Chapter Text
Luwin
The wind hit the walls of the castle without mercy, a strong snowstorm had painted the courtyards, the battlements, and the godswood white. Inside the thick stone walls of his study, the cold seeped through the cracks of the window and made the flames of the fireplace dance. With hands trembling more from the weight of events than from the cold that seeped in, Luwin tended to the raven, the bird lying on the table with a dirty wound crossing its wing, probably from a hawk attack. Carefully, he dipped a clean cloth in warm water mixed with lavender and began to patiently wipe away the dried blood. He was able to let others take care of this bird, but he wanted to attend to it personally, perhaps to clear his mind of that terrible letter that had arrived days ago.
"It seems that the North itself mourns the death of its lord," Luwin thought, watching the frosted window barely reveal the white whirlwind outside. The animal gave a faint caw, and Luwin felt a twinge of sadness. It all seemed so unreal. Luwin recalled sadly the time he had arrived in Winterfell, like a middle-aged man with his newly forged chain, sent to replace the late Maester Walys. The castle had seemed to him a giant then, but Lord Rickard Stark had received him with hospitality. There was no test for him, no suspicions, only a trust granted from day one. Luwin had grown up with Winterfell, and Winterfell with him.
It was he who held Lady Catelyn when princess Sansa was born, as pink and perfect as a rose. He who calmed Lord Eddard's fears when Bran came into the world with the umbilical cord around his neck. He who smiled, despite protocol, at Arya's indomitable bellowing, which from the first moment seemed to defy the expectation of a lady. And it was he who brought Rickon, the last child. Robb, the heir, had been born in Riverrun, but it was in Winterfell that Luwin taught him the principles of history, justice, and duty. The same education that he imparted to everyone. And also, the others: Theon Greyjoy, the pupil and hostage of Lord Stark, and Jon Snow, the bastard, always quiet and melancholy, but always the first in everything, intelligent, strong, and cunning, sharp-tongue and sarcastic, as long Lady Catelyn did not were close to listen him.
Just a year earlier, Lord Eddard went to the south to be the Hand of his friend, the late King Robert. Luwin had dismissed him as protocol said and he assured Lord Stark that he would take care of little Bran and his children in his absence. News of his execution, accused of treason by the new King Joffrey, had hit Winterfell. Now, the eldest son, Robb, was a king in the North, looking to rescue his sisters, Princesses Sansa and Arya, and avenge his father.
Luwin finished bandaging the raven's wing. The animal, now calmer, watched him with its black eyes. He sighed heavily. The maester opened a wicker-and-wire cage, lined with soft rags inside. "Rest," he murmured, carefully placing the bird in its new, temporary home, closing the little door with a gentle click, and rubbing his temples, where a dull ache began to throb.
"Those children that I raised, that I saw take their first steps, pronounce their first words... Now they are scattered and in danger," he thought, pulling his chain around his neck. The image of them crowded into his mind: King Robb, with his bronze and iron crown over his red Tully hair was fighting a war right now; Princess Sansa was trapped in King's Landing, hostage to a monster with a crown; Princess Arya who disappeared the day the Lannister betrayed Lord Stark, perhaps already cold in some alley of Flea Bottom; and Princes Bran and Rickon were here, just children with their worlds fractured by horror and loss. And Jon... Jon at the Wall, far from being able to help his family.
"Father, give strength to them all," Luwin murmured, sighing heavily, feeling older in the last few days. "Mother, have compassion and mercy on each of Lady and Lord Stark's children, including Jon Snow, whose only sin was to be born a bastard."
His gaze wandered through his messy office and landed on the desk, towards a specific drawer in the lower right corner. It was not the most accessible, nor the most spacious. That drawer held Winterfell's most delicate documents, and among them was the letter Lord Stark had entrusted to him. With one hand, Luwin slid the key that always hung around his neck and opened the drawer. Among maps and reports of past harvests, his hand found what he was looking for: a rectangular envelope, made of thick parchment, sealed with grey wax. The seal was intact, with the silhouette of House Stark's direwolf.
"If anything should happen to me, maester," Eddard Stark's voice echoed in his memory, clear and grave as if he were there, in the dim light of the study. It had been the eve of his departure to the south. "I want you to get this letter to Jon, to the Wall. Under no circumstances should it be opened by another. I trust he won't open it." Lord Stark's gaze back then was not that of a lord giving an order but that of a father entrusting him with one last request.
