16 Sparks and Embers

Chapter 16 –

The torchlight flickered on the damp stone walls of the dungeon, casting long, grotesque shadows that danced with each uneasy movement. 

Ashara's voice, normally as sweet as a summer breeze, held a taut edge, anger, and weariness seeping into her tone, her pregnancy still early made her waddle a little as she paced the cell. "What were you thinking, Arthur?" she demanded, her fist clenching at her side. "To try to kidnap Lady Lyanna... with the Crown Prince himself? Are you so far gone?"

Arthur, the legendary 'Sword of the Morning', slumped on a rough-hewn bench, his wrists bound with heavy chains. A mocking smile twisted his lips. "Hah! And eloping with Eddard Stark is any better, dear sister? What will Father say of that, of your stolen vows?"

Ashara felt a surge of fury threatening to overwhelm her. Her pregnancy normally a source of joy, now only added to the turmoil churning within her. "Arthur, you damned hypocrite, you're accusing me of eloping when you planned to do the same to Lyanna with the Prince?! You fool! You have shamed our house, shamed yourself! Father will hear of this, and so will every lord and lady in the realm. You'll be no knight, you are an Oathbreaker!"

Arthur surged to his feet, the chains around his arms rattling at the sudden motion, a flash of defiance igniting his eyes. "Aerys?" he snarled, "The Mad King will never be my king! Rhaegar is the true king, the one destined to lead us!"

Ned stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous. "Words have consequences, Kingsguard. Even spoken beneath the stones of Winterfell... Tell me the plan. Where did you intend to take Lyanna? You can't truly believe you'd have escaped the North with her in tow. Just like the Prince won't escape, not with my father and Robert giving chase."

The Knight's jaw clenched, false bravado fighting through his uncertainty. "They won't find him," he muttered.

Ashara, her face pale, pressed closer to the bars. "Why, Arthur? Why violate your oaths? You served the King all these years…you were the most honorable among us."

"You know why," Arthur retorted, his sneer aimed directly at her. "Aerys burns men alive for his twisted pleasure. His cruelty knows no bounds. You knew…. You have seen the charred corpses in the dragon pit …  that's why you chose to flee with the Stark! To hide in his dreary keep!" He paused, bitterness lacing his voice as he gestured toward her belly. "At least I tried to do something, to save the Seven Kingdoms from a despot and set a worthy king upon the Iron Throne. Not whore away to a savage here in the North! I tried to be a True Knight for a True King!"

Ashara's eyes blazed with fury. "This is madness, this is not some grand scheme for salvation! I love Ned. He listened when no one else would, when father didn't, you didn't. I wanted to leave the Red Keep, I pleaded to let me leave. Even Elia pleaded for me to return home! But no! Father wanted me to stay at the Red Keep, the only one who listened when I needed it most was Ned, and I love him! We married for love. I am not a whore!"

Her voice cracked with anguish and anger. "And if you think the North is some uncivilized wasteland, then what in the Seven Hells were you doing plotting to abduct its lady? You call Ned a savage, you don't know anything about them at all!"

Ned moved to place a comforting hand on Ashara's shoulder. His voice remained measured, but his grey eyes were twin chips of ice fixed on Arthur. "I need answers, Ser Arthur. The North remembers those who bring harm to our own. Right now, the only thing standing between you and a much less hospitable cell is the love my wife bears for her brother. But even that patience has limits."

Arthur's defiance held fast, his jaw clenched in a stubborn line. "I will not betray my king," he ground out, the words barely audible.

A bitter laugh escaped Ashara. "Betray Rhaegar? You have already betrayed him. He will be caught. His dishonoring of Elia, his attempted… violation of Lyanna. Word will spread. He might be your precious king, but he cannot hide forever. You followed him into madness, into ruin. You betrayed him the moment you let him follow through with this madness!"

She sank against the bars, the emotional strain etched in every line of her face. "I should have recognized them in White Harbor," she whispered, more to herself than to the others. "But I…I didn't want to believe…" She trailed off, then looked up, a sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. "I ... hoped that Aegon's birth would heal the wound he created between Elia and him… but to do this?"

Ned placed a protective arm around his wife, trying to comfort her as best he could. "Why do you believe Rhaegar will escape justice? There has to be more to this plan..."

Arthur remained steadfastly silent, his eyes fixed on a cobweb in the far corner of his cell.

Ned's patience wore thin. 

His voice took on a sharper edge. "Enough of this, Ser Arthur. Ashara, you shouldn't have to bear witness to this… go..." He hesitated, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Are you well enough to go to Lady Catelyn? Or mayhaps Lyanna?"

Ashara sniffled, wiping angry tears from her eyes. "No... I don't want to see my brother tortured..." she shook her head trying to cling to Ned with everything she had. "I can make him talk, Ned. He'll listen when he knows what's right."

Arthur's scoff echoed in the confined space. "Take your pity elsewhere, sister. My loyalty lies with my king."

Ashara let out a sob of frustration, burying her face in her hands. 

Ned started to say something, but they were interrupted by a sharp shout from the guards outside. "Lord Eddard! Your father and Lord Baratheon have returned!"

Ned glanced back at Arthur, trying to discern any shift in his captive's expression, but the Kingsguard remained a mask of unwavering defiance. "Did they capture the Prince?" Ned asked the guard.

The guard, a weathered Northman named Calon, swallowed nervously. "I don't know, my lord. I couldn't see well, the entire guard was with them."

Ned sighed, a heavy weight settling upon him. 

He squeezed Ashara's hand. "We'll finish this later. He has no love left for you" He turned back to the guard. "Calon, see that Ser Arthur receives no food or water. Let him stew here until my father decides his fate." He hesitated, then added, "And… see that he isn't spoken to. Silence may make him more inclined to cooperate."

With a parting glance at Arthur, Ned left the dungeons. 

The early morning air was a shock after the claustrophobic atmosphere below. 

The attempt by the Prince the previous night had taken a toll on Eddard, and he had lost track of time in ensuring Lyanna was safe with maester Walys, and questioning Arthur Dayne.

He joined Ashara as they made their way towards the castle grounds. 

An uneasy murmur spread through the assembled men – a mix of Starks and Stormlanders. Banners snapped in the crisp wind, and the scent of horses and damp earth hung heavy in the air.

In the center of the clearing, Rickard Stark and Robert Baratheon stood in tense conference near a grim sight – the slain body of Ser Oswell Whent, dragged unceremoniously behind Robert's warhorse. 

And near them, bound and gagged, were two men. 

The flicker of recognition in Ned's eyes was like a lance through his heart. 

