#dtyfp

The Great War

Dear Maester Aemon Targaryen,

Is the Wall as beautiful as I have dreamt it to be?

I write to you in hopes you have the answers to my troubles. I have dreams, like many of your ancestors did, of the future. I need to know more, some don’t believe me but I know what I see.

Any help will be greatly appreciated.

Yours truly,

Helen Baratheon, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms.

____

It is early in the morning, too early for Ser Barristan’s tastes, when Helen wakes and dressed for the day. Instead of going for breakfast, she stands outside in the courtyard, in front of the gate, insisting that a guest would soon arrive.

He tries to tell her that guests for the wedding wouldn’t start arriving until tomorrow, but she is persistent, so he stays as well.

It’s so early that the townspeople have not even woken for the day, the courtyard was silent, quite peaceful actually. When Helen shivers slightly at a breeze, Ser Barristan takes pity and removes his white cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders. His white cloak, perhaps his most prized material possession, a symbol of his purity and pride and bravery, wrapped tightly around the only Royal he ever felt pride in defending.

The first few risers awake, they greet the princess cheerfully, perhaps a bit surprised to see her up so early. Ser Barristan can’t help but smile as one older looking woman offers her some freshly baked bread and warmed milk. Of course, the Northeners loved her already. Gratefully, Helen places a golden dragon into the palm of the woman in thanks, not taking no for an answer.

The sun was just barely rising above the horizon when the gate opens. Helen rises from her seat as it does, standing on her tippy toes to get a glimpse of who comes.

It is Benjen Stark, returning for his nephews wedding, but he does not come alone. He brings along a carriage, surely with someone inside. See Barristan stands as well, his hand hovering over the pommel of his sword.

But before she can say anything, the carriage door opens and an old, frail man, steps out.

“Maester Aemon, Princess,” Benjen Stark introduces as he helps the old man out.

“Maester Aemon, I am honoured to make your aquaintance. I am Princess Helen Baratheon, daughter of King Robert Baratheon,” Helen bows politely, for Maester Aemon was once a Targaryen Prince. One of the last, save for 2 children across the narrow sea.

“Come my dear, take me to your Godswood, we have much to discuss,” the old man says as he starts hobbling off in the direction of the Godswood.

“Do you believe Lord Stark would mind terribly if we sat in there for a moment, my Lord?” Helen, ever so courteous, asks Benjen before following. Benjen Stark offers her a quick nod and Helen is quick to follow, leaving 1 curious Stark in her wake.

It takes a while, but once at the Godswood, Maester Aemon takes a seat by the Weirwood tree, and Helen sits before him. Ser Barristan remains a respectful distance away, as Helen asked, but he keeps his eyes trained on her. To Ser Barristan, it is like seeing a ghost. He had known the old maester in passing as a boy, it was Aemon’s own brother who knighted him!

“I apologize, Maester, I had not meant to trouble you so much to bring you to Winterfell. I would have gone to the Wall myself if you wished to meet,” Helen frowns as she leans forward.

“Nonsense my dear, I wanted to come set eyes on the face that launched a thousand ships myself. The Wall is no place for a Princess like yourself,” the old man shakes his head, seeing much more kinder than he was when they first met.

“Hmm, I must say I was surprised to receive your letter, Princess. It is true, many among my line have been dreamers, but they were rare, the reasons why are unknown even to us,” Aemon tells her.

“My brother was a dreamer…he got lost in them during the day, and eventually he became lost to us. You must not let your dreams overpower your present, you have too gentle of a heart to be lost so soon.

My beloved elder sister, Rhaella, dreamt too. She was a good woman, poised to be Queen one day until she was taken from us…she might have been lost too save for her husband. He kept her grounded. I have never seen a couple as in love as them, they had the makings to be the greatest King and Queen Westeros had ever seen.

Daenys the dreamer saved our family from the Doom of Valyria. Some say even Aegon the Conqueror was a dreamer himself. Queen Helaena dreamt, she too was lost amongst them. They say the first Baratheon was a bastard brother of Aegon the conqueror, they fought together to unite the Kingdoms. My brothers daughter married your great grandfather, the same blood that runs through my veins, runs through yours,” Aemon tells Helen, who listens carefully.

“Are your dreams pleasant, child?” Aemon asks as his near blindness leads him to stare off into nothing.

“They are, Maester, I have good dreams. Sometimes I don’t know what they mean, but they all come to pass,” you tell him.

“I was hoping you’d be able to explain what they meant, nobody knows anything about it,” you explain.

“Alas, that knowledge is lost, even to me. But I am glad, glad to know your dreams bring you peace. Perhaps you might even grow into them, I know my brother and my sisters got stronger as they got older, but I’m afraid I don’t know much else,” Maester Aemon tells you, much to your disappoint though you do well to hide it. He holds an embroidered napkin in his hand, it is wearied with age but you can see an outline of a castle in the middle with indiscernible symbols on each corner.

“It has been many years since I have thought of my elder sister…I did not think I had tears left for her,” Aemon chuckles as he lifts his napkin to wipe the tears. He struggled to say her name, it hurt too much to.

“She must have been a wonderful woman,” you sympathize.

“Aye…I had three sisters, when I pass I hope to hear them singing again. My sister…Rhaella…she was married to Prince Valarr, my cousin and heir to his father, it was an arranged marriage but they found love. She credited Valarr for her sanity. What a woman she was! My youngest sister was named after her, as was the last Targaryen Queen. She made this cloth for me, when I was only a boy myself. I have long lost my sight, but I can still feel the rivets of her work, it pleases me to have something she had cared enough to make me. Oh…my Rhaella, what tragedy befell her and her family,” he laments sadly as he exhales a few ragged breaths. You nod sympathetically, you had heard of her once while in conversation with Ser Barristan. But alas he did not actually know her, anything he said of her was merely hear say.

“I must return to the Wall, it is best perhaps that I am gone before your father learns of my presence,” the old man chuckles as he slowly stands up.

“My father will be kind, if I ask him to,” you tell him as you stand as well.

“No need, princess, I have said all that I needed to say and there is work to be done at the Wall…there always is and always will be,” the Maester shakes his head as he hobbled back out to the courtyard. You are silent as you follow, you felt as though you left so much unsaid but you can’t come up with the words.

You frown as stands before the carriage once more.

“May I still write to you, Maester, if it is alright with you?” Helen asks.

“Of course, child, letters from you would do much to warm my room at the Wall,” the old man smiles, as well as he can.

Maester Aemon steps forward to takes Helen’s hand in his own, bowing as well as he can before gently reaching up to take her face in his hands.

“The trip down to Winterfell was well worth the travel, Helen Baratheon. However short, I wanted to set eyes on you while I still could. My mother and sister had eyes like you. I haven’t seen a pair like them in…it has been far too long,” the old Maester says fondly, almost sadly, as he holds Helen’s face. Ser Barristan almost tells him to take his hands off her royal Highness, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“My mother was taken from us long before I was old enough to have memories of her, but she was said to have purple eyes and dark Dornish hair. My Rhaella had purple eyes too, though her hair was silver like our father. I see her in the snow sometimes, I can pretend I am a boy and she is watching me while I sleep. She had little heirs with her Valarr, he was my favourite cousin. The children used to call my uncle maester,” Maester Aemon hums, dreaming of his childhood, back to when he was once a boy.

“You must miss them greatly,” Helen frowns as she takes in the face before her. This was a man that had lived many lives, his wrinkles showed his age, and she wondered how well he could truly see through the cloudy haze in his eyes.

