and-spear of her homeland. Some kind of declaration, though to whom she could not have said.

The Stranger took one look at Rhaegar Targaryen and sent him back , the smallfolk said. The Warrior himself held his sword , said others.

Robert Baratheon’s warhammer had shattered on the prince’s breastplate, they said. A freak occurrence; metal fatigue or poor craftsmanship. Whatever the cause, in that moment when the hammer broke and Rhaegar’s own sword found the gap in Robert’s armor, the rebellion’s tide had turned. The stag fell. The dragon rose.

Many people said many things about that day at the Trident.

Banners snapped in the hot breeze; the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the golden lion of Lannister. House Tyrell’s roses bloomed alongside the sun and spear of Dorne. A united realm, rallied behind their rightful king.

When Rhaegar appeared at the head of his procession, mounted on a black destrier, a great cheer rose from the gathered crowd. Their beautiful king had returned, victorious and whole. On his breast, the three-headed dragon of his house gleamed in rubies. Yes, he looked the same, at first glance. Silver-gold hair falling past his shoulders, purple eyes bright in his comely face. 

But as he drew closer, Elia saw the changes. The new lines around his eyes and mouth. The way he held himself in the saddle, slightly hunched. Most of all, the strange blankness that came over his expression when he looked at her, at their children; a moment of confusion, almost, as if he were trying to place their faces in his memory.

Then he smiled, and it was Rhaegar’s beautiful smile, and Elia told herself she had imagined that brief hesitation.

He dismounted, crossing to where she stood. “Elia,” he said, taking her free hand in his. His fingers were almost scathing hot. “How I have missed you.”

“Rhaegar.” Her cheeks began to hurt from how long she had held her smile. “I’ve missed you too.”

He kissed her then, a chaste press of lips that nevertheless sent an shiver through her. His mouth was even warmer than his hand. When he pulled away, his gaze fell on Aegon, who stared up at his father with those purple eyes so like his own. “How you’ve grown,” Rhaegar murmured, brushing a finger over the babe's cheek.

Rhaenys tugged impatiently at her father's cloak. “Did you bring me a present, Papa? From the war?”

Rhaegar looked down at his daughter, and again Elia saw that flicker of confusion, that momentary blankness. Then he smiled and reached into a pouch at his belt. “Of course, little dragon. I would not forget.”

He presented Rhaenys with a river stone, smooth and black, shot through with veins of red that caught the sunlight like living fire. “From the Trident,” he said, pressing it into her small palm. “Where the water runs red with fire.”

Rhaenys accepted the stone with a smile and a squeal, but Elia felt that strange dread coil tighter in her chest. Where the water runs red with fire. An odd turn of phrase, even for Rhaegar with his poet’s soul.

Later, as they processed to the Red Keep, Elia could not keep her gaze from her husband. The way his gaze lingered on common objects; a cart wheel, a beggar’s bowl, a feral cat slinking along a wall… as if seeing them for the first time. The way he sometimes tilted his head at an angle that reminded her, inexplicably, of hawks assessing potential prey.

He has been through a war , she told herself. He has killed a man in single combat. Of course he is changed .

That first night, he came to her chambers.

She had expected it, had prepared herself for duty if not pleasure. They had been apart for over a year and the marriage bed was both right and obligation. But when Rhaegar appeared at her door, he wore only a loose robe, his hair damp from bathing, and the look in his eyes was not one of desire but of something closer to dread.

“May I stay with you tonight?” he asked. “Just to sleep. I find I... I do not wish to be alone in the dark.”

It seemed a strange request from a husband to his wife, stranger still from the new king to his queen. Rhaegar had never feared the dark, either. Indeed, he had often sought it out, spending hours in the shadowed depths of the library or atop the walls of Dragonstone at night. But Elia saw the tremor in his hands, the need in his eyes. So of course she moved aside, welcoming him into her bed as she had so many times before.

He moved past her and into the chamber. Rhaegar turned to look at her, and in the candlelight his eyes seemed almost to glow, reflecting the flame in a way that made her think of a cat’s eyes in darkness.

He removed his robe, revealing his body to her for the first time since his return. Elia gasped despite herself. Scars crisscrossed his torso, some still angry and red, others already fading to silver. A long slash across his ribs where a blade had found a gap in his armor. A star-shaped pucker on his shoulder that could only have been made by an arrow. The great, ragged wound on his chest where Robert’s warhammer had nearly ended him.

But it was another mark that drew her eye and held it. Just above his heart, a perfect circle of raised flesh. Within the circle, a pattern like a spiral or a maze, the lines so intricate she could not follow them with her eye.

“Rhaegar,” she breathed, reaching out but stopping short of touching the strange scar. It seemed to emanate a warmth of its own. “What happened to you?”

“War happened.” He covered the mark with his hand, his expression closing like a door slamming shut. “Blood and death and sacrifice. All the things the singers glorify and the survivors try to forget.”

He slipped into her bed then, pulling the covers up as if to shield himself from her gaze. Elia joined him eventually, careful to maintain a space between their bodies. She had thought to give him time, to let him reach for her when he was ready.

When the candles went out. Rhaegar began to shake.

“Don’t,” he had said, reaching out with desperate hands when she moved to extinguish the last flame. “Please. Leave one burning.”

“Are you... are you well, Rhaegar?”

“I cannot bear the darkness now,” he whispered, and would say no more.

He has been through a war , she had thought that night, watching him sleep fitfully beside her, beautiful face bathed in candlelight. Of course he fears loneliness and the dark.

✣✣✣

The first time Rhaegar woke screaming, Elia thought the Stranger himself had come for her.

The sound tore through the quiet of their chambers; no human shriek but something older, wilder, a sound that should not emerge from a human throat. She had scrambled away from him in the bed, one hand raised to ward off a blow that never came, the other pressed to her mouth to stifle her own cry of terror.

Rhaegar sat upright, back arched, veins standing out on his neck like cords. His mouth stretched impossibly wide, teeth bared in a way that was neither smile nor grimace. His eyes were open, but in the candlelight, they did not look purple. They looked... yellow. Slitted, like a cat’s, or a serpent’s.

Then he blinked, and his eyes were his own again, and he was reaching for her with trembling hands.

“Elia,” he gasped, “forgive me. A dream. Only a dream.”

But the word dream came out wrong, twisted on his tongue as if he spoke a different language altogether.

That was the first time she heard him speak in tongues not meant for human mouths. It would not be the last.

After that night, Rhaegar would not sleep alone. Even when affairs of state kept him late in council chambers, even when duties of the court separated them for hours or days, he would come to her in the night. When the terrors came, they woke her from a dreamless sleep. 

“ K’shaaht n’gath morech-ti, ” he screamed. “ F’tagn y’llah shuggor-eth. ”

“Rhaegar!” Elia shook him, fear making her grip harder than she intended. “Rhaegar, wake up!”

He came awake with a gasp, his body jerking upright, his gaze wild as it swept the darkened chamber. For a moment, just a moment, his eyes caught the moonlight at the wrong angle, reflecting yellow-gold instead of purple.

“The water,” he gasped. “The red water. It’s in my lungs.”

“Shh,” Elia soothed, drawing him back down beside her. “It was just a dream. You’re safe. The Trident is hundreds of leagues away.”

Rhaegar shuddered against her, and yet she also felt his body relaxing as whatever terror that had gripped him receded. “Not a dream,” he murmured, already drifting back toward sleep. “A memory. Of drowning. Of the bargain.”

“What bargain?” she asked, but Rhaegar was already asleep, his breathing deep and even, his face peaceful in repose.

She lay awake until dawn, watching the rise and fall of his chest, studying the strange scar above his heart that seemed almost to pulse in the dim light, like something alive beneath his skin.

He has been through a war , she told herself again. He has killed and nearly been killed. Of course he has nightmares .

✣✣✣

Weeks passed, then months. Summer blazed on, beautiful and golden. Rhaegar was crowned king in a ceremony that seemed to satisfy both the smallfolk and the high lords who had rallied to his banner. Tywin Lannister was named Hand of the King, a reward for his late but decisive entry into the conflict. The realm began, slowly, to heal.

Yet each night, Rhaegar came to Elia’s chambers, never his own. Each night, he curled against her like a child seeking protection from the monsters under the bed. Each night, he woke screaming in that strange tongue, speaking of red water and bargains and voices in the dark.

And each morning, he seemed a little less like the man she had married.

It was not that he was cruel or cold. Indeed, in many ways, he was more attentive than before; asking after her health, bringing her small gifts, spending time with their children. But there was something rehearsed to these gestures, as if he were following a script, playing the role of loving husband and father without truly inhabiting it.

And there were other changes. The way he sometimes paused in mid-conversation, the way he studied common objects, the way he sometimes moved his mouth as if practicing unfamiliar words. Most disturbing of all were the moments when he seemed to forget himself entirely. Elia would enter a room to find him standing motionless, staring at nothing, his body still. When she spoke his name, he would blink and return to himself, offering an explanation that never quite rang true.

“Lost in thought,” he would say. Or, “Composing a new song.” Or, most often, “Just a moment of disorientation. The headaches, you know.”

He has been through a war, she told herself yet again. Some men come back unable to rise from bed at all.

✣✣✣

Elia watched from her place to the left of the Iron Throne as her husband heard petitions. Her seat was comfortable enough, cushioned with velvet in the Targaryen colors, but the hours were long, and the heat in the throne room oppressive. It was the second year of summer.

The throne itself remained as it had always been; a monstrous thing of twisted steel, the thousand blades of Aegon’s enemies. Rhaegar was careful, always, in how he positioned himself among those swords. She had never seen him bleed from its edges, not once in two years of rule. Today’s petitioners were the usual mix: merchants arguing over contracts, minor lords disputing boundaries, all sorts of folk seeking redress for grievances too complicated for local magistrates to resolve. 

A merchant from Pentos had brought a complaint about goods seized by the harbor master of King’s Landing, claiming they had been incorrectly assessed as contraband. 

“The precedent set by King Jaehaerys in the thirty-ninth year of his reign is clear,” Rhaegar said. “When goods are held in dispute due to classification, the burden falls upon the crown’s official to prove their assessment, not upon the merchant to disprove it."

The harbor master, a hairy man with three decades of service to the crown, looked stunned. “Your Grace, I had not thought... I was not aware of such a precedent.”

“Few are,” Rhaegar replied, with a small smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “The record exists in a single volume in the Citadel’s archives, a copy of which was only recently added to the Red Keep’s library.”

Tywin Lannister, standing to the right of the throne as befitted the Hand, raised an eyebrow; the most surprise Elia had ever seen him display in open court.

Later, as the session drew to a close and the last petitioners were ushered from the hall, Tywin approached Elia as she rose from her seat. Rhaegar was already moving toward the private exit behind the throne, speaking quietly with Ber Barristan.

“His Grace’s knowledge of legal precedent is... remarkable,” Tywin said, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. “I cannot recall another monarch with such command of historical detail.”

Elia studied the Old Lion’s face, searching for signs of suspicion or concern, but found only the usual neutrality. “The king has always been scholarly. Even as a prince, he spent more time with books than with swords.”

“Indeed.” Tywin’s green eyes flicked to Rhaegar’s retreating form. “Yet there is a difference between scholarship and... whatever this is. I had a maester once who could recite every word of every text he had ever read. A useful skill, but an unnatural one.”

Before Elia could think of a response, Rhaegar turned, beckoning to his Hand. “Lord Hand, a moment of your time, if you please. I would discuss the matter of the Braavosi envoy before tomorrow’s council meeting.”

Tywin inclined his head to Elia before moving to join the king. Together, they exited through the small door behind the throne, leaving Elia alone in the hall save for the guards at the distant entrances. She lingered, her gaze drawn to the Iron Throne, that terrible seat that had claimed the blood of so many over the centuries. 

Two years, and she had never seen it cut Rhaegar. Not once. Not even the smallest nick.

He has been through a war , Elia told herself. He studies more, learns more, grows more cautious with each passing day. That is all.

✣✣✣

The year Aegon turned four was unusually hot, even by the standards of King’s Landing. The stone of the Red Keep baked in the sun, and the stench from the city below rolled up the hill in waves that made even the hardiest courtiers gag. Rhaegar ordered the court removed to Dragonstone, where sea breezes might cool the sweltering halls, where the children might swim in the shallows beneath the shadow of the fortress.

It was there, in the black sand cove beneath the Dragonmont, that Aegon asked the question Elia had both dreaded and longed to hear.

Rhaegar had been swimming with the children. He had stripped to the waist, revealing the map of scars that marked his body. Rhaenys had seen them all before, but Aegon, younger and more sheltered, stared at his father’s chest with undisguised curiosity.

“What’s that one, Father?” he asked, pointing to the circle above Rhaegar’s heart.

The change was immediate and terrible. Rhaegar’s face emptied of all expression, his eyes growing distant, then sharp, then... yellow. For a heartbeat, no more, his pupils contracted to vertical slits again, and the air around him seemed to shimmer as if with great heat.

Elia, watching from her seat on the sand, felt her blood turn to ice.

“Nothing, Egg,” Rhaegar said, but his voice had changed, deepened, acquired something that made Elia’s teeth ache in her skull. “A souvenir of the Trident. Nothing more.”

“It doesn’t look like your other scars. See?” He pointed to a thin white line on Rhaegar’s forearm. “That’s from a sword, you told me. And that one—” he indicated a puckered mark on his father’s shoulder “—that's from an arrow. But that one—” his small finger hovered just above the whorl pattern “—it looks like... like something bit you. Something with teeth that go around and around.”

Out of the mouths of babes . An old saying of her mother’s that had never seemed more apt.

Rhaegar's hand moved to cover the mark, his fingers splayed wide as if to hide it from sight. “No, no mere beast’s bite,” he said, and then seemed to catch himself. “That is... it was... I don’t remember, Egg. It was a confusing day.”

Aegon opened his mouth to press further, but Rhaegar suddenly scooped him up, tossing him high into the air before catching him with hands that no longer trembled. The boy’s questions dissolved into shrieks of laughter, the strange moment passed, and they returned to their play in the shallows.

He has been through a war , she told herself. But he might not have lived through it.

✣✣✣

Five years had passed since Rhaegar had returned from the Trident. Five years of summer that showed no signs of waning. Five years of rule that had brought peace and prosperity to the Seven Kingdoms.

The smallfolk loved their beautiful king, the high lords respected him, or at least feared him enough to keep their ambitions in check. Harvests were bountiful, trade flourished, and the Targaryens seemed more secure on the Iron Throne than they had been in generations.

Five years, and Rhaegar had not aged a day.

Elia noticed it first in comparison to herself. The mirror showed her new lines at the corners of her eyes, strands of silver appearing among the black of her hair. Nothing unseemly, she was still a young by most standards, but the natural progression of time on a human face.

Rhaegar’s face remained unchanged. The same perfect features, unmarked by the passage of years. The same unblemished skin, save for the scars he had brought back from the Trident. 

And he was still warm, impossibly so. Elia had grown accustomed to the heat that radiated from his skin, especially at night when he curled against her in sleep. It had become a strange comfort in its way, like sleeping beside a hearth on a winter’s night. But there was nothing natural about such heat in a human body.

The children, at least, seemed untouched by whatever strangeness had claimed their father. Rhaenys, now eight, had developed a passion for horses and swordplay and tales of knightly valor. Aegon, at six, was quieter, more bookish, but with a hunger for battle that reminded Elia of her brother Oberyn in his youth.

Rhaegar indulged them both. He spent hours in the practice yard with Rhaenys, teaching her the basics of swordsmanship despite the raised eyebrows of the court. He read to Aegon from ancient tomes and scrolls, answering the boy’s endless questions with a patience that seemed bottomless.

A perfect father. A perfect king. A perfect husband, in many ways, attentive to her needs, generous with his affections.

Perfect, and yet not Rhaegar. Not the man she had married.

They were in bed, a few scattered candles still burning in their holders. Rhaegar slept beside her, one arm flung above his head, his chest rising and falling. Elia watched him intently, studying every line of his face, every curve of his body, searching for... what? Some clue, some proof of what she had come to suspect? Some sign of the thing that lived inside her husband’s skin?

As if sensing her thoughts, Rhaegar’s eyes opened, not slowly like one might wake from sleep,  but all at once. In the candlelight, they gleamed yellow.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, his voice not his own; yet another beautiful thing the war had taken from her.

“Just thinking,” Elia replied, forcing a smile she did not feel. “About the children. About you.”

“About me?” A furrow appeared between his brows, so familiar, so Rhaegar that for a moment she could almost believe she had imagined everything else. “What about me?”

I could ask him about the scar. About the Trident. About the yellow eyes and the strange tongue and the fear of darkness.

I could ask him what he truly is.

I could ask him what happened to my husband.

