Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

ORESTES : Where have I seen you before ? 

MOIRA : In a dream.  

ORESTES : A thousand years ago. 

208 AC | King’s Landing | A year’s turn before Ashford 

Noon was setting upon Maegor's Holdfast and a letter has been received, a raven instructed to deliver its envelope directly to the King himself. 

King Daeron II was not in the habit of such peculiarities, only his brother Brynden ever dared such fits and so he entrusted the letter to be from him. 

He had grown to be careful in his old age, the world has not been kind to the man people titled The Good. 

For the crown is not the title, the name given of your ruling is. 

He had not been called The Wise, but still his immediate reaction was to be weary. 

The way the letter had been folded was unusual, almost perfectly so. Made to be sure none other than it’s intended was to read its content. 

The monarch’s hand did not shake as he picked up the letter, but he held a cautious hold as he broke the black wax stamped by a singular tearful eye, it was another clue of the strangeness of the parchment. 

Slowly he unfolded the many pleats of the letter. No bright powder, no sharp scent of death. 

Once the parchment was open, he took the time to flatten it on his desk. Briefly looking at inked words he had not yet put into context. 

But once he started to read the mysterious missive- time had stopped, whilst his heartbeat jumped. 

“Ser Donnel ? Send for Bloodraven immediately to my study.” The King’s voice was strong but the edge of it barely held the panic of the prophecy held in the palm of his hands. 

It didn’t take long for Brynden Rivers to arrive, flanked by two White Cloaks. 

Upon the sight of the unmoving King, the Master of Whispers immediately moved toward the desk- wordlessly took the offered parchment from his silent brother. 

The King drank the sight of Brynden’s face, his singular eye deftly scanning the letter- his face already paler than what should be natural blanched more so as his shoulders tensed. 

“When did you receive this ?” Bloodraven’s eye didn’t leave the parchment as he began interrogating the King. “Was it the only thing in the letter— no poison, no trace of tampering ?” 

“That was all.” He responded. “The Raven came by itself to my window, I expected it to be you but you are not so careful in your folding, and the wax seal was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” 

The Master of Whispers scoffed. 

“And you didn’t think to send for me the second you realised it wasn’t a letter from mine own hand ? That the Raven was not one of mine ?” 

The red eyed man finally took a seat in front of his brother, his hand attempting to refold the letter in its original state to catch a glimpse of the destroyed seal. 

“It is useless, brother— I have already tried.” The older man breathed out, settling deeper into his chair, a sigh on his lips. “Luck has it- I, at least, looked at it.” 

For the first time since the letter has been passed to him, Brynden Rivers looked upon his brother. 

“And what crest did it hold ?” 

“ An unknown one.” The King took a blank parchment and his abandoned quill as he spoke. “An eye, stylised on which a singular teardrop hanged from it.” 

He drew it as best he could, his sister Dany had been the better artist of the family. 

“No House in the Seven Kingdoms has such a sigil.” Bloodraven looked upon it with wonder. “Blackfyres would never lower themselves as to use something other than the bastardise version of our House sigil, the Golden Company cannot be mistaken with this and I know of none across the Narrow Sea with such emblem.” 

“It is a threat to us. That is clear.” The monarch said, tone tense.

“It is not, brother.” Brynden’s voice was none the softer, but the confidence of it made the King look at him. “It is a warning—“

“Do you know the meaning the last phrase ? How can you tell it is not a hidden threat in unknown words ?” 

“This Lady of Sorrows clearly knows something we do not. If your Heir is in danger then we shall take the words and keep them to heart until I discover who is behind this.” The Master of Whispers’ singular eye sparked with something akin to challenge. “Tis no threat, but we ought to be careful. We must keep the entire Royal family in the Red Keep until the year’s end, send for Maekar to relocate from Summerhall, if he is to be the Runt then I’d like to have a closer eye on him.” 

Now it was the King’s turn to scoff. 

“You would believe a stranger’s prophecy that my own son would commit kinslaying ?” In his indignation he had risen from his chair. “I’ve known you to be ruthless, brother but to accuse my children of such crime is treason, more so that it is unfounded.” 