A Baratheon and a Targaryen, what a sight to see.

The last time a Baratheon and Targaryen met, was on the battlefield field when Rhaegar Targaryen was killed by Robert Baratheon.

There was so much left unsaid, the weight of their familial history weighing heavy on both their shoulders, but both seemed content.

“You are a good Princess, Helen Baratheon, the realm is lucky to you. After all the horrid wars…what a beacon of hope you are, a light against all the dark that came before you. I wish you luck in your marriage to the Stark boy. I pray he may be for you, what Valarr was for Rhaella,” Maester Aemon says his farewells as he takes your hand in his, giving it a kiss and tight squeeze.

“Safe travels, Maester Aemon. Thank you for coming all this way to see me,” you tell him gratefully as he steps into his carriage.

“No, thank you, Princess, because of you… I have seen my family again,” Maester Aemon smiles, as does Helen, albeit sadly. She waves goodbye as his carriage leaves, returning him back to the Wall which he pledged his many oaths.

As he disappears from sight, Helen’s eyes go white. She has visions of dragons, great dragons and small dragons, and of a girl with white hair. She dreams of a boy with dark brown hair, a single silver streak running through it, and a woman with long silver locks, pretty purple stars adorning her hair. They are dancing, happily by the looks of it.

Magic returns to the Seven Kingdoms.

Helen is not frightened, despite the fact this was the first time it had ever happened. Her dreams always occurred while she slept, never while awake. But she did not feel fear, in fact she felt more melancholy than anything.

“I feel quite sorry for him,” you tell Ser Barristan who comes to stand beside you.

“He has lost his entire family in the span of his life. He grew up amongst brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, and now they are all gone. How devastating, I don’t think I would survive such loss,” you frown, a hand raising to rest over your chest as you bite back tears.

“No loss shall come to you, Princess, not while I live and breathe,” Ser Barristan promises you. With a shaky sigh, you lean into him a bit.

“He misses his mother,” you frown, lip quivering.

“It is a condition of growing up, we all miss the family we grew up with. It is up to us to find another, or some other happiness, as we get older. Maester Aemon is a brother of the Nightswatch, he is surrounded by brothers. I find my happiness in serving my duty as I have sworn to. You shall find yours as well, I pray it be with your intended,” Ser Barristan tells you.

“Do you miss your mother, Ser Barristan?” You ask him quietly.

“Yes, it is only natural I think. But you remind me of her sometimes, when I see you stitching or reading,” he tells you, and in a rare moment when he forgets his duty, he squeezes your shoulder in a fatherly way.

“Come, princess, it is still early. You still have much to do for your wedding still,” Ser Barristan tells you as he gently guides you toward the castle.

“I think I’ll find it with Robb…happiness, I mean. I’ve dreamt it, I am not afraid,” you tell him. Ser Barristan sighs a silent breath of relief.

June 18th, 2022

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The Great War

It is early, so early that the sun is just barely crossing the horizon, the morning chill gripes at Helen’s lungs as she makes her way outside, letter in hand, Ser Barristan following dutifully behind.

Across the courtyard, Benjen Stark has saddled his horse, a few members of his family awoken early enough to bid him farewell. Lord Stark, Robb, Jon, and 2 small direwolves are with him, yet to notice the young princess.

It is Balerion’s screech from above you which draws their attention.

“Princess, how may I help you?” Benjen is the first to notice you. He climbs off his horse as you approach, his thick furs making him look bigger than he truly is, making him look like a man of the Nights Watch.

“I apologize for the interruption, my Lords. Are you to return to The Wall this morrow?” You ask, a little redundantly since you already know, but you don’t want to assume.

“I am, princess, but I will be back for your wedding,” Benjen nods. It was only last night that your father had told you that your betrothal was now official, you send a shy look Robb’s way and he offers you a small smile.

“I am sorry to have woken you so early, I had hoped to leave quietly, without fuss, but Ned always insists on seeing me off. It seems my brother has decided to give me a royal send off this time,” Benjen jokes as he glances at his brother. Benjen Stark was clearly a man of fewer words than his brother, a man who much preferred to walk amongst the shadows. His brother and nephews waking to bid him well was already too much, and now the princess of the seven kingdoms stood before him.

“Oh, our good Lord Stark made no comment of it. I dreamt it,” you say simply. The men around you seemed a little put off by that, but you pay it no mind.

“I was hoping you may deliver a letter to your Maester. Maester Aemon still serves at Castle Black, doesn’t he?” You ask, hoping you were correct.

“He does, princess. I’d be happy to do so,” Benjen nods, accepting the letter you give him.

“Are you well, princess? If it is an urgent request, Princess, you are welcome to use our Maester, he is very good,” Lord Stark offers, a look of concern crossing his face at the mention of Maesters.

“I thank you, Lord Stark, but I’m afraid I have questions only Maester Aemon can answer,” you answer, your fingers deftly fiddling with the cloth on your forearm, over the greyscales that have scared you.

“Thank you for your aid, my Lords. I shall leave you to your farewells. I wish you safe travels, Lord Stark,” you smile as you spin on your heels and walk back inside. Ser Barristan is close behind you.

“What need do you have of a Maester, princess? Are you in pain?” Ser Barristan asks as he glances at your arm, where your fingers are still restlessly touching.

“No, ser. It has only occurred to me that Maester Aemon is a Targaryen. Throughout all my readings, Targaryens are the only ones with dreams like mine. I was only hoping he may have some insights,” you explain.

“Are you feeling alright, princess? You are acting strangely,” Ser Barristan asks, eyebrows furrowing. Sometimes you did this-seemed so lost in your thoughts, like you were less lucid, in a dreamlike state. Your eyes too, he always thought they were more…purple whenever you did this.

“Quite well, Ser, I just had a restless night, I think. Perhaps I should try again to find some sleep,” you hum, your fingers fidgeting as he opens your door for you.

“That is wise, princess. I will go have some tea brought up for you, maybe that will help some,” he suggests as he stands outside your door.

“Yes, thank you,” you agree as you pick up your needling from yesterday. This time your fingers know exactly what to do, gone is the daftness from yesterday.

When Ser Barristan returns, he comes with the Maester of Winterfell.

“Maester Luwin! I did not know you were Maester here, it has been many years,” you smile as you stand to greet him.

“Barristan, you remember Maester Luwin, don’t you? He came to help when I got sick on dragonstone,” you remind him as you hold out a hand to shake the Maesters. For his part, he seems a bit surprised you remember.

“Many came to visit you, princess,” Ser Barristan reminds you.

“Yes, but only one snuck me in some cake when I asked. If you ask me, I believe that cake did more for me than a 1000 maesters. I trust you received my letter?” You ask. After you had gotten better, you sent letters to every corner of the realm, to all the houses that had sent their personal Maester’s to you. But, there was so many and it was so many years ago that you had forgotten where some went.

“Oh, yes I did, princess. You honour me,” the old man says bashfully.

“It was the least I could do,” you insist as you sit back down on your bed, placing the covers back over your feet.

“I am only sorry I could not do more back then. I heard you had recovered well, yes?” He asks as you motion for him to sit at the foot of your bed.

“Yes, I was lucky to escape unharmed, with only some scarring on my arm,” you tell him. You offer to let him see, and gently unwrap your arm to show the greyscale scaring.

“And it does not hurt?” Maester Luwin asks as he carefully takes your arm. Your case was hardly the first he had seen, but you were the first to survive.

