A Song of Sun and Stars [Man of Steel x ASOIAF]

White Harbor gleamed beneath the afternoon sun. The new city, a testament to Lord Manderly's ambition, rose from the stony coastline with freshly cut stone and timbered houses climbing towards the looming New Castle. The docks bustled – ships laden with timber and salted fish jostled next to sleek merchant vessels bearing the colors of far-off ports.

Atop the deck of a modest but well-kept ship, a young man stood out amidst the rough sailors.

With a final sack of coin handed to the weathered captain, the man gave a curt nod. "Wait for my signal at the harbor, as we agreed," he instructed, his voice low. "And may the Seven grant you fair winds." The captain grunted, the transaction completed.

Disembarking, he approached two men who awaited his arrival. Their weathered, but well-armed attired marked them as rough sellswords with sun-weathered faces and mismatched leathers.

"News?" the man asked.

"From your spies, my prince," Ser Oswell Whent replied. "Brandon Stark wed to the Tully girl, as expected. And the Baratheon stag rides north with a party of about three hundred, lords and men from the Stormlands – Lord Robert is already on his way to Winterfell. Bael is already on his way to Winter Town, he will be ready when the time arrives."

The prince's amusement faded, replaced by a flicker of sternness. "Don't call me the Prince, I am Cael," he corrected sharply. "And please, Edd, a little less formality. We're playing roles, remember?"

The men nodded, well admonished for the slip.

Then he nodded, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "This is excellent news. Then we have little time to waste. First, New Castle. Let us pay our respects to Lord Manderly."

Ser Arthur Dayne, frowned scratching at his well-fit, but ill-feeling attire. "Cael, forgive my boldness, but this disguise…your eyes are unmistakable."

The prince chuckled, mirth clear in his voice. "Relax, Luke. We've witnessed countless mummers and plays at court. And even among them, Leonard has a rare talent." He rubbed a hand across his dyed hair. "At most, I resemble some dragon seed bastard, not the crown prince. I make for the perfect bard, especially amongst those of the North. Relax, my friend. You worry for naught."

Despite the Prince's reassurances, a crease remained between Ser Arthur's brows. "Even so, this plan… it hinges entirely on the Lady Lyanna's cooperation. What if she spurns you?" His voice held a note of unease, the knight uncomfortable with the effectiveness of the plan.

Ser Oswell chuckled, a playful note entering his voice, "Come now, Luke, have you seen the Lady? She has the fiery blood of the Wolf in her, the same as her brothers. The spies have already established that she feels trapped in that dreary castle, and with the Baratheon brute soon breathing down her neck… trust me, she'll come willingly."

The prince, ever the visionary, spoke with unshakeable conviction. "Indeed, our spies have confirmed what we suspected. Lyanna Stark, the wild rose of Winterfell, finds herself… restrained. Rumors abound of her father barring her from riding, keeping her close." His violet eyes took on a faraway glint. "Prophecies, Luke. There's a power in them, a force that shapes destinies. This is her chance for freedom, for a life beyond the one laid out for her. She will grasp it. She will not be the first Stark maiden to have been spirited from within the walls of Winterfell. A bard did it once, and a bard will do so again."

Arthur nodded slowly, the logic of the prince's words sinking in, even if it didn't soothe all his reservations. With a sigh, he adjusted his ill-fitting jerkin. "Very well, Cael. Let us hope your instincts are as keen as your swordsmanship."

The streets of White Harbor hummed with activity. Merchants hawked their wares, fishermen hauled their catch from the docks, and the clang of a blacksmith's hammer rang out in rhythmic counterpoint to their horses' hooves.

The Prince in disguise atop his mount that they'd acquired from a nearby stable, held his harp with practiced ease.

His companions flanked him, their hard eyes scanning the crowds.

As they neared New Castle, the imposing stone walls loomed ahead.

Guards, clad in the distinctive blue and green livery of House Manderly, blocked their path. Their gazes narrowed suspiciously at the two heavily armed men accompanying a mere bard.

"Halt!" barked the guardsman. "State your names and your business here."

Rhaegar flashed a practiced smile, the charismatic bard persona coming easily. "Greetings, good sirs. I am Cael, a humble bard who travels the Seven Kingdoms. Word of the Lady Lyanna's impending wedding has reached my ears, and I yearn to offer my musical talents for the celebrations at Winterfell." He gestured towards the castle. "We were fortunate enough to learn that Lord Manderly has but recently returned from Lord Brandon's wedding. Perhaps we might join his party and travel North under his esteemed protection?"

The guard shifted, weighing their request.

Then, he glanced again at Cael's companions. "And these armed men? Why the need for such robust protection for a mere singer? Far from the crownlands aren't ya?"

Rhaegar let out a good-natured chuckle. "I am from the Crownlands, good ser. My mother had the blood of the dragons in her! Alas she passed away, and I had no talent at swordsmanship, as a bard I earn a fair bit of coin, and the roads are fraught with danger. My friends here, Edd and Luke, ensure a safe journey and the continued melody of my songs."

The guard's eyes flickered towards the harp slung on the prince in disguise's back, and a flicker of amusement crossed his weathered face. "Well, as luck would have it, Lord Manderly does hold court this very day. And with Lord Eddard Stark himself!" He paused, lowering his voice. "Strange times, these…perhaps a song or two might lighten the mood."

The mention of Stark sent a ripple of surprise through the disguised trio, but they masked it quickly.

"Excellent!" Rhaegar beamed. "Then perhaps you'd be kind enough to announce us? My thanks, Ser…?"

"Wylis," the guard grunted. "Follow me then, bard. Let's see if your tunes are as pleasing as your tongue."

Nodding, the Prince and his men dismounted their horses, trailing after Wylis into the heart of New Castle.

Within New Castle's walls, a sense of urgency hung in the air. Servants bustled through corridors, laden with trunks and chests, while stablehands readied horses and carriages. It was clear that preparations for a significant journey were underway.

Wylis led them into a grand hall where a gathering of nobles had assembled.

