FIC: The Assembly of Ladies (2/2) (various) for mystery_knight

[soiafxchangemod]

Recipient: mystery_knight
Title: The Assembly of Ladies; or why there was no masque at the Tournament of Harrenhal
Author: lareinenoire
Rating: T
Characters: Olenna Tyrell, Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Lyanna Stark, Brandon Stark, Ned Stark, Howland Reed, Ashara Dayne, Arthur Dayne, Elia Martell, Oberyn Martell, Rhaegar Targaryen; Rhaegar Targaryen/Elia Martell, Brandon Stark/Ashara Dayne, Jaime Lannister/Cersei Lannister, Rhaegar Targaryen/Lyanna Stark
Wordcount: 19,898 (including notes)
Summary: They say the War of the Usurper began on the final day of Lord Whent's tournament at the castle of Harrenhal, but as with all histories, the truth is far more complicated.
Warnings: Sibling Incest (Canonical), References to canonical underage sex, unreliable narrators, tournaments, bad life choices, foreshadowing ahoy, creepy pseudo-medieval monarchs
Notes: I'm afraid this may not be as shippy as you hoped, but I tried to fit as many of your requested characters in as possible, even if secondhand. Many, many thanks to my wonderful beta-readers R., A., W., and F. I could not have done it without you.

Continued from Part 1

Her own words continued to echo as Elia watched the jousts the next day. There were five champions as the sun started its slow descent toward the hills. And it was then that the mystery knight rode into the lists. On his shield was a tree whose bark was twisted into a laughing face. Beside her, Rhaegar leant forward in sudden interest.

"Is it a sigil you recognise, my lord?" Elia asked.

Rhaegar shook his head. "I've never seen it before, but it looks like one of those heart trees they worship in the north. Presumptuous, to wear a god as a sigil."

Elia briefly sketched a sign against evil where Rhaegar could not see it. She did not believe, as such, but old habits died hard.

"Sister, what think you of this development?" Oberyn's voice made her heart jump a little and she glared at him as he dropped into the chair Ashara had vacated earlier that afternoon. "If you're wondering what became of the lady of Starfall..."

"Ashara's business is her own and she will tell me in her own time," Elia said. "As for what I think, I see a mystery knight, and I will be curious to see who he challenges."

"A tiny knight, for a start, far too small for that horse. Fine horse, though. One of the northern breeds." Oberyn could read horseflesh the way maesters read books. He rested his chin on one hand and held the other out to Elia, who took it gladly. "How do you, sister?"

"Well, my dear. My son is making his presence known. And," she added under her breath after a quick glance round, "I have spoken to the prince."

"What says he?"

"He will take it under advisement. You cannot expect more, Oberyn. He cannot openly side against the king without starting a war." Raising her voice, she gestured toward the knight, who had apparently made three challenges. "Who has he challenged, Oberyn? Tell me."

Without batting an eye, he rose from his seat and leant over the railing. After a moment, he called back to her, "Knights from Houses Haigh, Blount, and Frey."

Turning from where he had been deep in conversation with Jon Connington, Rhaegar frowned. "An odd combination. One never knows with these mystery knights, though. I still remember the stories of Aegon the Unlikely and Ser Duncan the Tall. Or Sir Barristan, for that matter. Arthur never bothered with it."

Elia laughed. "Of course not. He won't be parted from Dawn and nobody with half their wits could fail to recognise that sword."

"I do not think our knight of the tree is quite of their calibre," Oberyn remarked with a smirk. "The smiling tree? No, too close to the Smiling Knight for anybody's comfort. And, speaking of the Smiling Knight, where in the seven hells is Ser Jaime Lannister?"

"The laughing tree, perhaps," Rhaegar murmured, clearly lost in thoughts. "Will that do, Prince Oberyn?"

Oberyn eyed her husband for a moment before nodding. "I daresay it will. The Knight of the Laughing Tree. A long name for such a short knight."

"As for Ser Jaime," said Elia, "he arrives today from Casterly Rock. It seems his invitation was delayed." At least that was what his sister claimed, but there was far too much triumph in Cersei Lannister's smile for such a simple explanation. For a moment she studied the Knight of the Laughing Tree, but the small figure on the massive horse could not possibly be Ser Jaime Lannister. Her eyes met Rhaegar's briefly and she wondered if he had been thinking the same thing.

All the men were soon intent on the fighting, and Elia took the opportunity to lean back against the cushioned chair and watch the crowd. The first day or two of any great tourney involved mostly the hedge knights, with the great lords and champions decided by lots and spread over the latter days. It was no surprise, therefore, that the stands were crowded with houses and colours from the Riverlands, and the parties from further afield left their places empty.

The mystery knight handily defeated his first two challengers, each after an engagement of some length. By the time he unhorsed the third, it was clear his strength was flagging. Elia found herself fascinated in spite of her utter lack of interest in jousting and any of its attendant spectacles.

There was just something odd about the knight and Elia could not quite pin down what it was. Something in his movements; an odd sort of grace that--strange as the thought was-- owed as much to dancing as it did to sparring. It was proving a source of immense frustration for Oberyn, whose commentary distracted her from the niggling and persistent suspicion that she'd seen the knight before.

"Oh, for all our sakes, just finish him," Oberyn muttered as the knights circled one another for what seemed like the hundredth time. "This is a tournament, not a Highgarden masque."

Elia froze. Below them, as the crowd roared its approval, the Knight of the Laughing Tree lunged forward and brought his sword down with a flourish to within a hairsbreadth of the Frey knight's throat. No, not his sword. Hers.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree was Lyanna Stark.

Elia would have sworn it on her honour. She silently cursed Ashara's absence; the other girl could have confirmed her suspicions in a second. Beside her, Oberyn continued to mutter imprecations, and on her other side, Rhaegar was watching the knight with great interest.

Leaning toward her husband, Elia placed her hand on his arm. "What think you of our mystery challenger?"

Rhaegar held up his hand and Elia looked down to see the mystery knight, still ahorse, addressing the three defeated champions. The wind had picked up, snatching the words, but one of the heralds scurried to Rhaegar's side soon after the knight had finished speaking.

