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Chapter Text

His father had summoned him to the throne room. It was always like this, as the King would never come to see him himself. It had to be somewhere open, public, with plenty of guards and pyromancers should Rhaegar decide to suddenly rebel. The tragedy of it all was that Rhaegar had no intention to rebel. His father was old, dying from the disease of his own mind, and not worth the trouble of revolt. Rhaegar was content to keep away, whether it be in his own rooms with his books, the training yard with his sword, or Summerhall with his harp. They were the only three things that held any importance to him.

Rhaegar walked into the throne room standing tall, though he knew that slumping made him seem smaller, and thus less threatening. But lately everything Rhaegar did threatened his father, and standing tall suited him better.

Upon entering the throne room, he found the ever-present Varys on his right, whispering a new lie in her ear, while his mother sat in a chair beside the Iron Throne. She sat with her usual stony expression, hands folded in her lap with her eyes looking forward. Viserys sat beside her in yet a smaller chair, sucking his thumb. Rhaegar knew that if his father were not there, she would have Viserys in her lap, kissing him and whispering to him. She took to coddling Viserys since his birth, in a fashion similar to what she did with Rhaegar when he was younger, only now it was with more intensity. As his father grew madder, his mother grew more guarded, sheltering Viserys as much she could. To coddle him before his father, however, would prompt him to shout that she was making him soft, like the girl she didn't give him, like the bride Rhaegar didn't get. Rhaella would keep Viserys from this bellowing.

Rhaegar's gaze returns to his father, King Aerys II, with his overgrown fingernails curled around the arms of the throne. He wore a doublet of crimson that hung on his thin body as it would on a broomstick. It was to be expected, seeing as Aerys looked upon food as if it were as deadly as a dagger. Three men would taste his food before it touched his own lips, and even then he would not eat it until at least an hour had passed, in the event that it was a latent poison. He ought to have died ages ago, Rhaegar thought, looking at him now. His face was weathered and haggard, skin hanging off his bones as he wasted away.

"You summoned me, your grace?" he asked, in a voice loud enough for him to hear, but not so loud that it could be mistaken for disrespect. Rhaegar often walked on pin and needles like this.

"Yes," his father grumbled, his chapped lips curling into a sneer. "I've decided you're not to marry that Dornish woman." Rhaegar arched a brow; his betrothal to Elia Martell had been declared but a few moons ago, after nearly six years of his father’s efforts to once again get his mother with a daughter when she had failed him by giving him Viserys. After he abandoned these efforts, he began to search elsewhere, sending the Baratheons to search for a bride to the East. Their ship sank, and the focus returned to Westeros. Many women had been considered over too many years until the Princess of Dorne offered Elia Martell, and Dorne's continued fealty. The wedding was to happen later this year, but it seemed now that his father had other plans.

"Might I ask why, your grace?" Rhaegar asked with mild bemusement.

"I hear she's weak," his father spits as if expelling poison. "She's frail and like to die before she can give you children. I do not trust the Dornish either; they are too unlike us, too filthy. I've decided against it."

Rhaegar wants to ask if Dorne took offense, but he knows better than to imply judgement on his father's decisions. He only gives a nod, remaining passive. This was not the first failed betrothal, after all. His father’s paranoia had led him to believe that every eligible girl had some fault, whether it be in heritage or body, and that their blood was simply not worthy of a dragon’s seed.

"But you are twenty-two, and I cannot wait any longer to get you a bride," his father continues in his abrasive tones. "The Baratheons have already failed me in this pursuit." They had drowned, which was hardly failure, but his father spoke as if laying blame. "And the Lannisters are traitors." Traitors: the label given to men who quarrel with him, such as the likes of Tywin Lannister. "The Tullys have already promised their eldest daughter to the Starks. The Starks," he suddenly growls loudly. "They plot like I don't notice. Rickard sent his son to be fostered in the Vale with Steffon's eldest son, and now he has promised his eldest to the Tully girl. The wolves prowl when they ought to be lowering their muzzles into the dirt! Wolves ought to bow to dragons, not plot against them!" His father was working himself into a fit of madness, Rhaegar could tell. He sent a warning glance Ser Arthur's way, who took slow steps to the throne's side. Once he stood beside Aerys, he began to calm. The Kingsguard made him feel protected, safe, though they would sooner answer to Rhaegar than Aerys.

He gives a sneer before starting again. "The Starks have a daughter. A wolf-bitch of four-and-ten, who has yet to be promised to anyone. I will send an order to Rickard Stark to bring her here to be betrothed, wedded, and bedded. I will waste no more time."

How sudden, Rhaegar thought. Even with Elia Martell, he had been able to meet her first before planning a wedding. She had been a likable woman, quiet and beautiful, with a sharp twinkle of intelligence in her dark eyes. Rhaegar thought he might grow fond of her over time. From their few exchanges, he found her to be exceedingly lovely.

But now it seemed that his father wished to skip any courtship. He would send the Stark child— as four-and-ten was still a child in his eyes —to be immediately wedded to him, with what seemed to be little contemplation over the matter. Perhaps it was because she was the last girl he found remotely worthy of being bound to a Targaryen, or perhaps it was simply politics, so he can keep the wild North underneath his thumb. Either way, Rhaegar hardly understood the hurry. They could all stand to wait a little longer, what with two heirs to the throne already.

Still, his father would not be defied.

Rhaegar gave a shallow bow. "As you wish, your grace," he imparted as politely as he could manage.

"It's better this way," his father snarls from his high seat. "The girl's younger than you, unlike the Dornish woman. Freshly flowered, too. If you're strident in your duties, she'll give you a son within the year." Rhaegar hid a grimace. He hated for his father to look upon these women as no more than a vessel for children. He thinks for a passing moment to ask if Rickard Stark would even accept such a rushed, brash offer. But the answer is already there; no one denies the Mad King without risking his wrath.

"Might I be excused, your grace?" he asks his father, still keeping an even tone. A grunt from the King is his answer, and Rhaegar bows once more before exiting the throne room.

It doesn't take long for Ser Arthur to follow him out, likely after distracting the King through another knight. Ser Arthur could read his friend well; Rhaegar's disconcertion was written all over his face.

"Fourteen years old, Arthur," Rhaegar grumbles with a little tsk. "Practically a child! He aims to wed me to a child!"

"Girls have been wed at less, your grace," Arthur reminds him in hopes of consolation.

"And shall I tell her that when I take her maidenhead, Ser Arthur?" he quipped. "I could wait until she's older, but it seems that my father intends for her to shipped over as quickly as possible, like a prized horse needed in time for a show. I almost hope Lord Stark refuses."

"And start a war, your grace? Not even a lord of the North can deny both a King and a Prince."

"Deny me what? The pleasure of raising his daughter for him?" Rhaegar sighed, shaking his head. "Do not mistake me, Ser Arthur, I do not doubt the virtues of the girl. But she is too young, this affair is too rushed, and I..." he takes pause, frowning once he finds the right words. "I fear she may hate me for it."

"It is your father's will," Arthur reminds him in his loyal way.

"Tormenting others ought to stop being his will," he remarks grimly. "Pray tell me, Ser Arthur, do you foresee any happiness in my future marriage?"

"Marriage is not a promise of happiness," he replies sagely.

"Oh, I know that," Rhaegar replies, remembering his mother. "It is only that I wish it were otherwise.” He gave huff, then a scowl. “If the gods are good, they’ll bless my father with more indecision. Then there would be no wedding at all.”

His thoughts do not dwell on the Stark girl again except to recall her tender age. Fourteen was far too young in his eyes, and being eight years her senior, he felt far too old for her. Elia had been but two years older, which brought him comfort knowing that his bride would have little to learn. But before Elia his father had chosen an array of women, but in his indecisiveness many were married off. Others, like Cersei Lannister, had the misfortune of her father angering the King. Rhaegar had met Cersei Lannister before, and though she was not much older than the Stark girl, she was Southron and a Lannister, thus practiced in courtly arts.

But his father seemed resolute. Rhaegar would wed the Stark child, it seemed, and he could only try not to feel like a criminal when he enters her bed.

Chapter Text

"The King is what?" Brandon's angry voice beats Lyanna to her own exclamation. His temper had always been quicker than hers, and while it was the source of many quarrels between them, this was one instance where Lyanna was glad for it.

"He has honored us with a betrothal to his eldest son, the prince Rhaegar," her father replies gruffly, clearly disgruntled.

Lyanna was still shocked. She wasn't sure how she was to respond to her father's announcement, as it struck her as a heavy blow. To be married so quickly, sent off to King's Landing and made a princess without even the privilege of deliberating the matter both angered and saddened her.

"Gods be good!" Brandon shouts, slamming his hands down on his father’s desk. "Even Robert Baratheon would be a better match than this! At least that rotten bastard could have waited a year or two before wedding her."

"Robert Baratheon?" Lyanna questioned aloud, furrowing her brows when she recalled the Lord of Storm’s End. She had met him once, many years ago, when he came to her mother’s funeral. He was little more than a boy then, and all she remembered of him was a mop of black hair and blue eyes. Lyanna hardly knew him. “You were going to betroth me to Robert Baratheon?" Hot tears stung her eyes, partially out of frustration and partially out of betrayal. "Have I no say in who I wed?"

"Lyanna,” her father's steely voice warned. He was giving her the look he gave her when he discovered her and Benjen in the godswood playing at swords with sticks. It was a disapproving stare, filled with exasperation and just a hint of lividness. "Who you wed has always been my decision—“

"Your decision?" she cries out, digging her nails into her palms so she wouldn't sob. "How can it be your decision when I am the one getting married? Shouldn't I be able to choose?"

Brandon snorts. "Sweet sister, not even I get to choose who I wed," he remarks unhelpfully. Lyanna wants to hit him for it.

"At least you've met your betrothed!" she shouts to him, baring her teeth. "I don't even get that much. The day meet him will be the day I wed!"

"I've not made a decision yet, Lyanna," her fathers reminds her, his voice still stern.

"As if you could ever say no to the King!" Lyanna yells back, sniffling now, tears just about ready to spill. "What if I don't want to get married? Did anyone think to ask me that? Or am I only good for trading away like a stupid cow?"

When the first warm tear rolled down her cheek, Lyanna turned on her heel and ran. Through bleary eyes, she ran all the way to the stables, shoving aside the stableboy who moved to saddle her horse, then simply climbed atop her mare, kicked her heels, and allowed herself to be carried away.

Lyanna did not guide her horse as she was too busy sobbing into her mane. It simply wasn't fair, that since she was a woman she would be condemned to be wedded and bedded and bear the children of some stranger. Brandon was right: even Robert Baratheon would have been better than the crown prince. At least Ned knew Robert, and spoke highly of him though Lyanna had heard otherwise. But no one in her family knew the prince but through rumor. Lyanna had certainly never seen him, having never left the North, and now it seemed that she would not until it was the day of her wedding.

It was not fair at all.

If she was to live at court, then she could not ride, would never touch a sword or even a stick again, would see her brothers only on occasion, and share her bed with a stranger who was a man grown. Lyanna would be miserable, without a doubt, with the Mad King as her goodfather. Soon she would grow heavy with children who would be heirs to the throne, all while pretending to be blind if her husband sought comfort in another woman's bed. Lyanna didn't want any of this; she wanted to be a lady of Winterfell forever, to ride whenever she wished, run with Benjen whenever she liked, greet Ned at the gates when he came to visit, and even quarrel with Brandon, whose wild ways were so much like her own that she could not help but lock horns with him.

Her horse eventually came to a gradual halt, stopping in the middle of an open field. Wind bent the grass sideways, bays of green swaying around the mare's black hooves. Lyanna raised her head, inhaling the crisp scent of the North, relishing in how the tears on her face turned cold and nipped at her cheeks. How could she leave Winterfell? How could she leave the North? This was the only place she ever knew. It was her special place, whose walls and trees she knew better than her own ever-changing body. It was where the crypts that once housed Bael the Bard and his lover was, the same crypts that cradled her mother in death, and would one day cradle her. Or so she wished, unless her new husband has her buried in the South, too uncaring to bother to send her body north.

Lyanna wanted to scream until her throat burned and her lungs cried out. Perhaps she should, and feign madness so that she would be unfit to wed. Maybe during her wedding feast she’ll eat with her hands, then dirty her dress and everyone else’s. She could refuse the prince at the altar, spit at his feet, and run off. Who would stop her?

She knows what her father will say. He would call it duty and demand she behave, lest she shame the family. Lyanna hardly found it fair that everything she did shamed him while Brandon drank and took women to bed most every night.

It is because I am a girl, she seethed. I cannot fight or ride or take whomever I want to bed. I cannot even choose take no one to bed.

Lyanna truly did not want to bed anyone, as it seemed like such an intimate thing that only ought to be shared with someone she loved and trusted. Lyanna had seen how the women Brandon bedded so pathetically looked upon him with hangdog eyes after he had long forgotten their names. Nay, she would not give her body to someone who did not aim to cherish it, and keep faithful as well.

Lyanna fisted some of the mare’s mane in her hands, fury seeping into her bones. There was no fairness in any of this. She was hardly yet a woman, yet her husband was a man grown. She would have to endure him and his attentions, though she had yet to know what women knew. Her mother never taught her, after all. Her mother had died.

“It’s not fair,” she grumbled to her horse, her voice still thick with tears. “It matters not what I want. I’ll be married off anyway.” She leans back down, pressed her cheek to her horse’s head. “Why can’t I be like you, Nym? You can run away and be free at any moment.”

Lyanna wanted to run away too. If only she knew how.

Chapter Text

Brandon knew that whatever they once had was gone, but when Barbrey Ryswell came North to visit with her father, he couldn’t resist having her again.

He had her first when he was fostered in Barrowtown but a few years ago, in the last few months of his stay. He had been riding out to the Rills to get a taste of the girls there, as he often did, when he came across her loitering outside of her father’s castle, dark brown hair loose around her shoulders as she giggled with some other pretty maid. He had been seventeen then, and she sixteen, and while she was certainly not the most beautiful woman he’d seen, she was a fair enough sight. Large breasts, wide hips, and a narrow waist helped accentuate her likeness.

He had courted her for no less than a week before her legs were wrapped around him on a bed of hay in her father's stables. Barbrey had seemed so willing that Brandon had never expected there to be blood on his cock after he pulled it out of her. Afterwards she had looked so sweet, blood on her pale thighs, a blush on her soft cheeks, that he couldn’t help but wipe that crimson stain off her, bloodying his hands further, and later hardening his cock again. He took her again some minutes after, and that time she moaned so sweetly he thought he might have her a third time that night. She might have let him too, if she didn’t hear her father riding in from a late hunt.

After their encounter, Brandon had made up his mind to stop seeing her. The girl wrote him often since he left the barrowlands, always asking with eagerness if he would come by the Dustins again, and if he did, if he would like to come stay in her castle for a little while, as her father extended an invitation to him. Brandon didn’t write back; he never wrote back to girls, unless he had to, as his father made him do with Catelyn Tully.

But then he saw her again, straight hair in a shiny plait down her back, and Brandon felt the need to have her again. Perhaps it was his own sentimentality; it wasn’t often that he fucked a maid, and having having taken her maidenhead had prompted him to grow fond of her. There was simply something about sweet maids that had him wanting to protect them. Even if the girl was a maid no longer, and only visiting with her good old father who was none the wiser that his sweet daughter had no maidenhead to barter away.

Brandon thought he might pay her bed a visit. His own father had told him to see to their guests’ comfort, after all.

It would be no sin; Barbrey clearly wanted him. She shot him coy looks whenever they were in a room together, put her hand on his thigh at supper, and had “accidentally” run into him in the hallways more than once, her breasts near spilling out of her dress.

Unable to deny the girl, he visited her chambers in the guesthouse, the one right next to where her own father slept, and fucked her as she muffled her moans against Brandon’s shoulder. Her nails were are sharp as he remembered, and she kept telling him to stay quiet, as if he were the one making all the noise. After she begged this of time for the tenth or eleventh time, he turned her on her hands and knees and took her from behind as she moaned into the pillows and breathed his name.

“A proper slut, that one,” he had boasted to his friends this night after. They all had a little wine in them, and each grew more bawdy as the night dragged on. Brandon at least had the sense to whisper when Barbrey was only a few tables away, but his friends made no secret about the looks they shot her and the snickers that followed. “But then it’s always the maids, innit?” Barbrey looked his way with a concerned expression on her face. He shot her a wink, and she immediately blushed and turned away.

“Better get ‘em in while you can, eh?” his squire Ethan Glover said from beside him, digging his elbow into his ribs. “Not too long before you’re wed yourself.” Brandon grimaced at the reminder. Catelyn Tully was pretty, perhaps the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, but by the gods was she stiff. She allowed him no more than a kiss on the cheek when he met her, and spoke in such practiced tones that nearly bored Brandon to death.

“Ah, he’ll make time for them yet after his wed, won’t you, Bran?” Bryce added after a swig of beer. He was a squire of the Ryswells and came with them on their journey. Brandon had become quick friends with him, as the two shared similar appetites for lusty women. “Speaking of, your sister’s getting married, isn’t she?” Brandon grimaced. He had always hated for his friends to take notice of his little sister, but the slight grew keener now that she was truly to be wed. It had only had only been just announced, but news of a royal wedding spreads fast, particularly when it came to the only daughter of Lord Stark and the precious crown prince. Luckily, they bought time by writing the King to say that they would leave once Ned came North, and once a dress had been tailored. Can’t have a wedding without her older brother, or a dress, of course.