At the head of the polished wooden table sat Lord Manderly, his bulk spilling over his richly upholstered chair.

Beside him, a striking young woman with dark hair and violet eyes commanded attention, her hand resting lightly on a slightly rounded belly.

Beside her sat a grim-faced man with the unmistakable Stark features, Lord Eddard.

Cael bowed low before Lord Manderly, then towards Eddard Stark.

As he rose and turned to acknowledge the woman, his breath caught.

Lady Ashara Dayne.

Ser Arthur's sister, pregnant, eyes fixed on him.

It took a monumental effort to avert his gaze as a wave of surprise and a flicker of panic surged through him.

Beside him, Ser Arthur had frozen, and only a subtle nudge from Oswell kept him from openly staring at his sister.

Forcing himself out of his stupor, Cael bowed once more, struggling to ignore Lady Ashara's continued gaze. "My Lord Manderly, " he began, his voice steady, "I am Cael, and I am merely a traveling bard. I have heard of the Lady Lyanna's impending wedding and would offer my services as entertainment for the joyous occasion. I have learned that you intend to travel to the wedding, I seek safe passage to Winterfell under your protection."

Manderly eyed the Prince with shrewdness. "And you hail from where, bard? Such… exotic coloring suggests lands far from the North."

A beat of silence, the Prince bowed. "The Crownlands, my lord." He smiled ruefully. "I was born on Dragonstone."

Manderly chuckled after a moment's scrutiny longer, his belly shaking. "Dragon's blood, perhaps. Now, Stark," he turned to Eddard, "your Lady wife seems… intrigued by this man. If he can play half as well as he speaks, perhaps his songs might soothe your father's ire at your absence."

Eddard's grip on Ashara's hand tightened momentarily.

A shadow crossed his face, and then he shrugged, a weary acceptance in his eyes.

Lady Ashara, however, finally broke her scrutinizing gaze from the Prince.

"Have you been to King's Landing, bard?" she asked, her voice soft yet carrying a curious undercurrent.

Rhaegar answered carefully, "No My Lady. I have not. The stories about the city smells made my stomach turn."

Ashara turned her attention to his's companions, her gaze lingering briefly on Ser Arthur disguised well as a sell sword, hair dyed and sword swapped for common steel.

Then, addressing Eddard, her voice held a gentle persuasion, "If he sings well truly, Ned, then Lord Manderly's idea is sound. Perhaps a skilled singer could indeed distract from the…tension… your absence may cause at Winterfell."

Eddard nodded, the grim line of his jaw softening slightly. "Very well, Let us see if your talents warrant this patronage."

Rhaegar bowed, a sense of relief washing over him.

Not a flicker of recognition from Ashara, not even at his guards.

With practiced fingers, he coaxed the first notes from his harp, a melody rising into the air, sweet and wistful, echoing off the stone walls.

They met one night, 'neath starlight bright,

His heart ablaze, her soul took flight.

A prince, they say, with vows to keep,

Yet in her gaze, his soul found sleep.

The whispers soft, the laughter low,

A bond they forged, where love could grow.

They danced in shadows, 'cross the floor,

No crown could hold them back any more.

Oh, hearts entwined, a love so sweet,

A stolen dance with willing feet.

One born to lead, one wild and free,

Their love a song for eternity.

The world outside, a distant call,

Within these walls, they risked it all.

A touch of hands, a stolen kiss,

Two hearts ablaze, in stolen bliss.

When the last chord faded, a silence hung in the air.

Lady Ashara's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as the final notes faded. "It is a beautiful song!" she murmured, the memory of their elopement vivid in her voice. "So like my own story, Cael. Ned, my husband He stole me away, My heart, my everything… and gave me this wonderful gift." She rested a hand protectively on her belly. "We met on the tourney of Harrenhall, where he first stole my kiss… and wed at the Isle of Faces with our vows, he gave me endless bliss." Her smile towards Eddard held a gentle teasing. "And the bard's song reminds me, my lord husband, you still owe me that dance."

Turning to Rhaegar, she offered a radiant smile, a flicker of warmth replacing the earlier scrutiny. "I have seldom heard such a beautiful song. Only the crown prince himself could match your talent. And even then…" she whispered conspiratorially, the action futile in court, but clearly in jest "...perhaps I liked yours even better. Though such thoughts

might border on treason, so I hope word of my praise doesn't leave this court?"

Eddard chuckled, the lines around his eyes softening. "Indeed, my lady. Cael's song stirs the heart. Mayhaps, father will be moved by such songs too. Your request is granted, Cael – you will journey with us to Winterfell."

Lord Manderly beamed, his approval clear. "Excellent! Then it's settled. Wylis, find these fine musicians suitable lodgings for the night. And you, bard, be ready at dawn. We depart for Winterfell come first light!"

Bowing deeply, the Prince and his disguised companions felt a wave of relief wash over them. Ashara's lack of recognition was a stroke of luck, or perhaps a testament to Leonard's talent in disguises.

They followed Wylis to a modest but comfortable inn within White Harbor's bustling streets.

As the door closed behind them, Ser Arthur's composure finally cracked.

Fury erupted from him, the mask of the sellsword falling away to reveal the outraged noble knight within.

"She eloped! With the quiet wolf!" he spat, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of a rough-hewn chair. "By the Seven, Ashara, what has done? What will Father say?"

Eyes blazing, he paced the small room, his anger a palpable force. "I knew she was unhappy at the Red Keep," he muttered, the name like a curse. "Father wanted to wed her in Dorne … and now this…"

Ser Oswell moved to his friend's side, a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, Arthur. It's done." He turned to the prince, "... perhaps this is for the best. Lady Ashara seems content here, in the end that's what matters right?"

The prince, his own heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, stepped forward. "Oswell is right. Arthur…" He lowered his voice, a conspiratorial note entering it, "now, if you speak to Lady Lyanna, our words carry more weight. She's family now, is she not? This has always been about stealing a maiden away for love. Ashara seems to have found her own."