"He seemed to know," Luwin thought now, bitterly. "Lord Stark seemed to sense that his end was near, that the shadow of the Stranger was already stretching over him."
Luwin had his suspicions of what that letter contained, old rumours about Jon Snow's motherhood, but he never spoke about those rumours. He knew that whatever it was, it had the power to finally put an end to Jon's struggle that tortured the poor boy for years. He looked up at the window. Surprisingly, the furious beating of the wind had subsided. The white curtain that had hidden the castle for a week seemed to finally give them a bit of respite. The grey clouds began to dissipate, and the rays of the sun at dawn began to emerge. Luwin was not a believing man, but at that moment he took that as a kind of sign, before the weather decided to become hostile again and force them to stay locked up for longer.
He took the letter, put on his heavy woollen cloak, and left his study, his footsteps echoed in the silent corridors. He climbed the spiral staircase that led to the dovecote, a tall and cold tower where the whistle of the wind was a constant song. Inside there were dozens of ravensthat caw with cold and hunger; others cawed when they saw him, and some others dozed in their niches. The air smelt of dry hay and bird droppings. The keeper of the ravens, an old and quiet man, bowed mutely.
Luwin approached the niche of the ravensthat knew how to fly towards Castle Black. He took a large and lustrous bird and tied the small metal cylinder containing the letter to its leg, making sure it was firm but not tight. "To Castle Black," he whispered to the animal, which seemed to understand the solemnity of the moment. "Be careful."
He opened one of the narrow windows. A blizzard of icy, sharp air hit his face, but with a gentle gesture, he threw the raven into the dawn. The bird spread its black wings and began to turn north, towards the Wall. Luwin remained there, at the window, long after the bird had disappeared. The cold penetrated his bones, but he did not move. He was thinking about Jon. About the quiet and noble boy who always stood on the side-lines, hungry for approval. About the young man who took the black looking for an honour he thought he could not find anywhere else. What would he do when the truth caught up with him? The letter was already on its way.
"I only hope that this letter can assuage all the boy's doubts," Luwin thought, with a sigh...
Lyanna
The inner courtyard of the mansion of the Magister Illyrio Mopatis was a river of extravagance under a Pentoshi sky. The mansion by the sea had been decorated for the wedding. Everywhere there were flags of House Targaryen. The music, a symphony of lutes, flutes, and a harp, filled the space with beautiful melodies, drowning out the murmurs of the dozens of guests. Wealthy merchants, leathery-faced mercenary captains, and a few exiled nobles from forgotten corners of Westeros huddled together, all wearing fine silks, cloth from Lys, brocades from Myr, and fine wool from Pentos. Everywhere, servants came and went with trays full of jugs of wine, lamb, wild boar, and horse meat for the most demanding; they also walked with trays full of candied fruits, stuffed dates, and cakes.
At the high table, raised on a wooden platform, Lyanna watched the scene with a proud smile. To her right, there was her husband, to his left, there was Elia, Rhaegar's first wife, and Lyanna´s sister and wife. From her position, she watched her children. In the centre of the improvised dance space, Aegon was dancing for third time with Daenerys. He, at the age of sixteen, was the spitting image of his father in his youth, although his face had the sweetness of Elia. He wore a doublet of black silk, upon which the three-headed dragon of his House was embroidered in gold thread. His cloak, fastened with a golden clasp with a large onyx, was a deep red, she had dance with his son a couple of time, now her legs were tired and needed to rest.
Daenerys, at fourteen, was the spitting image of a Targaryen princess. Her pearl-coloured dress was simple but elegant. Her silver hair was floor-length, combed only with a braid in the shape of a crown. That afternoon her sister-in-law had a shy but genuine smile as she followed in Aegon's footsteps.
Not far from them, her daughter, Rhaenys, with Viserys, Rhaegar's eldest daughter, moved gracefully around the track, her sand-and-gold silk dress clinging to a body that had inherited her mother's curves. Her dark hair with a silver lock, so unusual for a Targaryen, was adorned with gold jewellery that mimicked intertwined snakes, a nod to her Martell heritage. Viserys, at seventeen, had grown tall and slender, with a somewhat affected elegance.
"Visenya seems to be enjoying Trystane's company," her wife Elia muttered beside her, a tender little smile on her face.
