There was a strange tension in the air that morn, eagerness and fear and sick anticipation all rolled into one. The cream of the rebel forces had gathered to take the fight to the last of the royal forces under Gerold Hightower, and as the sun rose over the hills of the Crownlands, the two armies readied themselves mere miles apart. Men went about tasks that they had done a hundred times before with the nerves of green boys, unsettled by the knowledge that the confrontation that they had been seeking for months was upon them. No longer were they facing the familiar feint and raid of the war so far - now it was time for battle.

  Many savoured the hot breakfast that a small army of cooks and servants had worked to prepare, a simple but hearty fare of meat and bread, while others sought out a trusted friend or a septon to take witness for them. Some few who were lucky enough to have a sweetheart with the army stole moments together, whatever their roles, but all shared in the knowledge that the morning might be their last.

  It could be said that Lyanna was one of these people, but only through the most warped of mirrors. She was glaring across the table of her tent at her oldest brother and her betrothed, jaw set and scowling.

  “I should have left you at Loamhedge,” Brandon said, scowling right back at her. “No, I should have sent you straight back to Winterfell. I still might.”

  “Try it,” she dared him. The presence of noble neighbours beyond the thin tent walls did much to moderate her volume.

  Robert was no happier. “Lyanna, a joust is one thing, but you cannot think to join the battle. It is madness.”

  “I do not want to join the battle,” she said through clenched teeth. “I mean to watch it, not be left in the tent to knit while you all risk death.”

  “If you are close enough to watch, you are part of the battle,” Brandon said flatly. “I will not allow you to risk yourself like this.”

  Lyanna felt her eyes widen with her fury, and it was reflected within Natasha, the scorpion hissing as she skittered out onto her shoulder. “Allow?!?”

  Both men couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably at the sight, but Brandon held his nerve. “Father is not here, and you are not married yet. Your safety is my responsibility.”

  “Where do you think I am safer?” Lyanna demanded. “In the camp waiting for news that will likely be outpaced by the foe’s riders should the worst happen, or already mounted on Vhagar with a lance of cavalry to protect me?”

  Brandon was already opening his mouth to retort, but then he hesitated, even if only for a moment. It was enough.

  “You could place more and better men with me than you could order to remain with the camp,” she said, wheedling.

  A pugnacious look answered her.

  She turned her attention to Robert. “The men already think they’re fighting for me,” she said. “Think of how much harder they’ll fight knowing I’m there to witness them.”

  A disgruntled sound of protest came from Robert’s throat, but he didn’t disagree.

  “Old Gods take you Lyanna,” Brandon snapped, his fist thumping down onto the table. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.” He glowered, thinking.

  Years of sibling arguments had Lyanna hold her tongue, knowing that she could only set him to stubbornness. The only reason he was even considering it, she knew, was because she was right.

  “What if you were to take charge of the men at that village, Brindlewood?” Brandon asked.

  Lyanna’s flat look was answer enough.

  “Or you could ride to Antlers to see out the siege there?” he tried.

  “This isn’t a petty fancy Brandon,” she told him, voice short and sharp. “I won’t be left in the dark wondering for hours what happened. I’m not even any safer in the camp than I would be watching the battle; Lady Naerys was attacked in the middle of camp during the battle of Mastford Bridge.”

  Now it was Robert’s turn to glower, blue eyes turning stormy at the reminder. He looked to Brandon, speaking no words but his expression saying volumes.

  “If we gave you a guard here and let you ready your mount,” Brandon said slowly, “would you stay here?”

  A pause. Then, “yes?”

  Robert put a fist to his mouth, trying to conceal his frustration and amusement.

  Brandon didn’t even make the attempt. He let out a defeated sigh. “Who could we even…although-”

  “Well-” Robert started at the same time.

  They shared a look, but a beat later, both men grimaced.

  “No, we need him in the battle,” Brandon said, shaking his head. “Ned would throttle me if I thought to adjust his plans on a whim.”

  “Where does he mean to stand?” Robert asked, shifting in his seat to better face Brandon.

  “With the first of the reserves, to reinforce against their push,” Brandon said.

  “Heh,” Robert said, smirking. “My father would tell me tales of the Stepstones. Hightower likes a heavy first push. Won’t go so well with Steve there to answer.”

  Lyanna tapped a fingernail on the table, pointedly bringing their attention back on track. “Then the enemy will be worrying about Lord America, and not a few riders on a distant hill,” she said.

  “‘A few riders’?” Brandon demanded. “A moment ago it was a lance!”

  “Most of them will hide themselves behind the hill,” Lyanna said, giving him a look that spoke volumes about her thoughts on his lack of wit.

  Strangely, this seemed to settle her brother somewhat, though he eyed her still. “You’ll obey any orders given to you?” he demanded.

  Lyanna narrowed her eyes. “So long as that order isn’t to leave the moment we get there, yes.” Both men eyed her suspiciously, and she scowled - it wasn’t a pout - at them. “I know this isn't a game, Brandon,” she said, before falling quieter. “I am going to be their Queen. I owe it to the men who are going to die today to watch.”

  Brandon and Robert shared a long look, neither wanting to be the first to admit defeat. Finally, Brandon gave a sigh. “This should be father’s problem,” he muttered. “Who can we trust with this?” he asked of Robert, louder now.

  “A fighter,” Robert said bluntly. “I don’t care if they’re not to see battle, they’ll be a warrior. And one that won’t bend and scrape to their future queen.”

  Lyanna gave him an unrepentant look.

  “Perhaps it should be family,” Brandon said, pointed. “Someone who is willing to do what is needed to protect her should the battle shift.”

  “Aye,” Robert said, nodding slowly. “Beron, then. And my own cousin, Thomas of Greenstone. They can be relied on to…do the needful.”

  Lyanna fought to keep from rolling her eyes as they tried to talk over her head. It was like they thought she was going to go charging at the first loyalist that came near.

  Voices outside caught their attention, and a short moment later, Walder stuck his head through the tent door. “Message for you, my lord,” her brother’s sworn sword said.

  A thought had Natasha scuttling back into hiding, and Brandon gave a wave of assent. Walder pulled back, and then a boy was ducking in, bowing almost before he had stopped.

  “Lord Arryn requests your company for a final council before the battle, m’lords,” the boy said, still bringing his breathing under control after running.

  “Tell him we will be along immediately,” Brandon said. The boy bowed again, and hustled away immediately. “Lyanna, will you ready your mount, or-”

  “I’m coming,” Lyanna said.

  “Of course you are,” Brandon muttered to himself, rubbing at his brow.

  Robert was quick to rise, offering her his hand, which she ignored, and then his arm, which she accepted. She fit neatly beside him as they left the tent behind, even if the top of her head would only just reach his chin should he take her in his arms properly, though of course she noted that only passingly, not because she had spent much time judging such things.

  The lines of their camp were neat and orderly, tent ropes and pegs kept out of the lanes and even signage pointing towards this or that. It seemed all normal and proper to her, but she had heard of a blazing row that Steve had had with some quartermasters after they had joined the other kingdoms, so perhaps they weren’t as good at making camp as they were.