Ser Barristan remained close, lingering near your side as you spoke with the Maester. He frowns at the memory, oh what heartache he felt, the desperation of his own uselessness against such a foe. He looks down at your arm when you show Maester Luwin, but diverts his eyes, as if not looking will push the memory from his mind.

“No, I am lucky to have come out unscathed,” you tell him as you swiftly wrap it up again.

“Shall I close your window, princess?” Ser Barristan clears his throat, noting the chill that had crept in.

“No, Balerion comes to visit in the mornings before dawn,” you shake your head. As if on cue, your mighty falcon flies down to sit on the ledge, much to your delight and the surprise of Maester Luwin.

“Are you feeling alright now, princess? I’m afraid Lord Stark was a little worried, asked me to check on you,” Maester Luwin asks warmly as he pours you so tea.

“I am perfectly well, maester. You may check, if you’d like,” you assure him as you let the cup warm your hands. With your permission, Maester Luwin checks your temperature.

“Ser Barristan mentioned you hadn’t slept well, would you like me to bring a sleeping draught? Just to help get some sleep,” Maester Luwin asks.

“Oh no, I’m afraid the restlessness is an affliction on my…dreams. It will soon pass,” you assure him, though you send a look Ser Barristan’s way as well, one he’s become well acquainted with over the years.

Sleep overtakes you after you drink your tea, Ser Barristan is happy to let you sleep. You miss breaking fast in the morning, you sleep through lunch, and dinner approaches before you wake.

“I can bring dinner up for you if you’d like to stay here,” Ser Barristan offers as you sit at the vanity, already dressed as you brush your hair. He couldn’t help but notice that you had dressed as if you’d go outside, but he doesn’t mention it.

“No need, Ser, I am waiting for someone,” you tell him, in a sing-songy tone.

As if on cue, there’s a gentle knock on your door.

It’s Robb, and Greywind. You scarcely ever saw any of the Stark children without their direwolves following behind dutifully. Robb seems to have trained his wolf well, Greywind sits dutifully beside him.

“I was wondering if you’d like to visit the Godswood with me, princess, it’s especially beautiful around this time,” Robb asks as you stand expectantly, wringing your hands as you approach.

“You may call me Helen…considering we are to wed, you may call me Helen,” you blurt out, your heart threatening to beat right out of your chest. He chuckles amusedly at your outburst, but before he can say anything you stick your hand out, offering him your needling work from yesterday. He takes the cloth from you. On it, is a picture of a stag, a pretty brown stag, the symbol of your great house. You thought it would remind him of you.

“I made it for you,” you tell him, your finger pointing out the delicate stitching of your initials, as if he’d ever forget them.

“Thank you Helen,” he smiles as he looks up at you.

“Would you like to accompany me to the Godswood?” He asks again, offering you his arm in case you say yes. You nod your head agreeably, hesitating only slightly before you take his arm.

All the while, Ser Barristan follows at a respectable distance, though you wish he was a bit further.

“Winterfell is truly beautiful, perhaps more so than the Red Keep,” you tell him as you follow him outside.

“It is all I have ever known, but I agree with you,” Robb agrees as you step outside.

“The Red Keep has a godswood, it’s smaller than this one though,” you tell him, unable to stop yourself from blurting whatever you thought.

“I think you’ll have a harder time finding a more beautiful godswood than here, the heart of the North,” Robb chuckles. He finds your strangeness rather…endearing. Your eyes are more purple than they usually are, but he can’t tell if it’s because of the light or just his imagination.

You approach the mighty Weirwood tree in silence, the history surrounding you weighs on your shoulders.

“You were right, I can’t imagine a time the Godswood would be more magical than now,” you breathe out, your arm leaving Robb’s as you step a bit closer. The sap of the Weirwood dropped down its carved face, the soft orange hue of the setting sun casting its light. Your mother thought the sight was unsettling, but you did not. A thought comes to mind as a leaf falls down in front of you.

“Would we be married in front of this tree?” You ask as you bend down to pick the leaf up. Greywind strays from Robb’s side, running off to play amongst the grass and snow.

“My gods are very important to me, Princess,” he says simply, though he stands up straighter and his hands are clasped tightly behind his back. He looks every bit the Lord his father is, and his father before him surely.

Robb is well aware what the Southerns think of the Old Gods, of the gods and the barbarians that pray to them. But he believed, he believed more in the godswood than he did in the little church his father built for his mother. If he didn’t marry you in front of mighty tree, he doesn’t think the marriage would feel real to him. He wonders what you think.

“Then your gods are important to me too,” you tell him sympathetically, sensing his hesitation. You offer him a small smile, one he returns.

Balerion comes flying by, landing amongst the branches of the Weirwood, seemingly making himself comfortable.

You glance up at your falcon before focusing back to Robb, who suddenly looks a bit more serious.

“Princsss, I know that you have little choice in this marriage-“ he starts as he takes a couple steps closer to you.

“Nor do you,” you chime in, hoping his mood would lighten again.

“To marry you, Princess, would be the greatest honour of my life, the greatest honour to grace the Starks in centuries surely,” he breathes out.

“I wanted to bring you here, so I could stand in front of my Gods and promise you that I will be a good husband. I will honour you, I will not bring you cause for shame, nor will I fall astray. I shall be a comely husband…I swear it,” he promises, his eyebrows furrowing in his seriousness.

“I know you will,” you smile softly, daring to place your hand on his shoulder. The light on his face made him look very handsome. His eyes were as blue as they ever were, and tiny flecks of snow graced his hair. His gaze on you never strayed.

The Great War

Helen was 7 years old when she first heard the word ‘Kingslayer’.

Of course she had heard it before, but it was the first time it truly registered that these whispers were referring to her brave uncle Jaime.

For an entire week after she was made consciously aware of her uncles most “dishonourable” deed, she locked herself away in the library. She located every account of the slaying and carefully read each.

Word had gotten around of the young Princess’s search, and it surprised Jaime himself when he felt distraught, though he hid it well. He had never wanted his beloved niece to hear such rumours, for her young and innocent mind to be marred by his own deeds. She was pure, and he dirtied her soul.

It didn’t help that he didn’t see her, and his own shame kept him from seeking her out.

Tyrion came to see you on the third day, under the guise of bringing you a meal. Your fingers traced every word you read, and he couldn’t help but smile as you sounded certain words out. He didn’t say anything, instead he looked over your shoulder to help you with the hard words. He didn’t want you to know what ‘execution,’ ‘disgrace,’ or ‘madness’ meant but you wouldn’t be deterred and he figured it was best if he were there to guide you through the mess.

“Uncle Jaime!”

On the 8th day, the Princess Helen closes her books and leaves the library, off in search of her dead uncle. She finds him walking the halls and runs to him, her arms raised so he could catch and lift her up like he always did. He does, without fail, he would always catch her.

“Uncle Jaime, does it bother you when people whisper behind your back? They don’t say very nice things,” you ask him as he sits, allowing you to settle on his lap.

“No, princess, it doesn’t bother me. My actions were my own and I must own up to them, and I do. Their words do nothing to me,” Jaime smiles down at the rosy-cheeked child in front of him as he fixes her hair.

“I heard what they said about you, it bothered me,” you admit to him.

“I’m sorry, dear Helen, I never wanted you to hear such things. I had hoped to protect you from it all but I’ve failed,” Jaime frowns.

“You didn’t fail, uncle,” Helen shakes her head.

“I’ve decided it was a mercy, uncle. A mercy for our people,” you explain. This was something Jaime had never heard.

