5.Creeping Shadows

258 AC, Beyond the Wall

The Betrayed Lord Commander

No wonder everything was different. Jon had half a mind to believe that he had indeed awakened in the year 258 after Aegon’s Conquest—Bloodraven looked like a spry old man despite entering his ninth decade, not a corpse or a shrivelled old relic of nearly a hundred and thirty years. Even the luckiest men could scarcely live over a hundred years, and even old man Aemon looked like a single gust of wind would topple him at a hundred and two.

At that age, the body had already grown to decay, the muscles had long since melted away, and even the bones had gone brittle. Life itself was reduced to a flicker.

The most damning were still those three wildlings he had met at the far end of the haunted forest. That they thought the Others to be just a tale was the most telling.

Still, a part of Jon Snow struggled to make sense of this. How could time itself shift, hurling him back over four decades prior? It was unnatural. But Jon knew he had long since made his bed with the unnatural. The seductive whispers in his mind and his abilities in the cold that were dangerously close to an Other were not something a man ought to possess. A man’s eyes and hair should not have changed colours overnight. He should have died, too, for those stab wounds in his gut, between his ribs, and in his back were all fatal. Yet here he was, a walking impossibility that was apparently in the wrong time.

“If this is the past, how do you know of me?” Jon asked the question that had left him half-sleepless when the cold dawn came. 

Brynden had just stirred from his small tent, groaning as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His long white hair had turned into a mess, giving him the look of a pale scarecrow.

“I have seen glimpses of the future,” he rasped, glaring back at Jon with his good red eye. “I was born with the greensight, the ability to see things that might happen.”

“Might happen?”

Bloodraven groaned as he stretched out his hands skyward and twisted his torso in both directions. Each motion made his neck and joints let out a painful popping sound.

“The future is never set in stone, boy.” Brynden settled on the log and palmed what looked to be a gnarly walking stick. “A thousand choices govern your life each day, and if you change enough of them, your fate itself might begin to shift. The notion that destiny is immutable is folly. Of course, not all things can be changed.”

“Then why me?” Jon pressed. “There are countless souls in the Seven Kingdoms, and I doubt you would know the future of every single one of them. If you could, you would be all-seeing.”

“Indeed,” the old man agreed. “But your fate was a crossroads, shining so brightly that it was impossible to miss for those who were looking.”

Jon scoffed. “What grand fate can a bastard have?”

Brynden guffawed. His hoarse, raspy laughter echoed in the clearing as his whole body shook. Then, he fixed his crimson eye on Jon again.

“When the Long Night gathers again, there is no man more important than the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Bloodraven said, face deathly serious. “The commander carried the fate of the world on his shoulders, regardless of which side of the sheets he was born on. That alone made you known to me. And when I delved deeper into what could be, I saw far more. You could have donned the white cloak, you could have become an explorer, a kingslayer, a kingmaker, a king’s Hand, or the king himself.”

“Impossible,” Jon denied. “No bastard has become king. Even Ronard Storm is barely a myth.”

“Perhaps. For you, it was unlikely, a single future out of a thousand others where you inherit your brother’s crown, but not impossible.” Bloodraven’s gaze turned distant. “My half-brother came quite close. If I had taken Daemon’s side that day, Blackfyre would have risen to the Iron Throne. The right man in the right place would have made him king, and the fighting would have ended at the Red Keep, but I chose to unmake him instead.”

For the first time, the old bastard’s voice was laced with genuine emotion.

“Do you regret it, then?” 

“I regret Daemon’s death and the demise of my nephews every day.” Brynden’s face hardened. “I loved them all, but I would still turn a kinslayer twice over and kill them again should the need arise. I was too soft to stop Aegor with his ambitious schemes, and this is the price I had to pay for it. Some rot must be cut out before it takes root—remember this well.”

Jon looked at his hands. The gloves had long since been worn down and discarded, so his callous palms were bare. The burnt skin on the right had somewhat faded, making his grip less stiff. 

It still felt jarring, as if he would close his eyes and wake up as a Lord Commander in Castle Black again. But that was merely a dream now, or perhaps a nightmare after that betrayal, for each time he awoke, he was back here, looking like half a ghost with his crimson eyes and flowing white hair. 