“Aye, she’s getting married. What is it to you?” he growled at Bryce, who couldn't be forgiven for mentioning Lyanna. It was a rule amongst his friends that they did not speak of her, and certainly never touched her. That Bryce had just met him gave him no amnesty.

"It's like Glover said," he quipped with a grin, his lecherous gaze cast Lyanna's way. "Got to get 'em in before you wed."

The next few seconds passed in an angry blur, resulting in Brandon's fists making frequent contact with Bryce’s face. Brandon didn't think when his temper got the better of him; he simply acted, mercilessly and without stopping. All he felt was the feeling of the man's flesh tearing at his beating knuckles.

Some men dragged him off, though he fought them back with zeal. He knew eyes were on him, and he heard his father's voice bellowing, but they all sounded far away, as if his head was underwater but all he saw was red.

"You haven't the right!" Brandon shouted at the battered man on the ground. "You aren't worth the dirt beneath her feet! You haven't the right to look at her, much less think of her, you-"

"Enough!" his father thundered at such a volume that Brandon swore the sconces on the wall shook. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Why don't you ask the bastard?" Brandon returns with a sneer. "He's right here, isn't he? I didn't kill him yet."

"Brandon," he heard Lyanna softly call to him. He raises his eyes to see his little sister looking to him with wide eyes full of concern from her place at a neighboring table.

Gods, she's so little, Brandon suddenly realizes with horror, though perhaps at an inopportune time. His sister was such a skinny little thing with her boyish figure and narrow hips, her knees always scraped and her hands rough from riding. Her large eyes and freckled nose softened her appearance into that of a little girl's, and gods knew she was as naive as one.

But she was to be wed. That little shadow of a woman was to be bound to a man who would take his pleasures on her as he did with Barbrey. The thought of it pained him.

In his moment of vulnerability he is escorted to his rooms by his father's men, who tsked and chuckled at his hot-headedness.

"When will you learn, my lord?" one asked before taking him by the elbow and pushing him into his bedchambers.

"When indeed," Brandon grumbled to the shut door.

In the emptiness of his room, he dwelled further on his sister's situation, serving only to upset him further. Brandon heard the stories about this prince, just like everyone else: he was fair to look at, tall and lean, and excelled at nearly everything he did, from tourneys to song. He was well-loved by the people, but those people were not wedding their little sisters to him. The very thought of Lyanna, who knew so little of the world, married to an older, entitled prick of a prince drove him mad. He would take her away if he could, somewhere with open fields and plenty of horses where she could run through the snow and ride to her heart’s content…

His thoughts are interrupted by Barbrey’s silhouette in the doorway. He almost grimaced; the last person he would have seeing him banished to his rooms like a child was the woman he was bedding. But Brandon could play this off, as he always could. He gave her an easy smile, then patted his knee.

She quickly moved to his lap, cold hands slipping underneath his tunic. She moved as if to kiss him, but paused, lips just hovering over his. Brandon was impatient; he tilted his head to kiss her, but is stopped by three of her fingers.

“Silly fool,” she murmured with a sly smile, dancing her fingertips down his raw and bloodied knuckles. She raised them to her lips, kissing them. When she pulled away, some of his blood was on her lips. He leaned in and kissed her, darting his tongue out to lick the stain off. She kisses him back for a moment, mewling when he pushed up her skirts, and then pulled away quite suddenly. “Shall this be the extent of our relationship?” she asks with a hint of sorrow, brown eyes locking with his.

“I think it shall,” he replied nonchalantly, turning her body so that she laid back on his bed. “I’m betrothed, you know.” He moved his hand farther up her skirt, to where her smallclothes were, finding them already wet. Brandon couldn’t help but grin.

“Forget the Tully girl,” she begged softly, sweetly, fingers tracing patterns on his cheek as she rolled her hips into his touch. “Can she ever please you as I do?”

“Perhaps,” he said, relieving her off her small clothes with a quick tug. He then pulls the laces of her gown loose, watching as her breasts spilled out of it. “Perhaps not.”

“Marry me instead,” she said as she drew his mouth down to her breasts. “My father waits for the day you ask for my hand.”

“Still?” he asked with an amused laugh before sucking at her soft skin.

“Oh, please, Brandon. Please, marry me.”

If he had a coin for each time he heard that! He wondered what it was about him that inspired girls to want him to take them to wife. He wants to think it is his own attractiveness, but he knew it was otherwise. They all want Winterfell, brother… Lyanna’s voice reminded him in his head.

But then what did the prince want with Lyanna?

His worries are temporarily pushed aside as Barbrey’s legs pull his hips to hers, all while she still begged softly that he marry her.

Chapter Text

Lord Tywin curses bitterly, looking down to the paper in hand with malice. Cersei wants to tear it from his hands and read it for herself, to be sure that what he read aloud was true or just a misreading, a smudge of ink that made its meaning unclear. She could feel herself trembling in apprehension, and clenched her fists to still her shaking.

“Are you sure?” she tries boldly, locking eyes with her father, whose glare made it clear that he was sure. “Perhaps this is like all the others. The king has betrothed Prince Rhaegar many times already, and each time he undoes it.” And each time Cersei wished she would be next. She would have been sure to catch and keep Rhaegar’s attention to where he would not let his mad father separate them. If her own father hadn’t quarreled with the King, it might have already been done, and Cersei would be in King’s Landing right now, perched on her beautiful prince’s lap, carrying one of his babes.

“He has broken a promise to the Martells for the Stark whelp,” Tywin reminds her harshly, yanking her from her daydreams. “And the date had already been set.” He folds the paper with deliberation before setting it down on his desk. He walks to the window of his solar, gaze cast over the sea. It was another chink in his plan to rise to power, and another blow to Cersei’s dreams.

“Will we go to the wedding, then?” Cersei asks numbly, looking down at her closed hands. She does not think she could stand the sight of her silver prince being married off, not even if Jaime were there too.

Tywin scoffs. “This was only an announcement, not an invitation,” he replies cryptically. “The King will not have me at the wedding.”

“And we will not go to the tourney,” Cersei notes with another twinge of bitterness. It was there that Jaime would be sworn into to Kingsguard, but it seemed now the ceremony would occur in the capitol.

“No. I do not think very many others will as well. A royal wedding is a greater occasion than Lord Whent’s little tourney.”

“So we stay here,” Cersei hisses. “And do nothing.”

“Yes. That is what we will do,” he returns firmly, a scowl in his voice.

Cersei was not used to being denied anything, and thus it infuriated her that her father was willing to sit back and let all these dealings to occur. On his indifference, Tyrion had been allowed to live after killing her lady mother, and a betrothal to Rhaegar had been a string of opportunities that were repeatedly missed. Even her Jaime was nearly wedded away to some Tully girl, and it was only by her will that her brother was chosen for Kingsguard, his body and soul forever belonging to her thought it meant he would always been in King’s Landing. It didn’t seem right that all this misfortune should befall her; she was a lioness of Casterly Rock, not a little wolf-bitch hailed from the North. And yet she heard the talk of toothless lions directed at her father, and she knew that it was wrong. They deserved better because they were better.

Thus, it should have been almost natural that Rhaegar be wed to her, for Rhaegar was perfect. He had the body and grace of a god, strong and handsome, and he wrote songs, sang, and played the high harp. He was more beautiful than Jaime could ever be, and Cersei desired him in every way a woman could desire a man. She wanted all of him, his voice to sing to her and her alone, his body to dig into hers as he fucked her, his heart and soul committed to her to where he loved her more than their own children. She had always been sure that this could be done, had her father been more steadfast.

But more than anything, perhaps even more than Rhaegar, she wanted to be Queen. Cersei still recalled how her mother would hold her in her arms and promise a crown to be laid atop her head, for gold to grace gold, as it ought to do. You will be Queen, she has promised her. Your father will make it so.

Years had passed and now the dream seemed farther away than ever. Tears sting her eyes at the cruel reminder, and Cersei begins to speak in ire.

“So that is it, then? I will not be Queen?” she scowled, digging her nails into her palms. “You have given up because of this stupid girl?” Her father looks back at her, his green eyes gleaming. She had struck a nerve with him, yet in her blind rage she did not back down, but rather met his harsh eye boldly.

“I have not given up,” he returns sharply, the coldness of her voice jarring her into backing down. “We will have our time. And you shall be queen.”

With those words, the conversation closes. Cersei rises quickly, gathering her skirts as she stormed out of her father’s solar. She was tired of her father’s empty promises. She was tired of being denied what she most desired. She was tired of being lonely, and powerless, and so far away from Jaime and Rhaegar, oh gods Rhaegar. When she closed her eyes she could so effortlessly remember his face, chiseled like a statue’s with dark inlaid amethysts for eyes, silver-gold hair framing his face. He was rapturous, perfect, the silver to her gold, but now he was truly, absolutely to be wedded.

But he is still a man, Cersei reminds herself. And every man’s eyes wander. She knew had had to go to King’s Landing, and live at court if she is to catch Rhaegar’s eye. Perhaps he could not take another queen, but there are other ways to make the title available…

The treasonous thought brings a smile to her lips.

I will wait, father, she promises. I will wait for the day that you kneel to me.

Queen she had been promised, and queen she shall be.

Chapter Text

“This is an insult!” Oberyn shouts, visibly angry. His eyes were narrowed in his dangerous way and his fists clenched, while his while body seemed tensed, ready to spring into an attack. He is the most inflamed of the quartet in Doran’s solar; the rest were calm, unnerved. “King or not, we cannot let a slight like this stand!”

Doran sighs, exhausted by his brother’s fire, and leans forward, sitting his chin on his knuckles. “What do you suggest we do, brother? Storm the Red Keep and demand the wedding be called off?”

“No, brother, but we are Martells of Dorne,” Oberyn hisses, taking a step toward Doran. “We are not passed up in favor of wolves. We must do something.” That was where Oberyn was different than other hot-headed men; he was smart, calculating. He understood that thoughtless force rarely amounted to much. “It is an insult to our sister.”

“Do you think so, brother dearest?” Elia remarks with a smile from her seat by the window. “I am not insulted.”

Oberyn’s rage falters at his sister’s words; she had the ability to calm him and inflame him, his dearest sister, but now he was eager to defend her honor. “Your children would have been queens, kings,” Oberyn reminds her with less fire than was directed at his brother. “You would have come to rule this whole land.”

Elia chuckles. “How upset you are! To think that you were once breathing fire over my betrothal.” She shakes her head, still smiling. “I am not upset.”

“You are,” Oberyn returns, frowning. “You were delighted that you were to wed that spineless dragon-“

“Delighted that I was going to be wed at all, dear brother,” Elia corrects softly. “I am twenty-and-five and still unwed. I was glad that I would have a kind husband, and bear the children that I so desire— that I still desire.” Her sad smile wounds Oberyn’s heart; there was no woman in he world he felt tenderer for than his sister. To see her forlorn now tore him apart.

“You are a Princess of Dorne, Elia,” Mellario speaks up from Doran’s side, her Norvoshi accent as musical as the bells of her homeland. “You are greater than the dragons who wished to keep you.”

“But I am still alone and childless,” she replies. “That is a greater wound.” She gives a cough that visibly rattles her. Covering her mouth, Elia turns away to look out of the window once more and to cast her gaze over the water gardens where children rollicked with one another. They were all laughing, carefree as they ran around unashamed of their nakedness and splashed each other. They led simple lives, but they were healthy ones.

There is friction in the tense silence that follows, along with a shared sense of sorrow. All knew that Elia deserved a better fate than that handed to her, that her sickliness was her only fault, that besides that she would have made a wonderful bride to any man. Elia was beautiful, remarkably so, and her temper was sweet. But Oberyn’s sentiments were also shared among her family; she deserved better than a lordling, better than a king’s refusal. She was Elia of Dorne, and she was loved.

Doran closes his eyes to ponder the case. Their options were few by this point; Elia’s consent had been paramount in searching for a match, and she had given it quite readily to Rhaegar when he came with his offer. None could deny that she had glowed for days after accepting, or that she had looked forward to sharing her life with one who truly seemed to respect her. But that man was gone, no longer an option, and was evidently just a pawn for his father.

“We will not attend the wedding,” he announced sagely, garnering a nod of approval from Oberyn. “We will let our disapproval be known.”

“Nonsense, Doran!” Elia exclaims, rising to her feet. “We shall go, and bid the prince and his new bride good will. There is no disapproval in my heart.”

“There may not be, sister mine, but regardless, we shall not go.” He rises, then closes the gap between them, setting his hands on her thin shoulders. “They have paid you a dishonor, Elia, whether you see it or not. You deserve better than their scorn.”

Her lips part as if to argue, but then they quickly close into a thin line. Her dark eyes show her understanding, but not her glee. She is unhappy with his decision. She would respect it, for he was her eldest brother, but she would not feign glee.

“You deserve a man who will fight for you,” Oberyn insists from across the room, a fire blazing in his dark eyes. “Rhaegar has given you up on his father’s orders. If he truly cared, he—“

“Would have done his duty,” Elia interrupts, looking to her younger brother with a hard look. Oberyn is quickly silenced, bowing his head. Elia senses the hurt in him, and continues softly, “Though perhaps you are right, I bear no ill will. And should I ever see the prince again, I shall let him know that.” With those kind words, she leaves the room, pausing only to put a hand on Oberyn’s arm before she finds herself alone.

There is a strange pain in her chest, one that was ghostly and dull, as if it were not a matter of body or health, but of some other force entirely. She puts a delicate hand over it, hoping to dissipate it. I am tired, she tells herself, though she knows it’s not true. Elia knew exhaustion, and this was not it. It felt something like heartbreak, though she was not, nor had she ever been in love with Rhaegar. Nay, she felt the loss of something stronger: purpose.

She knew in her heart that her brothers were right, and that she deserved better than a prince that turned his cloak on her on his father’s orders. But Elia never cared for such matters of the heart. It was purpose she wanted, not the prince. Her purpose could come in any form, as wife, or as princess, or queen… but most ardently she wished for purpose as a mother. She wished to guide children as she grew older, watch them become something greater than she could ever be.

As if sensing her wishes, little Tyene Sand comes bounding her way, tears in her clear blue eyes. Her niece clings to her skirts and buries her face in it as she began to let out little hiccuping sobs.

“Tyene, darling what is the matter?” Elia asks softly, putting a hand on the girl’s blonde head. The girl stands back to pout up at her, one finger pointed at her knee, which was red and bloodied.

“I fell,” she admitted mournfully. Elia cannot help but smile at her; she kneels down to her level, kissing her wet cheek.

“Come now, no more tears,” she murmurs to her, hoping to calm her hiccups. “We shall take you to the maester; he shall patch up your knee.” Tyene nods her approval, then takes her hand once Elia rises, knowing very well that her aunt would take excellent care of her.

Chapter Text

“Why can’t Benjen come along?” Lyanna asked, her building frustration bringing tears to her eyes.

Her father eyed her warily, too tired to deal with his troublesome daughter’s rage. “There is always a Stark in Winterfell,” she replied curtly.

“But it’s my wedding!” she cried out as if it were something precious to her; it was not, but her little brother’s presence was.

“Lyanna, this is always how it’s been—“

“I won’t get married, then!” she shrieks, losing any semblance of control on her high strung emotions. “I’ll run away and you shall never see me again! Benjen must go, he must—“ A touch of her brother’s hand on her arm silences her, and she looks over to him with a trembling lip.

“It’s okay, Lya,” he utters shakily, trying to sound brave although the tears in his dark grey eyes betrayed him. “We’ll have fun before you leave, right?”

Lyanna cannot hold it in any longer; she throws her head back and begins to wail loudly as fat tears ran down her cheeks. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair at all! First there was this horrid betrothal, then an inflated wedding and now her closest companion could not come along to see her off.

No one steps forward to comfort her; her father looks coldly on while Benjen begins to cry his own tears, turning his face away from his sister so she would not see him sob. It is not till she is almost rid of her tears that a body spins her around and presses her gently into its chest. Lyanna’s tears quickly turn to sniffles as she looked up into whoever her guardian was.

“Ned,” she breathed, looking into her brother’s solemn face. He looked so much older than she remembered, with a beard on his face and a gaze of a man much older than he. But his sudden appearance gives her much comfort; she presses her wet face into his leather jerkin, breathing in the familiar, northern smell, as boiled leather was preferred over a silk doublet north of the Neck.

“I did not come home so I would find you crying, sister mine,” her brother murmurs kindly, smoothing a hand over her hair.

“Tell father, then,” she mumbles against him. “Tell him that Benjen must come with us.”

“There is always a Stark in Winterfell,” he offers instead. Lyanna quickly wrenches herself away from him, looking to him with angry betrayal.

“How can you say that?” she asks in a hiss, clenching her fists. “We cannot leave Ben here. I won’t get married unless he’s with me!” She knows she’s being childish and petulant, yet she cannot help herself. Everything seemed to be slipping between her fingers; first her girlhood, then Winterfell, her freedom, and now Ben…

“Lya, please,” he begged softly of her, cupping her chin in his hand. “Listen to father.”

She pins him with a dastardly glare instead and storms out of the solar with Benjen not far behind. Ned can only sigh and sit back in a chair, shaking his head. Strangely enough, he finds himself smiling, for however difficult his sister could be, her tenacity was something he greatly admired.

“How is Jon Arryn?” his father asks in a grace tone, getting straight to business. Ned’s smile is gone by now.

“Just as miffed as you are,” Ned replies. “He had planned to send Robert with me so that he would offer the betrothal.” Ned knew of his father’s and guardian’s scheming. They were war veterans who were sick to death of King Aerys’s abuses and wished to weaken him in whatever ways possible. This web of betrothals had been the perfect way to cement alliances. But now it seemed that all planning has gone to naught.

