Chapter Text
Previously, in the Targaryen Siblings:
Elsa found herself being pulled from her body. She felt trapped as the wind whipped at her clothes and her vision decreased dramatically as snow took over the world. All she saw was death as blurry shapes passed by her. Their eyes were blank as they moved slowly and despite her blurry vision, her whole body erupted in goosebumps. Someone or something shrieked as more shapes bypassed her and the wind grew stronger, but she couldn’t stop. As she moved closer, the shapes became clear and her eyes widened with alarm when she realised that it was an army of corpses stamping in an eerie beat toward the South.
She watched frozen until she felt someone watching her and she whirled to see a figure standing directly behind her. It was a creature of frozen skin and eyes that screamed death. He stared right at her as the army kept moving and she ordered inadvertently, “Stop!”
Bodies… corpses froze and those icy blue eyes snapped toward her.
“Rhaenys? Whatever you’re doing, stop!” Someone called, a familiar voice, but she was too focused on the being who was watching her like she was his prey.
His eyes narrowed hatefully and pulled out a blade made out of crystallized ice and he ordered,‘Kill her!’
The dead turned, focused entirely on her. Her heart thundered in her chest as they stepped toward her as one.
“Rhaenys!!!”
Violet locked with icy blue, and he stepped towards her and – someone shook her shoulders, wrenching her back just before the dead tried to rip her to pieces.
Riverlands
Oberyn emerged from the icy river, dragging Rhaenys onto the riverbank. His clothes clung to his skin, drenched and heavy, but he ignored the discomfort. His focus was solely on his niece. He laid her gently on the muddy ground, checking her pulse and breathing. Relief washed over him as he felt the faint rise and fall of her chest. She was alive, albeit unconscious. Gratitude mingled with the fury in his heart. The Freys, Boltons, and Lannisters had dared to harm Elia’s daughter. His resolve hardened into a vow: he would kill them all.
He glanced around, taking stock of their situation. Most of their party was missing, scattered or most likely dead. He thought of how many men had fallen tonight and knew that the Stark boy had little to no hope left. It was a surprise they’d managed to rescue Robb at all—if the boy was still alive, which seemed increasingly doubtful.
Daemon stumbled out of the water behind him, breath coming in ragged gasps. He collapsed onto the muddy ground, his exhaustion evident.
"We need to keep moving," he gasped, urgency straining his voice. "We can't stay here."
Brynden Tully knelt beside Robb's motionless body; his expression grim as he assessed the young man's condition.
"He's alive, but barely," he reported, his voice heavy with concern. "He won't last much longer if we don't get him a healer."
Oberyn nodded grimly, his mind racing as he considered their options. They were stranded not far from the Twins, which was why they needed to get back to Riverrun. Also, the Stark boy and Rhaenys were in dire need of a healer. With her cradled in his arms and Robb supported by his uncle, Oberyn led the group forward. Their progress was slow and labored as they trudged through the freezing rain. Each step was a struggle, the icy downpour soaking through their clothes and chilling them to the bone. The relentless rain pounded down on them without mercy, turning the ground beneath their feet into a quagmire of mud and slush.
They rode for four days straight, their spirits flagging as the cold seeped into their bones and exhaustion weighed heavy on their limbs. Every muscle in Oberyn’s body ached, his strength tested to its limits. As they stumbled through the snow, their progress slow and painful, Robb’s condition deteriorated rapidly. He grew weaker with each passing moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
On the fifth day, they finally reached Riverrun. The sight of the castle was a beacon of hope, a promise of sanctuary after the grueling journey they had endured. The weathered stone walls, tall and formidable, rose up against the clear blue sky, promising safety and respite. Oberyn Martell, with the unconscious Rhaenys cradled in his arms, could almost feel the weight of his exhaustion lifting. But before they could proceed further, loud roars pierced the air, accompanied by shadows sweeping over them and the ominous flap of wings.
The horses beneath them panicked and reared, their eyes wide with terror. Oberyn's grip tightened around Rhaenys, his heart pounding in his chest. The force of the dragon's landing nearly threw them both to the ground. His heart raced with a mixture of awe and fear as he looked up at the magnificent creature. The second dragon landed not far off, its deafening roar echoing across the valley. Oberyn watched with wide-eyed wonder because within the span of a few moons, these dragons had grown into formidable beasts.
Their scales glinted in the sunlight, and their massive forms dwarfed the horses. The blue dragon, with its shimmering sapphire scales, leaned down, its huge golden eyes peering right at Oberyn and then at the unconscious form in his arms before letting out a trill. It took him a few moments to realize that the sound was one of curiosity and concern. These dragons were Rhaenys's children in a way, and for the first time, Oberyn felt a pang of true fear. His companions, equally horrified, shared his sentiment, their faces pale and eyes wide with dread.
Before the dragons could decide their fate, Ser Barristan Selmy came riding up on a horse, scanning the group with a keen, experienced eye. His white cloak billowed behind him, a symbol of the King's Guard, and his expression was a mixture of concern and determination.
"It's true then," he murmured, his eyes flickering from the unconscious Rhaenys to Oberyn. "The princess?"
Oberyn’s eyes fixed on the old knight before returning to the massive dragon head glaring at him. Trying not to startle the beast, he told the man quietly, "She needs a healer."
Ser Barristan stayed where he was, his gaze steady but softening as he looked at the dragons. Turning to look at them, he braced himself because this was the first time he would be addressing the dragons directly without the princess there. He took a deep breath and spoke soothingly, "We need to get her inside to safety."
Everyone held their breath, their hearts pounding as the dragon’s horned head leaned closer. Its nose was right in Oberyn's face, sniffing him and then Rhaenys, as if ensuring they were who they appeared to be. The intensity of the dragon’s gaze was unnerving, but Oberyn held steady, his determination unwavering. Then, the dragon gave a low rumble of approval and stepped aside, allowing them to pass. Oberyn exhaled slowly, a mix of relief and amazement washing over him. Not surprisingly, both dragons followed them back to the castle, landing right by the gates. Their presence was a silent but formidable reassurance, their massive forms casting protective shadows over the entrance.