“A mercy?” Jaime raises his eyebrows.

“They called the king before father ‘mad’. I think he was a very bad king who hurt lots of people. He had to have been stopped, and you were brave enough to stop him. I think you did the right thing,” you tell your uncle, very matter of factly.

Jaime is a little shocked to finally hear these words. He felt vindicated. He was either called ‘kingslayer’ or the topic was ignored all together. He didn’t even talk about it with Cersei, nor Tyrion, or even his own father. Helen didn’t know much about honour and oaths and loyalty, things he had all sworn to Aerys II, but in that way her opinions were refreshing.

“One bad act does not wipe away the good. You are still my brave uncle Jaime,” you declare as you throw your arms around him.

Jaime sighs a breath of relief as he hugs his niece back. All this time, he had worried she’d never look at him the same way again, but his worries had been for nothing.

“Thank you Helen,” Jaime says softly as she raises her head and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re too sweet a princess, too good for any us. The Seven Kingdom’s are lucky to have you,” Jaime tells you as he holds your hands. Sometimes Jaime thought you should be Queen after your father, you might have been the only one to truly deserve the throne in nearly 300 years. You’d bring everlasting peace to the Kingdom’s, and he’d exterminate anyone who dared disturb your peace.

“They’re lucky to have you too,” you remind him.

“Will you escort me to my sewing lessons? I’ve neglected them all week and I think mother will be cross,” you ask him suddenly, with the flippancy only the seven year old mind could create.

The Great War

“…relax your bow arm…”

In the tower, above where the young Stark boys train, sit the Stark girls and the Princesses of the realm, needling. Needling was something Helen never had any trouble with, her Septa’s fawned over her work and she regularly made gifts of her work to others. She quite enjoyed it actually, though you suppose everyone loves what they’re good at it.

“That’s beautiful work Sansa, you are better than me when I was your own age,” you compliment her with a smile as you peek over at her work. She had taken to needling some pretty flowers, a multitude of colours, prettier than any garden.

“Thank you princess,” she blushes shyly.

“And you, Myrcella, improve everyday,” you glance over at your little sisters work. She smiles bashfully as she holds up her work for you to better see.

“You have some much potential, you’ll one day create the most beautiful stitiching Westeros has ever seen,” you smile at your little sister, brushing her cheek with your finger which forces a smile from her

Arya, on the other hand, despite her somewhat concealed efforts, has made it obvious she wishes to be anywhere but here. Any time she hears her brothers below, her head snaps up. Only the watchful eye of her septa keeps her in her seat, away from the window, away from watching.

“Your needling is quite good as well, Arya, I can tell it’s Nymeria,” you tell the youngest Stark girl, offering her a look of pity as she looks down at her work.

“I don’t understand the point of needling,” she mutters under her breath, which earns her a harsh ‘shush’ from the Septa.

“I know it can be quite boring to some, but it is a great lesson in patience and precision. Nothing in life will come easy nor quickly, we must wait for the good, so why not perfect our skills and make something beautiful in the meantime?” You tell her. You remember thinking the same when you were younger, especially when you were forced to spend hours perfecting every stitch, needling the same thing over and over and over again. Arya’s face brightens, ever so slightly, as she nods her head in consideration.

“Are you having some difficulty in deciding what to make, princess?” Sansa asks, her gentle voice drawing you from your thoughts. You look down at your own work to find nothing, cloth as blank as it were nearly an hour ago when it was first given to you.

“Despite the beauty that surrounds me, I find myself feeling uninspired. Perhaps it is the cold, it has frozen my fingers so horribly that they cannot move,” you joke, which earns a smile from the Stark’s, though it concerns Myrcella deeply.

“But it is not so cold, Helen,” Myrcella frowns as she puts her work down to inspect your hands.

“There is no cause for concern, Myrcella. Perhaps it is time to put our work down for the day, you’ve all done beautiful work,” you laugh, patting Myrcella’s hair as you stand.

“I agree!” Arya exclaims, almost too quickly as she throws her work aside and practically runs out of the room. Sansa bows as she takes her leave and the Septa’s take Myrcella away for her next lesson.

You, on the other hand, are left to roam. Your blank needling cloth hangs by your fingertips as you slowly walk the castle halls, your fingers brushing over the stone as you think.

Something is meant to happen today, you had dreamt it, but couldn’t possibly fathom what it could be.

“Ser Barristan, is my father inside?” you ask, surprised to pass the Lord Commander, standing guard outside Lord Stark’s solar.

“He is, my Princess, with the Lord Stark. They’ve asked not to be disturbed,” Ser Barristan answers.

“Why? What are they talking about?” you question, your curiousity peaking.

“I do not know, Princess, but I am sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Ser Barristan offers you a smile.

“Yes, as am I,” you murmur, gripping your work a little tighter.

“Where are you off to? Shall I escort you to your room?” Ser Barristan asks.

“No…no, thank you, Ser. I am needed here, my father will call for me shortly, I am sure of it,” you smile, sitting on the bench across from the door, across from Ser Barristan.

“If your father calls, I would come find you. I’m sure there are more comfortable places for you to sit, Princess,” Ser Barristan’s eyebrows furrow as he glances at the cold, hard, wooden chair.

“I am quite alright, ser,” you assure him with a smile, your mind suddenly at peace.

“I am quite content where I am,” you murmur as you look down at your work. Inspiration must have found you as your fingers work as if they have a mind of their own. You must have sat there for many hours, long enough for the sun to set, a chill along with it.

Finally, the door cracks open. Lord Stark exits first, he slips away without even noticing you in the shadows. You stand abruptly when your father comes out, as if you are expecting something.

“Ser Barristan, fetch the Princess-oh, Helen? What are you doing here?” your father asks as he notices you, the shadow of the old castle obscuring you ever so slightly.

“I knew you’d call for me, father,” you say simply, smiling over at Ser Barristan as if to say ‘I told you so.’ He grins back, amused that you were correct. He wasn’t sure how much he believed in your, so called ‘prophetic dreams’, but he couldn’t deny that you were occasionally correct.

Your father motions for you to enter and you follow him inside. He sits at the head of the desk as if it were his own.

“You know about my trouble with the North, don’t you?” Your father asks, to which you nod. Since the reign of Aerys II, the Mad King, there had been rumours of seccession. All those years ago, they bent the knee to the dragons, but the dragons are now dead. The North was always the more independent of the Seven Kingdoms, hardly ever did Lords marry outside the North. Theirs was the Old Way, they followed the Old Gods, and they remembered. The North never forgot slights made against them. If it wasn’t for Ned’s strong friendship with your father, you are sure they would’ve declared independence after the horrid deaths of Rickard, Brandon, and Lyanna Stark. It was this very friendship that held the Kingdom together, some would say. As your father got older, he worried more and more about the state of the North, and this was saying something considering how far removed your father was from the politics that surrounded the realm. Your father was a fine warrior, but he wished for peace, and he knows that when he dies, peace will not continue. Your father wished peace for you, so that you wouldn’t have to send your sons to fight in a war he could have prevented. The North was on the brink of independence, and they’d fight a bloody war to ensure so once Lord Stark wasn’t there to quell rebellion.

“I have asked Ned to be my hand, and for him to wed his eldest daughter to Joffrey when they become of age,” your father tells you.

“Joffrey should be so lucky, father. Sansa is a beautiful girl, she will make a fine Queen one day,” you nod. You recall the stolen looks you had caught between the two, it was obvious Sansa liked him. You had also heard that Sansa was very much a lady like her mother, she would fair well in Kingslanding.