“A damn shame,” Lord Stark grumbles under his breath, tapping his fingers on his desk. “You and Jon love the boy. He’d have done well for our Lyanna. Perhaps she would have been happier.”

“Perhaps,” Ned muses. He wonders if that is true. He wished it were, of course, but at the same time he knew of Robert’s nature and his infidelity. In his own mind he had imagined it would all end once he and Lyanna were wed, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. “But now Lya will be queen one day.”

“With a Targaryen king,” Rickard grunts in return. “They say the man is good and honorable, but they are all prone to madness. I fear for her fate.”

A lump forms in Ned’s throat at the thought. He had heard the same as well; Rhaegar was kind, Rhaegar was well-loved, Rhaegar was bright. But his father spoke the truth as well; his little sister would be in harm’s way.

“Lya will charm him no doubt,” Ned offers, throwing out what he believed to be the most positive scenario. “She would be a good princess, and bring a Stark to the throne again.”

“Yes, if she cared at all for duty.” His lord father shakes his head. “There is a wildness in her. Her wolf blood boils in the face of this betrothal, and she would sooner run away from it all than do what is expected of her.” His father gives a long, ragged sigh, one whose worries are apparent in every note.

And perhaps he had reason to worry. Winter is coming.
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“I’m going to miss you,” she whispers to Ben underneath the shade of the heart tree. Her hand reached out to cover his while her head tilted toward his until they leaned on one another, as they often did.

“I’ll miss you more, Lya,” Benjen returns, squeezing her hand.

“I’ll write you whenever I can,” Lyanna offers as a small consolation. “And you have to write me too, alright? Whenever you can, you must write me.”

“Okay, Lya.”

“I love you, Ben.”

“I love you too, Lya.”

Chapter Text

Rhaegar stands beside his enthroned father as waits on the Stark party to enter the Red Keep. He had tried not to think too much of this day; he knew he would meet his bride and her family soon enough, but the foresight did not make the process more comfortable. He would do his duty, yes, and try to liken himself to her while remaining respectful to her family, but he would not enjoy it. The girl was still a child, and her family still forced into the matter.

The court was all lined up, leaving a gap to serve as an aisle to the noble family. Eager they were to catch sight of the party, but they would not see what Rhaegar saw. They would see a new princess to earn favor with, along with new connections to the throne. His mother, who sat on the other side of his father, would see who would be the one to give her grandchildren. Viserys would only see a girl closer to him in age than his own brother. It dawned on Rhaegar with great irony that it was little Viserys that would see eye-to-eye with him.

“Entering, the noble Lord Rickard Stark!”

A great, burly man walks into the throne room, one who was tall and large with a long greying beard. Behind him are his sons, though only two out of the three were present. The more handsome of the two was of impressive height, no doubt matching Rhaegar’s own at 6-and-a-half feet, but he was bulkily muscled, broad-shouldered and by sights very strong. The plainer one was few inches shorter, toned but not in the same imposing fashion as his brother, and appeared the gentler of the two. By Rhaegar’s own assumptions he names the handsome one as Brandon Stark, betrothed to Catelyn Tully, and the other one as Eddard.

Between the two of them was his bride. Her brothers towered over her small form, as slight as it was. She appeared but a slip of a woman dressed in furs that matched her kin’s, with the same dark hair except where theirs was fine and straight, hers was thick and curly. It reached almost to her waist, a dark contrast to her pale skin and wide eyes. As she came closer her youth also became more apparent. She was a skinny thing, with a nearly flat chest and narrow hips. It almost embarrassed Rhaegar to look at her, as the action itself felt lecherous.

The group drops to a knee, bowing to their king. His father lets them kneel for some time, grinning proudly at the prostration before commanding them to rise. Lord Stark does so gracefully, then looks his king square in the eye.

“We thank you, your grace, for the generous offer,” he announces in a booming voice that easily fills the room. “I’d would be an honor to have your son for my daughter.”

“Bring her forth,” the king replies shrilly, ignoring the lord’s courtesy. Rhaegar watches with a careful eye how the young girl looks anxiously to her eldest brother before gathering her skirts and stepping forward. She goes as far as the foot of the stairs that led to the throne before offering a curtsey.

“Your grace,” she says with cold strength in her voice. When she stands straight again she boldly meets the king’s gaze. Rhaegar wants to tell her to look away, that such a thing will earn her no favors, but it is too late. His father’s eyes narrow at her perceived impudence and his lips curl into ghastly sneer.

“Brazen child,” Aerys hisses loud enough for Rhaegar to hear. “Come and meet your prince.”

His father’s cruel tone may have chilled others, but Rhaegar was quite used to it. Undaunted, he steps forward, stopping a couple of steps before the girl. Her steely gaze shifts to him, with nothing but coldness in her grey eyes. But Rhaegar has seen worse than this girl’s guardedness. He extends a hand, hoping to kiss her fingers in greeting, but she does not stir. Her eyes remain locked with his as she dips into another curtsey, paying no mind to his empty hand. Rhaegar retracts, then returns her gesture with a bow.

“My lady,” he murmurs only for her to hear.

“Your grace,” she returns in a tone just as flat as she had granted his father.

“What do you think of her, Rhaegar?” the King asks with an edge of lechery.

Rhaegar keeps his eyes on Lyanna when he responds. “She is lovely, your grace.”

“She is lacking in some parts,” Aerys offers instead, scowling. “But she is to be your wife, not mine.”

Thank the gods for that, Rhaegar thinks to himself. But even at these cruelties Lyanna seems undaunted, her lower lip stiff in indignation. It seems more like a childish pout than a disguised sneer, but then many things about Lyanna Stark were startlingly childish.

“She pleases me, your grace,” Rhaegar lies to his father, giving the girl a kind smile in hopes of softening her demeanor. “I pray I please you too, my lady,” he adds in a whisper only for her to hear.

She hears it, she definitely does, but her response is not what he would have liked. Instead she lowers her eyes to the floor to hide the grimace in them. She seemed as cold as the land she hailed from, and harder than its frozen ground. He doubts she would make for a loving wife.

It matters not, Rhaegar, he reminds himself. So long as she does her duty. The prophecy...

"This is my eldest son, Brandon," Lord Rickard announces, introducing the taller of the two men. 

It seemed that Brandon Stark had struck a cord with the ladies of the court, as the titter of women could be heard above the soft murmur of whispers when the young lord steps forward and offers a shallow bow. "Honor to meet you, your grace," he nearly spits. His mouth is formed in a thin, hard line with a fire burning behind his grey eyes. Though he meets the king's gaze as boldly as his sister did, the king seems amused by his impertinence. He only smirks, then waves him away. A few giggles could be heard in the crowd as Brandon returns to his father's side, and many a smile graced women's lips.

"And this is my second son, Eddard."

When the younger steps forward, he is not treated with the same passion the women offered his brother. In fact, there seems to be a bored silence as the plainer Eddard bows low. "An honor to meet you, your grace," he says respectfully, eyes focused at a spot lower than the king's eyes.

This one is a true lord, Rhaegar thinks to himself. He certainly held himself with more grace and knew his courtesies better than his older brother. His shyness was more suited to the king, who nods slightly before offering another wave of his gnarled hand. The lord again bows low before returning to his father. Yes, Rhaegar liked Eddard Stark better, though the women did not.

"The wedding will be held in a week's time," his father announces in his high, thin voice, his grey eyes focused entirely on Lord Rickard. "My son has been waiting a long time for a bride, and I'll not wait any longer." Rhaegar nearly laughed. Yes, father I have waited for a bride, he muses, his gaze returning to Lyanna Stark, who was back at her brothers' sides. But not this one. With another wave of his hand, the party was dismissed, and the buzz of excited whispers replaced the tense silence.

As he watched the girl exchange words with her brothers, Rhaegar was reminded of his duty. He knew that this would be the girl he would share the rest of his life with, the one he'd share his bed with, and, gods allowing, the one who would bear his promised children. It would do him more harm than good to brush her off.

He stepped to her again, not unaware of the daggers that Brandon shot him or how Eddard stiffened at his sudden appearance. The Lady Lyanna remains stoic. "My lords," he said in his most charming voice as he nodded to the brothers. Then his gaze flits to Lyanna, who looked upon him coldly. It was a little unnerving, he had to admit, to have three pairs of iron grey eyes bore into him, but Rhaegar would not be daunted. "My lady," he said warmly, offering her a kind smile in hopes of softening her. No such luck. "I would be glad to show you all to your chambers. Your lord father included, once he finishes conversation." Lord Rickard was caught up in a slew of lesser southron lords who no doubted wanted to earn favor, or perhaps more. Many no doubt had unwed daughters, and were well aware of two available Stark sons.

"I don't think-" Brandon begins to speak acridly through a grimace before being cut short by the cooler Eddard.

"It would be an honor, your grace," he tells him with a small smile. "But we would not want to trouble you."

"It would be no trouble," Rhaegar assures them, looking briefly to Lyanna again, who remained still as ice. "I should be glad to do this service."

"Your grace-"

"What my brother is trying to say, your grace," a small, proud voice cuts in, one that belonged to his future wife. He looked down to her to see that the stubborn set of jaw has returned, along with the bold gaze. "Is that we can very well find them ourselves."

Rhaegar raised his brows, taken aback by her tenacity. He thinks it might be the first time he had been treated so aversively by a proper lady, and though it did not anger him, it was not amusing either. Regardless, he would not punish her for denying him. She was still a child, and she could be taught later. For now, he kept his smile and nodded his head. "Very well, then. I shall take my leave of you all," he returns softly. "Though I ask that none of you hesitate to request something of me. I shall do whatever is in my power to keep you all content." He pauses a moment, taking the time to look over the three of them again: calm Eddard, steely Lyanna, and fiery Brandon. Three northern wolves caught in a southron storm. "After all, we shall be family soon," he adds before turning on his heel and walking off.

Gods help me, he laments internally. This is a horrible start.

Chapter Text

“You should not have said that, Lya,” Ned hisses to her as soon as the prince is out of earshot.

Lyanna raises her chin defiantly. “I don’t care,” she returns childishly, giving a little huff to boot. Denying Prince Rhaegar the stuffy honor of showing them their chambers was perhaps the first willful thing she done since she hid in the godswood to keep from leaving Winterfell. She had failed at that, since Brandon found her within an hour, but she did not fail at driving the prince away.

“We don’t need his help,” Brandon adds, apparently just as defiant as his sister. “I don’t trust him, and neither should you, Ned.”

“He’s a good man,” Ned mumbles in return, though he knows that neither of his stubborn siblings will heed his words. He was in agreement with almost every citizen of Westeros in that Prince Rhaegar had the makings of a great king. He was honorable, gallant, and respectable, despite his mad father.

Lyanna too had heard all these things, and she refused to believe it. While her handmaidens had enthused to her that she was lucky for marrying the most handsome and able-bodied man in the Seven Kingdoms, Lyanna did not share their zeal. Beautiful and noble Rhaegar might be, but he was no pick of hers. Lyanna would sooner wed an ugly stable boy if she had loved him enough.

If life were truly like the songs then I should have loved him the moment I saw him, Lyanna notes forlornly. But I do not love him. And I do not think I ever shall. How could she? She was to be more his captive than his wife. She had only been chosen in order to force the North in keeping loyalty to the crown. Father’s planning had not been subtle enough, it seemed.

When they had been shown to their chambers, Lyanna had immediately thrown herself onto the bed and buried her face in the pillows. Somehow the sheets seemed too soft and the bed too large, which only served to frustrate her further. She angrily grabs one of the pillows and tosses it against the door, where it falls to the ground with an unsatisfying thump. Just as she prepared to throw another, the door opens, and a tall, slim woman walks through.

Her fair hair is braided messily down her back, and she wore a simple brown frock with a white apron over it. A servant, Lyanna notes, as the woman gives a deep curtsey.

“Who are you?” Lyanna asks curiously, furrowing her brows.

“I am Judith, m’lady,” she announces in a soft, sweet voice. “I’m to be one of your handmaidens.”

“Why are you here?” Lyanna asks of her, baffled by her sudden appearance.

“To help you get ready for bed, m’lady,” Judith answers as if it were obvious.

Lyanna eyes her cautiously, not quite trusting her. “I do not need your help,” she returns haughtily, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Then may I spend the night with you?”

The request takes Lyanna by surprise and she sputters for some time before she is left with her jaw slack. I must have her meaning confused. Surely she does not mean… “I—I— uh, I do not…”

The woman walks as far as the edge of her bed until she slowly drops to her knees onto the Myrish carpet below. “I shall be here if you need anything, m’lady,” she whispers in her rural drawl. Then she is suddenly laying down on the carpet, her arms above her head and her eyes half closed. Lyanna blinks at her with a mixture of bewilderment and interest, left to wonder why a handmaiden would need to sleep by her side.

Unable to hold her tongue, Lyanna lays on stomach, peering down from over the edge of the bed to stare at her new servant. “Why are you doing this?” she asks of her.

Judith looks up at her as if the answer were obvious. “Because I am yours.”

Lyanna furrowed her brows. “You are not mine. You are your own.”

“But I have chosen to be yours,” she returns, sitting up. Her noses were mere inches apart, and Lyanna was able to take a closer look at her. She was fair skinned and freckled, more so than Lyanna was, and she had doe-like, soulful brown eyes. She was very pretty, or so Lyanna thought. Much prettier than most of the women she saw at court. “The women in m’family have been serving queens and princesses for a long, long time. You are to be a princess, and I shall serve you till the day I die.”

“But why?” Lyanna returns, still puzzled. Her handmaidens in Winterfell had only served to brew her tea and prepare her gowns, and Lyanna neither drank tea nor wore gowns. For a woman to suddenly pledge herself to her and sleep on her floor was quite the surprise.

“Because I swear m’self to you, Lady Stark. And I shall always be there to serve you.”

The two ladies fall silent, with Lyanna unable to respond to the announcement. She stares at the woman for quite some time before the other unexpectedly smiles, and holds her hand between her own. Her touch feels much like hers: rough, calloused, worn, not soft as a lady’s ought to be. But Lyanna’s had become so from riding; Judith’s was from working.

“Can I trust you, then?” Lyanna whispers to her, searching her clear brown eyes. Judith quickly nods and sits in silent waiting. “If I tell you a secret, would you keep it?” Judith nods again, and squeezes her fingers.

“I would take m’lady’s secrets to the grave,” she tells her breathlessly, and Lyanna could find no lies in her voice.

“Would you even keep my secrets from the king? And the prince?”

Judith nods again. “I have waited a long time to serve you, princess. I would die before I’d tell your secrets.”

Lyanna smiles slightly. “I have a secret for you then.” She inches forward to put her lips to her ear, and whispers, “I don’t want to marry the prince.” When Lyanna backs away again, Judith’s pale brows are raised.

“Why not, m’lady? He is very kind, and handsome too.” Lyanna nearly groans upon hearing the response. If she wanted those sorts of opinions she would have brought along her own empty headed handmaidens.

“It is because I am a captive, Judith,” Lyanna informs her. “They do not care for me. They have chosen me to weaken my father’s alliances.” Lyanna squeezes her fingers tighter. “So long as they have me, my father cannot act against them. Do you see now?”

Judith nods slowly. “You are a hostage,” she whispers, signifying that she understood her meaning.

“Yes,” Lyanna confirms. “I am a hostage. And the prince is my captor.” Lyanna pulls away from her handmaiden, then falls back onto the pillows. The reminder of her dreary situation twists a thorn in her side, and she is suddenly filled with sorrow. “I do not care how kind and handsome he is. I do not want him.”

The bed sinks behind her where Judith sits down. A gentle hand smooths her hair. “My mother served the queen till her dying breath, m’lady. She told me that the queen did not want the king either, that he was unkind to her but she did her duty. Will you do yours?”

Lyanna cringes. “In the marriage bed, you mean?” She buries her face in her pillows at the thought, wanting to cry. There would be no greater wound than giving up her body for the prince to use, to withstand his attentions and bear his babes. She did not love him, she could never love him, and she would sooner die than share his bed. “Never,” Lyanna swears, bunching the sheets in her hands. “Not if I can help it.”

Judith continues to smooth her hair back, her movements soothing. “If that is your wish, then it is mine too.”

Though it is only a small comfort to have someone who agree with her, it seemed unlikely to Lyanna that the truth would change. But she was too tired to think any further about her future trials, and thus she closes her eyes and sighs. “Thank you, Judith,” she whispers softly.

“Please, m’lady. Call me Jude.”

With those words and Jude’s hand on her head, Lyanna falls asleep.

Chapter Text

“Tell me again who will be in attendance, Jon,” Rhaegar asks Jon Connington, the new Hand of the King. They were discussing matters of accommodations along with his mother, who had put Viserys on the floor to play with some toys. His father was off somewhere else, likely in his chambers, guarding against evils only he knew.

Jon clears his throat before he begins. “The Tullys and the Starks, obviously. The Arryns, though it will only be Jon and his nephew, along with some cousin of his. The Tyrells, whose party I hear shall be quite large.”

“But we can accommodate them,” Rhaella notes with a nod. His mother knew best about these matters, as she organized most everything in the castle, from servants, to meals, to seating arrangements at feasts. She was a capable queen, with a strong heart.

“Of course,” Jon returns gruffly. “A whole pack of sworn houses are coming too. The Boltons, the Mormonts, the Freys—“

Rhaegar’s eyes widen. “Not all of them, I pray?” Lord Walder Frey’s brood was as much as a small army. Not even the Red Keep could hold them.

