# The Kingsroad North
*A fortnight later*
The great carriage rolled northward along the Kingsroad with the steady rhythm of wheels finding their ancient ruts, its reinforced ironwood axles groaning faintly with each dip and rise in the worn stone. The morning was chill and pale, autumn's breath sharp in the air, while mist clung to the hedgerows like funeral shrouds. Ravens stirred from their roosts at the thunderous passage of the Northern host—the clatter of thousands of hooves, the groan of supply wagons, the measured tramp of men who had tasted blood and fire and now longed only for hearth and home.
Yet within the carriage, the world had shrunk to something far smaller, stranger, and infinitely louder. What had once been an airy chamber designed for lordly comfort had been transformed by necessity and maternal compromise into something between a traveling solar, a nursery, and a battlefield command tent. Trunks served as makeshift benches, cushions had been plundered and redistributed for weary backs, and every available surface bore the vital necessities of children and cats: leather-bound books with bent corners, dolls missing buttons, milk cloths, carved wooden soldiers, and the long, unblinking stares of two felines who had claimed absolute dominion over the entire enterprise.
Lady Catelyn Stark sat with her youngest son pressed against her breast, her auburn braid falling forward over one shoulder like spun copper. The morning light streaming through the window caught the deep blue of her eyes as they moved over the chaotic scene before her. She had thought herself well-acquainted with the full measure of chaos that came with babes—Robb had been demanding enough as an infant. But this was another thing entirely. Three children, two princess daughters of different queens, and two fiercely territorial cats, all contained within a single carriage. Her lips curved despite herself. *Complicated family dynamics indeed. I thought Uncle Brynden difficult enough at table.*
Across from her, Princess Elia Martell of Dorne sat with her infant son Aegon cradled in her arms, dark eyes serene even amid the storm of childhood around her. Her olive skin seemed to glow with an inner warmth that spoke of Dornish sun, and there was a grace in the way she held her child that made it seem as though she were born with babes in her arms. Her daughter, however, had claimed the center of the carriage like a conquering general and sat cross-legged upon a pile of cushions, ruling her little kingdom of books and toys with imperious five-year-old authority.
"The trick," little Princess Rhaenys was saying, her dark curls tumbling about her face as she wagged a finger at young Cregan with all the gravity of a maester delivering a lecture, "is making sure everyone has something *useful* to do. If they don't have useful work, they get bored. And boredom—" she paused for dramatic effect, her dark eyes flashing with conviction "—boredom is the enemy of kingdoms."
Cregan Stark—seated beside her with the gravity of a lord attending his first council—nodded with ponderous solemnity. At barely eighteen months, he was still more toddler than boy, but his unusual violet eyes held a steadiness that unnerved adults and seemed to weigh every word upon some invisible scale in his mind. When he spoke, it was with the deliberate cadence of one much older. "Useful things," he echoed, his small voice carrying surprising weight. "Not just... busy things. Things that *matter*."
Rhaenys looked pleased, as though her most promising pupil had grasped a particularly complex lesson. "Exactly so. Busy things are for fools and courtiers. Useful things are for rulers." She lifted her chin with regal satisfaction.
Catelyn blinked, shifting Robb against her shoulder as she stared at the two children. *Gods be good, they sound as if they're conducting a small council meeting.*
"What manner of useful things would you set him to, sweetling?" asked Lady Ashara Dayne from her place near the window, shadows playing across her pale, striking features. She had been watching the road with the wariness of one who had learned that no journey was ever truly safe, but now she turned toward the children with violet eyes that sparkled with barely contained mirth. Her voice held that smoky quality that had once enchanted half the knights in Westeros. "Will you set young Cregan to mending armor and counting coin like a proper lord?"
Rhaenys pursed her lips, clearly affronted by such mundane suggestions. "No, Ashara. *Stories*." She reached for a leather-bound volume from her carefully arranged hoard, holding it with the same reverence a septon might show a holy book. "Stories with lessons in them. Not the silly kind that only make you giggle, but the kind that teach you important things. About lords who built things that lasted, and lords who destroyed everything they touched. About choices that echoed through generations." Her eyes grew bright with passion. "Stories that show us what happens when people are wise—and when they are fools."
Elia's laughter was rich and warm, rippling through the cramped space like Dornish sunlight breaking through northern clouds. "You sound older than most maesters, little dragon." She bent to press a kiss to her daughter's dark head. "Will you be lady and septa both, then?"
