Chapter 5: The Tower

Answered
Sixth Week, First Moon of 282 AC - The Red Mountains of Dorne

The sun had not yet crested the jagged peaks of the Red Mountains when Ser
Barristan Selmy first caught sight of the Tower of Joy.

It rose from the harsh landscape like a prayer carved in stone—small, isolated,
defiantly beautiful against the barren red rock that surrounded it. The tower was round
and ancient, its pale stones bleached by generations of Dornish sun. No banners flew
from its heights. No smoke rose from its chimneys despite the chill of early morning.
It stood alone and silent, as though it had been waiting for this moment since the day
it was built.

Barristan raised his hand, signaling the gold cloaks to halt. Fifty-five men stopped
their horses with military precision, the sound of hooves and jingling tack fading into
the mountain silence. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard studied the tower
through narrowed eyes, his weathered face impassive.

"Ser?" The gold cloak captain, a veteran named Thomas with a scarred face and
missing teeth, rode up beside him. "That's it, then? The Tower of Joy?"

"So they say," Barristan replied quietly. "House Dayne's summer retreat, though I
doubt anyone has used it for leisure in years. Too remote, too harsh." He paused,
his hand resting on his sword hilt. "Too perfect for hiding."

"If the prince is here—" Thomas began.

"If the prince is here, we will know soon enough." Barristan touched his heels to
his horse's flanks and began moving forward again, slowly, deliberately. "Remember
your orders. We are not here to fight. We are here to bring Prince Rhaegar and
Lady Lyanna back to King's Landing safely. Violence is the last resort, not the
first."

"Aye, ser." But Thomas's tone suggested he wasn't convinced that violence could be
avoided.

What were you thinking, my prince? Barristan wondered sadly. What prophecy
could possibly justify this?

As they approached, three figures emerged from the tower's base. Even from a
distance, Barristan could see the sun glinting off drawn steel.

Three knights stood blocking the narrow path that led to the tower's entrance. They
arranged themselves in a defensive formation, swords held ready, their postures
suggesting they had been expecting this confrontation.
Barristan stopped his horse twenty paces from them and dismounted. Behind him, he
heard the gold cloaks doing the same, the creak of leather and rattle of armor filling
the morning air.

"I am Ser Barristan Selmy," he called out, his voice carrying clearly in the
mountain stillness. "Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. I ride under the direct
orders of King Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name. Identify yourselves."

The three knights exchanged glances. Then the one in the center—a Dornishman by
his coloring and the style of his armor—stepped forward.

"I am Dryn Sand," he announced, his accent thick with Dorne's distinctive cadence.
"Bastard son of House Qorgyle. These are my companions—Ser Aelex Flint of
the North, and Ser Uthor Beesbury of the Reach."

An unusual company, Barristan thought. A Dornish bastard, a northern knight, and a

man from the Reach. All three wearing no identifying colors or sigils save for their
personal arms. All three looking grim and determined.

"Ser Barristan," Aelex Flint said, his northern accent as distinct as Dryn's Dornish
one. He was a tall man with dark hair and gray eyes—northern eyes, like the Starks.
"We know why you've come. We cannot let you pass."

"Cannot?" Barristan's voice took on an edge. "I carry the king's writ." He
produced a sealed scroll from his belt and held it up so all could see the royal seal.
"King Aerys commands that this tower be searched for Prince Rhaegar
Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Stark. Both are to be brought to King's Landing to
answer for their actions. This is not a request. This is a royal command."

"We understand, ser," Uthor Beesbury said. He was younger than the other two,
perhaps five-and-twenty, with the fair coloring of the Reach. "But we serve Prince
Rhaegar. Our orders come from him, not from the king."

The words hung in the air like a challenge.

Behind Barristan, one of the gold cloaks—a man named Thomas who had served in
the City Watch for twenty years—muttered loud enough to be heard: "And if Prince
Rhaegar ordered you to jump into the flames like Aerion Brightflame, would you
do that as well?"

The words hung in the air like a thrown gauntlet.

Uthor Beesbury's face flushed red. "How dare you speak of the prince in such—"

"Enough!" Barristan's voice cracked like a whip. He turned in his saddle to glare at
Thomas. "Hold your tongue or I'll have you gagged."

The tension, already taut as a drawn bowstring, snapped.

Uthor Beesbury's face flushed red. His hand moved to the crossbow that hung at his
belt—a weapon Barristan hadn't noticed until that moment. In one smooth motion, the
young knight raised it, aimed, and fired.

The bolt hissed through the air where Barristan's head had been a heartbeat before.
The Lord Commander had already moved, his instincts honed by decades of combat
saving his life. He ducked and rolled forward, coming up with his sword already
clearing its scabbard.

"Stand down!" Barristan's voice carried the full weight of his authority. But he was
already moving, closing the distance to Uthor Beesbury with the fluid grace of a
master swordsman.

Steel rang as Barristan's blade struck Uthor's crossbow, sending the weapon flying
from his hands. The young knight scrambled backward, reaching for his sword, but
Barristan was faster. The flat of his blade caught Uthor across the temple—not a
killing blow, but enough to send him staggering.

"I said stand down!" Barristan's sword was at Uthor's throat now, the point pressing
just hard enough to draw a bead of blood. "Drop your weapon. Now."

Uthor's sword clattered to the ground.

Dryn Sand and Aelex Flint had their weapons raised, prepared to rush forward, but
Barristan's next words stopped them cold.

"I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," he said, his voice deadly calm
despite the violence of the past seconds. "I carry the king's writ. You have just
attacked me—attacked the king's representative—in defiance of a royal
command. That is treason. The only reason you're not dead already is because I
choose to show mercy."

He withdrew his sword from Uthor's throat but kept it ready. "Now. You will sheath
your weapons. You will step aside. And you will allow me and these gold cloaks
to search this tower. Or you will force me to cut you down, and I promise you—"
his eyes swept across all three knights "—that is not a fight you can win."

"Ser Barristan," Aelex Flint began, his voice strained, "we gave our word to the
prince—"

"Your word to the prince does not supersede the king's command!" Barristan
snapped. "Prince Rhaegar is not king. Not yet. Not ever, if this madness
continues. Now stand aside or—"

"Stop."

Everyone froze.
The voice had come from above, from one of the tower's windows. A figure appeared
there, tall and distinctive even at a distance, silver-gold hair catching the morning
light.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

He descended from the tower with measured steps, emerging from the entrance with
the bearing of a man approaching his own execution. He was dressed simply—no
armor, no crown, just a well-made tunic and breeches. Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel
sword of House Targaryen, hung at his hip.