Arthur's anger sputtered but didn't extinguish entirely.

He slumped into the chair, his head in his hands. "I suppose," he murmured. "But still…my sister, a Stark…"

The prince laid a hand on Arthur's arm. "She looks happy, Arthur. And safe. That, in the end, is all that truly matters."

Despite the Prince's reassurance the night in White Harbor promised little rest.

The stage was set, the players moving into position.

And when dawn broke, Rhaegar Targaryen, hidden beneath the guise of Cael the bard, would ride one step closer to the destiny he believed was his.

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The morning air held a chill that did little to cool Lyanna's simmering nerves.

Winterfell's gates loomed ahead, the weathered stone a stark contrast to the vibrant banners of the approaching Baratheon party.

She stood beside her father, her brothers a somber tableau around them.

Brandon, his usual boisterousness tempered, offered a tight smile to his new Tully bride, Catelyn.

Her brother's wedding had been an affair she'd been forbidden to attend, but neither had Ned. She did not envy Brandon.

Eddard and his wife, Ashara, spoke in hushed tones.

A wave of bittersweet happiness washed over Lyanna.

Her brother, ever dutiful, had defied their father and made his own path, a path Lyanna could only yearn for.

Lady Ashara had told her husband everything that Brandon had tried to charm her to his bed, and Ned had decided to distance away from their elder brother as much as he could.

Even now, she knew he did not intend to remain at Winterfell any longer than necessary. He had prospects for a keep for him, at the Eyrie, at Storms End, and now even at Dorne.

She hoped he would choose Storm's End.

She would love to have him at least near her when she wed Robert. No matter how jealous she was of him, she loved him all the same.

Their father's fury at his arrival and subsequent news of elopement had been a storm that still rumbled in the tense undercurrents of the Stark household.

Benjen stood apart, his young face set in a stubborn line. Her heart ached for him.

Their father's punishment – forcing Benjen to keep his distance – was meant for her, a constant reminder of her own curtailed freedom.

"Lyanna," Her father's voice, gruff yet laced with weariness, brought her back to the present. "I know you dislike me. I …. will speak with Robert …. his proclivities"

She cut him off, halting the empty promise he intended to make to her again "No need, father. I know my duty. And I will perform it well. You need not worry about me anymore."

She turned her gaze away from her father.

He was a hypocrite.

He cared little for her, truly. He had offered her a thousand gold dragons, as a veiled death sentence to make her accept her fate in Winterfell.

She knew it, and he knew it too.

Yet, when Ned eloped with Ashara, all he got was a stern talking to, a resigned disappointed "Not you too, Ned" and that's that.

She shook her head from the depressing spiral she'd been tending to fall into recently. She had learned well from Lady Mormont and Maestery Walys. Her situation wasn't hopeless.

Robert would likely never be faithful to her, but she didn't need him to be. Not anymore.

She would rule Storm's End and show her father that she could play his little games better than he could.

It played into her father's schemes she knew, but as Lady of Storm's End, she would have a position as strong as her father's for any further negotiations, he wouldn't get what he hoped entirely from selling her off in her coming wedding.

She turned away from her father's disappointed gaze, she wouldn't let his saddened face tug at her heart any longer.

In the gathered crowd that awaited her betrothed's arrival, was the bard and his guards that Ned had traveled with.

Cael the bard.

And his guards Luke, and Edd.

The names tore further at her heartstrings, like the Gods were playing a cruel jape at her expense.

The infatuation she had with the Reacher boy, Luke had been just that. An infatuation.

He had been sweet, brave, and more noble than most boys she had met.

And she had attempted to manipulate him into taking her maidenhead. She was glad that he hadn't arrived to meet her the next day. He didn't deserve what she had planned for him.

And poor Caelum would have been swept in everything should she have been caught.

She had truly been a fool.

The bard's songs the few days he had been at court, reminded her of the Prince.

Or the idealized version of the Prince, she had believed him to be before his obsession with Prophecy had been revealed to her.

He had sang in the hall, for all to hear after Lady Ashara and Ned introduced him, and her father had agreed to him singing for the celebration of her wedding.

He had even offered the bard payment for his services, but the man had looked at her father, then at her, and smiled.

"I would only like a blue winter rose as payment, my lord." He had said, "Singing for your daughter's wedding will be my true reward."

Yet, even the bard was a reminder of her gilded cage.

Her father's guards watched her every move, their presence a constant hum of disapproval.

Only in her chambers and the gods wood was there a semblance of privacy, and even that was an illusion with guards posted just outside.

"Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End!" The herald's booming cry shattered her musings.

The gates swung open, revealing a whirlwind of men, banners snapping in the wind.

At the forefront rode Robert Baratheon himself, his dark hair and muscular build a stark contrast to the pale hues of the North.

He dismounted with a fluid grace, flashing a grin at Rickard Stark. "My Lord Rickard," Robert's voice was a rumble of good humor, "no need for formalities between soon-to-be kin, eh?"

Rickard sighed, a trace of a reluctant smile on his stern face. "Very well, Robert." He gave the younger lord a brief, somewhat awkward hug. He offered him bread and salt "Be welcome in Winterfell."

Nodding he accepted the offered bread, and gulped it down with fervor.

Turning to Brandon, Robert clasped his arm in genuine warmth. "Well met, Brandon! And my congratulations on your recent marriage!" He bowed to Catelyn, a touch of formality returning. "Lady Catelyn, a pleasure. You make a radiant bride." Catelyn curtsied, her cheeks warming slightly. "Thank you, my lord, your words are kind."

Ned was next, and Robert's booming laughter filled the courtyard. "Ned! And here I thought I was the wild one! Eloping, by the gods! Why didn't you invite me at least?!" He clapped Ned on the shoulder, his jovial grin infectious.

Ned's own smile was rueful. "Apologies, Robert. It was…spur of the moment, shall we say."

Robert leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "The lady fair enough to tempt you into such madness, then?"