As they moved through the gates, Oberyn could see the castle guards and servants staring in awe and fear at the dragons. Though still smaller than the legendary creatures from the past, the immense dragons dwarfed everything around them. Their scales glinted like precious gems in the sunlight, their eyes following every movement with an unnerving intelligence. The dragons had grown to the size of large carriages, their wingspans eclipsing the courtyard as they folded them gracefully.
Inside the castle, the atmosphere was tense, filled with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. The servants and guards quickly cleared a path, their eyes never leaving the dragons. The creatures, despite their size, moved with an eerie grace, their presence both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
The maesters were summoned immediately as Brynden Tully and Daemon brought in Robb Stark’s motionless body, while Oberyn carried Rhaenys through the halls, his mind racing with thoughts of vengeance and the precarious situation they were in. The maester, an elderly man with kind eyes and a gentle demeanor, quickly moved to assess the condition of Robb and Rhaenys. Oberyn watched as the man and two other healers started checking both. The maesters worked tirelessly, their faces etched with concentration. Every second felt like an eternity, his fear gnawing at him. He couldn’t lose her—not the only piece left of his beloved Elia, not after everything they had been through. The air was thick with tension, the fate of both Robb and Rhaenys hanging in the balance.
The silence was broken when Brynden Tully spoke, his voice heavy with despair, "We never stood a chance. They butchered us like cattles."
Ser Barristan Selmy, standing by the window, added solemnly, "They broke all sacred laws, murdered under the guise of hospitality. No one survived, or if they did, they're in hiding. Gods help them."
Oberyn's hands clenched into fists. The Lannisters had taken so much from him, from Rhaenys, from their family. The need for revenge burned in his veins, a relentless fire that drove him forward. He would make them pay for what they had done, for the pain they had caused. He stood by the window, looking out at the dragons perched by the gates. They were a symbol of power, a reminder of the Targaryen legacy, and now, a crucial part of their fight for survival. The blue dragon shifted its gaze to Oberyn, its golden eyes seeming to bore into his soul as if sensing his turmoil before turning its gaze away and resting its head on its paws. He knew the dragons would be instrumental in their quest for vengeance, their power a formidable weapon against their enemies.
Outside, the dragons remained close, their presence a silent vigil. Oberyn could see the way they watched over Rhaenys from the open balcony, their eyes filled with fierce protectiveness. For the first time, he truly realized how the Targaryens ruled the Seven Kingdoms all those years ago. The dragons were more than just beasts; they were family, bound by a deep, unspoken bond. The castle had become a fortress under their watchful eyes, the people inside both awed and terrified by their presence.
Day turned into night, and then the sun began to rise, each moment stretching longer than the last. Finally, one of the healers approached Oberyn, her face weary as she spoke, "Lady Elsa is doing better now. She will recover with some rest.”
Oberyn let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His voice cracked as he murmured, "Thank you."
He walked inside the healing chamber, looked at Rhaenys’s sleeping face and felt a surge of relief and gratitude wash over him. She looked so fragile, so young, lying there. Memories of Elia flooded his mind—her laughter, her dreams, her fierce love for her children.
“Robb?” Brynden Tully asked, his voice tense with worry.
The healer’s face fell as she said, “Maester Vyman is looking after the King, my Lord.”
Tully’s face fell, but he nodded.
"We’ll need to be careful," Daemon said as he stood behind Oberyn, his expression weary. "The Lannisters will not be pleased."
"I swear on my sister’s grave, the ones who dared to harm my family will pay for what they've done." Oberyn's face darkened, his eyes blazing with fury. “They will know the pain they’ve inflicted.”
Ser Barristan spoke from his position by the gate, his tone measured and calm, "We must be smart, Prince Oberyn. Princess Rhaenys's safety is paramount."
Oberyn nodded, the fire in his eyes undimmed. "I know, old friend. But the Lannisters and Freys will learn. They will bleed for their crimes. I will see to it personally."
As night fell, the castle was eerily quiet, the usual hustle and bustle subdued by the presence of the dragons. Oberyn stayed by Rhaenys's bedside, his thoughts a whirlwind of memories and plans. He was reminded of his sister—her bright eyes filled with dreams of a better future. Now, the sight of her only living child, so pale and still, filled him with a sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him.
"I swear, Elia," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "I will make them pay. For you and for your children. I will bring justice to those who wronged us."
Oberyn knew that with the help of the dragons, they could turn the tide against their enemies. As he sat by Rhaenys's side, the fire of vengeance burned brighter than ever within him. Hours passed, and the first light of dawn began to filter through the windows. Rhaenys stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open for a moment. Oberyn's heart leapt with hope, but she soon fell back into unconsciousness.
"We will rise," he whispered, his voice filled with determination. "We will reclaim what was taken from us. And we will do it together."
Now
Castle Black
The bitter winds of winter whipped through the courtyard of Castle Black, carrying with them a haunting chill that seemed to seep into Jon Snow's very soul. He stood alone amidst the snow-covered stones, a solitary figure in a world that felt emptier than ever before. His heart weighed heavy with grief, a burden that threatened to crush him beneath its relentless weight.
Jon's mind was a tempest of memories, each one a jagged shard of pain that pierced his already wounded heart. Robb, his beloved brother, slain in a brutal betrayal that stained the halls of Winterfell with blood. And Elsa, his dearest friend and the woman he loved, killed on that fateful night which was being called ‘the Red Wedding’. How could she be gone? How could they be gone? What of the dragons? The question gnawed at him, a constant, unanswerable ache.
Clutching the medallion Elsa had given him, Jon felt the weight of her absence like a physical ache. The bond they shared had been forged in fire and ice, a bond that transcended the boundaries of friendship and love. They had grown up together with the Starks, and she had been his constant companion, his confidante, his other half. And now, with her gone, Jon felt as though a part of himself had been torn away, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound that refused to heal.
