wrong, wrong, wrong

❝ a stark, my lady. a stark. ❞ wolves and lions often prowl the same area, upon the predatory hunt for food, now forced into the same habitat. doc's own cloak in the crimsons and golds, thus muted though barely by the biting of the winter, oh! it's coming! no, it's already here. approaches a targaryen with the same yellow swagger of dragon flame, the smile treading on disrespectful to the hag of the godswood. ❝ i'm sure they'll say they don't, but here it is anyways, despite the claims. ❞

only then does caradoc bow, deep at the waist to her. his gaze lifts first, locking with hers, as he lifts back out of it. ❝ i hope you'll permit me do the gentlemanly thing and escort you back? ❞ lannister's attitude doesn't outweigh decorum, not yet, not even amidst the scraggly path.

a  sharp  intake  of  breath.  daera  forces  herself  slow;  lids  opening,  body  turning,  painting  courtesy  on  face.  never  meant  to  be  heard,  and  yet.  at  least  familiarity  allowed  paranoia  to  ease  into  something  smaller,  something  manageable.

"both  you  and  i  sense  that  it  is  not  here  because  it  was  asked."  it's  the  closest  she'll  speak  negatively  of  her  brother  the  king.  all  the  realm  need  not  gather  for  cregan  if  the  starks  did  not  wish  it.  but  as  caradoc  said  ---  here  they  are  anyways.

she  raises  a  brow  at  the  bow,  but  doesn't  swing  her  gaze  away  from  his.  the  noise  of  the  procession  remains  a  steady  rhythm  of  noise,  ebbing  and  flowing.  to  return  there,  to  stand  among  them  and  sense  the  ever-pressing  weight  of  her  dream  ---

"i'll  permit  it."  soft  words  finally  fall.  "but  let  us  take  the  longer  route  back."  maybe  by  then  the  crowd  will  have  dispersed;  maybe  by  then  she  will  have  truly  composed  herself.

shock  flickered  across  daera's  face.  and  then,  she  splayed  her  fingers  over  her  mouth  as  barking  laughter  escaped.  quickly  tampered,  but  her  shoulders  shook  in  the  effort  to  suppress.  "i'm  uncertain  if  i  fully  agree  with  you  on  that,  my  liege,  but  i  admit  some  men  think  it  is  enough  to  justify  feeling  glorious."

she  reaches  out,  grasping  her  by  the  shoulder  gently.  “daera!”  she  calls  out  to  her.  “are  you  alright?”  she  asks,  her  brow  furrowed,  having  not  caught  what  she  said  under  her  breath.

she  nearly  jolts,  eyes  widening  and  mouth  parting  in  gasp.  but  it  takes  only  a  heartbeat  for  recognition  to  ignite,  and  daera  forces  the  tension  out  of  her  body  in  an  exhale.

"yes,  yes.  i'm  okay,  daenys."  she  raises  her  hand,  fingertips  feather-light  on  the  back  of  her  sister's  hand.  "i  ---  i  was  thinking  of  father."  a  smaller  truth.  she  would  not  yet  lie  to  daenys.  "i  .  .  .  i  miss  him  terribly.  and  so  much  more  on  a  day  like  today."

her  head  whips  to  find  rosalyn.  she  blinks  once,  twice,  and  then  she  finally  dips  her  head.  "lady  stark.  i  ---  i  am  sorry  for  your  family's  loss."  she  had  not  spoken  much  with  the  ruling  lady;  ever  since  the  royal  retinue's  arrival,  her  brother  rightfully  took  much  of  the  lead.

licking  chapped  lips,  daera  slowly  nodded.  "yes  the  cold  is  .  .  .  intense.  sometimes  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  imagine  how  so  many  can  live  here."  a  beat,  and  then  she  rushes  a  courteous  smile  to  appear.  "but  i  suppose  this  is  a  chance  to  witness  how  you  all  make  it  work.  i'm  sorry  it  wasn't  under  better  circumstances."