"A lady makes the rules," Rhaenys declared with absolute certainty. "Septas merely recite them. I shall be both—someone who makes good rules *and* teaches them properly." She turned to Cregan as though daring him to disagree with her grand ambition.
The boy folded his small arms with a seriousness that made even Ashara's lips twitch with suppressed laughter. "Both... takes work," he said after a long moment of careful deliberation. "Much work. But..." his violet eyes met hers with startling intensity, "...worth it."
Rhaenys beamed at him with radiant approval, as though he had just solved some great riddle. "See? He understands completely."
Elia shared a meaningful look with Catelyn, half pride and half bewilderment clearly written across her elegant features. Catelyn could read the unspoken thought as plainly as words written in the air between them: *What manner of children are we raising here?*
Their moment of silent communication was abruptly shattered when Balerion, Rhaenys's black tom, leaped from one trunk to another with feline grace, scattering the carefully arranged wooden soldiers like routed infantry fleeing a battlefield.
"Balerion!" Rhaenys cried, scandalized beyond measure. "That was a proper formation! You've completely ruined the flanks!" She fixed the unrepentant cat with a glare that would have done credit to Queen Visenya herself.
The great black cat settled himself atop the pile of books with supreme indifference, golden eyes utterly unrepentant as his tail flicked with lazy satisfaction.
"Perhaps," Ashara drawled, her voice like smoke and velvet, "he wished to remind you that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy. A valuable lesson for any would-be commander."
Rhaenys narrowed her eyes at the older woman. "Or cats. The histories are notably silent on the tactical challenges posed by cats."
That observation brought laughter at last—Elia's rich and warm like summer wine, Ashara's low and sly as shadows at twilight, and even Catelyn, though she tried to smother it behind her hand, could not help the smile that curved her lips. The children looked from one adult face to another, bemused by the sudden outbreak of mirth.
In the corner, Cregan considered the scattered soldiers with the solemn air of a knight surveying a battlefield after a rout. "We build... again," he announced at last, and began righting the fallen pieces with careful, methodical hands.
Rhaenys watched him for a moment, then nodded as if satisfied by his response to adversity. "Yes. We build again. That's what matters most—not that things fall down, but that we have the will to raise them up again."
"And what have you learned about good leadership from all these studies, Princess Rhaenys?" Catelyn asked, her curiosity genuine. In Winterfell, she had learned that wisdom came in many forms, often from the most unexpected mouths.
Rhaenys did not hesitate even for a heartbeat. "Good leaders make certain everyone has enough to eat and clean water to drink," she declared with the unwavering certainty of one delivering divine law. "They build things that last—proper roads, strong bridges, schools for learning, houses for healers. And—" she held up a finger with emphasis "—they listen to people who actually know things, even when those people aren't lords or ladies or anyone important."
She paused to stroke Balerion's ears, her dark eyes bright with conviction. "Because sometimes the most important knowledge comes from common folk—farmers know soil, fishermen know tides, merchants know what people truly need versus what they merely want."
Cregan nodded with grave approval, each word seeming to pass through some internal test of worthiness. "And they don't spend all the food money on pretty things that don't help anyone," he added with the weight of absolute moral certainty. "Strong walls, yes. Golden cups..." he shook his head solemnly, "...no."
Elia's laughter bubbled up again, soft and rich. "Seven save us all. Already I hear the voices of future council chambers. My daughter speaks as if she wore a septa's crystal with a crown upon her head, and young Cregan sounds like a maester who keeps a sword at his hip."
Ashara tilted her head from her vigil by the window, pale lips curving in that knowing way of hers that had once set tongues wagging from Dorne to the Wall. "They are not wrong, Elia. I've known too many lords who would rather drink from gilded goblets than ensure their people have full granaries."
*Practical resource allocation principles,* Catelyn thought with growing amazement. *How many grown men have I heard speak with less wisdom in all of Riverrun's halls?*
"And what," she pressed gently, leaning forward with genuine interest, "of poor leadership? What patterns have you observed there in your studies?"
At once, Rhaenys and Cregan exchanged one of their peculiar silent glances—too deliberate for mere chance, too knowing for children so young. It was a thing that had begun to unsettle the adults, that wordless current that seemed to flow between them like some secret language born of shared understanding.