"The knight will give them back their arms and horses if they lesson their squires in honour?" Rhaegar sounded bemused. "A stranger mystery knight I don't think I've seen. Who are these dishonourable squires, I wonder?"

The three knights retreated from the field in the direction of their tents, presumably to chastise their squires. The mystery knight made a quick circuit of the lists before melting into the crowd of waiting squires. Elia shook her head. "I suppose there is something to be said for a mystery knight who will remain a mystery."

But there was a noise growing on the far side of the lists nearest the castle. Rhaegar's fingers tightened on the arms of his chair as the white shapes of the Kingsguard hove into view. In their midst, astride a black horse, was the gaunt figure of King Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, head bent beneath the weight of the crown. He peered at the crowd through suspiciously narrowed eyes, his gaze lingering on Rhaegar and Elia, or so it seemed.

Lord and Lady Whent had scrambled down from the opposite stand, all but tripping over their finery as they prostrated themselves before the king. Rhaegar rose to his feet and held out his arm to Elia, his face as blank as a king's effigy. Sighing under her breath, she adjusted the red and gold veils of her headdress and let her husband lead her from the stands.

In the light of day, the king looked even worse than he had two nights earlier. His robes were of black velvet trimmed in red, as fine as any in King's Landing, but nothing could disguise the tangles in his filthy beard or the clawlike nails. His skin was pale as milk from lack of sunlight, and he squinted fiercely beneath the afternoon sun.

"Lord Whent. Lady Whent. How gracious you are to invite us to celebrate your daughter's wedding." His voice was hoarse from disuse, rasping like chains on cold stone. "We beg your pardon for our absence these past days. The journey was...taxing."

By the time he finished, Rhaegar and Elia had reached the group and made their obeisance, Elia staring fixedly at the daisies trampled beneath the king's feet. There could be no hiding it now. The Riverlands would be full of the story by nightfall, tales of the king's face travelling with messengers and hedge knights and by raven to the great castles of Highgarden and Casterly Rock. She had to fight not to look at Rhaegar.

"Rise." The king's voice was chillier than the Wall. "We would join you, our son, to see the last of the jousting."

"I fear it has already concluded, Your Grace, but you may greet the champions," Rhaegar said, slipping his arm through his father's with accustomed grace. Elia dropped back and Lord Whent stopped gaping long enough to take her arm. He was visibly shaking.

"You did well, my lord," Elia murmured with what she hoped was reassurance. She resolved to press Rhaegar further. She might even seek Jon Connington's help. Though he cared not at all for her, he would throw himself on a sword for Rhaegar.

It might be his most useful characteristic.

"You are sure, my lady?" Lord Whent turned to her, his eyes wide.

Gods above, Elia thought in horror, it's worse than I thought. "Certain, my lord. Please, you must not trouble yourself. The Kingsguard will see to His Grace. You have your daughter and Lord Frey, and I'm sure that's more than enough."

He left her at the royal stands, where the king had taken the throne Rhaegar had been careful to leave empty no matter how tempting the prospect. The five champions, including the mystery knight, came to a halt in the middle of the field, and Elia smiled as the mystery knight was introduced using the title Rhaegar had coined.

Though the others removed their helmets, the Knight of the Laughing Tree merely bowed and shook his head.

"Why won't he show his face?" the king demanded from the shadows behind them. Elia looked at Rhaegar, who knelt beside his father and spoke low and quick. "I don't care, Rhaegar. We wish to see his face."

"Father, please, let it be. You'll see his face if he wins again." She closed her eyes at the pleading in Rhaegar's voice. "Just enjoy the tournament."

"I don't trust men who hide their faces," the king hissed. But he sat back in his throne and motioned for Rhaegar to return to his seat. Rhaegar nodded to the herald and, below in the field, the knights dispersed.

Later, Elia found Rhaegar in his favoured perch on the window seat. The harp lay in his lap, his fingers listlessly plucking at the strings. "You did the right thing, my lord," she said, placing one hand on his shoulder. He reached up and covered her fingers with his.

"I could see his hand on the reins, Elia. He was ready to bolt. I don't know what would have happened." He looked up at her, his expression more fearful than she had ever seen it. "I saw the king, Elia, perhaps for the first time in too long. I forget how the Red Keep changes a person. When he's there, he seems..."

"Less mad?" she offered with a weak laugh. "Lord Whent behaved as though the king would order him burnt on the spot. I think I calmed him, though. For what that's worth."

So many words trembled on her tongue. Come to Dorne with me. Take the throne that is yours by right. It was the right decision, and anyone with wits could see it. Even Rhaegar could see it, the more was the pity, for he remembered his father before his mind turned even as the realm began to forget. The darkest of the seven hells was reserved for traitors and kinslayers, and who knew what the gods' response would be to a king who killed his own father to save a dying kingdom? So she did not speak.

"I'd wager we've seen the last of our mystery knight," Rhaegar mused after a few moments of silence. "He won't be coming back, not with my father's eye on him."

"Not he," Elia said softly. "She, my lord. Your mystery knight is a woman." At Rhaegar's look of surprise, she shook her head in mock reprimand. "For shame, Rhaegar. You forget the ladies of the north keep to the old ways and go into battle alongside their men."

"Not all the ladies of the north," he corrected her. "Only the Mormonts. A tree is a strange disguise for a bear."

"And not only the north, for that matter. Your forget Queen Nymeria. And your own daughter's namesake, for that matter, along with her sister Visenya. Queens fight their own battles, my lord. They leave scars of a different sort." Elia settled onto the window seat and, after setting his harp in its case, Rhaegar slipped his arm around her shoulders. "Lyanna Stark of Winterfell is your mystery knight, my lord. I'd swear it on my honour."

"Lyanna Stark? From the masque?" After a few moments, he remarked with a frown, "Of course, she would have lost on the morrow."

"I don't think she intended to win the tournament, Rhaegar. She wanted those knights to teach their squires honour. And now, one assumes she has accomplished that."

