"This is not a wise plan, Lady Stark."
Roger Hogg looked at Lyanna's firm, stubborn expression and let out a weary sigh.
"Abducting a prince is already a grave offense.
If you drag him back to the North and kill him, it will spark war between the crown and House Stark."
He folded his arms, voice low and heavy.
"House Stark cannot stand alone against all the South.
And if the North loses… with His Grace's vindictive temper, your family may suffer a fate you cannot imagine."
He pointed east.
"You know what happened in Duskendale. I went there myself not long ago."
"The heads of House Darklyn and House Hollard—over two hundred of them—hung neatly over the gates. So eyes didn't even close. They stare at every man who enters or leaves, a reminder of what happens to those who stand against the Targaryens."
Lyanna's brow creased sharply. Even her half-eaten barley cake paused in her hand.
"What exactly are you implying?
It was my father who told Hoggs are trustworthy—that I could rely on your family!"
"You can trust , Lady Stark."
Roger did not take offense at her tone. If anything, his voice grew more earnest.
"You are safe here. Even if the king's own soldiers marched in, I would not give you up.
But taking Prince Rhaegar north… you will not make it far."
Lyanna stared at him, suspicion plain in her storm-gray eyes.
Roger inhaled deeply before making his proposal:
"Leave Prince Rhaegar with . I will take him back to King's Landing and explain everything.
anwhile, the Hogg family can give you horses and food. Traveling alone is far easier than dragging a hostage. And if you fear for your safety, I'll send two n with you."
His tone was gentle, sincere—almost fatherly.
But Lyanna Stark only snorted, unimpressed.
"You think the North fears war, coward?"
"I know Starks do not fear war," Roger replied, voice rising despite himself.
"But my people will be caught in it too! They'll be conscripted—dragged to the battlefield. Many will die!"
He slamd a heavy fist against his chestplate.
"I owe the Lord of Winterfell my life. I would do anything to repay that debt.
But I will not drag innocent smallfolk into a war they did not choose!"
His outburst startled Lyanna for a mont.
She stared at him—jaw firm, eyes simring.
After a long silence, she drew a steady breath.
"The king killed Brandon.
This cannot simply be forgiven."
Her voice hardened like winter stone.
"The North rembers."
The simple words froze Roger in place.
Only after a long mont did he exhale heavily, shoulders slumping.
He turned toward the door.
"In the morning, you'll find two horses and provisions outside."
Before stepping out, he paused—jaw tightening.
"Take the prince. Ride north, Lady Stark.
This may be the last thing I can ever do for House Stark."
"And if war cos…" His lips twisted in bitter resignation.
"I may be forced to don armor, take up arms, and et your people on the battlefield."
He closed the door with a resounding thud, leaving the girl alone with her captive prince.
Lyanna watched him leave, and sothing wary flickered in her eyes.
Only when his footsteps faded did she return to the bed—looming over Rhaegar like a wolf over cornered prey.
"You really are pretty," she murmured, tilting her head. "At least a hundred tis better-looking than Jory Cassel."
"But too bad…"
A cold smile curved her lips.
"That handso head of yours is destined to hang above Winterfell's gate."
She yanked away the cloth gagging him and shoved a barley cake against his lips.
Starving nearly senseless, the prince lunged at it like a stray dog, devouring the crumbs from her palm.
Lyanna laughed.
"Hungry, aren't you?"
The cake was small and already cool.
Without water, each bite scraped his throat like broken glass.
"W-water…" he croaked hoarsely. "Please… water…"
Lyanna's smile brightened even more.
"Fine, fine. Don't choke."
She turned away to pour a cup.
She never noticed the shift behind her—
the coiled danger in Rhaegar's indigo eyes.
At this distance, even bound hand and foot, he knew:
If I can just get upright… I can kill her.
He wriggled on the bed, ankles flexing, testing his balance.
Waiting for his chance.
Rhaegar tried again.
And again.
And again.
At last—just as the cup in Lyanna's hand was nearly full—the bound Prince of Dragonstone managed to stand upright on the stone bed.
He tensed his legs.
The mont Lyanna turned—
"Go to hell!"