“I’ve always wanted to name you my heir, my sweet girl. I’ve always wanted you to rule, you’re better suited to it than me,” he sighs regretfully. You knew why he couldn’t, Joffrey was the eldest born son and history had taught you a daughter named over a son would end tragically. Just ask Rhaenyra Targaryen.

“Marrying Sansa to Joffrey isn’t enough to keep the North in line. You, too, will wed Ned’s eldest son. A Stark and a Baratheon, the North and South, we should finally join our houses like we were meant to all those years ago. This will ensure the unity of the realm, so when your brother becomes King, he will do so without fear of Northern rebellion. Ned and I have held it all together with our friendship, but these marriages will ensure unity and peace for generations to come,” your father explains.

His guilt is evident on his face, he can’t even look at you as you take a seat across from him and reach for his hand.

“I am Helen Baratheon, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and you are my father. I know of my duty to the realm, to my people, I think I have always known, father,” you tell him, wishing to allieviate the obvious guilt he feels.

“I know you had dreams about marrying for love, like all those maidens from the songs and books you sing and read. I wish I could give that to you, my darling girl. All I have ever wanted was your happiness, I would give my life to give it to you,” he closes his eyes.

“Ned assures me his son is a good man. Ned and Catelyn say he is good, strong, brave, they promise he will be good to you,” your father promises.

“He will, I’m sure of it,” you smile softly.

“Father, I am not angry, nor am I afraid. I have had a long time to get used to the idea, and I quite like it in the North. I think it suits me,” you console your father.

“The North is lucky to have you as their lady,” your father forces a smile as he finally looks at you. When he sees your genuinity, he relaxes.

“You are too good a daughter, sometimes I can’t believe you came from your mother and I,” he sighs as he looks at you, his daughter-becoming a woman before his very eyes.

“He’s not a bad looking lad either, is he?” he jokes, forcing a laugh from you.

“No, I suppose I could have done a lot worse,” you chuckle, trying not to blush, though you suspect you do.

“The two of you shall be married by months end, before we return to Kingslanding,” your father tells you as he stands.

The Great War

The Red Keep was as busy as it ever was, more soldiers from the Vale had come in.

“Lord Arryn, must you go to Dorne now?” You pout as you walk with the old hand.

“I’m afraid so, princess, but I shall return with stories and gifts for you. Will you wait for me again, princess?” Lord Jon asks as he pats your shoulder.

“Yes, my Lord,” you answer sadly. He pats your head and ushers you away for your lessons. Ser Barristan walks with you, feeling pity at your down cast.

That night you barely sleep, your mind tossing and turning, churning out a plan by the hour of the wolf. Balerion wakes when you light a candle and sit at your desk, pulling scrolls from your drawers.

“Helen, you should be asleep,” your uncle Jaime raises his eyebrow as he pops his head inside. He had seen the light from under your door and had come in, wondering if you were alright. To his surprise, you were sat at your desk.

“I can’t sleep and there is much to do, uncle,” you answer simply. He doesn’t argue, but closes the door when you ask and continues his watch.

Your candle had burned down to the wick by the time you were done. Balerion woke with the sun and you opened your window to let him out. You spend much of the early morning scurrying around the castle, much to Jaime’s amusement.

The next time he sees you, it’s at breakfast and you look as nervous as you’ve ever been. Jaime imagines this is what you’d like if you ever got into trouble.

“Helen, my dear, have you come to join us for breakfast?” Your father’s loud voice booms when he notices you walk in.

“What’s wrong, my little dove? You look troubled,” your mother asks with concern, curious as to why you hold many papers in your hand. The King and Queen are joined at breakfast by Lord Arryn, Lord Royce of the Vale (a member of Lord Arryn’s household guard, here to escort the hand down to Dorne), as well as a Dornish ambassador.

“Your Graces, I have come with a proposition. I ask that you listen to me before making a decision,” you start nervously, looking around the room at the other men who look down curiously, their interest peaked.

You walk over to your father and lay the papers before him. Your mother looks over his shoulder as he flips through it, a smile playing at his lips at the pictures you had drawn.

“I wish to accompany Lord Royce to Dorne. I believe I am old enough for such travels, and I am tired of hearing of its beauty. I want to see it with my own eyes and to feel its sun on my face. I would like your permission to go, please,” you tell them. You can feel your heart beat in your ears as you await their answer.

“My dear, what of your lessons?” Your mother asks, her heart softened by your sincere plea and the childish innocence in your papers. On them, you had drawn all the things you wished you to and written about all you’d learn in your travels.

“I am ahead in my lessons and my Septa said she would accompany me if I am allowed to go,” you answer.

“And what of your safety? You are a Princess, what if something should happen on your way there?” Your father asks.

“I have also come to beg Lord Arryn’s household guard to offer their protection to me as well,” you answer, already having thought of it. You turn to Lord Royce, your hands clasped together in desperate plea.

“My sword is yours, Princess. It would be our great honour to escort a princess of the realm,” the older man nods, offering you a gentle smile.

“Thank you, my Lord,” you smile.

“And surely Lord Barristan would come with me. He will protect me, won’t you, Ser?” You ask the Lord Commander who stood behind your father.

“With my life,” he nods as he stands a bit taller. You bite your tongue to tease his dramatics, but he sends a wink your way when no one is looking.

You turn your attention next to the Dornish ambassador.

“Do you think Prince Doran would mind terribly if I came? I promise that I should cause no trouble, I should be a perfect saint,” you promise.

“Dorne would be pleased to host a princess of the realm, and of course, our guard shall strive to deliver you safely,” the Dornishman agrees.

“Thank you, my Lord,” you smile happily as you turn back to your parents. Your mother thumbs through your drawings, but your father looks quite pleased.

“What say you, Jon?” Your father asks the Hand.

“The princess will make the journey more enjoyable, surely,” the Hand laughs.

“Alright, my dear. You may accompany Lord Arryn to Dorne. Ser Barristan shall accompany you and I will send Ser Oakheart as well. But you must promise to listen to Lord Arryn’s every word, and stay close to Ser Barristan at all times,” your father decides.

“I promise, I will be the most obedient princess to have ever lived!” You promise, running over to hug your father.

“And your Septa will go with you, you must keep up your lessons while you travel,” your mother warns.

“I will,” you agree, jumping into her arms as well.

“Come, my little dove, we must prepare for your departure,” your mother says, unable to stop her own smile at your glee. Surely she would miss you while you were gone, but clearly you were determined to go, and she could hated to deprive you of your joys.

“You shouldn’t stray so far, Princess,” Ser Barristan calls for you. He had allowed for you to walk along the treeline to collect flowers, but with the sun setting, he wanted you close.

At his request, you go running back. Even Balerion had come with you, always flying above. You felt safe under his watchful eye.

“Westeros is very beautiful, don’t you think?” You ask Ser Barristan as you catch up with him.

“I scarcely get to see much of it from the Red Keep. I should like to travel more, should my mother and father allow, of course,” you ramble hopefully as you take a seat by the fire. A Septa hands you a bowl of warm soup and you are eager to eat.

“Even the air smells different once you leave Kingslanding, don’t you think? And the clouds. Don’t the clouds look different?” You continue on, much to Lord Arryn’s amusement.

“The clouds are the same as they are from the Red Keep princess, I assure you,” Lord Arryn chuckles as. Balerion swoops down to sit by you. You rip your piece of bread and give it to your falcon, petting his feathers as he pecks the grain from your palm.