  As they walked, eyes followed them. The nobles they passed noted her brother and her betrothed first, but the attention of the common soldiers and even the hedge and landed knights were drawn to her. Many would straighten as they saw her, some even touching their forelocks, and she was again convinced of her decision to observe the battle. The men would fight all the harder for it, and the little danger she would be exposed to was nothing.

  When they reached Lord Jon’s command tent, it was already busy with other arrivals, some faces familiar to her, others not. It was a large thing, taller than two men and long enough to fit a feast table within. They found their way cleared for them, and took their seats at the table alongside the other high lords, Robert reluctantly releasing her arm. Lord Jon was there as host, but so was Lord Hoster and Bryden, as well as Yohn and his son Kyle, and a lord that Lyanna knew as the father of Brandon’s friend Jeffory Mallister. Many of those present were already at least partially armoured, and Lyanna felt her features brighten as she saw Steve standing in one corner, observing.

  Some of Robert’s lords shifted to stand closer to him, the Northmen present doing the same with Brandon, but then Lord Jon was rapping his knuckles on the table, and the low murmur of conversation quieted.

  “My lords,” he began, “I thank you for coming. We have new information on Lord Gerold’s numbers. The state of the battle has changed, and we must adjust.”

  The murmurs began again, but were cut off by the heavy thunk of Robert’s fist on the table as he leaned in. “What word, Jon?”

  “The forces he dispatched two days past were feints,” Jon said. “They have rejoined the main host, but they achieved their purpose all the same.”

  “What was that purpose?” Lyanna asked Robert in a whisper, as discussion rose about them.

  “We had to send men to cut them off, rather than add to our numbers here,” Robert whispered back.

  “Further,” Jon continued, “we have judged the foe’s forces to number some twenty thousand men.”

  Disbelief and incredulity answered him. “Where is he pulling these men from?” “Sellswords, surely.” “Even the royal treasury has limits.” “Could the Reach have finally arrived?”

  “How sure is this?” Lord Errol asked from behind her.

  “Quite sure. Two sources agree, one of which is Lord Brynden,” Jon said.

  “Hightower keeps a neat camp, but he likes his pickets neat too,” Brynden said. “Makes it easy to get past them and count campfires.”

  “We still outnumber them,” Lord Hoster said, looking around to meet the eyes of lords, “and we certainly outdo them in quality.”

  “Where’s the Cold Wolf?” someone asked.

  “Inspecting the field,” Brandon answered. “Scouts found a gully this morning that he wants to pull some mischief with.”

  Lord Jon nodded, a look of pride crossing his face. “In light of this news, we will be adjusting our order of battle. Lord Redfort, you will-”

  “Excuse me, my lord Arryn, but I must speak,” a Valeman interrupted. “I beg your pardon.”

  A raised brow was his answer, but Lord Jon sat back, yielding the floor to the man. “Proceed, Lord Lynderly.”

  He was middle aged, and his face had the record of a harsh life lived written across it. “Before we speak of plans, I must protest at the presence of one who has no right to be here,” the Valeman said, corner of his mouth twitching in contempt.

  Lyanna started to wonder what she could get away with without making Brandon change his mind about the battle. Lynderly started to point, but when he levelled his finger, it wasn’t at her. For a moment she thought he was pointing at Steve, which was absurd - he may have lacked the noble rank, but he didn’t lack the nobility - but then she realised who his target was.

  “To tolerate a clansman in our camp is one thing, but to allow him into our councils?” Lynderly sneered. “He ought to be in the kennels.”

  The boy he was pointing at was unimpressed. He was missing an eye, shiny burn scars below it telling the tale of how. “Your mother should have spent less time on her hands and knees in them,” he answered in Old Tongue.

  Lyanna choked on air, and beside her Brandon had to pound his chest.

  The Valeman’s sneer deepened. “You cannot even speak a civilised tongue. Why are you here? Your kind has been killing good Valefolk for centuries; how do we know Aerys hasn’t paid you to keep doing it?”

  More than one Northerner started to frown, but luckily for the Valeman, another spoke first.

  “If Artos wanted to kill your people,” came the voice of Steve, cutting through the building tension, “he could have stayed in the Vale and done it while your army was away.” He gave the lord a look - it was somehow disappointed but also hopeful that things could be better, she didn’t know how - and held out his hand, palm up. “He’s here, instead, fighting beside you. I think it takes courage to be the first to extend a hand.”

  The presence of a Vale clansmen amongst the nobility had Lyanna thinking twice, sure she had misunderstood. For thousands of years, there had been nothing but blood between the Andals and the descendants of the First Men who had not bowed.

  Lynderly gave a tch, hearing his words but still shaking his head. “For thousands of years-”

  More words in the harsh language of the Old Tongue interrupted him, but this time it came from another. “My brother fought the clans in the Vale,” Brandon said, speaking to the boy, Artos. “He says they have forgotten much.”

  “Eddard Stark fought the Painted Dogs, and the Redsmiths,” Artos said. He was dressed much as any other noble boy lord would be, but the image was marred by the feather that had been woven into one lock of hair, longer than the others, that fell onto his shoulder. “The Andals took their memories from them long ago.”

  “You know Ned,” Brandon said, eyeing him, and Lyanna did the same. He was not what she had pictured when her father had told her about the differences between the mountain clans of the North and the Vale.

  “Those who are the Green Falcons remember some,” Artos said. “We remember the Winter Kings, and I have wanted this for many years.” His jaw was set doggedly. “Approaching the Stark was once a path.”

  Brandon leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. All in the tent were watching the conversation, for all that a bare handful could understand it. He tapped a finger on his elbow, and spoke abruptly in Common. “If you win Lord Arryn’s favour, I will send the Wull, the Flint, and the Norrey to you,” he said. He fixed Artos with an unblinking gaze. “I will not have men see First Men mountain clansmen and think ‘wildling’.”

  Lord Jon nodded slightly to Brandon, but otherwise gave no hint to his thoughts. Lyanna found herself looking from Jon’s nose to Artos’, and realising just why the Vale nobility were being so restrained with their complaints.

  Lynderly was grimacing, but it seemed more to be at the reminder that it wasn’t just his hated foes who spoke that ‘uncivilised’ tongue. Many of the other lords seemed to be reserving their judgement, or feeling it wasn’t their concern, but Lynderly wasn’t alone in being set against Artos.

  “Lord Arryn is convinced of their honesty,” another Vale lord said, inclining his head towards Jon, “but we all know how the clans fight. I have my doubts as to their usefulness in a true battle.”

  “It’s true that Artos and his men aren’t suited for standing in ranks or cavalry charges,” Steve said, joining the discussion again. “But I did see him cut a clansman twice his size to pieces with only a dagger, and sprint over treacherous terrain that would trip most men up.” He turned his head to face Artos. “I’d have you fight alongside my company with my second as they deal with the enemy scouts and outriders, if you want.”