Rhaegar's purple eyes swept across the scene—the gold cloaks in formation, Uthor on
his knees with Barristan's sword at his throat, Dryn and Aelex frozen with weapons
drawn. His handsome face was carefully composed, but those who knew him well
might have detected a trace of weary resignation.

"Ser Barristan," Rhaegar said quietly. "What brings the Lord Commander of the
Kingsguard and a company of gold cloaks to this remote place?"

Barristan kept his sword at Uthor's throat but addressed the prince directly. "I think
you know the answer to that, Your Grace."

Rhaegar's jaw tightened at the formal title—a reminder that he was not yet king, that
he served at his father's pleasure. "Even so, I would hear it from your lips."

Without releasing Uthor, Barristan reached into his tunic with his free hand and
withdrew the royal scroll. He tossed it to Rhaegar, who caught it smoothly.

The prince unrolled the parchment and read in silence. The gold cloaks watched him,
their faces a mixture of curiosity and poorly concealed contempt. They had ridden for
weeks, following rumors and whispers, tracking their Crown Prince like a common
fugitive. Whatever respect they had once held for Rhaegar Targaryen had eroded with
every mile.

"My father's seal," Rhaegar said finally, his voice neutral. "His hand, unless I miss
my guess. Though the phrasing..." He looked up at Barristan. "This is not his
usual style. When did my father become so... measured?"

"That is not your concern, Your Grace." Barristan's tone remained formal, distant.
"The king has ordered a search of this tower and your immediate return to
King's Landing. Will you comply, or must I carry out my orders by force?"

"A search," Rhaegar repeated softly. He glanced back at the tower, and something
flickered across his face—fear, perhaps, or protectiveness. "Ser Barristan, I would
speak with you privately before—"

"No." The word was flat and final. "I have my orders, Your Grace. You will
comply, or you will be compelled to comply. There is no third option."

"My father—" Rhaegar began.

"Your father," Barristan interrupted, his voice hardening, "did not execute
Brandon Stark and his companions when they rode to the Red Keep demanding
your head. He did not burn Rickard Stark alive for his son's presumption. He
did not start a war that would have torn the Seven Kingdoms apart. Instead, he
showed restraint, wisdom, and justice—qualities that seem to be in short supply
among the younger generation."

The rebuke hung in the air like smoke.

Rhaegar's face went pale. "Brandon came to King's Landing? When?"

"The first week of this moon," Barristan said. "Along with Jeffory Mallister, Kyle
Royce, Elbert Arryn, and Ethan Glover. They rode straight to the Red Keep and
demanded you come out and face justice for kidnapping Lady Lyanna."

"Gods," Rhaegar whispered. "Brandon thought—he thought I had taken her by

force?"

"What else was he supposed to think?" Thomas spoke up again, his voice harsh.
"His sister disappears, witnesses report seeing her traveling with a party led by a
silver-haired man, and no one sends word explaining what actually happened.
What would you have thought, Your Grace?"

Rhaegar opened his mouth to respond, but another voice interrupted him.

"Is my brother alive?"

All eyes turned to the tower entrance, where a second figure had emerged.

Lyanna Stark.

She was smaller than Barristan had expected, slight of build and youthful in
appearance. She wore a simple gray dress, her dark hair loose around her shoulders,
her gray eyes—Stark eyes, wolf eyes—fixed on Barristan with an intensity that
reminded him of her father.

But what struck him most was how she carried herself. There were no chains, no
visible bruises, no signs of captivity. She moved with the confident stride of someone
who had chosen to be here, not someone who had been forced.

"Lady Lyanna," Barristan said heavily, "I am sure you believe that makes this
better. I assure you,your brother is alive." He turned his attention back to Rhaegar.
"Your Grace, in the first week of the first moon of this year, Brandon Stark rode
to the Red Keep gates with his companions. He called for you to come out and
die. He accused you of kidnapping his sister."

Lyanna gasped. "Brandon did what?"

"He did what any brother would do when he believes his sister has been taken
against her will," Barristan continued, his voice harsh. "He rode to the capital to
demand justice. And do you know what happened next, Your Grace? Do you
know what King Aerys did?"

Rhaegar's face had gone from pale to ashen. "He... he didn't..."

"He invited them into the Red Keep as guests," Barristan said, and he had the
satisfaction of seeing shock bloom on both Rhaegar's and Lyanna's faces. "He
questioned them. He listened to their evidence. He summoned their fathers to
court. And when those fathers arrived—Lords Rickard Stark, Jon Arryn, Jason
Mallister, and Jon Royce—he held an investigation instead of an execution."

The words hung in the mountain air, impossible and true.

"My father?" Lyanna's voice was barely a whisper. "My father is in King's
Landing?"

"Your father, your brother Eddard, and your betrothed Robert Baratheon."
Barristan let each name fall like a stone. "Along with Lord Hoster Tully and his
daughters, the Blackfish, and gods know how many others. All gathered in the
capital because of your actions. All potentially at each other's throats because
you decided that love was more important than duty."

"I—" Lyanna began, but Barristan cut her off.

"Lord Hoster Tully's daughter Lysa kept your letters hidden, Lady Lyanna. The
letters you left explaining your elopement. Letters addressed to your father, your
brothers, and Lord Robert. They were never delivered. So when Brandon heard
you had disappeared with Prince Rhaegar, he thought exactly what any
reasonable person would think—that you had been taken by force."

Tears began to stream down Lyanna's face, but she didn't look away. "I trusted Lysa.
She promised she would send them."

"She lied," Barristan said bluntly. "Or at least, she failed in her promise. And
because of that failure, your brother and his friends came within a hair's
breadth of being executed for treason. Your father might have lost his head. The
realm might have plunged into civil war. All because you and the prince decided
that your desires mattered more than the stability of the Seven Kingdoms."

One of the gold cloaks behind Barristan—a young man named Perwyn from the
Riverlands—spat on the ground. "Lord Rickard should have drowned such a
foolish girl in her cradle," he muttered, loud enough to be heard. "Saved everyone
the trouble."

Another voice, older and more bitter—Thomas again—added, "It's not just the wolf
whore, though, is it? Takes two to make this kind of mess. Our two-faced prince
here decided his wife and newborn son weren't good enough. Had to have the
Stark girl instead. Wonder how Princess Elia feels about that?"
"Silence!" Barristan's command cracked like a whip. He turned on the gold cloaks,
his eyes blazing. "From this moment until we reach King's Landing, no one—and
I mean no one—will speak of Prince Rhaegar or Lady Lyanna in such terms. Is
that understood?"