He bent his knees, ready to hurl his entire body forward and smash the girl with a desperate, two-footed flying strike—
But before he could launch himself, an explosive uproar erupted from outside the door.
Shouting.
Screaming.
Steel on steel.
No. Not now!
Rhaegar's eyes widened.
---
anwhile, outside…
Bang!
A frying ladle—yes, a ladle—slamd into a rider's helt, knocking the man clean off his horse.
Before the dazed gold cloak could even crawl to his knees, Robert Baratheon was already on him, roaring like a storm and beating him senseless with that sa oversized iron spoon.
Luckily for Robert, the gold cloaks' helts didn't cover the face the way knightly helms did.
A mistake that proved fatal.
A few more vicious blows and the man's features were nothing but pulp.
"Hah… haaah…"
Robert finally exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow as he dropped heavily onto the ground.
He'd wanted to drag the pursuers far from Lyanna's hiding spot—
but the bastards were relentless.
Still, for all his carelessness in daily life, Robert Baratheon was no fool in battle.
In the woods—dense, unfamiliar, and ill-suited for horses—he'd hidden, circled, and waited like a predator.
And he'd caught one.
A dead one.
"Heh… heh…"
After resting, he swung the short sword off the corpse's belt and tossed aside the ladle.
Good weapon or not, the ladle had served its final battle—its handle was already cracking.
He turned toward the bushes to look for the frightened horse—
When a scream tore through the woods.
"rcy—please!"
Robert froze, then scowled.
He recognized that voice.
Seven hells… the coachman.
In two strides he was sprinting through the brush.
Stumbling through the undergrowth, Symond Staunton was running for his life.
Two "gold cloaks" trudged after him on foot, weapons drawn.
Horses could barely move in this forest—
but terrified peasants certainly could fall.
"Se—Seven… spare !"
Symond tripped on a low branch and crashed face-first into the dirt, spitting mud and blood.
But fear drove him on—he rolled over, scrambled backward, waving his hands wildly.
"I said—listen! I'm the royal Master of Laws! Even Manly Stokeworth wouldn't dare lay a finger on , you blind dogs!"
The pursuers didn't even hesitate.
Two blades lifted simultaneously.
Symond Staunton closed his eyes.
Gods… he regretted everything.
Regretted agreeing to ride out with Lance Lot.
Regretted joining the hunt for the so-called "Brotherhood."
Regretted every bizarre misfortune he'd suffered since.
"Damn you, Lance Lot!!!"
He braced for the killing blow—
But the pain never ca.
Instead, two heavy thuds sounded above him.
Symond opened his eyes.
A massive silhouette stood between him and death, a short sword dripping red in his fist.
The two "gold cloaks" were already on the ground, throats slashed open, blood pumping into the leaves.
"Robert!!!"
Symond shrieked with joy.
He swore to all the gods—old and new—that he had never found the Baratheon heir so handso in his life.
Overco by emotion, he scrambled upright, rushing toward Robert with arms open, ready to kiss the Storm Lord's face—
A fist the size of a ham slamd into his jaw.
Symond collapsed again with a wheeze.
Blinking stars from his vision, he looked up—
Only to find a sword-tip pressed to his cheek.
"What," Robert growled, shaking him by the collar, "was that bullshit you just said?"
"What's this about you being the Master of Laws?!"
"I—I…"
Symond swallowed hard, tasting blood.
His mind raced.
He floundered.
Every excuse evaporated.
"Translate it for ," Robert snarled, pressing harder.
"What the hell does that an?!"
The blade was already grazing his skin.
Symond trembled, scrambling for anything—anything!—that wouldn't get him killed.
Then his gaze drifted—
To one of the dead n.
To the mark half-hidden beneath the leather gorget.
Symond gasped.
He pointed frantically.
"They—they're not gold cloaks! I swear!
No gold cloak would dare touch after I gave my na!"
"If you don't believe —look for yourself!
That one's got a mark on his neck!"
Robert hesitated.
He stepped back, sword still aid at Symond, and knelt beside the corpse.
He pulled the soft leather guard aside—
And froze.
His eyes widened.
Because burned into the man's neck was an unmistakable sigil:
A seven-pointed star.
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