Even with their hair dyed and faces bruised, the violet eyes were unmistakable. 

They had all been fooled by the Prince's farce, not willing to question the absurdity of such a ploy.

A desperate plea reached them as Ned and Ashara approached. 

One of the bound men was struggling against his captors, his voice hoarse with fear and exertion. "Lord Stark... Mercy, I beg you! I'll take the black, swear my life to your service! Anything!"

Ned and Ashara joined his father and Robert. 

Before either could speak, Brandon arrived, disheveled and weary from his fruitless search of the crypts. His face was a grim mask of frustration.

Rickard silenced the pleading man with a harsh smack with the pommel of his sword, "Enough!"

Robert surged forward, his rage barely contained. "I'll have their heads, I swear it! To dare touch Lyanna... to attempt to steal her away!" Robert's grip tightened on his Warhammer, a tremor of fury running through his arm.

Rickard's voice, though calmer, held a razor's edge. "Silence, Lord Baratheon. We have them. That is what matters." He turned to Rhaegar, who had yet to speak. "Did you truly believe you could escape the North, Prince?" Rickard's tone shifted, almost a touch of admiration in his voice. "The ploy was ingenious, I admit. To lead us on a fruitless chase south after your craven body double, while you fled North…. A pity the craven betrayed you when it mattered to you the most."

Rhaegar's eyes flashed with anger, but he refused to speak a word.

Rickard's voice, deceptively calm, cut through the tense silence. "But what then, Prince? Once you reached Castle Black, did you intend to venture beyond the Wall? Did you think to take my daughter there?"

Rhaegar remained silent, his defiance simmering beneath the surface. 

Robert lunged forward, the warhammer blurring as he backhanded the Prince across the face. Teeth shattered, blood staining Rhaegar's drab bard's clothes.

Bael, the craven double, let out a whimper of terror. "I'll talk! I'll tell you anything, please!" He strained against his bonds. "A ship… there is a ship, waiting at some settlement north of the Wall. At Hardhome! Captained by Laenor Waters!"

Robert raised the hammer again, a snarl twisting his features. "Is that right, Targaryen?!" He backhanded the Prince again "Speak, Gods damn you! Another blow and your tongue won't be good for much talking!"

Rickard, his weathered features grim, seized Robert's arm. "Enough, Lord Baratheon. We need him intact." He turned his assessing gaze back to Bael. "And what of you, sellsword? What did the Prince promise for this treachery?"

Bael swallowed visibly. "Knighthood… a keep in the Crownlands… he swore I'd be raised above my station…"

Rickard sighed, a world of weariness in the simple sound. "…And by doing this, you've cast aside your life. The Prince may survive, but you? You have already sworn your life to the wall."

Robert's voice boomed, shaking the early morning stillness. "No! I will have his head! This means war! Rhaegar has provoked it, and by the Gods, House Baratheon will answer! I will not rest till the Targaryen dynasty drowns at my feet! Ours is the Fury!"

Ned felt a chill of unease, Ashara squirmed beside him.

Rickard, too, tensed. 

The Stormland lords flanking Robert roared their approval. 

Ned saw that Brandon's hand was tight on his sword hilt, echoing their sentiment. The fool.

Rickard held the Stormlord's gaze, his voice steady despite the growing danger. "We need not start a war, Lord Baratheon. Do you not see? We hold the Prince as hostage. We can negotiate with the Crown, exact reparations…"

Robert's fury cut him off. "Negotiate?! He dishonored my betrothed! There will be bloodshed, Lord Stark, and the Mad King's dynasty will drown in it!"

Brandon, mirroring Robert's earlier defiance, spoke up. "Father, such an insult, such a reckless act against Lyanna, against our House... it cannot go unanswered!"

Rickard could see that his words were affecting the lords and men who were witness in the clearing.

Rickard's face hardened. 

His voice, when it came, was laced with anger. "And what do you suggest, son? Shall we condemn the entire North to bloodshed, raze villages and fields in our revenge?"

Brandon's retort was swift and sharp, "What do you suggest we do, Father? Roll over and lick the Targaryen boot, allow the insult to fester?"

Rickard's composure cracked. 

He whirled on Brandon, the tension radiating outwards. 

In front of not just his bannermen, but Stormlanders as well, he was losing control.

Ned cut in, his voice urgent, "Brandon, war solves nothing! Think, what do you intend to achieve by this madness? Lyanna is safe. Here, at home! She has not been hurt; you are going too far!"

Brandon rounded on him, "The Targaryens have already gone too far! This attempt to kidnap Lyanna was the last straw. Robert Baratheon can be King, damn it! His claim is there! Let the Targaryens burn for all I care!"

Robert, surprisingly, was the voice of reason. "I have no desire for the damned crown! Though," he glared at the captive prince, "I'd be a sight better ruler than this inbred fool or his pyromaniac father." He spat at Rhaegar's feet. "The Realm knows Aerys' madness by now! Harrnehall was proof enough. It is an open secret."

Rhaegar, surprisingly, decided to speak. "My father... had nothing to do with the deaths at Harrenhal."

A sharp crack of Robert's warhammer against Rhaegar's jaw silenced him. 

Blood trickled down the Prince's face, another tooth chipped. "Of all the times you speak, you speak to defend your father now?!"

Rickard lunged forward, grabbing Robert's arm again. "Enough! Robert, stop we need him unharmed!" He turned his piercing gaze on Rhaegar. "Explain yourself, Prince!"

Rhaegar spat a bloody tooth and sneered. "My father is not responsible for burning those fools. It was... the work of your precious Lyanna's lover. Some... lowborn farm boy named Luke!"

The clearing fell eerily silent. 

It was the stillness before the storm, the breath held before chaos erupts.

Robert roared and surged forwards, warhammer held high. "Lies! Slander against my betrothed! I'll smash your silver-haired skull for even suggesting…"

This time it was Ned who leaped in the path of Robert's fury. 

Brandon and Rickard quickly joined, grappling with Robert, wresting the weapon from his hands.

With a final shove, Robert was forced back, his rage a tangible force in the sudden quiet. Rickard turned to his men. "Cassel! Take the Prince to the deepest cell and chain him there. You, personally! I won't have another incompetent guard playing into his hands! "

Cassel, grim-faced, nodded and moved to obey. 

Rickard continued with icy precision, "The prince, Ser Arthur, and this...Bael are to be kept separate. No communication between them. Do you understand?"

Rickard whirled on Robert "Robert we will continue this in my solar!"

Ned cut in, his voice trembling slightly. "Father… Lyanna's guards … their ale was found laced with milk of the poppy. They had no hand in this."

