WHISPER IN THE WIND
The sky above the Crownlands stretched like an inverted ocean, an endless blue filled with warm currents of wind.
A jet-black raven glided gallantly through the air, the steady beat of its wings creating a soothing rhythm amidst the silence of the heights. To the raven, the world below was merely a slow-moving pattern of colors and shapes. It had traversed this route countless times, an invisible map etched in its blood and instinct.
A sprawling expanse of dark green rose up. Trees stood dense, their canopies forming a thick carpet that concealed the wildlife beneath. From this height, the Kingswood looked peaceful, a sharp contrast to the small object tightly bound to the raven's leg—a scroll of parchment that looked fresh.
The raven flapped harder as the sea breeze began to hit. The view below changed drastically. The green of the trees faded, replaced by the grey and brown of stone.
The city appeared on the horizon. Thousands of buildings crowded together like mushrooms growing wild on the riverbank. Rooftops, stone towers, and winding streets formed a giant labyrinth. In the crevices between those buildings, thousands of tiny specks moved—humans. They walked, worked, and dragged their own burdens, engaging in activities that to the raven were merely incomprehensible complexities.
Its destination was near. The largest structure of them all, a fortress of pale red stone perched atop a high hill overlooking the sea, called to it.
The raven folded its wings slightly, allowing a pull to draw it down in a controlled dive. It flew lower, past the thick walls, towards a specific rookery full of small windows.
It landed on the stone sill with the sharp click of talons.
An old man emerged from the darkness of the room. The human moved slowly, his body draped in loose, old grey robes, and a heavy metal chain hung around his neck, clinking softly with every movement. Wrinkled old hands reached out, stroking the raven's black feathers with a practiced motion before trembling fingers untied the parchment from the bird's leg.
The raven did not care for the object. It was carried to a large cage on the wall, where a bowl of food awaited. It pecked at its prize happily; the meal was paradise.
…
Sunlight streaming through the window illuminated the scroll of parchment in Grand Maester Pycelle's hand.
His old eyes narrowed, staring at the red wax seal holding the scroll. The three-headed dragon crest was stamped clearly there. The Targaryen seal. This was a letter for the Queen. Pycelle knew it even before reading it. For the past month, he had been the silent intermediary between the battlefield and the Queen's chambers, receiving weekly letters that always arrived carrying the same weight of anxiety.
Every time a letter like this came, the Queen would receive it with a hollow face, as if her life was slowly being drained by the waiting.
Pycelle wasted no time. He exited his chambers, his steps slightly faster than usual, driven by the urgency of the situation and a burning curiosity. The siege at Duskendale was the only thing the court thought of these days. The sooner the Queen read it, the better.
He walked through the cold stone corridors of the Red Keep. His old feet trod step after step, turning down hallways he had memorized over decades of service. He ignored the servants sweeping the floors and the guards standing stiff at their posts. His mind was fixed only on the door to the Queen's chambers.
Upon arriving, he stopped. A Kingsguard knight stood silent before the door, his white cloak trailing. Pycelle nodded briefly, a silent gesture understood by the guard.
Pycelle's old hand knocked on the thick wooden door. Three times.
Pycelle stepped inside. The scent in the room immediately assaulted his senses—a mixture of herbs, lavender, and warm milk, an attempt to create calm amidst the storm.
He stopped a few steps from the chair by the window. Queen Rhaella sat there, her back to the light. She was holding Prince Viserys, rocking the babe with a slow rhythm. The Queen's face looked pale, her eyes surrounded by dark circles that signaled sleepless nights.
Pycelle bowed deeply. He stepped forward slowly, presenting the scroll with both trembling hands. "You have a letter from the Prince in Duskendale again, my Queen. Still sealed and in good condition."
Queen Rhaella turned. Her gaze fell upon the red seal in Pycelle's hand. She understood.
Carefully, the Queen placed Prince Viserys into the crib beside her. Her movements were slow, as if delaying the inevitable moment. She stood, smoothed her gown, then reached out to accept the letter.
Her thin fingers broke the wax seal with a small snap that sounded too loud in the silent room.
The Queen unrolled the scroll. Her eyes began to trace the lines of sharp handwriting on the parchment.