The gold cloaks shuffled uncomfortably but nodded.

"Judgment belongs to King Aerys, to Lord Rickard Stark, and to Lord Robert
Baratheon," Barristan continued. "Not to you. Not to me. Not to anyone else. We
are here to bring them back safely, not to pronounce sentence." He looked at each
man in turn. "Anyone who disobeys this order will answer to me personally.
Clear?"

"Yes, ser," came the reluctant chorus.

Barristan turned back to Rhaegar and Lyanna. The prince had his arm around the girl
now, as though he could protect her from the reality of what they had done. Lyanna
was crying openly, her fierce northern pride cracking under the weight of
consequences.

"Your Grace," Barristan said, his voice softer now but no less firm. "We need to
leave. Now. Your father has shown remarkable restraint so far, but that will not
last forever. And there are other parties involved—Lord Robert especially—who
may not be so... controlled when they see you."

"My father," Lyanna said, her voice breaking. "My brother Brandon. Are they—
are they alive?"

"They are alive," Barristan confirmed. "For now. Housed in the guest chambers
of the Red Keep, along with the others who came with Brandon. But Lady
Lyanna, I need you to understand something." He fixed her with a hard stare.
"Your brother came to the capital ready to die for you. He called for Prince
Rhaegar's head, prepared to fight the entire Kingsguard if necessary, because he
believed you had been taken against your will. And he was within moments of
being executed for that loyalty."

Lyanna's knees buckled. Rhaegar caught her, holding her up as sobs wracked her
frame.

"I didn't mean—I never wanted—" she gasped between tears.

"What you meant and what you wanted don't matter anymore," Barristan said,
not unkindly. "What matters is what you did. Now we have to deal with the
consequences." He looked at Rhaegar. "Your Grace, I need your cooperation. Are
you going to come willingly, or am I going to have to place you under arrest?"

Rhaegar's expression was anguished. He looked at Lyanna, then at his three knights
who still stood nearby, then back at Barristan. When he spoke, his voice was barely
audible.
"I'll come willingly. But Ser Barristan... my wife. My children. Are they safe?"

"Princess Elia and your children are at the Red Keep under Queen Rhaella's
protection," Barristan said. "Though I imagine the princess is not particularly
happy with you at the moment."

Rhaegar closed his eyes, and Barristan saw a tear trace down his cheek. Good, he
thought savagely. Let him feel it. Let him understand what he's done.

"What about them?" One of the gold cloaks gestured to Dryn Sand, Aelex Flint, and
Uthor Beesbury. "They attacked you, ser. They defied the king's command."

Barristan considered for a moment. "Bind them. They'll come back to King's
Landing with us to answer for their actions. But no rough treatment—they
believed they were serving their prince. That's misguided, but it's not evil."

As gold cloaks moved forward with ropes, Aelex Flint spoke up. "Ser Barristan, we
only—"

"Save it," Barristan interrupted. "You chose your loyalty. Now you get to explain
that choice to King Aerys. I suggest you spend the journey back thinking very
carefully about what you're going to say."

The knights were bound and placed on horses. Rhaegar was given his own mount, but
four gold cloaks rode close around him—not prisoners exactly, but not free men
either. Lyanna was similarly surrounded, though Barristan made sure the men
assigned to her were older, more professional, less likely to let their personal feelings
interfere with their duty.

As they prepared to depart, Barristan took one last look at the Tower of Joy. Such a
romantic name for such a cursed place. He wondered if it would stand abandoned
after this, a monument to foolish love and shattered kingdoms.

"Ser Barristan?" Rhaegar's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Your Grace?"

"When we reach King's Landing... what do you think will happen?"

Barristan looked at the young prince—this golden boy who had been groomed since
birth to be the perfect king, who had thrown it all away for a girl he barely knew and
prophecies that might not even be real.

"I think," Barristan said slowly, "that depends entirely on your father. The old
Aerys would have had your head on a spike already. But the king has changed,
Your Grace. Something has changed in him. Whether that's a blessing or a curse
remains to be seen."

Skyreach - Nine Days Later

Lord Franklyn Fowler stood in the courtyard of Skyreach, his weathered face set in
hard lines as Ser Barristan's party arrived. The Lord of Skyreach was a proud man,
loyal to House Martell and, by extension, to Princess Elia. When word had reached
him that Prince Rhaegar was being brought north from the Red Mountains, he had
insisted they stop at Skyreach.

Now he stood watching as the Crown Prince and Lyanna Stark dismounted,
surrounded by gold cloaks and looking like prisoners despite their relative freedom.

"Your Grace," Lord Fowler said, and his tone made it clear that the honorific was
given out of necessity rather than respect. "Lady Stark. Welcome to Skyreach.
Though I confess, these are not circumstances under which I ever expected to
host you."

Rhaegar inclined his head. "Lord Fowler, I—"

"Do you know what day it is, Your Grace?" Fowler interrupted. His voice was
level, controlled, but anger simmered beneath the surface. "Today is the forty-third
day since Princess Elia gave birth to your son. Forty-three days since she nearly
died bringing your heir into this world. Forty-three days since the maesters told
her that another pregnancy might kill her."

Rhaegar's face went pale.

"And in those forty-three days," Fowler continued relentlessly, "you have been
here. In Dorne. My principality. With this girl." He gestured to Lyanna. "Not with
your wife. Not with your newborn son. Not with your daughter who keeps asking
when her papa will come home. Here. With her."

"Lord Fowler," Lyanna spoke up, her voice trembling but determined. "I know you
have no reason to respect me, but—"

"You're right, Lady Stark. I don't." Fowler's eyes were chips of ice. "You are
fifteen years old. You ran away from your betrothal, abandoned your duty to
your house, and participated in the humiliation of one of Dorne's most beloved
daughters. And for what? Love?" He practically spat the word. "There is no love
worth what you've done to Princess Elia."

"My lord," Ser Barristan intervened quietly. "They understand the gravity of their
actions. They're being brought to King's Landing to face justice."

"Justice." Fowler shook his head. "There is no justice that can restore what has
been taken from Princess Elia. Her dignity. Her pride. The respect she was owed
as Crown Princess. You've stolen all of that, Your Grace. And Dorne will
remember."