Rhaegar's laughter, a chilling sound, echoed in their ears as he was dragged away. 

Broken and bruised, the Prince of Dragonstone still had the power to sow chaos in his wake.

"Gods damn you!" Robert roared futilely, "He lays insult after insult upon my betrothed. Your daughter, and you expect me to do nothing!"

"In my solar! Robert!" Rickard commanded. 

He could see that the Storm Lander lords were bristling at his tone, but Robert was now acting like a child, and he would not take another lord making orders in his home.

"Fine! Seven curse it all! Fine!" Robert stomped, as he began marching to the castle.

Rickard sighed wearily and turned to the rest of the men in the clearing "Please, my Lords. You all have aided in the capture of the Prince. Take rest, the guards and servants will see you well-rested and fed. Ethan, see to the arrangements."

Ethan Poole, the steward of Winterfell nodded, bowed from where he stood watching with his son, Vayon. "Yes, m'lord"

Ned turned to Ashara, the stress from the events must be overwhelming and he didn't want her involved any further. Facing her brother had been taxing enough, but she had been insistent "Ash, you should return to the castle. Mayhaps, you can join Lyanna and Benjen with Maester Walys."

His wife sighed drearily "No, Ned. My heart will not rest till I am certain there will be no war. I don't want to see you off to war. I won't be able to rest not knowing that Elia's and Rhaenys' lives could now be in danger."

Eddard sighed, placing a kiss atop his wife's brow. "I will do my level best to prevent that from happening, love."

Ashara leaned into his side deeper, her violet eyes staring into his stark greys. "I will worry all the same."

Ned sighed, as he calmed her fears "Have faith in me, love. I do not want to see Princess Elia, nor her children hurt either. I will convince Robert."

Ashara searched his eyes for a moment and then squeezed his hand lightly, giving him a lingering kiss "I will place my faith in you, Ned. As I did at Harrenhall."

Seeing his wife leave, Ned worried internally. 

War was not something he desired either.

Quickly, he followed his father, Brandon and Robert to his father's solar.

Robert's voice boomed in the confines of the solar, echoing against the stone walls. "Damn you all! The Prince spat on my betrothed, on her honor... in front of my bannermen, in the heart of Winterfell! And you expect me to… to negotiate?"

Rickard's calmly replied. "We have leverage. We will demand reparations. The Prince will be sent to the Wall, stripped of his titles. His son, Aegon, shall be named Crown Prince."

"That is not enough!" Brandon snarled, pacing the stone floor like a caged wolf. "Do you think the Targaryens will take that without retaliation?"

Rickard thundered at the insolence of his son, and heir "Brandon, I will not take that tone from you. You will be silent. You of all people are not in the position to speak this way with me. Your insolence will not be tolerated any further, you daft fool! Don't clamor for war for an insult – an attempt on Lyanna – that bore no fruit!"

Ned took a deep breath, trying to find words that might soothe the wounded stag. "Robert, think of the realm. Think of the smallfolk... the actions of two madmen – Rhaegar and Aerys – does not merit drowning the Seven Kingdoms in blood."

Robert scoffed. "As if the Mad King will listen to your demands! Lord Rickard, the madman burns people at the stake for his twisted pleasure. What do you think he will do?"

"If there is to be a war, I will not see it be started by us!" Rickard shouted back.

Ned seeing an opportunity, tried to step into the fray. "Robert... what would you achieve by igniting this war? The end of the Targaryen dynasty – yes. And then what?"

Robert's voice was thick with frustration. "The line of the Dragon must die out! They've proved themselves unfit to rule, time and again."

Ned pressed his point, his voice a sharp contrast to the rising temper of the room, "And what of Elia? Her children? Viserys? Even Queen Rhaella... Would you condemn them all? Kill them all for your revenge? For the sins of their father and brother? A crime that the Prince failed to commit in truth?"

Robert faltered. "The Wall for the boys…" He hesitated, a flicker of unease in his eyes. "The Silent Sisters for the women. It would be... a kindness, compared to Aerys."

Ned scoffed, a bitter laugh rising in his throat. "You think Dorne will take that willingly? You will have a war with Dorne on your hands too then, and winning not one but two wars is easier said than done. And if some miracles you win, then who will be King, Robert? Who would you seat upon the Iron Throne? You?"

Robert hesitated. 

There was a flicker of doubt on his face, the first sign that he truly hadn't thought that far ahead. 

Brandon piped up, "You have the claim, Robert! You could rule, bring stability…"

Rickard slammed a fist on the table "Silence, Brandon! I will not have you fill Robert's head with seditious nonsense!"

Defeated, a mix of anger and confusion warring on his face, Robert finally relented. "Fine. Your plan, then, Lord Stark ... Gods damn it all!" Without another word, he turned and stalked towards the door.

Ned followed. "Where are you going, Robert?"

"Wintertown," Robert muttered, not looking back. "To work off some of this fury…in the only way I know how."

"No, you will not! Robert Baratheon!" Rickard's patience finally broke. "I have tolerated enough of your dishonoring of my daughter! Is this how it is going to be if you are wed? Will you put horns on my daughter, spit on house stark through out your married life?!"

Robert stopped in his tracks. 

Vulnerability battled rage in his eyes, his usual bluster momentarily silenced. 

His shoulders slumped with a weariness that belied his formidable strength.

Rickard pressed his advantage, his voice cold and deliberate. "You have dishonored Lyanna enough! First, with a bastard flaunted before the realm. Then, at Harrenhall after the Prince had dishonored her before the realm, you sook solace in a brothel rather than attempt to truly understand, and comfort the woman you are to wed! And now, you clamor for war? I wonder, Lord Baratheon, if you are worthy of this alliance."

Rickard knew he was playing a dangerous game. 

The threat of breaking the betrothal was an empty one – the alliance with the Stormlands was too valuable to throw away. 

But his anger, and his fear for his daughter's future had finally frayed his patience and made him reckless.

The effect on Robert was immediate. 

He bowed his head, the bravado gone. "My apologies, Lord Stark. I...I never intended to dishonor Lyanna... I never thought my actions hurt her in truth."

Rickard continued, his tone harsh but a flicker of pity softening the set of his jaw. "You say you never intended to bring harm, yet that is exactly what your actions do, Lord Baratheon. You think only of yourself – your pain, your desires. Lyanna suffers your thoughtlessness, and you'd condemn countless innocent lives for a vengeance that won't heal the wounds you inflict."

