Return of The Dragons Chapter 29 (The Past of A Wolf) (Patreon)

Tyrion Lannister

They left in haste; Tyrion wanted to leave the Inn as soon as possible; following the King's Road, he felt safe. Yet, he ordered Ser Barristan and the Stark Bastard to stand close at his side; the horses moved without resting for half a day, the rain and muddy ground made it hard to move, and his eye couldn't see beyond a few feet ahead of him.

The horses were slipping from the mud, the soldiers complaining about the rain but mostly the mud, their boots hard to move as mud stuck to them.

His eyes turned to look at the bastard whose eyes seemed as dark as night, and for a moment, the Lannister lord could have sworn he saw a shade of violet or rich purple, but he just shrugged it off as the darkness of night playing dirty tricks on him.

The night came, the soldiers started preparing the tents; Tyrion's tent was prepared; first, he invited the bastard and Ser Barristan inside to have a few drinks with him.

Feeling the mud on his boots, the smell of shit from the horses, and the man around him, Tyrion didn't know what he wouldn't give to have a whore on his bed tonight or a warm bath.

Lord Tyrion grabbed three cups and put them on the table, and he saw Jon looking at him with a neutral expression while Ser Barristan looked slightly on edge, or maybe that was just him.

Jon went on and grabbed the bottle with wine and filled one for Lord Tyrion and Ser Barristan, but not one for himself.

"You can drink Bastard; neither Lord Stark nor Lady Stark is here to lash on you" Tyrion spoke and noticed the grimaced expression of Jon when he brought up Lord Stark.

"Thank you, my lord," Jon replied, knowing it wouldn't look good to decline the offer of a Lord, and him getting irritated with him was the last thing he needed right now.

Filling the cup, they brought them together and cheered; Jon took a small sip, he forced coughed.

"Haven't been used to the Wine bastard," Tyrion said with a slight hint of curiosity, as Ser Barristan's facial expression twitched while The Lannister noticed Jon's face didn't change in the slightest contrary, the corner of his lips moved upwards.

Lord Tyrion had to give credit to Jon; he either was very good at hiding that he was bothered by his constant poking, or he didn't care anymore, perhaps becoming Ser Barristan's square gave him a tiny bit of ego.

Drinking the whole cup, he grabbed the bottle and filled another one, taking a small sip.

"Tell me, Bastard, what do you plan to do after you become a Knight?" Tyrion asked, saying the word 'Bastard' a bit louder; again, Jon's face didn't change in the slightest; it was Ser Barristan who looked to start irritated from his constant poking.

"I want to become a King's Guard; my sister is to be the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Jon spoke with a convincing tone, his lips not stopping mid-sentence or any facial sign that he was lying.

Lord Tyrion nodded his head, accepting the answer; he knew Bastards couldn't reach far in life; having the opportunity he had, Tyrion knew for sure he would have gotten that opportunity as well.

"Tell me, 'Bastard' have you ever thought about more than just a simple knight or just another member of Night's Watch?" Tyrion asked, taking another sip from his cup.

Again, he noted Jon didn't seem bothered by his direct insult.

"No, my lord, I'm a bastard; I'm lucky enough to be square of Ser Barristan The Bold," Jon spoke with passion, his eyes shining.

Tyrion filled another cup and saw no lies beyond a strange gut feeling.

Tyrion decided to change the direction because he couldn't get anything by poking from this angle.

"Tell me, young Jon, have you ever been with a whore?" Tyrion asked, not noticing or not caring, Ser Barristan rolling his eyes.

Jon's face grimaced at the question; even when he thought himself a bastard, he didn't want to be with a whore, he would never sire a bastard, and now that belief was still there.

"I never want to sire a bastard, my lord, Never," Jon spoke, saying the end with a slightly higher tone.

Tyrion nodded in understanding and believed his word this time; he didn't know how Jon was treated in Winterfell, but if the cold and harsh looks of Lady Stark were anything to go by...

"Jon, when we arrive in King's Landing, I will have a long discussion with Lord Stark; Perhaps you can help me to clarify a few things," Tyrion said, not missing the relaxed face of Ser Barristan, while Jon didn't look bothered.