"She's also caught the king's attention, which is reason enough to disappear." He frowned. "He'll be furious when he realises she's gone."

"Then you offer to find her. It will endear you to your father and you can conveniently find nothing at all. Our mystery knight was a green man from the Isle of Faces." Turning back to look at him, she wiggled her fingers in front of his face. "Boo!"

"And Lyanna Stark's secret is safe." Rhaegar caught her hand and kissed it. "She must be clever, for a ruse like that."

"Her brothers could have helped her. That was not a lady's horse." Though she enjoyed riding, she had never had the strength to indulge in the sport as Oberyn did. "And when I find my runaway handmaiden, I shall confirm it with her."

"Unless Ashara's turned wolf." He made a face that dissolved Elia into laughter. "What? If we can have green men, why not ladies who transform into wolves? I thought the Starks did that anyway."

"No more than Targaryens turn into dragons when vexed," she teased.

"Not for lack of trying." He frowned, his eyes focused on the hills visible through the window. "This can't go on, Elia. Something must be done about the king."

Elia looked down at her swollen belly. "If the babe is a boy--"

"Of course he's a boy--"

"If," she repeated firmly. "The king your father knows of the prophecies, does he not? Might he be persuaded to...step down?" The weakness of the plan showed even as she spoke the words aloud. "I don't suppose that would work either."

"You might be surprised. Targaryens have a weakness for prophecies." Rhaegar laughed under his breath. "It was a prophecy that saved us from the Doom of Valyria, after all. Daenys the Dreamer, they called her, a maid of fourteen who foresaw the cataclysm twelve years before it occurred. Long enough for her family to tie up its fortunes and make for friendlier shores."

His gaze was wandering, as if to the far-off shores of ruined Valyria. Elia was concerned with problems closer to home. "Of course, if we have a girl--"

"Elia--"

"We must discuss it sooner or later." She turned in his arms and placed her fingers over his mouth. "Rhaegar, by Dornish succession, Rhaenys would be heir to the throne regardless."

"The Iron Throne is not in Dorne, Elia, and, try as I might, I will not be able to control men after I am dead."

"But you are not dead, Rhaegar. And," she had to force the words out, "there are other women. You could have a son, even if not with me."

He blinked, head tilted like a child asking a question. "A second wife."

She had meant a paramour in the Dornish sense--a mistress whose children were raised with hers, as a vast, strong collection of allies who could then marry younger sons and daughters of great houses. But that was not how Targaryens did things. She squirmed a little. "Not quite. I'm too selfish for that, husband."

"Elia, the last time a Targaryen took a mistress, it started a war. I won't have my reign remembered for a second Blackfyre Rebellion."

"No, gods above, nobody wants that." There were a number of Targaryen customs she found questionable, for that matter. She had tried to think as little as possible of the prospect of her children marrying one another. It may have been the custom in Old Valyria, but, as her lady mother was fond of saying, everyone knew what happened to Old Valyria. Surely the king was proof enough.

"If it could still be framed as an alliance, perhaps," he said, after a few moments. "None of the great families will simply give away a daughter. They will want something in return."

"A child of their blood sharing the Iron Throne. Surely that is reason enough," Elia remarked, wondering, as no doubt Rhaegar was, who might be inclined to take such an offer.

"What think you of Cersei Lannister? I haven't spoken two words to her that weren't in verse," he added with a wry grin, "but she is fair to look upon. And it would make Lord Tywin happy."

Elia bit her tongue and waited.

"Perhaps too happy."

"I would agree," she said, turning her head to hide the relief on her face. "She is a beauty, Rhaegar, but to be perfectly frank, I would spend the rest of my days watching my shadow. My no doubt shortened days, if Cersei Lannister has a fraction of her father's wits."

"Not Casterly Rock, then." There were no daughters at Storm's End, and those of Highgarden were married already, their own children far too young. Both Tully girls were betrothed, or close to it, and it would do no good to antagonise Tywin Lannister or Rickard Stark. Jon Arryn had yet to father an heir for the Vale, and there was no question of the Freys. "What of Winterfell?"

"Lyanna Stark, you mean?" Again, Lyanna Stark. Of course, Elia had been the one to bring her to mind before, so she could hardly blame her husband for recalling. "She's betrothed too, I'm quite certain."

"To my cousin of Storm's End."

She had forgotten that Robert Baratheon had Targaryen blood, albeit through his grandmother, who had been the youngest daughter of Aegon the Unlikely. He had worn the Stark colours as a favour in the melee, she recalled.

"Well," Rhaegar said after a moment, "we needn't think about it now. It won't matter after our son is born."

She did not have the heart to argue with him. Gods willing, he was right, but it seemed to her that this game had only just begun.

***

As she heard the clarion call of the horns in the distance, Lyanna told herself she did not care. Her plan had been to chastise the squires who had attacked Howland Reed, and so she had. Indeed, she had gone so far as to leave the shield leaning against a tree hard by the crossroads. Let the rest take from that what they would.

Lyanna traced the path she and Brandon had taken just a few days before. He was off mooning over the Dornish lady, Ashara Dayne. More than mooning, perhaps, but Brandon's business was his own. If he wished to avenge himself on Catelyn Tully, that particular bad decision was his fault and Lyanna wanted no part of it.

Robert had tried to corner her the previous evening, but he had been drunk and stumbling, and Lyanna had sent him off with only half-teasing jibes about the ill luck of maids who happened to marry drunkards. It wasn't that she disliked Robert--quite the contrary, she was fond of him as she was fond of all her brothers' friends, no more, no less. Her mother had once remarked that fondness was steadier and lasted longer than mad passion. Looking at Robert and herself, Lyanna did not know what lay in store for them.

She even found she appreciated the masque, if only for making it easier to avoid her betrothed. And perhaps it wasn't as tedious as she had originally thought.

The final "duel" in the masque, where the Prince of Dragonflies battled an outlaw for the favour of fair Jenny of Oldstones--Cersei Lannister, perfectly cast--was between the Prince of Dragonstone and Ser John Connington of Griffin's Roost, who had been friends and sparring partners since they were boys fostered together. Every time they rehearsed, Lyanna noticed a subtle change in the seamless movements. She found it riveting--enough that it occurred to her to wonder if that might be an interest in common with Robert.