“Nay, he sends only a couple of his sons, thank the gods. The Manderlys are coming too, and even this little house I’ve never heard of… The Reeds, they call themselves, of Greywater Watch.”

“Greywater,” Rhaegar murmurs, recalling reading of the place in a book. “Crannogmen. They live in the Neck.”

Jon nods, a small smile on his lips. Jon loved his prince most ardently. Rhaegar knew this, despite Jon’s best efforts to keep it hidden. But when his prince showed his intelligence like this, he could not help but smile for him. “Only one of them is coming.”

Rhaegar nods. “Continue with the noble houses, Jon.”

Jon sifts through the letters on his desk to find another important seal. “The Baratheons will be coming.”

“All three brothers?” They were relations of his, in a fashion, though perhaps closer to his father than himself.

“Only Robert,” Jon notes. “Though gods know that’s more than enough.” Rhaegar agreed. Stories of the young lord’s debauchery were already infamous in the realm. Violent recklessness and a love for women had manifested in Robert Baratheon in ways that would surely bring him more harm than good.

“King’s Landing will keep him satisfied, no doubt,” Rhaella murmurs, looking to Viserys.

“So I pray,” Jon mumbles.

“Is that it, then?” Rhaegar asks with a frown. “Is that everyone who will be in attendance?”

Jon sifts through his papers once more, then nods.

“The Martells will not be coming, Rhaegar,” his mother informs him. “Nor will the Lannisters or the Greyjoys.”

Rhaegar widens his eyes. The Greyjoys were understandable. They did not like to involve themselves with the mainland, and thus their absence was expected. The Lannisters no doubt kept away due to Tywin’s recent quarrel with Aerys, which was also understandable. But the Martells…

“That is not good,” Rhaegar remarks, frowning. “The Martells are upset with us, then.”

Jon scoffs, his blood already boiling at the thought of someone antagonizing his prince. “As if they’ve the right! Their daughter was not good enough for you; they ought to be glad she was considered at all.”

“Jon,” Rhaegar warns with a tired sigh. “They’ve the right. A betrothal is a contract, and we have broken it.”

Jon grumbles a curse under his breath, then crosses his arms over his chest. He would not argue with Rhaegar; even if he were wrong he would not, but his silver prince was right. Rhaegar remained silent to mull over a solution. The only sound in Jon’s solar was that of Viserys’s chatter to himself as he played with his toys.

Losing the Martells as an ally would be a dangerous matter. While all houses were sworn to the crown, it was no secret that their loyalties were growing thin with Aerys’s increasing madness. It was by good fortune alone that most of the atrocities committed at the king’s orders did not reach the ears of every noble house. The burnings, the taxation, the pyromancers… none of this would sit well with an honorable man.

“Your marriage to Lady Lyanna will bring more benefit to us,” his mother remarked in her strong, soft voice. “The Starks have many allies: the Tullys, the Arryns… and perhaps even the Baratheons. The Martells would bring only the Martells.”

“That is a fair point, mother,” Rhaegar returned, meeting her gaze. It still had the tenderness he knew as a child, when she doted upon him as her only son, but now, and for many years, there was something colder to it. The fault was his own; in an effort to bring himself away from his father’s influence, he drove himself from his mother as well until he no longer became her vulnerable son. “But the Martells are an ally regardless. They have a large army, great wealth—“

“They are only one house,” Rhaella cuts in coldly. “A rebellion over a betrothal is unlikely.”

“Mother—“ Rhaegar began to argue, but stopped himself. He would not tell her that they could not afford to lose a single ally, not when the Lannisters were distant and the Greyjoys malleable. To do so would be to worry her further when she already had her own worries, dearer and closer to her heart. With that reminder, Rhaegar gives his mother a kind smile and nods. “Perhaps you are right.”

She raises her brows, surprised at his agreement, but also content by it. “For now, you must only think of this wedding,” she commands of both Jon and Rhaegar, looking to them both before setting her eyes on the latter. “And of your betrothed.” She then rises, and Rhaegar follows the action, getting to his feet with her. As she motions to Viserys to follow her, he closes the gap between them and kisses her cheek. Rhaella’s heart flutters at this, and she finds herself gripping his arm. She looks up into the dark depths of his purple eyes, trying to find sweet boy she knew behind all that melancholy. The one who spent his nights in her lap, reading aloud to her, who beamed when she praised him and fell asleep holding her finger.

It was futile to find that boy now, she knew. Her son was a man, and all her efforts at sheltering him from his father’s madness had been for naught. Somewhere along the line she lost him, and now only melancholy remained in him. She knew she had erred with him; she would not do the same with Viserys.

“Be kind to her,” she finds herself asking of him. Strange that she would plead on behalf of a girl she did not know, but she cannot help but feel kinship with her. “And do your duty.”

Rhaegar nods respectfully, though he is baffled by her sudden ardor. He remains silent until she has left the room with Viserys holding her hand, who turns around for a moment to wave good bye to his elder brother. Once they are gone, Rhaegar returns to his seat, and looks over to the knight at the door.

“Come sit down, Arthur,” he calls to his guard, who obeys steadfastly. He lowers himself into the chair, his white armor clanging all the while. “You are a Dornishman; what do you think of this?”

“I think they’ve a right to be upset, if you don’t mind my saying so, your grace,” Arthur answered honestly, indigo eyes piercing. “Elia Martell is a good woman, and I know her family well. They love her too ardently to allow an insult to her slip by.”

“Our prince honored them through this betrothal,” Jon snipes, frowning at his rival. “It was not the other way around. They ought to be begging for another chance.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, but Rhaegar knew his friend well enough to know that he had been angered. Clearing his throat, Rhaegar calls attention back to himself, hoping to break the glowering that had begun between the men.

“This issue cannot be mended from afar,” he remarks. “I would have them here to speak to, or I may travel myself if they would have me. I must have their fealty.”

“When shall you go?” Arthur asks, his eyes lighting up. It had been some years since he had last seen his homeland and he was eager to return.

“I don’t know,” Rhaegar replied. “After the wedding. After…” Rhaegar fell silent again, not quite vulgar enough to finish his sentence.

“How do you like your betrothed?” Arthur asks of him, allowing the thought to be pushed aside.

Rhaegar frowned. It had been three days since her arrival, and not once had he spoken to her. Part of it was his own fault, as he may not have put forth enough effort, but she seemed to be avoiding him as well. It was a game Rhaegar was not used to playing, and thus he did not play it. He did what he could and hoped things would change later. “I tried to find her today, but she was out riding with her brothers,” he confessed. “I spoke her father, however. He is a good man.” And he was. He was not warm and eager like most southron lords, but then again Lord Stark was not here to earn favor. He was a straightforward man of few words and great honor. Rhaegar found it distasteful that he had been put in such a situation.

“She is avoiding you?” Arthur asks, surprised. There was a smile on his lips that signified amusement. Few women avoided Rhaegar Targaryen.

“I believe so,” Rhaegar returned with a shrug. “I am not upset. I do not expect her love, or her devotion. I want only for her to do her duty.” Fire seeps into Rhaegar’s blood as he prepared to speak again. “I do not care what she does so long as the prophecy is fulfilled. The dragon must have three heads.” This much was known, and this much was necessary. “If she does not want my acquaintance beyond the marriage bed, then I shall not force the matter. I only want the prophecy.”

It was a dispassionate confession, but not untrue. He did not care if the Stark girl was to be a loving wife or a cold partner. He did not seek out marriage for the purpose of emotion, but only for children. Rhaegar had done without the company of women for too long to suddenly crave it or any feelings of love and ardor. Their marriage bed, their relationship may all be stiff and unfeeling. Rhaegar did not care.

“She’s a fool if she does not love you,” Jon grumbles over his goblet of wine.

“A fool? She would be the first!” Arthur exclaims, a laugh bubbling up to his lips. It was certainly a strange change of pace to find a woman who did not eagerly throw herself at Rhaegar’s feet. Even Ashara had confessed her attraction to him, though she would never cast a lusty glance to one of Elia’s mates. Though all of these women’s attentions were for naught, as the prince kept his desires at bay, it had always been amusing to watch them pine.

Rhaegar only shrugged again. “I do not care,” he repeated. “I will do my duty, and she shall do hers.”

Beyond duty was frivolity. If she chose to despise him, then it was just as well. Affection was not needed for three heads. Love was not a necessity either. He would be kind to her, as his mother asked, but past that…

I only want the prophecy. I’m not one to yearn for anything more.

Chapter Text

On the morning of her wedding, Lyanna hid underneath Ned’s bed.

She thought it a mostly flawless plan for one that had been concocted on impulse. No one would think to check under such a place. It was more likely they would ride out and search for her on the castle grounds than her own brother’s room. Yes, such a thing may have delayed the wedding at least, had Ned not discovered her only a minute or so after hiding.

“Lya,” he murmured to her as one might to a finicky cat. “Lya, you know hiding won’t do you any good…”

Lyanna frowned. “Well, not if you tell,” she returned, not budging.

Her brother chuckled, finding the situation infuriatingly amusing. She saw his feet reach the floor as he got up out of bed and heard him give a yawn. “Come out now,” he told her. “Or I’ll get one of father’s men to pull you out.” The sensical, even tone of her brother’s voice was enough persuasion. It had been a silly plan from the start, she supposed, and just like the godswood one of her brothers had ratted her out.

Still, it did not mean it didn’t hurt. “Are you so keen on giving me away, Ned?” she asks him with her cheek pressed to the carpet, making her voice sound more strained than it actually was. “This may be the last day you have with me.” Though she said it only to break his heart, Lyanna found herself quickly believing it. If she were a captive, after all, why would her captors let her visit Winterfell? Why would they want to grant her any sort of happiness? She quickly bites back tears; she does not want to cry, not anymore.

Her brother is silent for some time before he gives a doleful sigh. “Surely, you will come visit,” he tries to assure her. “And perhaps I may even come to see you myself.” He did not even believe his own words. Lyanna knew that.

“I don’t want to marry him,” she murmurs thickly, turning her face down. “I want to go home.” Before any tears could spill, she finds her brother kneeling, with his hand extended inches from her face. She quickly rubs her eyes before she grasps his hand, allowing him to help her scoot out from underneath the bed. Then they are on their feet again, both of them too mournful to speak.

He knows there can be no happiness for me here, Lyanna laments inwardly. He knows we may never see each other again.

“Rhaegar seems like a good man,” Ned insists weakly. Lyanna scowled. While she had managed to keep away from Rhaegar, she still had to endure private suppers with her family and the king’s where not a single soul at the table spoke a word. The prince had hardly looked her way any of those nights, and she did not speak to encourage him. It was clear he had no intentions of courting her, or even charming her. It came as no doubt now that her handmaidens had been wrong about how magical the prince was.

“I don’t care,” is all Lyanna can mumble in return. “I don’t care if he is good. I shan’t be happy here.”

“If it had been Robert, you would have been happy,” Ned suddenly blurts out. “Robert would want you to visit. Robert would have us in Storm’s End. He would want to see you smile.”

Lyanna can only grimace and lower her gaze to the floor. “Robert Baratheon would not keep to one bed,” she tells him, repeating the well-known rumor. “I hear he has a bastard in the Vale, and that he’s bedded many women. How can I be happy with a man that possesses such a nature?”

Ned opens his mouth as if to protest before closing it once more. He could not deny what he knew for fact, not when he held Robert’s bastard in his arms and bounced her on his knee, and not when he’s seen and heard the gaggle of girls he bedded. But still, something insisted inside him that Robert would have loved his little sister, if only for her blood, that she was a Stark like him.

“There is to be no happiness for me in marriage,” Lyanna says woefully. “Not when my mate is chosen for me. Not when I am to be chained thus.” There was no freedom in being a woman, she realized, not like it was being a girl. But even as a girl she was not allowed the same opportunities as her brothers. Even with that fact, Lyanna knew she would much prefer a girlhood in Winterfell than womanhood anywhere else.

Ned drew her into his arms, comforting her the way he always did when he found her upset. Lyanna did not make light of the embrace, and buried her face in his chest. Gods knew that the next time she found herself unhappy there would be no Ned to cheer her.

Once they broke away, Ned placed a kiss on her forehead and squeezed her shoulder. “Run along, now,” he urged softly of her. “I should like to see you in your wedding dress.”

Lyanna nodded, then walked out to return to her chambers, her fingernails digging into her palm. Blinded as she was by frustration and sorrow, she hardly paid any mind to the handmaidens to had stripped her naked and put her into a bath as soon as she entered the chambers. She let them scrub at her hands as Judith kneeled behind her to braid her hair. When she was all clean and done, they had dressed her into her smallclothes again and pulled out her abomination of a wedding dress.

It was a grandiose gown made of cloth-of-silver, with roses embroidered into the skirt and bodice. It had sleeves that reached her elbows and hugged her arms, all hemmed with Myrish lace. It was altogether too elaborate for Lyanna’s tastes, and more a southron dress than a northern one. It had even been lined in silk instead of the more formidable linen. The only thing that had vouched for the North was its soft grey color (though it shone white too, thanks to the cloth-of-silver), and the two wolves that had been embroidered at the hips on the back of her gown.

“I hate it,” she mumbled, though largely to herself, as her handmaidens had quickly pulled her onto a box in order to get her fitted. She tried to keep her body stiff so as to give them more trouble, but they were a resilient bunch, tugging the sleeves up her arms and pushing the skirts over her legs. It billowed out at the waist, giving it considerable movement but also served to exacerbate its volume. As they worked at the laces in the back of her gown, Lyanna looked at herself in the looking glass with dejection.

The braid they had done for her was an incredibly elaborate design, with more plaits in it than any Lyanna had ever done in her life. Some rebel curls had been loosed from it already, framing her long face. It was Jude who did the braid, as she recalled, and it seemed nearly impossible to undo. But perhaps it was on purpose; it would be more difficult for the prince to do so himself.

Before long she had found herself roused from her contest with the looking glass as they placed her maiden’s cloak upon her shoulders. Lyanna’s hands instinctively reached for its edges, wrapping it closer around her. She had admired this cloak more than anything else that had been put upon her. It was a pure white, simple in its pattern, with a grey direwolf woven in the center. There was no cloth-of-silver here, no embroidery, and hardly even any jewels. There were only two pitch onyxes for the wolf’s eyes that shined brightly.

“You look beautiful, m’lady,” she hears Judith whisper behind her. Lyanna is startled back into focus as she turns to look at her companion for the past week. She looked happy for her, her pink lips curled into a beaming grin, but Lyanna could not share her joy. She only looked sadly at the figure in the looking glass, knowing soon that these would be her last hours of girlhood.

It was then that father walked into her chambers and looked upon his only daughter. While a part of him was glad to give her hand away, to allow her to grow into a wonderful woman, a greater part of him lamented all this. She was still too young, with much to learn, and the family she was to be wedded into had given them little choice in the matter. Her mother’s heart would break to know that her only daughter had been given away in such a manner. It could hardly be prevented.

Lyanna’s sad eyes rested upon him as he stepped forward. He extended a hand to help her off the box she had been perched upon, then put his hands on her shoulders and allowed himself a rare smile.

“You would have made your mother proud, girl,” he told her gruffly, but warmly. Lyanna did not smile for him in return. She only looked up at him with her lower lip quivering. He moved a hand to her cheek, smoothing the skin with his calloused thumb before retracting it to reach into his jerkin. From its pocket he pulled out a silver necklace, an oval pendant dangling from it. On the pendant was their sigil, a direwolf, filigreed into the silver, the merest impression on the fine metal. Lyanna gave a little gasp as he reached to clasp it around her neck, her little hand reaching up to feel it.

“This was your mother’s,” he explained to her as he pulled his hands away. “She had it since she was a girl. She would have wanted you to have it now.”

“Oh,” Lyanna exhaled softly, still fingering the pendant. Rickard reached a hand out to tilt her chin up and force her gaze back upon him. He was not smiling anymore, but now there was a hardness in his eyes.

“You are a Stark before you are any man’s wife. Do not forget this,” he told her firmly, his heart swelling when he saw her gaze turn fierce. “Let our house bring you strength. Say our words, child.”

“Winter is coming,” she said aloud, grey eyes shining. Rickard bent down and kissed his daughter’s smooth forehead before offering his arm.

“Come. You’re to pray in the godswood before we go to the sept.”

Lyanna nodded then held his arm, allowing him to lead her out of her bedchambers. In an hour she would be wed. In an hour, she would be trapped forever.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep’s heart tree was nothing like Winterfell’s. It was not a weirwood, for one, but a great dark oak with strange berries growing in its boughs. There was no reflection pool to be found, but she saw bright red flowers interspersed with the green grass that surrounded the tree and the altar itself.

Lyanna felt strange as she knelt before this false heart tree, her hands unsure as they came together in prayer. She looked up at the face carved into it. Whoever had done it had done poorly. It’s eyes were thin little slits and its mouth a singular, jagged line. It could hardly pass a heart tree, but it was all the Red Keep had.

Though she was alone, she heard the whispers and stirring of her father and his men in the woods behind her. Brandon had wanted to join her in prayer but father forbade it. He had promised her time alone as she prayed, and that none would look upon her or listen as she did so. For that, Lyanna was glad, but looking upon the false heart tree she now wished for company instead.

With a sigh, she bowed her head and closed her eyes, trying to find the words to beckon with. She could ask the gods to end the marriage before it started, by some tragic accident or an unexpected turn of events. Or if they would not grant that, then perhaps she could ask for a way out, a quick end to this farce of a marriage. Perhaps not tomorrow, but a moon’s turn from now. Perhaps…

A breeze passes through, and suddenly the silver of her pendant felt searing cold on her skin.