"Of course, my lord," he answered with a forced smile and drank from his cup.

Tyrion understood the game of cat and mouse was taking too long, and he had noticed the small glances the old knight sent towards Jon when they were at the Inn and attacked by the Wildlings.

Or maybe perhaps he was just overthinking stuff, as usual; the last time he mistook someone's intentions was when... Tysha, Tyrion thought her name with a bitter taste in his mouth.

He didn't know why he was suddenly thinking of her, perhaps the wine, No she was only a whore, Tyrion told himself, and she wanted what every whore wants from you.

Tyrion pressed his lips into a fine line; he drank and filled another cup and drank again.

No woman wants you, not even a whore, he told himself; the woman did an excellent job to show lust, but they never kissed; they didn't care; they only cared about his fat purse with gold.

Tyrion saw that Jon looked bored and decided not to bother him anymore with self-pity.

"You can go to sleep, Jon," Tyrion said, himself making his way towards his bed, stumbling on his way to the bed, Ser Barristan was quick to offer help, but the dwarf just gestured for him to guard the tent outside and leave him to drink himself into oblivion.

Aemon Targaryen

Aemon left the tent, and his feet found his tent; despite telling Tyrion not to set up a tent for him, the Lannister Lord was insistent.

Jon walked inside, his eyes checking his father's diary and chest, the only things of value he had, and the letter he was to bring to House Martell.

Lying on his back, his bed was only a thin material separating him from the mud below. The rain had stopped.

Seeing that he was alone, he grabbed his father's diary and started reading; he noticed the following few chapters were written in different handwriting.

'Civilization, Lyanna Stark believed, was overrated, particularly if masques were involved. A stupider waste of time she'd never seen. Not that she would ever say that to the Queen of Thorns. She had that much sense, at least.

A swish of her wooden sword decapitated several nearby daisies. "It's." Three more. "Not." A clutch of poppies. "Fair." The last victim was a lonely wild rose, and Lyanna felt a pang of regret. Picking up the half-ruined flower, she tucked it into her hair.

"Life isn't fair, sister," Brandon reminded her as he slipped his arm through hers. "The sooner you accept that, the happier you'll be."

"But I'm better than Benjen. I even beat Ned, fair and square. The ladies of Mormont ride into battle. Why should not I?"

"Because you are a Stark of Winterfell--"

"--and I must marry for the betterment of our house and the future of the Iron Throne of Westeros, and do stop, Brandon, before I fall asleep on my feet." Lyanna rolled her eyes. "Do you think Benjen and I could switch places?"

Brandon's laughter echoed through the silent trees. "I'd love to hear you try to convince him."

"Of course, Her Prickliness would notice. She notices everything. I'd swear to the old gods and the new that she has eyes in the back of her head."

"Terrifying woman, yes. Besides, you look nothing like Benjen. You're a confirmed beauty now, though I can't for the life of me see it," Brandon said, swinging her round to look at him. "You know Robert Baratheon is madly in love with you."

Lyanna lowered her eyes to the sword still clutched in her right hand. "I do."

"It is a grand match. You would be lady of Storm's End and the finest lands in Westeros." The seriousness dropped from his voice as he hugged her. "Maybe the first to ride in tourneys, eh? It is not so far from Highgarden, and Robert is rich enough, he'd never notice if you bought yourself a suit of armour."

She swatted him on the shoulder. "Don't be an idiot, Brandon. That isn't how it is in the south. Southron ladies wear silks and laugh at jesters and flirt. It's never real for them." She'd lingered on the fringes of the ladies' circle, watching as Cersei Lannister held court, though the golden-haired girl was younger than herself. "Robert sees what he wants to see."

"All men do that, and women too. I pray cat doesn't see my bad parts till after we wed. Then she can't change her mind."

"It is a pity she isn't here. I do so long to meet her." That much was certainly true. Brandon had met them at the Trident full of raptures about a red-haired girl in Riverrun with a tongue sharp as Lyanna's best blade. "I trust she isn't foolish enough to be jealous of her sister."

"Jealous of Lysa? Why in all the seven hells would cat be jealous of Lysa?"