He turned the full force of his icy gaze on Brandon. "You are no better, Son! You never think before you commit to reckless actions. Don't understand their consequences. Haven't you learnt your lesson already?! What will it take?!" He said glancing at Eddard for a brief moment.

Brandon swallowed, the recklessness of just moments ago replaced with a dawning realization.

A sharp, insistent knock shattered the heavy silence. Rickard's voice was clipped. "Enter."

Maester Walys, his stooped frame trembling slightly, hurried into the room. "My pardon, Lord Stark...urgent missives...three arrived in quick succession."

Rickard's hand shot out. "Give them here."

He scanned the first raven scroll, then the second. And then the third.

The blood drained from his face, leaving it ashen. He looked up, a bitter smile twisting his lips. His voice, when it came, was hoarse with shock and a terrible, weary humor.

"Congratulations, gentlemen." He held the letters aloft. "The Gods it seems have decided to granny you your wish, His Grace, King Aerys of House Targaryen, has declared war upon the North. We are now rebels in the eyes of the Iron Throne."

The silence in the solar following that declaration was deafening.

The silence stretched into a taut, almost unbearable thing. Then, Ned finally broke it. His voice was strained, a sliver of uncertainty cutting through his usual calm. "Father, what do the letters say?"

Rickard's voice was heavy with the weight of the world. "Jon Arryn writes first – Gulltown is blockaded, the Royal Fleet sealing it from the outside. He claims that the King has demanded he swear himself again to the Crown, and raise the banners against House Stark. Then, White Harbor..." He took a jagged breath. "The same. Ser Bartimus' ravens plead for aid from Lord Manderly and House Stark, it seems." He closed his eyes for a brief moment before opening them, the flint-like determination returning. "And finally, Aerys himself. He demands the release of the Prince. And... our heads. All the lords who are here at Winterfell have been sentenced to die."

Brandon exploded; his earlier contrition forgotten. "How? It hasn't been a day! How could Aerys possibly know?"

A slow realization dawned on Rickard's face, and it was answered by a hollow laugh. "The Prince... Rhaegar... he played us. The fool intended to distract us with a war to the South while he fled North" Rickard paused, then looked at Robert directly. "Your arrival, your wedding feast, ... he timed it all perfectly."

Robert swallowed hard. 

The boisterous defiance was gone, replaced by a deep dread settling in his stomach. "If we fight, then… what are we fighting for? I have no desire to be King."

Rickard sighed. His shoulders slumped as if ten more years had suddenly been added to his age. "We will not take the Iron Throne, no. Damn the gods, not another war... But the King," his voice hardened, "the King must die. I do not know why he has attacked us if he knew the Prince was our captive, but his madness cannot be allowed to fester any longer."

Ned's mind raced. "If we win, Father... who sits on the Throne?"

Rickard stood then, a flicker of his old strength returning. "There is a war to be won first. Ned!" The 

Eddard started at the sharp tone. 

His father continued "I will raise the banners. You will ride beyond the Wall. That ship at Hardhome… you will find it. Take the ship, by persuasion or by force. Convert the captain, or kill him. I don't care. Laenor Waters is the captain of a ship belonging to the Royal fleet, he is the bastard son of Lucerys Velaryon, use it, use him." He paused, considering his words. "Sail for Dragonstone. Elia and the children – we will secure them as hostages against Dorne."

He turned to Brandon. "You will take a portion of our strength south to Gulltown. We must relieve Jon Arryn."

Finally, his gaze settled on Robert. "We shall defend White Harbor, you and I. Lord Manderly will rally to us. But understand this, Robert Baratheon… the Targaryen bloodline will survive this. But they will answer to us. Aegon will be King… but the Starks, and their allies, will rule through him."

Despite the plans set forth, Rickard seemed to age a decade in the solar before them.

Then, surprisingly, Robert spoke with a clarity and purpose that was often lacking. "Lord Stark, marry me to Lyanna. Now. We will face this war together, as a good-father and good-son."

Rickard froze. 

This was not the blustering Robert he was used to. 

He considered, weighing a desperate request against his own fears and misgivings. 

"The war...we could all fall. I would not see my daughter a widow after such a brief marriage. She has endured your thoughtlessness for far too long." He paused, struggling to find the right words. "And... Lyanna already despises me. Do not look so shocked, Baratheon. My... actions in this matter displeased her greatly." Rickard sighed. "Please, Robert. Understand. For her sake."

Robert swallowed hard. 

The sting of disappointment was a bitter taste in his mouth, mixed with a sense of rising panic at the thought of the coming war. But this... this was Lyanna, not some battlefield. "I... understand, Lord Stark. I promise, she'll have no cause to despise my actions from this day forth."

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

Ser Barristan Selmy stood rigid as a statue in the Red Keep throne room, yet his mind churned like a storm-tossed sea. 

The lingering stench of burnt flesh still clung to the air, a sickening testament to the King's madness. 

The memory of Owen Merryweather's screams echoed in his ears, a relentless specter he could not shake.

It was a fortnight since the pyres had consumed the Hand of the King and the High Septon, a gruesome spectacle seared into the minds of all present. 

The echoes of Owen Merryweather's cries and the sickening sizzle of burning flesh haunted Barristan's sleep. 

With chilling clarity, he could still picture the High Septon, robes ablaze, desperately attempting to shield Lord Merryweather with his own frail body, only to be engulfed in the all-consuming flames. 

The screams, the cries for mercy, and the King… Aerys had watched it all with a disturbing glint in his eyes, his thin lips twisted into a smile that chilled Barristan's knightly soul.

The throne room remained eerily silent, the only sound a faint crackling from the embers in the braziers. 

King Aerys sat slumped on the Iron Throne, a grotesque caricature of royalty. 

His once handsome face was ravaged by paranoia, his eyes wide with a manic desperation. The crown sat askew upon his matted hair, jewels winking mockingly in the dim light.

Aerys's gaze darted restlessly around the chamber, as if haunted by unseen enemies. 

His hand twitched spasmodically, the long, uncut nails glinting like talons. "Selmy," he had rasped, his voice a jagged whisper. "Where is he? Where is my son?"

A moon had passed since the ravens bearing Rhaegar's plea for support had reached King's Landing. It was then that the King's madness had begun its horrifying escalation.

Similar letters had been sent to Dorne, the Reach, and the Westerlands. Prince Rhaegar had effectively mobilized the realms for war with just four letters.

Though, out of the three realms, only the Reach seemed to have raised their banners.

Fear for his son, echoes of Duskendale rekindled, had ignited a wildfire of paranoia within Aerys. 

