CHAPTER TEN.
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We all wear masks and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing our own skin.

ANDR BERTHIAUME
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               ONCE UPON A TIME, a white knight fell for a lady in red and a crownprince fell for a wolf.

     Arthur's oath is so deeply embedded in the crevices of his bones that he must willingly bid Rhaegar's orders without questioning them. He must not show his anger when their destination is not Summerhall as expected.

He knows that when the news trickle into King's Landing about the abduction of Lyanna Stark, everyone will believe it a mistake. Some kind of elaborate joke made in poor taste. What Rhaegar had done at Harrenhal had been appalling, crowning the girl over his pregnant wife, but kidnapping is another kettle of fish. And whilst it is no kidnapping in any sense — Lady Lyanna's wolfish grin at the sight of them, that Arthur would never forget — it will be the picture being painted.

Sometimes it had concerned Arthur, the depth of Rhaegar's beliefs, his calm surety that the Long Night would come, the way he wouldn't listen when Arthur delicately tried to tell him that trusting prophecies was a perilous road to go down. And perhaps magic was once a mighty force in the world, but no longer. What little remains is no more than the wisp of smoke that lingers in the air after a great fire has burned out, and even that is fading. Valyria was the last ember, and Valyria is gone. The dragons are no more, the giants are dead, the children of the forest forgotten with all their lore.

Even so, in his wildest dreams he wouldn't have expected this. Yet even with the evidence in front of him, his mind has trouble acknowledging it. Not only the taking of the Stark girl, but that they would come to Dorne. As though trusting that Arthur would simply accept such a thing and shame his homeland in the process.

     The depth of his own utter stupidity is slow to come to him, but when it does, it's dizzying. Had he not known Rhaegar's obsession with the prophecy? How could he not have foreseen all this?

His heart has been as misguided as ever, embracing Rhaegar's promises and greatness, believing that he is a good man, the very best. The talk of prophecy was not as easily accepted as the prince who chanted them, but it is the prince who matters, and only the prince. The prince who would be king.

     Love is blind, they say, and for more than a decade he has loved Rhaegar as a brother. Yet if he'd had a lick of sense, he'd not have been so obtuse. Every child knows that the Targaryens have always danced too close to madness. What kind of Kingsguard is he? What kind of knight?

     The Starks have a unique kind of honour, as well, one that they must uphold at any time. It is known all throughout the Seven Kingdoms, how the family residing over the North have golden hearts and justice coats their ancestral longsword, as gruesome and red as the leaves of their weirwood trees. However, Lyanna doesn't seem to worry about her family's code of honour as they ride their horses through the woods.

     Each time Arthur looks at her, it hits him how atrociously, nauseatingly young she is. At only four-and-ten, she's scarcely more than a child. There's still joy in her, still innocence, still a refusal to accept the world she lives in. Am I exchanging one mad king for another? He often asks himself. He does not know. Rhaegar's madness is not like Aerys'. It is a gentle insanity, a quiet one, perhaps even a noble one, but not harmless. She is only four-and-ten, and her eyes are full of fire.

Lyanna is not as beautiful as the songs will later claim. Her face is too long, her eyes too wide apart, but when she smiles, people tend to forget. She smiles that way often, teeth bared, no hint of a girl about her. Her lips spread wide, and curled like a wolf's snarl.

She's pretty, Arthur will give her that, but he'll gladly leave her to Rheagar. He's bewitched by another, and anyone else pales in comparison.

Once upon a time, a star fell for the sun.

He hates that his sacred oaths have been shattered beyond repair — but when he holds Astoria in his arms, it's hard to remember why they were so important.

     Thirty-two days have passed. Thirty-two days spent with a prince he must serve on the journey to a tower.

     Every day, he watches the sun rise and set, growing more despondent by the hour. It's a chore to move, a chore to eat, a chore to face the morning, a chore to breathe. He plays out fantasies in his head to stop himself from going mad. Little things: lifting Rhaenys up onto his shoulders so she can declare him a mighty dragon and herself a dragonrider high above the clouds; Astoria's laugh, unrestrained and melodious; a young Elia racing Oberyn on horseback down the beach; Ashara's growing belly.

