They reached the capital under a sky the color of old iron.
The road had grown crowded miles before the gates, whispers moving faster than horses, rumor outrunning truth until both arrived tangled together at the walls of King's Landing.
Something had happened.
Something irreversible.
Rhaegar Targaryen felt it before he heard it, the way a storm presses against the air before it breaks. The city was wrong. Too tense. Too alive in the wrong ways.
He reined in slightly, glancing back at Lyanna Stark and Elia Martell.
"Stay close," he said quietly.
No one argued.
Before the Flames
The journey south had not been idle.
Rhaegar had made sure of that.
At first, Lyanna had laughed when he placed a practice blade in her hand.
"You're serious?" she had asked, eyeing the weapon like it might bite her first.
"Entirely," he had replied.
And then he had attacked.
Not brutally. Not to harm.
But enough to make a point.
Lyanna had barely parried the first strike, stumbling back with a startled curse that turned quickly into a grin.
"Oh, I like this," she said.
And she had.
What began as curiosity became something sharper, more focused. Rhaegar did not treat her as fragile, did not soften his instruction to spare her pride. He corrected her stance, adjusted her grip, showed her where strength failed and balance mattered more.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each clash of wood against wood stripped something away.
Expectation.
Constraint.
The quiet voice that said this is not for you.
"Don't anticipate," Rhaegar said once, circling her as she held her stance. "React."
"I am reacting," Lyanna shot back, breath quick, eyes bright.
"You're reacting to what you expect me to do," he corrected. "Not to what I am doing."
He moved.
She moved.
Too late.
The practice blade tapped her side.
Lyanna groaned, then laughed despite herself.
"Gods, you're insufferable."
"And you're improving," he said.
That mattered more.
It wasn't just swordplay.
At night, beneath quiet skies and low fires, he spoke to her of battles not yet fought.
"Wars are not won with strength alone," he said, tracing lines in the dirt with a stick. "They're won with position. Timing. Understanding what your enemy believes… and breaking it."
Lyanna leaned closer, following his movements.
"And what do you believe?" she asked.
Rhaegar paused.
"That most men fight the war in front of them," he said. "Very few prepare for the one behind it."
Lyanna studied him, something deeper settling into her gaze.
"You already see it, don't you?" she said.
He did not answer.
He didn't need to.
Respect came first.
Then trust.
And somewhere between the two… something warmer took root.
Lyanna found herself watching him differently. Not just the prince, not just the man who had offered her a choice.
But the one who treated her as something more than what the world expected.
Equal.
Partner.
She had not known how much she wanted that… until she had it.
The Spark Ignites
The gates of King's Landing opened.
And the truth poured out.
Not in whispers now.
In horror.
"They burned them," someone said, voice shaking.
"Alive," another added.
"For treason."
"For demanding the prince—"
The words blurred, fractured, reformed into something sharp enough to cut.
Brandon Stark.
Rickard Stark.
Dead.
Burned.
By order of Aerys II Targaryen.
Lyanna did not react at first.
Not outwardly.
She sat very still in the saddle, as if the world had narrowed to a single point and she was trying to understand it.
"No," she said.
Soft.
Certain.
Wrong.
Rhaegar felt something cold settle in his chest.
Too soon.
He had known this moment would come. Had planned for it, even. But knowing and witnessing were not the same thing.
"Elia," he said quietly.
She was already moving.
By the time Lyanna swayed, slipping from the saddle as if her body had simply… forgotten how to remain upright, Elia was there to catch her.
"No," Lyanna said again, louder this time, the word breaking apart under the weight of what it carried. "No, that's—he wouldn't—he—"
Her voice fractured.
Reality did not.
"They're lying," she said, gripping Elia's arm now, desperate. "They have to be lying."
Elia did not lie to her.
Not now.
"I'm so sorry," she said softly.
And that was enough.
Lyanna's breath hitched, then broke, grief tearing through her with a force that left no room for anything else. Not anger. Not yet.
Just loss.
Rhaegar dismounted slowly, approaching with careful steps, as if moving too quickly might shatter what little remained.
"I should have been here," he said.
It wasn't an excuse.
It wasn't even entirely true.
But it was what he felt.
Lyanna looked up at him then, eyes bright with tears and something far more dangerous beginning to form beneath them.
"They came for you," she said.
"Yes."
"And he—" her voice trembled, then hardened, "—he killed them."
"Yes."
No denial.
No deflection.
Truth, laid bare.
Lyanna's hands clenched.
"Then why are we here?" she demanded. "Why aren't we riding north? Why aren't we—"
"Because if we act now," Rhaegar said, his voice cutting cleanly through the storm, "we lose everything."
The words hit like cold water.
Lyanna stared at him.
"Everything?" she echoed.
"My children," he said.
That stopped her.
"Rhaenys Targaryen and Aegon Targaryen are here," he continued. "In this city. Under my father's roof."
The implication settled heavily between them.
"If war begins now," he said, "they become targets. Hostages. Leverage."
Lyanna's anger did not vanish.
But it… shifted.
Focused.
"What are you saying?" she asked.
"That we endure," Rhaegar said. "For now."
A dangerous request.
A necessary one.
"We get them out," he continued. "To Dorne. Somewhere safe. Somewhere beyond his reach."
Elia met his gaze, understanding already there.
"Yes," she said. "Once they are safe… we choose our side."
Lyanna looked between them, grief and fury warring in her expression.
"And your side is… what?" she asked.
Rhaegar held her gaze.
"Not his."
The words landed like a blade driven into the ground between them.
A line.
Drawn.
"When this war comes," he said, "it will not be for him. Not for his madness. Not for his throne."
A beat.
"It will be for what comes after."
Lyanna swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling unevenly.
"My father," she said, quieter now. "My brother—"
"I know," Rhaegar said.
And he did.
Not just in memory.
In this moment.
"I swear to you," he said, and there was no prophecy in it, no strategy, no calculation.
Just truth.
"They will be answered."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Fragile.
Then, slowly, Lyanna nodded.
Not forgiveness.
Not acceptance.
But… understanding.
For now.
Above them, the Red Keep loomed.
Inside, madness waited.
And somewhere within its walls, two children slept, unaware that the world had already begun to burn.