Owen Merryweather, the appointed Hand amidst this chaos, had attempted to soothe his sovereign with reason and sound council. It was his undoing.

"Your Grace," he had began cautiously, "I propose…  we treat with the Starks. Perhaps there is still time for negotiation."

Aerys bolted upright, the Iron Throne scraping harshly against the stone floor. "Negotiation? With traitors? With oathbreakers!" His voice rose to a shriek. "They stole my son, corrupted him! Rhaegar was mine! They... They all want my crown!"

The King's wild accusations had hung heavy in the air. 

Barristan had known it was futile to reason with the man before him. 

It was like trying to quench wildfire with water.

"You're one of them! Aren't you! SEIZE HIM!" He had screamed, and Connington's men had dutifully captured the poor man.

Only to see the man tried in a sham trial by combat. 

His enemy?

Wildfire.

The only one to question the King's madness then had been the High Septon.

The man's patience finally snapped, seeing another of the hundreds, nay thousands perish from the burnings.

Up till then, the King's proclivities were kept secret. The burnings of men conducted in the dead of night, in the Dragonpit.

It seemed open heresy as the King prayed to the Red God from Essos as the former Hand of the King burned was what snapped the High Septon's patience.

He too was seized and burnt in a pyre beside the Hand, and had his quarters searched.

That had led to devastation further devastation for King.

Plans of sedition by the Prince, to depose the King, to marry Lyanna Stark at the isle of faces were revealed.

The king's madness, already fueled by his reliving of Duskendale, seemed to have been strengthened further with oil.

Suddenly, Aerys's eyes fixed on a shadowed corner of the throne room. "There!" he shrieked, pointing with a shaking finger. "They are there! The dogs have come! Come to steal my throne! Steal my son!"

There was no one in the corner, only dust and cobwebs, but the King was inconsolable, his delusion complete. 

"Guards!" he screeched, spittle flying from his lips. "GUARDS! SEIZE HIM!"

The Kingsguard Knights, young Jamie Lannister, Gerold Hightower and himself were all that were still present in the red keep, tensed. Unsure whether to obey a command born of madness. 

Barristan saw the indecision mirrored in their eyes. 

Before anyone could react, Aerys lunged from the throne, fingernails clawing at the air as he advanced on the empty shadows. His mad laughter pierced the oppressive silence, making the King seem more demon than man.

And then, the King turned his accusing gaze upon Barristan. "You! Selmy! You serve them too. Admit it."

A wave of nausea swept over Barristan. 

He had served House Targaryen faithfully since he was a squire, had seen the promise fade from Aerys over the years. 

Yet, the thought of his honor, his oaths, being questioned by this broken shell of a king, cut him deeper than any Valyrian blade.

"Your Grace," he began, his voice steady despite the tremor in his heart. "I would lay down my life to protect you and your heir."

Aerys, caught in his whirlwind of delusion, seemed not to hear him. "Lies!" the King shrieked. "LIES! All of you conspire against me! We shall give them Duskendale again! You! You led the rescue of Duskendale! Do it again! I command you! Take men, Connington!"

"Yes, my King!" The new Hand of the King bowed.

"Raise the banners! Lend men to Selmy!" The king ordered "I want you to burn the Riverlands in your wake Selmy! Repeat what you did at Duskendale….." he paused, a smile forming on his face "… but this time, when you free my treasonous son! Bring him to me! I will see how much dragon remains in him truly!"

A knot of dread tightened in Barristan's gut. 

The King's orders hung in the air like a poison mist, a twisted mockery of his former glory. 

Burn the Riverlands? The mere thought sickened him. 

At Duskendale, he had snuck into Duskendale in the dead of night to save the now maddened King.

To try to do that at Winterfell would be folly.

At least he had men to aid him this time. Disgusted though he was with the mere thought.

Now, he was ordered to turn upon innocents, to unleash devastation upon lands sworn to House Targaryen.

The specter of the pyres rose again before his eyes. 

Lord Merryweather's charred remains. 

The High Septon engulfed in flames as he sought to shield another. 

Madness whispered, "These are the ones you will burn next."

"Your Grace," Barristan said, his voice barely a whisper, "the Riverlands are loyal. There are no traitors to root out."

The King hissed, his lips peeling back in a snarl. "Loyal? You fool! They harbor my son, shelter his betrayers! And that wolf-blooded Stark… he is wed to one of theirs!" Spittle flecked his lips. "They all deserve to burn!"

Jon Connington stepped forward, newly raised Hand replacing the still-warm ashes of his predecessor. "Your Grace, perhaps we should focus on securing alliances. The Reach has pledged support, but Dorne and the Westerlands remain silent. Should we not…"

Aerys cut him off with a flick of his hand, his eyes blazing. "Alliances? I do not need alliances! I am the dragon! Those who do not bend... shall burn!" His voice rose to a crescendo. "But first, we must secure my heirs."

His mad gaze strengthened its weight upon Connington. "You will take my beloved Rhaella and my son Viserys to Dragonstone. See them safely ensconced, and then return with Elia and her whelps. I will purge the realm of traitors, and when it is cleansed…" His voice trailed off, replaced with a manic laugh that chilled the room.

Barristan's heart clenched. 

Queen Rhaella. 

Gentle, kind Rhaella, abused time and again by this monster. 

The thought of her alone on the desolate island of Dragonstone, pregnant, with only Viserys and a Kingsguard escort to protect her...

"But, Your Grace," Barristan protested feebly, "Dragonstone is vulnerable… I should remain to protect…"

"Silence!" Aerys shrieked. "Do you question your king? You will obey, or you will burn along with the rest of the traitors!"

Barristan bowed his head, unable to meet the Queen's imploring gaze. 

Shame washed over him. 

As a Kingsguard knight, his duty was to protect the royal family, yet here he was, commanded to abandon the Queen in her most vulnerable time.

He would send Pia with her. She doesn't deserve to stay at the Red Keep any longer. The dangers here were ever-increasing.

Connington cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. "And what of the Princess Elia, Your Grace? And the Westerlands? Lord Tywin is a formidable ally…"

"Tywin Lannister!" Aerys spat the name as if it were venom. "He will pay for his hesitation. But he is my loyal dog! He will come, won't he Lannister?!" The kings eyes strayed to the wobbling Jamie Lannister, once so promising, now a terrified shadow of the Knight he could have been.

"I … I hope so, my King." The young man whimpered.

"The Dornish slut is my son's wife. Her whelps are his heirs." He paused, and a flicker of something akin to cunning crossed his face. "She will be my hostage against Dorne. A guarantee of their… obedience. Bring her back to the Keep Connington!"

