Hooves pounded the frozen earth, each jolt rattling the mismatched plates across my shoulders. Branches clawed at my cheeks and tore at my cloak as I urged Winter deeper into the forest.
Shouts echoed behind me, muffled by the trees — no names, only orders. They didn't know who I was, thankfully. Not yet.
The armor pinched at my ribs and dragged at my arms, built for a broader chest and heavier frame. It had been worth it, worth every aching muscle, to ride in the lists, to strike a blow for Lord Reed and make those Freys eat dirt.
My father would have caged me at the hearth for such insolence, taking away any weapon larger than a knitting needle or cooking knife. Robert would have laughed, slapped me on the back, and claimed me as his wild she-wolf. Both futures felt like shackles.
The shouts behind me faded. Winter was used to running in the Wolfswood, so she kept her footing better than any southern-bred destrier in this overgrown godswood. She slipped between the pines and found sure footing in the frosted undergrowth.
I didn't slow until the pale face of the old weirwood loomed ahead. Its red eyes seemed to follow me as I swung down from the saddle.
I stripped off the plate in frantic jerks, letting it fall in a heap beside the heart tree. The shield followed, it was too distinctive, too dangerous to keep. From my saddlebag I pulled the gown I had crammed there that morning, silks crumpled and cold.
Halfway into it, I froze. Hooves again, closer, slower. I turned, clutching the fabric to my chest.
A shadow moved between the trees, resolving into silver hair and dark armor.
"Well," a voice said, smooth as still water, "isn't this a surprise."
My stomach dropped. Of course it was the crown prince.
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I tightened my grip on the gown, meeting his gaze with what I hoped passed for defiance.
Rhaegar studied me in silence, his eerie purple eyes tracing my face, my stance, the dirt on my boots. "You chose the godswood," he said at last. "Most would have ridden for the open fields. But perhaps you were hoping to pray?"
"Or to hide," I said. "Unfortunately I don't know these woods."
"Few do," he murmured, glancing toward the white trunk behind me. "And fewer still would have reached them before my men. You ride well, for…" He let the pause stretch, as though weighing whether to finish the thought. "…for someone untrained."
My jaw tightened. "At least I have good horsemanship, even if my skill with a lance is lacking. Those Freys fell out of the saddle with barely a nudge."
"That much was plain." His gaze flicked to the discarded armor. "It was… spirited. A shame your technique lacked discipline. I imagine the Mormonts would be horrified to see such a seat wasted."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"As you like." He shifted in his saddle, looking away briefly toward the far edge of the glade. "There are some in this realm who think women should be kept from danger. My wife, for instance, faints if the fire smokes too heavily. She couldn't hold a blade if her life depended on it. Yet she insists on offering counsel, as if a sickroom grants wisdom."
I bit back the urge to comment. "I'm not your wife."
A faint smile ghosted over his lips. "No. You are not." For a heartbeat, his eyes seemed far away, as if recalling someone else entirely — the kind of memory that softened his features in a way his wife never could.
"Will you tell your father?" I asked nervously. "I'm not sure why the king wanted me caught, but I didn't intend to offend the crown."
One corner of his mouth twitched upward — not quite a smile. "My father finds offense in everything. I suspect he'd call the heart tree treasonous if it didn't bow to him. No, this will stay between us."
"Why?"
When his gaze returned, it was sharp again. "I value competence. Tenacity. Those are not traits bound to sex, though I've found fewer women who possess them."
I tilted my head. "And you think I do?"
"I think you might. And that can be useful."
As silence fell, I became aware again of the tree at my back. The pale face carved in its trunk seemed to watch me, red sap glistening at the corners of its eyes. I could almost feel its gaze boring through me, deeper than Rhaegar's words. A sudden shiver ran down my spine. For an instant, I thought I heard something beneath the stillness: not words exactly, but a warning. Pictures of a wilting blue rose, a deluge of dark blood, and carefully engraved stone flickered in my mind like half-remembered dreams.
I clenched my fists until my vision steadied, leaving only the wind stirring the leaves.
Rhaegar turned his reins. "There is a feast tonight," he said over his shoulder. "Come. Wear something less incriminating."
With that, he nudged his horse forward. The silver-haired prince disappeared into the shadows, leaving me alone with the heart tree and the echo of his words.
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I had chosen the plainest gown I'd brought: dark blue wool, high-necked and long-sleeved. It made me feel armored, which was the point. I was still unsettled by my experience at the weirwood, and I sought any protection I could get. If I could have wrapped myself in the tablecloth and hidden under the benches, I would have.
Benjen slipped in beside me, smirking as he eyed the lords and knights already deep into their cups. "Your modesty will make them all stare harder," he muttered.
"I'm not here to be stared at."
"That's like bringing a torch into the dark and saying you don't want to be noticed."
I elbowed him lightly and scanned the hall for safe ground. Ned stood near the far wall, already looking as though he'd rather be in the practice yard. Brandon, of course, was in the thick of things with Robert Baratheon, both of them roaring with laughter over some joke that made a lady from House Mooton scowl.
I found a table near the edge of the hall, far from the dancing space, and slid into the bench with Howland Reed. The crannogman's eyes darted nervously over the crowd. If I felt out of place here, he must have felt like a salamander in a falcon's nest.
The din of the feast softened to murmurs as Rhaegar Targaryen stepped onto the dais. He was unarmored now, dressed in black and silver, the three-headed dragon gleaming at his chest. In his hands, he carried a golden harp strung with silver strings.
The first note was a thread of sound so fine it barely seemed real. Then the rest followed: a slow, haunting melody that coiled through the hall like smoke.
He did not look at the queen. He did not look at his wife. His gaze moved once over the crowd, lingering only for a heartbeat where Ser Arthur Dayne sat among the Kingsguard.
No one else seemed to notice.
The song caught at something in my chest before I could steel myself against it. The sound was the trickling of clear water over stone, the shiver of a winter breeze, the way the light shimmered on the God's Eye at dawn. My eyes stung.
Benjen leaned close. "The she-wolf never cries," he teased softly, "unless it's for blood."
"Quiet," I said, blinking hard. But I kept my face turned away from him all the same.
When the last string faded, there was no roar of applause, only a slow, reverent clapping that spread across the room like a ripple.
Rhaegar bowed his head slightly, then returned the harp to a page without another word.
Conversation resumed, louder now, as if the hall had to shake off whatever spell had been cast. The smell of roasted meats and fresh bread was suddenly impossible to ignore.
The first servants entered, balancing great silver platters between them. They wove through the hall, laying down trenchers of steaming boar, haunches of venison, and bowls of spiced root vegetables. The air grew thick with the scents — pepper, clove, dripping fat — and the musicians lowered their instruments for the moment.
I leaned back from the table's edge, letting the noise and smells wash over me. For the space of a heartbeat, the hall was only a feast again, not a battlefield of eyes and whispers.