Pycelle stood still, observing every change in the Queen's face. He saw Rhaella's violet eyes widen slightly, her pupils dilating as she read the first words. He saw the Queen's breath catch.
Then, the change happened.
The Queen's eyes reddened rapidly. Her chest began to heave, her breathing becoming fast and shallow, as if she had just run a great distance. The hand holding the letter trembled violently, making the parchment rustle.
One tear fell, then followed by another, flowing heavily down her cheeks, complete without a sound. The Queen's shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the entire world had just been dropped upon her, or perhaps, just lifted.
In that moment, Pycelle knew that the King was dead.
…
Aerys was gone.
The words had no sound, yet they echoed inside Rhaella Targaryen's mind with a force more devastating than any scream. The sentence bounced off the walls of her skull, over and over, a mantra of death that refused to be comprehended.
Aerys was gone. My husband. My King. My brother.
She stared at the parchment in her hand, but the letters were now blurry, swimming in a pool of tears she hadn't realized had gathered in her eyelids. It felt unreal. It felt like a cruel joke or a strange nightmare. It felt like only yesterday she heard her husband's heavy footsteps in the corridor, a sound that always made her hold her breath in fear. It felt like only yesterday she saw Aerys's shadow in the doorway.
But now, the man was gone. Truly gone. Forever. There would be no more screaming in the middle of the night. No anger she had to face.
Yet, instead of feeling relieving freedom, Rhaella felt a sudden wave of nausea. Her stomach churned. She didn't know what she was feeling. Was this grief? Was a wife supposed to weep when her husband died, even if that husband had turned into a monster? Or were these tears of relief?
The ignorance made her feel filthy. She felt guilty for not being completely broken, and felt foolish for still crying for a man who had hurt her so deeply.
"My Queen?" Grand Maester Pycelle's voice sounded distant, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel.
Rhaella jerked back to the present. She raised a trembling hand, wiping her cheeks roughly, trying, and failing, to remove the traces of tears that continued to flow. Her nose was stuffed, and every intake of breath felt heavy, as if the air in the room had suddenly become thin.
She could not speak. Her voice was locked in a choked throat. So she just stared at Pycelle, the old man standing hunched with a face full of faux concern, and gave a weak hand gesture. Go. Leave me alone.
Pycelle, who had served the court long enough to recognize when to disappear, bowed deeply. "I will... I will inform the Small Council, Your Grace. Grieve in peace."
The door closed with a soft click, leaving Rhaella in a silence that suddenly felt vast and terrifying.
She placed the letter on the wooden chest beside the bed, as if the paper itself were poisonous. Her fingers touched the cold wooden surface, seeking a grip on reality.
Her gaze shifted to the crib near the window. Viserys.
The little Prince squirmed softly in his blankets, his large violet eyes staring at the painted ceiling. He was not crying. He was calm, unaware that his world had just shifted on its axis.
Rhaella stepped closer, her feet feeling like mud. She reached out, lifting her son from the basket. The babe was warm and heavy in her arms, a tangible, living weight amidst the death surrounding them.
She carried Viserys to the chair by the window, sat, and hugged him tight. She looked at her son's face, truly looked at him, searching for traces of the blood flowing in his veins.
Viserys had the same eyes as Aerys, a beautiful pale purple that could turn cold in an instant. He had the same high nose, the same shape of cheeks. It was a true Targaryen face.
It was beautiful. Very beautiful. But for Rhaella, that beauty now carried shadows of fear.
Is this a gift? she asked silently, her slender forefinger tracing the babe's soft jawline. Or a curse?
Her memory drifted back, past the years of darkness, back to a time she had almost forgotten. She remembered young Aerys. Before the crown burdened him, before the whispers poisoned his mind.
Once, Aerys was a man full of affection. She remembered his charming smile, the way his eyes sparkled when telling of his grand plans to build a new marble palace or conquer the Stepstones. She remembered how Aerys would hold her hand as they walked in the gardens, asking how she fared with warm sincerity, bringing her small gifts. She remembered their laughter.
That Aerys had existed. He was real. Rhaella had once loved him.
But that man had died years ago, long before Denys Darklyn or Barristan Selmy touched him. That man died slowly, eaten by suspicion, by failure, by unfulfilled ambition. That love and affection vanished with the passing of time, layer by layer, until only the dry bones of hatred remained, unquenched. Aerys had let the darkness swallow him, and in the process, he tried to drag everyone around him into that darkness too.