In a corner, farther away from the principal dancers, Visenya, Lyanna’s daughter, was twirling and laughing with the prince Trystane Martell. The Dornish delegation, led by the always unpredictable Prince Oberyn and his daughters, the "Sand Snakes", had arrived almost two moons earlier, not wanting to miss any aspect of the preparations for the wedding of their nephews. Visenya had inherited her father's family colouring: silver hair, violet eyes as bright as amethysts, and porcelain skin. She wore a simple but exquisite dress of white linen embroidered with small dragons. Trystane, just four years older than her, led the dance, wearing an outfit in the colours of House Martell.
"She is," Lyanna nodded, and a genuine smile crossed her face. "It does her good to have someone close to her age to play with."
The wedding had been a simple and strange ritual led by a red priest that Rhaegar had taken into his entourage. There were no Sevens as at the wedding between Rhaegar and Elia, nor Old Gods as at their wedding. Just fire and words about dragon blood coming together to be stronger. This was the first step in the plan that Rhaegar had conceived years before.
Her husband, beside her, stood up, took a silver spoon, and gently tapped the rim of his crystal goblet. The jingle cut through the music and the murmurs like a knife. All eyes in the courtyard turned to the high table. Rhaegar, to this day, looked so handsome. He wore a deep blue velvet doublet with a high collar, with gold thread details on his neck and chest. On his shoulders rested a heavy cloak of blue brocade, fastened on his right shoulder with a brooch in the shape of a three-headed dragon, with eyes of small rubies. His silver hair, long and straight, fell like a cascade of metal over the cloak. His face, always marked by a deep melancholy, was illuminated by an expression that Lyanna had not seen since the night Visenya was born.
"My friends," Rhaegar began, and his voice, clear and musical, echoed in the silent courtyard without needing to raise his tone. "Before the festivities continue and we share in the generosity of our allies," he continued, gesturing to the piles of silk-wrapped gifts piling up on the side. "I want to say a few words. " Rhaegar paused, letting his words settle on all present, his eyes, dark and piercing, sweeping through the crowd.
"Today we have not only united two of my children and my sister in marriage. Today the future of House Targaryen has been forged; although our enemies have wanted to defeat us, the blood of the dragon still stands."
"For too many years, we have lived in the shadows, remembering what was taken from us by betrayal and the usurper. But the shadow is shortening." Rhaegar lifted his chin slightly. "Dragons sleep; this union is the foundation upon which we will raise not only the memory of our kingdom but also its restoration."
Lyanna felt a chill when she heard her husband's words. She had heard it before, in the privacy of their chambers. For years she watched Rhaegar plan on unfolded maps how he would recover what was taken from them, alliances that would bring them support for their cause, and, above all, how Aegon was the prince who was promised. But to hear him here, out loud, surrounded by so much opulence and strange people, terrified her. It was not just a man's dream; it was the promise of an exiled king to his followers.
"Westeros suffers the yoke of a usurper, who along with other men plotted the fall of House Targaryen," Rhaegar continued, and a murmur of assent ran through the exiles and mercenaries. "They have forgotten the order, the law, and the legacy that forged this kingdom."
He lifted up his cup, and the gold and ruby of his ring flashed. "I toast to my children. For House Targaryen. For the dawn that is approaching. For Aegon, the prince who was promised!"
The courtyard erupted in cheers. "For King Rhaegar!" "For the prince who was promised!" The glasses clinked, and the music resumed with redoubled vigour. Lyanna raised her own glass to her lips, but the sweet wine of Pentos, normally mellow and fragrant, tasted like ashes in her mouth. She swallowed hard; her eyes, grey as steel, swept across the scene and watched her family's reaction to Rhaegar's words, who sat down again with a smile on his lips. Aegon, Daenerys, and Rhaenys had a look of pride and joy; they seemed now excited by the promise of reconquering and recovering a home they never knew. Her daughter, Visenya, whose innocence glinted like a diamond in the mud of adult intrigue, only celebrated with joy with her brothers and uncles. Elia, her wife and sister, who always had a gentle smile on her lips, now seemed the happiest with the idea of bringing fire and blood to Westeros.
