Winterfell was quieter now — quieter than Rhaegar had ever known a great castle could be. The snow lay thick upon the roofs, softening every sound until the whole world seemed wrapped in silence. The royal banners hung limp in the cold wind, their crimson dragons dulled to dark maroon beneath the frost.
And still, Rhaegar Targaryen lingered.
He spoke of the Queen's recovery needing rest, of the roads still thick with snow, of royal duty demanding patience. The truth, however, was simpler: he did not wish to leave Lyanna.
Each morning, he found himself drawn to the yard.
Lyanna sparred there often — not for show, but for the rhythm of it, the release. She moved like winter wind over stone, her blade sharp and sure, her cloak swirling in bursts of white fur. Around her stood ten Narnians, her guards and sparring partners both, and she beat them one by one with a precision that mesmerized even seasoned knights.
Sometimes her son watched — Sirius Gryffindor, the small boy with the wild grin and Lyanna's old personality, shouting encouragement in a voice far too old for his years. He ran between the warriors without fear, fetching wooden blades, correcting stances, laughing when someone fell.
Rhaegar watched him from afar and felt an ache that was part envy, part admiration.
"That boy," he said once, quietly to Arthur Dayne, as Sirius threw a practice dagger straight into a target post and cheered. "He is her spirit reborn."
Arthur gave a slight nod. "Aye. But more controlled. The fire of Lyanna, tempered by something else. Perhaps that's what the world needed — a future King who laughs at fear."
Rhaegar smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "He reminds me of what I lost."
Arthur turned sharply toward him. "My King — what you lost was your own doing."
That night, they spoke again by the fire.
Arthur's white cloak hung behind him, marked faintly by soot and travel. His sword, Dawn, leaned against the chair beside him, the pale blade gleaming in the flicker of flame.
"You've been following her," Arthur said simply, breaking the silence. "Through the corridors, into the yard, even the godswood. Do you think no one notices?"
Rhaegar's expression hardened. "Do not presume to lecture me."
"Someone must," Arthur replied calmly. "If Elia learns—"
"Elia is ill."
Arthur met his gaze evenly. "Illness does not make her blind, or deaf to whispers. You know the servants talk."
Rhaegar exhaled, leaning back. "You saw her too, Arthur. She has changed. There's a strength in her now, something greater than before. I cannot help but—"
"Admire her?" Arthur asked quietly. "Or covet her?"
Rhaegar didn't answer.
Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You asked me once if I believed in destiny. I told you I did. But destiny is not always kind, Your Grace. Queen Lyanna has found hers — and it is not with you."
"She said I abandoned her," Rhaegar murmured, almost to himself. "She doesn't understand. After my father's death, the council was chaos. The lords turned on each other. Tyrell wanted a Queen from them, Baratheon was wild and easily manipulated, and half the realm whispered treason. If I'd gone north to claim her then, I'd have lost everything."
Arthur's brow furrowed. "Everything?"
Rhaegar looked up sharply. "The throne. The chance to rebuild what my father destroyed."
"And what did that cost you?" Arthur asked.
Rhaegar's voice cracked, low and bitter. "Her."
The fire crackled between them.
Snow drifted past the window, silent and unending.
"You could have written to her," Arthur said softly. "One letter. One word."
"I tried," Rhaegar whispered. "I sent ravens — three of them. None returned. The world swore she'd fled with a secret lover. That she was lost to me."
"And you believed them?" Arthur asked.
"I believed what was convenient," Rhaegar admitted. "And perhaps… what was less painful."
Arthur looked at him for a long time. "You were my prince. Now you are a king. But kings don't have the luxury of chasing ghosts."
Rhaegar's eyes burned with something between defiance and despair. "And yet ghosts are all I have left. Lyanna was my song of spring — and now she belongs to another."
Arthur's voice was cold steel. "Then sing another song."
The next morning, Rhaegar saw her again.
Lyanna was walking along the ramparts, her white furs gleaming against the gray stone, Sirius trotting beside her. The boy was telling some animated story about dragons and direwolves joining forces, waving his hands in excitement. Lyanna smiled — that same fierce, bright smile he remembered from the tourney at Harrenhal.
The sight of it twisted something deep in Rhaegar's chest.
He stepped back into the shadow of the tower before she could see him.
His heart pounded like a drum.
Arthur's voice echoed in his mind: Kings don't chase ghosts.
But Rhaegar couldn't help himself.
He watched her walk away, her laughter mingling with her son's — the sound fading into the wind until all that was left was silence and the slow, heavy ache of regret.