But instead, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his brow, where the furrow of concern had deepened. “Nothing important,” she lied. “Only that I love you.”

Relief flickered across his features, there and gone so quickly she might have missed it had she not been watching for it. “And I you,” he said, reaching for her hand, bringing it to his lips in a gesture that was pure Rhaegar. “More than you know.”

As he drifted back to sleep, his fingers entwined with hers, Elia continued her silent vigil. Watching the face of the man she had married, the man she had mourned without knowing it, the man who had been replaced by something ancient and terrible and other.

He has been through a war, she told herself. He has been through a war and something else came back wearing his skin.

✣✣✣

Late one night, as a summer storm raged outside their windows, a thunder so fierce that it shook the very stones of the Red Keep. It made her wake with a start from a restless sleep, only to find Rhaegar’s warmth next to her gone

A flash of lightning revealed him standing by the window, his back to her, his silver-gold hair gleaming in the cold light. He was naked to the waist, one hand pressed against the glass as if reaching for the storm beyond, the other tracing the strange whorl pattern above his heart. And as she watched, frozen in horror, the mark began to glow with a light of its own; a dull red-gold, like embers in a dying fire.

Elia remained motionless in the bed, hardly daring to breathe. Something told her that to make her presence known would be dangerous beyond measure. That this moment was not meant for mortal eyes.

“I know you’re awake. I can hear you thinking.”

The panic she felt was unlike anything she had ever known; worse than when Robert’s rebellion had brought armies of men with stags on their shields to the gates of the capital, intent on killing her and her children.

Slowly, terribly, Rhaegar turned from the window to face her. Lightning flashed once again and in that instant, Elia saw not her husband’s face but something else; features too angular, eyes too large, mouth filled with teeth like needles. Then darkness fell again, and it was Rhaegar who stood before her. Rhaegar, and yet not.

“Clever Elia,” he said, and his voice seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his throat, somewhere older than his body. “You always were a perceptive one. How long have you known?”

Her throat worked, but no sound came. What could she say? That she had suspected almost from the beginning? That she had lied to herself for five years, telling herself he had merely been changed by war, by killing, by nearly dying?

“I... I don’t…” she began, the words catching in her throat.

He sat beside her on the bed, the mattress barely dipping beneath his weight, as if he were hollow, or lighter than his frame suggested. With a gentleness that somehow made everything worse, he reached out to cup her cheek, his palm scorching against her skin. The heat of him was so intense that Elia felt she might burn, might catch fire and be consumed in an instant.

“What are you?” she whispered, the question she had been afraid to ask for five long years finally escaping her lips. “What happened to my husband?”

His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, leaving a trail of heat that bordered on pain. “I am many things,” he said, his voice softening into something almost like Rhaegar’s. “I have been called by many names, in many tongues, across many ages. In the shadow lands beyond Asshai, they called me Yshaarj. In Valyria, before the Doom, I was Yn’shzar. The First Men had no name for me, only fear. I was old when the first of your ancestors crawled from the mud, I was old when the dragons ruled the skies, old when the cold ones came from the north. Yes, I was old when the world was young, when the seas were fire and the skies were stone.”

“He is gone, isn’t he?”

“Not entirely. Part of him remains. Enough to know how to be him, most of the time. Enough to love his children. Enough to care for you, in his way.” Lightning flashed again, catching in his eyes, turning them to pools of molten gold. “Rhaegar…  he drowned in the Trident. His heart burst when the hammer struck. His lungs filled with water. His soul prepared to depart, but in his final moments, when darkness claimed his sight, he called out.”

“Called out to you?” She knew, of course she knew. She had known it since that first night when he had begged her to leave a candle burning.

“To anything that would listen,” the thing said, “to any power that might save him, that might grant him victory, that might ensure his prophecy would be fulfilled. When I answered, the soul was almost entirely gone, the vessel empty. I merely... filled what had been abandoned.” His hand slid from her cheek to her throat, resting there without pressure. “Do not worry, Elia of Dorne. He was already dead when I claimed this flesh.”

The creature leaned forward, pressing Rhaegar’s lips against hers in a kiss that burned like fire. Elia remained still, suspended between terror and a terrible, confusing grief.

When he pulled back, his eyes had shifted; still yellow, still inhuman, but with flecks of purple swimming in their depths. “Rhaegar has... colored me. His memories, his emotions… they have become part of what I am. The love I feel for his children is as real his own was.” He traced a finger along her collarbone, leaving heat in its wake. “There is fondness for you in me too, you were his mate, his anchor. There is fondness for the girl Lyanna as well.”

Oh Lyanna, beautiful Lyanna, willful Lyanna, doomed Lyanna. Even after five years, the girl would not leave her thoughts. 

“Rhaegar was a human like none other,” the creature continued, seeming not to notice her distress. “He was lonely sometimes, you know. Burdened by prophecy and duty. Seeking connection in places he perhaps should not have.”

“Is he suffering?”

The thing smiled, shaking its head with an expression almost kind. “No. Rhaegar dreams. Pleasant dreams of his mother, of a father who was not mad, of his children... and of you.”

A single tear escaped, sliding down Elia’s cheek. The creature caught it on a fingertip, studying the droplet before bringing it to his lips. “Salty like the sea. A reminder where your kind came from.”

The creature’s hands moved to the ties of her nightgown, undoing them slowly. Elia didn't resist. What purpose would resistance serve now? This thing had shared her bed for five years, had worn her husband’s skin, her children called it father. The violation had already occurred, a thousand times over.

“I get no pleasure from this act,” it said, “but I have learned much from your kind. Your time in this world is so limited, as are your capabilities and yet you burn so brightly. So much of you is love. All love. The love of children, the love of mates, the love of land and sky and sea. Even your hatreds are merely loves turned inside out.”

She was afraid, she knew from the way her heart threatened to break out of her chest, but she could not turn away. Those inhuman eyes in Rhaegar’s face she once found so beautiful, still found beautiful despite everything.

“Rhaegar risked it all for love.” The hand trailed lower still, settling near her heart. “His crown, his life, his family… all for prophecy, yes, but also for the Stark girl. For connection.” A strange expression crossed its borrowed face. “That, too, has colored me. His capacity for attachment. For... feeling.”

Lightning flashed again outside, more distant now as the storm moved away across the bay. 

“I have grown fond of this world,” it admitted, almost sheepishly. “I would hate to see its warmth extinguished. The light in your little girl’s eyes…”

“Rhaenys,” Elia whispered.

“Yes, Rhaenys and Aegon. I have witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations. I have seen empires bloom and wither like desert flowers. I have watched stars burn out and new ones kindle. And yet, I have never felt as I do now, when Rhaenys brings me the drawings she’s made or when Aegon asks me to read him a story.”

His fingers traced idle patterns against her skin, gooseflesh rose on her breasts. “Clever Elia, the long night will come. A dance of ice and fire, flame and frost, warmth and cold, life and death. A dance that has continued since before your kind first sparked flint to tinder, and will continue long after your bones are dust.”

Rhaegar with his silver harp; Rhaegar bent over ancient scrolls, muttering to himself as he transcribed forgotten prophecies; Rhaegar holding newborn Aegon with a look of wonder and determination; Rhaegar kissing her goodbye before riding to the Trident. 

Even the painful memories returned; his distant silences, his obsession with prophecy that had driven him from her bed, the crown of winter roses placed in another woman’s lap. All of it Rhaegar, all of it gone.

He had asked for her forgiveness before leaving for the Riverlands, she had not given it to him. Gods… she had not given it to him.

“Rhaegar knew. He called it the song of ice and fire.”

“Rhaegar knew,” the entity confirmed, hand moving from her chest to cup her face once more. “He did not make this bargain needlessly. He saw the shadows of what was to come, even if he did not understand their full nature. His blood gave him visions and he knew what was needed of him.

“This summer will last long; it heralds my coming. But the winter that follows will be unlike any your kind has ever known. The dead will rise. The cold will claim the living. Darkness will swallow the light."

Elia’s hand moved unconsciously to her womb, scarred and barren after Aegon’s birth left her closer to death than to life. The creature’s burning hand followed, covering hers.

“I will never give him a third head,” she sobbed, a pathetic thing in front of something so ancient and knowing and terrible. “Rhaegar is gone and I…”

“There is another.”

“Another? I don’t understand.”

“I discovered it only recently, piecing together fragments of Rhaegar’s memories, whispers carried on the wind from the North.” The creature's voice softened yet again, gently pushing her onto the mattress “Lyanna Stark was with child when she died. She bore Rhaegar a son with her coloring; dark hair, grey eyes, long face.”

Elia’s breath caught, a new pain blooming in her chest. “Where is this child now?”

“The boy’s uncle has taken him to Winterfell.” She felt the heat of Rhaegar's hands on her legs. “They call him Jon Snow.”

Chapter Text

The Dornish red had stained her lips and fingers, a second blood upon her skin. The wine had lost its taste three cups ago, but she still poured another cup, the liquid splashing over the rim and onto the polished table. Six years, and still she had not learned to pour steadily when the grief took her. Six years, and still the grief took her.

Too much , the servants whispered when they thought she couldn't hear. The Queen drinks too much these days.

Six years had passed since the Trident, since Rhaegar had fallen beneath Robert’s hammer and risen again with something else looking out from behind his eyes. Six years of smiling and pretending. Six years of sharing her bed, her life, her children with something that was not her husband.

Six years of grief that she could share with no one.

Yes, these were the burdens that required wine, that demanded the sweet oblivion found at the bottom of Dornish flagons.

Another cup. The room swam pleasantly now, the edges of the world softening.

It was always the small things that undid her; the scent of the oil Rhaegar had used to clean his harp strings, the melody of a song he had once played, the way he used to tap his fingers against his thigh when impatient but too polite to show it. Tonight it had been a book. A volume of poetry Rhaegar had given her in the early days of their marriage, verses from Yi Ti translated into the Common Tongue. She had found it while searching for something else entirely, had opened it without thinking, and there it was: an inscription in his neat, flowing hand.

To Elia, my sun from the south. May these words bring you the joy you bring to me.

A lie, of course. She had never brought him joy, not true joy. She had been his duty, his bride from Dorne, the mother he needed for his children. Her joy had been incidental, unneeded, perhaps even unwanted. And yet she had loved him. Gods help her, she had loved him so much. Even after the humiliation at Harrenhal, even after he had ridden away without a backward glance. She had been too weak to hate him then, and she was too weak to forget him now.

Elia took another long swallow of wine, feeling it burn down her throat. The worst of it was that Rhaegar had come to her before riding for the Trident, standing in the doorway of these very chambers with sorrow etched on his beautiful face. He had asked for her forgiveness then.

“I have been less than the husband you deserved,” he had said. “Less than the father our children needed. I ask your forgiveness, Elia. If I die, let me die knowing you forgive me.”

She had not given him what he asked. Had thought, in her pride, that she would have time to forgive him later, when the wound was not so new, when she could speak the words without choking on them.

“Go with the gods, Rhaegar,” she had said instead.

And then he was gone, truly gone, his soul departed to whatever awaited Targaryen princes in the beyond. He had died thinking she had not forgiven him. But she had. She had forgiven him somewhere between the third and fourth cup of wine on the night he left. Had forgiven him because love was a weed that grew in the unlikeliest places, that survived even when you tried to poison it with pride and anger and righteous hurt.

But Rhaegar had not known. He had died believing himself unforgiven, had made his desperate bargain in the red water thinking she still held his betrayal against him.

Elia pressed the heel of her palm against her eyes, trying to stem the tears before they could fall. Gods, she was pathetic. Crying over a man six years dead while she shared her bed with the ancient thing that wore his skin.

The door opened with a soft click, and the warmth in the chamber rose. Elia did not need to look up to know who had entered. “Elia?” The voice was Rhaegar's, and yet not. There was always something slightly off about it. Something that made her teeth ache if she listened too closely. “You’re still awake.”

She looked up then, blinking away the last of her tears. He stood in the doorway just as Rhaegar had that final time, though the resemblance ended there. Where Rhaegar had been clad in armor, ready for war, the thing wore a simple robe of black silk. Where Rhaegar's face had been lined with worry and regret, the thing's was a perfect mask of untroubled beauty.

“I couldn't sleep,” she lied, raising her cup before draining it.

The creature moved into the chamber, closing the door behind it. “You look upset,” he observed, those not-quite-right eyes moving over her and the empty flagon on the table beside her. “Did the children misbehave today?”

She did not know whether to laugh or weep at the question. Even after six years, this creature could still not quite grasp her grief, still reached for the simplest explanation when faced with her moods. And yet there was genuine concern in its borrowed face, genuine worry in the lines around Rhaegar's perfect mouth. It cared, in its way. It tried.

“I’m grieving,” she said simply.

The creature tilted its head in that birdlike way, something no man would make. “I don’t understand.”

Of course he didn’t. How could he? What could a being older than the foundation of the world itself know of a woman’s grief, of lost love, of regrets?

“For my husband,” she said.

He regarded her with those eyes (Rhaegar’s eyes, stolen eyes), then he lowered himself to one knee before her chair. “How can I help?”

It was a kind gesture, but even that was wrong. Rhaegar had never knelt. Not to her, not to anyone save his father during formal ceremonies. Pride ran too deep in Targaryen blood for such gestures. But there was honesty in the question, a desire to understand despite everything. Six years they had shared this strange existence, this marriage. Six years of pretending that nothing had changed. Six years… longer than she had known Rhaegar himself.

Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was the grief. Perhaps it was simply exhaustion. Whatever the cause, a terrible idea bloomed in Elia's wine-soaked mind. Cruel to herself, for it would only reopen wounds that had never fully healed. Cruel to the being that knelt before her as well.

“Could you…” she began, the words catching in her throat. “Could you pretend to be him? Just for tonight?” She swallowed hard, shame burning hotter than the wine in her blood. “I know you can. You have his memories, his... his mannerisms.”

Pathetic. Weak. Pitiful.

For a moment, she thought he might refuse, might question the wisdom of such an act, might remind her gently that Rhaegar was gone, that he was not him, could never be him.

But instead, something shifted in Rhaegar’s body; the posture changed, the angles of his form softened, the eyes brightened.

“You’ve had too much wine, my sun,” he said, and the voice was his now, truly his. “You’ll make yourself ill.”

A sob caught in Elia’s throat. My sun. His name for her, from before. “Yes,” she managed. “I suppose I’ve had too much.”

“Do you remember,” he continued, taking the cup from her unresisting fingers, “that night on Dragonstone? After Rhaenys was born, when we celebrated with the household and you drank so much Arbor gold that you were sick all over the gardens?”

Elia laughed despite herself, a broken sound. “The gardeners wouldn’t look me in the eye for a fortnight.”

"And I held your hair back," the creature said, smiling Rhaegar's smile. "You cursed me in three languages. Your Valyrian was particularly creative."

For a moment Elia could almost believe it was him. That the Trident had never happened, that Robert Baratheon's warhammer had never struck, that no ancient entity had answered a dying prince’s desperate call.

"It wasn’t my fault. The wine was stronger than usual, and I'd had so little sleep with Rhaenys’ birth being so recent..."

“And I was no help, lost in my scrolls and prophecies. I was often no help at all, wasn’t I?” Something like regret washed over the stolen features. Then he stood, offering her his hand. “Come to bed. If you don’t sleep now, the headache will be terrible come morning.”

She allowed herself to be helped to her feet, swaying slightly as the room tilted around her. His arm slid around her waist, picking her up as she weighted nothing at all.

“I can walk,” she protested as he swept her into his arms.

“Of course you can,” he agreed easily, moving towards their bed. “But humor me. I so rarely get to play the gallant prince these days.”

He laid her on the bed carefully, then moved to help her out of her gown, his fingers working the laces quickly. Only the warmth of his touch betrayed him; too hot, like a fever that never broke, banked embers beneath pale skin. The sheets were cool against her flushed skin as he drew the covers up around her shoulders the way Rhaegar used to do on the nights when her Dornish blood proved no match for Dragonstone's damp chill.

“Will you stay?"

“Of course,” he replied, slipping beneath the covers beside her. As if he would ever sleep anywhere else, as if he had not come to her bed every night since the Trident, seeking refuge from the darkness he still feared. “I’m here, Elia. I’m always here.”

Elia curled into his embrace, breathing in his scent. It was not quite right, tinged with smoke and something older, something that reminded her of the hot springs beneath Dragonstone, of stone and salt and ancient things. “I feel so lost sometimes,” she confessed, her words muffled against his chest. “Like I’m adrift in a sea with no shores, no stars to guide me.”

“I know,” he murmured into her hair, and for a moment. The tone full of regret for the pain he had caused, for the love he had been too obsessed to properly give her. “I’m sorry.”