Barristan felt his stomach churn. 

Once again, an innocent woman was to become a pawn in the King's twisted game. 

Elia, the gentle princess, who was already a virtual prisoner in King's Landing, had fought desperately to leave the Red Keep for Dragonstone was now to return a hostage for her own family.

The knot in his gut tightened further. 

He saw it all now - the escalating madness, the innocent lives that would be lost, the realm consumed by fire. 

The King had lit the pyre, and Barristan Selmy, honor-bound, was being forced to carry the torch.

Their orders were clear then. With the Kings dismissal, Barristan left to begin preparations.

Barristan felt the weight of a thousand battles on his shoulders as he exited the throne room. The air seemed to crackle with the King's madness, a miasma of paranoia and violence that threatened to choke him. 

His duty was clear, yet twisted and horrifying. 

He sought solace in a familiar corner of the Red Keep, a place far removed from the stench of death and the stench of burning flesh still lingering in the throne room.

The Sept of Baelor was a sanctuary amidst the chaos. Incense and candlelight mingled, a soothing balm against the oppressive atmosphere of the court. 

Here, he found Pia. She knelt before the altar of the Mother, her brow furrowed in prayer. 

Young, earnest, with eyes that still held the wide-eyed innocence of someone untouched by the cruelty of the world. 

The memory of saving her from those brutes at Harrenhal flashed across his mind, and a flicker of warmth kindled in his heart amidst the cold dread settling over him.

"Pia," he said softly. 

The girl started, then turned, her face lighting up upon seeing him.

"Ser Barristan!" She hurried towards him, relief washing over her features. "I am so relieved … I don't like it when you head to the Red Keep …. Not after… " Her voice trailed off, fear evident in her eyes.

Pain lanced through him. 

She did not need to understand the full horror of what transpired, but the fear in the Sept spoke volumes about Aerys' descent.

Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Pia, my child. There are things brewing… dark things. I need a favor... a task only you may fulfill."

Her brow furrowed with determination. "Anything, Ser Barristan. You saved my life. It is yours to command."

Barristan hesitated, guilt twisting his gut. 

"I must leave soon for the Riverlands. The King has ordered it." His voice was husky. "The Queen is set to go to Dragon Stone …. I don't want to leave you here near the Red Keep …. Please, join the Queen, go to Dragon Stone with her."

Pia's gasp was barely audible. "Dragonstone? But Ser Barristan … father … I am but a novice here..."

He saw her hesitation, the flicker of fear. 

But her trust in him outweighed her doubts.

"I have no family, Ser Barristan. Apart from you. If there is a place for me at the Queen's side… I will gladly take it." Her voice strengthened with resolve.

Barristan's heart ached. 

She should be preparing for a life of piety, not facing the horrors that were sure to come. 

Yet, he was selfishly grateful. 

Queen Rhaella needed a gentle presence, someone untouched by the court's intrigues. And if she agreed, Pia would be safe away from the dangers of the capital for however long the war lasted.

Together, they ascended the winding stairs to the Queen's chambers. 

The Queen Rhaella was alone, her eyes red-rimmed, the ghost of a woman Barristan once knew.

She sat hunched by the window nursing her pregnant belly, gazing out at the bleak King's Landing skyline as if already seeing the future painted in blood and fire.

"Queen Rhaella," Barristan began, his voice heavy.

She turned, a flicker of hope warring with stoic resignation. "Ser Barristan, you bring news?"

He knelt before her. "The King… he commands you and Prince Viserys to depart for the safety of Dragonstone. Jon Connington will soon arrive to escort you there."

Rhaella's slender form trembled. "Dragonstone…" She whispered, the name evoking specters of ancient Targaryen tragedies.

Beside him, Pia stepped forward. "Your Grace, I am Pia. A novice in the Sept of Baelor. May I accompany you? With your permission, I would… care for you."

Rhaella regarded Pia with curiosity. She then turned to Barristan and smiled "I would gladly keep your daughter safe, Ser Selmy. Rest assured."

Barristan's heart clenched. 

The whispers at court called Pia his whore, yet Queen Rhaella knew that he loved the girl like his daughter. 

The Queen then smiled at Pia a fragile bloom of hope amidst the despair. "Pia. That would be... a kindness. I welcome you."

As Pia hurried to gather their belongings, a six-year-old burst into the room. "Mother!" Viserys cried, his silvery head barely clearing the table. He rushed into Rhaella's waiting arms. "And who is this?" Curiosity replaced his worry as he eyed Pia.

"This is Pia, my sweet boy," Rhaella said, her voice soft. "She is coming with us to Dragonstone and will look after us."

Viserys beamed. "A new playmate?" He launched himself at Pia, childish enthusiasm momentarily banishing the lingering shadows.

A wave of relief washed over Barristan, quickly followed by a crushing sense of shame. Here was the woman he swore to protect, her innocence long ago shattered, finding solace in a child rescued from the streets. How could he abandon her? Yet, bound by honor and duty, his path was clear. He could only hope to shield her from the worst the war was bound to bring.

"Good fortune to you, Ser Barristan," Rhaella murmured, a sad smile on her lips. "In this maelstrom of madness, please, do what you can to keep my little Viserys safe. For me."

Her plea felt like a physical blow. 

He had sworn an oath to guard her, to shield her from harm... and he was failing.

But even as guilt gnawed at him, Barristan Selmy, the Bold, could not deny this one small act of mercy of defiance against the king's capricious cruelty. 

Pia was his to protect, if only for a little while longer.

And now, she would be in the Queen's protection.

He would follow the Queen's orders to the end of his days if he had to.

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

A cold knot hardened in Caelum's belly as he stood beside Luke in the grand hall of Highgarden. It wasn't the opulence that chilled him, nor the stern faces of the assembled bannermen. 

It was the sight of his father, usually kind and strong, kneeling before the imposing figure of Lord Mace Tyrell.

"The realm teeters on the brink of war, Harlon," the Lord of the Reach boomed, his voice tinged with an odd mix of weariness and anticipation. "Those granted favors in peacetime must now repay them in service. Your tax exemption has served you well these past seasons, but it stands no longer."

Harlon looked up, a flicker of desperation masked by a stoic resolve. "But my lord, I have but a small farm, barely enough to…." His voice trailed off, the reality of their precarious situation settling like dust upon his shoulders.

A hush fell over the court. 

Eyes turned toward Caelum. 

He saw pity in the soft gaze of lady Alerie, but it was veiled by a strange detachment. Even his friends, Willas and Garlan, avoided his gaze, their smiles replaced with somber expressions. He was alone.