"Bad leaders," Rhaenys said, her tone sharpening as though she were pronouncing sentence upon the guilty, "think that being in charge means everyone must do exactly what they want, when they want it. They don't ask questions because they think they already know everything. They don't listen to answers because they've already decided what those answers should be." Her small jaw set with determination. "And when someone is brave enough to point out a problem, they shout and rage instead of working to fix it."
"They waste things," Cregan added, his words slow but carrying the weight of stone. "Food. Coin. People's time and energy. They make everyone work very hard for stupid things instead of important things. That makes folk tired first, then sad, then angry." His small hands rose as if to weigh the very injustices of the world upon invisible scales.
Ashara's violet eyes widened with something approaching wonder. *They've struck at the very heart of rulership. Resource waste, willful deafness, rage in place of reason. In their small mouths, the downfall of kings sounds as simple as a nursery rhyme.*
"Seven hells," Ashara murmured aloud, unable to keep the admiration from her voice. "If they possess such insight now, what manner of terror shall they visit upon the world at ten years old?"
Rhaenys fixed her with a haughty stare that could have frozen summer wine. "Not terror, Ashara. *Hope*. Someone has to teach people how not to be foolish and wasteful. Otherwise the world will simply break itself all over again, and what would be the point of that?"
"Listen to her," Elia said, maternal pride softening her dark eyes even as she shook her head in amazement. "My daughter already believes herself a philosopher-queen."
"And you, Catelyn?" Ashara asked, turning those unsettling violet eyes upon her with a faint challenge dancing in their depths—half jest, half genuine curiosity. "What lessons of rule would you offer them, drawn from your experiences in Riverrun's halls?"
Catelyn shifted Robb more comfortably against her shoulder, considering her words with care. "That even the strongest walls fall without loyal hearts to man them. That bread shared and salt offered in hospitality may buy lasting peace where swords will only purchase temporary quiet. And that family—true family—is the truest strength any lord can possess. Lose that bond, and no crown in all the Seven Kingdoms can save you from eventual ruin."
Rhaenys absorbed these words with the gravity of a scholar receiving wisdom, her young brow furrowed in thought. "Then good leaders should always listen to their family, even when their family says difficult things?"
Ashara's laugh was low and wicked, curling through the air like expensive incense. "Unless, of course, their family happens to be mad as wildfire and twice as dangerous."
That observation earned her a sharp look from Elia, though the corner of her mouth betrayed carefully concealed amusement. "Careful, Ashara. Not every truth needs to be spoken in front of impressionable young ears."
Rhaenys's eyes glittered with precocious intelligence. "We already know about mad family members," she said with devastating matter-of-factness. "The histories are quite clear on what happens when kings don't listen to sensible relatives and only pay attention to the ones who tell them what they want to hear."
An uncomfortable silence settled over the adults until Cregan broke it by pointing solemnly at the scattered toys littering the carriage floor. "Strong walls, not golden cups," he announced with finality, as though this phrase contained the solution to all the world's ills.
Elia laughed again, and the carriage rolled onward through the morning mist, carrying its cargo of wisdom beyond years and banter sharp enough to cut steel.
---
The rhythmic thunder of hooves grew louder, drawing nearer with that clipped cadence that spoke of disciplined urgency rather than panic. The carriage swayed gently as outriders drew rein nearby, their voices muffled through the wooden walls but clear enough in tone and purpose. Arthur Dayne's voice could be heard giving crisp, measured commands—men ordered to tighten their formations, scouts pushed farther ahead along the flanks, additional riders positioned strategically where villages and holdfasts grew thick along the ancient road.
"We're making excellent time," Ashara observed from her post by the window, morning light catching the elegant lines of her face and turning her pale skin luminous. Her violet eyes continued their methodical scan of each landmark they passed, with the perpetual vigilance of one who never trusted any road until she had traveled it twice in both directions. "Another week of this pace, perhaps less if fortune favors us, and the Twins will rise before us like twin sentinels—assuming the weather holds fair and these roads don't turn treacherous on us."
At the mention of that name, Elia's mouth curved in what could charitably be called a smile, though there was no warmth in it whatsoever. "Ah yes, the Twins. Which means we shall have the distinct pleasure of dealing with Lord Walder Frey and his ever-so-reasonable approach to collecting tolls." Her voice carried that distinctive Dornish lilt, warm as desert honey but edged with steel that could cut glass.