  “The glaive warrior?” Artos asked. At Steve’s nod, he grinned. “I remember. I accept.” Then he stilled, seeming to remember something. “So long as the Arryn gives me leave.”

  Jon was already nodding, seeming pleased. “Making use of the right man in the right place is the skill of a wise leader,” he said, and he seemed to be referring to something, because it caused Lynderly to purse his lips and bow his head. “Now, returning to our order of battle…”

  The rest of the meeting was less interesting, but Lyanna did her best to follow. Much of the warfare was beyond her, but she listened to how the lords spoke, and watched who was favoured, who was accommodated, and who was cajoled. When the meeting ended, the morning sun had fully risen, even if it had yet to start heating the land properly, and she departed with a head full of thoughts. It was almost enough to make her forget her rising nerves over the battle to come.

  X

  Vhagar’s habit of nosing at her hip, as if she might be hiding sugar cubes under her plate and surcoat, did much to calm the nerves she could feel bubbling up in her stomach. She wasn’t even going to fight; she couldn’t imagine how the common soldiers felt. Around her, the men that her brother and Robert had set to be her guards, one hundred strong, made their own final preparations, seeing to their mounts and talking quietly. Her cousin Beron, and Robert’s bastard cousin Thomas stood a short distance away, at the edge of the open area that they had gathered in beyond the main camp.

  Approaching horses caught her ear, riding along the edge of the camp boundary, and she was not alone in looking up to see who it was, though she was alone in frowning as she saw the black and yellow stag banner. They had already said their goodbyes, and if he thought he could convince her to change her mind…she slipped through the lines of her guards and past Beron and Thomas to meet her betrothed and his lance, stopping as they slowed.

  “Robert,” she said, watching him dismount. The hammer he wore on a harness at his back was huge, and he bore the weight of his armour easily, the yellow and black surcoat over it doing little to disguise how broad his shoulders were.

  “Uh,” Robert said, staring at her. The face of his antlered helm was unlatched and open, but the metal had apparently done something to his wit, and he was left struggling for words. He swallowed as she crossed her arms over her own grey surcoat. It wasn’t embroidered as his was, there hadn’t been time, but it kept the sun from heating her armour. “Lyanna.”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, frown deepening.

  “No, no,” he said, blue eyes still just looking at her. “I…”

  To the side, Thomas gave a fake cough and made some gesture, though she couldn’t see what.

  “This is for you,” he said, abruptly finding the words. “My la- Lyanna.” He stepped closer, looming over her, and pushed the banner pole he held out towards her.

  Lyanna accepted it without thought, even as her head tilted up to keep her eyes on his. The surcoat she wore could only do so much against the heat of the sun, and she felt a flush rising in her face. “What is - oh,” she said, watching as it unfurled, revealing a familiar white and grey. “Oh!”

  Not only did the banner bear a fine rendition of a head of the Stark direwolf, but an impressive rack rose from its head, done in a lighter grey than the wolf’s head. A sigil of her very own.

  “Do you like it?” Robert asked, the big lunk shifting on his feet.

  Lyanna nodded, no longer able to pretend that the red in her face was from the heat. She hadn’t thought to prepare a favour for him at all - but then a solution came to her. She rested the banner pole against her shoulder, and from her hip she retrieved her knife, bringing it up to her hair and finding the end of one of her tight braids. She cut it free, and then immediately realised how absurd she was being. “I don’t have a favour for you,” she said, hurrying to explain herself, “but if you-”

  His gauntleted hand dwarfed her own as he reached out, but rather than just taking the lock of hair, he held her hand. “Yes,” Robert said. He stared at her, the moment stretching out. He took a quick breath, steeled himself, and then leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, awkwardly tilting his head to avoid jabbing her with his visor. .

  She jolted as she felt his lips on her cheek. His stubble tickled, and she felt her blush spread and deepen.

  “I will see you after the battle, Lyanna,” he told her. He took one last look at her in her armour, holding the banner he had gifted her, and then he was turning back to his horse, mounting up and spurring it into movement. His men had to hurry to keep up, and Lyanna was left staring after them.

  Someone coughed.

  Lyanna suddenly remembered all the others, the others who had seen her acting like a - “What?” she demanded, whirling about. “Do you not have tasks to see to?”

  The men were quick to busy themselves, and she pretended not to see those who nudged one another or shared winks. Harder to ignore were Beron and Thomas, the two openly grinning at her. She returned to Vhagar and found her helm, donning it and slamming down the visor to escape their looks.

  She snuck another look at her new banner and sigil. It really was very nice.

  The battle was going well, until it wasn’t.

  Atop a hill, Lyanna and her guards watched as blocks of men fought and struggled, the sound of metal and death distant but still present. The Kingsroad was at their backs, and as the sun began to rise higher in the sky, the rebels had marched east towards the waiting loyalists, horn blasts directing their movements. They watched from behind and beside the right flank, looking over the field that had been chosen to do battle in. It was mostly flat, with only the occasional copse of trees or scattered remnants of woods to break up the long grass, and several hills dotted around it as if scattered there by some giant hand. The greenness of spring was all around to see, and it would be well watered that day.

  “Those are no poor lord’s soldiers,” Beron had murmured at her right. “Hightower has kept his best.”

  To Lyanna’s eye, they had seemed as well armed and armoured as the men sworn to her family and those of their allies. “They’re not better than ours, though.” She wasn’t as certain as she would have liked.

  “No,” had been Thomas’ reassurance at her left, but a grimace had followed. “But they’re better than what we’ve been fighting.”

  From their vantage, the early movements of the soldiers had seemed strange to her, not at all like what she had expected a battle to be - blocks of men clashed and then drew apart, shifting to try and hit their foe just so, or with enough strength, before doing it all again. The cavalry of both sides had held fast, hiding behind ridges or trees as best they could to conceal or disguise their location, though Lyanna had a better idea of their positions than most. It was hard to tell to her eye, but it seemed a stalemate, for all that they seemed to be pushing the foe back by inches. Long minutes had stretched out almost unbearably before something changed. A new push had come, the loyalists striking hard at the right flank, led by a block of men whose armour shone under the sun in a way that most others didn’t.

  “Those are knights,” Thomas had said, gauntlet forming a fist as they watched their men start to bow and buckle under the assault. “Lord Arryn will need to respond.”

  Respond he had, and they watched as a mounted messenger rode hard for a particular group of reserves. A banner had risen, navy blue and bearing a white star, and the reserves began to march forward to relieve the hard pressed line.

  Lyanna had watched and fretted as men below died, wishing for the men with Steve to reach them faster, to turn the tide back in their favour. Her pulse began to jump about like a startled rabbit, and she held her breath as they neared. A horn rang out, dire and mournful, not an order or direction but a warning of what was to come, and the beleaguered men being savaged by the knights gave way as best they could. Scattered cheers rose, and the white star banner reached the front line.

  Men flew.

  “Oh, gods,” someone said.

  Men died.

  “He is not a normal man,” another said, voice hushed.