"How am I to know when I've met neither sister and you refuse to tell me anything about her?" snapped Lyanna, though she could not quite hide her smile. "But even I know that Lord Tully is well on his way to making his other daughter the future lady of Casterly Rock."

"And you think Cat would be jealous?" repeated Brandon, his smile disappearing in the blink of an eye. "Because of Jaime Lannister?" He thrust aside her arm. "I thought you were better than that, Lyanna."

"Now, wait just one moment, Brandon Stark," she demanded. When he finally stopped, about ten paces from her, she sighed. "It was a jest, nothing more. But while we're on the subject, let me remind you that though I know little of what is in her head, I know far more than I should ever wish to about Catelyn Tully's bosom."

Though he did not turn, she could see the backs of his ears turn bright red.

"And since I am a woman and I possess a pair of eyes, I am more than permitted to inflict upon you the wonders of Jaime Lannister's arse."

"And I," Brandon finally said, his cheeks redder than the poppy petals beneath their feet, "am going to forget I ever heard those words come out of my baby sister's mouth."

Lyanna linked her arm through his once again. "Come, then. Why so touchy? What happened at Riverrun?"

"Nothing of import," he snapped. Lyanna bit her tongue and started to silently count to ten. At seven, Brandon sighed. "Very well. There was a...I suppose he wasn't a man, really. A boy. Hoster Tully was fostering him, and he took it into his head that he and cat..." Though he laughed, the sound was oddly strained. "Catelyn Tully of Riverrun marry some nobody from the Fingers? It's beyond nonsense."

They'd come to a halt at the edge of the woods. Before them, swallowing the horizon like a great black beast, was Harrenhal. Lyanna looked at her brother. "Go on, then. A nobody boy from the Fingers in love with a river lord's daughter? This begins to sound like a masque."

"Petyr was his name. She kept calling to him, begging him to reconsider. She cared for him--that much is certain. As for him..." The line of his mouth grew hard, just as their father's did when he was crossed. "He wanted her. Every time he thought nobody was looking, he'd stare at her, as though she were some sort of treasure he could carry away if someone would just give him the chance. I wasn't about to let him, and he made it easy for me. He challenged me, Lyanna. He couldn't have been older than fifteen, and about your size, and he challenged me to a duel for Catelyn Tully."

It went without saying that Brandon would have won. Her brother was twenty, a trained fighter, and a favourite in the jousts to come. It would have been as easy as crushing an insect. She would have thought it harder for Brandon to kill another man.

"I didn't kill him, if that's what you're wondering." Lyanna swallowed her sigh of relief. "Cat begged for his life and I gave it to her. I didn't trust him, Lyanna."

"And what about your Cat, Brandon? Do you trust her?"

Brandon looked at her, finally, his eyes grey and cold as the stones of Winterfell. "I don't trust her to see him for what he is. A snake in the grass. She's well rid of him."

"I would be curious to know her thoughts on the subject," Lyanna said. "You tell me you hope that cat hasn't seen your bad qualities when she's watched you beat a fourteen-year-old boy near unto death. A boy she cared for, no less. Can you hear yourself, Brandon Stark?"

"Aye, Lyanna, I can. And I regret that I didn't kill him when I had the chance." With that, Brandon swept away, his cloak billowing angrily behind him. Lyanna watched until he disappeared beyond the curve of the road that led to Harrenhal's gates. With a sigh, she hoisted the tourney sword over her shoulder and started back toward the castle.

Like everything else in Harrenhal, the main courtyard was massive and partly derelict. The castle's ruined walls dwarfed those of Winterfell, reaching like broken fingers into the glorious blue sky. Spirits sinking as she pondered the one-hour rehearsal that stretched between her and the promise of the evening's feast, she took a sharp turn in the direction of the kitchens. Lyanna had always been adept at coaxing an extra pastry or crust of bread when it suited her. Surely the kitchens at Harrenhal couldn't be terribly different from those at Winterfell.

As she rounded the corner, she heard the sounds of a scuffle. Adjusting the grip on the tourney sword's handle, Lyanna crept forward and silently cursed her skirts as they puddled between her feet.