He half-believed that Bloodraven had seen his future, now.   

“Then, if you could peer in what could be, do you know…” Jon grimaced, biting the tip of his tongue. Were there even words to describe what had happened to him?

“How were you pulled in here?” Brynden finished for him knowingly. “It was an act of the gods, boy. Nothing else can possibly have the power to pluck a body and hurl it back in a different time and place as if it were a pebble to be thrown around.” 

“But I did not pray that day,” Jon said. “The Old Gods are distant, implacable and uncaring of the plight of mortal men. They are like winter—cold, dangerous, and coming and going wherever their fancy strikes.”

He had scarcely prayed since he had left Winterfell.

And gods, that felt like a lifetime ago. A sad Arya, reluctant to part and always feeling out of place. Sansa, her blue eyes burning with excitement as she dreamed of knights and princes, eager to venture south and become a queen herself. His Lord Father, who looked like he carried the world on his shoulders. Bran and Robb and Rickon, who had stayed behind… and died for it. Jon wanted to see them all again, even Lady Catelyn with her open but quiet disapproval. But he couldn’t. They were not yet born.

Brynden snorted.

“You are right,” he agreed. “The gods are oft uncaring, for when they move, they do so without care. The Wall stands strong, blocking much of my sight to the south unless I prepare myself to peer over it, boy, so I do not know what drove them to action, only that they acted. And you are here, are you not?”

Jon’s breath hitched. 

“Then… can I even go back?”

“Do I look like a god to you?” As if to make a point, Bloodraven took a piece of dried meat from the pouch on his belt and bit into it. “Even the most powerful sorcerers are but a flicker, a candle in the wind compared to the gods. And if they want to burn brighter, they burn out faster. Even if you could return to your time… it might not be as you remember.”

“How so?” Jon asked dully, already feeling… hollow inside.

“Some say that time is like a river, ever flowing and always shifting. I, however, think it’s like an enormous tree.” He motioned at the nearby larch. “Time is the trunk that never stops growing, and each change represents a new branch, a different future. Your coming here alone has shifted fate, growing an entirely different branch, and if you somehow manage to go back alive, the world won’t be the way you remember. You might perish on the spot, or not even exist.”

For the Watch!

Jon’s mouth tightened as he felt the sting in his chest again. The phantom pain laced between his fourth and fifth rib, followed by the stab in the belly, and pierced through his back, too.

Gods, he felt the solemn sincerity in Brynden’s words. He had seen many liars, fools prone to empty boasts and false bravado, but Bloodraven was neither. At that moment, Jon Snow felt lost. A man with a past that would never be and a future that was ripped away from him. It was all gone—

‘You will be alone in the end.’ The whisper came in with the rustling of the leaves, infinitely more seductive. It was true, he was already alone.

But there was no wind. The world itself darkened, as if a cloud had covered the sun. Yet a glance above told him the sky was clear today.

Jon shivered, even though he could not feel the cold. Despair cloaked over his very mind, beckoning him with sweet nothingness. All he needed to do was surrender, just let go, and it would take him.

‘Accept the darkness within you—’

“I am the sword in the darkness!” The words rolled off his mouth, uttered out of pure habit. Today, they burned on his tongue, as if laced in fire, but there was a conviction to them. A conviction born of repeating these words hundreds of times that still held firm, even though he felt the futility of his own existence.

Jon could taste the irony today more than ever. In the end, that was all he had left—a few vows that were halfway broken, binding him to brothers who had betrayed him. Brothers who had yet to be born or take the black. He could taste the iron on his tongue, too, for he had bitten the inside of his mouth earlier. Even now, his hands were balled into fists in a show of defiance, even though he had not remembered moving.

Then, he raised his gaze to look at Brynden, who looked even paler than before, as if he had seen a ghost. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his wrinkled face, his whole body shook, and his lone pupil had dilated to the extreme. 

“H-How is your m-mind s-still intact?” he eked out, teeth clattering as his hand grasped his chest. He took deep, shuddering breaths as his chest rose and fell like bellows, and then, he finally calmed down. “Thank the gods, it is gone. Your wits should be scrambled—just its presence alone made my soul falter, and it was not even gazing at me.”

“You know what that voice was?” Jon asked, surprised.

