RUYAN
The ring was marked. Dust settled in the windless morning.
Ruyan stood alone at its center, her breath even. Light armor over fighting leathers—steel lacquered black, movements unhindered. Hair knotted high and tight. Celestial steel blade on innher scabbars on her back. Meteor hammer coiled beside it.
Speed over strength. Movement over mass.
Across from her, Ser Loras Tyrell stepped forward in full golden plate. Sword in hand. Calmer now, but grief clung to him like shadow. They were of equal height. Not of mind.
The herald's voice rang out. "Trial by combat. Let the gods judge."
Loras attacked first.
Steel rang as they met. He was strong—she felt the power behind each strike. She was faster. After several exchanges, the pattern was clear. Her speed outmatched him, but his reach and armor turned telling blows into nothing.
He favors his right—slight drop in the left shoulder on recovery. Old wound or habit?
Her advantage was time. And motion.
She adapted.
Attack. Retreat. Shift angle. Move again.
Strike from new lines, never where expected. Her footwork kept him turning, tiring, forced to fight her momentum as well as her blade.
His blade caught silk. A sharp rip split across her side—clean, practiced, meant to open flesh.
But there was no blood. Only a flash of lacquered black beneath, the glint of metal scales catching sunlight.
Ruyan exhaled slowly. So much for subtlety.
Let them see.
Let the court know she hadn't come unarmed. She had come prepared.
Then came the shift.
She drew the scabbard into her other hand. Twin weapons now.
Her assault turned relentless.
Loras parried, barely keeping pace. Sparks flew. Then with a brutal twist, he disarmed her scabbard, sending it skittering across the ring.
He thinks this gives him advantage. Wrong.
Ruyan pivoted. Locked blades. Then drove her knee upward into his stomach. He staggered.
She ducked past him—low, spinning. Three slices.
The crowd gasped.
His backplate fell away, followed by the gleaming leg plates. The armor hadn't broken—it had been cut clean.
Celestial steel through castle-forged iron. Every cut precise.
Loras let out a breath between clenched teeth. Furious now. He threw off the remaining pieces of his leg armor with a grunt.
Anger makes him predictable.
Ruyan mirrored him. Armor for armor.
No more guards between flesh and steel.
She moved first this time. Her strikes came harder—faster. She wasn't dancing anymore. She was demonstrating the difference between Western swordplay and Eastern mastery.
Four successive blows. The last one snapped his sword in two.
"Yield," she said.
He didn't.
He threw the remains aside and drew a dagger.
Foolish. She sheathed her sword.
He lunged, dagger low.
She didn't retreat.
She rose.
Ruyan moved like smoke—her form folding around his guard. She caught his wrist mid-thrust, used his momentum to turn him. Applied pressure beneath the wrist—temporary paralysis. The dagger fell from nerveless fingers.
He hit the ground and rolled, training asserting itself even in defeat. But when he looked up, she was already moving.
Her body turned with impossible grace, a full aerial arc. Her foot slammed into his ribs. He staggered.
She didn't stop.
She vaulted upward, twisting midair—her knee caught his shoulder, her heel sweeping behind his legs. He hit the ground, hard.
He tried to rise—
She was already airborne again. A final spinning kick landed square against his cheek, driving him flat against the dirt. The breath went out of him in a gasp.
Ruyan landed softly, crouched, the dagger now in her hand.
She straightened. Walked to him. Calm. Controlled.
Then, with no fanfare, she drew a line across the curve of his ear — shallow, surgical.
Just enough to draw blood.
Close enough to humiliate. Controlled enough to send a message.
I could have taken more.
Silence.
Then the crowd erupted.
The herald's voice rang out again. "The gods have spoken. She is acquitted."
But she wasn't finished. She had won the trial, proven her innocence. Now came the lesson.
"I asked Ser Loras to yield. He refused. Under your laws, his life is forfeit."
She turned toward the Tyrell pavilion.
"I choose not to take it. His life is mine. I spare it."
Let them understand what mercy truly means. What power looks like when it chooses restraint.
Gasps. Murmurs. Tyrells rising in protest.
"I submitted to your gods and your laws. Now you will submit to mine."
She paused.
"Under Yitish law, slander against an imperial bloodline is punishable by death. As of today, Ser Loras Tyrell is my guest. He will remain under Yitish protection. Judged as our laws require."
A hostage dressed as honor. They cannot protest without seeming ungrateful.
Garlan surged to rise—but Margaery's hand caught his wrist.
Ruyan met Margaery's eyes across the ring—steady, unblinking.
She sees it. At least one Tyrell has sense.
After that spectacle, the Tyrells met with Ruyan in Renly's tent. Loras was not bound, but Lihua and another guard flanked him.
Mace Tyrell spoke first. He was more composed now, but the weight of the duel still clung to him.
"You have no right to detain Loras."
Ruyan didn't rise. She looked at him, calm and cold.
"I have every right. His life was forfeit. I chose to spare it. That makes it mine to claim—or protect."
"You'll find yourself an enemy of our house if you do this," Garlan said, voice low with threat.
She met his stare evenly.
"Let me be clear. I may answer to your laws as Lady of Winterfell, but I am first an Imperial Princess. You accused me of Kingslaying, punishable by death or the Wall. In Yi Ti, slander against the imperial bloodline is punishable by death. Your brother's words nearly cost me mine."
"Perhaps," Margaery interjected, her tone careful, "we might find a more diplomatic resolution."
Ruyan didn't blink.
"Him taken as guest is diplomacy."
"You are outnumbered," Garlan said again—barely veiled now.
"And I will still fight and maybe get injured in the process. I may become your captive," her voice thinned slightly. "But such an outcome will have consequences."
There it was—a sliver of steel behind the calm. Not rage. Not fear. But strain. As if her patience had been measured and meted, and now the final grains were slipping.