His gaze flitted towards Ashara, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Ah," he chuckled, "now I see! No wonder you were in a rush. Well done, my friend, well done!"

Ashara offered a gentle smile. "The wolf is as wild as ever, my lord, merely… redirected."

Robert laughed, as he offered a kiss atop the lady's knuckles.

Lyanna smiled despite herself, for all his faults Robert brought true joy to Ned, and for that she can't truly hate him.

Finally, he approached Lyanna. His gaze swept over her, the boisterousness fading slightly, replaced by a flicker of curiosity mixed with genuine admiration. "Lady Lyanna," he said, his voice softening, "you're as beautiful as the day I last saw you."

Lyanna managed a polite incline of her head. "My Lord Baratheon," she murmured, "welcome to Winterfell."

Internally, she gritted her teeth.

Last she saw him, he had stumbled and stomped his way away to the brothel in Harrentown. It was likely he remembered whatever whore he tumbled around with more than he did her.

Her father then stepped forward. "Lord Robert, your men – refreshments and rest await. It has been a long journey."

x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x

The Great Hall crackled with energy. The long tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, venison pies, and flagons of ale.

Lords of the North, their weathered faces reflecting the harsh beauty of their lands, mingled with the Stormlander knights, their laughter echoing off the ancient stone walls.

Lord Manderly, his laughter booming above the din, raised his goblet in a toast to the upcoming union.

Beside him, Lord Karstark, grim even in celebration, shared a quieter jest with Lord Bolton, whose unnerving pale eyes surveyed the hall with a predator's focus.

Lord Dustin danced happily with his lady wife, whose gaze frequently strayed to the high table. She felt disgusted by the lady, Lord Dustin seemed to adore the lady in truth, but Lady Dustin was still looking to put horns on the poor man.

She hoped Brandon didn't reciprocate any further. Father would be watching him, but she knew if he desired, he would find a way back in her bed.

At the high table, Eddard and Ashara moved as one through a graceful dance, their smiles a touchstone of genuine happiness amidst the boisterous revelry.

Brandon and Catelyn made a more formal pair, their movements a careful duet of propriety and tentative connection. They would need a long while before they get comfortable with one another, provided Brandon controls his lusts.

He had already lost Ned due to them, he would do well to not lose his wife too.

Lyanna watched from the shadows, her heart a dull ache.

The bard's song, full of stolen hearts and whispered promises, stung with cruel irony. All around her, couples swayed and twirled, but she felt trapped in a dance she did not choose.

Robert, a few paces away, goblet untouched, was bolstering his courage. His eyes flickered towards her, a mixture of admiration and apprehension battling within him. Finally, he rose, smoothed his tunic, and approached.

"Lady Lyanna," he offered her his hand with a slightly lopsided grin, "Might I have the honor of a dance?"

A small, tight smile was her only answer as she accepted his hand. As they moved onto the dance floor, he launched into a clumsy attempt at conversation, mistaking her quiet formality for pre-wedding jitters.

"Afraid I haven't been the most… attentive of suitors," he confessed, a rueful edge to his voice. "Should've come courting sooner, but well… to be honest, I was a bit intimidated." He paused, a flicker of vulnerability flashing in his eyes. "Ned always said… said you were a force to be reckoned with." He offered a self-deprecating chuckle. "Should've listened, shouldn't I?"

Lyanna hesitated, guilt and frustration warring with the urge to say something sharp. "Don't worry, my lord," she managed, her voice cool, "We have a lifetime to acquaint ourselves."

His expression fell slightly at her distant tone. "But that's just it, isn't it? Wish we had more time. Perhaps a ride later, to…talk, and all that?"

"Forgive me, my lord," Lyanna countered, "but it has been… a while since I last rode. My skills must be quite rusty."

Robert's disappointment was clear. "Well, don't you worry about that! Storm's End has plenty of fine horses. We can ride together – daily if you like!"

A hesitant smile touched Lyanna's lips.

The thought of escape, even in this small measure, was bittersweet. "Mayhaps," she agreed softly, "Mayhaps we shall."

Despite Robert's clumsy charm, Lyanna couldn't quell the litany of his faults playing in her mind.

He had dishonored her at the tourney, fathered a bastard in the vale, spent the day at Harrenhall's brothel when the Prince had dishonored her in front of the realm.

Yet, a flicker of doubt began to creep in.

The man before her was trying, however awkwardly.

Albeit at her brother's behest. But he was attempting …. Something.

It wasn't the grand, romantic gesture she'd longed for, but it was…something.

"Mayhaps," she murmured in agreement to his suggestion of rides together, "If Eddard were to join us at Storm's End…" Her voice trailed off, the thought both hopeful and laced with unease.

With Ned as a buffer, a guide, perhaps they could navigate this together, temper Robert's wilder impulses.

The dance ended, and with it, their stilted conversation.

A flicker of relief passed through Lyanna as she excused herself, a need for solitude pressing upon her.

As she slipped from the hall's warmth, the weight of the coming days pressed down with stifling force. The Godswood, with its quiet heart tree, beckoned as a sanctuary.

To her surprise, her usual guards, ever-present shadows, were absent. They were probably still at the feast.

Beneath the watchful gaze of the heart tree, Lyanna sank to the cool earth, she couldn't control her tears then.

She did not know what to do, truly.

This was her fate, sealed by alliances and her father's ambition.

Robert was making an effort, clumsy as it was.

A small, fragile part of her wondered if it could be enough, if the man she'd despised at the tourney could become something more.

Perhaps…perhaps she owed him that much. She wouldn't expect miracles. Fidelity was a fool's dream, but a modicum of respect, a partnership of sorts – maybe that was within reach.

She had given him no chance at the tourney, she realized too angered by the news of the bastard girl he had fathered in the Vale, too caught up in her own anger and disappointment, but he had been trying then too.

She could mold Robert into something worthy of respecting her at least.

She would rule Storm's End, be the voice in his ear.

Father wouldn't get the easy alliance he desired through her, she would make him work for it.

