Jon Connington walked among the tens while mist still clung to the low ground at Sow's Horn. Cookfires breathed thin and blue, and the horses steamed in their lines like kettles. He walked the outer rows with a ledger in his head—grain left, nails needed, which captain drank too much whenever news went bad—and rehearsed the numbers he would use to keep zeal inside its harness.
A runner found him by the water carts. "From the west, my lord. The rebel host has left Riverrun and marches east along the river road. Reports say a second muster, Vale banners with some Northmen, was trapped north of the Trident by Lord Darry's screens. Darry asks reinforcement to hold them pinned."
Connington made himself breathe once, slowly. Enemies were closing around them, and they couldn't let the noose tighten.
"Two more scouts back," the runner added. "They've ridden the gold road to the foothills. Lannister levies are marching southeast—slow, but marching. Baggage trains. Siege carts."
So the girl's bird wasn't entirely theater. Jon glanced up at the white shape perched brazenly on a tent ridge, the same pale raven that had made army leadership cross themselves the week before. It preened, untroubled by being a portent.
"Unfortunate," he said. "Have the staff in the red pavilion within the half hour."
By the time Jon pushed aside the flap, the map table was already ringed by Kingsguard. Rhaegar stood over it with both hands braced on the timber, eyes on the forks of the Trident as if he could will them to change their courses. Arthur Dayne hovered at his shoulder, the white of his cloak clean as fresh snowfall. Gerold Hightower and Lewyn Martell stood close to the map, ready to advise on strategy. Ser Oswell Whent and his brother Walter, the Lord of Harrenhall, stood on the opposite side. Ser Barristan Selmy distanced himself from the group, reluctant to take part. To his side was the quiet yet earnest Ser Jonothor Darry.
Connington took the open space. "Riverrun's column is eastbound," he began. "A second rebel muster—Vale and some Northmen—overreached and let Lord Darry screen them north of the Trident. If we reinforce Darry hard and fast, we can keep that knot tied. That buys us days to deal with the main thrust."
"Names," Hightower said, voice flat. "Command."
"Reports name Royce among the Vale lords," Jon said. "Of the Northmen, no sure count. Scouts know standards, not faces. Darry's riders are skirmishing well, but they'll break if hammered. He asks for spears and horse to fix the blockade."
Lord Whent's mailed finger tapped the bridge marked with a wooden chip. "My men know this ground. I can get men to Darry in two days if we ride now."
"Take them," Jon said. "Not all. A wing. If Darry can keep them bottled, the rebel main will be forced to turn or split, and either is to our taste."
Rhaegar finally looked up. "And the lions?"
Jon met the prince's eyes. "Marching down the gold road toward King's Landing. With baggage and siege carts. But they don't seem to be in a hurry. Dragging their feet if anything."
Something like relief passed over Rhaegar's face, a terrible, private relief. "Then the verse was true," he said softly. "Not fancy. Not a trick."
Hightower's jaw ticked. "Your Grace, with respect, verses cannot rule campaign councils."
"They can warn kings," Rhaegar answered without heat. "If the lions pretend at protection and then devour, my children and their mother must be moved, and now. Dragonstone holds for storms and for sieges alike. Ser Whent."
Oswell straightened. "Your Grace."
"You will ride to the city. Take Aegon and Rhaenys and their mother by water to Dragonstone. No parade. No noise. The Kingsguard—"
"The Kingsguard guard the king," Hightower cut in, quiet but firm.
Lewyn's eyes flicked to him. "The Kingsguard guard the blood that matters. Elia and her children are Targaryen blood, Lord Commander."
"The Kingsguard guard the king," Hightower repeated, as if he could hammer the world back into its proper shape by sheer repetition.
Rhaegar's mouth thinned. "My father is guarded by a court of lickspittles and a city full of watchmen who fear him. Alongside the youngest Kingsguard. He will not be unguarded. My children, my wife—"
Lewyn didn't bother to hide the edge in his tone. "Your wife, Your Grace, is my kin. We remember Harrenhal and your… judgment there. If lions move and you keep Elia inside those walls—" He did not finish the thought. He didn't need to.