  Of the men guarding her, most were waiting in the lee of the hill, but more than a few had dismounted to creep up to view the battle with their leaders.

  “No mortal man can do that,” came a voice filled with disbelief despite the evidence of the owner’s eyes.

  “The Age of Heroes was made by men like him,” Beron said, eyes fixed on the banner and the carnage being wreaked below it. “What once was can come again.”

  “He may not be the Warrior,” Thomas said, “but I know who I’d put money on in a fight between them.”

  They watched as the assault was met with prejudice, fresh men holding fast against the knights while the white star chewed through them, preventing the gulf in quality from showing. Hightower’s favoured opening gambit had been met and defanged.

  That was where it started to go wrong. Horns sounded from the foe, and from behind the hill to the east that bore the white standard of the Kingsguard, and above it the black and red of the royal banner, cavalry emerged. They rode north west, building to an arcing charge that would see them crash into the left flank. More horns sounded, and yet more cavalry emerged from where they had been waiting behind hills and copses, all surging towards the left flank.

  “That’s - he is committing everything to the left flank,” Beron said. “The push was a feint.”

  “He knew he was fighting against old allies,” Thomas said in grim realisation. He frowned, gaze searching about. “But this is madness; he hasn’t the men to overwhelm us.”

  “If he breaks our line…”

  Frantic horns began to sound in reply, coming from a hill to the north of them, where blue falcon banners observed the battle. Their own cavalry began to sally forth, the Arryn banner leading them. Lyanna bit her lip as she watched Elbert lead the knights of the Vale on a course to intercept the foe. They began to split as they rode, each lance led by a worthy figure.

  A tense minute passed as the loyalists adjusted to meet their opposites, some seeking to screen against them, others continuing on towards the infantry - the men afoot were engaged fully, no longer clashing and drawing apart, only grinding and struggling in seething masses. Lyanna could barely tell where one side ended and the other began, and only because of the banners they carried - she saw Crownlands Houses, but also those of the Riverlands, and they were working to pin their infantry in place to be butchered by the nearing foeriders.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  One lance of enemy cavalry came to a sudden and chaotic stop, as horses started to stumble and fall, lead riders thrown from saddles as those behind turned harshly to avoid trampling them. Something in the long grass had lain in wait, fouling their charge, and the windswept fields of grass suddenly seemed much less inviting to the cavalry. They faltered, taking a moment to assess the new danger, and Lyanna grinned, teeth on display. That was a scheme of Ned and Howland, and now it was buying precious time. But not all were slowed - many had simply not seen, as spread out as the lances were, dueling with rebels for position and advantage, and others simply summoned their courage to continue on. Another lance fell afoul of the trick as they made to charge the men on the leftmost block, but two more seemed to avoid more like it, slowing to move around a given spot now that they knew to look for it.

  “That lance by the hillock, about to engage with the Royce men, whose are they?” Beron asked, leaning forward in his saddle. “They are skilled.”

  “...I see no banners,” Thomas said.

  “Mercenaries?” a man asked. Lyanna thought he was a Flint man, but by the blue battle boasts he wore on his horse and armour he was certainly a First Man at least. “Though even they would bear their company banner.”

  Lyanna’s gaze snapped back to the infantry on the right flank as the white star banner dipped and wavered. A moment later she breathed again as three figures were sent flying into the air. She knew that Steve was different, had seen the result of his work in the Red Mountains, even seen him fight in a skirmish, but this was different. His banner rose again, a warning and a promise, and men continued to walk to their deaths before it. The carnage was visible even from the hill.

  “Riders approaching,” Beron said suddenly.

  “Where?” Thomas asked.

  Beron pointed, and Lyanna saw where he meant - from within one of the scattered remnants of woods, riders were filtering out of the trees. They were forced to regather themselves in full view, but they had gone unseen in their cover until then - and they were on the right flank.

  “Much of our cavalry is on the left flank,” Thomas said. He glanced at Lyanna, and then looked past her to Beron.

  The Stormlander stared intently at the gathering men, but only for a moment. “Mount up,” he called out. “Should they approach us, I will lead us away,” he said to Lyanna. “You will follow.”

  Lyanna made a noise of agreement, but her eyes were still on the battle below. One of the few lances left had been dispatched to counter the newly revealed foeriders, but they were already starting the charge, and were closer to the battle besides. The rebels would not reach them in time.

  “They’re not going to make it in time,” Lyanna realised. Her grip tightened on the furled banner pole she held.

  Two heads turned towards her, something about her tone causing alarm.

  “They’ll break our flank, stop Steve’s advance,” she said. Somehow, she couldn’t connect the idea of a cavalry charge with Steve’s defeat, but it would still surely stop him in place.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Beron told her.

  “We could prevent their charge without engaging,” Lyanna said, low and urgent. “If we move forward, they would think we mean to intercept - they don’t know I’m here, or that you’re my guards.”

  “We are not moving an inch from his hill,” Beron said flatly. “Your safety means more than any battlefield advantage, and those men would lay their lives down to protect you.”

  Lyanna considered his words, weighing the hell that would fall on her against the consequences of staying. It didn’t take long. “Best keep up, then.”

  Thomas lunged for her reins, realising her intent, but Vhagar danced forward and sideways, dodging him, and then she was exploding forward, terrified glee bubbling in her stomach. She raised her banner, letting it unfurl in the wind, and it was all she could do to keep it high and proud.

  The curse that Beron let out would have had her mother drown him in the hot springs, but right on its heels was the command to follow her, and then she heard the sudden thunder of hoofbeats. She and Vhagar soared down the hillside, and her guard - her lance - poured after her.

  The foe saw them coming for them, saw the wolf’s head banner, and with a bellowed order and a raised gauntlet, shifted their approach. Lyanna saw it as it happened, reading the angle of their charge and its intent. No longer did they aim to round their lines to take the infantry from behind, instead looking to hit them in the side. She hardly needed to think before she was shifting in turn and shedding speed, taking a less direct path to them - with Beron and Thomas catching up to her shoulders, she started to lead them into an arc that would see them take the foe in the rear if they held their course.

  The riders - they had no banner she could see, wore no tabards, only steel - gave up on their unmounted targets, switching their attention to the greater threat. Both lances had taken an arrow formation, and Lyanna felt like she was dancing with the foe as they started to turn at a canter, each group testing the other - if one could not hold their form, they would falter and scatter, vulnerable to a killing blow.

  Neither faltered, the dance continuing. They had almost turned fully around, and Lyanna found herself facing north, the enemy to the west. She glimpsed a figure that could only be Steve picking up a knight and throwing him deep into the enemy line, but she blinked and lost him in the mess, and she forced herself to focus. The other lance was good, very good, and it was clear that they knew each other, not like her own, formed that day from smaller groups just to guard her. Circling would achieve nothing - sooner or later they would seek to engage, and when they realised she was trying to avoid that, the advantage would be theirs.