“An echo of a fallen god,” was the chilling reply. “It’s not a thing that mortals can easily suffer. A remnant twisted by something else. I… believe the red priests of R’hllor call it the Great Other, while the frost river clans worship it as the god of ice and snow. Its crystallised heartblood alone gave birth to the Cold Ones and almost ushered in an era of unending darkness.”

Brynden threw him a closer look, and his face filled with undisguised curiosity.

“A darkness that you so bravely averted,” he continued. “It is indeed a wonder how your mind has endured so far.”

Was this the strength of a god? A drop of blood turned solid that could create things powerful enough to halt the sun from rising and plunge the world into cold darkness? For the first time, Jon felt small, as small as an ant before the Wall itself.

But… his stubborn defiance in the heart of winter had made the difference. His actions had mattered. And that brought him more peace than anything else ever could.

His spine stood straighter, and the sense of gloom from before eased.

“But if gods are so powerful, how can they fall?”

“By the hands of other gods, of course,” Brynden said, still looking shaken. “It seems I must hasten my teachings and send you behind the safety of the Wall.”

“Will you teach me to peer into the future?” 

Bloodraven looked him up and down the same way one would inspect a prized horse for sale. 

“You don’t have the talent for it, no matter how I look at it,” he murmured. “But that’s not odd. Only one in a million could be born with the greensight, and even then, it requires the right blood for it. But I can teach you to harness a different ability that haunts your dreams, something you were born with, and your talent is no lesser than mine. Skinchanging. You have the makings of a master marksman, too, should you be willing to learn.”

Jon peered at Brynden Rivers again. The man was old, while his face was unscrutable, the ragged layers of leather underneath gave some away, and his body was still somewhat lean, even though he had lived over eighty years.

Even though Brynden Rivers was old and probably losing his vigour by the year, Jon wasn’t certain he could kill the old man. Even now, a few ravens were perched on the nearby branches, deathly still yet all alive—hundreds of beady eyes looking at him without blinking. It was unnerving—the sheer number of ravens alone could peck him to death, and Jon had no doubt they were here as an unsaid threat. Bloodraven was still surprisingly strong and sharp for a man his age, too. Even though all he had was a stick, while Jon had Dark Sister on his belt, he still did not feel confident in winning.

Bloodraven had been a master of whispers once, and a Hand of the king for over two decades, a man second only to the king and ruler of the Seven Kingdoms in all but name. Jon knew of such men, and they did nothing without reason. 

He had almost forgotten it last evening after seeing another man—or well, another man that did not want to see him dead.

“What is the cost?”

He had been too surprised last night, but the new day had brought clarity to his thoughts. No favour came for free.

“Something of equal value must be given in return,” Brynden said, pointing at him with his gnarly staff. “But don’t worry. I’m in no hurry to ask you for a boon now. No, this is a favour that I will claim once the time comes. That and never cross to this side of the Wall again. Your continued presence here… is too dangerous.”

Jon swallowed heavily, feeling a lump form at the back of his throat. An open promise. It could be anything from sending an item back home, helping a person in need, or even killing someone else.

But he had nothing left in this world. His kin and kith were not yet born, just like his foes. Or they were still swaddling babes and green boys.

“As long as it doesn’t bring me dishonour,” Jon agreed, voice weak.

“What honour, boy?” Brynden gave a nasty, nasal laugh. “You yourself speak of honour, but I have seen it—you never let it chain you down. Where was your honour when you threatened to burn that young wildling’s babe? Bastards like us have no honour, and it won’t sprout up should we pretend it exists. We do what we do because we must.”

Jon grimaced but spoke no further. He was indeed a lost bastard, about to learn from a deserter, who had twice abandoned his honour. Once, when he had killed Aenys Blackfyre for the ‘good of the realm’, and the second time when he had deserted his post in the Night’s Watch to come here. Perhaps Bloodraven counted on Jon to break his promise if the need arose, further proving himself an honourless cur.

258 AC, The Red Keep

The Young Princess

Rhaella did not leave the Maidenvault right away. She felt too weak to walk still, and the self-imposed fast was not something healed with a single meal.

Aerys came right away the next day, promising her he would “Arrange every course and each meal she could ever want to taste.”