when they had left the red keep, coryanne had been more mobile ( only six moons along and more than capable of running after little rhaegar as he chased the stray dogs that lingered on the edge of camp ) but by the time they had crossed the gates of winterfell, she had grown to become more bump than woman, miserable if she was on her feet for longer than ten minutes, which was why she had been seated during that morbid procession. it was not a sign of disrespect, regardless of whatever these pinch - faced northern savages liked to believe, and she was above defending her actions when she knew the cost that it took to commission that ugly, towering statue to begin with ─ the least they could do was be grateful that gaemon, in all his generosity ( stupidity, she had grumbled at him as a servant massaged her feet ), had deigned to travel so far for the damned thing. ❝ there you are ! i thought i'd be left alone to eat with these strangers. ❞ she did not care if the northerners heard her, waving daera over to sit beside her. ❝ now, what is the matter with you ? the maids tell me that you've signed up for something called a shinty. take away one letter, daera, and that should tell you what entertainment our northern hosts have for us. ❞ she sighed loudly, rubbing at her burgeoning belly. there must be a dragon in there, for she was larger with her fourth than she had been with the first three and her belly itched like fire from the seven hells. ❝ do you know if your brother has decided to join in these ... games ? here, eat this. i cannot stomach the smell of roasted meat today. ❞

a  soft  smile  graced  daera's  features  as  she  heard  her  goodsister.  quick  on  her  feet  (much  faster  than  coryanne  could  be  at  present),  she  navigated  to  sit  opposite,  lifting  her  furs  with  one  hand  as  she  held  tight  to  her  plate  with  the  other.  already  sweat  pricked  at  her  hairline,  tempting  her  to  shed  something.  but  the  cold  entered  the  hall  at  the  strangest  times,  and  so  daera  withheld  a  sigh  and  finally  settled.

"if  the  north  are  gracious  enough  to  host  games  for  us,  then  i  thought  it  best  to  participate  in  at  least  one  of  them.  and  the  shinty  doesn't  require  strength  in  the  same  way  the  others  do."  voice  calm,  measured.  she  may  be  a  princess,  but  daera  cannot  wield  her  words  in  the  same  way  coryanne  did.

"did  gaemon  not  share  his  plans  with  you?"  daera  pursed  her  lips  at  the  offer  of  roasted  meat,  debate  flickering  on  her  face.  but  she  scraped  the  meat  onto  her  plate  and  placed  dried  fruit  in  its  place  for  coryanne.  "i  heard  some  murmuring  about  a  stone  put,  but  i'm  as  in  the  dark  as  you  are  in  what  he  wants  to  do."

the  princess  plopped  her  chin  against  palm,  corner  of  mouth  lifting  in  humor.  "i'm  sure  we'll  hear  him  across  the  town  if  he  decides  to  participate  in  all."

when:  day one, the funeral of the former ruling lord stark cregan stark, midnight

with:  open

it  was  the  hour  of  the  ghosts.

the  procession  for  alaric's  late  grandsire  had  long  since  ended.  most  retreated  to  their  bed  chambers  while  those  who  still  felt  the  need  to  celebrate  the  old  man  drifted  towards  the  tavern.  alaric  remained  behind  standing  at  the  feet  of  the  great  lord  cregan  stark—  or  rather,  a  very  grotesque  imitation  of  the  wolf  of  the  north.

the  statue  looming  above  him  was  gargutuan,  ostentatious  and  entirely  out  of  place.  in  wintertown,  it  felt  like  an  intruder.  a  trespasser  on  what  is  now  his  lands.

this  was  not  his  grandfather.  and  he  despised  it.

at  its  unveiling,  alaric  had  bitten  his  tongue  as  to  not  offend  the  king  and  those  who  accompanied  him,  but  the  bitter  taste  left  him  shuddering.  It  was  an  affront  to  his  family  name.  Deep  down,  he  wanted  nothing  more  than  to  take  a  hammer  to  it  and  watch  the  stone  crack.

the  crunch  of  leaves  beneath  approaching  boots  shattered  his  solitude.  whoever  had  come  to  pay  their  respects  had  enough  sense  not  to  speak  before  being  spoken  to.  the  fist  clenched  at  his  side  slowly  relaxed,  "it  does  not  belong  here,"  he  murmured,  unable  to  conceal  the  edge  in  his  voice,  but  his  gaze  never  left  the  statue,  "i  do  not  like  it."

his  grandfather  had  already  been  laid  to  rest  where  he  belonged—in  the  crypts  beneath  winterfell,  alongside  his  father  and  mother.  one  day,  Alaric  would  join  them  there,  as  would  his  wife  and  children,  and  their  children  after  them.

they  were  not  here  to  honor  cregan  stark.