Rhaella looked at Viserys again. The baby yawned, his tiny hand gripping his mother's finger.
"No," whispered Rhaella, her voice hoarse but full of steel resolve.
She would not let that happen again. She would not let that darkness claim her son. Viserys must not become a second Aerys.
The Gods might flip a coin every time a Targaryen is born, but Rhaella swore she would catch that coin before it landed on the wrong side.
She would raise Viserys differently. She would not let him grow in the shadow of toxic greatness. She would instill affection, not fear. She would teach him to trust, not suspect. She would give him genuine attention, not spoil him with delusions of power.
She would be a shield for her son, protecting him from the poison of madness flowing in their family's blood.
Rhaegar... Rhaegar was grown. He was strong, he had his own demons, but he survived. He had a good heart. Rhaella had succeeded with Rhaegar, though she had to protect him from afar.
Now, she had a second chance with Viserys.
She kissed her son's smooth forehead, inhaling the scent of a baby, holy and clean. Tears flowed down her cheeks again, but this time, they felt different. These were not tears for Aerys. These were tears for a promise.
"Good boy..." she sobbed softly, rocking Viserys as the baby began to whimper quietly. "Good boy... do not cry. Mother is here. Mother is not going anywhere."
…
The night wind blew gently, carrying the scent of salt that clung to the tongue. On the deck of the merchant ship Sea Silence, the atmosphere was quiet enough, a contrast to the hustle and bustle of the Oldtown harbor hours ago. The ship sailed slicing through relatively calm waves, its sails billowing with a favorable wind, carrying them closer to their destination: Lannisport.
Rowan sat on a wooden crate near the ship's rail, away from the crowd of crewmen gambling near the mainmast. In his hand was a glass of blood-red wine, the best quality that Lord Hightower's money could buy. He raised the glass to the moon, admiring the dark ruby color reflected within.
He sipped it slowly, letting the sweet and tart liquid wash over his tongue before swallowing. He was no barbarian like the sailors there who guzzled cheap ale as if it were ditch water. Rowan was a craftsman. He liked to enjoy small things, observing details, feeling textures. That was what distinguished him from coarse men. That was what made him the best cabinetmaker in Oldtown before his business was ruined.
"You're not eating it, Rowan?"
The voice shattered his reverie. Rowan turned and saw Shayne sitting across from him, on a coil of rope. The man was completely bald, his face round and oily, with eyes that were always hungry. Shayne stared at the plate in front of Rowan with disturbing intensity. On that plate, a piece of white wheat bread, another luxury on this ship, lay untouched.
Rowan smiled thinly. His clean, clean-shaven face hid a subtle disgust. He slid the plate towards his friend.
"Eat it," said Rowan softly. "My stomach is still full from the fried fish earlier. I'm not confident enough to put anything else in without vomiting it into the sea."
"You're the best!" exclaimed Shayne, his eyes twinkling. He snatched the bread with a zeal that was nearly savage, and immediately took a huge bite. Breadcrumbs fell onto his thin, sparse beard.
Rowan watched his friend eat. They were two childhood friends who grew up in the narrow alleys of Oldtown. Once, they were both woodworkers. Rowan made cabinets with intricate carvings for lords, while Shayne made sturdy chairs and tables. They once had a future.
"Later if—" Shayne spoke with his mouth full, spraying a few crumbs, "If we get the money, I will surely pay you back ten times this bread! I'll buy you sweet cakes from Highgarden every day!"
Rowan grimaced softly. "Just eat, Shayne," he chided gently, sipping his wine again. "It is impolite to speak with a full mouth. Taste the bread. Enjoy the texture, the flavor. And be grateful that we can still eat."
"I am grateful!" Shayne swallowed his chew with difficulty, then grinned widely. "It's just in my way! My way is to finish it until nothing is left!"
Rowan did not answer. He looked out at the dark, choppy sea. His thoughts drifted to their mission.
One hundred and twenty gold dragons. That was an extraordinary amount. Lord Hightower, the ruler of Oldtown, was very generous this time. He gave them an advance of two hundred gold dragons for this journey. Rowan had already handed thirty pieces to his wife, to ensure she and the children could eat while he was away. Fifty pieces were kept by Shayne, the rest, one hundred and twenty pieces, were in a hidden pocket inside Rowan's tunic.