The frost had thickened across the courtyard of Winterfell, covering the cobblestones in a thin glassy sheen that cracked beneath the hooves of restless horses. Smoke curled from every chimney, and the sound of soldiers tightening saddle straps echoed through the walls.
The King's Council was in turmoil.
For days they had gathered in the solar of Lord Stark, parchment and wax strewn across the tables, their tempers flaring like torches. The King had stayed too long in the North. And though Winterfell was peaceful, King's Landing was descending into chaos.
Lord Randyll Tarly struck his hand against the oak table.
"Your Grace, with respect — we cannot hold the realm from here. The capital is festering without its King. Riots, rumors, and factions rising again. The Hand writes daily of unrest!"
Rhaegar said nothing. He sat by the fire, pale and weary, his eyes distant.
Beside him stood Arthur Dayne, silent as stone, and Oberyn Martell, lounging lazily in a chair with a half-smile that hid his watchfulness.
Lord Tyrell added gravely, "The treasury reports are dire. Gold cloaks fight in the streets for lack of pay. If we do not return soon, the Iron Throne will lose more than coin — it will lose face."
Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "You would have me abandon my queen while she lies ill?"
Tarly's tone was respectful but firm. "A king's duty is to his realm first. Queen Elia will recover, Your Grace — she has Maester Luwin, and half the North's healers at her side. But if King's Landing falls to disorder, her recovery will mean little."
Arthur shifted, glancing at the King. "They are right, my prince. The realm cannot afford your absence much longer."
When Rhaegar finally went to Elia's chamber, the snow outside had begun to fall again — soft, silent, endless. The Queen lay propped on furs, her skin pale as the linen beneath her. Her dark eyes turned to him as he entered, and she smiled faintly.
"So," she said weakly, "they have convinced you to go."
Rhaegar knelt beside her, taking her hand. "Not yet."
"But they will," she murmured. "You cannot hold the realm from the snow, Rhaegar. Go back. Rule. I will stay here until I am stronger."
"You cannot remain," he said quietly. "The journey back will be hard enough. The maesters—"
"—say I may not survive it," she finished softly. "You know that. The fever has worsened, and the chill remains in my body. The North's cold is in my bones now."
He looked down, his hand tightening around hers. "Then I will stay."
Her laughter was a fragile thing, almost a sigh. "You are a king, not a nursemaid. Besides, I will not be alone."
Oberyn entered then, his cloak of crimson and black trailing behind him.
"My dear sister speaks the truth," he said lightly. "I shall remain with her — and Uncle Lewyn, too. If the North wishes to test its honor, they will find two Martells ready to return it tenfold."
Rhaegar stood slowly. "I should not leave you here."
"Nor should you stay," Elia replied gently. "The realm needs its King. I only need time… and warmth." She smiled faintly. "Winterfell has both, in its way."
By the week's end, the royal party was ready. The banners of the dragon drooped under snow, and the courtyard filled again with the noise of departure — hooves stamping, men shouting, and servants running to and fro.
Queen Elia stood wrapped in white furs, Oberyn and their uncle Lewyn at her side. Her cheeks were still pale, but her eyes burned with pride as Rhaegar approached.
"I will send ravens," he said.
"I will burn them if they carry talk of duty," she teased faintly, then softened. "Go, Rhaegar. Rule well."
He kissed her brow, lingering longer than he meant to. "I will return."
"Only when the snow melts," she whispered. "Until then, let Winterfell keep me."
Behind her stood Daenerys Targaryen, her silver hair braided neatly, her violet eyes bright with the joy only children knew. She had refused to leave, clinging to Elia's bedside and now to her skirts. But everyone in the castle knew her true reason.
For Daenerys, Winterfell meant Sirius — the boy who could make her laugh until she forgot her etiquettes, who taught her strange games and stranger words, who treated her not as a princess, but as a friend.
Rhaegar knelt before his little sister. "You wish to stay?"
Daenerys nodded eagerly. "Sirius promised he'd show me the caves under the castle! And he said there's a secret garden where direwolves sleep."
Arthur Dayne, standing beside the King, smiled faintly. "A dangerous friend, that boy."
Rhaegar's gaze flicked toward the keep where Lyanna was watching from a balcony, Sirius perched beside her like a smaller shadow. For a heartbeat, their eyes met. Then she turned away.
The King mounted his horse.
"Very well," he said. "Stay for a time. Guard her well, Ser Lewyn. And Oberyn—"
"—will keep her warm," Oberyn said with a lazy grin. "Fear not, Your Grace. The vipers of Dorne thrive even in the snow."