It made her laugh, feeling like a foolish little girl playing with her boastful older brother again. She laughed even more so when Grand Maester Ellendor came, scolding Aerys because not all food was suitable after a fast.

It took her four days of increasingly hearty meals to get Rhaella back on her feet and feeling well again. Even then, the servants all treated her like glass, as if she would shatter if she bumped into something.

After her release from the Maidenvault, her parents avoided her again. “Come with me to the Great Sept, Rhaella,” Shaera had offered graciously. “We can go pray together.”

The young princess had not been in any hurry to accept. Her father busied himself on the small council, as he always did. That was Jaehaerys Targaryen—a man too busy to devote time to his only daughter. Rhaella didn’t blame him much for it, though. In every noble household, it was a mother’s duty to raise her daughters, and the fathers would busy themselves with their sons, and the royal family was no exception.

Everyone pretended that nothing had happened afterwards, and word of her fainting from hunger had never reached the royal court, doubtlessly suppressed by her grandparents to avoid yet another scandal. 

Septa Melona was buried in a small graveyard near the Sept of Baelor, meant for those who served the Faith. The funeral was without any fanfare, with not even a whisper spreading that her death was a mishap. In a way, it was, though it was the septa’s misfortune to try to block Aerys’s way when he got stubborn. 

Melona had just been following royal orders and had been killed for it. Rhaella didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry about it—the septa’s demise was the straw that had broken her punishment. It had been the final pearl that broke the string. If her brother couldn’t be punished for unwittingly killing a woman of the cloth, then Rhaella couldn’t be further chastised for a lesser misdeed. 

Rhaella knew she should have felt sad at the death of an innocent septa, but the woman had all but tortured her for so long, she instead felt a sense of vindication. It was wrong, but the taste of freedom that had come afterwards helped her push down the guilt.

The Red Keep was less welcoming than Rhaella remembered. When she closed her eyes, she could still see corpses lining the hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast, the screaming of women and the wailing of a babe that abruptly halted with a wet crunch. She remembered seeing an older Rhaella, trapped within those walls like a prisoner in a different gilded cage, one imposed on her by her brother.

But that was easy to forget once she glanced at Aerys, who was smiling happily after a bout in the yard with Tywin and Steffon, the mishap with the septa long forgotten from his mind. It was the others who treated her like a pot of wildfire ready to explode at the slightest prodding. 

The courtiers’ eyes were heavy with open disapproval. Some even looked at her with some fear. “She is cursed, even her old septa died once she stayed close for too long,” they whispered when Rhaella was not looking their way. Others would claim she was a witch, dabbling with unnatural powers. In her raven dreams, she had even heard Alarra Massey, her mother’s lady-in-waiting, call her a blasphemer, a godless girl who had sold her soul to the devil. 

Rhaella knew nothing of selling souls, but the rest were right, of course, even though such truths could never be spoken aloud in court. Rhaella was cursed with knowledge of her own fate, and ever since Harrenhal, she had been having those weird dreams of flying. She had been dabbling with other unnatural powers, too, like that young voice that guided her so readily. But no matter how much she dreamed, she did not remember the voice coming to her in her sleep again. 

“Good,” her grandmother had said, tone laced with approval. “You carry yourself with a composure befitting of a future queen. If you pay these rumours no heed, they would die off on their own.”

Rhaella didn’t have the heart to tell her that composure had precious little to do with it. Since it was not slander, the princess could carry her head high, weathering all the whispers and odd looks that came her way. A few mean words, whether they were thinly veiled or spoken to her face, were nothing compared to starvation and the feeling of slowly being suffocated inside the Maidenvault. Tongues wagging were nothing compared to the fate that awaited her as a queen. 

The newfound sense of freedom was not as liberating as Rhaella thought it would be. Even though her brother was… well, Aerys, bright yet brash in all of his acts, the mere possibility of a future glimpsed chilled her. She might have bought herself some time, but she was turning three and ten in about a month. From there, it was only three years until her future was sealed for good with that marriage.

Even her royal grandfather was dead-set on his plan of hatching dragons, and would not entertain anything his twelve-year-old granddaughter said.