Now, however, Robert was preparing to enter the lists, wearing her favour, and she wasn't even in the stands. Ned would be so disappointed in her--it was a pity he couldn't marry Robert, as they would be admirably suited.

She felt, rather than heard, when someone stepped onto the path behind her--prickles on her neck and arms like the first hints of a thunderstorm in the air.

The Prince of Dragonstone was perhaps several fingers shorter than Brandon and slender as a reed without his black armour. He was watching her, an expression on his face that Lyanna could not identify.

"My lord prince," she said with a quick curtsey. "I wouldn't have expected to find you here. Are you not watching the jousts?"

"Clearly not," he said dryly. "I was deputed by the king to find a missing champion." He held up the shield she had left by the crossroads. "A little northern knight who is far fiercer than he looks."

Lyanna's heart was thudding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. "I haven't seen anyone, my lord."

"My wife," he said, as though she hadn't spoken, "tells me she thinks our mystery knight is a woman." At that, the prince advanced toward her, holding out the shield. "That, in fact, it was you."

Lyanna could barely breathe. "And if it were?"

"Then I tell my royal father that the mystery knight was a green man and your secret is safe. If," he added, "you tell me why you did it."

She explained, half-stammering, about Howland Reed and the squires who had attacked him. By the time she finished, she was blushing red as a poppy and staring fixedly at the laughing tree painted on the shield as though it were laughing at her.

But the prince only nodded. "Does anyone else know?"

"My brother Benjen, but he won't tell. Ned might have guessed, but he wouldn't breathe a word either." Brandon was far too wrapped up in Ashara Dayne to notice or care, but that wasn't any of the prince's business.

"And this young man...Reed, you said was his name?"

"Oh, he wouldn't say a word," she said fiercely. "You're wrong to say he would."

"Did he..." the prince bit his lip and, for a moment, looked as young and uncertain as Lyanna felt, "...did he say anything else?"

Lyanna had always been a dreadful liar. She briefly considered it, even with that in mind. What the little crannogman said to her had made no sense then, nor did it now.

The silver prince--who else could he be?--was standing before her now, frowning. "Your silence suggests that he did."

"He told me to stay away from you," she mumbled. "I don't know why. I don't know you." But Howland Reed had said she would know him. "Green dreams are nothing but stories," she finally burst out, tears springing to her eyes for no reason at all.

"Not always, my lady Lyanna," said the prince. He let go of the shield and it clattered to the ground. With the sound, followed shortly by the echo of cheers from the lists, a spell seemed to break. The prince glanced back over his shoulder. "Shall I escort you back to the tourney, my lady?"

"To the tents, perhaps," she suggested. "I might prefer a quieter entrance."

At that, he smiled, and Lyanna wondered if she had imagined the distant crack of thunder. "I can be discreet when I choose, my lady. What should we do with this in the meanwhile?" He gestured to the shield now lying on the path between them.

"I rather preferred it at the crossroads," she finally said, raising her eyes to his face. "Would you help me to hang it up, my lord?"

In response, he hoisted the shield over his shoulder, doing so with an ease that belied his slender frame. Lyanna rather envied him; by the end of the previous day, her shield arm had ached even more than her sword arm and she suspected a good portion of that was the weight.

Once they had secured the shield in the tree, the prince helped her onto the black destrier who had been obediently munching on clover in a nearby field. Climbing on behind her, he said, "It is not that I doubt your abilities, my lady, but Balerion was a gift from my brother-by-marriage and he can be temperamental with strangers."

Lyanna laughed. "Only if your concern is for your horse rather than for me, my lord. I am no fragile southron lass."

"Clearly not." Responding to some minute shift of the prince's legs, the horse shot forward like an arrow.

The ride was over barely after it had begun, or so it seemed to Lyanna. The prince dismounted near the cluster of Stark tents--thankfully empty, save for the occasional servant--but Lyanna lingered, stroking the Dornish beast's mane and toying with the ribbons of Targaryen red plaited through it.

Placing her hands on the prince's shoulders, she let him lift her down. "Thank you, my lord, for your silence," she said. "Not all men would be so kind."

"Kindness, Lady Lyanna, extends to defending those in need. I will speak well of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, do not fear."

She looked up in surprise and met his eyes--a shade of violet dark as twilight. Robert Baratheon was undeniably handsome, but Prince Rhaegar's beauty cut like Valyrian steel. "I wish you good fortune, Lyanna Stark. We will meet again." Before she could respond, he raised her hand to his lips and turned to remount Balerion.

"My lord?" she asked, not even thinking. "Why did you ask if Howland Reed had said anything to me?"

He did not answer at first, but turned to look at her, the morning sun teasing silver glints in his hair. "It was Howland Reed who told me where to find you. In the same breath, he warned me off, said that you, a lady of winter, would kindle a flame greater than any in all the Seven Kingdoms. A flame bright enough to rewaken the dragons themselves. The song of ice and fire."

Lyanna's mouth had gone bone-dry as he spoke. She shook her head. "I don't understand."

"Nor do I, my lady. I hope to, someday." Offering one last salute, he cantered back toward the road. Lyanna stared after him for what seemed like an age. Then, shaking her head again--as though premonition could be cast away like cobwebs--she herself started toward where the cheers of the tourney grew louder, welcoming her betrothed to the lists.

***

Cersei's impression of the tourney thus far was that it could not hold a candle to the jousts her father had held in Lannisport a few weeks before her eleventh name day. That had been her first sight of the Prince of Dragonstone and the night she had vowed before the Maiden that she would be queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

A beaming page had already brought her word of Jaime's arrival--delayed because every village had thronged with smallfolk wishing to see the brilliant young hero who had crippled the fearsome Smiling Knight, thereby allowing the Sword of the Morning to strike the death blow. His first bout--with Robert Baratheon of Storm's End--was not until the next morning, and the jousts had started late after the mystery knight of the previous day failed to appear.