Days passed like shadows in the night, each one blending into the next as Jon succumbed to his grief. He refused to speak, to eat, to acknowledge the world around him, retreating into a cocoon of darkness where the pain could not reach him. His once bright eyes were now dull and lifeless, haunted by the ghosts of the past that refused to set him free.
It was Maester Aemon who was able to venture into the depths of Jon's despair, his steps slow and measured as he approached the broken young man who stood alone in the courtyard. Aemon's eyes, ancient and wise, held a depth of sorrow that mirrored Jon's own, a silent understanding passing between them like a whispered prayer.
" Jon, my boy," Aemon's voice was a gentle murmur.
But Jon remained silent, his gaze fixed on the ground beneath his feet, unwilling or unable to face the pain that lay within him. He felt numb, the world around him a blur of cold and shadow. The medallion in his hand was a reminder of what he had lost, the tangible proof of a love that had been taken from him far too soon.
“I know what you’re going through.” Aemon continued, his voice heavy with emotion.
"She deserved so much more," Jon whispered, his voice barely audible above the howling winds that echoed through the courtyard. "She deserved the world."
"Indeed,” Aemon nodded solemnly, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "But this world is often cruel and unforgiving. It takes from us those we hold dearest, leaving us to carry on with our shattered hearts."
Jon struggled to find comfort in Aemon's words. The weight of his grief was too great, the pain too raw. The memories of Elsa's laughter, her touch, the way she had looked at him with eyes filled with love—these were the things that haunted him, the things that made the world feel empty and desolate.
"I don’t think I can do this," Jon said, his voice breaking. "I can't go on without her."
Aemon placed a gentle hand on Jon's shoulder and said, "You can, Jon. You must... for it is your duty now. It is what she would have wanted."
Jon closed his eyes, feeling the weight of Aemon's words. He knew they were true, but the path ahead seemed insurmountable. The darkness that had settled over his heart was a suffocating shroud, one he wasn't sure he could lift. But as he stood there, in the frozen courtyard, he realized he was not alone. Aemon was there, a steady presence, a reminder that life continued, even in the face of unimaginable loss.
Together, they mourned for the woman they had loved, each in their own way. Jon's grief was a tempest, wild and unrelenting, while Aemon's was a deep, abiding sorrow, tempered by years of wisdom and experience. In that moment, surrounded by the ghosts of their past, they found a semblance of solace in their shared pain.
Meereen
In the cavernous throne room of the Meereen pyramid, the interplay of light and shadow painted a surreal tableau, casting Daenerys Targaryen in an otherworldly glow as she stood atop her raised platform. The absence of a throne was a poignant irony, a symbol of her power that transcended mere physical trappings. She resisted the urge to demand a chair, knowing that in Essos, true superiority was marked by standing above one's subjects.
"Please state your business," she commanded, her voice carrying authority as Missandei translated her words.
Unsullied guards flanked the room, a silent testament to her strength and determination. Yet, despite the formidable presence of her protectors, Daenerys knew that true power lay not in swords, but in the hearts and minds of those who followed her.
The peasant before her trembled, his fear palpable as he recounted the devastation wrought upon his flock by a winged beast. Daenerys felt a pang of recognition, a familiar dread creeping into her heart.
'Oh Drogon, my sweet. Not again,' she thought, the memory of past encounters with both Drogon and Viserion weighing heavily upon her.
"Was this beast black with red stripes?" she inquired, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.
As Missandei relayed the question, the peasant shook his head, his voice trembling with fear. "No, mostly green.”
Daenerys concealed her shock behind a mask of composure, her mind racing with the implications of this revelation.
"Tell him he will be paid three times what his flock is worth," she instructed, her voice betraying none of the turmoil raging within her. "And see that he gets the money in gold."
As the peasant professed his thanks and was escorted out by an Unsullied guard, Daenerys allowed her facade to crumble, her shoulders slumping with the weight of her grief. She murmured, “I thought for sure it would be Drogon, but Viserion?"
Later, when she was alone in the throne room, Daenerys allowed herself a moment of vulnerability, her grief washing over her like a tidal wave. Rhaenys, the daughter of her late brother Rhaegar, had been brutally murdered by the Freys and Boltons on Lannister’s orders from what was being called ‘the Red Wedding’. Even now, the news struck her like a blow to the heart, filling her with a potent mixture of grief, rage, and an intense desire for justice. She might not have known the girl, but Rhaenys had been a connection to her past, a link to her Targaryen lineage that had been cruelly severed.
Daenerys paced the length of the throne room, her mind a whirl of thoughts and emotions. Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white with suppressed fury.
"How dare they?" she whispered fiercely. "How dare they butcher my family, my blood?"
The rage was a fire in her belly, a blazing inferno that threatened to consume her. Viserion, she mused, shaking her head in disbelief. The dragons were supposed to be her strength, her allies in this unforgiving world. Yet, even they seemed to be slipping from her grasp, just as her family had been torn away.
"Rhaenys," she murmured, looking at the vast sky, the name a painful reminder of all she had lost. "I never knew you, but you were my blood. You were a Targaryen." She paused, her voice breaking slightly. "And now, you're gone."
The news of Rhaenys's death had reached her like a dark shadow, casting a pall over her victories and her dreams of reclaiming the Iron Throne. It wasn't just about power; it was about justice, about avenging her family and restoring the honour of House Targaryen. The Lannisters, the Freys, the Boltons—they were all complicit in this atrocity, and they would all pay.
It didn’t take long for her grief to transform into a steely resolve, her eyes burning with determination. She would not rest until justice had been served until the blood of her family had been avenged. Every heartbeat renewed her commitment to reclaim her birthright, to restore her family's honour, and to ensure that their name would never be forgotten.
Summoning her strength, she turned to Missandei, who stood nearby, watching her with concern.
