Winter Town was quieter than usual.
Even for a place that prided itself on silence.
The snow had fallen lightly the night before, leaving a soft white dust across the stone rooftops and timber eaves. Smoke curled gently from chimneys. The sky was gray, with patches of pale light drifting between clouds like forgotten ghosts.
The town slumbered in its usual rhythm—slow, practical, untouched by urgency.
At the far edge of the main road, nestled between a blacksmith's forge and an old tannery long abandoned, stood the Frozen Tongue, the only inn worth noting in Winter Town. Its faded sign swung gently in the wind—carved in the shape of a frozen tongue, cracked but still hanging on.
Inside, warmth and quiet ruled.
The Frozen Tongue was rarely crowded. It came to life only when Winterfell itself did—during harvest feasts, marriages, or royal visits. Otherwise, the inn remained half-empty. Clean. Quiet. The kind of place where travelers passed through, left coin on the table, and vanished.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth.
Candles flickered along the walls.
A few merchants sat at the far side of the room, nursing mugs of warm cider, whispering about road conditions and grain prices. Two serving girls moved from table to table with practiced efficiency. The innkeeper, a stout woman with gray streaks in her braids, stood behind the counter, wiping a clean tankard with a cleaner cloth.
And in the corner, the stranger sat.
He wore a cloak of heavy furs—thick, layered, far more than was needed for the mild northern chill. It swallowed him, hood drawn low over his face, gloves covering his hands. Only the pale tip of his nose was visible, half-reddened by the firelight.
He said nothing.
He drank slowly from a battered mug of strong ale, barely glancing at the others in the room.
No one paid him much mind.
The Northerners, after all, were not curious people. They valued silence. They respected distance. And if a man came to their town with his face covered and his voice quiet, it was not their business to wonder why.
The door banged open.
Two Winterfell guards entered, stomping their boots against the threshold, shaking off bits of snow. One was tall and wide-shouldered with a bit of a limp, the other younger with a bristled beard and red ears.
They were laughing.
"Gods, it's colder in the castle than it is out here," the younger said, stripping off his gloves. "I swear the maester leaves the windows open just to freeze us out."
"You'd be frozen regardless," the older one grunted. "That skin of yours wouldn't survive a real winter."
The innkeeper offered them a nod, already reaching for the ale.
"First round's warm," she said. "Second one's not."
"Just like your heart, Marda," the older guard muttered with a grin.
They sat at the nearest table, letting their gear clank softly against the wooden benches. Steam rose from their mugs.
It was then the younger guard said it—loud enough to carry to every ear in the room.
"So what now? The king's dead. Who wears the crown?"
The words cut through the warmth like a sudden breeze.
The stranger in the corner looked up.
Just a tilt of the hood. Just a moment of stillness.
The innkeeper turned first, brows knitting.
"What do you mean, the king is dead?" she asked, placing her hands on the bar.
The older guard took a drink, then shrugged. "It's true. Aerys Targaryen is dead. Died quietly, they say. Peacefully in his bed."
"Never thought I'd hear 'peaceful' and 'Mad King' in the same sentence," the younger added with a snort.
"Ravens were sent out last night," the older continued. "Lord Stark got one this morning. Whole of Westeros will know by sundown."
"Peacefully," Marda repeated, as if tasting the word and finding it bitter. "He burned half his court alive. 'Peaceful' is not the death I'd imagined for him."
The guards chuckled, and talk resumed—names of heirs, rumors of Rhaegar's whereabouts, talk of ravens and oaths and coming storms.
But the stranger had already risen.
His movement was quick, almost too quick. He left the mug half-full on the table, the foam still clinging to the rim. He walked without sound, slipping past the tables like smoke, and took the stairs two at a time.
He vanished into the shadows above.
The innkeeper watched him go, narrowing her eyes slightly.
The guards didn't notice.
Neither did the merchants.
But Marda, who had run this place for three decades and served more travelers than she could count, felt a flicker in her chest.
A whisper of instinct.
There was something about that man in the cloak.
Something strange.
And the North did not suffer strangeness easily.
Upstairs, the narrow hallway creaked beneath the stranger's boots. The inn's second floor was dim, lit only by a single oil lantern swaying gently on a rusted hook. The scent of firewood and boiled onions lingered faintly in the air.
The man stopped before a plain door near the end of the hall.
Then he knocked.
Three times.
A pattern—sharp, sharp, pause, soft—deliberate and unmistakable.
From the other side came a voice.
"Arthur? Is that you?"
It was a man's voice, but light, elegant, too smooth to belong to a soldier or a smith. It danced through the door like the brush of silk.
Arthur Dayne smiled beneath his hood.
"Yes."
There was a short silence.
"Just a moment," the voice replied.
Arthur stood still, listening to faint sounds within—fabric shifting, hurried steps, the thump of something falling over. He glanced down the hall once, ensuring it was empty.
Then the door cracked open, and he slipped inside without a word.
The room was warm. A single candle flickered on the bedside table, its wax pooling over a stack of books. The window had been shuttered tightly, blocking any sight from the street below.
Arthur's eyes swept the room in one trained motion.
The bed was unmade.
The sheets tangled.
Pillows discarded. A blanket kicked to the floor.
He noted the flush on the cheeks of Lyanna Stark, standing near the hearth, pulling a gray cloak around her shoulders. Her dark hair was disheveled, her expression wary but proud.
On the far side of the room stood Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
The Silver Prince.