Catelyn allowed herself a small, knowing laugh. "Uncle Brynden will handle Lord Frey's... negotiations. The Blackfish has been managing Walder's toll-taking schemes and petty extortions for half his life. Lord Frey may be cunning as a snake and twice as venomous, but he's never been fool enough to push too hard when my uncle arrives with enough steel at his back to remind everyone of proper manners."
*Not when Uncle Brynden rides at the head of a Northern host that's seen battle and shed blood,* she thought grimly, though she kept such pragmatic observations to herself in present company.
"What's a toll?" Rhaenys piped up from her comfortable nest of silk cushions and purring cats, her dark curls bouncing as she sat forward with intense curiosity. Her tone held that dangerous innocence that experience had taught all present usually ended with some adult folly being dissected with surgical precision.
"Money that folk must pay to cross certain bridges or travel along particular roads," Catelyn explained patiently, adjusting Robb's position in her lap. "In theory, that coin serves to keep the bridges strong and well-maintained, and ensures the roads remain safe for honest travelers."
"In theory," Elia echoed with dry emphasis, arching one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Which is simply another way of saying 'almost never in actual practice.' Too often, such tolls serve only to line a lord's purse while bridges crumble and roads grow thick with bandits."
Rhaenys's face transformed with outrage, her dark eyes flashing like black fire as though she had just uncovered some profound betrayal of natural law. "That's completely stupid!" she declared with royal indignation. "If you make people pay good money for bridges, then those bridges should actually work properly! If you make people pay for safe roads, then the roads should genuinely be safe to travel!" She crossed her small arms with all the imperious finality of a queen dismissing an incompetent petitioner. Balerion, sprawled regally across her lap, flicked his black tail in what seemed like feline agreement with her pronouncement.
Cregan spoke next, each word weighed and measured with his characteristic deliberation. "Fair trade," he said with the moral certainty of natural law. "Good bridges earn fair price. Bad bridges earn no price. Should be... simple." He gave a decisive nod, as though this principle could solve all the economic complexities of the Seven Kingdoms.
Catelyn pressed her lips together to smother her smile. *Simple indeed, sweet boy. If only the lords of Westeros possessed the same plain sense as babes still cutting their teeth.*
Ashara leaned back against the cushioned seat, one elegant hand resting gracefully on the windowsill, her lips curving in that expression of worldly amusement touched with resignation. "Alas, little lord, not all men value fairness over profit. Many would sooner wring coin from the desperate and helpless than invest the effort to mend so much as a single splintered plank."
"Then they are terrible lords who shouldn't be in charge of anything important," Rhaenys declared with the absolute moral clarity that only children possess, as though she were passing final judgment in open court. She stroked Balerion's ears with unconscious regal authority. "And terrible lords shouldn't be paid anything at all. They should be replaced by people who actually care about doing their jobs properly."
"Which," Elia interjected smoothly, her tone patient but pointed as a Dornish spear, "is precisely why we travel with sufficient steel in our company to ensure that such lords carefully reconsider their greed before testing our patience. Sometimes one must demonstrate clearly that fair dealing is not a polite request, but a firm expectation backed by consequences."
Ashara's laugh was low and smoky, tinged with the sort of mischief that had once made her the terror of innocent young knights. "You make it sound so diplomatically gentle, Elia. But I rather suspect that if Lord Walder grows too bold in his demands, dear Arthur will demonstrate his point with considerably more than mere expectation and polite words."
"I should very much like to witness that," Rhaenys said with bright-eyed enthusiasm, her curls spilling forward as she leaned toward the conversation. "This Lord Walder sounds thoroughly annoying and unpleasant. Perhaps he should be put in a corner to think about his behavior, like any other disobedient child who refuses to share properly."
"Annoying is far too charitable a description," Ashara murmured with feeling.
Cregan, who had been absorbing this exchange in thoughtful silence, spoke again with that slow deliberation that made every word carry unexpected weight. "If bridges are broken and useless... we build better ones to replace them. If lords are broken and useless..." his violet eyes grew distant, as though seeing far beyond the confines of their carriage, "...we build better lords."
The words hung in the air like prophecy, settling into the silence with uncomfortable weight.