"Summon my advisors," Daenerys commanded, her voice regaining its usual firmness. "We have much to discuss."
Kings Landing
The gardens of the Red Keep were a serene oasis amidst the chaos of King's Landing, where butterflies danced among the vibrant blooms, their delicate wings fluttering in the warm breeze. Yet, for Tyrion Lannister, the beauty of the garden offered little solace amidst the turmoil that gripped the city. As he looked out over the sprawling metropolis, he couldn't shake the sense of impending doom that hung heavy in the air.
His father, Tywin, had masterfully spun the narrative of Joffrey's supposed triumph over North, painting the young king as a valiant defender of the realm. But beneath the facade of celebration, Tyrion knew that darker forces were at work. Hushed meetings between Tywin, Littlefinger, and the Great King had culminated in royal decrees that saw taxes increased and rebel-held assets seized. Thousands of tons of stone were being amassed for a mysterious construction project on the outskirts of the city, and rumours of slavery and oppression ran rampant among the common folk.
And now, with the deaths of Robb Stark and the rumoured Targaryen girl, Joffrey and Cersei saw an opportunity to solidify their grip on power. Their cruel ambitions knew no bounds as they revelled in the downfall of their enemies and plotted their next move.
In the opulent chambers of the Red Keep, Joffrey lounged upon his throne, a malicious gleam in his eyes as he savoured the news of Robb Stark's demise.
"Ah, sweet victory," he crowed, his voice dripping with sad*stic delight. "The North is ours once more, and those foolish Starks have paid dearly for their defiance."
Beside him, Cersei smiled thinly, her icy gaze fixed on her son.
"Indeed, my dear Joffrey," she purred, her words laced with honeyed venom. "House Stark is no more, and the realm trembles at our feet."
But Joffrey's attention soon turned to a more pressing matter—the dragons.
"What of the dragons, Mother?" he demanded, his voice tinged with anticipation. "Surely they pose a threat to our rule."
Cersei's lips curved into a knowing smile as she regarded her son. "Indeed, they do, my sweetling," she replied, her tone laced with cunning. "But fear not, for we shall deal with them swiftly and decisively."
Joffrey's eyes lit up with excitement at the prospect of eliminating such formidable adversaries. "How do you propose we proceed, Mother?" he inquired eagerly, his mind already racing with possibilities.
Cersei's smile widened as she outlined her plan, her words a symphony of manipulation and deceit. "Once we get our hands on them, we shall use the wildfire, my dear," she explained, her voice low and conspiratorial. "It is the only way to ensure that those accursed creatures never threaten us again."
As Joffrey listened intently to his mother's scheme, Sansa entered the room, her expression a mask of resignation. She had long since resigned herself to her fate as a prisoner in the Red Keep, but the news of her family's demise still struck her like a dagger to the heart.
"Your Grace, Lady Sansa is here to see you," a servant announced, bowing low before retreating from the room.
Joffrey's eyes gleamed with malice as he turned his attention to Sansa, relishing the opportunity to inflict further pain upon his favourite plaything.
"Ah, Lady Sansa," he greeted her with false courtesy, his voice dripping with disdain. "I trust you've heard the news of your family's demise?"
Sansa's heart clenched at the mention of her family, her grief threatening to consume her. "Yes, Your Grace," she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I have heard."
"Good," he sneered, his eyes alight with sad*stic pleasure. "Then you shall know that House Stark is no more, and you are truly alone in this world."
Sansa's breath caught in her throat as she struggled to hold back tears, her spirit broken by the cruelty of her captors. But even in the face of such overwhelming despair, she refused to let them see her weakness.
As Joffrey and Cersei revelled in their perceived triumph, Sansa retreated into herself, her thoughts consumed by memories of her family and dreams of a home she feared she would never see again.
Riverrun
The sharp, acrid scent of medicinal herbs flooded Elsa’s senses as she blinked, the light from the open window streaming in and making her groan. The brightness was too intense, forcing her to reflexively close her eyes again. Clenching her fist, she felt soft sheets and padding underneath her, a stark contrast to the cold, hard reality she had been in before. Even before her eyes opened, Elsa sensed someone nearby. Turning her head slightly, she saw Ser Barristan. His face was etched with worry, but there was a glimmer of relief in his eyes.
She tried to speak, but her throat felt dry and scratchy, her voice barely a whisper. "Ser Barristan?"
He quickly reached for a cup of water on the bedside table and offered it to her. "Here, princess, drink this."
Elsa sipped the water, feeling the cool liquid soothe her parched throat. Her voice was still weak, she murmured, "Thank you."
The door opened suddenly, and Oberyn Martell marched inside. His face lit up with joy upon seeing her awake, and he sighed with relief, "Rhaenys."
"Uncle?" she croaked, her voice barely audible.
He moved to her side and gently took her hand in his and asked softly, "How are you feeling?"
Elsa struggled to find her voice, her thoughts still foggy from her ordeal. "Where are we?" she managed to ask, her words coming out as a hoarse whisper.
"At Riverrun," Oberyn answered gently.
“What happened?” she choked out.
“Some of us managed to escape," he informed her slowly.
A shiver ran down Elsa’s spine, memories of the chaos and violence flooding back to her. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself. Her voice was trembling with fear as she asked, "Robb?"
"He's still unconscious," Oberyn replied, his tone sombre. "But the maesters are doing everything they can."
Unable to bear the thought of being separated from her last remaining family member, Elsa attempted to rise from the bed. Her legs felt weak, and she would have collapsed to the ground if her uncle hadn’t caught her in time. Tears welled up in her eyes as she struggled to maintain her composure, her heart heavy with grief and uncertainty.
“I want to see him,” she demanded, her voice breaking with emotion.
Oberyn had assumed as much and nodded understandingly. He helped her back to the bed for a moment before gently leading her to Robb's chamber. The journey felt interminable, each step a reminder of her own frailty and the dire circ*mstances that had brought them here.
