The hour was late. The anvils had gone quiet. No arrows sang, no swords rang against one another. The yard was still. Only the guards moved, walking their rounds along the walls and through the corridors of the castle.
Dragonhold reminded Lyanna of Winterfell, in its own way. Since the Targaryens had been granted their lordship by queen Sansa Stark two hundred years past, they had transformed what had once been a Bolton stronghold — a grim, feared place men had called the Dreadfort — into something else entirely. Tall towers had been raised, round and unmistakable, their pale blue stone a cold counterpoint to the red-black dragon motifs carved into the outer walls. Old and new stood together here, ruin and renewal. Lyanna had always felt the Targaryens had managed something difficult — they had kept their Valyrian roots while learning to belong to the North. She had read a great deal about the castle's history. It fascinated her.
Dragonhold had been raised by the First Men eight thousand years ago, long before any Andal had thought to cross the Narrow Sea. She had loved Winterfell — she had lived there until she was given to Kaelverion in marriage — but there was something about Dragonhold that had caught her the first time she passed through its gates. The carvings. The dragon statues above the entrance, silent sentinels to all who arrived. And beyond the walls, the town that had grown up around the castle over two centuries, spreading from a few buildings into something almost like a city. Eight thousand souls, Maester Halmar reckoned. She had never been in a town like it before, not a real one, lived in by common people. She had loved the noise of it, the press of it, as they rode through.
After a scouting ride, Kaelverion always needed time to clear his head. She usually found him on the battlements, staring into the endless North.
As she climbed the steps to the wall walk, the guards coming the other way bowed as she passed. A few murmured a greeting.
"Princess."
She found him standing at the parapet, hands clasped behind his back, looking out.
"Kael," she said.
"Lyanna." He turned.
"Aeghal is asleep. Rhaegal is bathing," she said. Kaelverion gave a small nod.
"I'm proud of them. They'll be fine soldiers, both of them. You would have been proud too — they pulled a woman and her child out of the burning village." He paused. "Then again, you always are."
"Always," Lyanna agreed, without hesitation.
"Thirty-three of them this time," Kael went on, quieter. "Third time this month." He sighed. "It's only a matter of time before I lose someone. Perhaps someone I can ill afford to lose..." He lowered his head.
"Don't you think you're putting them at too much risk? They're still boys," Lyanna said, taking his shoulder and resting her head against it.
"They have to learn, Lyanna. Fifteen years now, and the raids only come more often. The North has been at war since the day the South broke. Even if your father refuses to see it..." Lyanna lifted her head slightly. She had been wondering whether to trouble him with the letter, given everything already weighing on him — but it could not wait.
"Forgive me for bringing this to you, my lord, but a letter came from my father." Kael's head came up at once.
"What did it say?"
"A coded message and an apple... a rotting apple."
"I want to see it."
"It's with Halmar," she said, and they went.
On the way to Maester Halmar's chambers, a dread settled over Lyanna that she could not name. She knew it had to do with the letter. She was afraid of what it would do to her husband. Perhaps it would tear the family apart. Perhaps it would tear the whole realm apart.
I should have destroyed it. Torn it up and never spoken of it, she thought.
When they arrived, the maester had already laid the letter and the rotten apple out on his table. As Kaelverion looked at them, Lyanna could see in his face that he understood something about what they meant — only he was not yet willing to say it aloud. She knew her husband better than she knew herself.
"My lord," Halmar said, with a gravity that left no room for pleasantries.
Kael came back from wherever his thoughts had taken him and fixed his eyes on the maester.
"Send for Ser Harlon," he said to the guards. They bowed and went.
"What do you make of it, Maester?"
"I cannot say for certain, my lord. King Cregan wrote it so that only you would be able to read it fully. But I know this much — it carries no good news."
Ser Harlon arrived shortly. His hand rested on the grip of his sword, ready.
"You sent for me, my lord," he said, bowing his head, then glancing around.
"Close the door."
The door groaned shut, and there were four of them.
Kaelverion took up the letter, unfolded it, and read. After a moment he set it down and sat.
"What does it say?" Lyanna asked, unable to keep the impatience from her voice.
"I'm not certain of all of it," the man said quietly. "But some parts I am."
He raised the letter and read aloud:
"The apple had already begun to soften when it was put in the basket. The rot did not come from outside."
"The apple is the realm," Halmar said, his voice sharpening. "There are traitors."
"If that is true..." Ser Harlon began. "The North is no longer safe."
Lyanna sat down beside her husband.
"I always knew the day would come when I'd have to call the banners. I didn't think it would be this soon..." Kael said, and there was a brittleness in his voice.
"No," his wife said, firmly. "We don't yet know what the rest of the letter means."
She took it from him and read:
"We always tracked the largest prey. Father and son, as it was. You may not share my blood, but you are my son. We waited long before we moved. But remember — if the alpha falls, the whole pack breaks apart."
"The King has need of you, my lord," the maester said, breaking the quiet.
"My lord, say the word and I'll see the banners called before morning," Ser Harlon offered.
"Not yet. But he wants to meet." Kaelverion took the letter back and found the passage he was looking for:
"The wind still cuts through the gaps in those old abandoned walls the same as it did the evening we found no trail at all — only Storm. The quarry waits for you there."
"There was an old watchtower east of Winterfell. We used to shelter there overnight when we couldn't make it back to the city in time," he said quietly.
"But why not Winterfell itself?" Lyanna asked.
"Because Winterfell is not where he needs him," Halmar said. "The King needs him somewhere more urgent."
"Ser Harlon. Pick ten of the best men. We ride west at first light."
"My lord, it would be reckless to go with so few," Lyanna said.
"The fewer who see us, the easier our task, my love," her husband said.
Ser Harlon nodded.
"By your leave, my lord — I'll go and make the arrangements." Kael nodded, and Ser Harlon swept out.
"Why... why 'quarry'?" Lyanna asked, baffled.
"Because House Stark is in danger," Halmar said. "The Thief King means to bring the North down from within. This is not a message, my lord. It is a warning. The royal family is not safe."
Lyanna had been carrying something for a while now — a feeling she could not put a name to, like the weight of a thousand people pressing against the inside of her chest.
Their chambers were in the highest tower of Dragonhold. The view reached across the endless North — from the Lonely Hills, past the Weeping Water, all the way to the Ram's Head range. Every acre of it defended by her husband's hand and will.
When they were finished, Kael rose from the bed, fed another piece of wood to the fire, then drew the heavy curtains back and let the cold night air into the room. The fire crackled and spat. He stood at the window, bare, looking out at Dragonhold and the lands surrounding it — every stretch of ground you could see from there was Targaryen land.
The wind moved around the room like a passing stranger. Looking at her husband standing naked at the window, Lyanna had a strange, fleeting sense that he was still the boy she had grown up with in Winterfell. She pulled the fur higher, tucked her legs up in the warmth of the bed. Her tender places still ached from the roughness of his love. She did not mind. It was a good kind of ache.
"We ride at dawn," Kael said. "Your father needs me. I don't know what lies ahead, or how long I'll be gone. You will hold Dragonhold in my absence," he said, more serious than usual.
"I am afraid these may be the last days before war finds every corner of Westeros."
Lyanna did not know what to feel. She had known he would name her to lead the castle — and yet, somehow, it still came as a surprise.