‘I have dreamed of dragons and hatching them all too often,’ he had said, dismissing her words. Rhaella had realised her mistake by then, but it was too late. The king had dozens of advisors and countless courtiers who yearned to have the royal ear, and mere words from a child were hardly enough to convince him.

He had not denied his desire to use wildfire either.

Perhaps, some things were destined to happen regardless of what Rhaella did.

Or was she perhaps wrong, and her fate had already shifted?

“Go to the kitchens and inquire about Chef Tommer’s manner of death,” she tasked her handmaid.

Before planning anything further, Rhaella needed to make sure. 

“Princess, just a word from you can summon a dozen confectioners from each corner of the realm,” Alyssa said as she finished braiding her silver hair. “Why care about a dead man?”

“A handmaid should obey orders, not question them,” Rhaella reminded, her voice growing cool. “And remember, be subtle. Don’t mention my name.”

Alyssa Terrick nodded stiffly, pulled a cloak over her shoulders and headed for the kitchens.

Rhaella would have trusted the girl more, but she had yet to prove herself worthy of her trust. Her presence here was just to hide her own dishonour and find herself a new husband in court, but that had not stopped her from bedding Aerys last evening—they had stolen a quarter of an hour in the evening in an empty pantry room.

Neither her brother nor her handmaid had spoken of it, but Rhaella was not blind. Alyssa’s steps were a bit stiff, and there was a hint of discomfort mixed with a dreamy look in her eyes when she returned to attend to her—the same kind of look she had shown after laying with Aerys in Harrenhal.

This morning, Aerys had once again lost interest after he had taken his pleasure, and Alyssa’s mood had plummeted again. The edge of Rhaella’s lips curled at the memory—such wanton behaviour was never rewarded for a woman. Her brother viewed the girl as nothing more than a toy to be discarded, and she would be as soon as he found a new one to entertain himself. Still, she said nothing. A prince having a few harmless dalliances would at most raise brows, and Alyssa… was the only servant that she could use with a peace of mind here, the only servant who did not answer to her parents or her grandfather. It was a shallow thing—not even trust— but that was the extent of Rhaella’s influence and power. 

There were things that a princess could not be seen doing, and that was why she needed Alyssa. Things like directly inquiring into the manner of death of a confectioner.

Later that evening, Alyssa returned, her pale yellow gown crumpled and her face somewhat dishevelled.

“Did you go roll with my brother instead of fulfilling your task?” Rhaella asked icily, feeling a pang of irritation settle in her throat.

“No,” Alyssa denied. A faint redness crept up her cheeks. “I… encountered Prince Maegor on my way back. And he asked me for some help.”

Help relieving his baser urges, no doubt. And seeing the look in her eyes, Alyssa had eagerly agreed. Maegor Targaryen, named after the Cruel by his mad father and Rhaella’s cousin once removed. Maegor, who should have ascended as king if the small council and Brynden Rivers had not decided to call for a Great Council instead, the Council that had placed a crown on her grandfather’s head.

Maegor had scarcely been one at the time, still a baby in his swaddling clothes. Of course, even though he had lost the Great Council, Maegor couldn’t be sent away. His blood claim was still alive, and her grandfather had feared he would become a thorn in his side if let loose like the Blackfyres had, a banner for unruly words to gather behind.

So, Maegor had been kept closely in court—but not too close, to repeat avoiding the mistakes of the Unworthy. He had been forbidden from all and any martial pursuits, received only the most basic tutoring allowed to noble sons, and at four and ten, wedded to Janna, the daughter of the Tanner’s guild’s new grandmaster. A lowly marriage that would kill any alliances he could make, but not so low that it would be considered an insult for a prince of the blood. Maegor had been granted stewardship over a third of the docks, a rather unimportant position granted with a similar idea.

In essence, Maegor had the means to live well until the rest of his life, and his children would be well-set… if he had any. His wife was young and pleasing to the eye, according to the rumours, but even after a decade of marriage, no child had come. Rhaella had met her cousin more than once; his wife rarely accompanied him in the Red Keep, and he always had a permanent frown etched on his face.

“I bet he believes we have stolen his rightful inheritance,” her brother had told her during a royal feast once. “Of course, Maegor is not foolish enough to voice such thoughts, and is content to spend his days on wine and whores, shunning his commoner wife.”