Brynden Rivers did not bother refuting the harsh words of his own blood, he simply looked at his Kingly brother- waiting for the orders that would soon be tasked upon him. 

“Find who this Lady of Sorrows is, find what this cursed phrase means and do not- under any circumstance- speak of this to anyone.” The King’s orders were clear as he turned to look out of the window, dismissing Bloodraven entirely with a wave of his hand. 

“Your secrets are mine, your Grace.” The Master of Whispers bowed before leaving the solar, his hand carefully folding the drawing and the letter into the inner pocket of his dark tunic. 

208 AC | King’s Landing | 6 moons before Ashford

King Daeron the second was to be haunted by letters, he has decided. In his position as the Ruler of a Realm, he was expected to answer hundreds of letters every fortnights and read many more. 

Two of them he had memorised word for word :

The Blackfyres declaration of war upon his House and the prophesy sent mere moons ago. 

He had not wanted to take Brynden’s words but still he had called for his youngest back in the Keep from Summerhall, his oldest to be permanently moved from Dragonstone to the Tower of the Hand to facilitate his task with the Small Council, his second born was forced to borrow as many books from the Citadel as he would be required for the year he was to stay in King’s Landing. 

He had disguised the order as Duty. 

He had acted ill and old, even the Queen— his beloved wife— had to be fooled. 

All of this had been a prevention, something he wanted to believe to be useless—

But in the stack of letters he had been delivered to review for the day, one had made his lungs constrict and his heart to stop for a beat too long. 

From Ashford. 

Should the Just be sent where fruits are aplenty, should the Runt be among Ash shall your house fall and in its stead the world we know. 

A grand invitation of a Tourney, from a small House in the Reach to be held in six moons turn. 

Ashford.

It had to be coincidence, he wished for it. 

Prayed to the Seven for it. 

The only members of his Household he had allowed to roam the Realm had been Shiera and Brynden but it had not changed much. 

Bloodraven had not managed to find a common root to the language used for the unknown phrase, they had wondered if it had been created for the sole purpose of scaring them or if it had been a dialect so old that none had passed it through writing.

He had ravaged the Citadel for answers, turned over the brains of the Maesters whose links were useful to him. 

Shiera who didn’t know much of the situation had been given the drawing of the crest and was tasked to search for whom it belonged to. 

Red eye came back with no answers. 

Green eye came back with a direction and a name. 

“One of the children of the Stark Household has been known throughout the North with such sigil.” Shiera had shared one late night after her long voyage. “But the Northerners are deathly secretive, even the Boltons couldn’t be ordered to give me more than the bare minimum.”

It was another worry for the monarch, the kingdom wouldn’t survive another rebellion— especially if it came from the North. 

If one of the Stark children was to commit treason, he couldn’t order for justice— and if Shiera’s witnessed loyalty was anything true then he would have an uprising on his hand. 

And now the letter finally seemed less like treason and more like the warning his brother had advised him to take. 

As his mind turned itself over he did not hear the doors open and close behind him, the King’s gaze fixed on the crashing waves of Blackwater Bay. 

“I take it you have received the invitation.” Brynden came up beside his brother, his tone a statement among the questions crowding the King’s head. 

“Of course you knew…” The older man sighed, not turning toward his younger brother. 

“My eye has been on Ashford the minute I left your study moons ago, it was the most logical part in all of this.” Brynden’s voice was slow but teasing. “I should go to Winterfell, before all of this turn more sour than it already is.” 

This made the King turn his face toward his Master of Whispers. 

“No, the North is already weary of us. Shiera was enough to raise their shields, they wouldn’t welcome you with answers and the Stark children on a silver plater.” 

Bloodraven hummed thoughtfully. 

“Lord Brandon Stark and Lady Alys Karstark have three children : the first two are boys- men now with wives and children of their own too young to know their letters.” 

“And the last one ?” The King inquired. 

Brynden Rivers smiled— it was not something sweet— it was cynical and deeply calculating. 

“She is said to have died young, from a fever so harsh it had boiled her alive.” 

King Daeron winced.