Don’t be sorry for his misdeeds , she thought but did not say. Don't apologize with his voice for hurts you never caused me.

Instead, she closed her eyes, surrendering to the wine and comfort. Tomorrow, she would face the truth again. Tomorrow, she would remember that her husband was six years dead, and that the thing that held her now was not him, would never be him.

But tonight she would allow herself this small mercy, this harmless self-deception. She would sleep in Rhaegar’s arms and dream of what might have been, had the hammer not fallen, had the red water not risen, had her silver prince not made his desperate bargain in the depths of the Trident.

As sleep claimed her, she thought she felt lips press against her temple, felt a whisper that might have been “I love you” or might have been something else, something in a language not meant for human ears.

It didn’t matter. In her dreams, it was Rhaegar who held her. In her dreams, she had given him her forgiveness before he rode away. In her dreams, he had come back to her whole and unchanged, and they had grown old together beneath a summer sun that eventually yielded to autumn, to winter, to spring.

✣✣✣

“You cannot be serious.” Elia’s teacup rattled against the table as she set it down too forcefully. “You’re truly going to war? Yourself?”

The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and sea across the terrace where they broke their fast, softening the summer heat that had gripped King’s Landing for over half a decade now. The children had been laughing, the sky was a perfect blue, and then he had mentioned it.

The ironmen have rebelled. I’ll be sailing north within the fortnight.

The thing that was not Rhaegar looked up from across the small table, the sunlight catching in his hair. He looked no day older than three-and-twenty. “Balon Greyjoy has crowned himself king. He must be reminded that there is only one true king in Westeros.”

“The Greyjoys?” Aegon's face lit with excitement, nearly bouncing in his seat. At six, the boy was all stories and dreams of glory “The ones with the krakens on their banners? Are we going to fight them, Father?”

Rhaegar laughed and reached across the table to lift Aegon into his lap. “Yes, Egg. Balon Greyjoy fancies himself a king. He styles himself the Ninth of His Name, if you can believe such presumption.”

“Are you going to kill him?”

“If the gods will it,” he replied, ruffling Aegon’s silver hair. Sometimes Elia wondered if she was the only one that noticed the feverish heat of his skin. “Ser Kevan Lannister sends word that Lannisport’s fleet burns even now. The ironmen struck in the night; no declaration, no warning. Now they’re raiding across the North,” the king continued, his eyes flickering briefly to Elia’s face before returning to Aegon. “Village by village, they kill the men, take the women.”

“Then the Starks will respond,” Elia said, thinking of Lord Eddard in his distant frozen keep. She had not seen him since the rebellion’s end, though the taxes from Winterfell arrived promptly, and formal correspondence was all that could be expected from a loyal lord.

“A king who will not defend his own realm is no king at all. The northern and western bannermen will come, of course, but I will be the one to lead them. Ser Kevan has already begun gathering forces at Casterly Rock. I will lead the royal fleet with Lord Tywin to meet him there.”

“I want to come too,” Aegon declared, puffing out his small chest. “I’m almost seven. Old enough to be a squire.”

“You will remain here,” Rhaegar said firmly, though his hand remained gentle on the boy’s shoulder. “A prince protects his people, Aegon. Your place is at the Red Keep, learning to rule, not on some battlefield.”

Disappointment clouded the boy’s features, but Elia could see relief in Rhaenys’s eyes. Her daughter had grown perceptive over the years, too perceptive perhaps. Sometimes Elia wondered if the girl suspected the truth about her father, if she had noticed the wrongness that Elia had learned to live with.

“Will you come back?” Rhaenys asked, her voice small but direct. No flowery courtesies, no pretense.

“Of course I will,” he promised, and Elia thought she saw surprise in his face. “The ironborn are fierce, but they are few. And I am…” He paused, searching for the right words. “I am not so easily killed.”

No , Elia thought. You’re not. But my husband was.

“When you return victorious,” she said, forcing a smile that did not reach her eyes, “we shall have a grand feast. With singers from Highgarden and dancers from Dorne.” She reached for her cup again, needing something to occupy her trembling hands. “The greatest celebration since your coronation.”

“I would like that.” He reached for the teapot, refilling first her cup, then his own. “Though I think Rhaenys might prefer a tournament to a feast.”

“We shall have both,” the girl declared. “With a melee and jousting and archery as well.”

“And what would you have me do while you are gone?” Elia asked, her voice soft enough that the children, now distracted by a pair of ships visible in the bay beyond the terrace, would not hear. “Rule in your stead?”

He considered her for a long moment, those stolen purple eyes looking through her; gown, skin, bones and all. “The Small Council will continue to meet. The Hand as well as the Master of Ships and Ser Barristan will be gone, but Lord Varys, Lord Tarly, Lord Connington and Grand Maester Pycelle remain. You may sit in my place, if you wish, though you need not attend every session.”

It was more authority than Rhaegar might have granted her, Elia suspected. He seemed to hold her in higher regard than her husband ever had, perhaps because it had been with her longer now than Rhaegar himself had been. Six years against four they had shared before the Trident.

“I would have you comfortable and safe,” he continued, reaching across the table to take her hand. His skin burned against hers. “You and the children. This will not be a long campaign, I think. The ironborn are fierce, but few. Once the royal fleet engages, they will have no choice but to retreat to their islands.”

“And then?” Elia asked.

“And then we burn their ships and force Balon Greyjoy to his knees.” Something flashed in his eyes then, something that might have been eagerness or hunger or some emotion the common language had no name for. “The ironborn are nothing compared to what waits beyond the Wall.”

✣✣✣

Haroooooooooooooooooooooooo, the greenlander’s war horn cried.

Lucimore spat salt water and blood onto the black stones beneath his feet. Three weeks since the greenlanders had come with their pretty ships and prettier banners. Three weeks of iron meeting steel, of fire against stone, of the sea turning red with ironborn blood.

“Form a line!” Cleftjaw bellowed from somewhere behind him, his voice carrying over the crash of surf and the screams of the wounded. “Form a line, you whoresons! Do you want to die like greenlanders, running?”

Dagmer Cleftjaw. The old reaver was a legend along the shores of the Iron Islands and a terror to the mainland. Lucimore had sailed under Cleftjaw’s command since his first reaving as a beardless boy. He’d watched the captain claim prizes and women from Bear Island to the Arbor, had seen him drink from the skulls of fallen enemies and burn entire villages for sport. But even Cleftjaw’s words rang hollow in his ears now. He had watched two uncles and a cousin die. Had seen the Iron Fleet burn in its own harbor, had heard tell of the fall of Orkmont and the razing of a dozen smaller keeps along the archipelago. The ironborn way was to reave, to strike fast and fade back into the sea before retaliation could be mustered. They were not meant for this kind of war; holding ground against a superior force, trying to outlast an enemy with seemingly inexhaustible men and resources.

King Balon had promised it would be different. The mainlanders are soft, he’d said. A quick strike at the Lannister fleet, raids along the northern shores, and the greenlanders would sue for peace rather than commit to a prolonged campaign against the harsh islands.

He had been wrong.

Around him, the surviving reavers formed a ragged line. They were outnumbered three to one, perhaps more. The Drowned God would feast well tonight. Lucimore himself hefted his axe, feeling the weight of it in his palm, the smooth worn leather of the grip against his skin. Twenty years of reaving had taught him when a fight was lost. This one had been lost the moment the dragon banners appeared on the horizon.

The war horns sounded again, closer now, their deep moaning call rolling over the rocky shore like the herald of doom.

Haroooooooooooooooooooooooo.

Armored men on armored horses, their plate and mail catching what sunlight survived the clouds. At their head rode a figure that seemed hewn from moonlight and silver. Lucimore had never seen the king in person, but there was no mistaking Rhaegar Targaryen. His armor was black as night, adorned with rubies that reminded him of blood.

“Let them come to us.” Cleftjaw’s voice seemed to grow more and more frantic. “The footing is treacherous here for horses.”

His stomach threatened to turn, his heart seemed to want to break out of his chest and yet Lucimore nodded, adjusting his grip on his axe. The old reaver was right. The beach was strewn with debris, with slick rocks and shifting sand. Cavalry would be at a disadvantage, forced to pick their way carefully or risk a broken leg for their mounts.

But the royal forces did not charge. Instead, they halted just beyond the reach of a thrown axe. A silence fell, broken only by the eternal voice of the sea and the creaking of leather and steel as men shifted their weight.

Then Rhaegar Targaryen urged his mount forward, alone, stopping halfway between the two forces. Even at this distance, Lucimore could see the king’s eyes; purple, people said, though in the gray light they looked almost black.

“Men of the Iron Islands," the king’s called. “Your rebellion is broken. Your fleet burns. Your lord will fall. Lay down your weapons and you may yet live to see another dawn.”

Cleftjaw’s laugh was like stones grinding together. “Soft words from a soft king,” he called back. “Come closer, greenlander, and we'll give you an ironborn welcome!”

A murmur rippled through the ragged line of defenders. Even Lucimore allowed himself a grim smile. They would die today, but they would die as ironborn should. Rhaegar Targaryen did not seem amused. For a long moment, he sat motionless upon his mount. “As you wish.” The king raised his sword, pointing it toward the ironborn line. "No quarter asked, none given."

With that, he wheeled his mount and rode back to his own lines. For a heartbeat, Lucimore dared to hope that the king had reconsidered, that the greenlanders would retreat and give the ironborn time to regroup, to plan, to fight another day.

Then the war horns sounded a third time, no longer a call but a command.

Haroooooooooooooooooooooooo.

And the royal forces began to advance.

Not a charge, as Urrigon had expected, but a deliberate, measured advance. Foot soldiers now, with the mounted knights hanging back. Men in the golden armor of the Westerlands, bearing spears and shields emblazoned with the lion of House Lannister. Men of the north, still clad in furs. Behind them came archers, nocking arrows to bowstrings.

“Shields!” Cleftjaw bellowed, but it was a futile command. Few of the ironborn carried shields; they were cumbersome things, more suited to land battles. Some men desperately raised splintered planks from the wrecked longships, others simply stood, exposed, waiting for the inevitable.

The first volley of arrows arced through the mist-laden air, falling like black rain among the defenders. Men cried out, falling to their knees with shafts protruding from shoulders, thighs, chests. Lucimore felt one whistle past his ear, close enough that he could hear the fletching's passage.

“FORWARD!” Cleftjaw roared, and the ironborn surged toward the advancing greenlanders, abandoning what little advantage their defensive position had offered. Lucimore found himself running with them, ignoring the madness of it. The distance between the two forces closed quickly, and then they crashed together like waves against a cliff face.

The battlefield dissolved into chaos, into individual moments of violence and desperation. Lucimore’s axe found a home in the shoulder joint of a Lannister man-at-arms. The man screamed, dropping his spear. Urrigon wrenched his axe free and swung again, this time at the throat of another greenlander.

Around him, ironborn fell to greenlander spears and swords, but they sold their lives dearly. For every ironborn who fell, three greenlanders accompanied him to whatever awaited.

Time lost meaning, Lucimore fought automatically, his body remembering what his mind was too battle-hazed to direct. Swing, parry, thrust. Block, dodge, strike. Again and again, until his arms burned. It might have been minutes or hours later when the press of bodies suddenly lessened, the greenlanders falling back, creating a space in the heart of the field. Lucimore, disengaging from his current opponent with a desperate shove, found himself at the edge of this unexpected clearing.

And in its center stood Rhaegar Targaryen.

The king had dismounted, his black armor scattered with blood that was not his own. His silver-gold hair was darkened and in his hand, his sword gleaming wet and red. An ironborn axe swung for his head; Rhaegar ducked beneath it without seeming to look, then drove his blade up through the attacker’s chin. A thrown spear that should have taken him in the chest somehow missed, though he made no obvious move to avoid it.

And as the king turned to face his next opponent, Lucimore saw it; a flash of gold where purple should have been, the king’s eyes catching the weak sunlight like a cat’s in darkness before returning to normal in the space of a heartbeat.

I’m seeing things , Lucimore told himself, bile rising in his throat. Battle madness. Blood loss. Exhaustion.

“TARGARYEN!” The roar came from his right, and Lucimore turned to see Dagmer Cleftjaw shouldering his way through the press of bodies. “FACE ME, DRAGON! OR ARE YOU ONLY BRAVE AGAINST BOYS AND WEAKLINGS?”

“Who addresses me?” The king paused in his slaughter, turning to the voice.

“Captain Dagmer Cleftjaw,” the old reaver snarled, stepping into the cleared space. “Master of the Foamdrinker . Reaver of the western shores. The Terror of Fair Isle”

If Rhaegar was impressed by these titles, he gave no sign. Instead, he tilted his head in a curious, birdlike manner. “I see,” the king said at last. “And you believe yourself a worthy opponent, Lord Cleftjaw?”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Cleftjaw replied, and charged.

The old reaver was fast; faster than a man his size and age had any right to be. His axe whistled through the air, aimed at the king’s head. Rhaegar parried, his blade catching the axe handle just below the head, turning it aside. Cleftjaw recovered quickly, changing the direction of his swing to bring the axe back around toward the king’s side. Again, Rhaegar’s sword was there to meet it.

Rhaegar didn’t parry the next strike. He simply stepped aside, letting Cleftjaw’s own charge carry him past. As the reaver stumbled, off-balance, the king’s boot shot out, catching him behind the knee and sending him crashing to the stones. He tried to rise, but Rhaegar’s sword point came to rest at the hollow of his throat, stilling him.

“Cleftjaw,” the king asked. “Have you counted how many men you've killed?”

The question seemed to confuse the old reaver. He blinked up at the king, his breathing labored, blood bubbling at the corner of his ruined mouth. “What?”

“The men you’ve killed,” Rhaegar continued, his tone still light, almost curious. “The raids. The villages put to the torch. The women you’ve taken. Have you kept count? Do you remember their faces?”

Lucimore gripped his axe tighter, knuckles white. He should help Cleftjaw. He should attack the Targaryen while his attention was fixed on the fallen reaver. The king’s back was partly to him; a quick rush, a well-placed blow, and perhaps...

But his legs would not obey. Some type instinct kept him rooted to the spot.

“Oh, me neither,” the king continued when Cleftjaw offered no answer. “I could not care less about the number of ironmen I’ve killed.” The sword point pressed slightly harder against Cleftjaw’s throat, drawing a bead of blood that ran down his neck like a tear. “And soon, I’ll forget all about you too…”

The blade plunged down and Cleftjaw’s body convulsed just once before going still. Cleftjaw; invincible, immortal Cleftjaw, had fallen like any other man. 

With a cry born of desperation more than courage, Lucimore charged forward, axe raised. He saw Rhaegar turn, saw the slight widening of his eyes, before the king pivoted to meet his attack. He swung with all his remaining strength, aiming for the gap on the at the king’s armpit. But the man moved more like water than flesh, his blade meeting air. Before Lucimore could recover, white-hot pain erupted in his side as Rhaegar’s sword found the seam in his leather armor.

He staggered, his hand going to the wound, feeling hot blood pulsing between his fingers. Yet somehow, he remained standing, swaying but upright, facing the king. Up close, Lucimore could see the king's pupils contract again, shifting from circles to vertical slits; the purple rippled, gold bleeding into it. “What are you?” Lucimore gasped, the pain making his vision swim. “No man moves like that. No man’s eyes shine gold.”

The king tilted his head and for a moment, Lucimore thought he might answer him. But no real answer came; only a smile. A terrible smile that seemed to stretch too wide across the beautiful face. “I am the King.”

The sword descended, piercing Lucimore’s chest. The pain was blinding, absolute, but mercifully brief. What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.

✣✣✣

The throne room of Pyke was a shabby affair, Tywin Lannister thought. Unworthy of the attention of a king, much less his Hand. Salt-stained stone walls wept with damp. An ugly stone seat, wrought to resemble some manner of sea creature, stood where a proper lord’s chair should be. The chamber stank of brine and desperation and defeat.

Fitting, given the state of its former occupant.

To Tywin’s right stood Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, his long face even longer with disapproval. Stark had the look of a man attending a funeral rather than celebrating a victory; all somber gray eyes and clenched jaw, as if honor were a physical weight upon his shoulders.

“Balon Greyjoy.” The king’s voice cut through the great hall, drawing Tywin back to the present. “You styled yourself King of the Iron Islands. Declared independence from my rule. Burned my western fleet. Raided my shores. Killed my subjects. What say you now, kraken?”

The self-styled “king” Balon Greyjoy knelt in chains before Rhaegar, defiance in his gaze despite the circumstances. A dire picture, when looking at Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, the Dragon King. No sign of battle marred his armor, though Tywin had witnessed him lead three charges himself. Too perfect , Tywin thought. Six years as Hand to this king, and still there was something about Rhaegar Targaryen that struck him as... incorrect. Not obvious enough to name, certainly not dramatic enough to remark upon, but present nonetheless. Like a familiar portrait whose colors had been subtly altered while one’s back was turned.