A sharp crack of a twig shattered her prayer.

Wiping away tears, Lyanna braced herself to face the guards that had returned to guard her.

Instead, her breath caught in her throat.

Cael, the bard, stood before her, and there, unmistakably hidden beneath his traveling clothes, was the hilt of a sword.

Fear coiled in her belly.

"Lady Lyanna," Cael murmured, noticing her alarm, he took a cautious step back. "I mean you no harm, I swear it."

Lyanna stepped away from him, her voice tight with suspicion. "You... you carry a sword. Why are you here?"

A tentative smile touched his lips, transforming his handsome face into something achingly familiar. "I had thought the Knight of the Laughing Tree would recognize a friend," he said softly, "even in disguise."

A gasp escaped Lyanna's lips as the pieces fell into place.

His violet eyes, the song he had sung of a stolen heart... it was him.

The crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, stood before her in the guise of a humble bard.

"Why?" she stammered, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and a flicker of unwelcome hope. "Why are you here?"

"I saw you, Lyanna," he replied, using her name with a familiarity that sent a tremor through her, "I saw your spirit at Harrenhal, and I see your unhappiness now. You do not wish to wed Robert Baratheon." He took a step closer, earnestness in his voice. "I can help you, Lyanna. You can flee, break this betrothal…"

Hope flared within her, a desperate, foolish flame.

She immediately tamped it down. "What do you mean?" Her voice held a forced calmness despite the chaos within.

"Run away," he said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "Just as your brother Eddard did. Marry for love, not duty."

"What do you mean?" Lyanna's voice was barely a whisper, a mix of desperation and dread.

His response was shockingly direct. "I love you, Lyanna. I saw you at the tourney, your courage, your wild spirit… it captivated me. And now I see your unhappiness, a caged wolf yearning for freedom. I can give you that freedom."

Lyanna's hesitation was a sharp blade cutting against the allure of his words. "You…you are married," she pointed out, her voice raspy, "To Princess Elia."

He flinched, caught off-guard.

His hand instinctively stroked his black-dyed hair. "Elia…she is fragile," he said, his voice low and intense, "Another childbirth could kill her. She will not live for long."

"What…what are you saying?" she managed to force out.

His eyes, those haunting violet eyes, held a mesmerizing intensity. "We can be wed, Lyanna. It is my destiny, the prophecy... " He paused, then continued, his voice taking on an almost pleading note, "You would be my queen, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I love you, Lyanna. I would never dishonor you as Robert would."

Lyanna's heart hammered against her ribs.

Her long-suppressed dreams, the yearning for a freedom she thought forever out of reach, was suddenly within her grasp. The prince, with his silver hair, his promises of love and a crown…he was the escape she had desperately craved.

Then, like a venomous serpent, her father's voice hissed in her memory.

Warnings of war, accusations of the prince's obsession with prophecy, the twisted need for a third child.

He would try to get her with child if Princess Elia failed.

Her father's warnings of the prince's madness rang true.

He wanted to kill his own wife, to get to her.

And if the poor woman birthed another babe anew, she would be thrown aside as a whore.

Lady Mormont had taught her well.

She couldn't lead her family to slaughter. She wouldn't see Benjen, Ned, or even Brandon fall to a Targaryen blade, no matter how much she despised her father.

A decision solidified within her, a desperate act born of loyalty and despair.

She stepped closer to the prince, her voice a soft, treacherous whisper. "If…if you truly loved me…" she murmured, her hand lifting, seemingly in caress, her eyes searching his.

Hope flashed across his face, a blinding flare in the fading twilight. "Lyanna…" he breathed, "You will be my queen. Ours will be the song of ice and fire..."

Her smile was swift, bitter, and held not a trace of the promised surrender.

Her knee slammed into his groin with brutal force.

Damning her future, her happiness, for the sake of her family.

The prince doubled over, his handsome features contorting in a mask of agony. Lyanna felt a flicker of satisfaction twist through her as she wrenched the sword from his hip.

Before he could recover, she was screaming. Her voice, hoarse with terror and defiance, echoed through the Godswood.

"GUARDS! FATHER! HELP!"

Her flight was a desperate dash through the darkening woods, branches whipping at her face, the pounding of her heart a frantic drumbeat in her ears.

And then, they were there.

Two men, armored but unfamiliar, springing from the shadows like wolves. They were the Prince's sell swords, she realized as she pirouetted away from them.

The first, tall and golden-haired, made a grab for her, but she spun away, the stolen sword flashing in the fading light.

The second, older, his face shadowed by a weathered helm, moved with terrifying speed. His sword clanged against hers, the force of the blow sending shockwaves through her arm.

"Oswell! Gather the prince, make for the horses! Bael awaits! I'll handle her!" The older man's voice was cold, and focused.

Ser Oswell, the younger knight, hesitated for a split second, then darted past Lyanna into the trees, disappearing in the direction of the stricken prince.

So even the body guards were the Kings Guard in truth.

Lyanna spat a defiance at the remaining knight's feet, her heart sinking.

They were trapped in the heart of Winterfell, outnumbered and outmatched.

"You'll not escape," she rasped, her sword wavering in her bruised hand.

"That remains to be seen, little wolf," the knight replied coldly. His helm obscured his features, but there was an unnerving certainty in his voice.

He lunged forward, not to cut, but to disarm.

Though battered, Lyanna fought back, her training from Lady Mormont fueling a desperate resistance.

But it was useless. With a twist of his wrist, her sword skittered across the cold earth. A moment later, a heavy hand was on her shoulder, a blow was coming…

And then, chaos erupted.

The tranquility of the Godswood exploded into a storm of shouts and the clash of steel.

Guards in the Stark livery surged past her, followed by a host of Northern lords – Manderly, Bolton, Mormont, their faces grim beneath torchlight.

From the opposite direction came Stormland knights, Robert Baratheon and her own brothers, Ned and Brandon, leading the charge, swords gleaming.