I am a Stark, she finds herself asserting. I am strong enough to survive this.

Thus, she bowed her head and began to pray for further strength. It is in the middle of her ardent whispering that she hears a rustle of leaves to her left. Thinking it is her father, or perhaps one of his men, Lyanna raises her eyes, looking toward the sound. The rustling continued until a figure stepped out of it, his body darkened by the shadows of the woods.

Curious, Lyanna rises, looking back to where her father’s men are before stepping forward. The leaves rustled loud beneath the train of her dress, which Lyanna tried to gather in her arms in order to muffle the sound. But when she turned back up, she saw a small man in tattered green clothes with a hood pulled over his head, covering his face. She spotted the point of a spear on his back, and steps back, cautious.

“Who are you?” she asks with furrowed brows, her pulse quickened not by fear but curiosity.

The figure suddenly gasps before he drops to a knee, bowing his head low. “M-My lady,” he stuttered in a strange, low voice. “My lady of Stark, I apologize for the intrusion.”

“Shhh,” Lyanna urges of the man, stooping down to his level. “Do not let my father hear you. Who are you?”

The man reaches up and lowers his hood, then raises his head to meet her eye. Despite his small size, Lyanna can see that he is older than her, perhaps with an age with Ned. He has unkempt, scruffy brown hair that hid leaves in its tangles. His skin had a dark, ruddy complexion to it, and bruises marred the side of his face. He looks as if he might be a Northman, perhaps even one of her father’s men, but she did not remember him. She thinks she would, for he had the strangest green eyes she’d ever seen, their depths mossy, queer, and altogether unnatural.

“I am Howland Reed, of Greywater Watch, my lady,” he informs her in his deep tone. “My house is sworn to yours.”

“Lord Reed,” Lyanna says aloud, trying the name on her tongue. She thinks she might of heard of such a house in her studies, of the men who lived in the Neck and called themselves crannogmen. “If you are sworn to my house, why do you hide in the godswood? Why are you not with my father?”

“The guards would not let me in, my lady,” the small man explained, a little embarrassed. “I suppose I do not look like much of a lord.”

Lyanna notes his bruises again. “Did they beat you?”

He seems to blush before looking down to hide his face. “Yes, my lady.”

“The gall!” she exclaims in a whisper, rising to her feet. “You ought to have had them call for my father. Such behavior would have their heads on pikes.” Bold words, and untrue, but the sight of injustice made her wolf’s blood boil. She extends a hand, which the crannogman hesitantly accepts before rising to his feet as well. “How long have you been in the capitol?”

“Three days, my lady.”

“Wherever did you sleep?”

Howland looks around. “Here, in the godswood. I had been able to sneak by and hide myself here.”

“Unacceptable!” she returns, huffing. “I would have you at my wedding, Lord Reed, and give you a proper bed to sleep on. And should you find those guards again, you are to tell me and I shall have their heads for it.”

“That is too much to ask of you, my lady,” he urges, shaking his head. “I have already interrupted your prayers. I ought to see myself out.”

“Nonsense! You are to come with me,” she commands, tilting her chin up to bring a greater sense of dominion to her small body. “I shall introduce you to my father and brothers, and you shall be present at the wedding and the feast. As a matter of fact, I order you to be present tonight, sitting with my father’s men. Am I to be understood?”

The crannogman had no choice but to nod, finding her ferocity too much to argue with. But soon enough her mask of anger slipped, replacing it with a soft smile as she held his wrist and led him out to meet his liege lord.

“Father, look who I found!”
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She clung to her father’s arm as she took the first steps down the aisle. The sept was massive, with large star-shaped windows that allowed oceans of light to flood every corner of its seven walls. She did not understand why those who followed the Seven required such grandiose buildings to pray and wed in. Lyanna would have much preferred the cover of the godswood and the white trunk of a heart tree. A true heart tree.

But she did not let its imposing largeness frighten her. She kept her chin held high before all of the nobles, all of those delicate southron lords and ladies, and especially for all of her father’s men. She saw those closest to him as well: Lord Hoster Tully, with only his young son as company, and Old Jon Arryn with his small extended family. They were the men her father had plotted with, and it was through this marriage that all plans fell through.

I am a Stark, a Stark…

She found Brandon’s steely grey eyes, noted the fire behind them. He seemed as if he would leap out and put an end to the ceremony, given the chance. Lyanna could tell in the way that his upper lip curled that it was in his mind. Looking at him only served to make her blood run hotter; Ned’s soft gaze more manageable, gentler, encouraging even. But beside him was a fiercer gaze, that of Robert Baratheon and his piercing blue eyes. She had met him just a day ago, and he had smiled at her and kissed her hand. To Lyanna he had seemed quite easily the most light hearted man in the Seven Kingdoms. Now his handsome face seemed darker than she had anticipated, and his strong jaw set in a strong emotion Lyanna could not read.

Off to the other side was the king, his flat purple eyes boring into her in a way that made her skin crawl. It is his fault, she reminded herself with ire. His fault that this has come to be. She hated the king, hated his lined face and long fingernails, hated the way he spoke and the way he regarded her. She wanted to hate his queen too, who stood icily beside him with a wriggling Prince Viserys clinging to her red skirts. She wanted to, but only pity dredged up. After all, she was wed to him.

Lyanna looked away from them to set her eyes forward again, and to force herself to look upon the prince. He is cursedly beautiful, his silver-gold hair shining like polished metal. He wore an embroidered doublet of crimson, paired a black belt that hugged his slender waist. Black trousers adorned his long legs, and his boots were black too. When her father stopped to let her go, she paused, clinging to him for a moment more before taking a deep breath and climbing the first step to her husband.

I am a Stark.

He stood rigidly straight, bringing himself to his full height at six-and-a-half feet, leaving Lyanna feeling very small before him. His fair face was expressionless, perhaps even cold as he looked upon her. It almost felt as if he looked right through her. But she met his gaze regardless, looking up to meet those dark purple orbs. How strange they looked to her, coupled with that fair skin and hair like a precious metal. It was horribly clear to her then just how different her was from her kin, from a northman, from a southroner. Is this why Targaryens were considered beautiful? Simply because they were different?

He turned to face the High Septon, and Lyanna did the sane. The old cleric began to speak of southron vows, of the Seven and their customs. They were gentler gods than the Old Gods, or so Nan said. So many rules to their gods, so many ways to earn their wrath and their mercy, the old woman had told her over the clack of her needles. Our gods are simple. They may kill you if they so wish, or bring you good fortune. You needn’t be neither good nor evil to receive either. But there are some things the Old Gods cannot abide by…

Lyanna did her part, repeated the vows of the Seven, listened to the Septon drawl on and on. The thoughts in her head clouded most of what he said, and she found herself in a daze through all these strange customs. For some time, it felt as if Lyanna were far, far away, back in Winterfell, and playing in the snow with her brothers. Brandon threw snowballs at her while Benjen built a fort to hide behind. In her mind, even Ned played, chasing her until she felt flat on her face and laughed until she lost her breath. She almost felt it, the icy, wet bite of winter through her dress, but just as the sensation came, it was gone. She was warm under the southron sun, feeling out of place and dazed in the sept. Her father’s thick hands had begun to remove her maiden’s cloak, unclasping her what brought her so much comfort and taking it into his arms.

With a clench of her fists, she turned her back to the prince. She closed her eyes as she felt his hands gracefully clasp on her new cloak, one that was undoubtedly red and black and adorned with a hundred rubies. He was so tall she did not even feel his breath on her neck as he did this, nor did he lean forward more than necessary to perform the task. There was no romance in his actions. For that, Lyanna was glad. She did not want his romance.

She turned to face him, stiffly repeating the words she had been made to memorize. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife,” Rhaegar had replied just as distantly. Lyanna did not stand on her toes to make his action easier, watching unhappily as he bent down to so fleetingly kiss her lips. It was the merest brush, and that was all.

“Here in the sight of gods and men,” the Septon then said. “I do solemnly proclaim Rhaegar of House Targaryen and Lyanna of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

Cursed be the one who made me wed him, Lyanna adds internally, glaring up at Rhaegar. There was cheer and applause in the sept as the lords and ladies rejoiced at witnessing the marriage of their prince. A royal wedding was a cause of celebration for them who had waited so long for such a grand occasion. For Lyanna, it was the beginning of mourning. During their cheer, Rhaegar reached for a small crown that the High Septon held out on the pillow. It was just a simple circlet, gold and encrusted with rubies. With his hard eyes watching her, he set the band atop her head.

"Princess," he murmured for her to hear. Lyanna wanted to scream.

They had all been herded into the Great Hall afterward, where tables had been arranged for the feast. Lyanna had been seated by her new husband at a table near the Iron Throne, where they were only a table away from the king and queen, who sat closest to the throne, and her own family on the other side.

The hall was already buzzing with joy and celebration for the couple, which was a marked difference to the couple themselves. Rhaegar sat in silence beside her, hardly even touching his food or even the wine in the cup they shared. Lyanna could not eat either, but treated herself to the wine, gulping down the sweet drink in earnest. She knew what was to soon come her way, and she had preferred not to think of it.

A pair of jesters began to perform before her, putting on an act where the pulled endless ropes of handkerchiefs out of each other’s sleeves. Somewhere behind them a fire breather put on his show, warming the air momentarily each time he blew fire. In time, lords and ladies began to appear at their table, offering gifts and congratulations. Rhaegar spoke the courtesies as she drank more wine, failing to stop the cup-bearer from refilling it each time it became empty. It was all she could do to endure the spectacles and the empty praise. Oh she hated it, hated this horrid wedding, the dress that began to grown stifling, and all of these southron sights and smells. Home is where she wished to be, not here, not with him…

It was on her fifth helping of wine that Ned pulled up a chair beside her, leaving the rest of the family at the other table. She could see why he left; father was speaking to Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully of lordly matters while Brandon and Robert sullenly drank with their own rowdy company.

Rhaegar did not respond to Ned’s arrival, not did he seem to notice. His mysterious gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance as it had been since they arrived at the feast. Lyanna was glad for it. She would sooner endure his silence than his conversation.

“Ned,” she whispered, feeling the effects of wine already warming her cheeks. “Thank the gods for you.”

Her brother gave her a wan smile, then patted her hand. “And you too, sister. Won’t you eat?”

She shook her head. “Nay. I will not. I am not hungry.”

Yet as the day gave way into night, Lyanna found herself sleepy. Her tongue and eyelids felt heavy, from drink and exhaustion respectively, and she soon found her cheek resting on Ned’s shoulder, her hands around his arm. She felt the circlet shift atop her head. A sorry reminder.

“You ought to be leaning on him, Lya, not me,” Ned reprimanded weakly, loving his sister too much to brush her off. “And you oughtn’t have drunk so much wine.”

“I don’t care,” she snapped in return. “And I do not want to touch him.”

Ned looked nervously to the prince to see if he heard, but his face remained as stoic as it had been since he saw him in the sept. How strange, that the house that boasted of dragon’s fire had such a cold son. But then many men were cold in public but warm in private. Ned hoped the prince was such a man.

“Where is Lord Howland?” his sister mumbled at some point.

“He sits with father, but watches you, no doubt grateful to you. I have offered him a place to sleep in my rooms.”

“Good,” she sighs, her eyelids fluttering. “I like him. Be kind to him.” When she reached again for the wine, Ned nudged it out of her grasp. She gave a little sound of protest, but made no effort to reach for it again. He would not let her consume another drop. The hour was getting late, and soon enough, there would be a bedding. The very thought makes Ned cringe.

She is a child, Ned laments internally, looking up to the statuesque Prince Rhaegar. I beg of you, please be gentle with her.

Chapter Text

Catelyn hummed to herself as she mindlessly picked at a stitch in her embroidery. She had originally set to mind to stitch a trout to give to her father upon his return, but the trout quickly turned into a direwolf. A green direwolf, for she had neglected to change the thread, but that fearsome beast all the same.

“Thinking of Brandon Stark, are you?” her sister Lysa asked with a huff. She had been acting strange ever since Petyr was banished from their home a little over a moon’s turn ago. Her moods had scaled from demure to hysterical to sorrowful, often taking to crying over his leave. Now she seemed a strange mixture of haughty and aloof.

Lysa’s sour mood could not remove the smile from Cat’s face upon the mention of her betrothed. “It seems I would be,” she answers cooly, trying not to sound enthusiastic.

“Are you going to give that to him?” Lysa wrinkles her nose at the stitching.

Catelyn shook her head. A green direwolf was too bizarre. It really had meant to be a trout, and she really had meant to give it to father. But her father was not coming home straightaway. He was to go to Winterfell to settle some last details with Lord Stark, then he would come home to prepare for her wedding to Brandon Stark. It was, in truth, very sudden. Though Catelyn had been promised to him for five years now, they had only first met a moon’s turn ago. The wedding was not to be for at least another year, but upon the rushed marriage of his younger sister, it no longer seemed fit for Winterfell to be without a lady. Thus, in only a few moons’ time, she would be wedded and on her way to her new northern home with her new northern husband.

“I suppose you must consider yourself very lucky to be marrying such a handsome lord,” Lysa sniped beside her. “But then you have always attracted the handsome ones, haven’t you, Cat?”

Catelyn glared at her sister, who looked down at her embroidery with a stiff lower lip. “Lysa!” she scolded, setting down her needles. “You know that is not true. Why, just a few moons back Ser Jaime had eyes for you.”

“And now Ser Jaime is joining the Kingsguard,” she returns with a scowl.

Cat looks back to her green wolf. She cannot think of the proper words to respond to that, not when her sister behaved so strangely. Regardless of that, the mention of Brandon’s attractiveness transformed Catelyn’s thoughts into that of a starstruck maiden’s. He was handsome, there was no denying that. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and thick with muscle. Such a combination would make him an intimidating sight had it not been for his pleasantly boisterous nature. For even after Brandon had left, her ears had rung with the sound of his loud laughter, and whenever she closed her eyes she could see his easy grin, beaming at Edmure, at Lysa, at father, at her…

Cat’s blush deepened. It had been so easy to fall in love with the winter lord, what with that dark hair that swept his shoulders and those mysterious grey eyes. She had already dreamt of the children they would have together. If their sons were to look like him and her daughters like her, then she thinks that lords and ladies from all over the land would clamor to look upon their fairness. A smile bubbled up to her lips; she bit down so as to hide it, but Lysa noticed it straightaway.

“I cannot believe you are so excited to wed him,” Lysa hisses between her teeth, looking at her sister with narrowed eyes. “It is his fault that Petyr is gone!” she exclaims in near hysterics, tears filling her blue eyes.

Cat remains cool, unwilling to allow herself to become outraged. She was to be the married Lady of Winterfell soon, and she must always be calm so as to impress the northern lords and liken herself to her husband. With this reminder, Cat tilts her chin up proudly. “It was Petyr’s own fault that he was banished,” she told her sister with a commanding tone. “It was a foolish act. Petyr hardly had any skill with a sword while Lord Brandon had been swinging one ever since he could walk.” Or, that's what Brandon had told her. “Petyr is lucky that I was fond of him enough to beg for his life.”

Though Cat would not admit it, she truly had feared for Petyr’s life that day in the courtyard. A wildness had overcome her betrothed at his challenge for her hand, and he had mocked Petyr all the way through the short brawl. When skinny, foolish Petyr fell onto his back, Catelyn had screamed. Her betrothed had his sword pointed at his throat, and it was not until Catelyn had rushed to his side and begged with clasped hands that he let him go. Brandon had given her an intense, far away stare before the familiar grin overtook him. ”Very well, my lady,” Brandon had said almost jovially, raising his sword. But just as Petyr began to wriggle away, the sword came down quickly upon his face, leaving him with a bloody gash that started in his cheek and ended right above his stomach. ”Come into my sight again, little man, and I’ll have you killed before anyone may beg for your miserable life.” Petyr nodded and scrambled away while Brandon held his sword up to the sun, admiring the blood that dripped down the tip.

Petyr’s wound took a fortnight to heal, but by then Brandon had already gone. And by the end of the fortnight, Petyr was gone too.

“Petyr knew he was not the right man for you!” Lysa returned, throwing her needles to the ground. They clacked loudly against the stone floor, prompting their septa’s attention. “He was protecting you!”

“Ladies!” their plump septa called from across the room, rising from where she had been reading. “What is the matter with you two?”

Catelyn ignored the septa to respond to Lysa. “Petyr has no place protecting me. Father chose Lord Brandon for me, and he is my protector. That day he protected me from Petyr’s foolishness—”

“You are so selfish!” Lysa near screeched in return. “Did you ever think of what Petyr’s departure meant to me? Petyr he… Petyr and I…” She suddenly trailed off, her face turning a deathly white before she turned on her heel and ran. Catelyn rose, wanting to follow her sister out.

She has been acting so strangely, Cat thought. Perhaps she is jealous that I’m to wed and she is not? But she will have her time… It seemed shallow of Lysa to envy her because she was marrying Brandon. Yes, Brandon was handsome and exciting, but surely there were similar lords for her own sister too. Had Ser Jaime not been chosen for the honorable position of Kingsguard, he would have likely wedded Lysa, and he had been very handsome too. But not handsome like Brandon; Brandon’s beauty was wild and strong and different. Jaime's was typical of a young lord. I will tell father to speak with her on his return. Perhaps he can ease her worries.

“What has overcome your sister?” Septa Matild asked her as she moved her considerable weight to Cat’s side. “She has not been herself lately. Perhaps she is not praying as often as she should be.”