Bribe money.
Their task was simple yet dangerous. They had to infiltrate Lannisport. Not as spies, but as craftsmen looking for work. They would seek out the workers of the Lannister paper mill. At that moment they could discuss, and Rowan would whisper words. And slip a few coins to them.
Rowan was sure he could do it. As a craftsman who often made precision tools, he understood the nature of making. He understood wood. If he could see the device, the printing press or whatever its name was, and the paper-making tools even if only at a glance, or get a rough sketch from a worker, Rowan could reverse engineer it. He could determine if it was truly an unstoppable threat, or just a cheap trick that could be copied.
Lord Hightower and the Maesters at the Citadel were in a panic. Rowan could smell the fear when he met them. They felt threatened. Their city was the center of the world's knowledge, the light of wisdom. And suddenly, a Lannister boy appeared with paper and a magic machine, making their ancient methods look obsolete and slow. It wounded their ego. It made them look foolish.
And men with wounded egos would pay dearly to restore their pride.
Rowan understood that. He understood very well the fear of becoming irrelevant.
"I envy you," Rowan said suddenly, breaking the silence between them. He looked at Shayne who was now licking his greasy fingers. "Your stomach seems able to expand at your will to devour more food. You are never full, are you?"
Shayne raised his thin eyebrows, then laughed heartily. "Well, this is my family's advantage for generations! I suppose it is a blessing of the Seven to enjoy everything in this world while one can."
"In that case, you perhaps should open an eatery if we make it home," Rowan suggested, half-joking, half-serious. "If you want to enjoy it deeper, be the one who cooks it."
"Bah." Shayne shook his head, his face turning slightly gloomy. "I'm not good at cooking. My wife... my wife's cooking is delicious. She used to make amazing meat pies. But..."
Shayne fell silent. Rowan knew the rest. Shayne's wife was a beautiful woman, though to Rowan still less graceful than his own wife. But Shayne's wife had poor health. Her spine was weak, she couldn't stand too long without pain. Her stomach often cramped violently, 'like it was twisted' she said.
Rowan knew that was the reason why Shayne's business went bankrupt. Not just because he was lazy, but because he spent every copper he had to pay healers and medicines that never cured his wife. He ran out of capital to buy wood. He lost his shop. And finally, he lost his pride, ending up as a hired lackey for this dangerous mission.
"She will get well, Shayne," said Rowan quietly, trying to give hope. "With the gold we bring home, you can pay a real Maester for her. Not a street healer."
Shayne's eyes glistened for a moment. He nodded quickly, then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yes. Right. A real Maester. She will get well."
He took Rowan's wine bottle without permission and swigged directly from the neck, a crude way of drinking that usually annoyed Rowan. But this time, Rowan let him.
Rowan looked back at the moon. In Lannisport yonder, there was wealth waiting. There were secrets to be stolen. And if necessary... there was a fire to be lit.
…
The walls of Winterfell were made of grey granite, cold, sturdy, and built to withstand winter winds that could freeze blood in the veins. But inside one of the chambers, there was a fire burning that did not come from the hearth.
That fire was Lyanna Stark.
The maid of ten and one name days spun in the center of her room, her thick wool skirt flaring around her like the petals of a wildflower blown by a storm. She was not dancing the polite dances taught to a lady, stiff and boring steps designed to attract a husband. No, Lyanna danced to the rhythm of freedom she created herself in her head.
Her feet stomped the stone floor covered in bear skin rugs, her arms outstretched as if wanting to touch the walls that had confined her all this time.
King's Landing!
The name tasted like honey on her tongue. The South. A place where, according to the stories of singers who stopped at Winterfell, the wind was warm and intoxicating, smelling of lemon blossoms and salty sea, not of wet snow and frozen horse dung. After so long trapped in this cold stone castle, guarded by walls that seemed to say 'you may not leave', finally the cage door was open.
The King was dead.
The news came with a jet-black raven shivering from cold. Her father, Lord Rickard Stark, received it with a grim face that was appropriate. Maester Walys spoke of it with feigned respectful tones. All of Winterfell wore a mask of grief.