Elia met Catelyn's gaze across the narrow space between them, and for a long moment, neither woman smiled. The implications of that simple statement—delivered by a child barely old enough to walk steady—sent an involuntary chill down Catelyn's spine. *Out of the mouths of babes indeed.*
---
The carriage maintained its steady rhythm, wheels creaking familiarly against the ancient ruts worn deep by centuries of trade caravans and marching armies. But within their wooden sanctuary, the established order gave way to sudden domestic chaos as baby Aegon, whose patience with complex discussions of governance and fiscal policy had finally reached its natural limits, announced his dissatisfaction in the plainest way available to an infant—by voicing his complaints with a persistence that began soft but grew steadily more insistent, like distant war drums refusing to be ignored.
Elia sighed with the particular resignation known only to mothers, though fondness colored the sound as she shifted her son with the practiced grace of long experience. "Someone has developed very strong opinions about our conversational priorities," she observed with gentle humor, her dark eyes dancing even as she began the familiar dance of infant comfort. "And those opinions most certainly do not include extended philosophical debates about economic policy and administrative reform."
"Extremely wise of him," Catelyn agreed warmly, adjusting Robb against her shoulder in maternal solidarity with Aegon's perfectly reasonable protest. "Babes possess excellent instincts for recognizing when adults are overthinking fundamentally simple matters." Her smile grew genuinely amused. "Perhaps we should carry them into every council chamber throughout the realm and allow them to decide when the high lords have prattled on quite long enough."
Ashara's laughter was wickedly delighted. "Oh, imagine such a scene! The great lords of Westeros cut off mid-pompous-rant by a single wail from a hungry, swaddled child. Gods preserve me, I would pay good gold to witness Tywin Lannister silenced by an imperious infant who simply refuses to tolerate his lengthy lectures."
"That would be enormously useful," Rhaenys declared with the certainty of one who had discovered a profound solution to a persistent problem. Balerion stretched luxuriously across her lap, his tail flicking in apparent feline approval of this revolutionary concept. "When people talk far too much without saying anything important, they stop listening to anyone else entirely. Babies would fix that problem immediately."
Cregan, who had been observing this exchange with the grave attention of a sworn sword considering his most sacred oaths, added his own measured contribution. "Babies remind people what actually matters," he said slowly, his small brow furrowed with the effort of organizing complex thoughts. "Not shiny gold things. Not tall stone walls. Family first. Food and warmth. Safe sleep." His expression grew more thoughtful. "Without those basic things, nothing else works properly at all."
Elia pressed a gentle kiss to her son's dark head, her voice softening with maternal tenderness. "From the mouths of children," she murmured with wonder. "And apparently from babes as well."
The atmosphere shifted naturally as the practical necessities of motherhood took precedence over political philosophy. Elia drew out clean cloths with smooth efficiency, rocking Aegon with the unconscious rhythm that mothers develop, while Catelyn hummed a soft Riverlands lullaby to settle Robb back into contented quiet. The familiar domestic ballet unfolded with practiced ease.
Rhaenys, never one to remain idle during any lull in activity, began the serious business of reorganizing her scattered kingdom of toys and books. With the concentrated focus of a master architect, she arranged wooden soldiers in precise formations, straightened cushions that had shifted during travel, and restored order to her carefully curated collection of stories.
"Everyone needs their personal space arranged properly," she explained to the carriage at large, though her dark eyes kept flicking toward Cregan to ensure he was absorbing this crucial lesson. "If things become messy and chaotic, people trip over them constantly. When people trip and stumble, they become cross and irritable. When they're cross and irritable, absolutely nothing productive gets accomplished." She tugged a silk cushion into perfect alignment and set a carved wooden knight upright with satisfaction. "So you see—order and organization must always come first. Then you can make real progress toward important goals."
Cregan nodded with that particular weightiness that made him seem far older than his months. "Strong foundations," he agreed solemnly. "Always build strong foundations first, before anything else."
Ashara watched both children with an expression that mingled pride, amusement, and growing unease. "Seven save us all," she said with feeling. "What sort of future rulers are we nurturing here? Philosophers still in swaddling clothes, military commanders with jam-sticky fingers and gaps between their teeth."
"Better than fools wearing golden crowns," Rhaenys shot back with lightning quickness, her tone carrying steel that would have done credit to her royal bloodline.
Elia's rich laughter filled the carriage, though notably, she offered no disagreement with her daughter's sharp assessment.