Three burly squires, no older than the boy from the Fingers Brandon had spoken of, surrounded a slender, prone form. She slammed the sword against the wall with a resounding crack without thinking. The three assailants froze long enough for their quarry to slip free and tuck himself into the far corner.

Faced with a girl, the three squires could only gape at her. With a roar that would have done Brandon proud, she charged them, swinging the tourney sword at the knees of the largest squire. Quicker than he looked, he jumped aside, but the blow still knocked him off-balance into the churned mud of the courtyard.

With a spin that owed as much to her hated dancing lessons as it did to the practice field, Lyanna planted herself between the young man in the corner and the two remaining squires. A quick glance back identified the badge on his cloak--a long-tailed lizard on green--, and Lyanna narrowed her eyes at their assailants.

"That's my father's man you're kicking." She shoved her cloak back to reveal the wolf sigil brooch at her throat. "Do it again and you'll answer to the Starks of Winterfell."

"Do the Starks of Winterfell all fight like girls?" demanded the squire on the left. She noted the badge of the twin towers of Frey on his tunic.

Lyanna smiled, wishing her sword were real. "Care to find out?"

He opened his mouth to reply but instead let out a high-pitched wail as the point of Lyanna's sword rammed into his belly, shoving him onto his back. Straddling him--in which her skirts proved surprisingly useful--the wooden blade pressed against his throat, Lyanna hissed, "Be glad I didn't aim lower."

The last remaining squire was backing away slowly. "Aye, there's a good lad," she said with a grin. "I'll remember you. All of you."

She rose and turned back to the crannogman. "You're very far from the Neck. Come, let's find friendlier company." She would clean him up in Brandon's tent, and her brothers' squires would take care of him. In the meantime, she had a masque to prepare for.

But the young man was watching her, his eyes moss-green and full of secrets. "I saw you, my lady, in my dream. You wore a crown, but all the roses had died and there was nothing left but thorns." He gripped her hands. "You must beware, my lady. Weep for the silver prince, but do not follow him."

"I don't understand," Lyanna murmured, raising him to his feet. "I'm just here with my brothers, ser, and I don't know anything about a prince." Well, excepting the Prince of Dragonstone, who had not yet arrived from the capital. All the ladies-in-waiting sighed for him, save the Dornish lady from Starfall, who it was said was Princess Elia's friend. "I don't even know him. I've never seen him before."

There was a strange sadness in the crannogman's eyes. "You will know him, my lady, all too well."

Lyanna shivered. "You mustn't say such things. My old Nan used to tell me about green men and green dreams, but they're nothing but stories. Now, come with me. Let's find you something to wear."

Much to her relief, he said nothing more of dreams or visions, and Lyanna soon forgot he'd said anything at all.

The princess awakened to the sound of silver harpstrings. She turned on her side and watched as her husband's fingers coaxed impossibly beautiful sounds from the instrument--the melody she recalled from the previous night. Rhaegar was a study in twilight, dark eyelashes concealing his remarkable eyes from view as his hair fell like moonlight over his black doublet. He always wore black, the Targaryen dragon picked out on his breast in thread the color of the finest rubies.

Last night, he had looked particularly striking beneath the massive roof of Harrenhal's great throne room. Elia, who had heard 'The Lament of Jenny of Oldstones' from its first ungainly chords to its final rehearsal and even contributed several choice phrases, instead did what she did best and observed the observers.

Whispers fluttered through the Tyrell contingent while Cersei Lannister watched the prince with eyes hungry as a cat's for cream. There were days when Elia wondered if the Lannister beauty would have been a better wife for Rhaegar, one who could have given him his three perfect children, the heads of the Targaryen dragon. But what had held her eye was the Stark girl, tears standing in her grey eyes as she tried not to catch her brothers' attention.

It was a game Elia knew well, with two brothers of her own, and the Lady Lyanna had three. When Rhaegar finished, and the crowd roared its approval, Elia giggled as Lyanna upended a glass of red wine onto the head of the boy seated beside her. Rhaegar glanced back at her. "I trust you didn't find the song amusing."