"My lord," Harlon spoke up again, his voice steadier now, "if tax cannot be spared, I offer my service. My brothers were Knights in the war of Ninepenny Kings. I was the greater swordsman than them, and they served Lord Jason Lannister well. I offer my service as sword to House Tyrell. Please, do not take away the tax immunity"

Caelum's heart pounded like a war drum in his ears. 

His father, with his quiet wisdom and calloused hands, offering himself to the battlefield? 

To a war ignited by the very Prince who had tried to kill him and Luke only a few years ago?

Mace Tyrell sat upon his high seat, silent and thoughtful. 

He glanced at Lady Olenna beside him, and she merely gave a subtle incline of her head. 

He turned back to Harlon.

"Your dedication is admirable, Harlon," the Lord of Highgarden replied. "Your son Caelum has been a true companion to my Garlan. I value that loyalty. Very well. Your tax exemption shall stand."

Relief washed over Harlon, swiftly followed by apprehension.

"But," Mace Tyrell continued, his tone hardening, "Generosity must be earned, not merely granted. It is not gold, but your strong arm the Reach demands. Your fields will be tended by your son, while you join our ranks. Ser Vortimer Crane will test your credibility as a swordsman."

Caelum's relief transformed into despair. 

Luke, as a squire, heading to war in the name of the mad Prince was bad enough... His father, a simple farmer at heart... this was a far crueler fate.

"My lord," Harlon began to protest, "Caelum is just a boy, barely –"

"Old enough to take his father's place on the farm," Lady Olenna interjected. Her voice was sharp, like thorns in a rosebush. "War disrupts the order of things, Harlon. Be grateful that your sacrifice is service, not blood."

Harlon stood, lips pressed tightly together. 

, he lowered his head again. "As you command, my lord," he said, voice thick with forced acceptance.

Caelum's throat tightened, a silent cry trapped within him. 

This was not the happy homecoming he imagined. 

The taste of victory from the previous chapter had turned to ashes in his mouth. He had helped a thief find redemption, but his own family was now held captive by war and a lord's cold bargain. 

And all he could do was watch.

A ripple of amusement ran through the court as Ser Vortimer Crane, the imposing master-at-arms of Highgarden, strode forward. A towering figure clad in gleaming armor, he carried himself with an authority that commanded the room.

"So, the farmer thinks himself a knight now?" he boomed, a hint of mockery lacing his voice. He tossed Harlon a blunted sword and a set of mismatched, ill-fitting armor. 

Caelum cringed at the disrespect, but his father accepted them with a silent nod.

As they took position in the center of the great hall, the circle of onlookers widened, whispers of skepticism and a few stray chuckles filling the air. Harlon, once a familiar sight tilling his fields, now appeared strangely out of place in this glittering war chamber.

Ser Vortimer launched into the spar without ceremony. His sword flashed like a silver streak, relentless and precise. 

Harlon, hampered by unfamiliar armor and years of disuse, parried frantically. His stance was clumsy, his footwork faltering. Each clash reverberated through Caelum's body, a stark contrast to the smooth, almost effortless movements of the knight.

Desperation fueled Harlon's defense. Old muscle memory flickered, and once or twice he caught Ser Vortimer off guard with a crude but surprisingly powerful counterstrike. 

All Caelum felt was despair, he didn't want his father humiliated in court, neither did he want to see him off to war.

Time seemed to both drag and speed along. The ringing of steel echoed relentlessly as Ser Vortimer's blows fell like hammer strikes, forcing Harlon relentlessly backward. A thin sheen of sweat marked Harlon's brow, and a gasp escaped his lips as he narrowly avoided a strike aimed at his helm.

Lord Mace watched intently, his expression unreadable. 

A bead of sweat ran down Caelum's face, mingling with a silent tear. Had this all been for nothing? Would his father now be humiliated alongside the loss of their life as they knew it?

Finally, the onslaught stopped. Ser Vortimer abruptly backed off, raising his sword. Harlon, breathing heavily, stumbled, but remained upright.

"Enough," Mace Tyrell declared, his voice cutting through the hall. "The man has a flicker of skill. It can be honed, given time." Relief coursed through Caelum like a swift stream.

Harlon dropped to one knee, offering his sword in submission. "My thanks, Lord Tyrell," he said, voice ragged.

"You shall find Ser Vortimer a strict teacher, Harlon," the Lord intoned, "but war is a sterner one still. Report to the training yard tomorrow at dawn. The Reach's banners gather swiftly."

With a final stiff nod, Harlon rose slowly to his feet and left the court, Luke and Caelum in tow. 

Outside, the sun still bathed Highgarden in golden light, but the walk home to their village was a somber one, the taste of their small victory mingling with the looming specter of war.

That afternoon, a smothering silence settled over the farmhouse as if the hearth's warmth had been snuffed out. Elyna's face was a mask of fury, grief and a mother's protective fire all tangled together.

"You would swear an oath to them?" she spat out, her voice trembling. "To the prince who tried to have our children murdered?"

"What else could I do, Elyna?" Harlon's voice was thick, a mixture of guilt and weariness. "We cannot afford the increased taxes. Without the exemption, we lose everything we worked so hard to build."

"But at what cost?" Elyna shot back, her hands clenched into fists. "Your life, Harlon? What if you die like your brothers? Left in some gods-forsaken battlefield?"

Tears streamed down Harlon's face, cutting lines of silent anguish against his rough farmer's skin. "I don't know, Elyna," he choked out, "I just...I cannot bear the thought of our children going hungry because of my pride…"

The room fell silent again, save for the crackling of the fire. Despair settled thickly between them, its weight far heavier than sacks of coin.

Then, Caelum spoke, his voice soft but unwavering. "I'll go."

Heads snapped up in an instant. Luke stared at his little brother in confusion, Marna and Serra's eyes went wide. "Don't be a fool Caelum!" Elyna scolded, he voice wavering.

"Luke's a squire, going off to this war," Caelum continued, meeting his father's gaze. "And Pa...I can't see you go too." He paused, the words heavy on his tongue. "If I go with you, maybe…maybe I can keep us all safe."

"Safe?" Harlon's laugh was a sob in his throat. "The battlefield is no place for a child, Caelum. Your magic… it must remain a secret. You know they will label you a demon should anyone find out!" He shook his head, "And besides, the Tyrells would never accept a child soldier."

Caelum stood tall, a spark of determination replacing the usual childish light in his eyes. "They won't have a choice," he said stubbornly. "Didn't the gods say I was sent for a reason? With this destiny?" He reached beneath his tunic, clutching the crystal hidden there, the faint silver glow illuminating his hand. "I want to keep you all safe, Pa. We need a miracle, and maybe I'm it."