Jon stepped in before the room broke into sides. "We can split the duty. Hightower needs to be here to lead the Reachmen. Dayne can lead the Dornish forces in lieu of Martell. Ser Oswell takes a ship to Dragonstone with the princess and children. Martell can go as well to see them safely aboard. Quietly. If we're wrong, no harm done. If we're right…"
Hightower frowned, but it was a thinking man's frown. Dayne's gaze flicked to Rhaegar; something passed between in a language only they understood. Arthur nodded once.
"Do it," the prince said. "I will not wager Elia and the children against a stanza."
Whent cleared his throat. "Your Grace. If we are weighing stanzas." He looked awkward, but he pressed on. "The girl's riddle spoke of the wolf maid bleeding. 'A she-wolf crowned in winter roses bleeds, sword of the prince having pierced fatally.'" He glanced at the tent flap, as if Lyanna Stark might step through it because her name had been said. "If we are to keep her away from princely blades, this war camp seems a poor option."
Arthur answered before anyone else could. "Send her away from the lines." Jon caught the jealousy in his words, a feeling he shared. "Somewhere far from battle. She is valuable to the prince and dangerous to the prince's plans in the same breath." His eyes did not leave Rhaegar's. "We keep her close enough to watch. But not here."
"Send the wolf away," Hightower murmured, as if testing how that would taste in his own mouth. "Her handmaid remains as surety. Leash the she-wolf with a friend."
Connington saw the ripple of distaste that ran through Selmy at the word surety. Jon didn't like it either, but levers were levers.
Rhaegar had gone still again, listening to some inner instrument. "She is not a hostage," he said at last. "But she is not loyal to us either. She must be kept away from men who put little value in honor."
The Prince's gaze cut to Ser Jonothor Darry, a man who Connington knew followed orders even when wrong. Connington thought he would drink wildfire if the prince asked him to. "Take Lady Lyanna to the capital, but keep her out of trouble. She will go to Dragonstone alongside the rest of my family. The handmaid can remain here, within reach." Rhaegar ordered, and Darry nodded.
Lewyn's mouth flattened. "Keep your bargains with my sister, Your Grace, and I will keep mine with you. Break them again and you will find Dorne hard country."
Rhaegar didn't rise to it. He looked back at the map. "Darry must be held and fed. Lord Walter Whent, ride now. Hightower, send fresh grain carts to his line. If the rebels split to rescue their trapped friends, we pounce. If they swing south, we trap them under the capital walls."
Hightower clasped his hands behind him. "And the matter of oracles."
"The matter of oracles," Rhaegar said, "has already been confirmed by the road from the west. We do not kneel to the riddle, Gerold. We use it. If it saves my children, then let the septons complain to their gods."
Selmy's voice came tighter than Jon had ever heard it. "Your Grace, the king—"
"My father," Rhaegar said, without looking at him, "will demand heads because it pleases him to see them roll. I will not feed him any more of my kin. We will remove Elia and the children. We will hold Darry. We will break the rebels wherever they appear. And we will be ready when the lions arrive wearing smiles."
There was a scrape of chairs as men took that for dismissal and for orders both. Maps were rolled; seals warmed. Outside, Jon could hear messengers starting their runs.
Jon bowed his head and turned to go. At the flap, the prince said, "One more thing."
Connington stopped.
"The High Septon," Rhaegar asked. "How far?"
"Near," Jon said. "He should be here tomorrow at the latest. He travels with a litter and three wagons of cushions. The pace is… devotional." He let the dryness bleed just a little.
Rhaegar's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "When he arrives, I want no crowd and no gossip. Prepare a place apart from the lines. Small. Quiet. No heralds, no trumpets."
Jon understood before the words finished forming. "A private rite."
"If the wedding isn't harmonious, that stays between us." Rhaegar said. "I want walls that don't listen. Eyes that don't report."
Connington nodded once. "I'll see it done."
Outside, messengers were already pounding the lanes, orders riding their breath. Jon stepped into the light and began counting what would be needed—canvas, candles, a door that sealed shut and men who knew when gossip was dangerous. Behind him, a white bird quietly took flight.