When they reached Robb's room, Elsa's heart sank at the sight of her beloved brother lying pale and nearly lifeless. His once vibrant presence was now a shadow, his breathing shallow and laboured. A tear fell down her cheeks as she reached out to touch his hand, thinking about all that he had lost in a single day. Just then, the door opened, and Grey Wind ran inside and headed right for her. She rubbed his head when he pressed it against her, finding a small comfort in his familiar presence. Then, he jumped onto Robb’s bed, settling beside his legs. Grey Wind rested his head on his paws, eyes fixated on Robb.
“Elsa!” Arya’s voice rang out suddenly, filled with a mix of surprise and relief.
Her sister collided with her, wrapping her arms around her waist in a tight embrace. The two sisters clung to each other, their shared grief and fear finding solace in the other’s presence. In a span of thirty moons, Arya had lost almost all her family, and now, standing by Robb's bedside, she could do nothing but hold onto her sister.
The door opened again, and Elsa's eyes widened in surprise. "Torrhen!" she gasped.
"Lady Elsa," he responded, bowing his head.
But she was having none of it and rushed forward, pulling him into a hug. He froze for a moment, then slowly returned the embrace. She didn't care about formalities; Torrhen was her friend, he was alive and that was more than enough for her.
“You’re alive,” she breathed, her voice filled with relief.
He pulled back and looked straight at her, his voice heavy with guilt as he apologized, "I apologize, lady Elsa. I wasn't there when you needed me. I vowed to keep you safe, but I failed."
“You did the right thing, Torrhen. If you and Grey Wind had stayed, you both would be dead.” Elsa responded, "I'm just glad you're here now."
Torrhen's face softened, and he nodded, though the sorrow remained in his eyes.
"I’m sorry about your father and brother," Elsa added, her voice breaking. "What the Freys did... it was monstrous."
Torrhen's expression darkened, but he said nothing, his silence a testament to the depth of his pain.
Turning back to Robb, Elsa's heart ached with a profound sense of despair as she whispered, "He'll be alright, won't he?"
Oberyn placed a comforting hand on Elsa's shoulder, his touch offering a sense of solace in her time of need.
"We can only hope," he replied, his voice heavy with sorrow. "But whatever happens, know that you're not alone. I'll be here for you, every step of the way."
Elsa nodded, her tears flowing freely now. The room seemed to close in around her, the weight of her grief nearly unbearable. She turned back to Robb, her hand still clutching his. Leaning down, she pressed her forehead against his hand, willing him to wake up, to fight, to survive. The pain of losing him would be too much to bear, the final straw in a world that had taken so much from her already.
"Please, Robb," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You have to fight. We need you."
The room fell silent once more, the only sound the steady, shallow breaths of her brother. Elsa felt a fresh wave of tears welling up, but she fought them back, drawing strength from the presence of those around her.
Arya moved closer, her small hand resting on Elsa’s shoulder. "He’s strong," she said softly. "He’ll make it."
Elsa looked at her sister, finding comfort in her words and murmured, "I hope so, Arya. I really do."
Hours seemed to blur together as Elsa remained by Robb’s bedside. The sight of her brother lying so still was a stark contrast to the vibrant leader he had once been. The maesters came and went, their expressions a blend of hope and resignation. Each time they checked on him, Elsa's heart would leap into her throat, only to sink back down when no change was reported.
Grey Wind never left Robb’s side, his eyes a silent vigil over his master. Elsa found herself taking comfort in the direwolf's loyalty, his presence a reminder of the bond her brother shared with the creature. She stroked his fur absently, her mind wandering to the horrors they had escaped.
Arya sat nearby, her face a mask of determination despite the tears that streaked her cheeks. She had been through so much, yet there was a fierce resilience in her eyes.
Torrhen stood by the window, his gaze fixed on some distant point outside. The sorrow in his eyes was palpable, and Elsa knew that he was mourning his own losses as well. The Freys' betrayal had cut deep, leaving wounds that would never fully heal.
Her uncle and Ser Barristan remained a constant presence at her side and she was more than grateful for their support.
As the hours stretched on, the weight of exhaustion began to take its toll. Elsa's eyes grew heavy, and she struggled to stay awake, unwilling to leave Robb's side for even a moment. She rested her head on the edge
In her dreams, she saw a different world—a frozen creature – the king of the army of the dead; his icy blue eyes and the horrors he inflicted upon the world.
Elsa sat outside on the grass, watching her dragons feasting on some unfortunate animal they’d hunted. Aeghar and Rhaegal tore into the flesh with a primal ferocity, their scales shimmering in the sunlight. The sight of them, so alive and powerful, was a stark contrast to the darkness in her heart. Her thoughts were consumed by the slaughter she had witnessed at the hands of the Freys, and all that they had lost.
Not far away, Ser Barristan and Torrhen stood watch, their vigilant eyes scanning the surroundings. She knew they were keeping an eye on her, and their presence was a small comfort. Yet, her mind couldn't escape the tormenting memories. She thought of Jon, and a surge of anger welled up within her. If only he’d been here, maybe things would be different. Robb had been planning to legalize Jon before everything happened, hoping to make Jon the king if anything befell him. The bitter snort that escaped her lips reflected her inner turmoil. She loved Jon, and would always love him, but Elsa didn’t think she would be able to forgive him for abandoning his family.
Lost in her thoughts, Elsa didn't notice someone approaching until Aeghar and Rhaegal lifted their heads to look at the newcomer. She followed their gaze and saw a man standing a respectful distance away.
“Lady Elsa,” he greeted with a bow.
Surprised, she stood up and returned the greeting. “Lord Baratheon.”
Edric Baratheon’s face was sombre, his eyes reflected genuine grief as he said, “I came to express my grief for the thousands who lost their lives at the Twins and for your family.”
Not knowing what to say, Elsa gave a single nod.
His gaze softened as he asked, “How are you holding up?”