Prince Rhaegar had returned after an hour or so, carrying the knight's shield, and announced with a shrug that the mystery knight must have been a green man, for he could find neither hide nor hair of him. Cersei was convinced that he was lying, though she could not think why.

She had her favour in her hands already, a red silk scarf with a border of lions picked out in gold. However, a hush fell over the crowd just as the herald opened his mouth to announce the day's champions. She turned toward the royal stands and realised the king had risen to his feet.

"What's happening?" Leonella Lefford, daughter of one of her father's bannermen, cried out. Cersei's heart pounded as the six members of the Kingsguard made their way down from the royal pavilion to the grass. Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, the White Bull himself, stepped forth and called out in a voice to rival the herald's, "I call forth Ser Jaime of House Lannister."

The crowd was murmuring loudly now. There were traditionally seven knights chosen for the Kingsguard, but Ser Harlan Grandison had died some two months past. Soon afterward, she found a letter in her father's rooms from Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, agreeing to come to King's Landing to discuss a betrothal between Jaime and his younger daughter Lysa. When Jaime stopped in the capital on his way to Casterly Rock, she took one of the many secret passages from the Red Keep into the city and found him at an inn near Eel Alley.

It was the perfect plan. She would be queen, and Jaime would be a knight of the Kingsguard. She knew well the story of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his doomed love for beautiful Queen Naerys, married to his false brother Aegon the Unworthy. He would be with her always, her knight, winning glory in her name.

If I cannot win it for myself with a sword, he will win it for me. Jaime would be the jewel of the Kingsguard, perhaps even Lord Commander someday. The songs years later would be of them, the lions of Casterly Rock, as dangerous as they were beautiful.

Jaime looked like a king himself in his gold-chased armour, the lion's head helmet tucked beneath his arm. The Lannister arms shone bright on his red cloak as he knelt before the Lord Commander.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, in the name of King Aerys of House Targaryen, second of that name since the Conquest, you have been called to a great office. To protect the king on the Iron Throne with your life and serve with all honour in the Kingsguard."

The roar of the crowd was deafening. The occasional lady's sob punctuated the cries and whistles, for not since the Sword of the Morning had such a young and handsome knight renounced the love of all ladies to serve his king with all his heart and soul. Cersei knew better. She smiled and pressed her lips to the scarf in her hands. She would find him later tonight and give it to him.

Ser Arthur clasped Jaime's hand as the Lord Commander pinned the snowy white cloak onto his shoulders, obscuring the Lannister lion beneath. From the corner of her eye, Cersei could see a page in red and gold livery running at full-tilt toward the rookery. You are too late, dear Father. He is mine and I am his.

King Aerys watched from above, his smile positively predatory. Why shouldn't he be pleased? Jaime would be the champion of this tourney and many to come. He would bring more glory to the court than had been seen in years.

Emerging from the greetings of his new Sworn Brothers, Jaime knelt before the king. Cersei could hardly bear to look on him, instead raising her eyes briefly to the Prince of Dragonstone who waited in the pavilion while his father greeted the newest member of his Kingsguard. Prince Rhaegar was frowning down at his father--perhaps even he hadn't known that Jaime was to be invested today.

The king looked down at Jaime, his yellowed teeth visible in a distorted grin. "My dear Ser Jaime, we accept your oath and service. Your first charge will be to ride to King's Landing to guard the queen and Prince Viserys."

Jaime blinked up at him, and even from where she stood, Cersei could see the confusion on his face. Something had gone wrong, something... She began to twist the scarf in her hands, trying to catch Jaime's eye.

"You heard, Ser Jaime." The smile had vanished from the king's face. "We do not repeat ourselves."

"If I may, Your Grace," interposed the Lord Commander, "Ser Jaime is heavily favoured in the lists tomorrow. It would not do for him to leave so suddenly. I'll go in his stead if you feel the queen is unprotected."

"No, Lord Commander." King Aerys turned to the stands and Cersei would swear by all the gods that he was looking straight at her. "Let this be a lesson to House Lannister. You are ours. Body and soul. Do not think to rule the dragon anymore."

Cersei was standing before she knew it, her cry lost amidst the thousands in the stands. She saw Jaime rise to his feet, staring unseeing at the ground while the prince and Ser Arthur Dayne pleaded in vain with the king. Finally, the king roared for silence and a hush fell over the crowd.

"He'll win no glory here," he said, glaring at Jaime. "He's mine now, not Tywin's. He'll serve as I see fit. I am the king. I rule, and he'll obey."

Tears pooled in Cersei's eyes. How had it all gone so very wrong?

That night, the meadow surrounding Harrenhal was a heaving mass of drunken revelry. Cersei drew her cloak more closely around her and quickened her steps. From somewhere in the Baratheon tents, she heard a booming laugh that could only belong to one man. "A pity the little frogfoot disappeared. And stop being such an old woman, Ned; I'll call him a frogfoot if it pleases me."

Cersei vaguely remembered the knight with some sort of tree on his shield, a tiny little thing, and rolled her eyes. A tourney trick, nothing more. Every tourney had a mystery knight. Before she suggested he join the Kingsguard, Jaime had offered to joust in disguise at Harrenhal, Cersei's red-and-gold favour pinned above his heart.

And Robert Baratheon was a drunken lecher, to boot. Not like the prince.

She came to a halt outside the Lannister tent. The last time she spoke to Jaime was in King's Landing. He'd waited for her in a tiny room in the city and she'd come to him there. Take the white, my dearest, and be near me always. Like Queen Naerys and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. What a cruel joke the king had played.

Raising her chin, Cersei thrust aside the folds of the tent and entered.

She did not raise her hood until Jaime dismissed his squire. With a catch in her throat, she said, "Nothing will change. I'll see you when I reach King's Landing."

"Gods above, Cersei, do you honestly think you're going back to King's Landing?" Jaime turned to face her and his eyes were alive with malice. "What do you think Father will do when he hears the king has stolen his heir?"