Rickard Stark's authoritative voice cut through the din. "Release my daughter, sellsword and leniency may yet be yours."

Lyanna's correction was a desperate hiss. "Father, it's Ser Arthur Dayne! The prince – he's in the Godswood!"

Arthur tightened his grip, the point of his sword pressing into her throat until she fell silent. "Harm her," Rickard roared, his eyes blazing with fury, "and you will not leave this place alive!"

"Alive or dead makes little difference," Arthur retorted, a strange, almost resigned smile twisting his lips. "My duty is to my King."

Robert Baratheon surged forward, his war hammer raised. "Your King ordered this abduction? Aerys, the Mad King?"

Arthur scoffed, "My King is Rhaegar, and no other."

Before the tense exchange could escalate further, an arrow hissed through the air, slamming into Arthur's side.

He gasped, his grip loosening, his sword arm going slack.

A flicker of surprise, then a defiant grin crossed his face as he crumpled to the ground.

Lyanna wrenched herself free, stumbling towards her family.

Ned, showing presence of mind, kicked Arthur's fallen sword away.

Relief coursed through her, but it was quickly replaced by a sickening dread.

"The Godswood!" she gasped, "The prince is in there!"

Rickard, flanked by Robert and her brothers, was a whirlwind of fury. "Rodrik!" he barked, "Seize the prince! Do not let him escape!"

Robert was near vibrating with rage, his voice echoing through the clearing, "Let me go! I'll smash his skull in!"

Rodrik nodded grimly, gathering a band of men and disappearing into the shadowed trees.

Rickard, showing his aged shrewdness, held his sons back. "Ned, Brandon, cool your tempers. We need a clear head, not just brute force. You too Lord Baratheon."

Moments later, Rodrik returned, his expression grim. "The Godswood is empty, my lord."

Lyanna wracked her brain, desperately searching her hazy memory of the encounter. "...Horses," she murmured, "Ser Arthur said something about horses, and someone named Bael."

A flicker of comprehension crossed Rickard's face, followed by a chilling rage. "Sound the alarm! To the gates! Ready horses, we will pursue them!"

As the men readied to leave, at the barked orders, her father stopped Brandon "Head to the crypts. Search them thoroughly."

"The crypts! Father, I should ride in pursuit!" Brandon protested.

"Silence!" Her father ordered, as they made their way quickly toward the castle "This reeks of Bael the bard's legend. He could be hidden within the crypts! You will do as I say!"

Chastised, her brother nodded, and left hurriedly to carry out his orders.

"Ned, take Lyanna to her chambers, have Maester Walys see to her wounds. I will give chase with the men." Her father continued giving out orders.

She felt relieved that her part in all this was finally done, she had made her choice in the end.

It was Ser Arthur, his head buzzing from Ned's blow, who chuckled darkly at that. Robert had gotten a few whacks into the unarmed man in his anger after the fact too.

Rickard's icy gaze locked onto him. "Why do you laugh, Kingsguard?"

"The prince is far beyond your reach," Arthur rasped, blood seeping from his wound. "You will never find him."

"We have you," Rickard countered, "And words have a way of loosening even the most loyal tongues." He paused, then looked to his assembled men, and then at Ned who was helping her return to her chambers. "Ned, instructs Maester Walys to have ravens dispatched to White Harbor, no to all the docks in the North. All ports, all ships...no vessel leaves the North without my express permission."

The Prince would be caught.

"Raise the Banners! Lord Stark!" Robert Baratheon's fury laced voice rang through the air "This means war."

Despair settled in the pits of her stomach, Lyanna had done this to avoid war at all costs.

She realized she had been doomed, her house had been doomed the moment the prince had set his eyes on her.

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Caelum bounced excitedly beside his mother on the wagon seat, his eyes sparkling as he recounted his latest escapade. "And then," he exclaimed, "I was listening for the hawk, as Willas searched for her! Guess what? She was right at the top of the tree, Ma, so high up! And had taken a poor kitten up there with her. We had to make Sunflash leave her, and Willas had to teach her not to think of kittens as food."

Elyna smiled, stroking her son's dark hair. "Good Jon, Caelum. All animals deserve kindness, just like people. Treat them with respect, and they will respect you too"

Caelum beamed in response, a small gap in his smile showcasing a missing tooth.

While still young, there was a spark in his eyes that spoke of a maturity beyond his seven years.

Harlon emerged from the inn, wiping his brow on his sleeve. "Looks like we're done here," he announced, giving the cart a final inspection. "One more delivery, then we pick up Luke, Meredith and Toman from the castle. Should be a quick trip back home after that."

Caelum hopped down from the wagon. "Can I help, Pa?" he asked, his voice filled with an earnest determination.

Harlon chuckled, ruffling his son's hair playfully. "Maybe when you're a bit bigger, lad. Today, you're my official 'barrel checker'. Make sure none are loose, alright?"

Caelum saluted with a grin, taking his duties seriously as he scurried around the cart.

Elyna watched the pair with a mix of pride and a lingering worry she couldn't quite shake. Briar City was their biggest delivery route, and while the town itself was friendly enough, the roads could be unpredictable.

Yet, Caelum was growing so quickly, and it wouldn't be long before he'd be handling these chores alongside his father.

The wagon rumbled onward, Caelum settling back against the barrels with a contented sigh. "What else did you do today, Caelum?" Elyna asked, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"Oh!" Caelum's eyes lit up again. "Willas sent a letter to his friend! A princess from Dorne, you know? With Sunflash!" He paused for dramatic effect. "And she's going to answer with an eagle! Can you believe it, Ma? An eagle!"

Both Elyna and Harlon chuckled at their son's infectious enthusiasm.

Suddenly, Caelum's ears perked up.

A distant voice, tinged with frustration, drifted through the air. "Blast it all! Where could that wretched purse have gotten to?"

"Someone's in trouble," Caelum informed his parents, already focusing on the sound.

Harlon raised an eyebrow. "What do you want to do, lad?"