He stepped closer to Rhaegar, close enough that the gold cloaks tensed. But Fowler
made no threatening moves. He simply looked the prince in the eyes and spoke with
quiet intensity.
"I have known Princess Elia since she was a girl. I watched her grow into a
gracious, intelligent woman. I watched her agree to marry you, knowing that it
meant leaving her home and family. I watched her endure pregnancy despite her
fragile health, determined to give you an heir. And I watched her smile through
all of it, even when the maesters warned her, even when she was in pain, because
she believed in duty. In honor. In doing what was right for the realm."

Fowler's voice dropped even lower. "And you repaid her loyalty by running off
with a girl barely out of childhood while your wife was still recovering from
bearing your son. Not only Dorne, Your Grace, but all of Westeros will
remember the unfairness and selfishness of what you have done."

Rhaegar opened his mouth, then closed it. What could he say? There were no words
that could defend his actions, no explanation that would make this better.

Lyanna was weeping again, silent tears streaming down her face. She looked so
young in that moment, so utterly lost, that Barristan almost felt pity for her. Almost.

"You will rest here tonight," Fowler said, turning away. "I will not send you on
your way without proper provisions—that would be discourteous, and House
Fowler does not forget its hospitality even for those who have forgotten their
honor. But come dawn, I want you gone from Dorne. This is Princess Elia's
homeland, and your presence here is an insult to her and to all who love her."

That night, Skyreach was silent as a tomb. The servants went about their duties with
tight faces and cold eyes. No one spoke to Rhaegar or Lyanna beyond what was
absolutely necessary. Even the gold cloaks felt the weight of Dornish anger and kept
to themselves.

Barristan found Rhaegar standing on a balcony, staring out at the Dornish landscape
under moonlight. The prince looked lost, a far cry from the confident young man who
had won tournament after tournament, who had charmed lords and ladies with his
music and grace.

"Your Grace," Barristan said quietly. "You should rest. We have a long journey
ahead."

"I thought I was doing the right thing," Rhaegar said without turning. "I thought I
understood the prophecy. The dragon must have three heads. The prince that
was promised. Ice and fire. I thought—" His voice broke. "I thought I was saving
the world."

"And instead, you may have destroyed it," Barristan said bluntly. "Or at least,
you've destroyed whatever chance you had of ruling it peacefully."

Rhaegar turned to face him then, and Barristan was struck by how much pain was
visible in those purple eyes. "What should I have done differently, Ser Barristan?
The prophecy—"
"Prophecy." Barristan's voice was sharp. "Your Grace, I have lived through three
reigns. I have seen kings rise and fall. And I can tell you this with absolute
certainty: prophecy is not an excuse for abandoning your duty. Your wife gave
you an heir. Your daughter needed her father. Your realm needed a prince who
would one day be a good king. And you threw all of that away because you
thought some words in an old book were more important than real people with
real lives and real needs."

"But the Long Night—"

"May or may not come," Barristan interrupted. "And if it does, it won't be stopped
by a man who couldn't even keep his marriage vows. Your Grace, you want to
save the world? Start by not destroying the parts of it that depend on you."

Rhaegar was silent for a long moment. Then, so quietly Barristan almost didn't hear it:
"I've ruined everything, haven't I?"

"Not everything," Barristan said, though his tone offered little comfort. "Not yet.
Your father hasn't executed anyone. Your wife and children are safe. There
hasn't been a war. But Your Grace, you've used up whatever goodwill and trust
you had. From this point forward, every action you take will be viewed through
the lens of this betrayal. Every word you speak will be questioned. Every
decision you make will be doubted. That is the price of what you've done."

The Kingsroad - Final Approach to King's Landing

Nine days of travel brought them finally within sight of King's Landing. The smell of
the city—that distinctive mixture of salt, smoke, fish, and human waste—reached
them long before the walls came into view.

Barristan had used every day of that journey to think, to plan, to prepare for what was
coming. He had kept Rhaegar and Lyanna separated for most of the trip, allowing
them to see each other only briefly in the evenings under strict supervision. He had
maintained iron discipline among his gold cloaks, allowing no insults, no violence, no
breaches of protocol.

On the eighth day, as they camped within sight of King's Landing's distant walls,
Barristan finally allowed himself to consider what would happen when they arrived.

Brandon Stark and his father would be there. Robert Baratheon would be there. All
the great houses whose pride and honor had been affected by this mess would be
there, waiting for answers.

And King Aerys... gods, what would Aerys do?

The old Aerys—the Mad King who had ruled before this strange transformation—
would have executed everyone involved without hesitation. But this new Aerys, this
eerily calm and measured version, was an unknown quantity.
Barristan had served the Targaryens his entire adult life. He had rescued Aerys from
Duskendale, had stood beside him through years of increasing madness, had watched
good men die for imagined treasons. He thought he knew his king.

But now? Now he wasn't sure of anything.

"Ser Barristan?" One of the gold cloaks approached. "Should we send a rider
ahead to announce our arrival?"

Barristan considered. "Yes. Send Thomas. Tell him to ride fast and inform the
king that we have found Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna, both alive and well,
and that we will arrive tomorrow before noon."

The gold cloak saluted and hurried off to relay the message.

Across the camp, Rhaegar sat with Lyanna, their heads close together, speaking in
whispers too quiet for Barristan to hear. Tomorrow, that privacy would end.
Tomorrow, they would face the consequences of their choices.

Barristan wondered if they were ready. He wondered if anyone was ready for what
was about to happen.

Gods grant us wisdom, he prayed silently. And let this end without more blood than
has already been spilled.

But he couldn't control what would happen once they reached the capital.

Red Keep - Two Days Before Rhaegar and Lyanna's Arrival

The raven arrived at dawn, its dark wings cutting through the pale morning sky like a
blade through silk. The maester on duty in the rookery took the message with
practiced efficiency, noting the seal—Ser Barristan Selmy's personal mark, sent from
Skyreach in Dorne.

Within the hour, the message had reached Grand Maester Pycelle, who read it twice
before his hands began to tremble. He sat heavily in his chair, the parchment clutched
in his age-spotted fingers, and considered his options.

He could delay. He could claim the raven had been injured, the message unclear. He
could buy time for... for what? For the realm to prepare itself for what was coming?

No. The king had been clear. All information, immediately. No delays, no games, no
manipulation.

Pycelle rose, his chains clinking, and made his way to the small council chamber
where he knew the king would be breaking his fast.