Even though they had everything here – family, security, a future in Essos, Rhaegar and their family, especially Aegon, Rhaenys and Viserys seemed enchanted at the idea of prophecies and the idea of taking revenge, but for Lyanna, every mention of going to war, to Westeros, for "restoration", was a knife that tore through her belly, exposing the memories that Lyanna had buried deep down. She could still remember the smell of blood and roses in the Tower of Joy, the horror of hearing that her father and brother had been murdered in such an atrocious way, the devastated face of her brother Ned when he found her dying, and the unbearable weight of a promise that still drowned her in dreams.
"Promise me, Ned," Lyanna recalled, her gaze blank. "I can't; I can't do it."
"Are you okay, Lyanna?" her husband asked, still beside her, pulling her out of her thoughts.
"Huh?" She turned and looked at Rhaegar looking at her worriedly. "Yes, don't worry, honey, it's nothing."
The ceremony gave way to the display of gifts; an endless procession of servants and courtiers began to approach the high table, depositing their offerings before the young newlyweds. Aegon, full of curiosity, opened each package. From the merchants of Pentos and the magisters came chests of aromatic wood that, when opened, revealed beautiful jewels and necklaces as big as grapes; a gold bracelet for Rhaenys with an emerald cut in the shape of a scorpion; and a silver diadem and sapphires for Daenerys. These were gifts to buy future favours, not to celebrate a love."
From the mercenary captains, slave owners and the exiles came offerings of a different kind. For Aegon, a young man whose sword training was already well known thanks to Ser Arthur Dayne, they presented weapons and armour: a long sword of Myrish steel, with the hilt wrapped in manta ray leather and the pommel surmounted by a small ruby; a breastplate of fine scales of burnished steel, engraved with the three-headed dragon; and a black skull-shaped helmet with dragon scales. Aegon looked at each gift with dazzled eyes, like a child at a festival. Her beloved son stared enraptured at the black armour with the winged helmet... Lyanna felt her stomach close in a knot of ice.
"Please," Lyanna prayed silently, not quite sure why she was assailed by this sudden sense of guilt. "May my son Aegon never have to wield this sword; may he never know the horror of the war, that he never needs to take the lives of other people." She prayed fervently to the Old Gods to protect him and to the Father to give her wisdom to avoid war.
Among the offerings, a mercenary from the Free Cities, who once traded with White Harbour, presented a magnificent cloak lined with grey wolf skin to Aegon. Her son fondled it with interest. Lyanna, seeing the fur, felt a sudden chill and looked away to her glass of wine.
Rhaenys received each of the gifts with a polite but calculating smile, from the finest silk of Lys and bottles of rare perfumes with sweet and citrus aromas to poisons, daggers and weapons that she knew how to wield thanks to her uncle and cousins. Daenerys, on the other hand, was moved by each gift. Her violet eyes widened with excitement at the jewels, her clothes and her furs; her joy was so pure that it broke Lyanna's heart.
"Where is Oberyn?" Elia asked quietly, leaning toward Rhaegar. Her gaze, normally so serene, scanned the courtyard in search of her brother. "I haven't seen him since the ceremony ended."
"I sent him on a mission across town; he'll be back soon," her husband replied, his voice a quiet murmur that invited no further questions. Lyanna exchanged a glance with Elia.
The gifts continued until the sun began to set. Just as boredom began to loom among the less important guests, the last two gifts arrived.
The first was presented by Magister Illyrio Mopatis himself. The huge man, sweating lightly under his yellow silks, advanced with a solemnity that made the ground tremble. Behind him, four strong slaves carried a dark wooden chest, reinforced with iron bands. With a theatrical gesture, Illyrio opened the chest. Inside, resting on purple velvet cloths, were three dragon eggs.
A gasp rose in the crowd. They were not decorative stones; they were huge eggs, larger than a man's head. One was a dark green dotted with speckles that shone like bronze in the sun. Another had a pale cream, almost ivory colour, furrowed by golden streaks. The last was black, but it burnt with waves and swirls of scarlet.
Daenerys held her breath, one hand instinctively reaching to her chest. Aegon leaned forward, forgetting his new sword altogether. Even Rhaenys lost her composure for a moment.
But the show wasn't over. With a faint smile on his lips, Rhaegar made an almost imperceptible sign. From a side door, another group of servants, these dressed in the colours of House Targaryen to differentiate them from among the Magister's slaves, entered carrying a chest of tattered wood and rusty ironwork. With a bow, they placed it next to Illyrio's chest.