His hair was in a loose braid, a silver strand clinging to his temple with sweat. His tunic was fastened, but hastily—three buttons misaligned. He stood upright, regal as ever, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the suddenness of Arthur's visit.
He blinked. "Arthur?"
Without waiting for a question, Arthur spoke.
"The king is dead."
Rhaegar froze.
Lyanna inhaled sharply.
"What?" Rhaegar asked. "How?"
Arthur shook his head. "I don't know. The guards downstairs were speaking of it. Aerys died in the night. Ravens were sent. Lord Stark received word this morning. The entire realm will know by nightfall."
Rhaegar's mouth parted, his brow furrowing. "Are you certain?"
"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
For a moment, silence pressed against the walls. The candle flickered. The wind outside howled against the shutters.
Then Rhaegar turned from them, placing both hands on the table, his head bowed.
"When?" he whispered.
Arthur stepped closer. "We don't have time for mourning. You must return to King's Landing immediately. The court will descend into chaos. And there are still lords who remember what Aerys did to you."
Lyanna looked between them, tension rising in her jaw.
"But he was your father," she said quietly.
Rhaegar's lips tightened. "He was a tyrant. And he disinherited me in one of his… moments."
Arthur nodded grimly. "Exactly. The small council may use that to push for Viserys."
Rhaegar turned sharply. "He's a child."
"Which makes him easy to control."
They both knew what that meant.
Regents. Puppets. Vultures.
Men like Tywin Lannister.
Shadows danced along the walls of the small room, casting shifting shapes across the bedsheets and the quiet figures within. Rhaegar stood near the hearth, staring into the fire, its embers crackling like whispers of forgotten songs. Lyanna sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her cloak.
Arthur stood near the door, silent and patient.
"I must go," Rhaegar said at last.
His voice was soft, but resolute.
Lyanna looked up, her gray eyes full of conflict. "Then let me come with you."
Rhaegar turned. "No. You must return to Winterfell."
She frowned, lips parting to protest, but he crossed the room in three strides and knelt before her.
"Lyanna," he said, taking her hands gently in his. "This is no longer a matter of stolen glances and secret vows. My father is dead. And the realm will soon look to me. I must claim the throne not as a fugitive prince—but as the rightful heir."
He held her gaze.
"And once I am crowned, I will go to your father—as a king, not a lover. I will bring a proper contract, noble and binding. I will ask for your hand with honor."
She hesitated, but her heart betrayed her.
"That's what you want?"
"That is what you deserve."
Arthur, leaning against the wall, nodded in agreement.
"He's right. If you go back now, no one will know your absence. But if we're caught together, the realm may never forgive it. Not now."
Lyanna sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I was ready to elope with you."
Rhaegar smiled. "And that means more to me than you know."
She smiled back. "But if I can marry you with my father's blessing... that would be better."
Arthur turned toward the window and gently pushed it open. The wind whispered through the cracks.
"Then we'd best be off," he said. "We shouldn't be seen leaving."
The three left the inn not as a prince, a lady, and a knight—but as three cloaked men with hoods drawn low. Rhaegar wore simple riding leathers, his silver hair tucked beneath a faded black hood. Arthur walked with purpose, a blade hidden beneath his travel cloak. Lyanna, slender and sure-footed, wore a worn gray tunic and woolen trousers, her long dark hair braided tight and pinned beneath a fur-lined cap.
To any onlooker, they were no different than travelers heading south for better weather.
They left the inn through the back gate.
No one saw them go.
The road was quiet, flanked by pine trees and frozen shrubs. Lyanna led the way, her boots crunching softly on the snow.
"This way," she said, guiding them toward a sloping hill beside an old stone wall.
The trail turned sharply, descending into a narrow gorge choked with roots and hidden behind a thicket of thornbush. She brushed them aside with practiced ease.
At the base of the slope lay a small, unmarked cave—little more than a jagged hole beneath the roots of an ancient oak. Moss clung to the stones. No torchlight. No sigils. No sign of use.
But it was real.
A secret held by the Starks for generations.
"In case Winterfell ever falls," Lyanna explained. "There are other passages, deeper ones. But this is the only one I've used. I've come and gone through here since I was ten."
Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. "You've been escaping the castle since you were ten?"
She smirked. "You haven't met my brothers."
They stood at the mouth of the cave.
Arthur turned away, giving them privacy.
Rhaegar stepped forward, brushing snow from Lyanna's cloak, fingers lingering for a breath too long.
"You'll be safe?" he asked quietly.
She nodded. "My father is distracted. My brothers are in the Riverlands for Brandon's betrothal. I'll slip back into my room before anyone notices I'm gone."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"You'll wait for me?"
Lyanna stepped closer.
She wrapped her arms around him and held tight, her voice a whisper against his chest.
"I'll wait for the day we're wed, Rhaegar. And not a moment less."
His arms encircled her, strong and warm despite the cold. For a moment, time stood still. The snow fell around them in silence. The world held its breath.
He pressed a kiss to her brow.
"I will return for you. As your king... and your husband."
She smiled against his chest. "Then go. Before I change my mind and come with you."
She turned, stepped into the cave, and vanished into the shadows of Winterfell's roots.
Rhaegar stood there a moment longer.
Arthur approached him.
"You did the right thing," the knight said.
Rhaegar nodded once, watching the darkness where she'd gone.
"I hope so."
Then they mounted their horses and rode south—toward power, toward danger, toward a crown that waited... and the realm that would never be the same.
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