Small Council Chamber

Aerys sat at the head of the table, eating plain bread and cheese with more appetite
than he had shown in years. Lord Chelsted was reviewing tax documents. Symond
Staunton was making notes about recent legal disputes. Varys stood in his customary
position near the window, hands folded in his sleeves.

The door opened, and Pycelle entered. The old maester's face was grave, and
everyone in the room immediately tensed.

"Your Grace," Pycelle said, bowing as low as his old bones would allow. "A raven
from Ser Barristan. From Skyreach."

Aerys set down his bread carefully. "He found them."

It wasn't a question, but Pycelle answered anyway. "Yes, Your Grace. Prince
Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna were located at the Tower of Joy in the Red
Mountains. They are being brought to King's Landing. They should arrive
within two days."

The silence in the room was absolute.

Aerys's expression didn't change. He simply nodded once, as though Pycelle had
reported on the weather. "Send word to all the relevant parties. Lord Stark, Lord
Arryn, Lord Baratheon, Lord Tully. Inform them that the prince and Lady
Lyanna have been found and are being returned to answer for their actions."

"Your Grace," Chelsted ventured carefully, "perhaps we should... prepare?

Ensure additional guards? The tensions between the houses—"

"Are about to become much worse," Aerys finished. "Yes, Lord Chelsted, I'm
aware. Double the guard in the courtyards and throne room. Separate the
northern and southern contingents as much as possible. And make it clear to
everyone that violence within the Red Keep will not be tolerated." His purple eyes
fixed on Pycelle. "Send the messages. Now."

As Pycelle hurried out, Varys spoke for the first time. "Your Grace, if I may... Lord
Robert is not a man known for his restraint. And Lord Brandon has already
demonstrated a tendency toward... precipitous action."

"Then they will learn restraint," Aerys said coldly. "Or they will learn what
happens to those who break the king's peace in the king's house. Send word to
Ser Gerold. I want the Kingsguard visible and present at all times once Rhaegar
and Lady Lyanna arrive."

The Guest Chambers - House Stark

The message reached Rickard Stark as he sat with his sons in their chambers, trying to
maintain some semblance of normalcy in an utterly abnormal situation.

Brandon was pacing again—he had been doing that for days, wearing a path in the
carpet like a caged wolf. Eddard sat quietly near the window, his young face troubled.
Rickard himself was attempting to read a report from Winterfell, though the words
might as well have been written in Valyrian for all the sense they made to his
distracted mind.

The knock at the door made all three men look up.

"Enter," Rickard called.

A servant entered, bowing nervously. "My lords, Grand Maester Pycelle sends
word. Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna have been found. They are being
brought to King's Landing and should arrive within two days."

The parchment fell from Rickard's hands.

Brandon stopped pacing mid-stride, his face cycling through a dozen emotions in as
many seconds—relief, fury, confusion, vindication.

Eddard stood slowly, his hands gripping the windowsill. "She's alive," he whispered.
"Thank the old gods, she's alive."

"Alive," Brandon repeated, his voice rising. "Alive and returning with that—that
—" He couldn't seem to find words vile enough. "Two days. Two days and we'll
finally get answers."

"Brandon," Rickard said quietly, but his son wasn't listening.

"Do you understand what this means?" Brandon rounded on his father and brother.
"She wasn't kidnapped. She went willingly. All of it—all of this—" He gestured
wildly at the room, at the Red Keep beyond, at the disaster their lives had become.
"All of it because she chose to run off with a married man!"

"We don't know the full story yet," Eddard said, trying to calm his brother. "We
should wait to hear what Lyanna has to say before we—"

"What she has to say?" Brandon's laugh was harsh. "What could she possibly say,
Ned? What explanation could there be for abandoning her betrothal, shaming
our house, and nearly getting us all killed?"

"Enough." Rickard's voice cracked like a whip. Both his sons fell silent, turning to
look at their father.

The Lord of Winterfell stood slowly, and for the first time since arriving in King's
Landing, he looked every one of his years. His face was lined with weariness, his
shoulders bowed with the weight of leadership.

"She is your sister," Rickard said quietly. "Our blood. Our family. Whatever she
has done, whatever choices she has made, she is still a Stark. And we will
remember that when she arrives."

"Father—" Brandon began.

"I said enough!" Rickard's voice rose, silencing his eldest son. "Yes, Brandon, you
are angry. You have every right to be angry. You came to this city prepared to
die for your sister's honor, only to discover that her honor was not in question—
her judgment was. You feel betrayed, and that is understandable."

He moved to stand before Brandon, looking up into his son's face. "But you will
control yourself when she arrives. You will not shout at her. You will not strike
her. You will not say anything that cannot be unsaid. Do you understand me?"

Brandon's jaw worked, but he nodded stiffly.

Rickard turned to Eddard. "And you, Ned. I see the relief on your face, and I
understand it. You love your sister, and you're grateful she's alive. But do not let
that love blind you to what she has cost us. What she has cost the realm."

"Yes, father," Eddard said quietly.

Rickard moved to the window, looking out at King's Landing spread below them.
"When Lyanna arrives, she will face judgment. From the king. From Robert.
From the realm. And yes, from us—her own family. What she has done..." He
paused, his voice thick with emotion. "What she has done may have destroyed any
hope of peace between our houses and the Baratheons. It has humiliated Princess
Elia. It has given our enemies ammunition to use against us for years to come."

"Then what do we do?" Brandon asked, his anger giving way to something closer to
despair. "How do we fix this?"

"I don't know if we can fix it," Rickard admitted. "But we can try. We can face it
with dignity, with honor, with the strength that has kept House Stark standing
for eight thousand years." He turned to face his sons. "We are wolves. We survive
the winter. And this, my sons, is going to be the longest winter our house has
faced in generations."

A long silence fell over the room.

Finally, Eddard spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do you think Robert will
forgive her?"

Rickard closed his eyes. "No, Ned. I don't think he will. And I'm not certain he
should."

Brandon slammed his fist against the wall, making the stones shudder. "Two days,"
he said bitterly. "Two days to prepare for the reckoning."

Lord Robert's Chambers - The Baratheon Quarters

Robert Baratheon stood on his balcony, staring out at nothing, a wine cup clutched in
his massive hand. He had been drinking since dawn—not enough to get drunk, but
enough to dull the edges of the pain that had been his constant companion since
reading Lyanna's letter.
Jon Arryn sat inside, watching his former ward with worried eyes. The old lord had
tried multiple times to draw Robert into conversation, to help him process what was
coming, but Robert had remained stubbornly silent.