He knew there were more to it, his brother wouldn’t bear such look at the tragic death of a child. 

“So the Starks only have 2 children.” The monarch said slowly, watching his brother’s unmoving face. 

“It is not what I said, brother.” The single red eye finally turned toward him. “She is said to be dead, had been declared such by the old Maester of Winterfell and another Maester from the Citadel who had been a witness to it.”

The king’s eyes widened in realisation. 

“But you don’t believe her to be so ? How ?” The astonishment was clear in the older man’s voice, a great House of Westeros wouldn’t—couldn’t lie about something so dire. 

“It’s simple, brother.” The challenging glint in his eye almost scared the King. “She has no tomb in the ancestral crypt, no funerals were held for the child of the Warden of the North. Nothing but letters sent of the news and the record of it by the Citadel Maester.”

The King stayed silent. 

“She is more akin to a ghost, alive and unknown by almost all of the Realm.” The Master of whispers added. “A true Lady of Sorrows.” 

“Do you truly believe so ?” The older brother, who finally felt the ache in his head appear, demanded. 

The intensity of Bloodraven was unbearable to witness without looking away. 

“I know so.” He said. “We must call a council.”

This caused the King to turn his gaze back toward his brother. 

“The Small Council has no business in this mess—“

“A Family Council—it is time for them to know what awaits us and to finally make a decision on what to do about it.”

Both men held each other’s gaze steadily, both challenging the other for a dispute but none came and together they turned their sight to the Blackwater Bay— where the wave violently crashing were predicting a deadly storm. 

He was already seated beside his wife when he heard his oldest and youngest sons descend upon the Royal solar. 

“Aerion is perfectly capable of taking responsibility—“ Prince Maekar’s voice was a hard, low rasp. Each syllable perfectly enunciated to make his point clear until his brother cut him off. 

“You know how Aerion is, you cannot expect of me to believe he would be willing to not shame us further. He needs to wake up.” Prince Baelor’s tone was almost as hard as his brother’s but the softness of it gave his voice a kinder edge to the words given. 

Both Princes stopped by the open doors. 

The Sun and the Moon, his wife Myriah had called them. 

The Hammer and the Anvil, the Realm had crowned them. 

They represented perfectly the House they were born into : one dark and golden as the blazing sun of Dorne and the other sharp and pale as a Valyrian blade. 

The only resemblance they shared was the singular amethyst eye of the oldest, his youngest had copied the colour perfectly with his own two. 

Whenever Baelor was, Maekar placed himself always on his right— so that always three amethysts followed the obsidian. 

Silly children habits, the King remembers fondly. An habit that never broke with time or war. 

“Children, please come.” The Queen, feeling her husband’s deep musing guided the last two awaited members to a sofa. 

The order of the rooms would look natural to a casual observer, but among the rich reds and deep golds of the solar was a order of importance, rules not ordered but applied naturally. 

The King was seated at his lavish desk, it had been cleared out for the occasion. Where usually parchments, ink pots and quills littered the smooth wood were now replaced by a single unfolded letter in it’s centre. 

At his right, seated close was his wife, the Queen Myriah Martell, Princess of Dorne. One of her hand was steadily playing with the jewelled rings adorning her tanned fingers, the yellow of her silk dress bright and welcoming in the sour mood of the room. 

At his left, farther, was his first born Prince Baelor Targaryen lounging comfortably on the plush velvet— seated close to him, his youngest Prince Maekar Targaryen looked unnaturally still with his back straight, his thighs spread so that it would touch his brother’s . 

Across from them, the long unbrushed brown hair of his third child Prince Rhaegel Targaryen peered at his brothers— his fair face and purple eyes inquisitive but calm among his own blood. 

By his side, Prince Aerys Targaryen sat back bent, a curtain of golden white hair fell to hide his face, completely unaware of the rest of the room as his second chid’s nose was as ever stuck in a heavy tome. 

Brynden Rivers was behind the King, watching the storm they had watched collect the day before land heavily in the Bay. 

By his side, Shiera Seastar leaned against the window, softly whispering words the oldest man in the room didn’t care to know. 

