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, and even old man Aemon looked like a single gust of wind would topple him after surviving a century.

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 guttering 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, 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 colour 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 eye. 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 came with 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, everything might change. 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 at 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 filled the clearing as his whole body shook in mirth. After a minute, he calmed and fixed his crimson eye on Jon again.

“When the Long Night gathers again,” Bloodraven said, “there is no man more important than the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Such a man would carry 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. 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, he would sit on the Iron Throne today. The right man in the right place would have made him king, but I chose to unmake him instead.”

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

Jon shuffled uneasily. “Do you regret it, then?” 

“I regret Daemon’s death and the demise of my nephews every day. I loved them all, aye, 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 palms were bare, revealing the calluses that came with countless hours of swordwork. The burnt skin on the right hand had somewhat faded, and his fingers were no longer 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 trailed off, uncertain. 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 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. “I am as pious as any other Northerner, but 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, with his quiet calm—there had been unease in him that day, but Jon had been too young to see it. 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 let out a snort.

“You are right,” he rasped. “The gods are oft uncaring, and 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 gives birth to a new bud, perhaps even a new branch and a different future. Your presence here alone has shifted fate, growing an entirely different branch, and if you somehow manage to go back alive, the world won’t be how you remember. You might even 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, far sweeter than ever. 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.

His skin crawled, shivering, 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 tongue like a prayer. Today, they burned on his lips, 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 under the weight of futility.

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 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 slowly. “It seems I must find a way to hide you from its sight. If that fails… my plans will be cut short, and you must leave 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,” he murmured. “That was to be expected. 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 inscrutable, the ragged layers of leather underneath gave some away, and his body was still somewhat lean, even though he had lived over eighty years.

Old as he might be, growing feebler by the year, Jon was not certain he could kill the 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. 

That had slipped his mind yesterday—the surprise of seeing another soul… at least one that did not wish him dead. But the new dawn had brought clarity to his thoughts. No favour came for free.

“What is the cost?” Jon asked.

“Something of equal value must be given in return,” said Brynden, stabbing his way with the butt of his gnarly staff. “But fret not. 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.”

Jon swallowed heavily, feeling a lump form at the back of his throat. An open promise. It could be anything from sending some heirloom back home, helping someone in need, or even helping someone meet the Stranger quicker.

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 said at last, 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 opened his mouth, then closed it. He was indeed a lost bastard, about to learn from a man who had broken the laws of gods and men without batting an eye… even without considering the kinslaying. 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 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 treated her like glass, as if she would shatter at the slightest bump. Her moon blood never came… though that could have been from the hunger. 

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 mother had taken the lack of agreement like a slap to her face. 

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 another scandal. Septa Melona was buried in a small graveyard near the Sept of Baelor, a final resting place 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—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 cold satisfaction. It was wrong… but freedom tasted sweet, even if the Red Keep was less welcoming than Rhaella remembered. 

Perhaps it was her dreams. When she closed her eyes, she could still see corpses scattered across 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.

It made it all the more jarring once she glanced at Aerys, 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’ gazes were laden 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 the voice came and it went as it wished, no matter what she did.

“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. 

Something else weighed on her mind. In one moon’s turn, she would turn thirteen. And in three more years, she would be six and ten, and by then, there would be no more escape from her 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 had her fate already shifted?

Before planning anything further, Rhaella needed to make sure. 

“Go to the kitchens,” Rhaella turned to her handmaiden, “and inquire about Chef Tommer’s manner of death.”

“Princess, just a word from you can summon a dozen confectioners from all corners 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 said coolly. “And remember, be subtle. Don’t ask directly or mention my name.”

Alyssa Terrick nodded stiffly, draped a cloak over her shoulders, and disappeared through the door.

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 her tryst 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.

To her dismay, when Alyssa returned later that evening, her pale yellow gown was crumpled and her face somewhat dishevelled.

“Did you go roll with my brother instead of fulfilling your task?” Rhaella asked icily.

“No, princess,” Alyssa said, face flushed. “I… encountered Prince Maegor on my way back. And he asked me for some help.”

Help relieve his baser urges, no doubt. She did not have the decency to look ashamed!

A prince of the blood would have been easier to turn away, but Maegor was scarcely a prince. Her cousin had the blood, but he was named after the Cruel by his mad father and Rhaella’s cousin once removed. He could have worn a crown in the crib, but Brynden Rivers had decided otherwise, calling for a Great Council, and that crown had fallen on her grandsire’s head instead.

Aegon had decided to keep his nephew close. The blood claim of the firstborn of the firstborn was too strong to let roam freely, but the mistakes of the Unworthy had been too painful to repeat. Maegor had been forbidden from all tutoring and martial pursuits, receiving only as much tutoring as any noble son would have before they turned nine. At four and ten, he had been wedded to Janna Tanner, the daughter of the Tanner’s guild grandmaster. It was a lowly marriage that would strangle any alliance Maegor could ever make with his hand, but not so low that it would be too great an insult for a prince of the blood.

Maegor was now a steward of the docks—a third of them—a rather unimportant post granted with the same idea in mind.