“I think she wants to be let alone is all,” Cat responded, giving her septa a tight smile. “Ever since Petyr has left she has not been the same. Might I be excused?” Her septa nodded. Cat put down her needles, but took the embroidery with her. She walked out of the room and into the hall, her gaze fixed on the green direwolf.

I am glad the wedding has been moved forward, Cat mused inwardly. She still dreamt of the time they had together, and of the time they will soon have. It was difficult to brush aside the image of her handsome lord smiling at her as he told some outrageous stories. They had scarcely been alone of course, for the sake of propriety and because people flocked to him like moths to a flame whenever he was in the room. Women would giggle and blush while men laughed at all of his japes, and tried to match him drink for drink. Even Edmure had gazed up at him with such awe during his visit. After he had left, he begged father for a fur lined cape like the one Brandon wore.

They had been alone together, but only once. They had walked together one night along the riverbed, filling the cool night air with his chatter. Then he had suddenly stopped and moved toward her until her back was to a wall. ”You are so lovely, my lady,” he had told her, his grey eyes flashing in the moonlight. ”I would ask a kiss from you.” Though he had said as much, he did less asking and more acting. He did not wait for her response for him to tilt her chin up and lean down. Cat had grown timid at the last second and turned her head so that his lips brushed her cheek instead.

He had laughed at her shyness, and Catelyn silently thanked the gods that it was dark out and he could not see the blush on her cheeks. ”You’d make me wait till our wedding, then?” he asked with a teasing lilt.

”I’m sorry, my lord,” she had returned, suddenly wishing he’d let him kiss her instead.

”I shall wait then,” he told her before offering his arm for her to take.

The memory made her heart flutter, and Catelyn finds herself wishing she had kissed him.

Soon, Cat, she told herself, trying to keep from growing too eager. Soon you shall kiss and be happy for the rest of your lives.

Chapter Text

He could see Lya drifting off to sleep, her head perched on Ned's shoulder. She was struggling to keep awake, no doubt due to the late hour. Lya still treated herself to a bedtime, after all, and Brandon doubted she'd ever stayed up so late.

But even Brandon couldn't deny that his little sister looked lovely in her wedding dress, but in the same way babes looked sweet in their too-big nightgowns. Darling to look at, and that was all. A circlet sat lopsided atop her head as unruly curls were coming out of her plait, brown strands the same color as the freckles on her face. Her cheeks were a little red, he noticed, and he saw that the wine glass she shared with her husband was empty, but closer to her than him. Brandon grimaced. He hoped she didn't drink more than she could handle.

His eyes flit to Rhaegar, sitting beside her looking stoic and undeniably cold. His fingers drummed on the table as if in impatience, fingers that would be undoing his drunk, tired sister's pretty gown soon enough. He looked back to Lya, whose eyes fluttered open and closed, looking so small and too damned young to be in any man's bed, Brandon resolved to secure her fortunes for the night.

He took a swig of beer and rose from his seat, walking over to Rhaegar's side. The man did not stir at his arrival, only kept looking forward and drumming his fingers. Brandon clapped a hand on his shoulder and leaned down, mouth by his ear.

"My sister isn't the type for parties, brother,” Brandon half-hissed, using a title he ought not be using yet. "She's quite tired now."

"I see that, Lord Brandon," the prince responded with disinterest, lips twitching into a deeper frown.

"And she's quite young too. Fourteen, remember?" He hopes the reminder jars him as it did Brandon, but his fave shows no sign of that. "I say you call off the bedding, lest she get hurt. And perhaps..." He gripped his shoulder a little tighter. "Perhaps you ought save your pleasures for another night." Brandon was not good at being discreet, though equivocating was not his intention here. He wished to make clear that, for at least tonight, he ought to keep his harp-plucking fingers off his sister's little body. Gods knew he could not spare her the deed for any other night, but this was the best he could do.

The prince remains cold, eyes still looking forward. "Fear not, brother,” he said in a tone similar to Brandon's. "I had no intention bringing your sister any misery this evening."

"Good," Brandon returns, letting go of his shoulder to clap him on the back. "I'll take her to her rooms, then, if it please you." The prince nods, then waves two fingers to Ser Arthur Dayne off to the side, beckoning him over. The knight obeys immediately, walking over to their place, and prompting Brandon to stand stiffly in place.

"Show Lord Stark where the princess's rooms are, Arthur," the prince commands lazily. Brandon could not help but notice that he had used Lyanna's new title; it seemed that he had already named her as his wife in one way.

But he'll not have another way tonight, Brandon notes with a bit of pride. He goes over to his drowsy sister, where Ned immediately shakes her shoulder to wake her. She gives a little grumble before raising her head from Ned's shoulder, uncoiling her hands from his arm to rub at her eyes.

"Brandon's taking you to bed now, Lya," he tells her kindly, a tone Brandon hardly ever used with her.

"Not Rhaegar?" she mumbles; in her grogginess, she seemed to have forgotten that he sat right beside her. Brandon wondered if he heard.

He removes the small princess's crown from her head, setting it on the table, before he scoops her up in his arms, where she quickly takes to laying her head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed again. She would sleep before he reached her chambers, no doubt. Ser Arthur nodded to him before beginning to show him the way.

They took no more than two steps when the King took to shouting.

"Where are you taking her?!" his thin, shrill voice cries out in the throne room, silencing both music and conversation. Even Lyanna jolted up at that. Brandon looked over to the King's table, which had been next to Rhaegar and Lyanna's, to see the King on his feet, eyes wide with madness.

It is Ser Arthur who answers. "The princess is tired from the night's events, your grace. We are only taking her to her rooms."

This does not please the king. "Return her! She'll go to her rooms after the bedding," he proclaims in a tone that meant he was to have no opposition. Brandon cannot help but bristle at his tone, and the implication of his demand. He holds Lyanna a little closer to him, who seemed now half-awake with fear by the way she gripped the front of his tunic.

"There will be no bedding tonight, your grace," Rhaegar returns in a voice that was not as defiant as Brandon would have liked.

"No bedding?!" he cried out, voice higher and more piercing from before. "What's a wedding without a bedding?" Even from across the room Brandon could see how the king's nostrils flared in anger, and how he clenched his thin fists into tight balls, iron hands prepared to fall down on his subjects. But Brandon could fight him. He could care less where that lands him.

But the prince walks over and whispers something in his ear, which the King snaps back at. Everyone's eyes were on them as ears strained to hear their conversation. The king's expression goes from livid, to flat, and then to a thin, blood curdling smile.

"Very well, then," the king permits with a menacing glimmer in his eyes. "I permit it. Take her to her rooms."

Brandon's eyes flit briefly from the frightening king to the prince, whose previous mask of stony calm seemed troubled, somehow. The sight of it unnerves Brandon.

He tries not to let his thoughts linger on whatever was exchanged between the prince and the king, instead returning his attentions to his sister. She seemed visibly calmer now that the storm had passed, but the sleepiness from before turned into weariness. She did not say a word as he followed Ser Arthur to her rooms, where the knight remained in the antechamber as he permitted him entrance into the bedchamber.

It was much larger than the one she had at Winterfell. It's tall pink stone walls were cut open to large windows that let the night air and moonlight waft through the room, letting in the pleasant smell of flowers from the gardens below. The tapestries on the walls were ornately done with scenes of the Targaryen dynasty, images of dragons and silver haired women impeccably embroidered in all colors of thread. Myrish carpets of purple brocaded with gold lined the floor, giving the room a more comfortable feel. The furniture was plenty, too: a grand oak writing desk, a full length looking glass, multiple armoires, a small table setting with two chairs, bedside tables, bookshelves— it was more than Brandon had ever expected. But the bed was truly the grandest of all. It's sheets were of a deep purple satin, edges trimmed with gold, with too many pillows thrown on it. The frame itself was ornate, each inch of its rich mahogany carved with gilded patterns, as four posters led up to a tall canopy.

Lyanna would hate it all.

She seems not to notice any of this as he drops her body atop the sheets, her overdone dress pooling all around her. Her eyes were open but they were somewhere far away. Brandon sat down beside her, putting a hand on her arm as he leaned into her.

"I don't want him to lie with me," she says suddenly and full of sorrow. Her voice slurred slightly, evident of the drink she consumed that night.

"He won't," he assured her. If the prince was good on his word, then he'd leave her alone- at least for tonight.

"But it's his right," she returned weakly. "It's a stupid right." She turns her cheek back to the sheets, her mind fading away. Brandon hears his blood rush in his ears at her apparent dejection. Paired with the image of the prince climbing atop her, he feels himself losing control of his own senses.

"If he touches you tonight, then fight him," he commands her fiercely, grabbing her arm tighter. "Kick and scream until he gets off. It's no right of his to rape you." By the gods, if Rhaegar were so cruel he thinks he might truly kill him. He hated the man already for his damnable perfection and his marriage to Lyanna; the very thought of him forcing himself on her drove him mad, sending fire into his limbs.

His sister is not so fierce. "He's stronger than me," she said woefully. “What if it hurts?”

"If he hurts you, I'll kill him," he growls. "I swear by the old gods I'll kill him."

"The old gods have no power here," she murmured softly before closing her eyes, though not to sleep. He lifts her hand and kisses it before he reluctantly rises from the bed. He steps as far as the doorway before pausing, turning around to look at her small, still form illuminated softly by moonlight.

When he finally leaves her bedchambers, he finds another Kingsguard knight coming this way. The man was older, with a harsh look to his wrinkled features and a head of white, wispy hair. Brandon recalls him as Ser Jonothor Darry, the eldest knight of the Kingsguard.

"You're off duty tonight, Arthur," he grunted roughly, white armor clanging as he walked.

"For what reason, pray tell?" The Sword of the Morning returns with furrowed brows.

"By order of the king," Ser Jonothor replies. Brandon cannot help but bristle at the mention of the madman; he looks to Ser Arthur, searching for answer, but he receives none. The knight seems frozen in his contemplation.

"Very well, then," he says after some time, stepping away from the door. He then looks to Brandon. "Shall I escort you back to the Great Hall?”

"I can help myself, thanks," Brandon returns in a grumble before reluctantly walking off. He tries to will himself not to look back, but he does, and sees Ser Arthur wear a mask of concern, and for Ser Jonothor, brevity.

He thinks he shall not sleep well tonight.

Chapter Text

"If your marriage is not consummated tonight, Rhaegar, I shall see to it that it is done on my terms... with my methods."

His father's words chilled him now, at the closing of the festivities, where he struggled deciding between going to his chambers or his new wife's. Though he swore to her brother that he would not lay a finger on her tonight, he thinks now that it would be wiser if he did. For his father never forgot a slight, or a promise of punishment. Rhaegar knew very well what his terms would be: knights holding little Lyanna Stark to a bed while his father himself watched on, waiting for Rhaegar to ravish her and be done with it.

He tries to calm his thoughts by assuring himself that it was but an empty threat. But when he comes to her antechambers and sees Ser Jonothor Darry posted at the door to her bedchambers, he knows it is was no jest. Ser Jonothor was quite easily the most loyal to the king out of all of his brothers. The sights and sounds of horror, done to any age or any sex, did not deter him. He stared them on boldly, then carried out the king's orders.

Rhaegar licks his lips, his mouth dry when he realizes the meaning. Ser Jonothor would stand with his ear to the door, listening sharply for any sounds of passion, or perhaps struggle. Then he would return to the king with his observations, and the king will either be pleased, or very displeased indeed.

He knows that he must at the very least go to her room. To avoid it completely would give Ser Jonothor a heavier sentence to carry onto his father; it would be direct defiance, and father hated defiance.

Thus, he walks, closing the gap between him and Ser Jonothor, and the door to a child's room. He gives a little nod to the knight who does not return it. Mustering up his strength, Rhaegar opens the door, and lets himself in.

She lies on the bed, still in her wedding dress, resting on her side. Candles lit at the bedside illuminates her further than the moonlight did; he sees her hair is still in that ornate plait, and that she has her legs pulled to her chest. As he nears her, he sees her eyes are open, glassy, and unblinking. There is color high in her cheeks, no doubt due to the wine she consumed at the feast. He thinks he should have stopped her from drinking so, but he knew it would also help to calm her.

The girl is pretty enough, he decides, though in a childish way. She was not nearly so beautiful as Elia, whose loveliness was that of a true woman’s, but she would do. Her wide grey eyes had seemed full with the brightness of innocence, her long face was charming, housing her bow shaped red lips and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Her hair was terribly untamed with its big thick curls; even in its plait it pushing against its confines, poking out rebelliously from its shape. She was slender, but not in a womanly way, as her breasts did not seem to have fully budded yet and her hips were not yet wide. Rhaegar had tried to lessen his attentions on such things, but they were factors to be considered when it came to childbearing.

Even though the girl was able, he felt he could hardly burden her slight body with such a thing. Looking at her now, innocent and dejected in her bed, Rhaegar realizes he would like to burden her with very little.

He gives a sigh as he circles the bed. He lowers himself into the chair at the writing desk, looking at her back as he considered his situation. In truth, there were few options. He thinks he might be able to coax her into lying with him, as he was blessed with a golden tongue that proved well in diplomacy and song. It shan't be too difficult; he had only to croon softly to her, be gentle, explain that it was their wedding night, and thus they must consummate. He could also tell her the truth, that if they did not do so tonight, then his father will arrange it for another night, where it would be enormously unpleasant. Either way, he was coercing her, a fourteen year old girl, into lying with him. The thought was unsettling.

There was another option, one he did not have the heart for it. For he was larger than her, stronger, and she so small that despite her efforts he could make her his without any form of tenderness. It was cruel, it was heartless, and it was vile, though it would perhaps be preferable to doing the same thing with an audience.

Rhaegar quickly brushes the thought away. He would not hurt Lyanna Stark; he swore her brother that.

He hears Ser Jonothor cough outside the door, offering a reminder to his situation.

I ought to tell her, at least, he decides. Tell her what my father has done. He fears that this may also be persuasion, but perhaps they did not need to take it as far as the marital bed. Perhaps they can concoct a plan together, just the two of them.

He rises from his seat and stands by her bed. “Princess,” he began softly. She did not stir or make any noise of acknowledgement. “Princess, I-"

"I'll not lay with you," she interrupts in a ragged voice. "If you touch me, I will shout. I will shout and kick you, and you shall be very unhappy."

Rhaegar is momentarily taken aback by her show of fire, but it does not deter him. "I do not mean-"

"I'll not lay with you because I don't love you," she continues, and Rhaegar hears the slight slurring of her words. "I do not even like you. I think I shan't ever lay with you."

Rhaegar gives a slight grimace as her needlessly harsh sentiments keep him from speaking. “Listen to me—“

"You'll only hurt me," she insisted still. She continued to speak of things he hardly understood, her back still to him, and Rhaegar grows a mite impatient. He reaches out to touch her arm, and is promptly met with a scream.

He pulls back quickly, surprised at her volume. She began to mumble "I said I would, I would scream" before turning her face to the pillows.

Rhaegar tries again. “Princess, the king has posted a guard outside your door," he speaks quickly before she may interrupt. "He will want to know that we have consummated our-"

"I said I will not!" she returns sharply, raising her face from the pillows just to speak before lowering it again. Rhaegar's jaw sets in irritation, a feeling that oft came slow to him.

“You must listen to me,” he insists again, but she does not respond, her face still in the pillows. In a bold move, Rhaegar grabs her arm, hoping to stir her.

She screams again until he lets her go, after which she turns her face once more. When he touches her again, she throws her elbow back, knocking his hand away.

Ser Jonothor coughs at the door again when an idea comes to him.

Rhaegar grabs her arm and pulls her so that she turned on her back. She gives a gasp before she begins to scream again, shaking her head and kicking her legs as she did. Rhaegar tore through her struggle, clutching her other arm and crossing it with the one already in his grasp, using his hands to bind her arms to her chest.

"No, no, no, no, no," she begins to hiss as she kicked her legs up, narrowly missing his stomach. "Stop, please stop!" Of course, Rhaegar had already stopped. He only leaned over her, holding her arms to her chest as she shouted and bellowed, begging him to stop, making enough noise to hopefully convince Ser Jonothor that he was ravishing his bride like a monster.

Her stamina is unmatched. She continues to scream though his hands never left her arms, though her clothes and his own are still in place, and her maidenhead very much intact. A stray kick lands in his middle, and he finds himself involuntarily giving a groan of pain before bending over her. The increased proximity prompted her to shout louder.

After some few minutes of this, Rhaegar lets her go, taking two quick steps back so that he did not get hit by her. She quickly turns on her belly, burying her face in the pillows and shouting for him to stop, though her words were muffled.

Rhaegar looks to the door to seek his escape, but thinks he ought to enhance the illusion first. He removes his doublet, tossing it onto the chair, and unties the knot at the top of his tunic to bare some of his chest. For his trousers, he undos the top lace, letting the strings hang loosely. He thinks that should be enough; he blows out the candles at his wife's bedside, allowing himself to glance at her face. She is fast asleep now, likely exhausted from the night's festivities and her recent efforts. He wonders if she would remember this night tomorrow morning, or simply wake up with a sore throat and wonder how it came about.

With a sigh, he walks to the door, letting himself out. Ser Jonothor's sharp eyes rake over him briefly when he does. "Going to bed, your grace?" he asks markedly.

"Yes, good ser," he replies coldly. "I don't think I should like to sleep beside her."

"Nor would I," the knight replies with a little smirk. Rhaegar does not linger long on his meaning. He finds his rooms, and his bed, and he sleeps away the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

Lyanna wakes up feeling more horrible that she had ever felt in her whole life. From the moment she wakes, a headache beats on the inside of her skull with merciless vigor. She can only raise her head with a groan, slowly rising until she sat up in bed.