Lyanna knew she should be sad. He was her King, protector of the realm. Yet, tears refused to come. She did not know the man. Aerys Targaryen was just a name in history books, a distant figure unreal in her eyes. He was nobody to her but an excuse for a journey.
But Lyanna, in her own strange way, still sent a brief prayer. May the King die in peace, and thank you, she thought sincerely, thank you for your sacrifice that allows me to see the world.
She spun again, faster this time, until her head felt a pleasant dizziness.
She imagined the journey awaiting. The Kingsroad stretching thousands of miles. Flowers blooming in the Riverlands. Vast green meadows. And adventure!
Her grey Stark eyes twinkled mischievously. They might meet wolves on the road later, not the direwolves of her family sigil, but real wild wolves. Or perhaps bandits? Or mountain clans coming down seeking prey?
The thought should have been terrifying for a little girl, but for Lyanna, it was an opportunity. She glanced at the corner of the room, where a wooden sword, which she had stolen from the armory and hidden behind her clothes chest, leaned. She could practice her swordsmanship without hesitation! She would prove to her Father that she was not weak. That wolf blood flowed just as swiftly in her veins as in theirs.
She picked up a small wooden stick from the table, her temporary sword substitute, and began slashing the air, imagining she was fighting an evil knight on the Kingsroad.
"Hia! Take that!" she cried, stabbing the pillow on her bed.
"What are you doing?"
The voice, full of amusement and annoying familiarity, shattered her fantasy like a falling mirror.
Lyanna blinked, her body freezing mid-slash. She immediately lowered her stick and spun toward the door.
There, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed and a characteristic smirk on his face, stood Brandon Stark. Her eldest brother. Heir to Winterfell. And the person most skilled at annoying her in all the North.
He entered without permission! Again!
Lyanna's face reddened instantly, heat creeping from her neck to the roots of her dark hair, from anger at her privacy being violated.
"What am I doing, you ask?" Lyanna hissed, throwing her wooden stick onto the bed. She put hands on her hips, glaring at her brother with a challenging gaze. "Look at what you are doing! You entered my room without knocking! Did Father never teach you manners, or did your brain freeze outside?"
Brandon laughed, a deep and rich sound. He stepped inside, not intimidated in the slightest by his sister's anger. "And watching you go mad, it seems," he commented casually, his eyes sweeping the room messy from Lyanna's 'dance'.
"I am not mad!"
"You're jumping around and stabbing innocent pillows," Brandon grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Lyanna hated him when he was like this, too handsome, too confident, too Brandon. "You're like a hen roasting on a pan, Lya. Or perhaps a wolf with fleas?"
"Quiet!" snorted Lyanna loudly. Her cheeks were still flushing, but now embarrassment began to mix with her annoyance. "You better have something important, Brandon. Something very important. Or I will punch you right in the gut."
Brandon raised both hands in a mock surrender style, though the smile never left his lips. "Peace, Wild Wolf. I come in peace."
He walked closer and sat on the edge of the large wooden chest containing Lyanna's things. "I just wanted to ensure that you have packed all your gear. The journey will take place in two days, right at dawn. The journey South is long, Lya. I don't want you whining in the middle of the road because you forgot your hairbrush or your doll."
Lyanna rolled her eyes so hard her head hurt. "Of course I've packed them," she said sharply. She kicked the chest lightly with her toe. "Everything is in here. The stupid dresses Father told me to bring, thick cloaks, boots. No need for you to check me like a babe. I am ten and one name days, not three."
"Ten and one" said Brandon, his tone suddenly changing a bit softer, more serious. He looked at his sister with a gaze hard to interpret, a mix of brotherly affection and awareness of how fast time passed. "Grown up."
Lyanna didn't like that change of tone. It made her feel she was being observed as merchandise, not as his sister. She changed the subject.
"Ned will be there too, right?" she asked, mentioning the name of her quiet and reserved second brother, Eddard, who was being fostered at The Eyrie. She missed Ned. Ned never teased her like Brandon.
"Yes," Brandon nodded, the mischievous grin returning to his face. "Ned will come from the Vale. We will meet in King's Landing."
Brandon paused for a moment, as if savoring a secret he was about to tell. "And he will be with Robert Baratheon..."