  She was breathing heavily, and she hadn’t noticed when she had started, her frantically pumping heart something she could feel in her face. A bead of sweat escaped her coif to trickle past her eye, and she tried to blink the sting of it away. The enemy were starting to turn, offering a pass, their lances lowering. Beron and Thomas, united in thought, spurred their mounts on as they strove to overtake her, but she didn’t let them. They would only try to turn her lance away, and that would be the signal for the enemy to strike. She had gotten them into trouble, and it was her responsibility to get them out. She just needed a solution, an answer to - she found one.

  A giant Stormlord approached, his mount outpacing the men behind him as they desperately tried to keep up, the lance of men emerging from a hidden gully. In one hand was a lance, in the other was a hammer, and writ across his broad shoulders was a fury and an imminent violence. Vicious satisfaction flowed through Lyanna’s chest at what her betrothed was about to do to their enemies, and she was going to make it happen.

  The antlered wolf flapped angrily in the wind as she turned it towards the loyalists. Her aim was obvious, and she thought she heard Beron curse again, but just to make sure the rest of her men understood, she made things brutally clear by lowering the banner pole like a lance. They would take them head on, make them blind to the threat approaching the rear of their flank.

  The foe accepted the challenge. Their leader angled right for them, raising a gauntlet and then bringing it down sharply, and they began to build into a charge. Lances lowered, and there was a roaring in Lyanna’s ears; it wasn’t the beat of hooves but her own heartbeat.

  Almost too late, Vhagar turned, veering away from the crush of collision, and those behind followed her lead. The loyalists were caught completely off guard by the sudden change of heart, the two formations almost skimming each other, barely out of reach of each other’s lances, and then they were gone.

  Lyanna craned her neck, shifting in her saddle to see what the foes were doing. No longer about to meet a charge in kind, they had started to slow and turn - and that sealed their fate. Robert hammered into them with the force of an angry avalanche, tossing men from saddles and skewering a horse through the neck as if he had hit them head on, and not almost from the rear. A moment later his men echoed him, and the sound of men dying and horses screaming filled the air.

  Shedding speed, Lyanna took a moment to look around, ensuring they weren’t about to fall victim to some unnoticed loyalist lance, but they were alone. Having come full circle, they were already heading back towards the hill they had started on, and Lyanna held her banner pole tightly. A cold was starting to descend upon her, starting at her neck and flowing down, worse than any winter chill. She was going to be in so much trouble.

  By the time they returned to their vantage point atop the hill, Lyanna was shivering. She watched her reins shaking minutely with her trembles, and no matter how she squeezed her hands she couldn't stop it. Beron and Thomas bracketed her again - closer this time - and Thomas was holding something out to her. It was a wineskin. She accepted it, fumbling to pop the cork and open her helm’s visor, and then she was sucking down its contents greedily.

  “Slowly,” Thomas said. He made a gesture to another of the men, and they didn’t bother hiding themselves away again, instead staying in full view atop the hill.

  Lyanna took a moment to breathe, then forced herself to sip slowly. It was wine, watered down but still sweet, and she felt her shivers easing. She leaned forward to stroke Vhagar’s neck. “Good boy,” she whispered to him. Vhagar stamped a foot as if to say ‘of course’, and accepted the attention as his due. She wanted to dismount and press her face against his, but her armour would get in the way, and even though they were well out of bowshot, she didn’t want to imagine how much worse things would be if she did something like removing her helm.

  “That was - folly,” Beron said. His voice was tight, and he sat ramrod straight in his saddle. “You should not have done that.” He stared down at the battle, not looking at her.

  “I know,” Lyanna said, surprising him, only to ruin it with her next words. “It was still worth it.”

  “You could have died!”

  “Maybe,” Lyanna said. She disagreed, but arguing it wouldn’t get her anything. She gestured to the battle below. “But if I hadn’t, we’d be watching our right flank falling apart instead of Steve and Robert tearing them apart.”

  The enemy lance had been scattered or destroyed, and Robert had turned his attention to the enemy line, playing merry hell with their rear as he did to them what Hightower had sought to inflict on his own people. Fully committed on the left, there would be no loyalist cavalry come to contest them.

  “Robert could have done that without you risking death,” Beron said. He was growing frustrated.

  Lyanna gave him a look. He knew as well as she did that Robert wouldn’t have been able to close so decisively if she hadn’t twisted them out of position and distracted them.

  Beron sighed, finally turned to face her. “You are not the only one who will be punished for this,” he said. “I gave my word to Lord Robert and Lord Brandon that I would keep you safe, and I failed.”

  “You only would have failed if you hadn’t followed me down,” Lyanna said. “I survived, unharmed, so you did your job.”

  A humourless laugh came from Thomas, and Beron huffed. “I do not think Lord Stark will agree.”

  “I will not allow them to punish you,” Lyanna said.

  “That isn’t your decision to make,” Beron said, sounding tired.

  “Then they shouldn’t have made me Queen.”

  “You’re not Queen yet.”

  “Am I not?” Lyanna asked. She turned in her saddle to face him in turn. “Men are fighting and dying because they believe it. That’s worth more than any pointy throne or shiny bauble.” She swallowed, but she was resolute. “Oaths go both ways.”

  Beron shook his head, but didn’t argue further, and they returned their attention to the battle. Over on the left flank to the north, men and horses were scattered across the fields, fallen banners marking their graves as cavalry continued to duel. The last of Hightower’s infantry was committed in a desperate attempt to prevent the collapse of his own left flank, but Lyanna thought it would be too little, too late. Steve was rampaging along the line now, his banner barely able to keep up, even as Robert turned his attention to the archers behind them. The sun was high overhead as the battle surely reached its climax. They could not possibly hold.

  Something made Lyanna look up. There was a falcon streaking across the sky, coming from the south, wings tucked in as it dove down. It seemed to be heading directly for the hill on which Lord Jon was commanding from. The loyalists were starting to break, men’s courage failing them under the threat of hammer and hammer and the death they left in their wake, but she felt a sudden sense of foreboding all the same.

  A tense minute passed, and Lyanna was the only one not to feel the rising joy of a battle won. Behind her, men were starting to brag and boast, but even a barely heard mention of ‘the wolf queen’ wasn’t enough to lift her mood. Men were rushing about on the hill Lord Jon had claimed, and then riders were being dispatched, charging down the hill without care, some making for the reserves, others for the archers or even the men in the line whose foes had begun to rout. Soon, others started to notice too.

  “Something is wrong,” Beron murmured. He opened his visor to better scan the battlefield, but there was nothing, no threat. “They are starting to rout, their cavalry can’t fight on alone, but what…”

  “Hightower isn’t moving,” Thomas said, pointing at the hill that still held the royal banner over Kingsguard white.

  Joy was replaced by tension, and they watched for some clue, some answer as to what was happening. One rider reached the white star banner where it had come to a stop, a warning of what waited for any foe who found their will to fight anew. It paused there for a moment, and then the banner began to move. Steve was heading south.

  Lyanna wasn’t alone in looking south, but she was the first one to see movement - riding hard along a small trail there was a company of soldiers, and she could just make out the familiar glaive that their leader held.