It was difficult remembering the night before. She recalls the feast and Ned's warm shoulder as she slept upon it, and the Mad King's cruel shouting as he insisted on a bedding that never occurred. Lyanna was thankful for that, though she did not remember who was her champion in forbidding the experience. Perhaps it was Brandon; she remembers that Brandon carried her to her bed, kissing her before he left, and that her maids had entered shortly after in order to try and dress her into a nightgown. She had fought them off fiercely then, refusing to let any of them strip her down into something whose skirt would be easier to lift than the overdone wedding dress she still wore. The women must have been truly lazy to leave her still clothed, but she was glad for it.

Lyanna digs the heel of her hand into her temple as another wave of pain imploded in her head. It came upon the recollection that the prince had visited her chambers. Yes, she remembered. He had come in and sat in a chair and said some things to her, but what she could not remember. Then he grabbed her arms and pinned them to her chest. She fought as Brandon told her to, kicking and screaming as Rhaegar... as he... as he what?

Lyanna's smallclothes were still on her, shielding what she hoped would remained intact forever, and there was no aching anywhere to indicate that he had done anything beyond touch her arms. Perhaps he meant to bed me? And I scared him off? she wondered, yet this too seemed unlikely. The prince was no slight man; he was taller than her by over a foot, and it was plain that there was leanness of muscle to his lithe form, though not in the large way that men like Robert boasted. He was undoubtedly strong and Lyanna was frustratingly small. Though the thought frightened her, he could have had her easily if he wished, despite her efforts to stop him.

So what was the purpose? Why did he go no further than hold her arms? Perhaps the answer lied in what he tried to say, but the wine had taken her tongue and her memory, and left her with nothing but questions.

Lyanna shakes her head, unwilling to think of it further. She wanted nothing more than to scrub the memory of the night before clean, along with the headache it brought with it. The best way to begin, she figured, was to rid herself of this horrid gown.

She calls her maids into the antechamber, who all flock to her as they undid the laces of her gown, helping her to pull it off her shoulders. It feels as if she had lost weight upon its unceremonious fall to the ground. They then sit her in chair while she was still only in her chemise and smallclothes to undo the plait, which had gone unruly from sleeping in it, then redo into a simpler braid. When they urge her to rise again, she gives a groan, unhappy with the jostling as it felt as if her brain were being knocked around in her head. But she does stand, and they help her into a dress of grey, one she brought from the North.

"You will see off your family today, princess. It is important you dress as a Stark," Judith trilled excitedly. Lyanna wrinkled her nose at the use of her new title before she grows horribly saddened at the reminder.

"Must they leave, Jude?" she asks her handmaiden with a quivering lip.

"Well, of course, princess. They cannot very well live in your husband's home, can they?" Judith giggles as if she had asked a ridiculous question.

"Why not?" Lyanna asks, still insistent.

"Because it is not their home, princess. It is yours."

Lyanna cannot help but whirl around in fury to glare at the woman lacing up her dress. "This is not my home, Judith," she reminds her as hot tears swim in her eyes. "My home is Winterfell, and I have been forced from it.”

The kindly servant looks to her with a sympathetic frown. She reaches out to touch her cheek, perhaps to soothe her with her touch, and Lyanna lets her. Judith was a comfort, she realized.

Yet her fists remain clenched, nails digging into her palm. She did not wish to stay here in this purple room with its pale pink walls where strangers prowled the halls and a mystery of a man was her husband. She wanted Winterfell. She wanted Brandon's easy smile, Ned's solemn face, and Benjen running behind her on skinny legs. She wanted her father's warm embraces, the scratch of his beard on her forehead, and that shake of his head that said that he could not tame her, and did not want to. Winterfell was Brandon frightening her and Benjen by popping out of the shadows of the crypts. It was Benjen dropping his stick and yelling "I yield!" as she whapped him on the arm, and it was her telling him to lower your voice, stupid, or we'll get caught! It was Ned's visits from the Vale, him hopping down from his horse to pick her up off her feet in a tight embrace, and it was him laughing as he did so. He only ever laughed when he was with her.

Lyanna slips into shoes as she struggles for calm between these thoughts and the merciless pounding in her head, though she finds difficulty doing so. Judith leads her to the door with her hand on her elbow, the feeling of which Lyanna found comforting.

The rest of her handmaidens remain in the antechambers as she exits them, but she is promptly met with a new gaggle of women. These were no servants, however. They dressed in fine raiments with their hair in elaborate southron styles and their unblemished faces glowing with health and wealth. They curtsey in almost unison before following her down the hall.

"Who are these women, Jude?" Lyanna whispers aside to her remaining handmaiden.

"Why, they are your ladies-in-waiting, princess," the woman responds with a bit of shock, surprised that Lyanna didn't know of such a thing.

They were bothersome, Lyanna decided, with the way that they remained hot on her heels and giggled behind her. She grimaces as she turns to Judith again. "Can I ask them to leave?"

Her handmaiden gives a tired smile. "I suppose you can, your grace. You may do whatever you like."

Lyanna stops in her tracks and the ladies quickly mimic her to prevent from running into her. She does not whirl around to them, but only turns her head to one side. "Do not follow me anymore, please," she demands plainly. The women look to her with shocked stares, but then they soon manage smiles before curtseying and stepping backwards. Lyanna then continues to walk forward.

"Your family is already preparing themselves at the gates," Judith informs her. Lyanna nods and walks faster till she reaches the front doors of the Red Keep. They were already opened, and people of all sorts poured through them. Some she recognized as her own northmen, likely finishing any last errands that had been bestowed upon them. Within the bustle of the natives, however, Lyanna finds that she can differentiate them purely by appearance. If they had broad frames, pale skin, and hard eyes, they were northerners, as the sun rarely did shine and the land was hardly kind. The southroners, however, are more bronzed, more light and bright, and plumper too, as the arable land was much more generous.

She did not ever think she looked so different, particularly in the cradle of Winterfell, but looking now, she finds herself horribly dissimilar. The ladies that had greeted her had been lovely, some slender and some plump, but all adorned in the decorations of the South, with their towering hair and silk dresses. Lyanna's own plain grey dress was no more than a sack compared to theirs, and her hair was boring with it strewn across her shoulders. But this does not bother her; the North made for practicality, vouched for simplicity. She did not have time to worry about the colors of her dress or the ornateness of her hair. Lyanna was of the North, and she thinks she prefers it that way.

But even among these different peoples, Lyanna finds the Targaryens even more different. She sees her husband standing on the steps overlooking the gates, silver hair loose with not a single strand out of place. He was not as fair skinned as his mother or father, as there was a hint of warmth beneath his skin, but he was certainly different. His regal jaw, straight nose, and long, lithe form were items of perfection the likes of which she had never seen in a northman. And while the unknown had always been alluring to her, she finds herself entirely disenchanted with him. He may be handsome and mysterious, but he was not hers by choice. She had been thrusted upon him without her consent, and that was a sin she would not forgive.

Yet Judith gives her a light push so she may greet him, though Lyanna had planned on regarding him coldly. The events of the night before still puzzled her, making her more wary of the prince than ever before. But she cannot sneak past him; she catches his eye, and he promptly bows, leaving Lyanna obligated to curtsey in return, though she had half a mind not to, if only out of spite.

"I pray her grace slept well?" he asked with no real interest.

"Well enough," she answers stiffly in return before turning to face the gates, eyes searching for her loved ones.

"Your family waits just beyond the gates, princess,” he said, reading her mind. "They would not leave without saying goodbye to you."

Lyanna cannot manage a response. Her heart beats wildly against her chest as her feet take her forward, pushing her through the crowd till she reached the open iron gates, where her family indeed stood by, horses saddled and packed.

It is Brandon who notices her first, flashing her a grin before opening his arms to her. Lyanna rushes into them as swiftly as her legs allow, letting herself be picked up off her feet with her arms around her neck.

"Ah, sweet sister mine, waking up late as always," he says as if all is well, as if nothing had changed.

"Shut up," she mumbles into his shoulder. She hated that he was spoiling the moment with his stupid remarks.

"Say that again, darling Lya," he murmurs semi-seriously into her hair. "For it may be many moons before I may hear that from your lips."

She leans back in his arms to look upon his face, which was as solemn as Ned's in that moment. She takes his face in her hands and kisses his forehead before whispering again, "Shut up."

He holds her to him again but she wriggles until he lets her go, where Ned stood waiting with a serene smile. While he had the strength, he spared her feet from leaving the ground again and simply pulled her into his arms. His furs were already drawn about his shoulders, the edge of which Lyanna grasped to bury her nose in. It smelled of the North still, of the cold and a bloody hunt. The scent alone brings tears to her eyes, though she swore she would not weep. She tilts her head up to pout at her brother, who still smiles as he kisses her cheek, his stubble scratching her face.

"You'll do well here, Lya," Ned assures her in his sage tone.

"I'd do better in the North," she returns staunchly. "Or even in the Vale, where at least I would be by your side."

"You shall be fine, Lya," he assures her with another kiss on her forehead. "I will write you often."

"I shall write you more," she promised before reluctantly removing herself from his arms. Howland Reed stood silently beside him, smiling softly at her. She had hardly noticed him there, as quiet and small as he was, but she was happy to see him. “Shall you write me too, Lord Howland?”

The lord smiles nervously. “It would be an honor to have the princess read my letters.” Lyanna smiled and assured him she would.

Her father stood last, awaiting her goodbyes. Lyanna could not help but feel childish spite for the man who had given her away, though she knew it was not his choice any more than it was hers. What was more, she was too far away from home to repair any ill will later.

She steps into his arms, which wrapped around her like a bear's, warm and large. This, she thinks, is what she would miss the most. There would fain be such love in this pit of vipers that that had been made her bed.

Her father's musky scent pricker her eyes with tears she had fought thus far. She wanted nothing more than to cry in her father’s arms, but she would not. She had to be strong for him, for herself, for the people who studied her for weakness. I must show them all that I can be strong.

"Why can't you stay longer?" she asks into his furs, allowing herself this much weakness.

"I do not think our presence shall be tolerated much longer," her father remarks with bitter honesty. Lyanna only has the faintest idea what he means. "We must go."

Lyanna nods, then reluctantly pulls away from him. She looks once more to each of her brothers, both of whom looked solemn in their farewells, before recalling one last request.

"Tell Benjen to write."

Her father nods before getting atop his horse. Ned mounts his too, but Brandon lingers a little longer to muss her hair and kiss the top of her head. Lyanna backs away to the wall to keep from getting trampled by the rest of their company, but watched them leave with bleary eyes.

The sun shined too bright on such a day, Lyanna thought. The skies were too blue, the clouds too white, and the smell of spring was sweet, however false it was. None of it reflected how she felt but she thinks it will always be thus. King's Landing cared not for its charges, even if it was a frightened northern princess.

The sudden urge to run overcomes her. She has to clench her fists so as to not act on it, but the want stung. She wished to run, chase their horses, until Brandon pulled her up by the arm and rode her to Winterfell again. Lyanna thinks they will not go to war for her; the prince cared little for her, and the king even less. If she ran, she would not be missed. She would only be replaced.

Remember your duty, Lyanna, her father notes in her head.

It is with force that Lyanna turns around to walk back through the gates. She clutches her mother's necklace as she did so, imprinting the filigreed direwolf into her palm. Rhaegar still waited atop the steps, chiseled face still looking forward as he analyzed the crowd. He hardly notices her when she climbs the steps and stops beside him.

"The night before..." Lyanna begins flatly, not caring if he heard her or not. “You did not bed me.” The was blunt and perhaps crass to say so, but she did not care.

“No, I did not,” Rhaegar returns, still not meeting her eye. “I would have you be a willing partner.”

Lyanna raises her chin defiantly. “And if I am never willing?”

Rhaegar makes a face halfway between a smile and a grimace. He does not respond, and Lyanna does not linger long enough to interpret his silence.

He would have me bend to his will, Lyanna noted with ire. I am a Stark, and I shall never bend for a dragon. She was alone now. She had to fight.
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There was a queer silence in the room with Ser Arthur. It unsettled him.

Rhaegar raised his eyes to look his friend in the eye to find him looking down at the writing desk with a question on his lips.

“Speak, Arthur,” Rhaegar commands of him, setting down his quill.

“Jonothor spoke to the king of what heard in the princess’s chambers the night before,” Arthur blurted out, looking up to pin his prince with a disconcerted stare. “He said… That you… She screamed…”

“Yes, she did, thank the gods,” Rhaegar admitted with a sigh. “I needed her to scream, and she did.”

“You did not…?”

“I’m not a monster, Arthur,” Rhaegar returned, wounded. “She was too drunk to let me explain. When I held her arms and heard her scream, I prayed the sound alone would be enough for Ser Jonothor, and that he would not ask for the sheets.”

Arthur seemed relieved, his furrowed brows relaxing upon the admission. “I did not believe you could do such a thing. But I wanted to hear it from your lips, your grace.”

Rhaegar nodded. “But did my father believe it?”

“He smiled.”

“Good.”

Chapter Text

“Lord Brandon, did you see my cape?” the loud little Tully boy asked, forcing Brandon to suppress another groan. The boy hadn’t stopped hounding him since they left King’s Landing, always hanging onto him and asking him questions. Now, it was not that Brandon didn’t like children, but this on danced on his nerves. “I got a cape just like yours, with fur on it. Cat says the fur looks nice on me, but I think it looks better on you. Do you like my cape, Brandon?”

Brandon ignored the whelp, too irritated to answer. His mind was still occupied with thoughts of his sister, even after almost three whole weeks after the wedding. He was worried, by the gods, and he did not know how to stop.

Ned took pity on poor little Edmure. “Your cape looks wonderful, Lord Edmure,” he tells him aside, smiling when the boy pinned him with a bright grin.

“Father, did you hear that?” the boy moves onto Lord Hoster, who rode ahead beside Rickard. “Lord Eddard likes my cape!” He was effectively ignored by his father too, who seemed too immersed in conversation to lend an ear.

It did not matter now. The gates of Winterfell were in sight, and soon enough every man could run off and find their privacy without Edmure chattering through it.

“Eddard!” Lord Rickard calls to his son, who quickly comes riding up beside him. “Go forward and have the gates opened for us.”

Ned gives a dutiful nod and races ahead to the wrought-iron gates. The bars of the gates were tall and close together, giving little visibility beyond them. He calls to the gatekeeper to open, who does so immediately. As the gates creaked open, Ned smiled privately. He was home now, finally, with no need to move.

But something was amiss. In the courtyard there flew black banners, a dark horse with a flowing red mane in the center against a scalloped bronze foreground. Ryswell banners, Ned notes with a frown. What are they doing here?

Suddenly, men begin to pour out of the castle. They were all Ryswell men, and at the front was Rodrik Ryswell, his sons, his daughter, and a bewildered Benjen.

Ned immediately dismounts, his eyes finding Rodrik’s, which were narrowed and angry. He hears his father and the rest pull up behind him, dismounting also. Benjen quickly stirs upon seeing his lord father, and scrambles to his side.

“Lord Rodrik asked to be let in, father, and I let him,” he announced nervously, wringing his hands. “You always said to be inviting to our bannermen, and I let him in, but I think something’s wrong, father—“

His father hushed him with a pat of his head, moving past him. “It is a surprise, Lord Rodrik, to find you in my home. What brings you here uninvited?” His voice was booming, commanding like a true lord’s.

“A dishonor has been done to our house. We come here for justice,” Rodrik returns as he held his ground. “I see that Lord Hoster Tully rides with you. Good. This shall make negotiations simpler.”

“We may have these negotiations if you would explain your purpose, my lord,” Rickard returns.

Rodrik moves to his daughter, whose head is bowed low, and grabs her roughly by the arm. She cries out at the sudden cruelty, but keeps her eyes to the ground, unwilling to meet anyone’s eye. “Your eldest son has gotten a child on my daughter. I come to speak of our options, my lord, as few as they are.”

The yard went completely silent. Shock was an emotion shared among most of the men, but none more than Brandon. His heart seemed to have well as stopped in his chest, turning his blood ice cold. He could only stare dumbly at Barbrey, at how shame reddened her cheeks and turned her shy. A part of him wanted to rescue her, to take her from her father’s grip and lead her somewhere where they can be alone. Another part wanted to cast her from his sight forever.

After what seemed like an eternity’s silence, Lord Rickard speaks again. “It seems there are matters to discuss, then.” He turns to Lord Hoster, whose shock had already melted away to furious scowl. “Shall we go inside, my lord?”

Lord Hoster nods stiffly, and follows Rickard as he takes his first steps indoors. It was right before they had entered that his hard gaze fell on Brandon. “You are joining us for this, Brandon.” Then his eyes went to his second son. “You as well, Eddard.”
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Inside the solar, Lord Rickard seated himself behind his desk as he poured wine into goblets for each of the lords, save for his two sons. Lord Hoster stood stiffly to one side while Lord Rodrik stood at the other side, his daughter still in his grip.

“Now, Lord Rodrik,” Rickard began with a sip of his wine. “Your daughter is sure that it is Brandon’s?”

“Aye,” Rodrik returned gruffly. “She says she hadn’t laid with another man since your son took her maidenhead.”

Rickard looks to Brandon, disappointment flashing in his steely grey eyes. “Is it true, then? Did you lay with her?”

Brandon felt parched being put on the spot all of a sudden. Usually, he basked in attention, flourished in it. Now it just felt oppressive. “Aye, a few times,” Brandon admitted, eyes flitting to Barbrey to see if he can catch an emotion cross her face. That was none, aside from her shamed frown.