The name fell between them like a heavy stone.
Lyanna's spirit that had been overflowing suddenly receded. Her shoulders slumped slightly.
Robert Baratheon. Heir to Storm's End. Her betrothed.
The name sounded gallant to many ears. But to Lyanna, the name sounded like a prison door slamming shut. She only knew little about the man from Ned's letters and servants' gossip, that he was strong as a bull, loved to laugh loud, and loved... women.
But it wasn't Robert's reputation that bothered her most. What she hated most was the concept itself. That she, Lyanna Stark, who had wolf blood and dreams of flying free, would be 'owned' by a man. That she would be handed over like a racehorse or a plot of land to strengthen alliances.
She hadn't gone anywhere in this world! She was just about to see the South for the first time. She didn't want anyone locking her in a strange castle, forcing her to wear silk dresses, and spending the rest of her life just to serve the 'husband' and bear his children. The concept was an unpleasant, suffocating thing, and she couldn't bear to think of it without wanting to scream.
Why did women have so few choices? Why could Brandon choose his own path, could fight, could wander, while she had to sit sweet and wait to be chosen?
"I don't care about him," Lyanna said quietly, her voice losing its fire, replaced by the chill of ice. She looked away, staring at her bedroom window. "I don't want to meet him."
"You must, Lya," said Brandon, his voice now serious, the voice of an heir who understood duty. "He is your future husband. He is a good man, Ned likes him. They are like brothers."
"That is because Ned likes everyone who isn't evil," muttered Lyanna. "And Robert likes Ned. That doesn't mean he will like me, or I will like him."
Brandon grimaced slightly, not expecting his sister knew the gossip. "Robert will be a strong and protective husband. Storm's End is a great castle."
"A castle is still a cage, no matter how great," retorted Lyanna sharply.
She turned to face Brandon again, her eyes lighting up again with determination. She didn't want to ruin her mood today. She was going South. She would be free, at least for a while.
"Never mind," she said, waving a hand. "I don't want to talk about husbands or marriage. I just want to see the tourney."
Brandon looked at her with a flat stare, eyebrows raised. "Tourney? Lya, we are going there for a funeral. King Aerys is dead. The whole city will be in mourning. Flags at half-mast, bells tolling, septons chanting. This is a somber event."
"Why must there be a tourney at a funeral?" Brandon asked sarcastically.
"Why not?" Lyanna rolled her eyes. "If I were buried, there must be a tourney. I want people to fight to honor me! I want to see knights knocking each other off horses. I want to see swords clashing. What is the use of dying if people only cry in boredom?"
Brandon laughed again, this time a laugh full of disbelief but also admiration. He shook his head, looking at his sister as if she were the strangest creature he had ever met.
"You're mad, Lya," said Brandon grinning widely. "Truly mad. The wolf blood is too thick in you."
"Better mad than boring," replied Lyanna, picking up her wooden stick from the bed. She pointed it at Brandon's chest. "Now, get out of my room. I have an imaginary dragon to slay before supper."
Brandon stood, raising hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, Princess. See you at the dining table. Don't forget to wash your face, you're red as a tomato."
He stepped out, closing the door behind him.
Lyanna stood still for a moment after he left. Her smile faded a little. She stared at the closed door, thinking of King's Landing, thinking of Robert Baratheon, and thinking of the future awaiting her.
But then she shook her head, banishing the gloomy image. She had a wooden sword in her hand, and the world out there awaited her.
She spun again, slashing the air with a spirit more burning than before. She decided she would enjoy her journey.
And nothing would stand in the way of that.
…
The sea breeze blowing over the hill no longer carried a fresh scent. Today, the wind was heavy, wet, and smelled of death. The smell of wet ash, charred wood, and something sweet but sickening, the smell of burning flesh, still clung to the air of Duskendale like a ghost refusing to leave.
Talia stood silent, her feet buried in the cold mud of a makeshift graveyard on the hill. Before her, a mound of freshly dug wet earth looked black and pathetic, marked only by a rough piece of wood stuck in askew. No headstone, no beautiful name carving. Just scrap wood bearing one name scratched with a knife: Clark.
Drizzle began to fall again, wetting Talia's dull brown hair and sticking it to her gaunt cheeks. She didn't feel it. She felt numb, as if half her soul had been forcibly ripped out and buried in that mound of earth.