It hadn’t always been thus. Tywin remembered the sullen prince who had brooded through court functions, who had spent more time with books than with swords. That Rhaegar had been skilled, yes, but never eager for battle. Never hungry for it, as this one seemed to be.

Greyjoy lifted his head, chains rattling. Salt had dried in his thin beard. “What would you have me say, Targaryen? That I failed? Aye, I did. That I regret it? No. What is dead may never die.”

“A charming philosophy.” The king circled the kneeling man slowly as he spoke. “Tell me, Lord Greyjoy, or should I call you Balon now, since you are lord of nothing? Well, it is of no matter. Tell me, Balon, where are your brothers now? Where are your proud sons?”

Greyjoy’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. The answer was known to all present regardless. Euron Greyjoy had died when royal forces captured Lordsport, pinned to the mast of his own ship by a dozen arrows. Victarion had perished at Great Wyk, his fleet burned around him. Aeron had drowned while attempting to escape the blockade of Old Wyk. As for Balon’s sons, only young Theon remained alive, held hostage aboard the royal flagship.

“Gone to feast in the Drowned God’s halls, I expect,” the king continued, answering his own question. “Along with your dreams of an independent Iron Islands. Along with the Old Way you so cherished.” He stopped directly before Greyjoy, looking down at the defeated rebel. “Only Theon remains. And the girl… Asha, isn’t it? I’m told she managed to sail her little longship all the way to Faircastle when she saw which way the wind was blowing.

“Smart girl," the king continued. "Smarter than her father, certainly. But then, that’s often the way of things. The young learn from the mistakes of the old... if they’re permitted to live long enough."

Lord Stark shifted uncomfortably at this; the fool. War was no place for sentiment.

“What now, then?” Greyjoy rasped. “The block? The sword? Will you mount my head on your walls, Targaryen, as a warning to others who might seek independence from your rule?”

The king smiled, and Tywin felt a prickle of unease across the back of his neck. There was something in that smile; something hungry, something that didn’t quite fit the face that wore it. “The ironborn respect strength above all, do they not? The strong take, the weak yield. An admirably straightforward philosophy.” He drew his sword; a fine blade of castle-forged steel that had drunk its fill of ironborn blood these past weeks. “I had thought to make an example of you, Balon. To show the whole of the Seven Kingdoms what becomes of those who defy their rightful king.”

Greyjoy’s shoulders stiffened, but he did not flinch. Say what one would about the ironborn, they did not lack for courage.

“But examples require witnesses,” the king continued. “And I find I have no desire to drag you back to King’s Landing for a public execution.” He ran a finger along the blade’s edge, not caring how it bit into his flesh, drawing a thin line of blood. “So instead, you will die here, in your miserable keep, surrounded by the ruins of your rebellion.”

“Your Grace.” Stark stepped forward stiffly. “Perhaps there might be another way. The Night’s Watch always has need of men. Lord Greyjoy could take the black, serve the realm from the Wall.”

Tywin almost pitied the northern lord then. The man had been a rebel himself, had only bent the knee when his friend Robert Baratheon fell at the Trident. Of course he would advocate for mercy; he likely saw himself in Greyjoy’s place but for the fortune of war.

The king turned that unsettling smile toward Stark. “Your concern for the Watch’s recruitment does you credit, Lord Stark. But the ironborn are not suited to the Wall. They are creatures of salt and sea. They would wither and die in that frozen wasteland, far from their Drowned God.” He returned his attention to Greyjoy. “Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke, self-styled King of the Iron Islands. I, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do sentence you to die.”

Without further ceremony, without even asking if the condemned man wished to speak last words, Rhaegar brought his sword down in a single, perfect arc. Balon Greyjoy’s head separated cleanly from his shoulders, thudding onto the stone floor. 

“The Iron Islands will remain part of the Seven Kingdoms,” the king declared. “Theon Greyjoy will be fostered at Casterly Rock as a ward of the crown.” His eyes found Tywin’s across the chamber. “Lord Tywin, as Hand of the King, you will oversee the installation of a new Lord of the Iron Islands; someone loyal, someone capable of keeping these people in check.”

Tywin inclined his head. “I have several candidates in mind, Your Grace.”

“Good.” Rhaegar wiped his blade clean on Balon’s cloak before sheathing it. “I want the ironborn tamed. Their longships burned. Their reavers imprisoned or executed. Their practice of taking salt wives ended.” His gaze swept the room, settling on each man present in turn. “The Old Way dies with Balon Greyjoy.”

The sea crashed against the rocks below Pyke, the voice of the Drowned God calling his children home, the Ironmen believed. Tywin Lannister paid it no mind. Six years of summer, with no end in sight. The maesters were concerned, but he had more immediate matters to attend to.

Winter, after all, was a long way off.

Chapter Text

The dreams came less frequently now, but when they did, they were no less vivid. No less terrible.

Ned woke with a gasp, heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum. Beside him, Catelyn stirred but did not wake. For a moment, he simply watched her breathe, anchoring himself in her presence, in the reality of Winterfell’s walls around them, in the distant howl of wind across the forest. Anything to banish the memory of red water and that voice that was not a voice.

Six years since the Trident, and still it haunted him. Six years of plenty following slaughter. Six years of a summer that grew stranger with each passing moon. The old women muttered about omens, about the summer that would not die and the winter that would swallow the world when it finally came. Ned had never put much stock in such talk, but lately, he found himself listening more closely when Old Nan shared her tales with the children.

He rose from the bed, careful not to disturb his wife, and crossed to the window. Beyond the glass, Winterfell slept under a blanket of mist. His keep, the one he held for the Iron Throne, for the man who had spared his life at the Trident. For Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

The man who, by all rights, should have died that day in the river.

The clash of steel, the screams of dying men, the copper-iron stench of blood mingling with river water. All of it as vivid as if he were still there, wading through the shallows with his blade in his hands, searching for his friend amidst the carnage. Even through the chaos, even after cutting down men whose faces he could no longer recall, he found him. He found Robert.

He had seen it happen. Had been close enough to witness the moment when victory transformed to defeat, when hope curdled to despair. The hammer had struck true. Struck with such force that the iron head itself shattered against Rhaegar’s breastplate. Rhaegar fell backward into the shallow water, his blood turning the river water ruby-red around him.

Robert had turned then, seeking Ned across the battlefield as if he had known exactly where his friend would be. Their eyes had met across the distance, stormy blue finding winter grey, and Robert had smiled that smile that made him Robert, that could both charm a serving girl or rally an army.

Then, like some nightmare creature from Old Nan’s tales, Rhaegar Targaryen had risen from the bloody waters.

Ned had tried to shout a warning, though even then he knew it was futile. Robert’s back was turned, his warhammer broken, his smile fading into a look of confusion as he saw the expression on Ned’s face change.

Rhaegar had moved too quickly. A thrust that should have been impossible from a man who had just taken a blow that could fell an aurochs. A thrust that went through steel and leather and mail and flesh and bone.

Robert’s eyes had widened, not in pain but in shock, in bewilderment. He had looked down at the wet steel protruding from his chest, then back at Ned, opening his mouth all the while. No words had come, only a thin trickle of blood that seemed black against his skin.

What happened next haunted Ned more than the death itself. He heard a voice, a voice in his head, his own voice, though it did not sound like his own voice. Robert Baratheon is dead , it had said. You’ll die too if you don’t surrender. This is lost. You’re lost.

Around him, his men had dropped their weapons, falling to their knees in the river. Not just Northmen, but knights of the Vale, stormlanders, rivermen… all surrendering as one. Somehow, men on the opposite side of the battlefield had known that Robert Baratheon had died, that Rhaegar Targaryen lived, and that if they wanted to live, they should kneel to the dragon.

Ned still got sick when he thought of it. Even now he felt a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. The latter days of the war were a blur in his memory, only witnessed through a fog or perhaps a fever dream. As if conjured by some dark sorcery, the Westerlands had joined the battle on the side of the loyalists, Tywin Lannister suddenly appearing with fresh troops to support the Targaryen cause.

Ned often wondered why he lived. Was it mercy on Rhaegar’s part, or calculation? The North was vast, unruly, difficult to control without a Stark in Winterfell. Better to leave Ned alive and bound by honor than to create a martyr and face generations of Northern rebellion.

And perhaps there had been another reason. A reason with a name.

“Ned?”

He turned from the window to find his wife sitting up in bed, auburn hair tousled from sleep, blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Arya’s birth four moons past had been hard on her, harder than Robb’s or Sansa’s certainly. The babe had come early and Catelyn had bled enough to frighten Maester Luwin.

“Forgive me,” Ned said, crossing back to the bed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” She offered him a tired smile. “The dreams again?”

He nodded, settling beside her on the furs. There were few secrets between them (the greatest of them all lay sleeping in the room down the hall). She knew of his nightmares, if not their exact content. Knew they had something to do with the Trident, with Robert’s death and the rebellion’s collapse.

Ned leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her brow. “How are you feeling? Should I call for Luwin?”

“I’m well enough and get better each day.” His arm went around her, drawing her closer as she settled her head on his chest. For a long moment, they simply lay together in the half-light of dawn, listening to the other breathe. It was a comfort Ned had never expected to find in this marriage.

“You’re worried,” Catelyn said at last, her voice soft against his skin. It wasn’t a question.

“Aye.” No use in denying what she could clearly see.

She did not have to ask what troubled him. They both knew. The king and half the court were coming to Winterfell, and soon. Ravens had been flying between King’s Landing and Winterfell for months now, preparations increasing with each passing day. The Targaryens’ imminent arrival hung over the castle like a storm cloud, visible in the frantic activity of the servants, the fresh rushes being laid, the larders being stocked for feasts.

“It will be fine,” Catelyn said. “The king has shown you nothing but favor since Balon’s rebellion.”

Since I let him do as he pleased like all the rest, Ned thought but did not say.

“He’s honoring you with this visit,” Catelyn continued.

“Mmm,” Ned agreed, not wanting to burden her with his darker suspicions. She had enough to worry about with the new babe and the impending arrival of the royal party.  “I should rise,” he said, shifting away from her. “There’s much to prepare.”

“Send in my maid when you go. I’ll join you in the Hall for breakfast.”

✣✣✣

The yard was warmer than it should have been for a northern morning. It had been warmer than it should have been for six years, if truth be told. The sun hung in a sky too blue, too perfect. Ned worried sometimes, though he kept such thoughts to himself. The Night’s Watch had sent ravens speaking of the Wall weeping even at night now, ice melting when it should remain frozen solid. Old omens, bad omens.

He moved toward the armory, where Ser Rodrik would be checking weapons and armor for the hundredth time. There were preparations to discuss for the royal party’s arrival; accommodations for the king’s knights, training schedules to be adjusted, security concerns to address. As Lord of Winterfell, these duties fell to him, and Ned Stark had never shirked his duty, no matter how heavy it sometimes felt.

“Father! Look here!”

Robb’s voice cut through his thoughts, bright and eager. Ned turned to see his son and Jon in the practice yard, wooden swords raised. “We’ve been practicing,” Jon explained, more quietly than Robb. “Ser Rodrik showed us yesterday.”

Ned forced a smile, leaning against the fence to watch their battle. They were good lads, both of them. Robb, with his Tully coloring and open face, quick to laugh and quicker to forgive. And Jon, dark and solemn, with Lyanna’s eyes and a face that reminded Ned of... of someone else.

The boys continued their sparring. They were evenly matched today, though Ned had noticed that Jon sometimes held back, sometimes allowed Robb to win when victory was within his grasp. A bastard’s caution, perhaps, or something deeper; some instinct to remain in the shadows, to avoid drawing attention to himself.

“When do they arrive, Father?” Robb asked, pausing to catch his breath. “The king and his court. Will it be today?”

“Not today,” Ned replied. “A few days yet, according to the last raven. They move slowly, with all the court in tow.”

“Will there be princes and princesses?” Robb wanted to know. “Will we have feasts and tourneys?”

“Princes, yes. Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon will be with the royal party. As for feasts…” Ned managed a more genuine smile. “Your mother has been planning the welcome feast for weeks. You’ll have your fill of sweets and spectacle, I promise you.”

“Prince Aegon is our age, isn’t he?” Jon asked quietly. Something in his tone made Ned glance at him sharply.

“Indeed,” Ned confirmed. “Seven or thereabouts. Princess Rhaenys is a few years older.”

“Will he be joining us for practice while he’s here?” Robb asked eagerly. 

“Whether he’ll train with you will depend on his father’s wishes.” 

“I hope he does!” Robb had been beyond excited for weeks now, oblivious to his father’s nerves. Little Sansa, too, was beside herself with excitement, though the girl was but three. She babbled of nothing but princesses and beautiful queens, of princes and songs and feasts. Catelyn had sewn her a new dress for the occasion, and the girl had insisted on trying it on each day, twirling before the mirror with dreams of southern courts in her head.

As the boys gathered their practice weapons, Ned found his gaze lingering on Jon. 

Promise me, Ned.

Why hadn’t Rhaegar come for his son? The question had haunted Ned for six years. After Robert’s defeat, after that strange, terrible surrender at the Trident, Ned had ridden south with six of his closest friends (the friends that had lived), fully expecting execution despite the unexpected mercy on the battlefield. It was Howland Reed who had told him, who had somehow discovered where Lyanna was being kept. And so Ned had gone to the Tower, prepared to die if it meant seeing his sister one last time.

Rhaegar had been busy in those chaotic weeks after the rebellion’s collapse. Busy securing his throne, busy dealing with his father’s death, busy with a thousand matters more pressing than a dying northern girl and the babe she had borne him. Or so Ned had always told himself, never quite believing it.

Three knights had guarded the tower, three of the Kingsguard who had not been at the Trident. Men who had followed their prince’s command to keep Ned’s sister trapped even as the realm burned around them. Men who had died at the base of that tower, their white cloaks stained red with blood.

Only Howland Reed and Ned himself had survived to climb those steps. Only they had witnessed Lyanna’s last moments, had heard her pleas, had seen the babe with eyes that sometimes, in certain lights, flashed violet instead of grey.

Promise me, Ned. Promise me.

And he had promised. Had taken the boy as his own, had given him the name Snow, had borne his wife’s cold anger and the Winterfell’s whispers. Had raised Jon alongside Robb, had given him all a bastard could hope for; a lord’s protection, an education, martial training, a place in the household if not the succession.

All to keep a promise to a sister long dead. All to protect a secret. All to—

“Father? Are you well?”

Jon’s voice startled Ned. The boy stood before him, grey eyes concerned, so like Lyanna it made Ned’s chest ache with old grief.

“I’m fine,” Ned assured him. “Just thinking of all that must be done before the king arrives.”

Jon nodded. “Robb says the king fought in many battles before becoming king. That he killed Robert Baratheon himself at the Trident.”

Ned’s smile felt brittle on his face. “The king is a skilled warrior, yes.” Though not skilled enough to survive a warhammer to the chest.

“Did you see him fight? At the Trident, I mean.”

For a moment, Ned was back there; knee-deep in river water turned red with blood. Hearing that voice in his head, his own and yet not his own: Robert Baratheon is dead.

“I did.”

Jon seemed about to ask more, but Robb called to him from across the yard, and the moment passed. The boys ran off together, towards their lessons with Luwin.

✣✣✣

Winterfell has a way of rendering even the greatest processions small. From atop the walls, the approaching column had seemed a mighty serpent, banners flying, armors gleaming. But as they neared the keep’s gates, Ned thought they seemed somehow diminished against the granite walls, as if the very stones remembered when dragons were just lizards and Targaryens nothing but shepherds with delusions of grandeur.

The household of Winterfell stood assembled in the yard. Ned at the center, Catelyn to his left with Arya bundled against her chest. Robb stood to his right, back straight, chin raised, trying his best to look like the Lord he would one day become. His hair had been combed to within an inch of its life, though it was already threatening to escape its careful arrangement in the light breeze. Little Sansa clung to her father’s leg, the child was so excited she trembled.

Jon was not present. Catelyn had seen to that, and for once, Ned had not countermanded her. The boy waited inside with other members of the household who were not required for the formal greeting. It was safer that way. Fewer eyes on him. Fewer chances for someone to notice what Ned had spent six years hiding.

The sound of hooves on the courtyard’s stone silenced the muttering of the assembled household. Ned felt rather than saw the way Catelyn’s posture stiffened beside him, the way Robb’s breath caught. “Remember your courtesies,” Catelyn murmured to the children. “Bow or curtsy when presented.”