Catelyn settled more comfortably into her seat, her gaze moving thoughtfully between the children as a new understanding began to dawn. *One impossible insight at a time,* she mused. *From mouths that should be asking for honey cakes and story songs, instead of delivering lectures on governance and resource management. If only their natural wisdom could somehow be distilled and poured directly into the ears of grown men who believe themselves so very clever.*
The sounds from outside continued their familiar pattern—the steady thunder of the Northern host's passage, hoofbeats like distant drums carrying battle-tested men toward homes they had dreamed of through long nights of war. Inside their mobile sanctuary, the carriage breathed with the comfortable rhythm of an extended family: the gentle murmur of women's voices sharing the ancient wisdom of mothers, the soft sounds of contented infants, and the bright laughter that transformed even the longest roads into something bearable.
Somewhere ahead lay the Twins with their notorious tolls, then Winterfell with its ancient walls and newer possibilities, and beyond that, futures that no one could yet chart or predict. Futures that would be shaped by bridges and tolls and carefully chosen loyalties—and perhaps most importantly, by children who, though they still fumbled with boots and struggled with buttons, already spoke truths that might someday reshape kingdoms.
"You know," Ashara said thoughtfully, breaking the comfortable silence as she gazed out at the passing landscape, "I begin to think we're not simply traveling north to Winterfell. We're carrying the seeds of something entirely new."
Rhaenys looked up from her toy soldiers with interest. "What sort of seeds?"
"The most dangerous kind imaginable," Ashara replied with a smile that held both promise and warning. "The seeds of change."
—
A week later, as the afternoon sun lay low in the sky, painting the western horizon in shades of molten copper and flame when the carriage lurched violently into a rut deep enough to swallow a cart wheel whole. The shock sent its occupants tumbling against the padded walls in an undignified tangle of silk skirts, woolen cloaks, and startled feminine exclamations. Baby Robb howled his outrage immediately, his face scarlet with indignation, while baby Aegon merely gave a soft grunt of resignation before fixing the ceiling with the grave patience of a king enduring yet another tedious small council session.
"Seven hells and all their demons!" Catelyn swore with feeling, clutching her wailing son protectively as the reinforced wheels groaned their way free of the treacherous hole. The moment those words escaped her lips, a flush of embarrassment colored her fair cheeks rose-red. "I mean... seven blessings preserve us. That was quite a... substantial bump in the road."
"Oh, I much preferred the first version," Princess Rhaenys declared with regal primness from her cushioned throne across the carriage, not a single dark curl out of place despite the chaos. Her posture remained perfectly straight, chin lifted with unconscious nobility. "Far more honest and appropriate to the situation. Sometimes the only proper response to truly dreadful circumstances is to call them by their proper name. Seven hells suits this road perfectly."
Ashara's laughter rippled through the confined space, low and musical as wind chimes in a gentle breeze. Her violet eyes sparkled with mischief as she gracefully retrieved scattered cushions from the floor, each movement fluid as water. "You'll be the absolute terror of your septa someday, little princess. The poor woman won't know whether to scold you for impropriety or quote your wisdom in her letters home."
Elia shot her daughter a look that managed to blend maternal fondness with gentle reproach, her dark eyes warm but warning. "Honesty certainly has its proper place in the world, little flame, but so does diplomatic courtesy. Sweet words spoken at the right moment can transform bitter enemies into loyal allies, where sharp tongues might only build walls higher and thicker."
Rhaenys tilted her head with that characteristic gesture inherited directly from her mother, dark eyes bright with precocious intelligence. "But Mother, if everyone constantly uses pretty, flowery words to describe genuinely ugly things, how will anyone ever find the motivation to actually fix those ugly things?" She gestured toward the window with imperial authority. "Call this 'challenging travel conditions' all you wish—this road remains absolutely dreadful and dangerous."
From his dignified seat beside her, young Cregan Stark nodded with the solemn gravity that seemed as natural to him as breathing. His surprisingly large hands moved with methodical precision, already restacking the wooden blocks that had tumbled from their carefully constructed fortress. "She speaks truth," he rumbled in his small but weighty voice. "Bad roads create hard travel, no matter what name you give them. A sword with a nick remains damaged, even if you call it merely 'well-used.'"