"He's coming this way," Caelum said, brow furrowed in concentration. "To the next delivery. It wouldn't hurt to stop and help, would it?"

Harlon and Elyna exchanged a knowing glance.

Then, with a nod, Harlon directed the wagon down a narrower street, guided by Caelum's instructions.

They finally came upon a disheveled man, frantically searching the dusty road.

"Easy there, friend," Harlon called out, a reassuring note in his voice. "What seems to be the trouble?"

The man, startled, spun around. "My purse," he lamented, "it's gone! Stolen, I reckon. I am Elston, a baker. And my purse was right there by my stall, this is the second time in the last three moons it has gone missing!"

"Can you describe it?" Harlon asked.

"Purple satchel," Elston replied, "silver trimming on the opening. Had my week's earnings in it..." His voice trailed off miserably.

Caelum listened intently, then discreetly focused on the description, he focused his eyes, gaining an otherworldly clarity to them.

As if through an invisible window, he saw the purple satchel, a block away, tucked beneath a table in the very inn they were headed for next.

A quick glance showed him his father had noticed his subtle nod.

"Don't fret, Elston," Harlon said calmly. "We'll have a look around. If we find it, we'll make sure to get it back to you."

With newfound hope, Elston thanked them profusely.

Caelum guided his father in driving the wagon towards the inn. "It's at our next delivery spot" He said.

"I see," Harlon said, as he looked at the inn. "Fortunate, then. I'll take a barrel in, and we can do the delivery, then find the thief."

Caelum excited at helping someone again, quickly clutched at the barrel nearest to him, and lifted it on to his father's back.

"Caelum!" His father admonished "Those are heavy! You'll hurt your back!"

"Aww, Pa," Caelum said as he jumped off the cart, after kissing his mum's cheek, bidding her to wait for them outside as they finished the delivery, and confronted the thief. "I don't think it was that heavy, truly!"

Harlon tried to remain stern to his son, but failed miserably.

Sighing to himself in amusement, he followed Caelum into the inn. His wife watched them go with a fond gaze.

Inside the bustling inn, Harlon delivered the ale, his eyes scanning the patrons while Caelum watched a ragged-looking man hunched over a plate of food. The purple satchel lay beside him, the stolen coins now buying a meager meal.

A pang of sympathy went through Caelum - the man seemed more desperate than wicked.

"Well, Caelum?" Harlon joined him, a thoughtful frown on his face. "What should we do? There's the guards, of course. Hand the fellow over, take the purse back to the baker. Or…" He let the question hang in the air.

Caelum chewed his lip. "He's just…hungry, Pa. Turning him in won't fill his belly. It'll just get him into worse trouble with Lord Tyrell."

Harlon nodded slowly. "So what is your idea?"

"The baker, he…well, he had work that needs doing right? Guarding his stall, stuff like that. And his purse keeps getting stolen…maybe..." Caelum hesitated, then took a breath, "Maybe if we can convince the thief to return the purse, tell the baker what happened… the baker might be kind. Offer him a job."

A glimmer of pride shone in Harlon's eyes. "Good thinking, son. But there's a few holes in that plan. First, we'd need the baker to understand how desperate this fellow is. Then there's whether he'd truly be kind. And…" Harlon's voice softened, "the thief himself. No reason for him to trust us, and if confronted, he might do something rash."

Caelum nodded, the weight of the situation settling on him.

"Here's what we'll do," Harlon said decisively. "I'll handle this. Keep an eye on things, but don't say a word, alright?"

Harlon approached the ragged figure with a friendly smile. "Excuse me," he began, his voice warm and disarming, "I couldn't help but overhear your troubles earlier."

The man, startled, looked up from his now empty plate. Initial wariness flickered in his eyes. "Aye?" he said cautiously.

"Harlon, farmer and ale brewer by trade," Harlon continued, extending a calloused hand. "And this here's my son, Caelum." He gave Caelum a gentle nudge, who offered a small wave in return.

The man hesitated, then tentatively shook Harlon's hand. "Willem," he muttered. "No trade, not anymore…"

"Willem," Harlon echoed, "a hard world out there, isn't it? Makes it difficult for an honest man to earn his daily bread." He motioned towards the empty plate. "Baker's fare good here, at least?"

Willem's lips twitched into a half-smile. "Warms the belly better than nothing, I suppose."

Seizing the opportunity, Harlon pulled out a stool and sat across from Willem. "Been in Briar City long?" he asked, keeping his tone conversational.

"Off and on," Willem replied. "Had a bit of work at the stables, but…" His voice trailed off, a flicker of shame crossing his face.

Harlon nodded sympathetically. "I've been through lean times myself," he admitted. "Takes a strong man to make it on his own." He eyed Willem, gauging his reaction. Underneath the grime and tattered clothing, there was a spark of weary determination.

After a few more minutes of gentle questioning, Harlon had gleaned more of Willem's story: a lost apprenticeship, bad luck, and a dwindling hope. Finally, he leaned forward slightly.

"Tell me, Willem," Harlon said quietly, "if there was a chance at a steady wage, an honest day's work for an honest day's pay…would that interest you?"

Willem's eyes widened. Hope, mingled with a flicker of suspicion, flared in their depths. "Steady work?" he repeated. "You…you're not mocking me?"

"Not at all," Harlon replied earnestly. "Fact is, there might be an opportunity. But first..." he paused significantly, "there's a matter that needs to be settled."

Willem stiffened. The hopeful light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a familiar wariness. "What…what matter?"

"The missing purse," Harlon said, keeping his voice even. "That of the baker you were just lamenting to."

Willem froze, words sputtering on his lips. "I...I don't…"

"Willem," Harlon said, his voice firm but kind, "I'm not here to turn you in. But folks in Briar City, even the good ones, won't tolerate thievery forever. A word in the wrong ear, and you'd be paying a visit to the Tyrell's dungeons."

Willem gulped visibly. "So…what then?" he asked, a tremor in his voice. "How does confessing help me get this…job?"