Rhaella shook her hand and looked at her handmaid with mixed feelings. Yesterday, she had been fucking her brother, and today, it was her cousin, and Alyssa seemed all the happier for it.

“What did you find, then?”

“Well, Tommer was plump and had a case of a burst belly,” the handmaid said, lowering her gaze. “There was nothing odd in it, though the man had suffered a terrible stomach ache for the last few days before he had passed. He had no enemies either, even offering additional pastries to the guards that came for them.”

“You did well,” Rhaella said at last, folding her hands together. “Go to a herb woman and take a cup of moon tea and try to avoid the princes for now, lest your belly swells with a babe.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Alyssa murmured, her cheeks reddening again. “Do you require anything else?”

“Help me get changed into my nightshift.”

Sleep did not come easily that night. Rhaella spun in her feathered bed, unable to find her place and truly ease herself to rest.

Were her dreams of the future wrong?

Why had Tommer died?

Or perhaps something else had changed. Rhaella was dabbling in things she did not understand; that much was clear to her. ‘Magic cleaves both ways, princess.’ Grand Maester Kaeth had said before he died. ‘It’s a dangerous thing that takes as much from those who practise as it does from its victims.”

Rhaella felt her frustration mount as indecision took hold of her heart. Was what she had done changed things enough to see the death of her favourite cook? She did not know, and that fact unsettled her just as much as Tommer’s death. Now that she had gotten a taste of the ability to peer into the future, Rhaella wanted to do so again. As terrifying as it had been, it gave her a measure of control in her hands, the ability to escape her fate.

But there was no heart tree in the godswood since Baelor had chopped it down, the dwarf woman had long since disappeared after Harrenhal, and her dragon egg was irrevocably lost.

The next morning, Aerys, in an act of gallantry, was already waiting in front of her room.

“Want to accompany me to court today, Rhae?” he offered his hand, smiling at her with a mouth full of white teeth. Even his hair had been neatly cleaned and combed, his doublet of crimson silk was slashed with black and impeccable. There was a faint whiff of lavender coming from his hair that she recognised as Essosi oils.

At this moment, he looked every inch the young, dashing prince that he was.

Rhaella would have almost been fooled if her brother hadn’t fucked Alyssa just two days ago, in the pantry, on the floor below. 

“Perhaps some other time,” she declined, dipping her head in regret. “I’m afraid the noise in court will make me dizzy. Last I heard, the petitioners urging for a war in the Disputed Lands before the Golden Company gains more strength and allies only grow louder.”

A trace of concern arose in her brother’s purple eyes.

“Should I fetch for Grand Maester Ellendor, then?”

“I think I’ll go to him instead,” Rhaella uttered. “If nothing else, the quiet of the royal library will help me clear my head. Or perhaps if he’s in court, I’ll stroll through the royal garden and the godswood.”

“Perhaps you ought to get yourself some maidens to keep you company,” Aerys murmured. “Proper ladies-in-waiting of nobler stock, not those gossiping hens from court. Don’t worry—I’ll make this happen, even if I have to irritate grandfather for it.”

Rhaella nodded gratefully and watched as her brother’s back grew distant with mixed feelings. A part of her admired his resolve and stubbornness in forcing things to happen his way, which was acceptable for a son, but not for daughters. Her brother would probably succeed, and it wouldn’t rankle her as much as it did if she had not failed in the same thing. She had raised the idea of ladies-in-waiting last year, but her mother had turned it down. “You’re too young. Older noblewomen might lead you astray, and younger ones have their heads filled with clouds and knights.”

Even her grandparents had agreed—it was just after Bonifer Hasty had crowned her the queen of love and beauty at that tourney. 

Still, picking a princess’s ladies-in-waiting was not something that could be done casually. Rhaella’s future companions would be chosen based on what the royal family needed, not her desires. She just hoped they could get on well. Given enough time, these ladies-in-waiting could become her greatest friends, and if she managed… her greatest allies.

Rhaella found herself treading towards the godswood, shadowed by Ser Gerold Hightower, the white shadow she could never get rid of. Maegor’s Holdfast was right next to the grove, but to enter, she had to go down the serpentine steps and the winding staircase, pass through the inner courtyard into the outer one, and only then could she enter the godswood overlooking the Blackwater Rush. 