Ruyan stood.
"I will give you a chance to reclaim him. Trial by duel. With Lihua. But know this"—she paused, eyes flicking to Loras—"it would be to the death."
A long silence.
Then, to her surprise, Loras spoke—quietly. "No."
Ruyan narrowed her eyes.
"I will go," he said. "As her guest."
Garlan tensed. Mace said nothing. But no one moved to stop him.
Ruyan studied Loras carefully. He didn't look at her. Didn't flinch. He had made his choice—and for now, that was enough.
She gave a nod to Lihua.
"Then let it be recorded," she said. "Ser Loras Tyrell is under the protection of the Grand Princess Royal. Until such time as judgment is rendered under Yitish law."
CATELYN
She still couldn't really feel a sense of relief that Ruyan was freed because she took Loras.
"We don't need to have an enmity against the Tyrells, free Loras now and have this behind us."
"He is insurance. What I said about Baelish is true, he is here to secure a Tyrell alliance."
Catelyn almost forgot that statement from the trial. Now she felt conflicted—unsure if Ruyan's words had been truth or just tactical misdirection. But she has had doubts creeping ever since her confrontation with her at Moat Cailin.
"How did you know this?" Catelyn asked.
"Through spying." Ruyan said flatly.
Ruyan looked at her with that grating cold and expressionless face of hers. "You will find out more later, but when I speak to him I want you hidden at earshot."
"Why do I need to hide? It is better that you talk to him in my presence. He is my friend." Catelyn said.
"It is for that same reason that you shouldn't."
Catelyn begrudgingly agreed and was ushered behind the small tent but was able to peep through the tent opening.
Soon after Petyr was brought to Ruyan by Lihua. Where were his guards? Catelyn feared Lihua may have done something to them.
Petyr greeted the princess with his usual coolness, but Catelyn saw the tension in his shoulders. He sat only after Ruyan gestured to the opposite chair.
He was nervous. She was certain of it—as Ruyan poured the tea with unnerving calm.
"Most gracious, truly," Petyr said, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. "I must have done something right in a past life, to deserve tea from the Grand Princess herself."
Catelyn didn't know the meaning behind YiTish tea ceremony—but the way Ruyan poured felt deliberate. Ritualistic. The kind of offering made before judgment.
Baelish took a careful sip.
"White Ember," Ruyan said softly. "It clears the mind. Makes it difficult to lie. Even to oneself."
Petyr's smile twitched. "Then it's a rare stock indeed. Truth is an expensive habit."
Ruyan nodded—then placed the Valyrian dagger before him, quiet as snowfall.
"You told Lady Stark you lost this dagger to Tyrion Lannister."
He didn't miss a beat. "I told her what I knew. I lost it to Tyrion—or thought I had. Things change hands quickly in the capital."
Ruyan said nothing. She let the silence stretch.
"Lord Tyrion was in Winterfell when Lady Stark arrived in the capital," she said at last. "He didn't send the assassin."
"You seem... certain," Petyr replied, too lightly.
"Just as Lady Stark was—after you named him."
Petyr tilted his head. "I said I lost it to him. I never claimed to know who sent the knife. These things wander. Like whispers in the dark."
And yet, Catelyn thought, he'd sounded so sure when he told her. So calm. So precise.
Ruyan unsheathed the blade, turned it in her hand. Catelyn felt her skin crawl. The way a judge might hold a seal: final, absolute
"Jaime Lannister said you didn't lose it to Lord Tyrion," Ruyan said. "But to King Robert. He claimed Tyrion never wagered against him—and Lord Tyrion said the same."
Catelyn's heart began to pound. The thought had festered for moons—what if it had never been Tyrion?
"And the Kingslayer's word is gospel now?" Petyr said coolly. "He'd say anything with a blade at his throat. Men like him sharpen lies faster than steel."
"He denied the attempt on Bran," Ruyan replied. "But he admitted to pushing the child. He was even proud of it."
Her eyes didn't move from Petyr's face. "Grief clouds judgment—so does loyalty. And friendship."
Then her voice went cold. "You lied to my goodmother."
"I didn't lie to her." Petyr's tone was quieter now—not contrite, but wary. "I gave her what she needed to act. Truth is often a matter of timing."
"So you say."
A beat of silence.
"A friend of Catelyn Stark," Ruyan said, "now here to secure a Tyrell alliance. For the Lannisters."
"Cat is my friend," Petyr said smoothly. "But I serve the crown. As I must."
"Renly mentioned that Lord Stark had the gold cloaks secured by you."
Catelyn's breath caught. That had been so long ago—almost too painful to remember. Ned had trusted Petyr. Trusted him.
Ruyan's gaze was razor-sharp. "Will you deny that as well?"
Petyr was silent for a breath too long. Then:
"If I did promise them, it was because Lord Stark had lawful claim. But claims shift. The gold cloaks did what was necessary when the time came. As did I."
Catelyn stared. He said it so easily. As if Ned's death had been a weather report. As if betrayal were just a matter of protocol.
"You served Lord Stark," Ruyan said, "then the crown. Now the Lannisters."
"And you serve the North. And Yi Ti. "We all wear crowns of convenience, Princess—only we pretend they're iron."
Ruyan stood, unblinking.
"In Yi Ti," she said, "there is a saying: a man with many masters serves only himself. And that master is always the most dangerous."
Then she called without raising her voice. "Lihua. Take Lord Baelish as our guest as well."
Petyr's smile faltered. Just for a breath.
His eyes flicked toward the tent entrance——calculating.
Then he exhaled, slow. "Ah. I see."
He didn't protest. Didn't rise.
That, more than anything, made Catelyn's stomach twist.
Guest. That was what she'd called Loras, too.