Harlon smiled reassuringly. "Let's just say…I take an interest in good men down on their luck. If you agree, I'll help. Come clean to the baker, and maybe he'll show some kindness. If not..." he shrugged, "there's always a need for strong hands on my farm. Fair pay, roof over your head."

Willem stared, the offer slowly sinking in. Finally, a flicker of desperate resolve settled in his eyes. "Alright," he said quietly. "Alright, I'll do it."

Caelum, observing his father, felt a swell of pride. Harlon had calmed the panicked man, found the kernel of good within him, and offered a helping hand.

With Willem in tow, they left the inn and rejoined Elyna at the wagon.

Willem trailed nervously behind the cart as they returned to the baker's stall.

Now came the hardest part.

With the purple satchel tucked carefully under his arm, Harlon approached Elston's bustling stall. The baker, deep in conversation with a customer, barely noticed him at first.

"Master Elston," Harlon called out, raising his voice slightly over the market's din.

Elston looked up, surprise giving way to a burst of pure joy as he recognized the satchel. "By the Seven!" he exclaimed, "You found it! Bless you, good sir, a thousand blessings!"

He fumbled in his pocket. "Here, allow me to reward you for your kindness…"

Harlon gently pushed his hand away. "Save your coin, friend. A full belly and a clear conscience is reward enough." Something about the baker's warmth made Harlon bolder; it was time for the next step of his plan.

"Tell me, Elston," he continued, "would you be willing to offer that same kindness to another man, one down on his luck, in need of a helping hand?"

Intrigued, Elston nodded. "A man of good heart, is that what you mean? Then of course! What sort of favor do you ask?"

Harlon motioned for Willem to step forward. The ragged man hesitated, then tentatively approached the stall.

"This is Willem," Harlon said. "He...he had a hand in the disappearance of your purse."

Elston froze, the friendly smile vanishing from his face. "He… what?" His hand instinctively reached for the place where the purse had been moments ago. "Guards!" He began to shout, panic replacing gratitude.

Harlon stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Elston's arm. "Peace, friend, peace. Hear the man out." He turned to Willem. "Go on, tell him."

Willem, eyes downcast, recounted his tale in a trembling voice: the lost jobs, the dwindling hope, the desperate act driven by hunger. Harlon watched Elston closely. The baker's face was a shifting mask of anger, pity, and wariness.

Finally, Elston spoke, his voice hardened, "So he's a thief. Why should I trust him to guard my stall, when he's proven himself unworthy?"

"Because a full belly doesn't yearn to steal," Harlon argued, "and a man with something to lose won't risk losing it." He placed a hand on Willem's shoulder. "One chance, Master Elston. That's all he asks. A debt to repay, a path back to honest work. If he falters, then you hold the power."

Elston chewed his lip, considering. Long moments passed before he finally sighed, a mix of resignation and a grudging hope in his eyes.

"Very well," he said to Willem. "You'll have your chance, but you'll start by earning back the coin you spent. Fair warning, I'll be watching you like a hawk."

A wave of relief washed over Willem, and it was then that Caelum, watching from the wagon, saw a change in the man.

A flicker of determination replaced the desperation in his eyes.

Harlon smiled, a genuine warmth that matched Elston's own when he'd recovered his purse. It was a small victory, one that resonated with the bustling life around them.

Caelum and Elyna who had been watching the exchange, smiled too feeling immensely proud of Harlon.

Caelum vowed internally, that he would be a man who would make his Pa proud too.

As Harlon bid farewell to Elston and Willem, a gentle breeze ruffled his hair. His return to the wagon felt triumphant, a small beacon of light in a world often shrouded in hardship. Elyna greeted him with a quick, affectionate kiss, her eyes mirroring the pride Caelum felt swelling in his chest.

"Well done, husband," she murmured, the smile in her voice a warm echo of his own warmth.

A quick ruffle of Caelum's hair made him beam, a promise in his heart echoing silently: I will be a man you're proud of, too.

"Time's wasting," Harlon declared, breaking the sweet moment. "On to the castle, then home we go. I wouldn't want Luke and Toman to think we abandoned him to the lords and their squabbles." His words were light, but it was clear he was trying to take the focus away from him by the red blush on his cheeks.

The journey to the castle was filled with Caelum's chatter. He regaled his parents with more tales from the lessons he shared with Lord Garlan under Maester Lomys' tutelage.

Yet, as they neared the imposing gates of Highgarden, a change descended.

The bustling heart of Briar City gave way to a strange hush.

Guards stood stiffly at their posts, and the usual sounds of laughter and haggling from within the castle walls seemed strangely muted. Luke, Toman, and Meredith stood waiting, their smiles forced and eyes shadowed.

"What ails you?" Harlon asked, a gruff note entering his voice as he surveyed the boy his son affectionately called brother, the girl his son called sister, and one of his oldest friends.

Whatever had transpired was clearly no cause for celebration.

Luke swallowed, his fingers tightening around the reins of his mount. "Ser Vortimer..." he began, then paused, as if searching for the right words. "He's made me his squire, Father."

Caelum, ever the optimist, clapped his hands gleefully. "That's wonderful, Luke! Doesn't that mean—"

"It means war, little brother," Luke cut in, his voice bleak. "Ser Vortimer says I'll squire on the battlefield. The Reach raises its banners, Cael. House Tyrell stands with the Targaryens." He looked at each of them in turn, grim determination replacing his usual easy grin. "We march against the Starks."

The words hung heavy in the air.

A cold dread descended upon Caelum and his family.

War.

And his family would bleed for the same prince who had tried to have them killed at the tourney of Harrenhall.

He prayed to the Seven for guidance, once again.

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(A/N) Exams are a pain in the butt.

Anyway.

War is finally here, this time sparked by Rhaegar's madness.

Arthur Dayne is captive to the Starks.

This was a bit of a long chapter because of my sudden hiatus. Hope the wait was worth it.

Also, what did you guys think about the song? It was a shitty attempt, but inspired by Frank Sinatra.