Rhaella caught a glimpse of a new face as she passed by the outer courtyard. New faces were not odd in the Red Keep, but this one just drew the eye. A woman, with a scant red dress and crimson hair, was beset by a septa and Septon Manton, the man who served the sermons in the royal sept. The two of them looked more disturbed than Rhaella had ever seen them.

Sighing, Rhaella walked away quicker, paying no heed to the feud. Some courtier had snuck a whore inside the Red Keep, and they were undoubtedly trying to chastise her.

By the time she finally reached the godswood’s entrance, the princess was tired, rivulets of sweat running down her face. It was a pitiful grove compared to Harrenhal or even Raventree Hall—less than an acre of elms, alder, black cottonwood and the occasional red oak.

But it was indeed peaceful. The bustle of the Red Keep was kept behind the walls, and only those who followed the Old Gods would come here—a rarity so far away from the North and Raventree Hall. Even her grandmother, who was not raised in the Light of the Seven, never came here to pray. “This is a godless place after Baelor the Blessed ordered the heart tree cut.”

It showed that the whole godswood had been planned as an afterthought by Aegon and Maegor after him. Birds flocked here in droves, chirping from the branches, singing better than any bards ever could.

The grove was meticulously cleared of any overgrowth twice a month, but the best-kept part of it was a small garden at the very edge where the royal cooks had once raised a crop of herbs and spices for royal consumption.

Today, it was filled with flowers, having changed because of her great-grandmother’s wishes—Queen Dyanna Dayne.

Rhaella, panting for breath, sat by a bench overlooking the flowers under the shade of a towering elm. It was not just the exertion, but the heat too. The summer sun had returned with a vengeance. ‘I must get a thinner dress, no matter my mother protests.’

The breeze from the Blackwater Bay was pleasantly cool but not too much to be chilling, and the scent of lilies and tulips eased her nerves.

“You can come sit too, Ser Gerold,” she said, glancing at her kingsguard who seemed to be melting under the sun in his heavy armour of enamelled white plate, but refused to budge. “Nobody will attack me in the godswood.”

A grunt was all the response she received, but the Hightower knight shifted, reluctantly stepping into the shade of the elm.

“Do you think His Grace would allow me to plant a new weirwood?” Rhaella asked whimsically. 

Gerold’s stony face somehow looked even stonier at her question. 

“I cannot profess to know the mind of His Grace, princess,” he said flatly. “You should ask him yourself.”

“Perhaps I shall,” the princess said, feeling bold. Surely, her grandmother would back her with this, and her grandfather would be far more likely to allow it with her help.

It was not devotion to the Old Gods that drove her, but something else. Surely, if there were a heart tree, could she peer into the future again? Just one glimpse, to dispel her own confusion.

Even then, the idea did not bring her peace.

Her heart still felt like a mess. Now that she was no longer imprisoned in the Maidenvault and had time to rest, her mind wandered. Her thoughts shifted to what could be, to the things she had done in Harrenhal and since. Rhaella could scarcely recognise herself.

Was it for nothing? Were her visions all wrong, if they had said that Tommer had lived?

A pair of young, familiar voices echoed from afar. Rhaella turned her head to the arched gate to see two figures coming in. One was lean, clad in crimson and gold, and the other was towering and full of strength, wearing a cloak of black and dull gold, moving much like a bull. Tywin Lannister and Steffon Baratheon, her brother’s closest friends, could be recognised from afar, and they were coming in her way.

“Cousin!” Steffon’s cheerful greeting thundered across the grove, scaring away the chirping birds, while Tywin merely gave her a polite nod. “Aerys is stuck in courtly duties with his father, and he sent us to see how you fare.”

“It seems that Tywin is in need of help as much as I am,” Rhaella said, tilting her head towards the heir of Casterly Rock, who looked like someone had kicked away his favourite kitten.

“Don’t mind him,” her cousin said, lugging a hand over Tywin’s neck and pulling him in. “Our golden lion is upset that his father has taken a mistress, some lowborn wet-nurse of no name or standing.”