"Magister Illyrio, in his overflowing generosity, returned to House Targaryen three eggs that were stolen long ago," Rhaegar announced, his voice now grave. With every movement, the Valyrian steel crown flashed on his head. "But a king must also honour his past. He must remember from what ashes the dragon will rise."
Rhaegar nodded, and the two servants opened the chest. Inside, nestled on a faded cloth that may have been crimson, were three other eggs. These were smaller; their surface was not lustrous but rough, like calcined stone. One was ash-grey, with thin cracks reminiscent of a map of dry rivers. The other was snow-white, with black veins, like marble.
Rhaegar placed a hand on the chest. "These three eggs, the last survivors of the Summerhall Tragedy, where King Aegon V, his son Prince Duncan, and Ser Duncan the Tall lost their lives, were rescued from the rubble."
Everyone in the courtyard remained silent, the mention of Summerhall casting a blanket of bitterness over the festivity. Lyanna felt a chill. Her husband spoke little about the tragedy, but she knew it affected him greatly. Those six eggs were now the future of House Targaryen.
At that precise moment, a murmur ran through the entrance to the courtyard. The guards stepped aside, and the slender figure of Prince Oberyn Martell appeared. His attire was a dark wine-red. Elia's brother had left smiling, but now he returned with a serious look. Besides, he did not come alone. Behind him, another man walked. A man with a thick beard and half bald. He was not a man from Essos, nor a mercenary. He had the weathered look and direct gaze of a man from Westeros. Lyanna recognised him immediately; she had seen him in Winterfell in the past, that man was none other than Jorah Mormont.
Their eyes met for a fleeting moment. Jorah Mormont's eyes, which had been scrutinising the high table cautiously, were fixed on her. The man's reaction was one of astonishment. Lyanna understood the man's reaction; for him and for all of Westeros, Lyanna Stark had died in the mountains of Dorne fourteen years ago. And now, here she was, alive, sitting next to Rhaegar Targaryen.
The two men advanced through the crowd. Oberyn ordered something to Ser Jorah, who stayed away, while the prince approached directly to the high table, his eyes not leaving Lyanna.
"Why did it take you so long, brother?" asked Elia. Just like Lyanna, her wife had noticed her brother's change in attitude.
The prince cracked a fake smile that Lyanna noticed immediately. "My apologies, little sister," Oberyn said, bowing her head slightly. His voice lacked his usual mocking charisma. "I'm afraid it took me longer than expected." He gave Lyanna a quick glance, and there was no trace of the familiarity they had built up over the years; there was only concern.
Lyanna couldn't contain herself any longer. "What's a Mormont doing here?" she asked, her hands, hidden under the table, clinging to the folds of her dress. Oberyn looked at her and then at Rhaegar.
"My king," he began, in a tone that indicated that the news was not for the ears of those present.
Before he could continue, Rhaegar intervened, placing one hand on Lyanna's. "It's all right, my dear," he whispered, brought her hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss. But in his deep purple eyes, Lyanna saw no reassurance.
Then Rhaegar stood up. The simple act caused the music and conversations at the tables to stop. Even Aegon, Daenerys and Rhaenys, who watched from next to the pile of gifts, had lost their smiles. "Friends, family," Rhaegar began, speaking to everyone present. "Please continue with the celebration. Please excuse me for a few minutes; they require my attention." He gave a slight nod.
He leaned then, first towards Elia, placing a kiss on her cheek with tenderness. Then he turned to Lyanna. Rhaegar pressed his lips against her temple, and in that approach, he whispered something that only she could hear.
"I'll be back soon. Do not be afraid."
Without looking back, Rhaegar descended from the platform. Oberyn stepped aside with a polite gesture and walked off behind her husband. Jorah Mormont, before turning on his heel and following the king, cast one last glance at Lyanna. Then the three men entered the mansion.
As Rhaegar left, Aegon walked over with his two wives by his side. His face, moments before radiant, now showed confusion. "Where did Father go?" her son asked, his violet eyes following the empty path Rhaegar had taken.
"He has an urgent meeting to attend, my dear," Elia replied, in a maternal way.
"Who was that man, Mother?" she asked. Her husband's children with Elia called her mother; none of them forced Rhaenys or Aegon to call Lyanna that. They alone began to call her mother, and she gladly raised them as her own children. "He seemed to know you."