The knock at the door made Jon rise. He opened it to find a nervous servant holding a
message.

"From Grand Maester Pycelle, my lord. Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna have
been found. They're being brought to King's Landing."

Jon took the message with steady hands, though his heart sank. "Thank you. You
may go."

As the servant departed, Jon read the brief message carefully, then moved to the
balcony.

"Robert," he said gently. "There's news."

"I don't care," Robert's voice was rough from disuse and drink.

"Robert, listen to me—"

"I said I don't care!" Robert whirled on his foster father, and Jon was shocked by
the devastation in the young man's face. "What does it matter? Whether they
found them or not, whether they're coming back or not—it doesn't change
anything. She never loved me. She chose him. That's all that matters."

"It matters because you need to prepare yourself," Jon said firmly. "They'll be
here in two days, Robert. Two days, and you'll see them. Together. And you need
to decide right now how you're going to handle that."

"How I'm going to handle it?" Robert laughed, a terrible sound. "I'm going to kill
him, Jon. I'm going to take that pretty silver-haired prince and I'm going to beat
him to death with my bare hands. That's how I'm going to handle it."

"No, you're not," Jon said calmly. "Because if you do that, the king will execute
you. And then everything—all of this pain, all of this heartbreak—will have been
for nothing. You'll be dead, and Rhaegar will be mourned as a victim of your
rage."

"Better dead than living with this!" Robert threw his wine cup over the balcony,
watching it tumble down into the courtyard below. "Every time I close my eyes, I
see her. I see her with him. I see them together, and it—" His voice broke. "It
tears me apart, Jon."

Jon Arryn moved to stand beside his foster son, placing a hand on Robert's broad
shoulder. "I know, my boy. I know. But you cannot let this destroy you. You are
Lord of Storm's End. You have responsibilities, people who depend on you. You
cannot throw that all away for revenge."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" Robert turned to look at Jon, and there were
tears streaming down his face—the first Jon had seen since Lyanna's letter. "How am
I supposed to just... accept this? She was going to be my wife. We were supposed
to have a life together. And she threw it all away for him."

"I don't know," Jon admitted. "I wish I had easy answers for you, Robert, but I
don't. This is going to hurt. It's going to hurt for a long time. But you will survive
it. You're stronger than you think."

Robert wiped roughly at his face, ashamed of his tears. "I loved her, Jon. I really
loved her."

"I know you did," Jon said gently. "And I'm sorry. But Robert, you need to
understand something. The girl you loved—the girl you built up in your mind—
she may never have really existed. You loved an idea of Lyanna Stark. The real
Lyanna is someone different. Someone who made choices you would never have
expected."

"Are you saying this is my fault?" Robert's anger was rising again. "That if I had
somehow been different, she wouldn't have run off with him?"

"No," Jon said firmly. "I'm saying that people are more complex than we want
them to be. Lyanna made her own choices. You can't control that. You can only
control how you respond."

Robert turned back to look at the city, his hands gripping the balcony rail so hard his
knuckles went white. "Two days," he said. "Two days, and I'll see her again. See
them both."

"Yes," Jon confirmed. "And when that happens, you need to be in control of
yourself. The king has shown remarkable restraint so far, Robert, but that won't
last if you do something foolish. Promise me you won't do anything rash."

Robert was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. "I
promise I won't kill him in front of witnesses. That's the best I can do."

It wasn't enough, but Jon knew it would have to be. He stayed with Robert on that
balcony, watching the sun move across the sky, both of them dreading the moment
when the woman Robert loved and the man she had chosen would walk through the
gates of King's Landing together.

Maegor's Holdfast - The Queen's Solar

Queen Rhaella sat with Princess Elia and Ashara Dayne when the message arrived.
Little Rhaenys was playing with wooden blocks on the carpet, building towers and
knocking them down with childish delight. Baby Aegon dozed in his cradle, his tiny
fist curled near his mouth.

The servant who brought the message looked terrified, as though she feared the
women's reactions.
"Your Graces, my lady," she said, curtseying so low she nearly touched the floor.
"Grand Maester Pycelle sends word. Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna Stark
have been found. Ser Barristan is bringing them to King's Landing. They should
arrive within two days."

The parchment slipped from the servant's hands as Elia let out a sound—not quite a
scream, not quite a sob, but something in between. Ashara immediately moved to her
friend's side, wrapping her arms around the princess as Elia began to shake.

Rhaella felt something cold settle in her chest. She had known this moment was
coming—had been preparing herself for it since Ser Barristan left—but the reality of
it still struck like a physical blow.

"You may go," Rhaella said to the servant, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside
her. "And send word to the wet nurse. I want additional guards posted outside
these chambers. No one enters without my express permission."

"Yes, Your Grace." The servant fled, clearly grateful to escape.

As soon as the door closed, Elia's control shattered completely. She buried her face in
Ashara's shoulder and wept with the kind of raw, agonized sobs that come from the
deepest part of the soul.

"He's coming back," Elia gasped between tears. "He's coming back here, and I'll
have to see him. I'll have to see them together. I'll have to—"

"Hush," Ashara murmured, stroking her friend's hair. "Hush, Elia. You don't have
to do anything right now except breathe."

But Elia couldn't stop. "I gave him everything, Ashara. Everything. I left Dorne,
my home, my family. I married him even though the maesters warned me about
my health. I gave him a daughter. I nearly died giving him a son. And he—while
I was still bleeding from childbirth, he was with her. With that girl."

Rhaella moved to kneel beside her daughter-by-law, taking one of Elia's hands in both
of hers. "I know, child. I know. And there are no words that can make this better.
But you are not alone in this. You have me, you have Ashara, you have your
children. You have Dorne standing behind you. House Martell will not let this
insult stand unanswered."

"I don't want revenge," Elia sobbed. "I just want—I just want him to have loved
me. Even a little. Was that too much to ask?"

The question hung in the air, unanswerable and heartbreaking.

Ashara looked at Rhaella over Elia's shaking form, her violet eyes bright with unshed
tears. "What will happen when they arrive, Your Grace? What will the king
do?"
"I don't know," Rhaella admitted. "My husband has changed. I don't understand
what has happened to him, but he is not the man he was a month ago. Whether
that will work in Rhaegar's favor or against him..." She shook her head. "I simply
don't know."