Then the royal party was upon them, entering through Winterfell’s main gate in a swirl of dust and banners. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snapped in the northern breeze, crimson on black, alongside a dozen other noble standards. The Kingsguard came first, behind them came a massive wheelhouse, carved and gilded, pulled by six matched white horses. And at its side, mounted on a black destrier that seemed more demon than horse, rode Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of His Name.

Rhaegar dismounted, handing the reins to a waiting stable boy who seemed awestruck by the task. But before he even looked toward Ned, Rhaegar turned to the wheelhouse, opening its door himself rather than waiting for a servant to do so. He extended a hand, and out stepped Queen Elia, slender and graceful in a gown of Dornish cut but Targaryen colors. Her dark skin seemed paler against the black silk, something in her eyes spoke of wariness that matched something in Ned’s own heart.

Two children tumbled out after her. Princess Rhaenys had her mother’s looks, dark of skin and hair, though Ned noticed a single silver strand amid the black, like a streak of moonlight against a night sky. Prince Aegon was his father in miniature; the same silver-gold hair, the same features.

Only when his family was assembled did Rhaegar Targaryen finally turn his attention to the lord of Winterfell. He crossed the yard with that same grace, and Ned found himself remembering another crossing; through river water turned red with blood, through the screams of dying men.

“Lord Stark,” the king said, his voice sounded pleasant to his ears. “Winterfell is as impressive as the tales claim.”

Ned knelt then, as was proper, and behind him his household followed suit. “Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.”

“Rise, Lord Stark” Rhaegar said. “The hospitality of the North is legendary. I would not have you on your knees in your own home.”

Ned stood, accepting the king's extended hand. His grip was warm, unnaturally so, as if he carried a forge within his blood. And there was a scent about him; not sweat or horse or the usual odors of travel, but something else. Something like smoke, though not the homely woodsmoke of a hearth. Something sharper, stranger.

“We are honored by your visit, Your Grace,” Ned said, the formal words coming easily enough, though his heart pounded in his chest.

“The honor is mine,” Rhaegar replied, and his smile was the same one Ned remembered from that day at the tourney of Harrenhal: perfect, beautiful, somehow untouchable. “You remember my wife?” Rhaegar continued, gesturing for the queen to join them.

Elia stepped forward, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Lord Stark. Thank you for welcoming us to your home. The North’s beauty is like no other.”

“Your Grace.” Ned pressed a kiss to her extended hand. “I hope all will be to your satisfaction.”

Rhaegar meanwhile moved to greet Catelyn, who dipped into a curtsey as deep as she could manage while holding Arya. The babe chose that moment to let out a lusty cry.

“A strong voice,” Rhaegar commented, his expression softening as he looked at the child. “What is her name?”

“Arya, Your Grace,” Catelyn replied, a flush coloring her cheeks. “Forgive her manners. She’s not yet used to formal occasions.”

“Nothing to forgive, Lady Stark. Children should be children for as long as possible.” Something flickered across the king’s face then, too quick for Ned to identify. “May I?” he asked, extending his hands toward the babe.

For a heartbeat, Ned thought Catelyn might refuse. Something in her eyes (a mother’s protective instinct, perhaps, or some deeper fear) made her hesitate. But then she nodded, transferring Arya to the king’s waiting arms.

The babe stared up at Rhaegar, grey eyes wide, and then, to Ned’s surprise, she laughed. Rhaegar smiled, it made him look more human. “She has the Stark look,” he said, and for a moment, just a moment, his eyes met Ned’s and he swore he heard him say that she looks like Lyanna, though his mouth did not move.

Robb stepped forward then, his chin raised in what was clearly an attempt to appear manly and dignified. “Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace,” he said, his voice only cracking slightly on the last word.

Rhaegar’s attention shifted to the boy, and he handed Arya back to Catelyn. “You must be Robb Stark,” he said. “Your father spoke highly of you during our campaign in the Iron Islands.”

Robb flushed with pride, standing even straighter. “Thank you, Your Grace. I hope to serve the realm well when I’m older.”

“I have no doubt you will,” Rhaegar replied. Then his eyes fell on Sansa, who was hiding behind Ned’s leg, peeking out at the royal party. “And who is this young lady?”

“My daughter Sansa, Your Grace,” Ned said, gently urging the girl forward. “She’s been most excited to meet the queen.” Sansa, normally so well-mannered, seemed struck dumb by the king’s attention. She managed an awkward curtsey, her cheeks flaming nearly as red as her hair.

Rhaegar crouched down to her level. “Queen Elia will surely be delighted to meet you too.” He turned his head to look up to his wife. “Right, Elia?”

The queen seemed to be taken aback a bit, but she found her composure quickly. “Certainly. I’d love to know more of northern embroidery.”

At this, Sansa found her voice. “Thank you, Your Grace. I would like that very much.”

The king straightened, turning back to Ned. “You have a fine family, Lord Stark. You must be proud.”

“I am, Your Grace,” Ned replied, thinking of the one child missing. The one with Lyanna’s eyes and Rhaegar’s blood.

“Your home is as impressive as they say,” Rhaegar remarked as they moved toward the Great Hall, the rest of the royal party falling in behind them. “I’ve long wished to see it with my own eyes. I hope to see more of your home during our stay. And beyond, perhaps. I've always wanted to see the Wall.”

“The Wall is a long journey from Winterfell, Your Grace. And not a comfortable one, even in summer.”

“Comfort is of little concern when measured against knowledge.” He shook his head slightly, as if clearing away some unwelcome thought. “But first, I would pay my respects to your gods, if I may. I understand the godswood of Winterfell is especially ancient.”

“Of course,” Ned agreed, somewhat surprised by the request. Targaryens had followed the Faith of the Seven, not the old gods. “I would be honored to show you myself.”

Rhaegar's gaze swept the assembled household, searching for a specific face among the crowd. Not finding what he sought, he turned to Catelyn. “Lady Stark, perhaps you could proceed to the Great Hall with my wife and children? I’m sure they’re eager for refreshment after our journey.” The king’s voice was gentle, but there was something beneath it; a command rather than a suggestion.

Catelyn’s eyes flickered between Ned and her king. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said, inclining her head slightly.

Rhaegar turned back to Ned. “Well, the rest of our party proceeds to the Great Hall. I think this visit to your godswood might also provide an opportunity to discuss private matters.”

Ned complied. Of course he complied. He was the Warden of the North, sworn to serve his king. And this king had spared his life at the Trident, had allowed him to return to Winterfell, to his new bride, to begin rebuilding what the war had shattered.

Promise me, Ned.

He led Rhaegar away from the courtyard, through the castle grounds toward the godswood. They walked in silence, the king a half-step behind him, until they passed through the ironwood door that separated Winterfell’s godswood from the rest of the castle.

The air changed immediately; cooler, damper, heavier. Rhaegar exhaled slowly as they entered, his head tilting back to look up at the ancient trees. “Remarkable,” he murmured. “Truly remarkable.”

Ned said nothing, leading the king deeper into the wood, toward the heart tree at its center, standing over a pool of dark water. The king moved past Ned, drawn to the weirwood’s white bark, pressing his palm against the trunk beside the carved face. “I find Westeros most peculiar, Lord Stark,” he said after a moment. “A land of contradictions and forgotten truths. The south pretends the old ways are dead, while the north keeps them alive but no longer understands their purpose.”

Ned remained a few paces back, uncertain how to respond. “I… I’m not sure I follow, Your Grace.”

“The voices,” Rhaegar continued, as if Ned hadn’t spoken. “In the ground. I’ve only begun to hear them recently, but they’re here. Everywhere, but strongest near the weirwoods.” He crouched, placing his palm flat against the earth. “Here. Place your hand here, and tell me what you feel.”

A sense of dread washed over Ned, but he could not refuse his king. Slowly, he knelt beside Rhaegar, placing his palm against the ground where indicated. He felt nothing but cool grass and soil beneath his hand, heard nothing but the wind sighing through the weirwood’s leaves above.

“I feel nothing unusual, Your Grace,” he admitted after a moment.

Rhaegar looked at him, something like disappointment flashing across his perfect features. “No. I suppose you wouldn’t.” He withdrew his hand, rising to his feet in that fluid, unsettling way. “Not everyone can hear them. Perhaps it’s better that way.”

Ned stood as well, his discomfort growing by the moment. What was Rhaegar talking about? What voices? Panic began to seize him, and he grasped for a change of subject. “Do you have an interest in the old gods, Your Grace? I had thought the House Targaryen followed the Seven.”

Rhaegar sighed, turning away to gaze up at the heart tree’s bloody canopy. “Interest? No. But I must know them nonetheless.”

“I see,” Ned said, the dread in his chest growing heavier.

Rhaegar didn’t answer immediately. He had his back to Ned now, one hand resting against the weirwood’s trunk again. When he finally spoke, his voice was different; colder, more distant, as if coming from somewhere else entirely. “I know my son is here, Lord Stark. I want him returned to me.”

Rhaegar turned then, facing Ned fully. He was still the beautiful silver prince who had crowned Lyanna at Harrenhal, who had killed Robert at the Trident, who had ruled the realm for six years and brought a summer that wouldn’t end. And yet something else looked out from behind those eyes. Something coiled and hot and ancient.

Rhaegar moved closer, steps silent on the ground. “I commend you. Disposing of three knights of the Kingsguard is no small feat, Arthur Dayne was considered the finest sword in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Your Grace—” Ned began, but Rhaegar raised a hand, silencing him.

“Do you know most believe they died at the Trident? Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell, and Lord Commander Hightower. Tales people tell each other to make sense of their disappearance. But we both know the truth, don’t we?”

Ned’s mouth had gone dry. “Why?” he managed at last. “After all this time, why come for him now?”

“I had other matters to attend to. A realm to mend, a throne to secure, enemies to pacify.” He moved to the edge of the pool again, staring down into its dark waters. “Does that sound callous, Lord Stark? That I would leave my own son in the North while I tended to politics?”

Ned didn't believe it for a moment. One does not simply... forget something like this. A son. The child of Lyanna. But what could he say? What argument could he make against a king who had spared his life when he could have taken it?

“Jon knows no other home than Winterfell. He knows no other father but me.”

“Jon,” Rhaegar repeated, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his perfect mouth. “That is not the name his mother would have given him. She wanted to name him Aemon, for the Dragonknight, Visenya if it had been a girl. Did she tell you that, in her final moments?”

Ned remembered the tower room, the scent of blood and roses, Lyanna’s pale face against the bloodstained sheets. “She told me to protect him. And I have.”

“And you have,” Rhaegar agreed, inclining his head. “For that, you have my gratitude. But the time for hiding is past. The boy belongs at court, with his father, with his siblings.”

“He’s six years old,” Ned protested. “To take him south now—”

“I’m not proposing to announce his parentage to the realm, Lord Stark,” Rhaegar interrupted. “Not yet, at least. He will come to court as your natural son, fostered as my ward. A great honor for a bastard.”

Ned looked up at the heart tree, at the carved face weeping sap red as blood. What would the old gods counsel in such a moment? What would Lyanna want for her son? What would be best for Jon?

“And if I refuse?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“You won’t,” Rhaegar said simply. “You’re too wise for rebellion, too cautious for defiance. And you understand, I think, that some forces cannot be denied.”

He stepped closer, and Ned had to force himself not to retreat. The king was of a height with him, but somehow seemed taller, more substantial, as if he occupied more space than his physical form should allow.

Promise me, Ned.

Lyanna’s voice seemed to whisper from the weirwood leaves, from the hot mist rising from the springs, from the very earth beneath their feet. Promise me.

“I will need time,” he said at last, closing his eye. “Time to prepare the boy, to explain... as much as a child of six can understand.”

"Of course,” Rhaegar agreed, his smile seemed to hold too many teeth. “We shall remain at Winterfell for at least a moon’s turn. That should be sufficient, I think.”

A month. A month to say goodbye to the child he had raised as his own for six years. A month to break a promise he had made with his sister’s blood still warm on his hands.

“I shall want to meet him,” Rhaegar added. “Soon. Perhaps tomorrow, when the formalities of our arrival have concluded.”

Ned nodded, unable to find words. What was there to say? The king had decreed, and the Warden of the North would obey. There was no real choice here, no matter how Rhaegar might pretend otherwise.

“Excellent,” the king said. “Now, shall we join the others? I believe your steward mentioned bread and salt, and I would not wish to delay the sacred rituals of hospitality any further.”

Chapter Text

Jon watched from the edge of the practice yard, his hands gripping the rough wooden fence so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He stood in the shadows where the armory’s wall met the covered walkway, not quite hiding, but not making himself seen either. Lady Stark had been clear about that.

You are not to be seen nor heard while the royal party is here.

She had not explained why, but then, she never did. Jon understood, kind of. He was a stain on her lord husband’s honor, a reminder of... of whatever had happened during the war. Jon wasn’t entirely sure what that was, only that it had something to do with why he had a different mother than Robb and Sansa and little Arya.

Robb and Prince Aegon circled each other in the middle of the practice yard, moving in the careful patterns that Ser Rodrik had taught them, counting steps aloud as they practiced their forms. One-two-three-strike, one-two-three-parry.  

“No, no, Your Grace, you must keep your shield up,” called the young knight in the white cloak who stood beside Ser Rodrik. “Even when you strike, your shield protects you.”

Ser Arys, Jon had learned his name was. Not as famous as Ser Barristan, but still a Kingsguard, a knight in a white cloak, like Aemon the Dragonknight from the stories. Jon had hoped he might speak with Ser Barristan during the royal visit, maybe hear tales of his famous fights, like the Defiance of Duskendale or the War of the Ninepenny Kings. 

But that wouldn’t be allowed. Sometimes he wondered what he was supposed to do with himself if he couldn’t be seen or heard. Did Lady Stark expect him to hide under his bed until the king left? To melt into the walls like a ghost? To stop breathing entirely?

It wasn’t fair. Robb and Prince Aegon were of an age with him. Why should they get to play and laugh and train in the yard while he watched from hiding places? Why did Sansa get to follow the prince’s sister around, showing her a doll dressed in silks finer than anything Jon had ever touched, while he had to slink through the halls of his home like a thief?

“You’re dropping your sword arm too early,” Ser Rodrik called to Robb.

“Sorry, Ser,” Robb called back, though he didn’t look very sorry. He was grinning from ear to ear. “I’ll do better next time.”

“See that you do,” the old knight grumbled, but there was no real anger in his voice. Ser Rodrik was always gentler with Robb than with Jon. Everyone was.

Robb lunged forward, his practice sword sweeping in a wide arc that would have taken off a real opponent's head; if the prince hadn’t ducked neatly under it, bringing his own wooden blade up to tap Robb lightly on the ribs.

“A touch!” Ser Rodrik declared. “Well struck, Prince Aegon!”

The prince’s smile was quieter than Robb’s, but no less pleased. His silver hair had darkened with sweat, making it look almost ordinary in the sunlight. Almost, but not quite. Nothing about the Targaryens was ordinary, from the strange purple of their eyes to the dragons on their banners.

Dragons. Real dragons, once. Jon had pestered Maester Luwin with questions about them until the old man had finally shown him a book with drawings; great winged beasts breathing fire, ridden by silver-haired men and women who looked like gods. Like Prince Aegon and his father, the king.

Jon had seen King Rhaegar only from a distance, standing on the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep when the royal procession arrived. Even from afar, the king had seemed to glow, as if he carried some inner light that other men lacked. Jon had found himself staring, unable to look away, until Asha Greyjoy had cuffed him on the ear and told him to stop gawking like a lackwit.

The royal family had only been at Winterfell for two days, but already Jon felt as if the entire keep had been turned upside down, inside out, and remade into something he no longer recognized. Servants scurrying about, lords and ladies arriving from all over the North to pay their respects, his father had taken him aside the night before. “There's something we must discuss, Jon,” he had said, in a voice that made Jon’s heart sink into his boots. “About your future.”

But before Lord Stark could say more, a servant had interrupted, bearing news that couldn’t wait, and Jon had been sent back to his room with the promise of continuing the conversation later. That later had not yet come, and Jon had tossed and turned all night, wondering what he had meant to tell him.

Was he to be sent away? To the Night’s Watch? Or fostered with one of his father’s bannermen, out of sight and out of mind? The thought made his throat tight, though he would never allow himself to cry where anyone might see. Bastards had to be stronger than that.

“What do you see?”

The voice behind him made Jon start. He turned to find Princess Rhaenys watching him with curious dark eyes, her head tilted to one side like a bird contemplating a particularly interesting worm.

“N-nothing, Your Grace,” Jon stammered, backing away from the wall. He should bow, shouldn’t he? Or was it only grown ladies you bowed to? No one had taught him the proper courtesies for addressing princesses. “I was just passing through.”

“Liar,” she said, but without malice. “You were watching my brother and yours fight. Why aren’t you down there with them?”