Under the table, Lyanna felt her hands clinging to her dress. The eyes of the three young people were fixed on her. "He's a man from the North," she explained. "His name is Jorah Mormont; he is the son of Lord Jeor Mormont, of Bear Island. A man loyal to House Stark."
She remembered the younger, darker-bearded man toasting with her brother Brandon in the Great Hall of Winterfell. "What's a northerner doing here in Essos?" asked Daenerys. At fourteen, she was the youngest of the three, but her intuition was often the sharpest. "He is not one of my brother's spies, nor any of the informants at the Martell house."
And it was true. For years, the Targaryen’s' exile had been sustained by a network of informants: spies bought in the ports of Westeros, who sent them news in encrypted message scrolls, and Dorne's own agents, moving between public loyalty to the Iron Throne and the private vengeance that boiled in Martell's hearts. It had been thanks to that network that they knew, with a mixture of bitterness, that Eddard Stark, her own brother, had become the Hand of King Robert. The news had caused Lyanna a sharp pain.
Almost an hour passed, but for Lyanna it felt like centuries. The music played again, the guests danced again, but the joy had become fragile. She smiled, nodded, and drank sips of wine that tasted like nothing, while her mind wondered what words Mormont could be pronouncing. Finally, the figures of Rhaegar and Oberyn emerged again.
Lyanna quickly realised that her husband had changed on his return, whatever he had heard inside, Rhaegar looked more tired; he seemed to have aged ten years in that half hour. Neither of them looked like men who had received good news.
Rhaegar went back on stage. He didn't need to hit a glass; his mere presence drowned out the last chords of music and gathered all eyes. Night had fallen completely, and the torches threw dances of long shadows over his face.
"My friends," Rhaegar began, and his voice, though clear, lacked the prophetic fervour of before. It sounded dry. "I regret the interruption and delay. An unexpected messenger has brought news from Westeros, which I wish to share with you all."
Instinctively, Lyanna's hand reached for Elia's under the table. Her wife's fingers closed around hers with a force. Elia brought her hand to her lips and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles. "It's all good, my love," she whispered to her, her thumb caressing the back of her hand, a repetitive and soothing gesture, but Lyanna noticed that Elia's palm was also wet.
"It is my pleasure and regret to report," Rhaegar said, and his words sent a new chill through Lyanna. “That the usurper, Robert Baratheon, is dead.”
Those present burst into cheers. Lyanna hadn't realised that she had been holding her breath until the air escaped her lungs. The news did not bring her joy. Instead, she remembered that tournament again. "Listen to me, Benjen," she had spat at her younger brother, her eyes filled with tears of rage and despair. "I'd rather be Rhaegar's whore all my life than spend a night as that drunken pig's wife.” Now that pig was dead. And instead of relief, she felt only indifference.
The cheers erupted then, deafening. Aegon raised a fist in triumph, his face lit up by the flame of vengeance accomplished. Rhaenys and Daenerys smiled and hugged each other. Even Visenya, who had no memory of the usurper, cheered, swept away by the general relief.
Rhaegar held up a hand, asking for silence. "Whoever now sits on the Iron Throne is rumoured not to be a legitimate Baratheon," he continued. "According to what I am told, he is said to be the son of Cersei Lannister, a bastard born of incest. Joffrey, they call him."
Ned. The name hit Lyanna's chest like a hammer. Her brother. The Hand of the King. Where would he be in all this? Protecting the alleged bastard son? The image of her brother, stern and honourable, trying to impose justice in that nest of vipers, brought back memories of the past. "I can keep your promise, Lya," Ned had told her, at last, his face marked by grief and loss, holding a baby in his arms. "But don't ask me to raise my sword against Robert. He is my friend and my king." Ned was trapped, as always, between loyalty and duty. And now Robert was dead, but Ned's duty would live on, to his supposed son.
She watched Rhaegar and Oberyn. Robert's death must be, in theory, a triumph, for it is towards the simpler path to the throne, a dead usurper, an illegitimate king in his place, and the reigning chaos. But neither man showed the slightest hint of triumph.
"The gods," Rhaegar continued. "Have blessed the union tonight. They have removed an obstacle. House Targaryen is one step closer to its destination. But the night is young, and the newlyweds should enjoy their marriage without the shadow of affairs of state hanging over them." He made a broad gesture of farewell. "Please enjoy the rest of the celebration. The music, the food, and the wine are yours."