Her left hand felt warm. A small hand, soft and tiny, gripped her fingers tightly. Clara.
The little girl of three name days looked up, her round and innocent eyes staring at her mother with confusion. She didn't understand why her mother cried soundlessly. She didn't understand why her father didn't come home to hold her and spin her in the air as usual. She only knew that her mother was sad, and that perhaps frightened her.
"Dada?" asked Clara softly, her voice squeaking amidst the sigh of the wind.
That one word shattered Talia's defenses. The sob held in her throat broke, coming out as a painful choked sound. She crouched, ignoring the mud dirtying her already worn wool dress, and hugged her daughter tight. She buried her face in Clara's neck, trying to absorb a little warmth in a world that suddenly felt so cold.
The man was gone. Clark, her husband, father of her child, her childhood love. He would never come home. He would never again sit before the hearth, mending fishing nets or sharpening his stupid sword while whistling.
And all because of one person. One greedy Lord. Denys Darklyn.
The memory came painfully. Talia remembered that day, two years ago. The sun shone bright, and Clark ran home to their small hut, his face beaming, filled with dust and sweat from the training yard. He looked so young, so full of hope.
"Talia! Talia, look!" he had cried then, lifting a small leather coin pouch. "I was accepted! Lord Darklyn is increasing the number of guards! He needs strong men to guard the Dun Fort!"
Talia remembered how she laughed, hugging her husband who smelled of sweat. Clark recounted with fire how their fate would change. A fort guard's pay was far better than a dock worker or shepherd. They would get a ration of wheat, salt beef in winter, and silver coins every month.
"We won't lack for food again, Tal," promised Clark then, his eyes twinkling. "Clara's future is secured. Maybe... maybe one day I can become a captain. Or even... who knows? A household knight?"
Clark was a good man. Simple, honest, and possessed a heart too big for this cruel world. They were friends since childhood, growing up together in the meadows outside the city, under trees while herding neighbors' sheep. Talia remembered how she would bring provisions, hard bread and cheese for Clark, and they would sit for hours, joking and chatting about everything, from sunrise to sunset.
Clark always dreamed of more. He didn't want to just be a shepherd or fisherman. He wanted to be a hero like in the songs. He saved coin after coin, setting aside their food money, to buy a second-hand sword that was blunt and rusty from the market. He polished it every night until it shone, practicing slashing the air behind the house, imagining he was fighting a dragon or saving a princess.
He even once tried to register for a local tourney, though he was laughed at by the real knights and told to go home.
"Fool," sobbed Talia, her tears falling onto Clara's hair. "You fool, Clark. You and your knight dreams."
The dream had killed him.
Inside the grave before her, there was actually no body of Clark. No whole corpse she could wash and dress in his best clothes. The man's body was never found.
When Prince Rhaegar's forces stormed, when hellfire devoured the Dun Fort, Clark was on duty inside. Then never seen again.
All they found were piles of corpses charred, trampled, and crushed out of shape. Faces she knew, Clark's drinking buddies, all turned to ash and unrecognizable bone. Talia buried a piece of guard uniform cloth she found in the ruins when sneaking in, hoping it was her husband's, just so she had a place to pray.
Anger began to boil within her grief, hot and burning.
Denys Darklyn. The name felt like poison on her tongue. That Lord, with his arrogance, with his madness to hold the King, had dragged them all into hell. He promised glory for Duskendale, but all he brought were fire and death. He played the game of kings, betting with the lives of his smallfolk as coins.
And he lost.
But it wasn't Denys who suffered most. The Lord died quickly, his neck snapped on the gallows. Done. His suffering ended.
Talia? Her suffering was just beginning.
What should she do now? They dreamed of raising Clara together, watching her grow until she married a good man. They dreamed of owning a bigger house, perhaps with glass windows. They dreamed of growing old together.
But now it was Talia who had to face this alone. She was alone. Without income. Without a protector. In a ruined city, where the price of bread skyrocketed due to the siege, and where new widows like herself were on every street corner, crying over the same fate.
It felt heavy. Too heavy.
Talia released her hug on Clara. She reached out, her rough palm touching the wet earth of the grave. She stroked it gently, as if stroking her husband's cheek for the last time.
