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For 19 years, the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros had known peace under the rule of King Robert I Baratheon following the complete destruction of House Targaryen. Or at least, everyone thought all of its scions were dead after the body of a teenage Viserys Targaryen had been found in Penthos.
But that was far from the truth.
Yes, young Viserys Targaryen had been killed by a Lannister assassin. But his sister had been whisked away.
The Princess born in exile on Dragonstone, the child the late Queen Rhaella had died giving birth to, had been taken from Penthos by the Ironborn and brought her North to the Lord of Winterfell.
Robert had always believed his foster brother Eddard Stark to be a loyal man, loyal to a fault.
As it turns out, the opposite was true.
Eddard Stark was devious, cunning, and ruthless. He had betrayed the Crown by refusing to hand over the Targaryen girl, and taken up arms to occupy both the Vale and the Riverlands.
Harrenhal had been set on fire again, and several other Royalist strongholds in the Riverlands sworn to House Tully had also felt the brute force of the Northern armies as mountain clans and Wildlings from the lands Beyond The Wall had plundered Riverrun, Pinkmaiden, and Maidenpool.
The Ironborn, allied with House Stark through the Lord of Winterfell’s marriage, had launched attacks on the Westerlands. They had completely destroyed Faircastle, left Lannisport in ruins, and occupied The Crag. Their attacks had left the Lannister dynasty at risk of extinction as a number of its members had been murdered or stolen away as salt wives to the Iron Islands.
‘Perhaps I should never have declared war.’ Robert thought. He had only declared war at the persuasive words of his goodfather Hoster Tully when The North sealed off their southern border.
That action had opened the floodgates for all the attacks and occupation.
And now, the Stormlander stood in front of the man who had started it all.
Lord Eddard Stark, now self-proclaimed King in the North, was seated upon a throne carved from a weirwood tree with the iron spiked direwolf crown of his forefathers upon his dark brown hair. His grey eyes were like the hardest steel in existence, his gaze cold like ice.
“Did you truly believe you could win this, Robert?” the enthroned man questioned. “Did you and your council actually believe you would be able to bring the North on its knees?” he snorted. “You have seen my men in battle, few of which were lost during your little rebellion. You and Tully should have known better.”
“You betrayed me.” the firstborn son of Steffon Baratheon bristled.
Ned leaned forward. “You asked me to lead a child to certain death. A child!”
“She is dragonspawn!” the black-haired man yelled, making an attempt to step forward. He was yanked back and violently forced onto his knees by a young Northman wearing the sigil of the Flayed Man.
“Daenaerys was a girl of four and ten when she came here. An innocent who had just lost her firstborn child, her only crime was the dragon blood she was born with!” the King in the North bristled. “It was your unreasonable demands that forced me to separate my lands from the Andal Kingdoms, your unjustified anger towards all those of the dragon blood!”
The room fell silent, the 2 former friends staring daggers at each other.
The silence was broken when the Ironborn Queen in the North stepped forward. “It is time.”
The Stark Patriarch nodded. He then rose, bannermen bowed as he passed by, and everyone flurried into the courtyard where a permanent execution stage stood.
The Stormlander was dragged into the courtyard and onto the platform by six men. He knew what was coming for him, as he knew how his former friend did his executions.
An Ironborn boy, Theon Greyjoy, came with Ice in its scabbard.
“Robert Baratheon, you are hereby charged with ordering the murder of an innocent girl.” the grey-eyed man said, one hand on the greatsword’s hilt. “Though before I sentence you to die and allow you to speak your final words, it is time you face the truth.”
‘What truth is there to reveal? You have betrayed me.’
The Andal barely noticed that 2 figures stepped upon the platform until he saw a shadow in the corner of his eye. He turned his head, let his stormy blue eyes gaze upon the figures, and froze.
His face turned extremely pale, as if he’d seen a ghost.
The people in front of him should be dead.
The man was a legendary Kingsguard, the late Sword of the Morning, and the woman…
The woman was the one he had started his rebellion for.
Lyanna.
“You were dead.” the father of 4 whimpered.
She snorted. “Close to it, but I was lucky enough that my goodsister and Lord Reed were there. They helped me survive, and they smuggled me back here.”
“You were supposed to be mine.” the southern King tried to speak up, but he found his voice breaking.
“I never agreed with my father selling me off like that.” the grey-eyed woman said. “I was never asked anything. No one seemed to care what I wanted. I never wanted to be anyone’s lady, I wanted to be free.”
The Dornishman reached for her and squeezed her arm. He did not speak, he simply watched.
“I fought a war for you.” Robert tried again.
“And all it gave you was a stupid crown.” the Northern woman said. “You’re fat, you’re angry, you’re miserable, and you allow your in-laws to influence you too greatly. Do you think that’s a life worth living? I don’t see the fun in it. And if what Ela told me about you abusing your wife is true, then I believe I would have murdered you the second you laid a hand on me for not being who you wanted me to be.”
If the black-haired man could have gone any paler, he probably would have.
He heard his former best friend speak, but his brain did not register it.
His eyes glazed over, emptiness taking over long before the steel hit his neck.
Lyanna sighed as she watched the head of her former betrothed roll.
She had been living with this weight for nearly 2 decades.
Perhaps she had indeed been stupid to run away with Rhaegar. Yet at that moment in her life, she had not seen any other option out of the misery that was her betrothal to Robert Baratheon. She had tried to reason with her father, but the man had a severe case of ‘Southron ambition’ and was unwilling to see his own daughter’s worries.
Her Dornish lover grasped her hand and led her off the stage as the crowd began to disperse.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Well enough, Arthur.”
She had been Rhaegar’s wife and gave the Valyrian a son.
Yet their love never had a chance to truly flourish.
Rhaegar had died in battle, his chest caved in by that famous Baratheon warhammer. His body had been washed away by the water of the Trident, not even receiving a proper burial per Valyrian customs.
On her way back home to Winterfell, she had found solace in the Dornish Kingsguard who now protected her son as he was their rightful King. She had simply sought companionship first, needing a friend who was not her brother or the goodsister she barely knew but still trusted.
“I am glad this folly is over.” the man from Starfall said. “Aemon should sit on the throne now.”
“There is still a long way to go before that happens.” the Winter’s Rose murmured. “The Riverlords will not sit idle when the Southron King is the grandson of one of their own. The Reach and Dorne have been eerily silent, so I will not know what to expect there.”
Dayne hummed. “The Reach will want to ally with the winning party. Lord Tyrell burned himself last time, his mother will not allow him to make the same mistake again. They’ll likely propose a marriage alliance.”
“Will I have to worry about a gooddaughter with thorns?”
“The Tyrells will want some form of power. We’ll have to play the game well.” the Dornishman’s eyes found the Lady of Winterfell. “Though I suppose your brother and goodsister are well aware of the games that the south plays. You may be a Dowager Princess, but you do not need to play this game on your own.”