“I am better now, thank you.” Elsa responded with a forced smile.
“And His Grace? How is he?” he asked gently.
Her smile slipped, and she looked away. “Maester Vyman isn’t sure if he’ll wake up.”
Edric nodded, his expression filled with understanding. The pain was evident in his voice, as he spoke, “I understand the magnitude of your grief, Lady Elsa. I know what it’s like to endure such loss and heartbreak.”
Elsa’s eyes flicked to his, the weight of shared sorrows hanging in the air.
There was a moment of silence when he spoke suddenly, “I know the truth.”
Elsa stiffened, her eyes narrowed and she asked, “What truth?”
“I’ve known ever since I first laid eyes on you. You resemble your grandmother too much,” he began, his voice low and earnest. “You are Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, the true heir to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms.”
Shock coursed through Elsa, and she stared at him wide-eyed. Her gaze flicked to her uncle Oberyn, who had joined them and was watching the proceedings with narrowed eyes, and then to her guards, Ser Barristan and Torrhen, who were equally tense, ready to attack if needed.
Edric took a step closer and much to her shock, knelt in front of her.
“I mean you no harm. Instead, I am here to vow my allegiance to you.” His voice was steady, filled with conviction. “As long as I live, I will fight for you. Rhaenys Targaryen, the true heir to the Iron Throne.”
Elsa’s heart pounded in her chest as she processed his words. The shock was almost too much to bear. She looked down at Edric, his sincerity seemed undeniable. Her mind raced, thoughts tumbling over one another in a chaotic swirl.
She was still in shock, but it was her uncle who spoke, “You believe in Rhaenys’s claim?”
“Yes, I do,” Edric replied, looking up at her with unwavering eyes. “I believe in you, and I believe in what you can bring to the Seven Kingdoms. Justice, peace, and a better future.”
The enormity of the moment settled upon her like a heavy cloak. She thought of the family she had left, of Robb lying unconscious, of the friends and loved ones she had lost, of her mother and twin, who never even got a chance. And in that moment, a fierce determination ignited within her… because if not her, then who? Unconsciously, her eyes went to her dragons. She had two right now, but somehow, she knew that Balerion and Silverwing would be back.
“I vow to fight,” she declared, her voice gaining strength. “For Robb, for Bran and Rickon, for our family, and for all we have lost. Even if it means going to war and burning our enemies alive. Even if it means fighting for the wretched throne that has taken everything from me.”
Her words hung in the air, a solemn vow forged in the fires of grief and determination.
Oberyn stepped forward, his expression one of pride and resolve and he stated firmly, “We stand with you, Rhaenys.”
Ser Barristan and Torrhen knelt behind Edric Baratheon, their loyalty unwavering.
Edric’s eyes never left hers as he declared, “Together, we will honour their sacrifices and continue their legacy. We will reclaim what is rightfully yours.”
For the first time, Elsa decided to fight, to lead and to honour the memory of those she had loved and lost. She vowed to bring justice and peace to the Seven Kingdoms.
The seven kingdoms were abuzz with the news: Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, had been slain along with his men, and the girl with the dragons was believed dead as well. As proof, the Freys had sent Lady Catelyn's head along with the head of what Ser Barristan assumed was a poor red-headed man, posing as the ‘King in the North’. This widespread belief was a calculated advantage, one they intended to exploit to the fullest. Within the walls of Riverrun, a new hope was being forged in secrecy, shielded from the eyes of those who sought to see them destroyed.
Oberyn Martell, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Torrhen Karstark had taken upon themselves the arduous task of transforming Elsa into a formidable warrior. Her magical abilities were a significant advantage, yet they knew that mastery over conventional combat was crucial for her survival in close-quarters encounters. Though they had no understanding of magic themselves, they guided Elsa in harnessing her power, helping her to control and channel it effectively.
The courtyard of Riverrun was bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun, casting long shadows that danced upon the stone walls. Elsa stood in the centre; her breath steady but her heart a tempest of emotions. She tightened her grip on the sword, its weight both familiar and foreign in her hands. Across from her, Oberyn Martell, her uncle, watched her with an intensity that spoke volumes of his determination.
“Again,” Oberyn’s voice cut through the still evening air, sharp and commanding.
Elsa’s brows furrowed in concentration as she moved through the forms he had drilled into her. Each motion was deliberate, and each step calculated. Her muscles ached from hours of practice, but she pushed the pain aside, focusing solely on her movements. Ser Barristan and Torrhen watched with critical eyes, their expressions a mix of pride and concern.
"Your footwork is improving," Ser Barristan called out, his gravelly voice carrying across the courtyard. "But your stance is still too wide. It leaves you vulnerable."
Elsa adjusted immediately, her legs snapping into a narrower, more defensive position. Sweat trickled down her brow, but she paid it no mind. She couldn't afford distractions. Not when so much was at stake.
"You have the grace, my dear," Oberyn added, a rare genuine smile playing on his lips. "But remember, a sword is not only about finesse. It's about power and precision. Strike with intent."
With a swift motion, Elsa lunged forward, her blade slicing through the air with a sharp whistle. It was a move imbued with both her physical strength and the latent magic coursing through her veins. As the blade connected with the wooden dummy, frost spread from the point of impact, encasing it in a crystalline shell.
“Impressive,” Torrhen murmured, a flicker of pride breaking through his stoic exterior. “But remember, we must keep your magic hidden from the rest of Riverrun.”
Elsa withdrew, panting slightly, and nodded. "I understand," she said, her voice a mix of determination and weariness. "But it's hard to control. It's like trying to hold back a river with my bare hands."
“Just as you are learning the sword, you will master your magic, princess,” said Ser Barristan.
The mention of her magic brought a flicker of sadness to Elsa’s eyes. She had not asked for this power, and in many ways, it felt like a curse. Yet, it was also her greatest weapon, one that could tip the scales in their favour if wielded correctly.