Jon felt his cheeks flush hot. The princess was older than him (nine or ten to his six) and much taller. Her skin was dark like her mother’s, her hair black as a raven’s wing, save for a single streak of silver that ran from her temple. It made her look like some magical being from the books, half-girl and half-spirit.

“I’m not allowed,” Jon admitted, the words bitter on his tongue. “I’m to keep out of sight while the royal party is here.”

Rhaenys’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Jon frowned, lifting his chin slightly. “Because I’m a bastard.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she declared. “As if being a bastard is catching, like a pox. What are they afraid of? That Aegon might wake up one morning and discover he’s suddenly baseborn because he stood too close to you?”

Jon blinked, not sure how to respond. No one had ever spoken this way about his bastardy before. “House Stark doesn’t want to offend the king or the queen.”

“My mother wouldn’t be offended,” Rhaenys said. “And my father—” Before Rhaenys could finish the sentence, the sound of clinking armor and soft footsteps made them both turn. Jon’s heart nearly stopped in his chest.

“Rhaenys,” the queen called. “I might have known we’d find you here. Your septa has been looking everywhere.”

Rhaenys rolled her eyes dramatically. “Septa Eglantine is boring . She only wants to talk about stitches and prayers.”

“Both of which you need more practice at, I’m told.” Queen Elia’s eyes shifted to Jon, who felt himself shrinking under her dark gaze. “And who is your new friend?”

Jon dropped into a bow so deep he nearly toppled over, his eyes fixed on his feet. His cheeks burned hotter than the forges. What was he supposed to say to a queen? Would she tell Lady Stark he had been skulking about where he shouldn’t?

“Rise, child,” the queen said, a note of amusement in her voice. “You’ll fall on your face if you bow any lower.”

Jon straightened, cheeks growing even hotter. He must look ridiculous, red as a beetroot. 

“What’s your name?” the queen asked gently.

“Jon Snow, Your Grace.” The words came out as little more than a whisper.

“Ah.” Something flickered across the queen’s face; a shadow, there and gone so quickly Jon thought he might have imagined it. “And what are you doing lurking in the shadows, Jon?”

“He was watching Aegon and his brother practice,” Rhaenys answered for Jon. She tugged at Ser Barristan's white cloak. “Can we go into the yard too? I want to show Jon how I can use a spear. Father lets me practice with the wooden ones at home.”

Ser Barristan smiled, that type of smile that was more in the eyes than the mouth. “I fear that decision is not mine to make, Princess.”

All eyes turned to the queen, who shook her head slightly. “It is not proper for a princess to brawl in the dirt. We’ve discussed this before.”

Rhaenys groaned, flopping against the wooden fence. “But Father says I can! He says if Queen Nymeria could lead an army, I should at least know how to defend myself.”

“Your father indulges you too much. What would the Northmen think, seeing a princess of House Targaryen rolling about in the mud with practice spears?”

“That she has the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives in her veins?” Rhaenys suggested hopefully.

Queen Elia shook her head, then turned her attention back to Jon. There was something in her gaze that made him feel as if she were looking for something specific in his features, though he couldn’t imagine what.

“And what of you, Jon? Do you often watch the training from the shadows rather than participating?"

“I was feeling unwell this morning, Your Grace,” he lied, eyes dropping to his boots. “Maester Luwin thought I should rest, but I felt better and wanted to see the prince’s fighting style.”

“Ah.” The queen studied him for a long moment, Jon wasn’t sure if she believed him or simply chose to accept the falsehood. “Ser Barristan, perhaps we might find a quieter corner somewhere in the keep? A place where Princess Rhaenys might demonstrate her skills to Jon without drawing too much attention.”

Jon’s head snapped up, certain he had misheard. The queen couldn’t possibly be suggesting…

“YES!” Rhaenys squealed, already pushing away from the fence. “Perfect! There are two practice spears on that rack over there, I can see them from here!” Before anyone could stop her, the princess was racing toward the weapons rack at the edge of the yard.

“Rhaenys!” Elia called. “A princess does not run like a common street urchin!”

But Rhaenys either didn’t hear or pretended not to, already darting between practice weapons while Jon stood frozen beside the queen, unsure what to do. This felt like a dream, the kind he sometimes had where he was a true Stark, where Lady Catelyn smiled at him the way she smiled at Robb, where no one ever called him bastard or Snow with that slight curl of the lip that made the names sound dirty.

“I… perhaps I shouldn’t, Your Grace,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on the ground. 

He felt a warm hand on his head then, gentle fingers brushing through his curls. Jon looked up, startled. The queen was touching his hair, the way he imagined a mother might, the way he’d seen Lady Stark touch Robb’s hair a thousand times.

“You have good manners, Jon.” There was something sad in her eyes, though Jon couldn’t imagine why. What did a queen have to be sad about? “Your father has raised you well.”

✣✣✣

Ned stood beneath the spreading branches of an ironwood, close enough to see, far enough to pretend he was not watching. The king had asked to be alone with Jon (commanded it, in truth) but Ned would not leave the boy unprotected, not even with his true father. Perhaps especially not with his true father.

The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, dappling the grass where Rhaegar knelt beside the dark pool. Jon stood at the water’s edge, hands clasped behind his back in the manner Ned had taught him when meeting his betters. The boy’s shoulders were rigid, his dark head tilted down so that his hair fell across his face like a veil.

He’s afraid , Ned realized. Jon, who climbed the broken tower despite his warnings, who faced down squire’s practice swords without flinching, who had never shown fear of anything save Catelyn’s displeasure… Jon, who was afraid of a king who shared his blood.

“The water is very still,” Rhaegar said, his voice carrying easily across the quiet grove. “Almost like a mirror. Do you see your reflection, Jon?”

The boy just nodded, and Ned could see the tremor in his small frame, the way his fingers twisted together behind his back. Six years old, and already he understood that this meeting would change everything. Children always knew more than adults gave them credit for.

“I had a dream once,” Rhaegar continued, settling more comfortably on the grass. “Of a boy who looked very much like you, standing by dark water. He had the wolf’s look about him, but when he smiled…” The king trailed off. “Would you smile for me, Jon?”

Jon’s chin lifted slightly, just enough for his grey eyes to peer through the dark fringe of his hair. The boy’s gaze found Ned’s across the grove, searching for guidance, for permission, for some sign of what he should do. The boy's face was pale as milk, his lips pressed thin to keep them steady.

Ned managed the barest nod, though it felt like swallowing broken glass. Go on, boy. Show him what he wants to see.

As if that small gesture had been the key to some hidden lock, Jon’s features softened. The fear didn’t leave his face entirely, but it retreated enough to let something else shine through.

Gods preserve us. It was Lyanna's smile. The same curve of lips, the same tilt of head, the same way of making the whole world seem brighter for its presence. Ned’s chest tightened until he could barely breathe.

“There,” Rhaegar said softly, and something in his voice made Ned’s spine stiffen. “There he is. Come sit with me, Jon. The grass is dry here, and I would like to know you better.”

The boy obeyed as all children did when addressed by their betters; quickly, quietly, without question. He settled beside the king on the soft earth, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. Too close. Far too close for Ned’s liking.

Rhaegar’s hand moved then, swift as a serpent, coming to rest in Jon’s dark curls. The gesture looked gentle enough, a father’s touch, but Ned’s hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword before he could stop himself. The way Rhaegar’s fingers moved through Jon's hair as if he had every right, as if the boy belonged to him...

He does belong to him, Ned reminded himself bitterly. By blood, by law, by every right that matters to men like Rhaegar Targaryen. You are the interloper here, not him.

Rhaegar’s fingers combed once more through Jon’s hair, untangling a small knot. The boy flinched at first but did not pull away. He sat still as a carved thing, jaw clenched, eyes downcast. “Look at me.” His fingers tightened slightly in Jon’s curls, guiding the boy’s face upward until their eyes met. “There’s no need to fear.”

Jon’s breath hitched, and Ned could see his chest rising and falling too quickly. Rhaegar’s violet gaze seemed to drink in every detail of Jon’s features, Lyanna’s eyes, Lyanna’s nose, Lyanna’s brow.

“Would you like to play a game?” Rhaegar asked, his thumb tracing a soft arc across Jon’s temple. The gesture was tender, paternal, and yet Ned felt sick watching it. This was how wolves were tamed, with soft words and gentle touches, until they forgot they had ever been wild.

Jon blinked, taken aback. “What sort of game, Your Grace?”

“A simple one,” Rhaegar said, his tone soft as silk and just as dangerous. “You may ask me one question, and I will answer it truthfully. Then I will ask you one in return, and you must answer with the same honesty. Back and forth, until we know each other better. Does that sound fair?”

Jon’s eyes flicked to the water, then up to the branches, and then, inevitably, to where Ned stood. Ned gave no sign this time, no nod, no movement, though his hands had curled into fists at his sides. It was not his place to stop this. Not unless Jon asked him to. Not unless Jon called for help.

“I’ll play,” the boy said at last.

“Good. You may go first.”

Jon was quiet for a long moment, chewing his lower lip in that way he had when thinking hard. “Did it hurt when Robert Baratheon’s hammer hit you?”

Rhaegar’s expression didn’t change, though something flickered behind his eyes. “It felt like drowning and burning at the same time. Like my chest was caving in and my lungs were filling with fire instead of air.” His thumb continued its gentle stroking across Jon's temple. “But I lived, as you can see. Sometimes the gods have other plans for us than the ones we make ourselves.”

Jon, young as he was, had the good sense not to press further. “Oh.”

“My turn,” said Rhaegar. “What do you like to do best, Jon? What brings you the most joy?”

That brought a small grin to the boy’s face. “Practice with my brother Robb in the yard,” he said. “Learning the sword forms, practicing our footwork. Ser Rodrik says I'm quick to learn.” A ghost of pride touched his voice, the first real emotion Ned had seen from the boy since this conversation began.

“I should like to see you practice sometime during my visit. Perhaps we might even spar together, you and I.” He tilted his head. “Ask me another question.”

Jon’s fear seemed to ease slightly as the game went on. “Is it true that Balerion the Black Dread could swallow aurochs whole?”

“Balerion could swallow aurochs, elephants, even fishing boats if the mood took him. His jaws could crack castle walls, his fire could melt stone to slag. His skull hangs in the throne room in King’s Landing, larger than a wheelhouse. Would you like to see it?”

Jon blinked, confusion furrowing his brow. “Is... is that your question?”

Rhaegar nodded.

The boy considered this seriously. Ned felt his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Say no, he willed silently. Tell him you’re happy here. Tell him you never want to leave Winterfell.

The boy considered this carefully, the way children did when sensing adult expectations lurking beneath simple words. “Yes,” he said at last, and Ned felt ice form in his veins. 

“My turn again.” The game had made this feel safe somehow, normal. Just a king and a boy talking. “What do you like to do when you’re not... when you’re not ruling?”

“I like to spend time with my children,” Rhaegar replied. “I read to them, teach them things, watch them grow.” Ned’s hands had gone white where they gripped the bark of the ironwood. The trap was closing and there was nothing he could do but watch. “Do you know what a ward is, Jon?”

Here it comes . Here comes the trap, baited with dragon skulls and promises of belonging.

Jon nodded slowly. “Asha Greyjoy came to Winterfell as Father’s ward. She eats with us and trains with us and sleeps in the keep. Father says she’s almost like another daughter, except…” The boy’s face fell slightly. “Except no one really likes her much. Because of what her father did.”

“That’s right,” said Rhaegar gently. “Sometimes a lord takes a child as his ward to teach them things they couldn’t learn at home. To give them opportunities they might not otherwise have.” His voice dropped lower then, quiet as snowfall. Ned could no longer make out the words, but he didn’t need to anymore. He saw it in Jon’s face, saw it in the way he blinked too fast, saw it in the way his mouth tightened to keep from trembling. 

And Eddard Stark, lord, brother, father, liar, watched the child he had raised begin to vanish behind tears. His boy. His Jon. His no longer.

✣✣✣

Her chambers at Winterfell were warmer than Elia had expected. They had told her that water ran through the walls here, heated by the springs beneath the castle, warming the stones from within. It was a pleasant surprise, even though they had little need of such comfort. The endless summer had followed them north, making even these frozen lands feel temperate as the south.

Elia worked at the laces of her bodice with tired fingers, loosening the silk and velvet that had grown stifling after the day’s formalities. Her hair came next, the braids that had taken her lady an hour to weave that morning. Dark strands fell past her shoulders as she worked the silver pins free.

She had just pulled her shift off when the door opened without so much as a knock. “Gods!” Elia shrieked, spinning to face the intruder, one arm crossing her chest while the other hand fumbled for something to cover herself with. “Have you no—”

“A wonderful day,” he said, seemingly oblivious to her state of undress. “Truly wonderful. I spoke with Jon.”

Not Rhaegar. She could never think of this thing as Rhaegar, they were too different for that. She had learned, in their years together, that he knew nothing of courtesy, nothing of privacy, nothing of the small dignities that made life bearable. This creature that wore her husband’s skin had no more modesty than a beast on the field.

Elia pulled her shift on hastily, the silk settling around her like armor. Thin armor, but armor nonetheless. “What are you doing here? I did not give you leave to enter.”

“The boy cried when I told him he would come to King’s Landing,” the thing continued, not hearing or caring. “Ran straight to Eddard Stark, clinging to his leg like a frightened pup. But Stark explained the importance of it all, the honor for a natural son to be given such treatment.”

Elia watched him in the looking glass, his chest was bare now, and that mark above his heart was burning red. It burned hotter lately, she had noticed. It hadn’t always been a thing of fire as it was now. 

“You speak of it as if his tears were a gift,” she said quietly.

“Are they not?” He turned to face her, and his expression was genuinely puzzled. “The boy is Rhaegar’s blood. Royal blood. He belongs at court, not hidden away in some northern castle like a shameful secret.”

He is six years old, Elia wanted to scream. He is a child who knows nothing but Winterfell and the people who have cared for him since birth. Did he not understand? Did he truly not comprehend the horror of what he had done?

He had Rhaegar’s body, the long, lean frame of a prince, silver hair falling loose to his shoulders. But the smile on his face, wide and sharp and cruel, was one she had never seen on her husband. Rhaegar had smiled rarely. And never like this. But now, with her half-dressed and Rhaegar’s bastard son weeping somewhere in these halls, he smiled as wide as the summer sky.

“All this joy.” Elia met his gaze through the looking glass, “and it comes from tearing a child from his home.”

The thing in her husband’s skin laughed, a sound that didn’t belong in a man. “Tears are the ink of prophecy, clever Elia,” he said, stepping nearer. “Tears mean he understands. That he feels the weight. That’s good.”

She felt the warmth of him before he touched her, the heat that always clung to his skin now blistering. He played with her hair like a lover, twisting it around his fingers, his thumb stroking against the line of her throat. “Such beautiful hair.” The gesture should have felt good, but his touch was too curious. She had never liked the way he looked at her when he was like this. “Always reminded Rhaegar of dusk on the Dornish sands. He never told you that, did he?”

She shook her head, pressing her lips together to keep from crying. No, he hadn’t told her that. Not once. Not in all the things they had shared; meals, courts, children, beds. To think Rhaegar had held such thoughts in silence, turned them over like coins in the dark, and never let her see the shine.

He studied her, head tilted slightly. “Shall I play Rhaegar for you again tonight?” He brushed his lips against her neck, and when his teeth found the tender place just beneath her jaw she shivered; not from fear. Or not only fear. 

“You said once,” she murmured, “that you did not like... to be touched. That you didn’t have the need as men do.”

“I still don’t,” he said, the words warm against her ear. “Not by strangers. Not by those who cannot see what I am. But you, my clever Elia... “ His other hand moved down, slow as melting wax, tracing the curve of her hips through the silk. “It could be like it was. You enjoyed him when he came to your bed, enjoyed me when you thought it was him. Did you not?”

She said nothing. She didn’t know. The memory of the real Rhaegar’s touch had long since blurred into dream, softened by time and grief. He had always been good to her.

“This is everything he wanted,” the thing in Rhaegar’s skin continued. “The prophecy fulfilled. His three heads soon united. He would be hungry.” He tugged gently at her shift, and she did not pull away. She had lived beside this shadow too long, had whispered her goodnights to it across the sheets, laid her hand to its fevered brow when the dreams turned dark. She could not say why. It might be the same reason one stares into fire too long. “And am I not him?”

You are less, she wanted to say. You hollowed him out, filled him with something else. But her tongue had turned to lead in her mouth. His hand slid across her belly, and heat pooled where it should not. The fluttering in her chest, the wet ache between her thighs. Gods help her. 

He noticed. Of course he did.