“Excuse me, Septa, do you have any spare-“ you gasp as a rock knocks into Ser Oakhearts helmet. Immediantly, the guards draw their swords. Ser Barristan is quick to your side and Lord Arryn is quick to grab hold of your arm, keeping you close. His own household guard encircles him, as well as the Dornish ambassador. His name was Nymeros, you had learned, and he told you much of Dorne whenever you asked. The few Dornish guards draw their spears as well, looking around for any threat.

You know that you were close to a small village, but they had all preferred to settle on its outskirts. They didn’t want to announce they were travelling with the Hand and Princess, they hoped to travel inconspicuously.

Balerion had taken flight as soon as the guards went on alert, you can hear his screech as he circles above.

You can barely see through the Valemen, but there’s a loud shout of men in unison. You can hear the fighting, and your Septa covers your ears. You don’t know how long they fight, but not long surely you decide when your ears are finally uncovered. In front of you are roughly a dozen men on their knees. They are being interrogated by Lord Arryn and Ser Barristan. Your Septa attempts to usher you away, for surely this is nothing for a young princess to hear, but you stop.

“We are hungry, my lord, my children starve while you sit in your pretty castle,” one of the men snarls defiantly.

“You raise a sword against the King, you raise a sword against his daughter, this is the highest of treasons. In the name of King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name-“

“Wait!” You shout. You know the end of that sentence. Lord Arryn was about to sentence them to die. All turn to you.

“Ser Barristan, please lay down your sword,” you ask. He had his sword against the neck of one man, you can’t imagine what it would be like to have a sword on your own.

Ser Barristan does not put his sword down, but he does take a step away from the man. Though he positions himself strategically between you and the group.

“My Lord Arryn, let us have mercy. These are my people, they share my blood, I want to spare them,” you plead, tears brimming your eyes.

“They do not-“

“I am a Princess of the realm, my Lord. It was you who told me that I have duty to my people. I feel a responsibility over them, I love them. We may not share blood but…they are my people. Surely they did not mean to harm me, I imagine hunger would drive any man to such drastic lengths,” you sniffle as you take a step forward. Ser Barristan sticks his hand out to stop you, but you look past his arm at the men.

The men look dirty. Makeshift weapons lay before them. Most of them look like tools. Farmers, you realize, they were on it farmers. You had heard the rains were scarce in some parts of the realm, this must have been one of the places.

“We have no reason to fear, Lord Arryn,” you tell the Hand, a man you consider to be a grandfather.

“A hungry man is a desperate man, Princess,” Lord Arryn responds. Ser Barristan motions to Ser Oakheart to gather the weapons and move them, only then does he retract his hand, though his sword remains drawn.

“Please stand, there is no need to fear us,” you promise the men, who stand on weary legs.

“You should beg the Princess’s forgiveness, it is by her grace that you still breathe,” Ser Barristan grits at them.

“There is no need, Ser Barristan, I have already forgiven them,” you shake your head. Despite your words, the men kneel before you. One dares to take your hand, and they do apologize, swearing up and down that they didn’t know you travelled.

“Septa’s, please unload any extra food we have to give them,” you order.

“It is I who should apologize. I should have known of your troubles and sent aid. I shall write my father immediately and ask him to send some,” you promise as you tell them all to stand.

The Septa’s hand over whatever they can spare, but you still feel horrible.

“And the gifts,” you whisper quietly to the Septa’s. You ask some of the Valemen to help. They nod and go to unload.

“I am sorry your children are hungry. Perhaps you will be able to trade some of these goods for more,” you tell one of the men as they are handed a small box of extravagant furs, meant to be a gift for the Prince of Dorne.

You notice some drawing on his arm, partially hidden by the grime. He notices you looking and wipes some of the dirt off.

“My daughter, she likes to draw. She’s nearly 5 now,” he tells you. You feel so horribly, you can’t imagine such a child starving like that. You reach up and take off your necklace. You reach for the man’s hand and gently place it in his hand, closing his fingers over it.

“A gift for your daughter. She is lucky to have a father who loves her as much as you do, who would go to such lengths to feed her. You are a good man,” you tell him.

“Thank you, Princess-“

“There is no need to thank me,” you assure him as you shake your head.

“Your grace will not be forgotten, we will…we will sing of your good grace,” he promises.

“I shall pray for your good fortune, for you and your family,” you tell him as you take a step back. The dozen or so men walk away, and you can’t help the tremble in your lip as they do.

“I’m sorry I have given away some of the gifts, I will beg the Prince’s forgiveness myself…but I couldn’t do nothing,” you cry as you turn around to face your travelling group.

“I’m sorry, Lord Arryn, Nymeros, I promised to be obedient and I have caused such trouble,” you weep as Ser Barristan sheathes his sword. He frowns at your tears.

“Now, now, Princess, you did the right thing,” Lord Arryn comforts you as he brings you into his embrace.

“We should keep moving, lest we come across another group like them.”

You are solemn the rest of the journey, despite Lord Arryn and Ser Barristan’s assurances. You sit silence in your penitence, devoting yourself to your lessons as if it would lessen the burden.

You arrive at Dorne on a beautiful day, but you can hardly enjoy it. Per custom, you are brought to Sunspear to be formally welcomed by the Martell’s.

You are brought before the Martell’s along with Lord Arryn. Prince Doran sits in his seat, his young son and younger brother, Oberyn, on either side of him.

“Please be welcome, Lord Arryn and Princess Helen. Dorne welcomes you,” Prince Doran claps. Ser Barristan stands to the side, his watchful eye looking around the room. King Robert didn’t think Dorne would harm Helen, but they hated the Lannisters and she was half Lannister through her mother. He was ready to fight, if need be.

“Thank you, Prince Doran, we are honoured to be here,” Lord Arryn thanks him.

“I heard rumours of some trouble in your journey. All is well, I hope?” Prince Doran asks as he glances at you. It was obvious to him that you had cried recently.

You take a step forward and fall to your knees. Ser Barristan stiffens slightly, his hand raises to the hilt of his sword. It was beneath you to beg for forgiveness, but you were too gentle hearted to throw the weight of your title around.

“I want to offer my deepest apologizes, Prince Doran. I gave away the gifts meant for you. It was entirely my decision, and I meant no offence, I will accept any just punishment,” you apologize sincerely. Tears prick at your eyes but you hold them back.

Nymeros comes in and whispers something into the ears of Prince Doran and Oberyn.

“Princess Helen, please stand,” Prince Doran says gently. Ser Barristan comes and offers you his hand, which you take.

“I received a letter a few weeks ago, detailing your plea to visit Dorne. I hear you went to great and sincere lengths to do so. It pleased me to hear. You are very welcome here, I am happy to host such a kind hearted Princess,” he smiles down at you.

“Nymeros has told me of what happened. There is no offence to me. I hope that I would have done what you did in that situation, I hope to raise my children to be a great protector of their people. There is no need for anymore tears, my dear, I am glad to hear of your grace and courage,” Prince Doran assures you. He motions for you to come closer, and so you ascend the stairs to stand before him.

“They were not my gifts to give away,” you frown.

“Perhaps not, but they were your people to protect. You did the right thing, and then you came to ask for my forgiveness. There is hardly anything to forgive,” he assures you.

“I hear you gave away your necklace,” Prince Doran notes, and you raise your hand to touch the empty space.

“My uncle Renly gave it to me before I left, he said it would keep me safe,” you sniffle, wiping the stray tears that had fallen.