The obedient guests cheered again. Rhaegar beckoned almost imperceptibly. From the shadows, Ser Whent and Ser Gerold, Rhaegar's elite personal guard, men loyal to death dressed in light armour and golden silk cloaks, approached the dais to escort the newlyweds.
"It's time," Rhaegar said softly, addressing Aegon, Rhaenys, and Daenerys. His eyes, however, met those of Lyanna and Elia. "You will be escorted to your chambers."
Aegon seemed to want to protest, to ask questions, but a steady look from his father silenced him. Daenerys took Rhaenys' arm, who wanted to ask questions, and together with Aegon, they let themselves be surrounded by the golden circle. They were led into the mansion, away from curious eyes.
Lyanna stood, Elia beside her. Before they could take a step, Ser Arthur gently interposed. "My queens," Rhaegar's best friend began. "Let us escort you; the night has been intense, and you must be tired."
She and Elia realised that this was not a suggestion but an order, surely from Rhaegar. Lyanna sought her husband's gaze, desperate for an answer, for a sign, but her husband looked tired and only gave her a slight nod.
"What's really going on, Rhaegar?" asked Lyanna, worried, once they were escorted inside the mansion. Visenya was lying down with a guard guarding outside; it was their turn to go to their quarters.
Rhaegar approached the liquor rack, drank an aged wine and poured a generous amount into three glasses. Her husband gave one to her and one to Elia. "My love," he said. All that was scaring her—her husband had never been so tense.
"This is all about that man, right? Has something happened in Westeros? Ned? Is my brother alright?" asked Lyanna, putting the wine aside; she wanted to be sober for whatever came along.
Her wife put a hand on her shoulder when she saw her tense. Rhaegar sighed heavily and put his glass of wine on the table. "You'd better sit down," her husband said, calmer, ceasing his kingly tone.
Reluctantly, Lyanna let Elia sit her on the couch in the red room. "As I said, Robert Baratheon died, passed away due to a wound caused by a wild boar while hunting," Rhaegar began.
"Fuck Robert," Lyanna growled, tired of hearing about that wretch. "Stop talking about that drunk! I want to know what it is that has you so tense."
Rhaegar nodded, slowly, accepting the reproach. "Your brother apparently discovered a secret," her husband explained, each word seeming to cost him effort. "He discovered that Cersei Lannister has had an incestuous relationship with her twin brother Jaime for years and that their children are not Robert's but bastards born of incest."
Not answering, Rhaegar continued. "So, from Ser Jorah and the letter from my informant in Westeros, your brother, being sure that the children were not Robert's, gave Cersei a chance to flee. He offered her clemency in exchange for her exile. But Robert died before he could act. And then, Ned summoned the Council. He accused Cersei of adultery and treason."
"But sadly, your brother was betrayed," Rhaegar said, and the word struck Lyanna like a bucket of ice water. "He was declared a traitor, and Cersei's bastard son… executed him.”
There was a gasping sound, Lyanna thought it had been her, but it had actually been Elia. Instead, she didn't feel anything; her mind went blank. She watched Rhaegar's mouth move; on Elia's face there was anguish. Despite seeing her husband and wife worried, Lyanna heard nothing but a ringing in her ears.
"How?" she asked, instead, in a cold, emotionless tone, as if she were asking what they were going to eat tomorrow.
"Lya," Elia murmured.
"How did Ned die?" she repeated, fixing her grey eyes, now empty, on Rhaegar.
"he was beheaded, with his own sword, Ice," her husband replied. "Right now, his daughters are being held hostage in King's Landing, the North has rebelled, and his eldest son, Robb Stark, has declared himself King in the North. According to Ser Jorah's testimony and the letter, a war is being fought in Westeros."
"Ice," Lyanna thought, ignoring the fact that her nephew was now at war with the Lannister’s. "The ancestral sword of House Stark, the same sword my father used, was used to kill my brother."
"Daeron," Lyanna muttered that name for the first time in nearly fifteen years; the name tasted so strange to her mouth. Not even she herself knew why she uttered that name. Staring blankly, she looked Rhaegar in the face.
"I can't, Ned."
"I can't watch him without feeling guilty about what I've done."
"I can't hug him without feeling repulsion."