"Hardly, my dear. It's simply that wolves aren't supposed to cry when they hear songs, and sometimes one must punish one's brothers." Rhaegar's only brother was far too young for him to understand any such logic. Leaning forward, she kissed her husband on the forehead. "It sounded wonderful, and I am very pleased that your father was not here."

"You don't honestly think I would have sung it if he were?"

"You are occasionally rash, husband, but I think singing of Summerhall before your father smacks less of rashness than of idiocy. And, besides," she added, "you made Lyanna Stark cry."

"Lyanna Stark?" Elia pointed to the grey-swathed table, where a boy dripping red wine was flinging drops at his shrieking sister. "Goodness."

Elia had buried her laughter in Rhaegar's velvet-covered shoulder and thought nothing more of Lyanna Stark. Now, she shifted her pillow, and the movement must have caught his eye, for he looked up and smiled. "I hope you both slept well."

"He misliked that dreadful wheelhouse," Elia said with a grimace. "I wish I had been strong enough to ride, my lord." She had been strong enough, once, but the winter chill and her pregnancy taken their toll. Lowering her eyes, she murmured, "Your son deserves better."

"Nay, Elia, don't." After setting his harp carefully on the window seat, Rhaegar knelt beside the bed and raised Elia's hand to his lips. "He could not ask for a sweeter and more gracious mother. A true child of summer, as he should be, to drive away the darkness for good."

Elia prayed that her smile did not look as painful as it felt, as it always felt when Rhaegar spoke like this. She would not call them spells--no, she could not equate Rhaegar with his father, not in a thousand years--but she did not know what name to give those weeks her husband sometimes spent in the ruins of Summerhall--his closest friends accompanied him to the borders, but the ruins were Rhaegar's alone. She had only passed those naked, staring walls from a distance, for it was said to be a haunted place, whose air still smoked from fires that had lit up the skies more than a lifetime ago. Rhaegar was born as the first rooms caught fire on the far side of the palace, and it was only the timely intervention of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Duncan the Tall, that he and his mother had been saved.

It was the greatest fire the land had seen since the death of Balerion the Black Dread.

The prince of the prophecy was destined to be born amidst salt and smoke, his birth heralded by a bleeding star in the sky. Once Rhaegar had thought himself that prince--it was, after all, why his grandsire had arranged his parents' marriage, with the knowledge that the promised savior of the world would be of his blood. And Rhaegar had been born when the smoke from Summerhall darkened the horizon, and the tears of all the realm had spilled pale and salty for the death of kings.

Then the stars had wept over Dragonstone, and the babe in her womb had quickened. With that, Rhaegar had decided that the prophesied prince must be their son, and if this knowledge disappointed him, Elia had yet to find out.

For Elia's part, she was content to stay away from prophecies. "I would be happy, my lord, if our son were to grow up strong and wise and succeed you on the Iron Throne."

She could see the disappointment in his face. To him, prophecies and dreams of eternal fame were as natural as breathing, but his blood was that of the dragon and of Old Valyria, and the Dornish lived for this world, not for eternity. She raised their conjoined hands to her lips. "You will not ride in the melee, I hope."

Rhaegar shook his head. "I leave that to Robert Baratheon and his like." Elia agreed wholeheartedly--the melee was far too dangerous for the heir to the throne under any circumstances, let alone the present ones.

As Rhaegar's wife, and owing to the queen's absence, Elia would have been expected to attend most if not all of the jousts, but she pleaded her condition such that Ashara took her place after she congratulated the lord of Storm's End on winning the melee. That evening, Ashara gave her a long list of sartorial grievances she had witnessed by ladies of King's Landing, including a particularly unfortunate headdress that caught the attention of a passing hawk, and Elia laughed so hard that she even fancied the baby gave a kick beneath her hand, though it was far too early. At Ashara's urging, she even attended the rather haphazard rehearsal for the masque and watched as her husband fought a mock duel with Jon Connington while Cersei Lannister looked on as Jenny of Oldstones. One of his earlier opponents, vanquished after a short but vigorous bout early in the career of the Prince of Dragonflies, turned out to be Lyanna Stark, conscripted when there were found to be insufficient men with time to spare.'