“It seems he was right,” Prince Oberyn comments amusedly. A Dornishman approaches and hands Prince Doran a small box.

“I am glad to know that we have such a merciful princess to stand for us. Let me offer you this gift, to replace the necklace you gave away,” Prince Doran says as he takes your hand.

“I cannot accept your gift, Prince Doran, not when I come bearing nothing,” you shake your head.

“You do not bear nothing, my dear, you come with your beautiful heart. This necklace belonged to my sister, Elia Martell, when she was a young girl, she wore this when she was your age. She was kind as well,” Prince Doran tells you as he places the necklace around your neck. It was a simple necklace, a small pearl on the end of a golden chain.

“My sister went diving on Dorne’s coast and found the pearl herself. It is now yours, a pearl of Dorne for the kind Princess,” Doran tells you softly, looking down at you with a sense of pride he had only felt before with his own children.

“Thank you, Prince Doran. It is my greatest possession,” you declare, to which he laughs.

“I doubt it, my dear, but thank you. Now, I hear you were very excited to explore Dorne and made a great many plans. Wipe your tears, let go of all your sorrow, and enjoy your stay. Dorne is very happy to have you,” he tells you.

“I am very happy to be here,” you answer, finally able to smile for the first time since the trouble.

Prince Doran calls for someone to come in while you head back down to Lord Jon, showing him your new necklace. He smiles as he pats your head, pleased to see that your joy returned.

“This is my and Prince Oberyn’s daughters, Adrienne and Tyene, I thought you might be more comfortable with girls your own age,” Prince Doran explains as the two girls come to stand before you.

“Would you like to play in the water gardens?” Tyene asks.

“May I?” You ask Lord Jon hopefully. Lord Jon nods and the girls take your hands, pulling you outside. You smile with glee as you run with them, Ser Barristan close behind.

The Great War

The new king, Robert Baratheon spared Ser Barristan Selmy’s life. He even let him retain his title, Lord Commander of the Kings Guard, granted of course, Ser Barristan bent his knee.

Robert even let Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, live as well, though he supposes that was at the behest of his queen, Jaime’s own twin sister.

Ser Barristan didn’t know why he was still alive. He should have died with Rhaegar on the trident, he should have died protecting Elia, Rhaenys, and little Aegon, he should be dead. The rest of the Kingsguard, save for Jaime, died. Now, as he looks upon their replacements, he can’t help but be repulsed. In what world does Ser Arthur Dayne be replaced by the likes of Meryn Trant?

Despite his title, Robert doesn’t treat him as Lord Commander. He doesn’t let him inside small council meetings, though Barristan can understand that, the king is wise to be weary of his allegiance, especially considering there are many who still call him usurper. Robert doesn’t even trust his lord commanded to protect himself, choosing to have Jaime stationed outside his quarters, while he takes his meals, even while he takes walks.

Just as Ser Barristan begins to consider leaving the brotherhood, the only way he knows how, the new Queen gives birth to the first non-Targaryen princess the Seven Kingdoms have seen in nearly 300 years. She was named Helen, she was born with dark black hair like her fathers, her mothers complexion, and strangely enough-the most beautiful pair of purple eyes. Both Baratheon and Lannister sides have Targaryen ancestors, so it was explainable, but Helen became the first non-Targaryen to bear such eyes.

Her birth was like a ray of hope. Barristan can’t think of another way to explain it. She was hope, the hope of a new generation after the greatest rebellion in memory. Kingslanding celebrated for 10 days and 10 nights, gifts came from every corner of Westeros.

When Robert commands Ser Barristan to stand watch over the new princess, he is insulted. He is the greatest knight on his kingsguard, the most experienced, and they should have him spend his time watching over a baby? Even then, Ser Barristan feels watched. As he silently takes his post, he ignores the glances from the maids. Spies sent by Varys, no doubt. Did they think him capable of murdering a babe? They did not trust him. He knows, but he doesn’t say anything, he solemnly preforms his duty, he honours his white cloak and what it stands for.

Queen Cersei refused to let anyone else feed her. Cersei fed the child at her own breast, despite the fact she had the very best nursemaids available to her. But despite the care, the babe was weak. Ser Barristan was sure of it, why else would Maester Pycelle be coming at all hours of night and day?

One night, in the dead of night, as Ser Barristan stews at the humiliation of being relegated to a…a babysitter, the child begins to cry.

No maids come, the queen doesn’t come having been exhausted the past few nights, and there are no nursemaids. The child cries and cries until Ser Barristan’s ears ring. Surely whatever the Maester has done was working, sick children didn’t shriek like this.

After a moments hesitation, Ser Barristan enters the room once it’s clear no one is coming. Inside, the crying is louder. He carefully approached the cradle, peering over the edge. The little princess is swaddled tightly, her tiny face so red with tears that Ser Barristan can’t help but feel a pang of worry.

Barristan doesn’t know what to do. He has never been left with a child like this, he has never once been expected to preform childcare. He has no idea what to do, but he raises his hand and gently lays it on Helen’s stomach, gently shushing her as he does his best to comfort the princess.

When the princess opens her purple eyes, looking deep into his own, she stops crying. Perhaps the dark is playing tricks on him, but he thinks she even smiles.

“There there, princess Helen. You’re alright. What are you crying for?” Barristan asks rhetorically. He was petting her like he would a dog when a terrible thought comes to mind…was her diaper full? He glances outside, hoping to catch a nursemaid walking by, but nobody comes. He removes his hand to go fetch someone, but no sooner does his hand move-the princess begins to cry again.

Like a frazzled boy, he basically trips over his own feet getting back. Despite every alarm going off in his head, he gingerly picks up the young princess. He recalls how his own mother once held his baby cousin and does his best to replicate. Then he decides sitting is better, at least if he drops her while sitting she will end up on his lap-not splattered on the floor.

So, Ser Barristan the bold, the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, fits himself into a tiny rocking chair holding Westero’s great hope. He takes a sniff and doesn’t smell anything. He knows enough to know that a smelly diaper would be obvious. He gently rocks back and forth, reminding himself every so often to support her head. She is so small, Ser Barristan thinks he could hold her in the palm of his hand.

When Helen begins fussing, he instinctively sticks the tip of his finger into her mouth for her to suckle. He remembers how Princess Elia had done the same for Rhaenys and Aegon.

The little princess and the brave knight spend the next hour or two together like that. With the bold knight gently rocking back and forth, shushing any noise the sleeping princess makes. As he looks down at her, he realizes how stupid he has been. He believed watching over the Princess was a humiliation, a demotion. But now he felt great honour at being tasked with such a blessing. She was the Princess, heir to her father, a gentle babe who needed his gentle touch-the touch no other on the Kingsguard had.

Princess Helen would do a great many things, Ser Barristan decides. She would become the great Princess the realm has ever seen, she would be good, she would be kind, and she would surely be loved as she has already won him over with just one mere look.

It is in the early hours of dawn that the King and Queen come to check on their babe. They’re surprised to see their Lord Commander inside, let alone rocking their babe.

“She was crying, your graces, poor thing would stop until I picked her up,” Ser Barristan says apologetically as Cersei comes to pick up her child from the man she scarcely trusted. Helen fusses when she’s moved, but doesn’t cry.

He stands as the child is taken from him, facing the king as Cersei goes to place Helen back in her cradle.

“She is strong, my King, her crying might’ve taken my hearing if I hadn’t come in,” Ser Barristan smiles as he glances over Robert’s should’ve to the crib. Robert, to his credit, looks pleased at his assessment.