“Now Father, if you could please announce what has been worrying you for moons, I would like a reprieve of the stress it has caused me.” Maekar’s statement awakened the solar like a spark on dry straw. 

Baelor shushed him with a smile. 

“The King might have reasons for the silence, brother.” Baelor’s mismatched eyes landed gracefully on the man concerned. 

Said King let out a heavy sigh.

“This is a family matter, here I am no King. Only a father, a husband and a brother.” Daeron the Good responded without pause. “I understand your worry, my sons— I did not realise it had bleed out on you so clearly.”

“My love, we are all plagued with worries. It is the duty of our family to bear it.” The dark haired queen tutted toward her husband. “We must share its burden, we cannot let the crown weight you so.” 

“It is not the crown that weight me, Myriah— but the words I have been sent a few moons ago.” He responded, looking at the room at large. 

Brows furrowed, posture stiffened. 

“War ? Another fucking Rebellion ?” Maekar was quick to assume, his words faster than his capacity to stop them. 

“The Golden Company hasn’t moved in years—“ Baelor’s steady voice refuted the thoughts, who was cut swiftly by Brynden. 

“The Blackfyres are hidden and accounted for, there’s nothing of the sort looming above us.” Bloodraven tone left no arguments to be held. “What is upon us is a future, which has been foretold by a northern ghost.” 

One could hear a pin drop on the thick Dornish carpet given the silence weighting the room. 

“What ?” Aerys has finally left his book, his translucent eyebrows raised high toward the Gods. 

“I concur—what in the seven fucking hells ?” Maekar didn’t hesitate to add, glaring at his uncle before turning his gaze back to his father. “What is going on ? We don’t need fucking riddles, just tell us what is going on !”

The older man didn’t respond and simply handed the piece of parchment that caused the whole ordeal. 

Maekar didn’t hesitate to snatch it with deft fingers, sitting back down turning to share the letter with the eyes of his oldest brother. 

The good King could see every lines, every ridges upon his two most trusted sons, he could feel the words they were reading. Instinctively he could recite each syllable upon the paper, he saw the way Maekar’s whole body jerked, as if struck by an invisible force. Baelor, who had taken the letter, had both hands now gripping the parchment, tremors ran upon his slander fingers. 

"Aut viam inveniam aut faciam… (I will either find a way or I will make one...)"King Daeron the Good recited from pure memory, his voice carrying through the solar.

"Heskil, she has come for us. (The Winter One has come for us.)"Rhaegel’s haunted voice echoed after his father’s words, his eyes previously clear as a summer’s day were now clouded. "Heskil, Heskil..."

Myriah had stood the second her most fragile child started speaking, recognising the looks settling on his face. 

“Rhaegel, sweetling—“ She had moved Aerys to take his place on the nearest seat but she was quickly stopped by her rambling son. 

“Mama, winter will come and fire shall burn !” The Prince exclaimed with childlike glee. “The song—the song will resonate through the night falling upon shining scales ! Night defeats itself where Gods had no claim to reach.” 

The joyful laughter ringing through the solar did not light up the somber mood blanketing all but one in the room. 

The Queen did not know what to say, she simply held her son in her arms as he kept laughing into her embrace. 

“Well, Rhaegel’s word at least confirm what we suspected…” Bloodraven’s face was stoic but the King could clearly see the satisfaction in the curve of his words. 

“Will you stop being so fucking odd ? My head is about to burst from so many questions and you are just being a cryptic cunt.” The youngest prince groaned, not bothering listening to the usual chiding that came with his crude speech. “This thing— this letter, this Lady of Sorrows whoever the fuck she is— I’ll find her and I will kill her if I have to.” 

“Peace, brother.” Baelor’s steady hand fell on his brother’s bouncing knee. “There no need for bloodshed at once—“

“No need ?! Has sanity taken this family ? Baelor, it says I am to kill you !” Maekar’s nerves had clearly not settled with his brother’s touch as he stood up suddenly to start pacing around the solar. 

“No one shall kill anyone.” Queen Myriah’s order was thunderous. Her gaze fixed firmly on her last born while her hand was still stroking the hair of her third. “Daeron, husband. Pray tell explain to the rest of us what is going on.” 