“How do I control something I barely understand?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly. “I can feel it inside me, like a storm ready to burst, but I don’t know how to channel it.”
Oberyn’s expression softened with empathy as he spoke, “We may not understand magic, but we understand discipline and focus. Use those same principles. When you feel the power rising, ground yourself. Find your center. Let your emotions fuel you, but do not let them control you.”
Elsa nodded, absorbing his words. She closed her eyes for a moment, drawing a deep breath and willing herself to find that elusive centre. The magic within her was a living thing, wild and untamed, but she felt a flicker of hope that she could master it, just as she was learning to master the sword.
“Try again,” Oberyn instructed gently. “This time, focus on the flow. Feel the power, but direct it with your mind.”
Elsa readied herself, her grip on the sword tightening. She took a step forward, then another, each movement measured and controlled. As she struck at the dummy once more, she allowed the magic to surge, but this time she guided it and channelled it through the blade. The frost spread with precision, coating the dummy in a delicate layer of ice.
“Well done,” Ser Barristan said, a rare note of approval in his voice. “Remember this feeling. Control comes from understanding and practice.”
Elsa nodded with a newfound resolve in her eyes. The path ahead was uncertain and fraught with danger, but she was ready to face it. With her uncle’s guidance, Ser Barristan’s wisdom, and Torrhen’s loyalty, she would forge her destiny, one step at a time. The game of thrones was a deadly one, but Elsa was determined to play and win.
The days were long, filled with rigorous training and intense study. Elsa’s body grew leaner, her muscles more defined. Her mind became sharper, absorbing every lesson, every tactic. Each morning began with the clashing of swords and the hum of magic as she honed her dual abilities. In the afternoons, she pored over maps and historical texts, learning the art of strategy and diplomacy under Edric’s watchful eye.
“Footwork, princess! Your stance must be nimble, ready to adapt,” Ser Barristan instructed one morning, as they sparred in the training yard. His steel-grey eyes were focused, missing nothing.
Elsa nodded, adjusting her posture. “Like this?”
“Better,” he acknowledged, giving a rare nod of approval. “Remember, every step must have a purpose. A misplaced foot can mean your life.”
Elsa took his words to heart, understanding the gravity of every movement, and every decision. Mistakes in training could be corrected, but in the field, they would be fatal. The lessons were harsh but necessary. They pushed her to her limits, demanding perfection, knowing that one mistake could cost her life. Each day, she emerged stronger, more resilient, and more determined.
In the evenings, they gathered in the great hall, discussing the political landscape of Westeros. Elsa learned about the alliances and rivalries that shaped the realm, the strategies that could be employed to outmanoeuvre their enemies, and the importance of knowing one’s adversaries.
“We cannot just rely on strength,” Edric would say, his voice steady and calm. “We must be cunning, we must be wise. Know your enemies, understand their weaknesses, and use that knowledge to your advantage.”
Elsa sat in a shaded area where a table was set with maps and documents, the morning light filtering through the canopy above. The scent of pine and earth filled the air, mingling with the ever-present aroma of the medicinal herbs she had grown accustomed to. Around the table stood Edric Barristan, Ser Barristan Selmy, Torrhen Karstark, and Oberyn Martell, their faces etched with the gravity of the moment.
“You must understand the game of thrones if you are to survive," Edric began, his tone instructive and steady. His finger traced the intricate lines of the map before him, pointing to various locations as he spoke. “Riverrun is strategic, but it is also a target.”
Elsa nodded, her eyes fixed on the map. She felt a mixture of determination and apprehension. The world of politics and strategy was new to her, and she knew she had much to learn. The maps before her were dotted with sigils and symbols representing the various Houses of Westeros, each with its own ambitions and allegiances.
“You must know your allies and your enemies,” Edric continued, his voice unwavering. “Each House has its own ambitions and loyalties, which can shift like the tides. You must be able to navigate these waters with the same skill you wield your sword.”
Elsa listened intently, absorbing the complexities of her new reality. Her battle was no longer fought solely with steel and magic but with wits and strategy. She had to be as cunning as she was strong. She looked up at Edric, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of experience and wisdom.
“Riverrun holds a vital position along the Riverlands,” Ser Barristan interjected, his voice calm and authoritative. “But its importance also makes it vulnerable. The Lannisters and their allies will not hesitate to strike if they see an opportunity.”
Torrhen stepped forward, his expression serious. “The Freys' betrayal shows how quickly alliances can turn. Trust must be earned, not given lightly. We must be vigilant and cautious.”
Oberyn nodded, his eyes intense. “We have friends and enemies in every corner of Westeros. All houses have their parts to play. Understanding their motives and ambitions is crucial.”
Elsa’s mind raced as she processed their words. The task ahead of her seemed daunting, but she knew she had no choice but to rise to the challenge. She looked at the map again, her eyes tracing the routes and strongholds, the places where battles had been fought and won, where alliances had been forged and broken.
Edric leaned closer, his gaze meeting Elsa’s. “You must also understand the value of information. Spies, scouts, and informants can be as powerful as any army. Knowledge is power, and those who wield it effectively can change the course of history.”
Elsa nodded slowly, her resolve hardening.
Together, they formed a formidable unit, each bringing their own strengths and experiences to the table. Oberyn’s cunning, Ser Barristan’s honour, Torrhen’s loyalty, and Edric’s strategic mind—all were now focused on training Elsa, preparing her for the battles to come.
As the days turned into weeks, Elsa’s skills improved. She became a blur of motion on the training field, her sword an extension of her will. Her magic, once wild and uncontrollable, now flowed with purpose, enhancing her every move. She learned to create barriers of ice, launch shards with deadly precision, and even cloak herself in a veil of frost to evade detection.
But it wasn’t just her physical abilities that grew. Elsa became astute in the ways of Westerosi politics, understanding the delicate balance of power and the ever-shifting alliances. She learned to read people, to see through their facades and to understand their true motives. The Game of Thrones was complex and deadly, but with her newfound knowledge and the support of her allies, she believed she might navigate it successfully.