"Promise me, promise me that you will take care of him."
"What about... him?" asked Lyanna, and this time her voice trembled; she tried to call him "my son" but she couldn't.
"He joined the Night's Watch," Rhaegar replied, calmly and casually. "It seems that your brother raised him as his bastard and named him Jon Snow. According to our sources, he enlisted voluntarily; we don't know if Daeron knows his true origin."
"The Night's Watch?" exclaimed Elia, horrified, unlike Rhaegar, who seemed indifferent. "Gods... why? Why didn't Eddard send him to us, or at least try? He's a prince not a bastard!"
Lyanna didn't look at Rhaegar's reaction; her gaze was still fixed on nothingness, remembering everything she lived through in that tower in Dorne.
"No one in the Seven Kingdoms knows where are we, Elia," Rhaegar replied. "To the world, we are dead. The boy will be fine there. My uncle Aemon is a maester at Castle Black. I imagine he'll keep an eye on him if Daeron knows who he really is. And Benjen Stark, Lyanna's brother, is also there. It will be among family."
Family – that word rang in Lyanna's head. Family, Ned, beheaded. Benjen, at the end of the world, his mother dead of disease, her father and Brandon burnt alive, and her... s… Daeron... Jon... on the Wall. Taking the black. Renouncing everything, resigned to living among rapists and murderers, as punishment, as escape.
"Air," Lyanna gasped, feeling a warmth run through her body. "I need air."
Lyanna abruptly stood up from the couch, and Rhaegar took a surprised step back. Elia reached out for her, but Lyanna staggered away from them, sleepwalking towards the large windows overlooking a balcony. She slammed them open, and the night air of Pentos hit her face.
"My brother is dead, and Daeron has taken the black."
"Congratulations, princess, it is a healthy and strong boy," Lyanna recalled, the wet-nurse’s voice handing Daeron.
"Take him away," she had ordered to the wet nurse when they tried to give Daeron to suckle from her breast. Lyanna hadn't been able to look at him, hadn't been able to bear to see in his eyes.
"What colour eyes will he have? What will it look like now?" she thought, hyperventilating.
She had cried with rage upon learning that she had given birth to a boy instead of a girl. Lyanna had rejected the boy. "I couldn't even take him in my arms," she murmured, her back to Rhaegar and Elia.
"It wasn't your fault," Rhaegar said, trying to comfort her.
"The last time I spoke to Ned... I fought him," Lyanna confessed, the words burning her throat. "I yelled at him... for not blaming me for my father and Brandon, for seeing me with concern and talking to me so much. I wanted Ned to yell at me, to hate me. But he... He just looked at me with such sadness that made me furious."
She turned slowly and had tears streaming down her cheeks. "Lya," Elia ran to embrace her, Rhaegar standing motionless, staring at her.
"It was me," Lyanna continued, and a sob broke through, heart-breaking. "I was the one who yelled at him. I told him that, if they had listened to me, if they hadn't promised me to that pig, none of this would have happened. I spat out my rage. And he... he just accepted it. He asked me to rest. To get me back." An uncontrollable tremor ran through her. "And when I told him I couldn't look at the child... that I couldn't... love my own son... the expression on his face..."
For years her husband had sworn to her that none of it had been her fault, that the war would have ended up happening anyway, but Lyanna had always blamed herself for the thousands of deaths, especially the deaths of her father and brother Brandon.
The tears, which had not flowed with the news of the death, now flowed, hot and salty, running down her cheeks. They weren't tears just for Ned. They were for everything she experienced, for the girl she once was, for the woman she became, for the last brother she lost, and for the mother she never was to an innocent child.
"I begged him to take him, to take care of him for me, and said that I would go get him when I felt better. Ned accepted without hesitation."
Rhaegar finally approached but stopped a few steps away when he saw her fall to the ground on her knees, broken. "Lya..." he murmured, unable to find words to comfort her.
She looked up from the ground, her grey eyes meeting his deep violet ones. "What kind of mother am I?" asked Lyanna, and the question tore her apart from the bottom of her soul. "What kind of monster rejects her own son and then cries when she discovers that she has condemned him to a life of ice and oblivion? I abandoned him, Rhaegar! I abandoned him first! And now Ned is dead, and he's alone, at the end of the world, and he thinks he's a bastard that nobody loved!"