"He's your son," Elia said, pulling back to look at Rhaella. Her dark eyes were red
and swollen, her face blotchy with tears. "You're his mother. You have to know—
will he choose me, or will he choose her?"

Rhaella felt her own tears beginning to fall. She thought of Aerys and his endless
parade of mistresses. She thought of Joanna Lannister and the way Aerys's eyes
would follow her. She thought of all the times she had asked herself the same question
Elia was asking now: Why wasn't she enough?

"I don't know, Elia," she whispered. "But I can tell you this—whatever Rhaegar
chooses, it doesn't reflect on your worth. You are a princess of Dorne. You are
the mother of the heir to the Iron Throne. You are gracious and kind and
everything a queen should be. If Rhaegar cannot see that, then the failure is his,
not yours."

Elia shook her head, fresh tears streaming down her face. "But it doesn't feel that
way. It feels like I wasn't pretty enough, or interesting enough, or—or something
enough. Otherwise, why would he want her instead?"

"Because my son is a fool," Rhaella said harshly. "Because he has let prophecy
and dreams cloud his judgment. Because he is young and selfish and has not yet
learned that the world does not revolve around his desires." She cupped Elia's
face in her hands, forcing the younger woman to meet her eyes. "You did nothing
wrong, do you hear me? Nothing. This is not your fault."

Across the room, little Rhaenys had stopped playing with her blocks. She was
watching the adults with wide, confused eyes, sensing the distress even if she didn't
understand it.

"Mama?" Rhaenys said in her small voice. "Why are you crying?"

Elia tried to compose herself, but it was useless. She held out her arms, and Rhaenys
ran to her, letting her mother hold her close.

"I'm sad, sweetling," Elia managed to say. "But it will be alright. Mama will be
alright."

But even as she said it, none of them believed it.

Ashara stood and moved to the window, looking out at King's Landing. "Two days,"
she said quietly. "In two days, everything changes. The realm will see its Crown
Prince brought back like a common criminal. Princess Elia will have to face the
man who betrayed her. And we will all learn what King Aerys intends to do
about this disaster."
"I don't want to see him," Elia said suddenly, fiercely. "When he arrives, I don't
want to be there. I don't want to see his face. I don't want to hear his excuses. I
just—I can't, Rhaella. I can't face him yet."

"Then you won't," Rhaella said firmly. "You will stay here, in these chambers,
with your children. I will attend whatever audience the king holds. I will
represent you. And when you are ready—if you are ever ready—then and only
then will you see him."

"Thank you," Elia whispered.

In his cradle, baby Aegon began to cry—a thin, querulous sound that spoke of hunger
or discomfort. The wet nurse moved forward to tend to him, but Elia waved her away.

"No," she said, wiping her face. "I'll do it. He's my son. My boy. No matter what
his father has done, Aegon is innocent in this."

She lifted the baby from his cradle, settling him against her breast. Aegon latched on
immediately, and for a moment, there was peace in the room. Just a mother and her
child, the most basic bond in the world, untouched by politics or betrayal.

Rhaella watched them and felt her heart break a little more. This was what Rhaegar
had thrown away. Not just a political alliance. Not just a marriage contract. But this—
a woman who loved him, children who needed him, a family that would have stood
beside him through anything.

And for what? For a fifteen-year-old girl and a prophecy that might not even be real?

"Your Grace," Ashara said quietly, "may I speak frankly?"

"Always, Lady Ashara."

"I have known Prince Rhaegar for years. I have seen him at court, seen him with
his family, seen him with Princess Elia. And I never once thought him capable of
this kind of cruelty." Ashara's voice was tight with controlled anger. "But now I see
that I was wrong. He is capable of it. And that terrifies me, because if he can do
this to Elia—to his own wife, the mother of his children—what else might he do?
What other cruelties might he justify in the name of prophecy and destiny?"

"I don't know," Rhaella admitted. "But I fear we will all find out soon enough."

The three women sat in silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts. Rhaenys
eventually fell asleep against her mother's side. Aegon finished nursing and dozed off
in Elia's arms. Outside, the sun moved across the sky, marking the passage of time
toward a reckoning none of them were ready for.

Two days. In two days, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen would return to King's Landing
with Lyanna Stark at his side. And the realm would finally get its answers—though
Rhaella suspected those answers would only lead to more questions, more pain, more
fractures in the already crumbling foundation of peace.
She thought of Aerys, locked away in his chambers with the ghosts of dead children.
She thought of her son, riding north to face his father's judgment. She thought of
Lyanna Stark, a girl barely out of childhood, who had helped destroy the stability of
seven kingdoms for love.

And she wondered, not for the first time, if House Targaryen would survive this crisis.

Or if this was the beginning of the end.

King’sLanding

As they approached the city gates, Barristan noticed the unusual number of guards.
House Stark banners flew alongside House Arryn and House Baratheon. The Tully
trout was visible among the others. The city was full of great houses, all of them
armed, all of them waiting.

"Stay close," Barristan ordered Rhaegar and Lyanna. "No matter what happens, no
matter what anyone says or does, you stay with me and the gold cloaks.
Understood?"

Both nodded, their faces pale with fear.

The gates opened, and they entered King's Landing.

The streets were lined with people—smallfolk who had heard the rumors, lords and
knights from various houses, servants and merchants and beggars. All of them
watching. All of them silent.

It was the silence that unnerved Barristan most. He had expected jeering, shouting,
perhaps even thrown refuse. But this silence was something else entirely. It was
judgment without words, condemnation without sound. The city was watching its
Crown Prince return with another man's betrothed, and it was reserving its verdict.

As they made their way through the streets toward the Red Keep, Barristan caught
glimpses of familiar faces. Northern men wearing the direwolf of House Stark.
Riverlanders with the leaping trout. Vale knights with the moon-and-falcon. And
there, near a tavern entrance, a massive figure that could only be Robert Baratheon,
his face dark with some emotion Barristan couldn't quite read from this distance.

Lyanna saw him too. She made a small sound—half gasp, half sob—and her hand
flew to her mouth.

"Keep moving," Barristan said quietly. "Eyes forward."

They climbed the winding streets to the Red Keep, past the Sept of Baelor where
common folk gathered to pray or gossip, past the markets where trade had slowed as
people stopped to watch the procession. Every step felt like marching toward
judgment.

Finally, they reached the Red Keep's gates.

The outer courtyard was full of people. Lords and ladies, knights and guards, servants
trying to catch a glimpse of the scandal made flesh. Barristan saw Rickard Stark
standing near the entrance, his northern face carved from stone, his eyes fixed on his
daughter. Beside him, Eddard looked anguished, while Brandon's expression cycled
between relief and fury.