"Prince Rhaegar--"

"Prince Rhaegar is married, sweet sister, and they say his wife carries the prince foretold in an ancient prophecy. Where, pray tell, do you fit in?" Tears sprang to Cersei's eyes and she turned aside, but he grasped her chin. "You thought the king did it for you."

"He loved our mother once, Jaime," she whispered. "I thought...he would do it to please me." Her fingers clenched into fists at her sides. "I was a fool. There. Are you satisfied?"

"It doesn't matter whether or not I'm satisfied. My path is clear." She followed his gaze to the white cloak thrown hastily over a nearby chair. It seemed to glow from within and Cersei looked away quickly. "To King's Landing go I, to guard the queen and prince. No glory for Ser Jaime Lannister in the greatest tourney in years."

"But you were to joust with Robert Baratheon tomorrow," protested Cersei. "They said the Prince of Dragonstone himself will compete. It isn't fair." Jaime would have won. He would have worn her favour and he would have won.

"Of course it isn't fair. But the king, my master, orders me," Jaime said, flinging one of his gauntlets across the tent for emphasis. "Unless you would have me forsake my new-made vows and run away with you."

"Don't be an idiot, Jaime." Shoving the green cloak back from her face, she stormed past him to the chair. The cloak of the Kingsguard was made of the finest wool, not as beautiful as the velvet she wore, but stronger. She longed to shred it beneath her fingernails. "The king would find us. Father would find us."

"Not if we ran fast enough. "He caught her hand and drew close to her. "Think of it, Cersei. The runaway cubs of Casterly Rock," he lowered his voice, his other hand snaking round her waist, burning through the fine sleeping shift she wore. "Nobody cares who you are in the Free Cities. Or who you love." Cersei closed her eyes and let him kiss her. Against her neck, he murmured, "I could join the Golden Company and be their greatest swordsman."

For one moment, as his lips followed a trail along her collarbone, she wondered if he might be right, if they might have a chance. How many times had traitors to the Iron Throne disappeared into the Free Cities? And Jaime would have no trouble joining any mercenary army, even one as illustrious as the Golden Company. Had he not been knighted by the Sword of the Morning, himself, on the field of battle?

But there was no place for Cersei in the Golden Company. She would be left behind once again. Just as quickly as the dream unfolded, she closed the doors upon it. "And what would I do?" she purred, pressing herself against him. Just as quickly, she raised her free hand and slapped him. "Whore for you in a Lysene pleasure house?"

Jaime blinked at her, his green eyes startled and hurt. Disentangling himself from her, he stepped back. "Then I made my vows and I will keep them. The Kingsguard may be a game to you, but it never was for me."

Of course it was a game to her. The whole world was a game in which her every step and speech was dictated, planned out in advance. And now, her first attempt to make a move of her own had been turned aside. Never again, she vowed. "You have that luxury, Jaime. I fear I do not."

"All you wanted was for me to not marry Lysa Tully." Jaime's smile cut like Valyrian steel. "And I'm free, Cersei. I will never marry. Now my watch begins, of a sort."

Cersei watched as he retrieved the gauntlet and tossed it onto the table. His squire would polish it and re-arm him the next morning for his journey. Neither to him nor to herself, she said, "I will be queen one day."

"Of course you will." There was something in Jaime's voice, an emotion Cersei could not identify. She looked at him, but he was staring at the ground. "That's why you won't run away with me, not ever. Because you would never be a queen. A mercenary's wife, maybe even a lady with a manor and grapevines and children." At that, his eyes met hers and it was as though he wore the mask of courtesy and not she. "But I can never make you a queen, sister."

"And if I were queen?" She closed the distance between them but stopped just short of touching him. "You know the stories of Queen Naerys and the Dragonknight."

"A happy precedent, sister."

"I fear there are few happy precedents for us, Jaime, whatever you may think." Cersei leant forward until her head rested against his chest. "I hate him."

"Who? The king?"

"The king. Father. The whole bloody lot of them." The tears were scalding in her eyes. "But I can't solve my problems with a sword, Jaime. That's the worst of it."

Jaime's arms were around her, his lips warm against her forehead. "You'll be back in court soon enough. Father can't sulk forever. He needs the king, much as he hates to admit it."

"None of us needs the king, Jaime. The king is mad as a hornet's nest. Isn't it obvious?" Had they not been within the bounds of the Lannister tents--guarded as well as Casterly Rock, by Lord Tywin's orders--she would not have been so bold. "The prince knows it."

"You talk treason, sister. Haven't we just seen what the king will do to satisfy his whims? Please," he whispered, the words muffled against her lips, "wait for me."

Cersei looked at him and saw herself looking back. "I will always wait for you, Jaime."

She did not linger afterward, creeping from the tent after the nightfires had gone out and the sky on the horizon was just beginning to fade into dawn.

Robert Baratheon was predictably furious at being cheated out of his joust with Jaime and had sworn the previous night that he would challenge all comers. Several knights chose to take him up on it, all of whom found themselves roundly defeated, except for Sir Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, perhaps to make up for Jaime's absence, though nothing could.

Two knights of the Kingsguard advanced to the final group, Sir Barristan and the Sword of the Morning. There was a listlessness about the crowd, as though Jaime's absence had left a hole. That much was at least grimly satisfying. It was only when the prince of Dragonstone entered the lists in the afternoon and defeated Bronze Yohn Royce that cheers and whistles erupted over Harrenhal. The prince entered the lists rarely enough that when he did appear, even golden Jaime Lannister was forgotten, much to Cersei's chagrin.

When she returned to her chambers after the jousts, she found a raven from her father ordering her to depart forthwith for Casterly Rock. Cersei crumpled the parchment in her fist and threw it into the fire. The message had still been sealed, so Uncle Kevan had not yet seen it. Then she informed the steward and servants that they would depart as planned the day after the tournament, but that Lord Tywin would be arriving from King's Landing and preparations must be made at the Rock in her absence.