The morning of departure was thick with frost. The royal banners, heavy with ice, drooped over the courtyard. The sound of harnessed horses and creaking wheels echoed through Winterfell's walls.
The King's carriage waited near the gates, its black lacquer dulled by snow. Inside sat Rhaegar Targaryen, silent, watching his breath cloud against the windowpane.
It had happened the night before — a fleeting moment that refused to leave his mind.
Rhaegar had walked the lower courtyard alone, lost in thought, when he heard voices from behind the stables. Two of the strange Narnian skinchangers — warriors from Lyanna's retinue — were speaking in their rough, foreign-accented Common Tongue.
"We must be back before the next moon," one said. "Prince Sirius's birthday is near. The King will want the feast ready in Narnia."
"Six years old already," the other laughed softly. "Feels like yesterday we all celebrated his fiftth birthday."
Their words struck him like a blade through ice.
Six years old.
Rhaegar froze where he stood, half-shadowed by the lantern glow. The year counted back too neatly — too precisely. Lyanna had vanished from Westeros five and a half years ago.
His breath came shallow, his fingers gripping the edge of his cloak. He didn't move until the men walked away, their laughter fading into the cold night.
Now, hours later, the royal carriage rattled down the snowy road toward White Harbor, and Rhaegar still hadn't spoken a word. His thoughts were a storm, whirling and unending.
Arthur Dayne, riding beside him within the carriage, finally spoke.
"My king, you've not touched your wine nor your bread. You look as though you've seen a ghost."
Rhaegar's voice was distant. "Perhaps I have."
Arthur frowned. "What troubles you?"
Rhaegar leaned forward, his tone low, almost conspiratorial. "Arthur, tell me—how old do you believe Lyanna's boy is?"
Arthur blinked. "Six, I think. Why?"
"The child… Sirius." Rhaegar's eyes gleamed with a strange, fevered light. "He's six years old. Six, Arthur. Do you understand what that means?"
Arthur's brow furrowed. "I understand it's his age. But what are you implying?"
Rhaegar inhaled sharply. "Lyanna left the North nearly six years ago. She was with child when she fled. And she would never—never—have taken another man so soon. You knew her honor, her fire, her pride. Sirius—" he paused, almost trembling, "Sirius must be mine."
Arthur stared, lips parted in disbelief. "Your Grace… that's—"
"Think, Arthur! The timing fits too perfectly!" Rhaegar pressed, his voice rising. "The height—his mind. Even his way of speaking—Lyanna said the boy was born with old wisdom in his eyes. Gods, Arthur, that's my blood!"
Arthur hesitated. "But he doesn't look like you. The hair, the eyes—"
"He has her coloring," Rhaegar said quickly. "And her grace. The rest—perhaps some trick of ancestry. Or the gods mocking me. But in my heart, I know. He is mine."
Arthur looked away, his jaw tight.
"And what then? Will you claim him? Declare to the world that your mistress bore your bastard while your queen still lives?"
Rhaegar stiffened, eyes darkening. "Do not call her that."
Arthur's voice hardened. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but it is truth. And truth is what you need to hear."
The carriage wheels hit a rut, jolting both men. For a long time, only the sound of snow crunching under the horses filled the silence.
Arthur spoke again, his tone quieter now.
"Even if he is your son… what good would it do to reveal it? You would undo both kingdoms. He would lose everything—his place in Narnia, his peace, his safety."
Rhaegar's jaw clenched. "He should not grow up thinking another man is his father."
Arthur met his gaze. "Better that, than to grow up hunted by half the realm. You already have heirs — Aegon, Rhaenys. The lords would never accept another. And Narnia would never forgive the scandal."
Rhaegar's expression faltered. "You think I should do nothing?"
"I think," Arthur said softly, "you should love him enough to leave him be."
The words lingered long after.
Rhaegar turned his gaze to the snowy horizon, where the North faded into mist. His heart was a battlefield — honor against longing, duty against desire.
He could still see the boy's face in his mind: the bright green eyes, the fearless smile, the way he spoke without hesitation — bold, free, as Lyanna once had.
He had her fire.
And perhaps his soul.
But Arthur's words were true.
If he claimed Sirius, he would bring ruin upon them all.
That night, as the royal caravan camped along the frozen road, Rhaegar stood alone outside his tent, watching the northern stars. His breath rose white against the dark.
In his heart, he whispered into the cold air:
"Forgive me, my son. The world I built cannot hold you."
The wind howled softly through the trees, carrying no answer — only the faint, distant echo of a child's laughter somewhere far to the north.
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