"Sleep well, Fool," she whispered. "I... I will take care of Clara. I promise."
She stood, her legs feeling shaky but she forced herself. She wiped her face with her sleeve, cleaning tears and snot. She must not look weak in front of Clara. She had to be strong now.
"Come, Sweetling," said Talia, taking her daughter's small hand again. "Let's go home."
"Dada not coming?" asked Clara, looking back towards the mound of earth.
"Dada, Dada has to sleep here now," answered Talia, swallowing the lump in her throat. "He is tired. He watches us from here."
They walked down the hill, leaving the silent graveyard. The wind blew harder, fluttering Talia's skirt.
From the height of the path, Talia could see the view below. The harbor of Duskendale stretched in the distance. There, in the grey waters, the fleet of siege ships had begun to move.
Large ships with sails bearing the three-headed dragon began to weigh anchor. They left the harbor bit by bit, like giants satiated after eating their prey. They were going home to King's Landing, to their warm palaces, celebrating victory, drinking wine, and forgetting names like Clark overnight.
To them, this was history. A victory crushing a rebellion. To Talia, this was the apocalypse.
She shifted her gaze towards the Dun Fort.
Or, what used to be it.
The fortress pride of House Darklyn was now leveled to the ground. Its sturdy walls had collapsed, its towers crumbled into piles of stone. Rhaegar Targaryen didn't just kill its Lord; he killed the castle. He wiped it from the map.
Destroyed without a trace. Just like House Darklyn itself.
The ancient family was extinct. Every male, female, bearing the name Darklyn and also Hollard had been executed or sent to the Wall. A bloodline of thousands of years severed in one day.
Talia stared at the destruction with dry eyes. There was a dark satisfaction seeing the fort destroyed. The symbol of power that had claimed her husband was now just rubbish. But that satisfaction didn't fill Clara's belly. That satisfaction wouldn't warm the empty bed tonight.
She continued walking, her steps quickening as she approached their hut on the outskirts of the city. The houses around seemed bleak, doors shut tight. The city was grieving, and fear still hung in the air. People were afraid if the soldiers decided to loot before leaving.
They reached home. A small wooden hut with a thatched roof leaking in places. Talia opened the creaking door, and they stepped into the familiar darkness.
The room was cold. The hearth had been dead since morning. Clark's wooden chair stood empty in the corner, a ghost from a life that used to be.
Talia sat Clara on the wooden cot. The little girl looked tired, her eyes beginning to close.
"Mama... hungry," mumbled Clara.
Talia went to the pantry. Empty. There was only half a loaf of stale bread left that had begun to mold and a little dry cheese.
She took the bread, cut off the moldy part with a knife, and gave the rest to Clara.
"Eat, Child," she said softly.
She watched her daughter eat voraciously, unaware of how little was left.
Talia's heart hardened. She looked around this poor room. She saw the bleak future stretching before her. Maybe she had to wash soldiers' clothes. Maybe she had to beg. Maybe she had to sell her body if things got really bad.
No.
Talia clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms.
She remembered Clark's stories about knights and honor. Those stories were beautiful, but those stories were lies. Honor didn't save Clark. Honor didn't feed him.
This world belonged to people like Denys Darklyn. People who took what they wanted. People who didn't care whom they stepped on.
But Talia was still alive. And she had Clara.
She knelt in front of her daughter, holding the small hand holding the bread.
"Listen to me, Clara," whispered Talia, her voice trembling but full of newly forged iron resolve.
Clara looked at her with a mouth full of bread.
"This world is wicked," said Talia. "The Lords, Kings, Knights... they are all monsters playing with our lives. They do not care for us. Papa believed in them, and Papa is gone."
She stroked her daughter's dirty cheek.
"But we will survive. You hear Mama? We will live. Mama won't let you starve. Mama will do anything. Anything. You won't end up in the mud like Papa. You will grow big, you will be strong, and you will live far from this cursed place."
Talia kissed her daughter's forehead, an oath spoken inside a shattered but hardening heart.
She didn't know how. She didn't know what she had to do tomorrow. But she knew one thing: she wouldn't let the Lords' 'game' take the only thing she had left.
She stood, took the broom from the corner, and began sweeping the dirty earthen floor. Dust flew.
...
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