“She is strong like her father,” Robert agrees. Robert glances back and can’t help but smile. The lack of maids was done on purpose. Robert gambled with Helen’s life that night, to see what Barristan would do. Would he be a loyal or treacherous against him when left alone? Would he protect or murder his only heir? A child that he’s made obvious he loves.

Cersei didn’t get a wink of sleep all night, so afraid of what he might do. Nor did Robert to be honest, but he was glad at the outcome. This was a big step towards their…reconciliation of sorts.

“I will let you rest today, Lord Commander, as I’m sure you’ve had a long knight. But tomorrow, would you stand guard outside my door when the Bravossi ambassador arrives?” Robert asks.

Ser Barristan wants to say yes, this is, after all, what he’s been expecting for months. But…

“Who will watch over the princess in my absence, your grace?” Barristan asks.

“I will assign Ser Jaime, I’m sure he won’t let anything happen to his niece,” Robert shrugs, carefully watching for Barristan’s reaction. He can tell that Barristan wants to say yes, it is, after all, what he’s been expecting for months, but something stops him. He couldn’t directly deny the king, but gods, did he want to.

“…Or if it is all the same, you can watch over my daughter. The Bravossi ambassador will be bringing some companions, from what I hear, and I should have my Helen guarded at all times while they are here,” Robert suggests.

“If it is all the same, your grace…I will stand guard over the princess then,” Barristan agrees, rather quickly.

The Great War

You toss and turn all night.

You cannot sleep, not a wink.

It is the hour of the wolf, and your wedding was tomorrow. Tomorrow, you would married.

You dream.

Ever since you had met with Maester Aemon, your dreams had become more powerful, occurring in the day like they had never done before. Part of you was frightened, most of you was frightened-the other part, curious.

With a sigh, you get up and open your window, hoping the fresh air would clear your mind. The chill in the air forced you to pull your cover around yourself tighter as you look down at the castle that would become yours. You rub your neck as you look past the walls…onto nothing…nothing but snow.

Below, you spot someone walking across the courtyard.

It was Robb. Greywind was by his side, like he always was, walking ahead as if to scope for any danger.

If anyone could know how you felt, surely it would be Robb.

You grab your fur cloak and open your door.

Tonight, it was Ser Barristan who stood watch outside your door. It was at his insistence, he who claimed to have watched over you as a babe, should be the last to watch over you before your impending marriage-when you no longer became his duty to guard.

“Princess?”

“I should like to take a walk, Ser Barristan, I cannot find sleep,” you tell him as he looks down at you.

He offers you his arm and you take it, mind a million leagues away as he guides you outside.

“Where would you like to walk, Princess?” Ser Barristan asks once you’re outside.

“The Godswood, Ser, maybe if I should better see the place I am going to marry before the nerves will calm,” you tell him.

He nods understandingly as he leads you towards the Godswood.

“Ser Barristan, will you wait here? I shall like to see alone, perhaps pray to their gods for good fortune,” you tell him at the gate. He nods, letting you know that you should only need to breathe his name if you need him. He hands you the lantern he was holding, you thank him and head inside, careful to watch your step as you are unfamiliar in the dark.

Balerion flies ahead, landing beside you as he hops along side you.

“Sweet boy Balerion, I knew you’d be close” you smile, letting your old friend guide you towards the tree.

Robb is standing before the great Weirwood, he too had a candle lit.

Greywind notices you before Robb, his yip catches Robb’s attention as he turns to see.

“I see you cannot sleep either,” you say first, lifting the bottom of your gown slightly to step over a tree root.

“Princess, I didn’t hear you,” Robb says as he takes a step down to offer you his hand. You are grateful he seems happy to see you. You place your hand in his to stand beside him, looking up at the great tree in front of you.

“Are you happy to marry me, Robb?” You ask him suddenly, forcing him to look at you. You can’t bare to look at him, afraid of what his answer would be.

“I am honoured, to marry a princess of the realm will be the highest honour any Stark has been graced with in centuries,” Robb answers, almost mechanically.

“I know, you’ve said that before. But are you happy to marry me? You hardly know me, you did not ask for this marriage, will you not begrudge me later?” You ask, almost upset at the nature of the conversation.

“My lady-“

“Please, just be honest, I do not want to enter my marriage under…false pretenses,” you tell him, forcing yourself to look at him as well. There was no more time to dance about the subject, you were to be wed, no longer could you pretend you were merely getting to know him.

“I could never begrudge you, my lady. It is not my way,” he says simply. He looks confused, at least you think he does.

You sigh as you take a seat amongst the roots. The cold no longer bothers you, you’re too distracted to even notice.

“I once brought you in front of this tree, in front of my gods, and swore to you that I would be a comely husband, to honour you, and to never disgrace you. Starks are men of their words. I did not say what I did lightly, Princess, I meant every word,” he promises as he kneels in front of you.

“Are you having second thoughts, my lady?” He asks.

“I told you to call me Helen,” you say softly.

“Even if I did have second thoughts, I no longer have any choice in the matter. This is what I am meant to do, this is all I can do for my people,” you mumble as you pick at your fingers.

“Helen-“

“Do you think you could grow to love me one day?” You ask him plainly, biting your lip to prevent any tears from falling.

“I always dreamt of a love match, it might be stupid and naive, but I have always wished it for myself. I love my mother and father, but I could not bare it to have a marriage like them,” you tell him, as if you need to explain yourself.

“My mother told me that she did not love my father when they married, but they grew to. I am sorry if I have not been so very forthcoming with you, Helen, but I do very well believe we may grow to as well. I am already there, to be honest, but I should wait for you until you are ready,” Robb tells you, as he places his hand over your own.

“You love me already?” You question.

“I do, how couldn’t I?” He retorts, daring to raise a hand to tuck some of your hair behind your ear.

“Even though you know about my…my dreams?” You ask, raising your own hand to meet his, to keep his there on your cheek where it is warm.

“There is much I do not know, Helen, but I will learn in time. I want to know everything about you, and I want you to know me,” he says earnestly.

“Have no fear about our marriage, my lady, I will love and honour you for the rest of my days. I am happy to marry you, I am happy to have you by my side,” he promises.

“Me too,” you whisper back.

“Robb, I don’t want my first kiss to be in front of a crowd filled with people I do not know. Will you…will you kiss me once in front of your gods?” You ask him, a deep blush surely rising to your cheeks.

He nods, just so very slightly, and nods in a way you don’t think you would’ve noticed if your hand hadn’t crept over, instinctually, to cup his cheek.

He leans in and you close your eyes when he gets close. He hesitates for a moment before pressing his lips into yours. Your stomach has so many butterflies in them you wonder if you’ll become sick, your leg shakes in anticipation and nerves.

But he is calm where you are not, and gentle as he cups the back of your head to guide you. His warmth envelops you like a hug.

The kiss is chaste, but it is what you had expected your first kiss to be like.

“I would kiss you better, my lady, but I’d hate to dishonour you so soon before our wedding,” he chuckles, a bit awkwardly, after he parts from you. He remains close though, close enough that his nose touches yours.

You nod in agreement, unsure of what to say next.

“I hope you’ve found what you were looking for tonight, Princess, to ease your mind,” he says softly as he pulls back even more, allowing you to clear your throat as you look up at the stars.

“I have, thank you, Robb. You have always been so kind,” you tell him, offering him a smile. He stands and offers you a hand to follow him up. He leans down and presses a kiss to your hand.