The King, the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, nodded his head to his wife and started reciting the letter his Heir still held in his hand. 

“This is clearly a prophecy, true or not I shan’t know but this phrase, those words— I have never heard of such language. Baelor, pass me the letter, I might recognise it better with mine own eyes.” Aerys was quick to say, taking the parchment given, quickly skipping the prophecy to read it’s true mystery. 

His purple eyes blurred behind thin pans of clear Myrish glass were analysing each and every unknown word. 

“I have consulted every Maesters at the Citadel on the language, none have a clue of its provenance and meaning.” Brynden said, seeing his nephew struggle. 

“Then it is nothing, a stupid wench who mushed letters together.” Maekar was quick to argue. 

“Everything has meaning, brother.” Aerys tone was bored, as if this was not their first argument on the matter. “This wench— might she be one— is all but stupid. The phrase is short but it has meaning, structure. Something made up wouldn’t be so tricky to decode, but something lost to time is tougher, it has its own rules and logic. Uncle, have you looked through the High Codex by Archmaester Ludwig ?” 

“It took me 2 moons to finish and nothing helpful came out of it.” Bloodraven responded with a resigned look toward the acursed letter. 

“I still shall have a look, mayhap you have missed something…” 

The King cleared his throat, ordering all the attention back on him. 

“Thank you, Aerys.” The monarch’s gaze turned back to Baelor and Maekar. “Today, I received an invitation.” 

“For Lord’s Ashford Tourney.” The steady voice of the Hand added. “He sent one to me, in case yours did not make the flight.”

“And so ? We have never attended Tourney’s of some minor Lords, this would not have been the first.” Maekar sneered, his feet stopping by his brother’s side. 

“Before this mysterious missive, the council has advised me to have the Royal family attend more events around the Kingdom.” The king could see his youngest ire rising and lifted his hand to shut him off. “To know this Realm, to rule it one must know it. The land and the people and had I not received this I would’ve ordered you to attend.”

Silence fell once more upon the room. 

“Do you have guesses on who this might be ?” Baelor looked steadily at his father but it was Shiera who responded. 

“A Stark of Winterfell.” She said lightly, she had not left her place by the window. “She is most mysterious, this Lady of Sorrows. Even her name is a secret kept by every Northerners— from the Neck to the Wall.” 

“Lord Stark doesn’t have a daughter and his sisters have been married off long ago, and I’m sure Lady Alys is much too busy to care about Royals and play guessing games.” The Heir shared his knowledge freely, brows creasing in concentration. 

The King could hear the sardonic smile of his brother before he even uttered a word. 

“Lord Stark had one daughter.” Brynden corrected, his red eye fixing the Heir. 

“Yes—yes, now that you remind me. She died in 199 AC, from a sudden fever. Was it not ?” Baelor’s swift memory was quick to pick up the pieces. “Or perhaps, she never did…” 

“Baelor, that’s absurd.” Maekar glared at Bloodraven once more before adding. “Why would the fucking Warden of the North falsify his only daughter’s death, it is useless she is just a girl, not even the Heir !” 

“That’s why I will be sending people to investigate the matter further, and if the Gods are willing give us ample answers and explanations on what shall be expected at Ashford other than death.” 

“Husband, is it truly reasonable ? The North might see the coming of an army in the wrong light.” 

“No army shall be sent, your Grace.” Shiera corrected easily. 

“Then what will it be ? Poor fools asked to play inquisitors ?” Maekar’s voice countered. 

From here and there, King Daeron the Good took the matter in his own hands and decided at once. 

“It shall be a lesson in diplomacy for you, and a chance to see the Realm for Baelor.” The King voice left no space for arguments. “You shall both leave with a dozen men each, your households will remains safe in King's Landing. You are Princes of House Targaryen and you must act like it, and if I catch wind of a Trial of Seven I will hang you both myself. Valarr shall take on the duty of the Hand whilst his father is away.”

Silence crowned him. 

It was broken by the smooth tone of Baelor. 

“Her name— I remember, Nienna.”

“Nienna Stark”