Jon Arryn stood with them, his weathered face grave. The Tully contingent was there
too—Hoster looking sick, Brynden watching everything with sharp eyes, Catelyn
standing protectively near her sister Lysa, who looked like she wanted to disappear
into the stones.

And there, separated from the others by guards and by choice, was Robert Baratheon
standing on balcony,he thought Robert might be drunk of barrels of wine.

The young Lord of Storm's End was bigger than Barristan remembered—not just tall
but broad, powerful, built like a warrior king from legend. His black hair was wild,
his blue eyes blazing with emotions too complex to name. When those eyes locked
onto Lyanna, something broke in his expression.

Lyanna began to dismount, but Barristan stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"Not yet," he said quietly. "We go directly to the king. No stops, no

confrontations, no conversations. That's the only way to keep this from
exploding right here in the courtyard."

"But my father—" Lyanna began.

"Will see you soon enough," Barristan said firmly. "First, the king."

As they made their way through the crowd, Barristan felt the weight of dozens of
stares. The Northern contingent looked at Lyanna with a mixture of relief, anger, and
shame. The Riverlands men seemed uncertain, caught between loyalty to different
houses. The knights who had come with Brandon looked at her with barely concealed
disgust.

And everywhere, people looked at Rhaegar and Lyanna's joined hands—the prince
and the girl, walking together into judgment.

One of the Stark household guards—a grizzled veteran with gray in his beard—spat
as they passed. "Wolf whore," he muttered, loud enough to be heard.

Brandon Stark turned on the man immediately. "Shut your mouth, Harwin, or I'll
shut it for you!"

"Why?" the guard shot back. "It's true, isn't it? She ran off with a married man,
abandoned her betrothal, shamed our house—"

"She's still my sister!" Brandon roared.

"And we almost died because of her!" another voice shouted—one of Brandon's
companions, Barristan thought it might be Ethan Glover. "We rode to this cursed
city ready to fight the Kingsguard because we thought she'd been kidnapped,
and all along she was—"

"Enough!" Rickard Stark's voice cut through the rising chaos. "Not here. Not now.
There will be time for recriminations later. For now, we will maintain our
dignity and wait for the king's judgment."

But the damage was done. The tension in the courtyard was thick enough to cut with a
knife.

Barristan hurried his charges forward, through the crowd, into the Red Keep proper.
Behind them, he could hear voices rising—arguments, accusations, defenses. The
realm was fracturing right here in this courtyard, and all he could do was get Rhaegar
and Lyanna to safety before someone did something irreversible.

Barristan dismounted and gestured for his charges to do the same. As Rhaegar helped
Lyanna down from her horse, Barristan caught sight of a figure watching from a high
window of the Red Keep.

King Aerys II Targaryen stood silhouetted against the afternoon sun, his silver-gold
hair neatly braided, his posture straight and regal. Even from this distance, Barristan
could feel the weight of the king's gaze.

"Come," Barristan said to Rhaegar and Lyanna. "The king awaits."

As they walked toward the Red Keep's entrance, Lyanna's steps faltered. "Ser
Barristan... what will happen to us?"

Barristan looked at the girl—and she was still just a girl, despite everything—and felt
a wave of weariness wash over him. "I don't know, my lady. But I suggest you and
Prince Rhaegar prepare yourselves to answer some very difficult questions."

They climbed the steps in silence, Barristan leading, Rhaegar and Lyanna following
hand-in-hand, and fifty-five gold cloaks bringing up the rear along with three bound
knights who had chosen loyalty to a prince over duty to their king.

Above them, Aerys Targaryen watched and waited.

The city held its breath.

And in the throne room, prepared for what was to come, the great lords of Westeros
gathered to hear the truth from the mouths of those who had nearly torn the realm
apart.

The Red Keep - Inner Courtyard

Lord Rickard Stark stood in the courtyard as Barristan's party arrived, his face a mask
of northern stone. Beside him, Eddard looked sick with worry, while Brandon—
Brandon looked like a man who'd aged ten years in a few weeks.

When Lyanna saw her family, she tried to pull away from Rhaegar, tried to run to
them. But Rhaegar held her hand tight, and Barristan interposed himself between the
Starks and their wayward daughter.

"Not yet," Barristan said quietly. "There will be time for family reunions after the
king has heard their testimony."

"My daughter—" Rickard began, his voice rough with emotion.

"Is safe and unharmed," Barristan assured him. "As is Prince Rhaegar. They
came willingly, Lord Stark. No force was necessary." He paused. "Though I
cannot say the same for the three knights who tried to prevent us from executing
the king's orders. They are bound and will face charges of obstructing justice."

Rickard's eyes never left Lyanna's face. "You foolish girl," he said, not loudly, but
with such profound disappointment that Lyanna flinched as if struck. "What have
you done? What have you done to our house?"

"Father, I—" Lyanna's voice broke.

"Save it for the throne room," Rickard said coldly. "You'll have plenty of
opportunity to explain yourself to the king, to the realm, and to the gods. I only
pray they show you more mercy than you deserve."

As they were escorted inside, Barristan caught sight of other figures watching from
various windows and doorways.

Queen Rhaella, her face a mask of sorrow. Princess Elia, pale and drawn, a babe in
her arms. Young Viserys, confusion evident on his small face. And members of
Houses Tully, Arryn, Baratheon, and others—all gathered to witness the return of the
runaways.

Again,Robert Baratheon stood alone on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Even

from a distance, Barristan could see the man was drunk—swaying slightly, one hand
gripping the balcony rail for support. When Robert's eyes found Lyanna, the look on
his face was one of such raw agony that Barristan had to look away.

This, he thought, is what happens when prophecy meets politics, when love meets
duty, when the desires of two young people collide with the stability of seven
kingdoms.

And somehow, against all odds, the Mad King had held it together long enough for
them to reach this point without wholesale slaughter.

Now came the hard part: deciding what to do next.

As Barristan led his charges deeper into the Red Keep, toward the throne room where
judgment awaited, he offered a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening.

Let this end without more blood. Let wisdom prevail over rage. Let justice be
tempered with mercy.

But he was a knight, not a septon, and he knew better than most that the gods rarely
answered prayers in the way mortals hoped.

Behind them, the great door of the Red Keep closed with a boom like thunder.

The trial was about to begin.

End of Chapter 5