Amidst the hushed murmurs of their companions and the scent of parchment and ink that filled the air, Elsa's mind wandered, lost in a labyrinth of conflicting emotions. Her heart felt heavy with the weight of betrayal and loss, the memories of Robb's comatose state and Jon's abandonment weighing heavily upon her soul. She longed for the comfort of Jon's presence, for the reassurance of his love, but the silence that followed ‘The Red Wedding’ served as a bitter reminder of his absence.
Beside her, Edric Barristan's presence was a silent comfort, his unwavering support a balm to her wounded heart. Though she struggled to understand the bond that seemed to draw them together, she found solace in his steadfast presence, a beacon of light in the darkness that threatened to consume her.
As they pored over the maps and documents spread before them, Edric's voice broke through the haze of her thoughts, his words a gentle reminder of the support he offered. She felt a pang of guilt at the sight of the concern in his grey eyes, knowing that she should not rely on him for comfort, for solace in her darkest hour. But as their eyes met, a flicker of something unspoken passed between them, a silent understanding that transcended the barriers of words. At that moment, Elsa saw the depth of Edric's affection, the quiet longing in his gaze a reflection of the emotions that stirred within her own heart.
Yet even as she was drawn to him, a voice whispered in the depths of her mind, reminding her of the promises she had made, the love she had sworn to another. Her heart was torn between the past and the present, between the memory of Jon's touch and the warmth of Edric's presence beside her.
As they lingered in the quiet moments after her lessons, Elsa felt herself opening up to Edric, her walls crumbling in the face of his unwavering support. And though she dared not speak the words aloud, she couldn't deny the stirrings of her heart, the longing for connection that grew stronger with each passing day. In the midst of chaos and uncertainty, Elsa found herself leaning on Edric more and more, she couldn't help but notice the gentle strength in his touch, the warmth of his presence like a beacon of light in the darkness that threatened to consume her. Each time their hands brushed or their eyes met, a spark ignited between them, a silent acknowledgement of the something that seemed to draw them together.
And though she dared not speak the words aloud, she couldn't deny the stirrings of her heart, the longing for connection that grew stronger with each passing day. In the depths of her heart, she knew that she was beginning to care more than she was admitting, that his love was a balm to her wounded heart, a beacon of hope in the darkest of times.
The courtyard was quiet, only the faint crackling of the fire and the soft rustle of leaves in the night breeze broke the silence. Elsa looked around at her companions—Oberyn, Ser Barristan, Torrhen, and Edric—feeling a surge of gratitude and determination.
The past moons had been gruelling. Elsa's days were filled with training, both physical and mental. She had grown stronger, more adept with her sword, and more in control of her magic. Her nights were spent in study, learning the intricacies of Westerosi politics, strategies of warfare, and the histories of the great Houses. Each lesson was a piece of the puzzle, a step toward reclaiming what had been lost and avenging those who had been wronged.
One evening, as they gathered in the great hall of Riverrun, a raven arrived from Dorne. Oberyn broke the seal of the letter and read it silently, his expression unreadable. Then, he looked up at her and announced, "It's an invitation to King Joffrey's wedding.”
Ser Barristan, Edric Baratheon, and Elsa’s eyes narrowed.
“Everyone knows the Red Viper lives to avenge his sister and her children,” Edric said, his voice laden with suspicion. “Why would they invite you?”
“It could be a trap,” Ser Barristan suggested, his tone cautious.
“It is,” Elsa interjected, her voice steady but laden with certainty. “I have this feeling… I know they’re planning something.”
There was a heavy silence after which Edric spoke, "This is our chance."
Every pair of eyes snapped towards him.
“Think about it,” Edric continued, leaning forward. “We have Jaime Lannister. If we plan carefully, we could use it to our advantage.”
Oberyn’s eyes gleamed with a fierce light. “I have been waiting for this moment. The Lannisters will pay for what they did.”
"Before we talk of revenge," she said, her voice clear and resolute, "we must ensure Sansa's safety. She is our first priority."
The room fell silent, the weight of her words sinking in. Sansa Stark held captive in King's Landing, was a pawn in the cruel game played by the Lannisters. Elsa knew they could not move forward without securing her safety.
Oberyn nodded, his gaze steady. "Agreed. Sansa must be rescued first. But how do we get her out of the Red Keep?"
Elsa turned to Edric, who had spent weeks studying the layout of King's Landing and the Red Keep. He spread out a map on the table, pointing to key locations. "There are a few hidden passages, remnants from the time of Maegor the Cruel. We can use them to our advantage."
Ser Barristan leaned over the map, tracing the routes with his finger. "We'll need a diversion. Something to draw the attention of the guards away from the passages."
Torrhen spoke up, his voice thoughtful. "The wedding itself will be a perfect diversion. The entire city will be focused on the celebrations. We can use the chaos to our advantage."
Elsa nodded, her mind racing with the possibilities. "And once Sansa is safe, we can strike. But we must be careful. We cannot afford to make mistakes."
Oberyn's eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "The Lannisters have caused too much pain. It's time they paid for their crimes."
“We need to be careful. King’s Landing is swarming with Lannister loyalists.” Edric informed seriously. “Any misstep and we could lose everything.”
Elsa met his gaze, her expression resolute. “We’ll be careful. We’ll plan every detail, anticipate every move.”
The group spent the next several hours deep in discussion, outlining their plan with meticulous precision. They would travel to King’s Landing under the pretence of attending the royal wedding. Elsa and Oberyn would be the main guests, their presence a diplomatic gesture from Dorne. Ser Barristan and Torrhen would accompany them, posing as their guards. Edric would stay hidden. Each detail was scrutinized, every possible scenario considered. They knew the risks were great, but so were the rewards. The chance to avenge their fallen, reclaim their honour, and restore justice to the realm was within their grasp.