Jaime might have been cheated out of his moment of glory in Harrenhal, but damned if Cersei would be. The masque was still planned for the final feast, and would conclude with Jenny of Oldstones stepping forth from the final tableau to place a golden coronet on the head of the tourney's champion. But as Cersei watched from her chair during the rehearsal, she noticed something distinctly odd. At the end of the prince's duel with Lyanna Stark, the northern girl was on the floor, doubled over with laughter. As far as Cersei knew, the two had never spoken a word to one another before. It seemed, too, that as the prince helped her to her feet, their hands clung longer than was needed.

It might mean nothing. The prince was married, after all, and in spite of his wife's constant illnesses, he had shown no inclination to pursue other women. There was no reason for him to start now, and certainly not with Lyanna Stark. However, a bit of caution never went amiss.

That evening at the feast, Cersei sidled up to the table where Robert Baratheon was celebrating his various small victories with Dornish red. "I am sorry, Ser Robert, on my brother's behalf."

"You're very kind, Lady Cersei," he slurred, sloshing wine from his glass, "I'd have beaten him, but, Gods above, it would have been fun."

"I beg to differ, my lord, but I will always favour my brother," she replied. "May I speak with you for a moment? It's about the Lady Lyanna."

"What about Lyanna?" He snapped to attention, as much as any drunk man could, and Cersei had to fight not to laugh aloud. "Magnificent, isn't she?"

"She is indeed very fair, my lord," allowed Cersei, trying not to let her resentment show. The northern girl could not compare to her, or even to that Dornish girl in the princess' train, and yet these foolish men were falling over themselves as though they'd never seen a girl who could wield a sword. There had been a time when Cersei was not half-bad with a tourney blade, but then her mother had died and her father had shut her away from Jaime and anything to do with him. That Lord Rickard was more indulgent with his daughter than Lord Tywin had been with his was hardly reason to make a fool of oneself over the former. "She's been very well...admired at this tournament."

"Admired? How so?" Robert took another gulp of wine and half-stood, his massive hands clamped on the table for balance. "Speak plainly, Lady Cersei, if you please."

"You might ask her, my lord, how she came to know the prince so well." With a secretive smile and a quickly bobbed curtsey, Cersei retreated to watch the fireworks.

Robert at least had the sense to corner his betrothed in one of the anterooms leading to the minstrels' gallery, where the noise of the feasting below drowned out the altercation for anyone but those who were intentionally listening. Cersei tucked herself behind one of the massive pillars, having followed Robert's stumbling path from the hall as he pursued the unsuspecting Lyanna.

"But I don't understand, Lyanna," he was saying, a distinct whine in his voice that grated on Cersei's nerves. "You've barely spoken to me since we've been here."

"I've been busy," Lyanna replied, frustration in her voice. "Why must you make things so difficult, Robert?"

"You make time for the prince of Dragonstone, from what I hear." There was an ugly edge to Robert's voice now. "What am I to make of that, eh? You're to be my lady. What is he to you?"

For a moment, Lyanna did not speak and Cersei wondered if she had inadvertently stumbled on an affair that had begun far sooner and more secretively than she could have imagined. Lyanna's words, therefore, came as a great relief. "You're talking nonsense, Robert. I can't think where you heard this rumour, and, for that matter, you're hardly one to talk." There was a scuffle of feet on flagstones, and Lyanna's voice was suddenly a great deal closer. Barely trusting herself, Cersei peered round the edge of the pillar.

Robert was backing away and Lyanna advancing toward him, her face white and set with rage. "How many bastard children do you have, Robert Baratheon? How many?"

Cersei watched in some satisfaction as Robert stammered his way through a convoluted explanation while Lyanna watched, distinctly unimpressed. "You mean to say you can't even remember."

"I remember," he snapped. "I pay for each and every one of them. I see to their well-being and that they're given a proper start. As one should."

"And yet, if I so much as speak to a man, I am to be held in suspicion?" she demanded. "If that is what awaits me in marriage to you, then perhaps you should find yourself a new lady of Storm's End."

Turning on her heel, she stormed out of the gallery, leaving Robert sputtering and swearing after her. Cersei smiled to herself. Let Lyanna Stark charm her way out of offending her betrothed. If Lord Stark were half as strict as the Cersei's father, it would be years before she again set eyes on Rhaegar Targaryen.

The route to Cersei's chamber took her past the lesser hall where they had been rehearsing for the masque. She would not have stopped, had she not heard the voice from within, a voice that chilled her to the very bone. "You would be the Prince of Dragonflies, my boy? Remember how it ends. It all ends in Summerhall, where the dragons did not wake and the world still burned."

Cersei knew she should run, but her feet seemed frozen in place. Eavesdropping was all well and good, but certain things, she already knew, it was better not to have heard. Then, reflected in the cracked windows, she saw flames.

The painted wooden chair on which she was to have sat as Jenny of Oldstones was aflame. Burning too were the lances and tourney swords and the ladies' crowns of poppies and the rare winter rose. Three days of feverish work consumed.

The room was empty, but she knew there were other doors. Harrenhal was a warren of passages and traps, no less than King's Landing. Swallowing bitter disappointment, Cersei ran to alert the nearest servant that the lesser hall was on fire.

There would be other tourneys and other masques.

***

Tournaments were foolish things, really. Olenna jolted awake as the crowd around her began to roar its approval. In the lists below, a slender figure in black armour encrusted with rubies held out his hand to the kneeling knight in dirt-encrusted white.

"The young dragon conquers the old hero, I see. There's a parable in that." She rose creakily to her feet and applauded with the requisite enthusiasm. "How did it end?" she asked Mace.

"Did you fall asleep again, Mother?"

"Tournaments bore me. Now tell me what happened."

Mace rolled his eyes. "On the sixth lance, Prince Rhaegar caught Sir Barristan in the left shoulder. He didn't fall, but only barely. Two more passed, and finally Prince Rhaegar struck true. It was a hard-won victory. Sir Barristan should be very proud."

Sir Barristan looked more distraught than proud, as far as Olenna could see. His eyes kept straying to the royal stands, where beside Princess Elia stood the willow-slim figure of Lady Ashara Dayne. They had danced beautifully together, but Barristan the Bold was the rare sort of Kingsguard knight who took his vows seriously.