  “Is that Lady Keladry?” Thomas asked, squinting. He moved his horse forward to better look, but remained within arm’s reach of Lyanna’s reins.

  “Didn’t Steve set his company to scouting?” Lyanna asked.

  “Aye,” Beron said, grim. “I’d say they found something.”

  The battlefield was shifting now, routing men left to flee in the face of whatever news the falcon had apparently carried to Lord Jon. A new front was slowly being formed, blocks of men marching towards what had once been the right flank to face a new foe. It was slow work, and not an easy thing to do, but knights and lords were riding to and fro to give men commands and form the line.

  “Lyanna,” Beron began.

  “The moment we see who comes,” Lyanna promised. She held her reins out to him, and he accepted them, settling. It wouldn’t stop her if she decided to go, but she was being truthful.

  In the distance, from between hills and woods, concrete movement emerged. Columns of men were marching through lanes that split the fields, marching north, and it was no small force. Lyanna’s gaze darted over them, straining to make out details, but all she could tell was that there were many, with more and more coming into view as she watched. They would surely be on them within a half hour, and the only solace was their - comparatively - few cavalry.

  Keladry rounded a hillock, drawing even with Lyanna’s position, and saw the white star banner as it came to a stop at the edge of a field, just shy of a stacked stone wall. She turned for her lord, the company slowing as they navigated narrow dirt lanes.

  “Shitfuckballs,” Thomas said.

  “What?” Beron demanded.

  Rather than answer, he pointed, and those near followed his finger. Coming into clarity was the banner that their new foes followed. It was a familiar one, and Lyanna tensed as she saw the red dragon on black. This one had no standard below it, only the dragon, and she knew who it had to be. There was no other.

  “My castle for a far-eye,” Beron muttered to himself, squinting more. “Those are Reach Houses, and -” he blinked, double checking. “Dorne has come.”

  “Where are their cavalry?” someone asked. “No Reach army marches without a strength of horse.”

  There was the shifting and rustling of armour as many turned and looked, as if expecting to see a lance charging up the hill from behind them, and one motivated man stood in his saddle to get as much height as possible, but there were none to be seen.

  “Before!” someone said suddenly. “The riders who bore no banners!”

  More cursing came, but so did a muttered prayer of thanks as men realised just what trap the foe had thought to spring on them.

  “Hightower is routed, and we still outnumber them,” Thomas said. “Will they still strike?”

  “We are tired, and bloodied,” Beron said. He sucked air in through his teeth, glancing to the north where the dueling cavalry was starting to disengage. “They might.”

  “They are,” said the Flint man. “Look.”

  Besides the columns of men, cavalry was pushing forward, coming to the front and forming up. Twenty minutes of marching was a much faster journey to a man ahorse.

  “They know we’re not ready,” Lyanna said, sick realisation dawning on her face. She had risked much just to turn one lance away from hitting her people in the flank, but what was about to come was so much worse. The men weren’t ready, many still quick-marching to reach the point marked by the white star, the point that they would hold, but they couldn’t possibly get there in time to meet the coming charge. They would be taken apart piecemeal, and their own cavalry were still out of position on the left.

  “We are leaving.” Beron’s tone brooked no disagreement.

  Lyanna didn’t argue, accepting her reins back and turning to flee for the false safety of the rest of the army. She gave the approaching cavalry one last look. They needed a miracle.

  The white star banner began to move.

  For a moment, it seemed that Steve meant to intercept the oncoming lances alone, abandoning the scant defence of the field walls, and Lyanna had a moment of doubt. Surely, even a man like Steve wouldn’t be so bold - but then she saw one of his people breaking off from Keladry’s group, riding hard for another group, and she understood. Vhagar’s gait was too smooth for how much it felt like her heart was jumping around in her chest, and she muttered a prayer for whichever gods of stone and tree were listening.

  Barely halfway down the hill, Lyanna twitched her reins, and Vhagar began to skid to a stop. Her minders were on her immediately, reaching for her, and she let them.

  “Lyanna-!” Beron started, incensed. Behind them, the rest of the lance started to slow, not nearly so smoothly.

  “I’m not, I promise I won’t,” she blurted out, “but please, look, go to them! You can’t let them do it alone.” She pointed over at the field.

  Thomas was the first to realise. “Fuck.”

  In the field, Robert’s lance was turning from its pursuit of the routing loyalists, turning towards the white star banner. Others saw what Thomas saw, and echoed similar thoughts. Over half of them owed their fealty to the black stag, and he was about to charge almost five times his number of heavy cavalry head on.

  Beron’s face went blank as he took it all in. “How can we trust that you-”

  “One rider won’t make a difference,” Lyanna said, rushing, “but one lance will. I will swear I will ride straight to Lord Jon, I swear it on ice and fire.”

  The oath made him slow, but that was all.

  “You made a promise before,” he said.

  “Not like this one,” came a voice from behind them. It was the Flint man, and when he opened his visor, Lyanna realised she knew him from the joust at Harrenhal. “She’ll keep this one.”

  Beron looked between them, then to his distant lord, then back. “Shit.” He closed his eyes for a heartbeat. “Fine. Ulrich, you’re going with her, straight to Lord Arryn.”

  Ulrich nodded, closing his visor over his brown beard once more, and Lyanna felt a moment of elation, as if she herself had received a stay of execution. Then she glanced back at the field, seeing as Robert neared Steve’s banner, and the pit in her chest returned.

  There was no more talk, and Beron led the lance that had guarded her down into the field, while Lyanna and Ulrich rode on towards the rebel commanders. Her journey took longer than it should have, as she kept looking back to the field. Steve’s company had departed, riding off to continue harrying the routing infantry, but one of them had left a horse for his standard bearer - it was Ren, she remembered - but curiously, not for him. He was speaking with Robert, it seemed, as they advanced at a walk. In any other situation, she might have thought them a lord and knight out for a ride.

  They did not have to reach the hill that Lord Jon was commanding from, as Lord Jon was coming to them. He recognised her without the need to declare herself, and a curt order had her joining his group of lords and knights, ushered in protectively. They rode back up the hill she had just departed from, and she couldn’t help but feel an entirely inappropriate amusement, clenching her teeth to keep from giggling. She felt like she might vomit.

  Beron had reached Robert and Steve, and the two hundred had formed up in two arrows, the black stag at the head of one, the white star at the other. Steve still didn’t have a horse, was just standing there at the tip of the spear.

  “What is he doing?” someone asked, and Lyanna realised it was her.

  Lord Jon turned from a tense conversation with his aides to answer her. “Buying us time.”

  “No, Steve,” she said. She would have felt annoyed at his assumption that she couldn’t tell the point of it all, but all she could focus on was the enemy cavalry breaking into a canter, spreading out to surround the two lances. “He has no mount.”

  “What?” Lord Jon said, almost snapping, his head turning swiftly to the field below.