there  could  be  much  to  admire  in  the  old  wolf;  tales  of  the  man  had  certainly  reached  dorne.  but  this  was  the  same  person  who  sent  his  family  to  answer  the  call  of  then  prince  gaemon  to  force  dorne  to  its  knees.  a  decade  had  passed,  but  the  injuries  from  then  still  burned  their  reminder.  of  so  many,  cregan  stark  had  enough  goodwill  and  power  to  say  enough.

but  he  did  no  such  thing.

akshay  approached,  buried  in  cloaks  though  the  cold  still  managed  to  poison  their  body.  but  they  forced  themself  still;  a  hunter,  watching,  waiting.  because  most,  even  the  new  ruling  lord  stark,  would  fill  the  empty  space.

"the  king  has  a  way  of  imposing  what  he  deems  necessary,  doesn't  he?"  they  still  did  not  peer  at  alaric;  instead,  they  squinted  at  the  statue.  "will  you  remove  it  when  we  all  depart?"

reverence  towards  a  man  deserved  entreated  the  connington  in  joining  the  processional,  yet  the  same  could  not  be  said  of  the  games.  he  saw  nothing  to  be  of  celebration,  the  mingling  and  comraderies  something  he  believed  to  be  shared  between  those  of  the  north  and  those  chosen  by  the  starks  themselves.  their  presences  in  the  north  another  cost  for  them  to  bear,  the  ostentatious  display  of  wealth  the  king  offered  too  grandiose  for  him  to  have  felt  comfortable  lingering  close  by.  “  there  is  a  better  view  to  the  right  to  you.  ”  view  and  company  that  would,  likely,  engage  should  there  be  conversation  offered,  whereas,  lyonel  barely  offered  a  turn  of  his  attention  from  the  people  lining  for  the  game.  

location:  the  shinty  games,  day  two  of  the  northern  games

"you  speak  as  if  i  would  want  to  have  a  better  view  of  it  all."  a  deep  breath  through  his  nose,  a  slow  exhale  that  carried  grief's  weight.  any  other  time,  he  would  be  among  the  players,  competitive  spirit  striking  opponents.  instead,  karlon  stood  still,  gaze  upon  the  game,  but  barely  registering  any  movement.

"i'd  rather  you  have  come  to  the  north  for  a  different  reason."  finally,  karlon  looked  to  a  fellow  comrade  of  a  war  conducted  a  decade  ago.  youth  long  since  shed  for  both  of  them,  something  grittier  ---  something  bitter  ---  taking  place.  "then  again,  i  suppose  our  best  language  is  death."

The road to Harrenhal had not been kind. Though the maesters and septas alike had urged rest—had spoken in grave tones of bleeding, of weakness, of the body’s need to mend—Princess Rhaenys had not been made to linger behind walls while the realm shifted beneath her family’s feet. Her brother would stand before kings and rebels alike. The lions would bury their dead. The dragon would be spoken of again in whispers and oaths. She would be there.

So she rode.And yet the journey had carved its toll quietly into her bones.

By the time they reached the roadside inn along the kingsroad, scarcely a few days’ ride from Harrenhal’s blackened towers, the world had begun to tilt at its edges. Food would not settle. Sleep came shallow and broken. Her limbs felt heavy in ways she did not confess aloud as she handed the child into the careful arms of a septa.

“I only need a moment,” she assured them, voice steady though her stomach churned like stormwater.

She stepped outside, drawing in deep breaths of autumn air, hoping the coolness might steady the rolling nausea. The world beyond the inn spread wide fields brushed in gold and green, hedgerows tangled with late-blooming flowers, trees already beginning to surrender their leaves to the coming season.

Gods, she had forgotten how green the world beyond Dorne could be.

“I did not know I would miss foliage this much,” she murmured softly, more to herself than to anyone near enough to hear. For a moment she simply stood there, breathing. Then the ground shifted.

Not truly only within her but the sensation came sudden and treacherous. The edges of her vision blurred. Light fractured into white and gold. Her balance faltered as though the earth itself had slipped half a step away from her feet.

