The population of King's Landing had decreased by a full hundred thousand compared to the height of Targaryen rule.
And yet, the slum known as Flea Bottom had become even more crowded than before.
Some of the so-called "urban middle class" could no longer afford Robert Baratheon's heavy taxes and had been forced to move into the slums.
"Quick, quick! If we're late, we won't make it!"
A twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl with flaxen hair called out excitedly, urging her friends along.
"Oh, I still have so many clothes to wash. I'm not going today."
One of the older girls tried to refuse.
Girls like them survived by washing clothes for others—more often than not, just in exchange for food.
All year long, they washed and scrubbed without rest.
By the time they were barely fourteen, their fingers—once soft and delicate—had already grown rough and calloused.
"Are you really not going, Lysa? Today they're performing The Love Story of Harrenhal. It's about Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna."
The poorer life became, the more people needed entertainment to numb themselves.
Hearing this, Lysa's hands slowed as she washed.
She had heard the love story of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark countless times.
The troupe had performed it many times as well.
But she had never had the chance to see it herself.
After a brief inner struggle, she wiped her hands on her clothes, set aside the laundry, and ran off with her friend, smiling.
The performance took place on a flat stretch of stone steps.
The conditions were crude.
The most expensive prop the actors possessed was a silver wig to represent the Targaryens.
By the time Lysa and the others arrived, the place was already packed.
People even stood watch at the edges to warn of approaching Gold Cloaks.
That, of course, was Robert's decree.
To strengthen his claim to the Iron Throne, Robert had to brand Rhaegar as a rapist.
But the story of how Rhaegar and Lyanna had fallen in love had already spread throughout Westeros.
And with Viserys reshaping their tale into something akin to a tragic romance, their story became even more compelling.
Their love—defying family and fate—had become required reading among young noble ladies.
Naturally, traveling troupes and performers seized the opportunity to profit.
Thus, the tale spread even further.
And in the hearts of many, the image of House Targaryen remained far better than that of House Baratheon.
Eddard Stark had even stepped forward publicly to "clarify the truth," hoping to show unity between the North and the crown.
But it had little effect.
For people, gossip and stories were a kind of spiritual necessity.
Compared to official denials, they preferred rumors and romantic legends.
And so, the idea that Lyanna and Rhaegar had truly loved each other only grew stronger.
Ironically, Eddard's efforts backfired.
And in a way, even hurt Lyanna's memory.
"Lyanna, my beloved. Wait for me here."
The actor playing Rhaegar spoke with deep emotion.
The crowd held its breath.
They all knew what would come next.
Some of the more emotional viewers had already begun to cry.
"Prince Rhaegar! Don't go!"
Someone in the audience shouted, unable to contain themselves, as if their voice could change history.
But a script was a script.
If the actors deviated, they would not be paid.
"Rhaegar" left the stage.
"Lyanna," now visibly pregnant, remained behind in sorrow.
As the actors returned for their final bow, the performance came to an end.
"What happened to Lady Lyanna in the end?"
"She's in Gohor now. She and her child are both healthy."
The audience murmured among themselves, trying to settle their emotions.
"The Gold Cloaks are here!"
Suddenly, someone shouted.
The crowd erupted into chaos. Lysa and her friends were knocked to the ground before they could react.
The Gold Cloaks surged in like wolves hunting lambs.
Those too slow to escape were seized.
Lysa and her friends were no exception. Dragged by their hair, they were thrown into the dungeons.
For powerless girls, what awaited them there needed no explanation.
"It's going to rain."
The aging Hand of the King gazed out at the overcast sky as he rubbed his aching knees.
The sensation—like ants gnawing beneath his skin—was both painful and maddening.
But compared to his physical ailments, the burdens of the realm weighed heavier still.
The Targaryens, who should have been fading remnants, were instead growing stronger by the day.
Across the Narrow Sea, they watched King's Landing like predators.
Jon Arryn recalled his decision years ago—to protect Eddard and Robert, and to stand against Aerys II Targaryen.
From that moment to Robert's rise, there had been far too many strokes of luck.
Fortunately, during the Battle of the Bells, Robert's opponent had been Jon Connington.
Had it been someone else, they might have burned Stoney Sept to the ground.
Robert would have died.
The rebellion would have ended there.
Fortunately, Stannis had held Storm's End.
Otherwise, royalist forces from Dorne, the Reach, and the North might have joined together.
The consequences would have been unimaginable.
Fortunately, at the Battle of the Trident, Rhaegar had not brought all of his Kingsguard.
Had Arthur Dayne been there, Robert might not even have had the chance to duel him.
So many fortunate turns.
So many narrow escapes.
But somewhere along the way, fortune had abandoned House Baratheon.
The storm that should have destroyed Dragonstone's fleet had instead been used by Viserys to crush the newly formed royal navy.
The Targaryens had then risen again in Essos.
Was this all merely a game of the gods? The thought left Jon feeling hollow.
Just then, the door to his chamber opened. A graceful woman stepped inside.
Green eyes. Auburn hair. A striking figure.
She was his wife—Lysa.
Jon knew their marriage had been political. Yet he could not deny— Lysa still stirred something within him.
She brought him tea with her own hands.
At twenty-five or twenty-six, she carried both youthful softness and mature charm.
Even the old Hand felt his heartbeat quicken.
"J-Jon, you've worked hard."
"It's nothing. I should be used to it by now."
As he accepted the tea, his hand drifted toward her.
Lysa stiffened slightly.
After a brief moment, she forced a smile. "I was wondering... what do you think of the man I recommended earlier?"
Her voice was soft.
"Petyr."
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