  There was no more time. Steve’s horn rang out, a dirge fit for a funeral, and the rebel cavalry sped up to match their foes. They shared a field now, outside any farmed earth, no stone walls to impede or slow them. Clear horns sounded from the loyalists, and they spread further, lances reaching from all sides towards those she feared for, like a kraken reaching for its prey.

  “What in the Seven Hel-”

  Steve was still at the tip of one formation, still on foot, still leading them. His armour seemed to slow him not a jot, and all talk on the hill started to slow, even the couriers stopping to stare. A distant, booming cry came to them - “FURY!” - and then they were starting to charge.

  Steve was still leading one lance. The ground between the two forces vanished. Lances were lowered. Then, impact.

  Lyanna watched, mouth agape, as Steve leapt, twisting through the air. Seven men were dead by hammer and shield before he hit the ground. She was not alone in her disbelief. To see the force of his blows lift men into the air in the melee was one thing, but this - this was something else. The knights that thought to contest his lance were scattered like leaves before the wind.

  Leading the other lance, Robert had risen from his saddle, wielding his hammer with an ease that seemed to make a lie of the sheer force he put behind it, the way he swept aside man and mount to break a hole in the enemy ranks. Where the loyalists had spread themselves out to surround their foe, the rebels had remained close, and the difference showed as both lances punched through, leaving chaos in their wakes.

  The screams of men and beast rose up, and the loyalist lances were left unsure, torn between advancing on the still forming infantry line and taking in what had been done to their fellows. Horns blew in conflicting rhythms, adding to the confusion. Then, the dirge sounded again, something about it rising up through any other sound. Black stag and white star began to turn for another pass, moving together to target the western wing of the battle.

  It was quiet upon the hill as those on it watched it all unfold. None seemed able to muster words fit to speak, so utterly taken aback were they at what they witnessed that day. All had heard rumours, but gossip was gossip, and they were not some washerwomen to put full stock in whatever they heard. That day changed things, and it was a mostly sober hill that began to realise that the man they had thought to be a warrior without peer was only the second strongest on the field that day.

  But Lyanna? Lyanna was smiling.

  When more of the rebel cavalry finally began to arrive on the south side, the loyalists might have even been grateful for the excuse to retreat, thoroughly savaged by the hammering they had received, their horns sounding in agreement for the first time since the start of the fight. They fled, leaving a quarter of their number behind, and the rebels let them go as horns of their own sounded. There was no need to hold them back, though - even down in the field they could see that the rest of the loyalist forces had arrived, and it seemed that not even Lord America was bold enough to charge an army near alone.

  The rebel line had finished forming, and the two armies eyed each other, violence looming. The day seemed ripe for yet more bloodshed, but then Lord Jon was leaning forward, watching as a red and black banner emerged from the foe’s ranks, surrounded by an honour guard.

  Lyanna let out a shaky breath. It seemed like the time to talk had come.

  X

  A marquee had been raised against the midday sun in the middle of the field, but it did little to cool the simmering tensions beneath it. A table ran the length of it, and on each side sat men that had cause to despise those on the other. Crowded in behind them were dozens more, many still bearing the muck of battle upon them. From where they stood and sat, they could easily see the army of those across from them.

  At the centre of things were the leaders of each side. The loyalists were gathered around Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the rubies in his plate gleaming against the black of his armour, one hand resting on his dragon crested helm, his face a study in calm and dignity. With him were Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower in their Kingsguard whites, Jon Connington in the red and white of his house, and Taron Fossoway in the red and gold of his. Further down the table after a small but noticeable gap was Oberyn Martell, almost lounging in his chair, long hair trailing across his face. The Dornishman was smiling, but the way he played with a cheese knife hinted at his true feelings.

  Across from the Prince was Robert Baratheon, blood flecked helm placed between his hands, both resting palms down on the table. He spared not a glance for his vassal, his eyes fixed on his opposite, unmoving and unblinking. Bracketing him were the Stark brothers, Jon Arryn beside Eddard, and Hoster Tully beside Brandon, all resplendent in the colours of their Houses. With them were more storied lords and knights, but the eyes of those present had a way of skipping over them, focusing instead on the presence of the man standing behind the man who would be king. For all that he wasn’t the largest man there, he seemed a giant still, and Steve Rogers loomed over them all, the blood drying on his armour a silent reminder of the tales that were told about him.

  Beside him, almost an afterthought, was a figure who seemed out of place to all but those who knew who was hiding under the helm she wore.

  “There has been much blood spilt this day,” Rhaegar said, breaking the silence, but somehow increasing the tension. “Blood that did not have to be.” His voice reached all who had gathered that day, sonorous and composed.

  Robert continued to stare, still unblinking.

  A moment passed before Jon spoke up. “Did it not?” he challenged. “House Targaryen has offered us many insults. It is only logical that blood should follow.”

  “The choices made by my father were choices that wronged you,” Rhaegar answered, “I do not dispute this. But are we not all knights? Not men? Are we beholden to the actions of others, or can we not chart our own course?”

  “House Targaryen demanded our heads, or our heirs,” Hoster said. His arms were crossed, and he stared at Rhaegar from under deep brows. “The course we charted was a direct response.”

  “My father,” Rhaegar stressed, “was wrong to do so. There were many paths he could have taken in response to the presence of his highest lords, concerned for the safety of their families.”

  “Paths that did not include House Targaryen stealing away my sister?” Brandon asked, voice low. He gripped the edge of the table, as if to hold himself in place.

  Rhaegar was quiet for a moment. “A King is beyond the judgement of mortal men, appointed by powers beyond any of us,” he said, “however…sending men to seize the daughter of a Warden was not the deed of a good King.”

  There was a moment of silence as his words faded, and the only movement nearby was a falcon hopping along one of the ropes holding up the marquee.

  Robert still had yet to so much as twitch.

  “No,” Jon said. “It wasn’t.”

  “For all that much blood has spilled, we are not chained to this path,” Rhaegar said, looking around to meet the gazes of other lords. “I pray for the wisdom to find a new path, and I can only hope that I am not the only one to do so.”

  Again, the moment stretched out, and Rhaegar shifted, sensing something was wrong. Behind his back, Whent and Hightower shared a look.

  “We know you took Lyanna,” Ned said, speaking for the first time. His voice was quiet, quiet enough to make men strain to hear him, but hear him they did, and his words made lords blink, sure they had misheard.

  “I’m sorry?” Rhaegar asked.

  “Then why did you take her?” Brandon demanded, leaning forward. A touch on his shoulder from Hoster didn’t seem to register at all.

  “I did not abduct the Lady Lyanna,” Rhaegar said. His lordly expression hardly changed, but his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

  “Then why was she guarded by your men in the Red Mountains?” Ned asked.

  Rhaegar’s gaze darted between the two Starks. “...I rescued her from my father’s men.”

  Oberyn’s head turned slowly to Rhaegar. “My pardon,” he said, still smiling. “What?”

  “I was warned of my father’s intent, and I knew what it would beget,” Rhaegar said, as much to his audience as to his good brother. “I sought to avert it,” he said. “But I was too late.”