“A lord is free to take mistresses as he pleases,” Tywin said, frustration oozing from his words as he slipped out of Steffon’s grip and gave the young Baratheon hair a harsh glare. “But my sire, in all his wisdom, has forgotten that such deeds are not to be flaunted in the open without a purpose. My mother has barely passed for less than three years, yet he does this without shame. Half the court is openly mocking House Lannister for it.”

These had to be Tywin’s true thoughts. Rhaella had seen what depths of cruelty the man would grow capable of in the future even against the House of the Dragon, and it was hard to reconcile the notion of weakness and debauchery she held about House Lannister, considered to be the weakest of the highlords, having fallen even beneath the Tullies and the Greyjoys.

Still, it could be said that Tywin was a creature of familial duty. It was no secret that he disdained his father, but he would never speak against him directly. 

Today, Rhaella could see the same frustration in Tywin’s eyes that she saw every day in the mirror. It only made the tangle in her heart more painful—her grandchildren would perish by Tywin’s order.

But what… what if there was a way to bind House Lannister closer in a way that would not be truly affected, even if her brother’s friendship with the future lion lord took a turn for the worse. What if that way could serve Rhaella’s goals, too?

“Wasn’t your sister betrothed to a Frey?” she asked gently.

Tywin’s face darkened, and he offered a thin, “Yes, to Emmon Frey. A second son, an unremarkable fop in both name and deeds, unworthy of Genna’s hand. They’ll wed the day she turns six and ten.”

Even in the Red Keep, it was widely known that Tywin had spoken against that arrangement in front of his father’s bannermen and had been sent away to the royal court as punishment.

“Why don’t you bring Genna to court?” The words softened Tywin’s face ever so slightly. “I am in need of ladies-in-waiting, and she can be my companion until the time comes for her to wed.”

“I will write to Casterly Rock at once, Your Grace,” the young Lannister said, his green eyes growing sharper.

Rhaella did not speak it out loud, but he doubtlessly knew that queens and princesses had the power to decide marital matters of their ladies-in-waiting, and those lords who had plans for their daughters would offer a niece or a younger sister instead. But Tytos Lannister was too soft to refuse such an offer to please the House of the Dragon. Perhaps in Tywin’s eyes, any match was better than a Frey. The royal family did not have to fear offending a house of upstart toll-takers, and Tytos Lannister would not offer much complaint, for he relied on the Iron Throne to keep his own lands in check.

“We came here to lift our princess’s mood, not yours, Tywin,” Steffon reminded, shaking his head. “Your brother did complain that the stay in the Maidenvault took a great toll on your well-being, and you indeed look a tad thinner. Though you don’t seem to need any cheering-up, cousin.”

“Let’s get to the kitchens, then,” Tywin proposed, his face twitching into what could pass as a ghost of a smile at Steffon’s antics, before it turned stern again. “Can’t have the future Queen of Westeros grow so dreadfully thin.”

“And even Ser Gerold could use a cup of cool wine,” the young Baratheon said, motioning to the silent kingsguard. “He looks like he’s half-boiled in that armour of his. I shudder to think what it would be like to fight in the summer with heavy plate from head to toe.”

“When the time for battle comes, neither the weather nor your foes will wait for you to prepare,” Gerold said, his voice hoarse. “You will either have to fight or die.”

“Do you want a cup of cold wine or not?” Steffon coughed, clearing his throat.

“Watered down ale would do, young lord, for a kingsguard can never be drunk on duty.” 

The three headed out of the godswood, shadowed by the Hightower knight, making way to the kitchens.

But a crowd had clustered in the middle of the outer courtyard, gathering their attention—and that of everyone else nearby.

“This doesn’t bode well,” Tywin said neutrally, face betraying no emotion.

“Let’s go see, then,” her cousin declared.

Without waiting for their say-so, Steffon was already bravely elbowing way through the crowd that quickly parted at the sight of the towering squire.

Rhaella and Tywin curiously followed, while Ser Gerold was right beside her, his enamelled gauntlet already resting on his sword.

A gasp tore from her throat as she saw the fallen form of Septon Manton, lying in a pool of blood, his throat sliced open.

Author’s Endnote: That took me far longer to write than I intended. Anyway, it’s here, and it’s finished. I’m mostly happy with how this chapter came out.