Her hand reached blindly for purchase, finding only empty air.The last thing she registered was the strange, distant thought that she must not fall that she had only just brought life into the world and could not possibly meet the ground like some fainting court maiden and then the world lurched sideways, spinning, as her knees began to give beneath her.

the journey still hadn't ended. they can only push the retinue so hard with rhaenys' recovery. the birthing long, exhausting, and yet they still answer the dragon's call. akshay clenched their jaw. for the dornish rulers not to attend yet another ceremony would leave their people unmoored, or worse, in a dangerous position. they would need to answer for their liege, and if none had the right answer ---

a deep breath. rubbing a hand over their face, akshay searched. a septa held the babe --- held nymor the son and heir and everlasting light --- and akshay drew closer, fingertips ghosting over the baby's head.

"where is she?" they murmured, and the septa jerked her head toward the door outside. they nodded, and when they reached the doorway, their eyes already found rhaenys before fully registering her silhouette.

and so did their gaze follow her path down.

they launched forward, reaching her in few strides. but her body began to crumble, and they could only put a hand beneath her head to fsoften the blow. they fell with her, dropping to their knees and trying to orient her body toward them. carefully, awkwardly, they placed her head at their thighs, chest --- heart? --- seizing at the glazed look in her eyes.

"rhaenys," they said, voice tinged with desperate worry. "rhaenys."

"m'liege?"

akshay looked over their shoulder to the septa holding nymor. "find a healer. be silent about this with anyone else. do you understand?"

before they had finished their sentence, the septa was already rushing. akshay's lips thinned, and they turned back to their wife.

"you need to rest. we need to stay here more than a couple days."

the corner of her mouth lifted. small, nearly imperceptible. she had long accepted motherhood was never her calling, but affection still stirred a warmer touch than the coldness she grew with.

"my radiant rose." teora reached, brushing wayward strands behind her daughter's ears. "the crowd will split into many pieces. you will still have to choose which carriage to follow." though it would be better if rose chose to lead. but teora doubted she would draw that sense of purpose from rose after the shock of a dragon and the chill of imprisonment.

"how do you fare? what did you feel as you knelt before the king?"

i  write  to  you  with  a  steady  hand,  though  the  events  of  the  past  days  have  left  casterly  rock  anything  but  steady.  word  has  already  begun  to  spread,  i  am  sure  you  already  heard,  but  i  would  rather  you  hear  it  from  me.  the  north  now  have  a  dragon  in  their  possession.  even  writing  the  words  to  parchment  feels  absurd,  yet  the  chaos  that  followed  was  all  too  real.

i  was  fortunate  by  the  mercy  of  the  gods  to  have  already  been  within  the  walls  of  my  chamber  when  it  began.  but  the  screams,  i  heard,  have  been  unforgettable.  those  beast  should  have  stayed  dead.  i  just  wanted  you  not  to  worry  on  my  account.  i  was  safe  while  others  were  not.  if  you  are  worried  about  the  others,  they  all  seem  to  be  fine.  dornish  blood  not  ending  here  means  a  great  deal  to  me.

they  are  keeping  many  of  us  here  longer  than  expected  while  matters  are  sorted,  and  i  do  not  know  how  long  that  will  be.  i  will  come  back  to  you—to  sunspear,  to  rhaenys  and  the  little  one  as  soon  as  i  am  permitted  to  leave.  that  promise  is  what  steadies  me  most.  until  then,  tell  me  what  you  named  the  babe.  how  are  they  faring?  how  are  you  and  rhaenys  faring?

of everything to transpire, i am glad you were safe when it began. as much as it's good that the dragon did not scorch all the dornish, your safety is paramount. if you were to come to harm there, i would find blame in myself first before anyone else. for staying while you went; for still wishing that our world never grew past the sands we ran along.

i hope this reaches you before you leave. do not come to dorne first; rhaenys received a letter from vaeron, and we are preparing to leave for harrenhal immediately. with rhaenys' health, the trek will be long and slow. for as much as we wish the north never introduced a dragon, i cannot dismiss the spark in rhaenys' eyes when speaking of her brother's letter. she will not allow the world to shift without her presence. but what it will mean for her and the babe --- her brother asks too much.

send your next raven to sunspear and tell me your next location. perhaps our paths will intersect before we reach harrenhal. if so, it'll be sweeter for you to meet nymor then rather than with the rest of the realm. he's small. i've parted a prince's blessings for many newborns, but he is so, so small in my hands, fariha. i hold him gentler than i have held my daggers, and still i feel as if i will crush him. but we was born with sun in his veins; bright-eyed and warm.

write again soon.