  Lords on his side of the table were shifting to look at him, some hiding their thoughts better than others, but the rebels were stone faced and still.

  “Why did you not tell us that you had her?” Ned asked. His voice was still quiet, grey eyes fixed on the prince. “Why did you not tell us she was safe?”

  “Secrecy was her greatest protection,” Rhaegar said. “If King Aerys knew I held her, that protection would be gone, and I did not trust that my messages would get to you at all, let alone unseen by others. His actions at the walls of King’s Landing…” He shook his head, and then leant in, looking around. “Long have I desired a Great Council to address the grievances born from this conflict. It is my shame that I could not persuade you of my sincerity before now.” Silver hair blew softly in the wind.

  “Her greatest protection is her family,” Brandon said, almost snarling and fit to match his sigil. “House Targaryen has kept my sister from us for too long.”

  “You have my word that I will lead any group of your choosing to her, departing this very day,” Rhaegar promised. “The time for subterfuge has passed, and it is time for her to be returned to her family.”

  All present looked to the Stark brothers, and the two shared a look. The elder nodded to the younger.

  “No,” Ned said.

  Rhaegar blinked. “No?”

  Both looked back to the figure standing beside Steve - to her - and she steeled herself. Lyanna stepped forward, her eyes boring into the man who had tricked her, murdered her friends, stolen her away from her family for a year. Then, she removed her helm.

  Rhaegar twitched, eyes starting to widen, before he brought himself under control. “L-ady Lyanna? How did you get here safely?” He was not alone in his surprise, Oswell and Connington startling at her sudden reveal.

  “You dragons devour each other,” Brandon said, something easing in him now that the time for trickery was past. “Aerys told us where you held her, and we took her back.”

  For once, Rhaegar seemed lost for words. “I - I was protecting you from - how did you get here safely?” he asked again.

  “You never rescued me,” Lyanna said to him, the words burning and cleansing her throat as she spoke them. Her eyes stung, but not a tear escaped as she stared at him, gaze cold enough to freeze him in place. “You killed Torrhen. You killed Charlotte. Why? So you could be king a little bit sooner?”

  Murmurs rose amongst the loyalists, while the rebels seemed to lean forward as one, intent on the events unfolding before them.

  “No,” he denied. “I cut down the men my father sent to seize you, you saw it yourself. Who told you these-”

  “I killed Derron,” Lyanna said. “Took a knife to him like a feral pig. He kicked Charlotte Cassel off his sword, and I left him to die in agony in the dirt.”

  Rhaegar gaped at her. It was an unattractive look.

  She leaned in, wanting to make sure he heard her words. “Long live the king, whose name is Baratheon.”

  The colour leached out of his already pale face. “...what?”

  Two cloaks were thrown down upon the table, the wolf and dragon upon them clear for all to see. All present looked upon them, all trying to think of some explanation for what they were. They were not wedding cloaks, could not possibly be, but none could think of another answer. The loyalists looked to Rhaegar.

  “Those are not - I did not - you are ly-”

  Robert erupted from his seat.

  Steve was on him immediately, grabbing him by the back of his gorget before he could do more than cross half the table. He hauled him back with one arm, but whatever Rhaegar saw in Robert’s face had him kicking his chair back, arms raised to shield himself, and in the next moment, the meeting descended into anarchy.

  Swords rang free from sheaths as Hightower and Whent moved to defend their prince, lunging across the table in turn. Lyanna found herself being yanked back, even as Brandon and Ned put themselves between her and the table, but she still saw the way Steve slapped and kicked the Kingsguards’ swords away as they sought Robert out.

  “Stand down!” Jon was roaring, working with his nephew to grab Robert, barely holding him back after Steve released him.

  “Stay your weapons!” Hoster bellowed.

  Few listened, and more seemed about to follow in Robert’s example on both sides of the table. Oberyn was being held down in his seat, a pair of Dornishmen speaking quickly and urgently into his ears, and he was no longer smiling.

  “CEASE!”

  A voice fit to command the gods rang out, and all movement stopped. Eyes turned to the man who had spoken, and Lord America stared back.

  “That’s enough,” he said. He looked to Rhaegar, the prince still seated. “The blood of everyone to die in this war, all the pain and abuse of people caught up in it - that’s on you.”

  “Those cloaks did not come from me,” Rhaegar insisted, pushing himself up from his chair. “They are a trick, a trick on all of us.”

  “Tell it to your gods,” Steve said bluntly. He looked back to his own side, first to Robert - finding him held by Walder, Elbert, and the Greatjon, his nostrils flaring and eyes wide with fury - before visibly reconsidering and looking on to Jon and Hoster. They nodded. “We’re done here.”

  None argued.

  It was a quiet departure made by all those who had come to parlay that day, but under the silence there was a simmering anger. There would be no peace, no Council. There would only be war. War and blood.

  X

  The blood would not come that day, however. The rebels stood ready and willing to offer battle, but the loyalist forces did not advance. They stayed only long enough to gather their noble dead before retreating in good order, and the rebels let them. Their men were tired, and they had their own dead and wounded to recover. Even with their new stretcher bearer units and the efforts of Lord America’s Essosi healer, the effort of the day forced them to pause, to take a breath.

  The next day, though, things changed. The royal forces continued to retreat south, but now the rebels were not so content to simply watch them go. Scouts hunted each other across streams and through woods, while knights clashed over fields and narrow roads, guarding or seeking to strike columns of marching men. Lyanna heard tales of cunning and bravery from her position ensconced firmly in the middle of the army where she never had fewer than three guards. She drew the line at them following her into the tent she shared with Alys, and Keladry’s presence amongst them made it bearable, but she chafed at the protection even as she knew it was warranted.

  Word was sent to Lord Stark and the other rebel commanders of what had happened, of Rhaegar’s numbers, but there was no time to wait for reinforcements. If the prince was able to reach King’s Landing, their task would become all the harder, even if some men were starting to speak of the imminent victory of their cause, a victory made inevitable by the presence of the Warrior Himself within their ranks.

  More than one great lord found themselves thinking of what might come from sending Lord America at the loyalist camp one dark night, but assassinating a royal was not done lightly, and they could not know how the loyalists would react besides, so they kept their thoughts to themselves - but they thought it all the same. If there was a thread of worry over the marriage between Lord America’s lethality and his ability to slip in and out of fortified camps unseen, they kept that to themselves, too.

  Days crept by as the armies inched southwards, and the distance between them narrowed. The skirmishing grew more relentless, and the loyalists took more drastic measures to ensure they wouldn’t be forced to give battle. Fields were stripped, granaries looted, and slowly the royal forces began to gain space as the rebels were forced to range farther and farther for supplies. Talk in the nightly discussions that Lyanna invited herself into turned from places to force a battle to the practicalities of a siege.

  Then, in the final days of the 282nd year after Aegon’s Conquest, the rebels woke to a red dawn. The sky grew hazy and the sun distant, filtered through smoke that seemed to fill the sky as far as the eye could see or a man could ride.

  Somewhere, something was burning.