"Do you think me foolish for leaving?" Lyanna asks him one night, when he takes the first watch over their little camp. She likes joining him, Arthur has learned. "Do you think me a craven?"

Yes, he wants to scream, but she is only a child. He blames her for nothing. It is Rhaegar who should have known better. And yet, he thinks, I must do my duty. Why should she be allowed to throw away hers?

"In the end, we must all do our duty," he decides on saying and he can see that the Stark girl doesn't understand. She will soon, of that Arthur is certain. But Lady Lyanna is young, she may still learn. "My duty is to serve, my lady, not give opinions."

Sometimes Arthur asks himself how he can bring himself to judge, to censor, to condemn. He who wants what he cannot have, what he must not have, forbidden by his vows and her blood — how can he judge Rhaegar for giving in to his own wanting?

     Once upon a time, Arthur thinks, I was worthy of my sword.

               ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, six, seven.

Elia takes a deep, shaky breath as she submerges her hands into the cool waters of the basin. I don't need to count steps anymore, she reminds herself, and yet the habit — and the knowledge that there are seven steps from the bed to the basin, ten from the bed to the fireplace and thirteen to the window — still follow her.

The habit was born after her birth to Aegon, months of stress, lack of sleep, and abuse at the hands of her good-father damaged her already delicate health to such an extent that all she can remember from her first few weeks is pain. It had been painful to walk, painful to sit, painful to eat and even sleep, and it was then that Elia came up with the idea of counting steps to wherever she needed to get to. If you know how far you need to go, the journey immediately feels less daunting.

And while her body had recovered, albeit not completely, her mind sometimes still takes her to dark places she wishes she'd never known about. If only... she thinks, then stops herself. No, I cannot let myself fall apart.

     Elia observes the lines childbirth left on her body, silver and pink, flowing like rivers on her golden skin. She remembers the waves of pain that would come and make her eyes blur, make her mind go blank and white. She remembers the sting, on her wedding night, when Rhaegar took her maidenhead and promised her a life of wonders in exchange, silver-haired princes and tales of dragon. Any sane woman should have known the dragons were dead, and that her children would most likely be dark-haired.

Elia splashes some cool water onto her face, allowing herself to be distracted by the feeling, and sits on the low chair by the basin.

She scarcely recognises herself in the looking glass, hanging above the basin. Her eyes are granite, her mouth is steel, and Elia cannot remember the girl who drank and laughed and danced in the Water Gardens in her youth. Surely, she decides, that must have been someone else, and not myself.

Surely, she wonders, she was never that happy.

Rhaegar had left over a moon ago with a small party of trusted companions to Summerhall, which means that the Keep is even more lonely now. Only Astoria still resides in the Keep and Elia cannot bear the thought of it anymore. Bringing her dear friend to King's Landing had been the one selfish act she had permitted herself after Harrenhal.

Harrenhal started it all, Elia decides, started the end of so many things. The wolf girl, the crown of winter roses, the ruin of a realm — all at Harrenhal. Perhaps the place is cursed after all.

     A faint knock makes her sigh. Burnings in the throne room are no scarcity these days and Elia does not know whether she can bear watching one now — or ever, but today she feels especially hollow. "Yes?"

     When her eyes meet Astoria's green ones, free of any dread, Elia relaxes slightly. No burnings, then.

     Astoria must see the worry etched on her face, for she smiles. "Don't fret," she begins. "I have no bad news for you."

     Not today, at least, is left unspoken.

"And yet, you seem bothered," Astoria continues quietly. "What troubles you?"

     "I want to go home," Elia answers. She bows her head in shame of her confession. It is the first time she has allowed herself to admit this to herself — day for day Elia wants her children to be enough for her to be happy and enough for her to want to stay but she must come face to face with the truth. Rhaenys and Aegon cannot erase all that she hates in the Keep. And they are not the base of Elia's happiness. "I want to go home," she repeats.

     "You are a Martell," Astoria begins, voice strong. Astoria's smile falters into something sad as she steps forward and plants a gentle kiss on her temple, her lips lingering as she whispers with a fever in her voice, "And unbowed, unbent and unbroken you must be."

Elia thinks of Allyria at Starfall, of Doran's Arianne and Oberyn's quartet of daughters, and she envies their innocence.