Prince Rhaegar removed his helmet and brought his horse to a halt before the lord of Harrenhal's daughter. From behind her, the new bride revealed a crown of perfect blue winter roses. An unspoken conversation seemed to pass between her and the prince as she placed the crown in his hands. Olenna turned before anyone around her to the section of the stands draped in the grey and white of Winterfell. Certain exchanges had caught her eye during the preparations for the doomed masque, and it seemed Lyanna Stark might become more than a pawn in the marriage game.

Lyanna was on her feet now. Her face was pale and rigid, her hands clasped before her. The prince cantered around the border of the lists. The gasps and whispers began when he first rode past the royal stands. It would not be his wife, then, nor the Lady Ashara. Olenna glanced at Barristan Selmy and saw his eyes narrow in disapproval.

The red-and-gold Lannister stands were packed with Lord Tywin's bannermen, though the dais contained only his younger brother Lord Kevan, and the Lady Cersei. His former heir would be halfway to King's Landing by now, a sacrifice for the king's pride, and he himself--if Olenna's spies spoke true--was already clearing his apartments in the Tower of the Hand and planning his return to Casterly Rock. If Prince Rhaegar were signalling his allegiance to the erstwhile Hand of the King, crowning Cersei Lannister the Queen of Love and Beauty would be a particularly brash way of doing so. But the prince passed her by and came to a halt in front of Lyanna Stark.

For what seemed like a moment frozen in time, the prince gazed down at her. What he said, no one but Lyanna heard, and she held out her hands to take the crown from him and place it on her dark hair.

The prince turned to the crowd and smiled. "For the fairest of the northern roses, and in honour of Lord Brandon's betrothal."

"Oh, well done," Olenna murmured. "Take neither side and confound your father."

What Prince Rhaegar did not see, but Olenna did, was the young lord of Storm's End fighting hard against the combined strength of Jon Arryn and the Lady Lyanna's brother. Surely within these of all walls, Robert Baratheon could not help but be reminded that one did not awaken the dragon's wrath. But Robert was too young to remember dragons. To all these children of summer, dragons were less real than winter.

Somewhere above the whispering crowd, the ghosts of Harrenhal were laughing. The living, it seemed, would never learn.

Finis.

Notes

Most of what we know about the tournament at Harrenhal comes from a combination of Eddard Stark (AGoT), Jaime Lannister (ASoS/AFfC), and Barristan Selmy (ADwD, Ch. 55), along with Meera Reed's story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree (ASoS, Ch. 24). Ned, Jaime, and Barristan were all present at the tournament, but their accounts, as I mentioned at the beginning of the story, do not match up. This is not remotely surprising. My main source for the order of events is Meera's story since it is the longest and the most detailed (albeit allegorical and full of weird allusions), but where it conflicts with Barristan and Jaime, I tend to defer to them since they were actual witnesses.

I have taken the liberty of placing Olenna Tyrell at the tournament for several reasons. We know from Meera's references to the "rose lord" that Mace Tyrell was present, but since Sir Loras was born soon afterward, it seems unlikely that his wife would have travelled the distance from Highgarden to Harrenhal. But mostly Queen of Thorns FTW.

The accounts are also unclear on whether or not Cersei Lannister was present, and I've decided to take dramatic license so she can be involved. There is an oblique mention of her outshining Lyanna Stark (ADwD, Epilogue) that, if it refers to a specific event, must be the Harrenhal tourney since as far as we know, that was the first time Lyanna travelled south and/or attended a tournament. The details of Jaime's investiture appear in ASoS Ch. 44, and several of Aerys' lines are taken verbatim from there.

The books do not specify which of the two Stark brothers, if either, was the lover of Ashara Dayne. Barristan's account implies that Ashara had an affair during the tourney and became pregnant, but also raises the thorny question of the chronology and duration of Robert's Rebellion that I suspect won't be answered--if ever--until Books 6 and 7 when we presumably find out what actually happened to Lyanna.

Probably the most drastic interpretive choices I made were those of characterization. Most of the main characters in this story are known only second or third-hand in canon, and primarily through stories. Myths, if you will. I've chosen to take a more benign view of Rhaegar, for instance (although, for a darker interpretation, remember me in blood by belleways is phenomenally well-written), mostly because I want poor Lyanna to have had a bit of happiness before it all goes to hell in a handbasket.

My interpretation of Rhaegar and Elia's relationship, and her attitude toward his potential infidelity, is rooted in what we've seen so far of Dornish customs and attitudes toward sexuality in particular. Oberyn and Arianne are both given a remarkable degree of freedom, and even if Arianne's is far more circumscribed, it makes sense that Elia would have a similar pragmatism on the subject of her husband taking lovers.

I've also taken the liberty of delving further into medieval precedent and basing my version of Rhaegar Targaryen on King Richard II (1367-1400). Drawing on what we know of Rhaegar from canon (bookish, thoughtful, occasionally ruthless, obsessed with prophecies), it's not a terrible likeness, particularly if one follows Shakespeare's version of events. I suppose that makes Robert Baratheon the Henry Bolingbroke of this equation, which doesn't quite fit as well, but nobody said ASOIAF mapped even imperfectly onto any particular historical period (Starks and Lannisters notwithstanding). The scene with the mummers that Elia describes is based on the Bal des ardents of 1392 (incidentally, angevin2 has offered to write that story and I'm holding her to it). I couldn't, however, leave without Aerys setting something on fire, so that answers the question of the title.

It is surprisingly difficult to find happy songs or legends based on the ones we actually hear about in the book. Prince Aemon the Dragonknight supposedly pined after Queen Naerys for his entire life and may or may not have been the father of her child. The love story of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies also ended in tragedy, perhaps even that of Summerhall, although it is unclear whether the song or Prince Duncan Targaryen's nickname came first.

As I said in the beginning, this is all speculation. I've followed the hints from canon as best I can and extrapolated based on events that might have inspired them. The political backdrop of the story is one of my more fanciful speculations, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I haven't yet decided if I'm going to write out the rest, but I hope the hints are enough to spawn theories of their own. The more the merrier until we all get jossed, right?