“You should rejoice as well,” he murmured into her skin. “This was his greatest wish, all of it. His dreams, his sword of stars and fire, his dragon reborn. You were there at the beginning. Don’t you want to see the end?”

The need made her knees weak, made her hands tremble as they came up to press against his chest. That mark above his heart pulsed; a burn, black and red and wrong. Her fingers brushed against it and he shivered.

The chamber flickered and dimmed. The fire in the hearth leapt higher, casting shadows that danced like hungry ghosts. It had been so long, they had not lain together since he had told her what he was in truth. But she dreamed of Rhaegar sometimes, of him doing what he used to do and sometimes, even in the dreams, his eyes flashed yellow.

“Tell me, Elia.” He lifted her chin between thumb and forefinger, his eyes glowing in the candlelight. “Do you want me to take you as Rhaegar did? Slowly and gently, lips at your throat, hands in your hair, whispering affections between each breath?” His hand drifted lower, to the pulse at her neck, thudding like a bird in a snare. “Or would you have me as you’ve secretly always wanted it, with my fist in your hair, pressing bruises into your skin, and taking you on your hands and knees?”

She recoiled, her breath catching sharp. “You told me you would never get into my head. You swore it.”

That he knew. That he had seen, had plucked those secret shames from her soul like ripe fruit from a summer bough… He had talked of it once, late at night when even lies slept. That he could slip his voice into the minds of others like a whisper through a keyhole, that he could plant thoughts, water them, make them grow until the bearer mistook them for their own. Was this need hers? Or was it him?

“Get into your head?” For a moment confusion passed across his face, a cloud veiling the moon. Then came the smile. Understanding. “Ah,” he said. “You think I’ve tampered with you. That I’ve been whispering behind your eyes. I haven’t, Elia.”

He stepped closer. She stepped back, nearly tripping on the edge of the rug. Her heel caught against stone. One hand flew out, gripping the bedpost with trembling fingers. The shadows on the wall stretched long behind him, twisted things that moved madly when he did not.

“I’ve peeked, yes,” he admitted. “Forgive me. Curiosity is a fault we both share, Rhaegar and I, but the thoughts you think, the heat you feel... all yours, Elia. Every longing, every shameful ache. I’ve only ever been the mirror.”

Then he kissed her.

He tasted of ash and dead things, of long-burned wood and something darker still; the ghost of a battlefield, of iron left too long in the rain. His lips moved like they remembered how to love her, but they did not know how to be gentle. Rhaegar had kissed her like she was something that broke easily. This thing kissed her like a flame kissed wood.

He deepened the kiss, and she gasped, letting him in.

He pressed her back onto the furs of the bed. His hands were already at her shift, the silk peeled away like the skin of a fruit. Her thin armor, her last defense, gone.

“I have always loved you,” he whispered. His breath against her cheek was strangely cool now, a draft in a crypt. “From the very start. In fire and in flesh. Through Rhaegar, and beyond him.”

Had Rhaegar loved her? Once, perhaps. There had been kindness. There had been softness. But had there been love? She did not know anymore. The memory of it was clouded now, twisted and stretched thin beneath all that followed.

His hand found her breast, drawing out a moan she had not meant to give. The palm was familiar, but with fingers just slightly too long. It was Rhaegar’s hand, or nearly. Meanwhile Elia’s own hands trembled against him, unsure where to land. On his shoulders? Or on his chest, on the place where the scar above his heart still smoldered?

“Was it ever him?” she whispered. “Did Rhaegar love me, truly?”

“He did. As much as he could. But he was always looking forward, toward the sword, toward the shadow in the snow. Always chasing stars.” He bent to kiss her again, and she felt that heat rise through her like smoke through a chimney. The ache between her thighs returned, sharp and sweet. “But I was there. In every dream. Every doubt. I watched him choose you. I felt what he felt for you. You were the soft thing he clung to, the stillness in his storm.”

His mouth returned to hers. The taste of him had not changed but something in her gave way beneath the kiss. This time she kissed him back, this time her thighs parted. When his hand slid down past the plane of her belly, she did not stop him.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice low, his lips brushing her temple, her cheek, her mouth again. She felt his weight press into her, the slow grind of his hips between her thighs. “Say it, Elia. Say it, and I will be yours.”

Elia looked up at him. The shadows cast by the fire made hollows of his eyes, made his mouth too sharp, too wide. Rhaegar had kissed her like this once, before Rhaenys was conceived. He had wept after. Or maybe she had. The details blurred.

But her body ached. Her blood sang.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

Chapter Text

The Wall wept. Even from leagues away, as their party crested the last hill before Castle Black, he saw how that great gash shed tears as if grieving. Great rivers of meltwater carved channels down its face, pooling in the muddy earth below where wildflowers bloomed. He had seen taller things before time learned to count: black mountains that moved, oceans that hung upside down, fire that sang. The Wall was only a boundary, and he had never loved those.

It knows, came the whisper in the depths of his borrowed flesh. The Wall knows what you are.

It had grown more insistent in recent days, that echo. For so long he had existed in silence but now there was this voice coming up from the marrow of this dead body. It was not Rhaegar (his soul had departed the moment his heart burst), but a resonance he left behind. A song without a singer, growing stronger the nearer he came to the dead prince’s children… and now, before this Wall. He wondered if such shades always stirred when one took a vessel. He had never done so before. Never in all the spanless corridors of his long life had he lived through the skin of another.

Loneliness had made him curious. Loneliness had made him indulgent. He found he did not mind the echo’s mutterings. 

Of course it knows, little echo. I woke and the great summer woke with me. This wall is my brother’s work. Always so dramatic, my sibling.

My brother? The confusion in Rhaegar’s memory-voice was almost endearing. I have no—had no brothers save Viserys, and he was just a boy when—

Not your brother, fool prince. Mine. He sleeps beyond this gash and I mean to visit him tonight. 

He turned his attention outward again, where Lord Eddard Stark rode at his right wrapped in white and gray. The ride had been solemn and quiet, surely the Lord of Winterfell suspected something, but he was too wise to voice his suspicions. Ser Barristan Selmy rode a pace behind, while Ser Jaime Lannister brought up the rear of their small party. The two finest swords in the Seven Kingdoms, attending their king to the edge of the world.

“You have not been this far north in a long time, milord?” he asked Winterfell’s lord with the prince’s careful courtesy. The breath that left his mouth steamed, then fled.

“Not since my brother made his vows,” said Stark. “Benjen’s letters speak only of snow and stone and more snow. It will be good to see him again.”

Castle Black was smaller than the wars it had survived. A black line beneath the pale one, populated by the refuse of seven kingdoms. Murderers and thieves, rapers and kinslayers, men who had chosen the Wall over the noose. They knelt when he swung down from the saddle. “Your Grace.” Lord Commander Mormont’s beard was stiff with frost. “The Night’s Watch is honored to have you. But we have little to offer a king but bread, salt, and the wind.”

The raven on his shoulder cocked its head. “King, king king,” it croaked.

“The wind is yours to spare,” he said, smiling with the mouth that used to love sugar and old songs. “The rest is more than enough.”

Maester Aemon, Rhaegar’s great-granduncle, stood near the hall’s door. The old man stopped, tilted his face toward the ground, and began to fold at the knees. No, the echo flared. No, great granduncle, do not kneel. You should not kneel to me.

The words left his mouth before he could stop them: “Great-granduncle, do not kneel.” He was surprised to hear himself say it, surprised to feel the hand go out and catch the Maester’s elbow. “Rise, please.”

Aemon’s mouth twitched. “Then I will stand,” he said. His fingers found the king’s hand, letting his thumb trace across Rhaegar’s knuckles. “Take care, my king.”

The great hall of Castle Black was a generous name for what amounted to a large room with rough-hewn tables and benches blackened by smoke and age. The bread they brought was hard enough to break teeth, the meat too strongly salted, and the ale thin as water. But he ate it all with relish, mortal things were here to be cherished. Mormont’s raven scuttled along the beams and muttered to itself. “Bread, bread, king,” it croaked.

When the eating was done and the hall had traded one set of murmurs for another, he set the cup aside and stood. “Lord Commander,” he said, “ I mean to go to the grove in the forest tonight.”

Mormont’s jaw became a line a mason would envy. “That is not wise, Your Grace. The woods beyond the Wall bite, especially at night. Often our rangers go in threes and leave in twos.”

“You should not go, Your Grace,” Ned Stark agreed. “There is naught there for you to find but the cold and wildmen.”

He almost said: but I am expected. He almost said: and the cold is my brother. Instead he said, “Wildmen? All the more reason to see it. If there are threats to the realm, the king should know their nature. Regardless, Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime will accompany me. The two finest swords in the realm should be sufficient protection from a few savages.”

“Your Grace—” Mormont began again, but a younger voice cut through his protest.

“I’ll go with him.” The voice belonged to a young man leaning against a pillar. A Stark, but newer and less worn than Lord Stark, the same iron struck a decade later. “I’ve ranged there twice just this moon. If His Grace means to go, he’ll need someone who knows the paths. I will accompany him and his sworn swords.” He looked to his brother, then to the king.

The arrangements came swiftly after that. Four garrons were brought from the stables, hardy northern beasts with thick coats and sure feet. The tunnel through the wall was longer than it had any right to be and even here the ice wept. 

Once they were on the other side, Benjen Stark swung into his saddle. “The grove is two leagues north. We’ll know it when we see it.” He glanced at the king, studying his face in the moonlight. "Are you certain about this, Your Grace? There's still time to turn back."

“I am certain.” He guided his garron forward, following Benjen into the wild wood beyond the Wall. The trees closed around them like fingers, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. The grove lay deeper than Benjen had said it would. It was made up of numerous weirwoods, those pale, twisted trees with the many-tongued roots. He dismounted, finding the oldest and thickest of the weirwoods. The carved face in its bark wept tears of dried sap, and the mouth was open in a scream.

He went to his knees and laid his palm to the bark. His warmth went down and down, through stone, through ring and ring, into the slow silence where the first slept. The cold was already there. It filled the spaces the way darkness fills a room when you snuff the last candle. It had waited many hundreds of thousands years; it would wait for more if that’s what it took.

Brother, said the cold.

“Brother,” he answered dutifully. “How you have grown.”

I have gathered what Mother cast off, said the cold through wood and water and those long pipes of marrow. I have taught the still to walk and the dark to count. I have made children who do not burn. Will you scold me as you scolded your dragons?

He smiled inside himself. “No. Dragons were not my children, whatever the red priests cry. They were neighbors, and vain. You know how neighbors are when they learn they can fly.”

The cold shifted, thinking. There is a boy, it said at last. You know of him. Warm snow. 

“Yes,” he said, too quickly, and the roots flexed beneath his hands, interested. “He is a chord where two notes meet. He is a good thing.”

A toy, the cold that was his brother suggested. A test. Mother made songs and left them on the floor. We step around them. We step on them. It is all the same.

“You never did like the small living,” he said, and watched the face on the tree scowl. “You call them ash that learned to argue. But look at what they do with days. They are short, yes, but they build and break and make again. They sing without knowing the word for music. They die, and in dying they make room. They are Mother’s only true art.”

The cold’s laughter was harsh. They make swords and winter does not care. They make hearths and winter is not warmed. Your fondness is a strange fever. The cold reached up and touched the mark above his heart; through bark, through fur, through whatever lay between. He let it. You took a vessel. You poured yourself into one of them when his breath was fleeing. You are softer for it.

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “I have become fond of his children and siblings. Of certain women. Of wine and the way I can now play the harp. I have been alone longer than your ice has worn this land. I spoke only to myself for longer still, I would hear other voices before the music stops.”

The roots tightened. Plans rattled like bones in a bag. The cold’s thought curled and uncurled. My winter will come when your summer stops its tantrum, it said. My children will walk. They will dress the world in honest clothes. I will pull down your red banners and Mother’s songs will gutter. 

“And what then? When the last fire is a ghost in a cold hearth and your children have no dead to rise? Will you be satisfied with a silent world? You never are. You never have been.”

The cold paused. In that pause he heard frost grow and a mouse die snug in its warm nest. Your fondness has made you silly.

“Your tidiness has made you cruel.” He withdrew his hand and his brother fell silent. He found Benjen Stark and his two knights standing near the horses at the grove’s edge, a single torch between the three of them. They did not ask what had passed nor who he had talked to. Benjen only lifted the torch a little, in case the king had forgotten how to come back to a human world.

“Oh, how they persevere,” he whispered to himself. “You did good with them, Mother.”

✣✣✣

The last morning came too soon, and with it the wheelhouse and the horses and the men in their mail and leather who would take him south. Jon Snow stood in the courtyard with his small pack at his feet, watching the servants load the last of the royal baggage while his stomach churned like a pot left too long on the fire.

“You’ll write to me?” asked Robb, his face scrunched up in that way it got when he was trying not to cry. “Every moon, you promised.”

“Every moon,” Jon agreed, his voice coming out smaller than he’d meant it to. He hugged his brother and felt Robb’s arms squeeze tight around his shoulders.

Sansa was next, her cheeks wet with tears. She pressed something into his palm: a light blue ribbon, smelling of the oils she used in her hair. “So you won’t forget Winterfell,” she whispered.

Even Lady Catelyn came to say farewell, carrying Arya in her arms. Her touch was brief and her words fewer still. “Be good, Jon,” was all she said, but she said it gently, and for once there was no coldness in her voice. Perhaps it was easier to be kind when he was leaving.

Asha Greyjoy gave him a hard clap on the back that nearly sent him sprawling. “Don’t let those fine nobles push you about, Snow,” she said with a grin that was all teeth.

Father came last, kneeling in the dirt so they were eye to eye. For a long moment he said nothing, just looked at Jon as if trying to memorize his face. “This is a great honor, Jon,” he said finally, the same words he had spoken a dozen times since that day in the godswood. “King’s Landing is fair and beautiful, and you will learn much there. The king... the king has been gracious in offering you this opportunity.”

But Jon could hear the lie in it. If it was such a great honor, why did Father look like he was sending Jon to his death? “I don’t want to go,” Jon whispered, so quiet only Father could hear. “Please, don’t make me go.”

Something broke behind Father’s eyes, making his face crumple for just an instant before he smoothed it away. “I know, I know. But sometimes we must do things we don’t want to do. Sometimes duty calls us away from the things we love.” He pulled Jon into his arms then, and Jon buried his face in the familiar smell of leather and ice and home. “Be strong,” Father whispered into his hair. “Be brave. And remember, no matter how far you go, no matter how long you’re gone, you will always be my son. Always.”

But I don’t care about duty, Jon thought. I’m a Snow. Bastards don’t have to be dutiful, do they?

He had hoped the gods would’ve answered his prayers. Last night, he had whispered to every holy thing he could think of; to Father’s old gods, to the Seven that Lady Catelyn prayed to, even to the Drowned God that Asha sometimes muttered about when she thought no one was listening. But now the horses stamped and snorted, the servants finished their preparations, and still the gods had sent no rescue. 

The queen’s hand guided him toward the great wheelhouse with its carved dragons and gilded wheels. “The road to King’s Landing is very long,” said Queen Elia. “But we’ll make good time, the gods willing. The weather has been fair.” The gods again. Jon wondered if queens’ prayers carried more weight than bastards’ did. Certainly hers had been answered; the day was clear and bright, perfect for traveling.

“Come, sit beside me!” Princess Rhaenys called, patting the cushioned bench. “Do you see how the leather is worked on the door panels? It’s Braavosi, the very finest. And these cushions are stuffed with swan’s down from White Harbor. Father spares no expense when we travel.”

Yes, the wheelhouse was finer than many lord’s chambers. Prince Aegon sat across from his sister, quiet as a cat. In fact, Prince Aegon said nothing at all for a long time. Not when they stopped to water the horses nor when they shared a midday meal of bread and cheese and cold meat. It was fine, Jon supposed; he wasn’t in the mood to chat either. 

Princess Rhaenys talked enough for all of them. She pointed out the window at every hill and stream, telling Jon their names and the stories that went with them. The Wolfswood gave way to rolling meadows, the meadows to farmland dotted with holdfasts and villages. The princess knew them all, or claimed to.  “Look, Aegon, look!” Rhaenys cried, pressing her face to the window as they passed a shepherd’s hut. “See how they’ve thatched the roof? It’s so different from the slate we use in the south. And the sheep! They’re so woolly. Do you think they’re warmer than southern sheep? They must be, to live so far north.”

When the sun began to sink behind the hills they made camp in a meadow beside a clear-running stream. The wheelhouse creaked to a halt, and Jon climbed out on legs stiff from all the sitting. The king’s men had worked quickly; the camp sprawled across a meadow a league east of the Kingsroad, a small city of silk and steel. Jon had never seen so many tents in one place; pavilions striped in the black and red, smaller shelters for the guards and servants, cook fires sending ribbons of smoke into the purple sky. It was all very grand and very loud and very far from home.