Harlon looked at his son, this boy brimming with stubborn loyalty and a strange power that defied understanding. Tears welled up in his eyes again, but his voice was stern as he turned to Marna and Serra.

"Do you have it?" he asked, a desperate edge to his voice.

The two women nodded  "We do, Harlon. Like you had requested."

Solemnly, they each pulled out small sacks, the clinking of metal heavy in the silence. 

Harlon followed suit, emptying a far larger sack of silvers onto the table.

"I will pay you back," he vowed. "Every stag, even if I have to sell my soul to a hundred lords to do so."

With newfound resolve, he looked around the table. 

Elyna stared back, the fight extinguished from her eyes, replaced by an awful acceptance. 

Marna and Serra looked heartbroken but resigned. 

Then, Caelum unable to take the suspense any longer, focused his vision on the sacks, an ethereal clarity kicked in them, and a wave of shock washed over him as he saw the truth in the shining silver. 

Why would they gather this much for him?

"I didn't want to go like this," he blurted out, unable to contain his turmoil. "Not when you…" he looked at Harlon, Luke, "…are going to war."

Luke blinked in confusion. "What do you mean? Go where?"

"The Citadel," Serra choked out. "Caelum.. he wanted to learn magic, to understand his... destiny. We've been gathering coin for his journey."

Luke's eyes widened. "They're sending him alone? Now? They'd rob him on the road, take it all!"

Harlon sighed in anguish. "He'd be safer far from here, Luke," he said brokenly. "Safer than any of us are going to be. I want him as far away from the war as I can. I have no idea whether Highgarden will face any sort of attack, and I don't want to risk him joining us in going to war. He will be safe at the citadel. Besides, no robber will survive trying to rob from Caelum."

Luke's protest rang out across the table, a raw echo of Caelum's own thoughts. "He can't go alone! They'll skin him alive on the Oldtown road."

"He won't be alone," Harlon countered, his voice laced with a desperation he couldn't mask. "Septon Mattheus has found him a place with a merchant caravan. Other boys, from castle families...they also seek to be maesters. There's safety in numbers."

Meredith's voice, usually warm and comforting, cut with a protective edge that surprised them all. "But he's just a child, Harlon. Even with a caravan, the Reach is a dangerous place, and getting more so by the day."

"I'm not going!" Caelum exclaimed, his voice sharp and trembling.

Harlon's face creased with an unbearable mix of sadness and determination. "It's decided, son. The coin's been paid, the arrangements made. You will be far from this war."

Caelum sank into a chair, tears of frustration and fear welling up uncontrollably. He didn't want to see Luke marched off to a battlefield, he couldn't bear the thought of his father joining the fray. His head pounded, and a familiar surge of power threatened to burst from him.

A flicker of vibrant red flared in his eyes for a split second – a primal response to his overwhelming emotions – but he clamped down with desperate focus, forcing it to subside. Meredith saw the brief flash, a gasp escaping her lips.

Then, with a resolve he didn't feel, she spoke. "If Caelum goes to the Citadel, then I go too."

Caelum's heart twisted. He loved Meredith like a sister, cherished her warmth and steady presence. His going to the Citadel was already an unbearable sacrifice... but now her job too? The job at Highgarden that she loved so much? A stab of resentment against the Tyrells bubbled within him.

"No," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "Meredith, you finally…finally have a good job. You love working there. I refuse to be the reason you lose something you worked so hard for."

He stood, the tears still running down his face. "I'll go alone" he said, his voice thick with a pain that belied his young age. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'll learn and be back strong enough to protect us all." 

The weight of Caelum's words hung heavy in the air. And then, like a crack splitting the silence, Marna's voice broke through, a mix of desperation and practicality.

"Jerren will go with him."

Harlon shook his head, "Marna, I... I couldn't possibly ask for more. Your boy helps me with the farm, keeps the inn running with you. I won't..."

"Harlon," Marna interrupted, "Jerren's strong and capable. He's worked the land and the roads, and knows how to handle himself." She placed a gentle hand on Meredith's shoulder. "And Meredith...she wouldn't rest here knowing he was on the road alone. We're family, we share in this."

Caelum's heart ached. Jerren wasn't just Meredith's brother; he was a steady presence in Caelum's life too. 

To see his sacrifice pile onto Meredith's family, the debt he owed growing heavier... Silently he pleaded to the Seven, 'Just keep them safe. This family. Keep them safe.'

"No," he said, his voice steadier now, "Jerren stays here. He's needed. With Luke leaving, and now me... I don't want to put you all out any further." He fought back a fresh wave of tears, his resolve bolstered by an unspoken vow – he would find a way to repay every debt, protect his loved ones, even if from afar.

"I'll manage, I promise," he said, the words more to convince himself than them. He met Marna's eyes, his own shining with an unexpected ferocity. "The Citadel is a place of knowledge. I'll learn my magic ….. if that is what you want Pa, I will go."

With that, he turned, not wanting them to see the tears that threatened to fall again. It was a lonely journey he had to face, and the sooner he accepted the bitter truth, the better.

The silence lingered heavily, broken only by Luke's soft voice. "I'll keep him safe, Cael. I swear it."

A strangled chuckle escaped Harlon. "Might be the other way around, son, if that damned swordsmanship of mine doesn't improve." The attempted humor fell flat, a mask over the raw fear in his eyes.

Tears flowed freely now. Elyna's sobs were muffled against Harlon's chest, Meredith clung to her mother, and even Luke had tears streaming down his face.

Caelum stood apart, near the hearth. The fire's warmth felt hollow against the chill of impending separation.

His prayers to the Seven echoed in the silence. 'Protect them. Keep them safe. Guide me to the power I need to do the same.'

He couldn't bear the thought of losing his family. But, unlike at the tourney, he felt powerless to stop it this time.

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

(A/N) Wow. That hurt my back a lot.

Rhaegar had planned to set off the war. He knew Lyanna's kidnapping would spark war, and had planned to start it pre-emptively, to distract the Stark attentions from his escape.

Basically, he had sent a letter to Aerys saying that Rickard Stark had captured him (while not actually being captured) trying to spark his father's PTSD about Duskendale. More letters were sent to Dorne, Reach, and Westerlands (Rhaegars apparent allies, he neglects sending similar letters to Tully, and Arryn because he realizes it would be futile)

This is what caused the mobilization of war. 

Rhaegar's plan is to depose Aerys during said war after Lyanna is heavy with a child.