“He will have enough to live well,” her grandmother had explained, “but not too well. Any legitimate children of his loins would be half-peasants, losing any support his line could deign to muster.”

But over a decade had seen Maegor childless, even though Jeyne Tanner was still young and pleasing to the eye. She was a rare sight in the Red Keep, too. On the rare occasion Rhaella spotted his cousin, he always had a frown etched on his face, as if the whole world displeased him.

“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 pushed it all out of her mind, her eyes finding Alyssa again. Last night, she had lain with her brother, and today it was her cousin, and Alyssa seemed all the happier for it.

“What did you find, then?” the princess asked tightly.

“Well, Tommer was plump and had a case of a burst belly,” the handmaid murmured, lowering her gaze. “There was nothing odd in it, though the man had suffered a terrible ache for the days before he had passed. He had no foes either, a kind man through and through, even offering 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?

She 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.”

Yet now that she had gotten a glimpse of the future, Rhaella wanted another. 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.

Rhaella felt her frustration mount as indecision took hold of her mind. 

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 impeccable doublet of crimson silk was slashed with black and starched crisp. 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 said, averting her gaze. “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.”

“Are you well?” Aerys leaned in, face laden with concern. “Should I fetch for Grand Maester Ellendor, then?”

Rhaella gave him a brittle smile. “I think I’ll go to him instead. If nothing else, the quiet of the royal library will help me clear my head.”

Her brother nodded, giving her another bright smile. “Probably. I say you ought to get yourself some maidens to keep you company. Proper ladies-in-waiting of nobler stock, not those gossiping hens from court.”

“Mother and Father will never agree—”

“Fret not.” Aerys patted his puffed-up chest. “Forget about Mother. I’ll make it happen, even if I have to risk grandfather’s ire for it.”

Rhaella nodded tightly, not blinking as her brother’s back grew distant. She loved him for his stubbornness and envied him twice as much. Many parents considered a stubborn son to be a boon, a sign of strong character, but daughters were not allowed to be stubborn. They were considered a curse, as she had found out for herself.

For good or for ill, her brother would probably succeed in this, and it wouldn’t rankle her as much as it did if she had not failed in the same thing when she had turned twelve. “You’re too young,” her mother had said with a patronising smile. “Older noblewomen might lead you astray, and younger ones have their heads filled with clouds and knights.”

It was just after Bonifer Hasty had crowned her the queen of love and beauty at that tourney, and her royal grandparents had agreed, too.

Still, picking a princess’s ladies-in-waiting was not something that could be done without thought. They 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, dogged by Ser Gerold Hightower, the white shadow she could never get rid of. She caught a glimpse of a new face as she passed by the outer courtyard. Newcomers 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 princess could fear the loud voices carrying from afar; faces were twisted with outrage as they chastised the scarlet woman.

Sighing, Rhaella walked away quickly, 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, the princess was panting, rivulets of sweat running down her face, and cursing whoever designed the Maidenvault in her mind. But her sour mood eased at the sight of the trees. 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. Still better than anything else in the city. Birds flocked here in droves, chirping from the branches, singing better than any bards ever could.

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 the Befuddled ordered the heart tree cut and its roots dug out.”

Some days, Rhaella suspected the whole godswood had been planned as an afterthought by Aegon and Maegor after him in a poor attempt to ingratiate themselves with the ways of Westerosi nobility. 

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 sat by a bench overlooking the flowers under the shade of a towering elm to rest her sore legs. It was not just the exertion, but the heat too. The summer heat lingered, refusing to go away. ‘I must get a thinner dress, no matter how loud my mother protests.’

The breeze from the Blackwater Bay brought her a small measure of respite. 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 treeshade.

“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. Knowing the future meant nothing if she could not change it.

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 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 neck-deep 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 heir 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 not yet been buried for full 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 Tullys and the Greyjoys.

Still, it could be said that Tywin was a creature of familial duty. 

Today, Rhaella could see the same frustration in Tywin’s eyes that she saw every day in the mirror. 

Perhaps… she could use that.

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

Tywin’s face darkened, and he offered a curt nod. “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.”

The displeasure oozed from his voice. That very same displeasure had seen him exiled to King’s Landing as a cupbearer when he had spoken against his lord father’s arrangement at a feast.

“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.”

For a long moment, a pair of green eyes studied her. Once he was satisfied, he said. “I will write to Casterly Rock at once, Your Grace.”

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 a chance to please the House of the Dragon. Not when he relied on the Iron Throne to keep his own lands in check. The upstart toll-taker mattered even less.

“We came here to lift our princess’s mood, not yours, Tywin,” Steffon said, face uncharacteristically stern. “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.”

Tywin nodded sharply, his mouth twitching into what could pass as a ghost of a smile. “Let’s get to the kitchens, then. 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.”

Steffon cocked his head. “Do you want a cup of cold wine or not?”

“…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 evenly, face betraying no emotion.

Steffon’s eyes lit up. “Sounds interesting. Let’s go and see.”

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

Rhaella and Tywin followed after a beat, 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.