His tent was dyed a deep blue, and silver stars were sewn into the fabric so they caught the firelight and seemed to wink. Inside, a camp bed waited with furs piled, and a brazier glowed with coals that had been lit before he ducked through the flap. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Sansa’s ribbon from his pocket, rubbing the silk between his fingers. It still smelled like home. He pressed it to his nose and breathed deep, but the scent was already fading.

The tent flap rustled, and Jon looked up expecting to see a servant come to tidy up before bedtime. Instead, King Rhaegar ducked through the entrance, tall and silver-haired and somehow too bright for the small tent. He still wore his riding leathers, and there was dust on his boots from the road.

“Jon,” said the king. “How do you find your accommodations?”

“They’re very fine, Your Grace,” Jon said quickly, scrambling to his feet. Should he bow? He started to, but the king’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“There’s no need for that here. May I sit?”

Jon nodded, and the king settled beside him on the camp bed, the furs dipping under his weight. Up close, he smelled of horse and leather and smoke. “You’re homesick,” he remarked.

Jon’s cheeks burned. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I know this is a great honor, Father said—

“Your father speaks truly. But honor and happiness are not always the same thing.” The king’s eyes looked almost gold instead of purple, though Jon supposed it was just a trick of the brazier’s dim light.. “I was not much older than you when I first left Dragonstone. I wept for three days, though I tried to hide it from my sworn swords.”

“You did?” Jon couldn’t imagine King Rhaegar crying for anything.

“I did. And do you know what my mother told me, when she found me hiding in the ship’s hold with tears on my cheeks?”

Jon shook his head.

“She said that missing home was not weakness but wisdom. That a man who feels nothing when he leaves those he loves is a man who will feel nothing when he returns to them. Now, come.” The king stood. “Under the furs with you. The night grows cold, and we have a long road ahead tomorrow.”

Jon obeyed, crawling beneath the soft warmth while the king pulled the covers up to his chin. Rhaegar’s hand moved to Jon’s hair, fingers combing through the dark tangles. “Would you like me to tell you a story? Something to help you sleep?”

Jon nodded again, suddenly feeling much younger than his years. At Winterfell, Old Nan had always told him stories when the nightmares came. Stories of brave knights and wise kings, of winter roses and summer snows. Here, with the scent of unfamiliar faces drifting through the tent walls, a story seemed like the finest gift in all the world.

“Long and long ago, when the world was younger and stranger than it is now, there lived two brothers who loved each other dearly. One was made of fire and summer, warm as hearthstones and bright as stars. The other was winter’s child, cold and patient as the depths of mountain ice. For ages beyond counting, they dwelt together in the house their mother had built, and they were content. But their mother was a distant one, busy with matters beyond the small world where her sons played, and in time she turned her face away and spoke to them no more.

“The brothers grew lonely without their mother’s voice. The summer-child went into the world and watched it silently, he learned to love the small, quick things his mother had birthed, those that bloomed and died unlike him and his brother. The flowers and birds and beasts, and especially her newest children, the ones she made just before leaving. Those who walked on two legs and built with their hands and made music with their voices. He loved those most of all.

“Meanwhile, the winter-child grew only colder in his solitude. He watched his mother’s creations and thought them weak and foolish. Why would one care for things that die? he asked. Why not make children that will last forever? And so the winter-child began to make his own family, leaving his brother behind. He took the cold and gave it form. He made children who would never know want or pain or sorrow, for they would never know anything at all.

“The summer-child was grieved by this. They feel nothing, he said. Your children know no joy, no wonder, no love. What is the purpose of existence without feeling?

“They will never suffer, the winter-child replied. They will never know loss or pain or the terrible brevity that plagues Mother’s little pets. Is that not better?

“And so the two began to dance, summer and winter, fire and ice, each trying to prove to the other the beauty of their way. They dance still, in the deep places of the world. And sometimes, when the music grows loud enough, the small, quick things caught between them can hear it. In their dreams, in their bones, in the whisper of wind through leaves and the crack of ice on still water.”

The king fell silent. The brazier popped and hissed, sending shadows scurrying across the tent walls. “Is that how it ends?” Jon asked drowsily. “They just keep dancing?”

“Yes.” He reached out and brushed a strand of dark hair from Jon’s forehead, his touch fever-warm. “Sleep now. Dream of home if you wish, but do not be afraid of what tomorrow brings.”

Jon’s eyes were already closing, lulled by the king’s voice and the warmth of the furs. As sleep took him, he thought he heard the king whisper something else, words in a language he did not know.

But perhaps it was only the wind.

✣✣✣

The queen’s garden was no Water Gardens; the pools she had commissioned were much smaller than those back home. Where in Dorne the pools sang with the sound of rushing water from fountains, these were still and silent, their surfaces broken only by the children’s trailing fingers and the occasional golden fish that darted back and forth. The tiles were the right shade of blue (she had insisted on that, had made the poor mason redo them twice until they matched the color she remembered), but the sun here was different, the light all wrong. 

Most importantly, instead of dozens of children playing in the waters, here there were only five.

Elia sat beneath the spreading branches of a flowering almond tree, an the old book of poetry Rhaegar had gifted her long ago in her lap, though she had not turned a page for the better part of an hour. She watched Viserys standing in one of the shallow pools, trying to teach Daenerys how to float. He had grown like a reed; already four-and-ten, his hair too long, his patience too short, beautiful in the same way Rhaegar had been before. The transformation still took Elia by surprise sometimes; when had that frightened child become this young man who would soon wed her niece Arianne?

“Like this, Dany,” said Viserys. “Spread your arms wider. The water will hold you, I promise.”

Daenerys, six and fearless in all things save water, bit her lip. Her small body tensed as she tried to follow her brother’s instructions to little success. Elia smiled, calling: “Now then. Your sister is not a skiff to be pushed about. Let her find the water’s hand in her own time.”

Viserys groaned but scooped Daenerys up all the same. His little sister clung to his neck with damp, fierce fingers. Elia’s thumb worried the broken edge of a page, remembering the morning’s letter from Sunspear. Tell him I prefer roofs to floors, but I will settle for a floor if he dances well. Her niece Princess Arianne had written. Tell him to bring a jest better than mine and to bring me lots of presents. Should she make Viserys take dancing lessons? He would scowl but he would scowl more when his betrothed badmouthed his steps. The boy had learned sword forms; his feet could learn courtesies.

A loud splash broke the thought. Elia looked up to the far edge of the garden just in time to see  sleek black vanish and rise again. “The water’s not cold at all!” Rhaenys called. “Come in, both of you!”

Aegon looked to Jon, and Jon looked to Aegon, and then both boys jumped in together, sending up twin splashes that made Rhaenys shriek. 

She had been so against taking Jon from Winterfell, still was if she were honest. The boy missed his father and siblings terribly. But the king’s word was law, and she could only try to make Jon’s stay here better. It helped that Rhaenys had been welcoming from the very beginning and that Aegon had also accepted his father’s new ward into his heart. Now Aegon and Jon were rarely seen apart: a dark head and a brighter one, two brothers that did not know they were brothers just yet.

Sometimes when she watched Jon, Elia thought of Lyanna Stark. She had seen the girl only once, during the tourney at Harrenhal. They did not exchange words that entire week, but now Elia wished she had embraced the girl. She wished she had told her: I see you. Are you well? She would have so much that would never be possible to say now. Watching over Jon felt like the closest thing to it. In him, Lyanna Stark lived a little still.

The maesters had said she could not have more after Aegon and it had been true, in the way that the sky is true, and still here she was with five. Circumstance had set a cradle after cradle at her feet; one bearing a hollow-eyed boy from Dragonstone, motherless and fatherless, one bearing that newborn sister still covered in her mother’s blood, and one bearing a quiet child from the north.

Elia sighed, thinking of the small council’s meeting in two hour’s time. The court lay in her hands now, had done so since Not-Rhaegar had sailed east before the last new moon, speaking vaguely of things he needed to find and investigate (she had learned not to press him for details when his eyes took on that distant, hungry look).

The queen will sit in my stead, he had declared and that had been all, Elia had taken his seat at the council table, had listened to endless reports of grain stores and trade disputes, of bandits on the kingsroad and complaints from the Faith about the summer that would not end. Lord Tywin had been distant, Grand Maester Pycelle oily, Lord Connington abrasive. She managed well enough, she thought. The realm had not fallen into chaos in the King’s absence and the council seemed to manage well without him. But each day that passed without word from him weighed heavier than the last.

She trusted in his abilities, not sure if anything could kill him at all and still she worried. Each morning that brought no raven bearing his seal. Each evening that fell without his return. Where was he now? What was he chasing across the narrow sea while she sat in gardens watching children play and signed papers? Sometimes, in the small hours before dawn, she wondered if he would return at all or if he had returned to the place he had lived in for ages before Rhaegar had invited him into his flesh.

She looked down at the book and still did not read. If the real Rhaegar had been there, he would have said something about the poem hidden inside all this noise. When the children slept, she would write back to Sunspear herself. She would ask Arianne what color her new ribbons were and whether the sand smelled of figs this week. She would tell her that Viserys danced well. She would tell her that the wrong sun had found a way to warm them anyway.

And then she would go to the sept and pray for her husband’s safe return from the east.

✣✣✣

Pentos stank.

Jaime Lannister had thought all ports smelled the same; tar and fish and piss and brine, but Pentos added syrup to the mix, a cloying rot of oranges left too long in a basket, of spiced wine spilled and never properly scrubbed. Even the breeze off the sea came sugared here, as if the city were forever trying to hide its ugly appetites by pouring honey over them.

The manse they occupied was grand enough to house a dozen lords, its walls adorned with tapestries and windows set with colored glass. Slaves watched them, hiding behind the pillars holding up the many archways, bells stitched at their ankles to teach them their places. There were hundreds of them in this place, all to serve one fat man’s comfort.

That same fat man now knelt before Jaime with a blade pointed at his throat. “Your Grace… I… there has been a misunderstanding, assuredly,” he said in a Pentoshi drawl, breath whistling. “A merchant says so much, words tangle, tales acquire legs—”

A laugh came from the throne he had just been eased off (no throne, truly, merely a chair big enough to flatter a mountain). The king sat in it, drinking some honey-streaked wine that tasted of dried peaches and the regret of vines. He had said as much to Jaime the day before, and Jaime had believed him without tasting it. Of late he believed the king about most things or pretended to, which often amounted to the same.

“I am not so fond of liars,” Rhaegar said. “They remind me of poorly trained dancers, all the right steps, but no music in their souls. I find myself wondering about the gaps in your tale, Magister. The convenient omissions.”

Illyrio’s small eyes darted left and right in their fat-pillow sockets, surely hoping to discover a hole in the room through which to ooze. “I would never—” His rings clacked together as he lifted his hands, as if piety might sprout there fully formed. “Surely there is some misapprehension. The honor of your—”

“The honor of my presence.” Rhaegar finished for him, and smiled in a way Jaime had not seen before the Trident. Rhaegar had smiled rarely, but when he did it had been warm and small. This was something else, bright and lazy and edged, a cat’s smile as it toyed with a mouse too fat to run. “You have a talent for misapprehension, Magister. I ask about the wife you found in Lys and you talk of tales. I ask of the house with three red heads and you praise my coming. I ask you about three stones in your cellar and you tell me of the fine wine I can find there.”

Illyrio’s sweat beaded into a new pattern. “I trade in carpets and citrons, Your Grace, in olives and lace…”

When they’d sailed from King’s Landing two moons past, the entire court had been aghast. What mad fancy had taken their king? What folly drove him to abandon the Iron Throne for some eastern adventure with only a single sworn sword as company? Tywin Lannister had been particularly displeased, though he’d hidden well. The realm needs its king, he’d argued but Rhaegar had simply smiled that terrible smile and replied, The realm will endure a season without me, Lord Hand.

For his part, Jaime had not thought it madness (not the screaming, burning madness of Aerys, at least). There was purpose in this. He glanced down the length of his sword to make certain Illyrio did too.

“I know you have dragon eggs,” Rhaegar continued, swirling the wine in his goblet. “Three of them. Stone now, but once they held fire. Tell me, Magister, where did you acquire such treasures?”

“From... from a trader in Asshai,” Illyrio stammered. “Years ago, Your Grace. I thought them mere curiosities. Decorations for—”

“Another lie.” Rhaegar stood and descended the steps of the dais until he reached the kneeling magister. Jaime kept the blade at Illyrio’s throat as the king tilted his goblet and poured the remaining wine over the merchant’s oiled head. “This will be your last chance, Magister. Where did you truly acquire the dragon eggs?”

The magister’s mouth worked. Tears came; they cut clean paths through the wine. “Lys,” he sobbed at last. “From Lys. Please.”

“Good. Now whose hand brought them to you in Lys?”

Illyrio licked wine and salt from his lips. “My… my wife,” he whispered, as if the word itself would earn him gentler handling. “Serra. She gave them to me when we wed.”

Rhaegar tilted his head. The smile he wore was almost warm, and not. “Serra. She is the one they called silver? The girl you bought and then made respectable?”

“I did not buy—” Illyrio began before reason made him stop. New tears came, fatter, and he clutched his hands together at his chest. “You must swear first. On all the gods that ever listened to kings. Swear you will not harm the boy. Swear it.” He looked from blade to bright, strange face as if either might be merciful. “He is… he is innocent of all. Swear it and I will tell you all.”

Jaime glanced at the king because it was the first he had heard of a boy.

Rhaegar did not appear surprised. He set the empty cup aside. “I swear,” he said, and Jaime did not believe him. “By what I am and all I will be. No harm will come to your son by my will.”

Illyrio sagged. The bells at some slave’s ankle chimed once in the hush. “She was Serra of Lys. Serra was... she was good, she was kind. The eggs were all she had of worth from her mother’s house. She gave me what she had and all I did was hide them. I meant no treason. I meant no harm.” His voice went reedy with panic again. “I would never set a boy on a throne and call him king, I swear it by any god you like. I only hid them.”

“Her mother’s house. And what house was that, Magister?”

“Blackfyre, Your Grace. She was... she was a daughter of House Blackfyre.” Jaime felt his sword hand tighten, though he kept the blade steady at the merchant’s throat.

Rhaegar’s lashes lowered and lifted, slow. “A Blackfyre. Do you know what that makes your son?”

“A... a boy,” Illyrio whispered. “Just a boy.”

“The last Blackfyre,” Rhaegar corrected. “The last of a line that has spent over a century trying to steal my throne. And you would have me believe you kept dragon eggs simply to honor a dead wife’s memory?”

“I... Your Grace, I never... the boy knows nothing of his mother’s blood. I’ve raised him as my heir, nothing more. A merchant’s son, not a king! He is mine. He will never wear black or red. I swear it. Take the stones. Take all of them. Only leave us the quiet.”

Jaime felt pity for the man then, this fat merchant who had loved a silver-haired girl and hidden dragon eggs in dark places to keep a promise to the dead. He looked to Rhaegar, searching that face for some hint of what judgment would fall. Surely he would not ask Jaime to kill the boy. Surely even he would not—

“Let him rise,” Rhaegar said and relief flooded through Jaime’s chest. He stepped back, lowering his sword, and watched as Illyrio struggled to his feet. “You will take us to your cellars,” the king went on, unhurried. “You will show us these dragon eggs that your dear Serra left you. You will bring the keys yourself and you will keep your household on the far side of your home while I look.”

Illyrio’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, Your Grace. Yes, of course. At once. They are... they are yours by right. I always knew—”

“But hear me well,” Rhaegar interrupted. “I know where you sleep and where your money sleeps and the names of all your paid men. If any queer whispers reach my ears... if any talk of boys with dragon’s blood or eggs that might yet hatch finds its way back to me…” He let the words hang.

The magister’s knees gave out then, sending him crashing to the marble floor anew. His forehead pressed against the tiles, sticky with wine and sweat. “Your Grace is gracious. Your mercy is… your mercy is a river,” he gasped. “I am your man. Forever your man. The boy will never know, I swear it. Never know what blood runs in his veins. We are nothing. Less than nothing. Only grateful.”

As they went, Jaime fell two paces behind the king. The manse’s breath changed as they entered the stair; heat turning to damp, syrup to stone. The lamps threw flat coins of light along the steps. Above, the city still smelled of sugared rot. Below, it was only dust and old iron and the faint memory of something that had once been hot.

At the bottom of the stair Illyrio fumbled with a ring of keys, found one by feel and luck, and turned it in a lock that had not been turned often enough. Cold air breathed out to meet them. “After you, Magister,” the king said pleasantly. Illyrio bowed and shuffled through, lamp lifted high. Jaime stepped close behind Rhaegar, sword angled against nothing in particular.