*Practical wisdom from children barely past their swaddling clothes,* Catelyn thought with wonder, *though I suspect Uncle Brynden would nod approval at every word they speak.*
Ashara's keen gaze flicked between the two children, her pale features animated with interest. "Yet surely there's merit in both approaches, is there not? Call things by their true names when you must diagnose and repair them—but dress harsh truths in diplomatic silk when you need to persuade reluctant hands to assist you." Her smile turned razor-sharp. "A naked blade for open battle, a velvet glove for court intrigue. Both tools have their proper moment."
Rhaenys chewed her lower lip thoughtfully, clearly wrestling with this concept. Then her face brightened with triumphant understanding. "Different weapons for different opponents! Uncle Arthur always says no true knight should approach every conflict with identical tactics. Victory comes through wit and adaptation as much as through raw steel."
"A lesson well-remembered and wisely applied," came a deep, measured voice through the narrow window slit. Ser Arthur Dayne rode just outside their carriage, his pristine white cloak streaming behind him in the wind of their passage. His magnificent destrier moved with the effortless grace that matched its legendary rider, afternoon sunlight catching the distinctive pommel of Dawn at his hip. The Sword of the Morning's tone carried absolute authority without arrogance. "Flexibility in approach often determines the difference between victory and defeat."
Cregan's violet eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm at the knight's words. "Intelligent fighting, not merely aggressive fighting," he agreed with weighty approval beyond his years. "Choose the proper tool for each specific challenge. Make them wish to follow you willingly, rather than forcing them to fight you desperately."
Elia shook her elegant head with a smile that softened the sharp beauty of her Dornish features. *Gods preserve their future tutors and maesters. These children will demolish half their carefully prepared lessons before they reach their seventh namedays.*
"Uncle Arthur speaks wisdom," Rhaenys continued, warming to her theme, "but he also says the very best victories are won without drawing steel at all. Make your enemies choose to become your friends instead."
"And how," Ashara asked with silky curiosity, "does one accomplish such diplomatic miracles, little strategist?"
Rhaenys straightened with obvious pride at being taken seriously. "You give them something they want more than they want to oppose you. Not gold—gold runs out. Something lasting. Respect. Protection. A chance to be part of something greater than themselves."
Arthur's approving chuckle drifted through the window. "The princess understands statecraft better than most lords thrice her age."
"Which brings us neatly to tomorrow's challenge," Catelyn interjected, her voice carrying the quiet confidence of one intimately familiar with these lands. She peered through the glass at the familiar landscape of rolling fields and dark woods, shadows lengthening as evening approached. "We should reach the Twins well before midday. Uncle Brynden has already dispatched a fast rider to announce our arrival and remind Lord Frey of the crucial difference between fair tolls and outright extortion."
Ashara arched one perfect dark eyebrow, her expression skeptical. "And if the Lord of the Crossing proves conveniently deaf to such gentle reminders?"
Catelyn's answering smile held winter's bite. "Then my uncle will provide a more... memorable education in proper manners. Lord Frey may be cunning as a serpent, but he's no fool. He won't risk offending both Tully and Stark over mere coins."
"But what if he does?" Rhaenys asked, leaning forward with barely contained excitement dancing in her dark eyes.
"Then," Arthur's voice carried clearly from outside, calm and matter-of-fact as if discussing the weather, "we demonstrate that Northern steel cuts just as keenly beneath his famous bridge as it does above it." A pause, measured and deliberate. "Though I doubt such dramatics will prove necessary. Men like Walder Frey possess an instinctive nose for strength—they smell it faster than hounds scent fresh meat. He'll recognize what rides with us."
"Good," Rhaenys declared with fierce satisfaction. "But I still insist on examining this bridge properly. I want to understand how it bears such tremendous weight without crumbling into the river. If they're demanding good coin for passage, it had better be worth every copper."
Elia released a soft groan of maternal exasperation, though love curved her lips. "My daughter, who dissects engineering marvels while other girls her age dream of songs and silk gowns."
"Why not appreciate both?" Rhaenys countered swiftly, her tone suggesting the answer was obvious. "You can admire beauty and understand craft simultaneously. Knowing how something works makes it more wondrous, not less. A bridge standing strong for centuries is as magnificent a creation as any song composed by traveling bards."
"Spoken like a queen already," Ashara murmured, her words carrying equal parts jest and genuine prophecy.
The carriage rolled steadily onward into the dying light, bearing its precious cargo of royal children, protective mothers, and vigilant knights toward whatever tomorrow's crossing might bring.
---
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