“Well,” Rickard mumbles, leaning forward. He wanted to damn his son for putting him in such a position, but now was not the time. “What should you like me to do about this, Lord Rodrik?”

“There is not a man who will have my daughter now. She is good as useless, thanks to your son, and if you have a care for your loyal bannerman’s honor, you’ll have your son wed my daughter.”

“Lord Brandon is betrothed to my Catelyn,” Lord Hoster speaks up, sneering behind his goblet. “It cannot be done.”

“Then what am I to do?” Rodrik returns, furious. “Keep his bastard get in the Rills while my daughter takes up space in my home as a harlot?” His words manage to pluck at Brandon’s heart. No, he would not like to see that, to know that his bastard lived elsewhere while Barbrey paid the price for loving him.

“Might I suggest moon tea, my lord?” Hoster offers.

This enrages Rodrik, whose grip on his daughter’s arm tightens as he begins to shake her like a rag doll. “Moon tea?!” he roars. “Perhaps that is the way to be rid of your problems in the south, but dishonor is something that cannot be washed away with moon tea!” He turns to Rickard now, slamming a hand on the desk. “I am your good and loyal bannerman! My house has been sworn to yours for hundreds of years! If you take this southron trout’s daughter over mine—“

“Peace, Lord Rodrik!” Rickard booms over him. “I will not let a man sworn to me be wronged by my own blood. But Lord Tully is right; I have promised my son for his daughter, and I shall not go back on my word.”

Rodrik’s ears redden at this. “If it is an alliance with House Stark he desires, then wed Lord Eddard to his daughter.”

“You think I would give my eldest daughter to a second son?” Lord Hoster sneers, crossing his arms. “Might I remind you, my lord, that she belongs to one of the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms? That she sits as Lady of Riverrun now, and has been for some years? This is more than mere alliance. I want her children to be heirs to Winterfell, and for her to be its lady. Not the wife of a second son whose children shall be heirs to nothing.”

Ned did not bristle at this, as what Hoster Tully said was true. This was his lot in life and he had grown too used to it to be bothered by it. Besides, it was not as if he could ever deserve Catelyn Tully. A great beauty like that belonged with a man like his brother.

“Please, my lords, peace,” Rickard says, standing with them. “Your daughter will be Lady of Winterfell, Lord Hoster, I promise you this. I have an offer for you, Lord Rodrik, which I pray will sit well with you. I may wed my second son Eddard to your daughter—“ Rodrik opened his mouth to protest, but Rickard continued. “Which gives your daughter both a husband and the promise that her child shall be born a Stark.”

The blood that flowed in the two brothers froze at once, their eyes darting to Rodrik Ryswell in unison.

There is a brief silence before Rodrik loosens his grip on Barbrey’s arm, and nods his head. “I accept.“

“No!” Brandon roars suddenly, a fire stealing into his limbs. “It is my child, is it not? Why should my brother raise it for me?” He steps forward, putting his hands flat on the desk as he glowered at his father. “I am to be Lord of Winterfell! Have I no say in my child’s future?”

His father looks sharply to him, grey eyes like steel swords. “Until you are Lord of Winterfell, putting your mistakes to right falls to me. Let this be a lesson.”

“No!” Brandon bellowed again, slamming his hands down. His blood was boiling with rage and defiance, and he was so hot under his collar it felt as if his skin was to melt right off. “That child is my seed and I would lay claim to it—“

“The child will be, by all rights, your brother’s,” his father interrupted with his powerful voice. “We shall make it seem so.” The second glare his father casts him does not settle him. The fury inside him is thrown into greater turmoil, but for all this emotion he finds himself unable to act on it. What could he do? There was nothing he could fight with his hands, though there were things he could throw. His hands were his weapons, not his words, and he finds himself taken aback. Thus, stays quiet, lips parted, his body trembling with rage. “We will have them wedded this week. When the child is born they shall say it is the fruit of their wedding night. Or so I pray.” Rickard then looks to his second son, who stood frozen in his shock. “What say you, Eddard?”

Ned licks his lips and blinks his eyes, trying to return himself to the unfortunate reality. I am to raise my brother’s bastard, father, he replies internally. What am I to say? Ned gives a shaky nod as consent until he finds his voice, which comes out weak. “I-I would be honored to wed your daughter, Lord Rodrik,” Ned stammers out, looking everywhere but his bride and his brother.

A powerful sense of betrayal overcomes Brandon as his ire reaches its peak and tumbles down. “Honored?” he sneered, clenching his fists until his nails drew blood. “How can you lie like that, Ned?” The air suddenly felt oppressive, acting as a huge pressure upon his chest. He could not stay in the room any longer, not without harming someone, or himself. He storms out, careful to throw Barbrey a scathing glare before he slams the door behind him.

His shaking hand goes quickly to the sword at his hip, drawing it out. He would ride to the wolfswood and find something, anything to kill. That much he could have control over.

Chapter Text

“Oh, he really is handsome, isn’t he?” one of her ladies-in-waiting crooned, eyeing some young lord from across the gardens. Her name was Cedany Byrch. She was plump with pink cheeks and long, straight brown hair that she wore in a braids. When she grew excited her cheeks became pinker and pinker until she looked much like a pig.

A second one, Emeline Hardy, looks the same way. “Oh, Berin Brune? I know his sort. He is not so great.” This one was shapely, with a large bosom and wide hips and a head full of golden curls. Her only defect was the way one of her eyes tend to wander off in a different direction than the other, often lending confusion to Lyanna as to who she spoke to.

“Isn’t that the one that bedded Addy in a rose arbor? Beastly Berin?” Isabel Farring added, wrinkling her button nose. She was almost as tall as a man with her long, lanky limbs. The fact that she wore her black curls atop her head like a beehive only made her more towering.

“Oh, no, you’re thinking of Walter Gaunt. Berin bedded Addy in the kitchen pantry,” the last one, Lorena Rosby, corrected with a haughty tilt of her chin. She had the sort of face one easily forgot. Lyanna only remembered her by the strong perfume that she spritzed into her brown hair. “Who has time to remember who Addy bedded and when? From what I head, Berin—“

“Um, Lorena,” Emeline interrupted, casting a nervous glance Lyanna’s way. “Perhaps this is not the sort of conversation we ought to have in the princess’s presence.”

Lorena’s cheeks redden immediately, and she looked quite embarrassed. “Begging your pardon, your grace. I did not mean to speak so vulgarly before you.” Her gaze is cast to the other girls, who quickly nod and mutter “me too”s.

Lyanna shrugs, moving a piece of lemon cake around on her plate. In truth, she hadn’t paid much mind to their conversation. She hardly ever did, as they hardly spoke of things that interested her. It was always about gowns and their demanding mothers, and lords, especially young lords, who that they always sat and giggled over. They were all unmarried ladies of the Crownlands, and marriage seemed to be the only thing that interested them. Most of the times Lyanna is content to block them out, and today the heat had been so oppressive that it was the only thing on her mind. She felt herself sweat through her gown, and begins to regret not taking up Jude’s more practical, southron choice of silks.

“Perhaps there is something the princess would like to discuss instead?” Emeline offered, the most demure of the bunch.

Lyanna looked up at her curiously. They did not ask her this question often, but whenever they did Lyanna declined. She did not know what to speak about with them. She did not have friends in Winterfell aside from Old Nan and her brothers. What was more, she had very little experience in conversations with other women.

Lyanna would try today. “Have any of you ladies ridden by the Blackwater?” she asks, looking to each of them for some enthusiasm. “I have been told it is a great sight. Would you ride with me to see it?”

They are silent for some time as they exchanged looks with each other. Lyanna frowned. Had she said something wrong?

“They say the Blackwater is dangerous, your grace,” Cedany squeaks, her once-pink face pale.

“I am not saying we ought to swim in it,” Lyanna responds, frowning.

“And it is a way’s off,” Isabel adds, nodding. “It would take a few hours to reach it.”

“Its waters are treacherous,” Emeline notes. “And they say it has a strange pull.”

Lyanna looked back down to her plate, cutting a piece cake into yet smaller pieces.

“Never mind then,” she sighed, and rested her chin in her hands. Lyanna would go riding in the godswood again, with her ladies lagging behind as they tittered over something new. It was no matter. Lyanna’s riding was the only thing that brought her comfort. Married life was, after all, lonely.

She did not expect it to be so, but then perhaps it was partially her fault. The court discomforted her, and Lyanna so hated all of those lords’ and ladies’ attentions. They all did little more than grovel at her feet and chatter mindlessly with her with fraudulent smiles upon their faces. Lyanna did not know how to react to such folk, not when all they seemed to do was try and earn her favor with empty compliments and the forced pleasure of their company. But then, when they were not pandering to get near to her, they slandered her instead. It was all done in whispers, of course, unlike their loud chatter. They thought she did not hear, but she heard.

Even her husband did not seek out her company. After a moon’s turn of marriage, they scarcely saw each other. She had been told that he often spent his days from one task to the next, hardly having time for himself, or his wife, it seemed. It did not bother Lyanna one bit. She preferred his absence from her life than his company, for whenever they were together, only silence passed between them.

These times only came at supper, on the nights he can spare to spend with her and his family. He would sit beside her in silence, speaking only when spoken to. These suppers in themselves were uncomfortable, even without his presence. The king supped late since he had his tasters eat his meals before him, and thus he made his family wait as well. Then when they would finally sit down to eat, he would begin to speak loudly through his chewing, slandering one lord or another, and sometimes his wife. The queen sat silently through his berating when they occurred, her face as still ice. Lyanna admired her restraint. She does not know if she could do the same.

It was one such supper that the king had turned his attentions to her. It was a meal of potatoes and meat, one that Lyanna usually enjoyed, though she was not hungry for it. Her husband sat beside her eating in his own silence.

“Tell me, girl,” the king suddenly snarled from the head of the table, bits of food falling into his unkempt beard. “Has my son gotten a child on you yet?”

Lyanna’s cheeks reddened, though not of her own will. She had been taken aback by his question, but made sure she did not stutter. “Not yet, your grace,” she responded as cooly as she could manage, hoping that would close the subject.

The king grimaced. “My son did not wait these years for your womb to be slow in quickening,” he reminded her, as if were all her fault. Which it was, for a moon’s turn later she was still a maid, but the king did not need to know that. “You had best be quick in proving yourself, girl, or I shall regret wedding you to him.”

Lyanna parts her lips in beginning of protest, yet finds herself looking to Rhaegar instead. He seemed entirely disinterested, his eyes still on his plate, and in no haste to defend her. No matter; she had a tongue and would defend herself.

“I shall not disappoint you, godfather,” she replies with a hint of vitriol, just enough for the king to catch onto it. He does not like her impudence, and pursues her further.

“The wolf is the sigil of your house,” he begins. A direwolf, she wants to correct, but doesn’t. “Don’t the bitches whelp in large litters? I expect no less from you.”

Lyanna’s cheeks burn further, and she finds herself pressing the edge of her fork into her palm. She knew when she let it go she would see a scalloped design printed onto her skin. The king looks pleased at her discomfort.

“Answer me, girl. Is that true?” he presses, enjoying how her cheeks reddened and her knuckles whitened.

“I wouldn’t know, your grace,” she returns tightly, meeting his cruel eye.

“Stupid girl. Do not make me wait too long to find out,” he returns sharply, his heavy gaze now landing on his wife. Lyanna felt a breath leave her lungs. “My wife made me wait sixteen bloody years before she gave me another child. Sixteen! And then she gives me a damned boy.” Lyanna looks to Viserys across the table, who pauses his chewing to look upon his father with confusion. “I needed a girl for my son to wed— You know you would not be here if my wife had done her duty?” Aerys says, returning his attention to Lyanna. “I always believed that only a Targaryen should have the honor of a dragon’s seed. But instead we have a wolf bitch.” He then smiles in a way that makes her blood curdle. “Hopefully you won’t be as barren as my useless wife, girl.”

Lyanna looks down to her plate to hide her gritting teeth. In the corner of her eye she sees Rhaegar’s hand moving his fork to a piece of meat on his plate.

The gallant prince Rhaegar, she snipes to herself. Won’t spare a word to defend his wife or mother.
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She found comfort folded into Judith’s arms that night, the kindly maid stroking her hair. “I am trapped in a cage,” Lyanna murmurs into her chest, sniffling away the tears that threatened to fall. “The court circles me like I’m an attraction in a traveling show. The king mocks me and I cannot say anything in return. I have no rights, no freedom, no choices…”

“Shh, princess.”

“I am permitted to ride and that is all. Ride and sit with my ladies-in-waiting who care more for the state of their dowries than my companionship. Serving the princess makes for good marriage prospects, now I know.” Her throat burned and itched. “My House is not respected here. The king thinks me a wolf bitch who lives only to whelp his son’s pups. And his son…” She gritted her teeth at his mention. “His son is content to see me caged. He lifts not finger nor tongue to defend me. My protector!” she jeers. “I am their plaything and their pawn, nothing more. But I shall never submit, never, never…”

She suddenly feels tired. All the muscles in her body go slack as she lays against her maid’s breast like a child.

“I want to go home,” she croaks, closing her eyes, prepared to sleep. “My cage was bigger there.”

Chapter Text

There must be three heads of the dragon…

The prince that was promised shall be male, born amidst salt and smoke. He shall be the blood of the dragon…

A red star will bleed in the skies…

When darkness gathers, the prince shall serve as savior, trained in arms to deliver the world…

Rhaegar set down the scrolls and Aemon’s letters atop his desk, rubbing his eyes to rid them of the exhaustion he had subjected them to. He had this all memorized, yet he could not stop himself from revisiting his proof. The prophecy lived inside him, sometimes in his skin, or in his bones, and sometimes clouding his mind. Tonight it was his whole body, mind and skin and bones alike, for again he dreamed.

It was a dream hailing from his boyhood. Snow would fall all around a knight shrouded in darkness as he rode his green dragon high above the white earth. Its wings would beat furiously, shaking itself of the snow and the ground itself. Then the snow solidified, turning to treacherous icicles that rained down upon them, slashing at the dragon’s scales until it bled and screamed. But then the knight would draw his sword, which glowed like a thousand candles, and burned like it too. As it turned brighter and the world became warmer. The ice and snow melted away, and light would fill the scene until all was white.

In boyish eagerness he had once believed that knight was him. Time had proved otherwise. Now his faith rested in a son of his own. If and when that son came along. His wife had yet to yield, but Rhaegar was patient. There were still other matters to think of. Smallfolk complained of high taxation. Brigands periodically sacked villages. The coffers were being emptied by pyromancers. Houses were losing faith in the crown, one by one.

There’s one thing to thank my marriage for, Rhaegar thinks bitterly. Now the Starks cannot rebel.

He exhaled, propping his elbows on the desk and cradling his head in his hands. He wished to go to Summerhall now more than ever, to take his harp and his thoughts to the still ruins and clear his mind, if only for a while. To leave now would be irresponsible, however. Nay, he would not leave until his wife was with child. Then, and only then, would he venture outside King’s Landing.

For now, patience was to be his chief virtue.
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She was coming in from a ride, Ser Oswell some distance behind her, and even further were her ladies-in-waiting. From the balcony he could see her dismount, then pause to stroke her mare’s nose. It was her personal northern steed, the one she had ridden on the journey to King’s Landing. It was a hardy creature, or at least it had to be, for all the riding she did.

She moved out of sight as she led her mare away, and Rhaegar returned to his desk. Jon Connington sat across from him and Ser Arthur leaned against the doorframe, his bulky figure blocking the door. Their silence indicated that they waited for him to speak, but Rhaegar did not know what to say.

Arthur ask the question. “Any luck with your northern bride, your grace?” he asked with a knowing smile.

“None yet,” Rhaegar returned curtly, his eyes turned down to the papers on his desk. There were letters to read and pen. No time for conversation.

“Strange that you sit idly by, your grace,” Arthur notes. “You do not pursue her, speak to her, or even sing her a sweet song that will make her sniffle.” Arthur is japing, Rhaegar knows, but he shoots him a warning glance anyway. As if she would have any of that. His wife was in active resistance. Nothing he could do would make her acquiesce.

“Disobedient fool,” Jon grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s your right and her duty.”

“I shall not force the matter, Jon,” Rhaegar noted with a frown. “I suspect in time she will come to me.”

Arthur raised a quizzical brow. “And how do you suspect that?”

“She is lonely,” Rhaegar answered. “Or she’ll grow to be if she is not already. I’ve seen and heard of her few dealings with the court, too shy or misinformed to befriend them. As a strong as her northern spirit claims to be, she will soon seek comfort. Now that she has had a taste of my father’s cruelty, she shall soon enough be driven into my arms. It must be of her own will; otherwise I shall not have her.”

“Is she a foal, your grace?” Arthur asks suddenly. Rhaegar raises his eyes to look at him, finding his face gravely serious.

“A foal? Arthur—“

“Do you mean to break her?”

Rhaegar mulled over the question. Was he trying to break her? “Yes,” Rhaegar replied. In a way, he was. He would allow her inexperience with courtly matters along with his father’s acrid tongue wear her down until she submitted. Then and only then would things begin to improve between the two of them.

“And if she doesn’t?” Arthur pressed boldly.

“If she doesn’t,” Rhaegar returned, leaning back in his seat. “I shall find another. The dragon must have three heads; you know that.”

“There are plenty of women for his grace to choose,” Jon noted gruffly, scratching his red beard. “She’s not the only one with cunt in King’s Landing.”

“Do not speak of your princess so vulgarly, Jon,” Rhaegar tells him with only a pinch of distaste. “And I would not pursue just anyone. But enough of this,” He waves a hand, dismissing the topic. He reaches for a new leaf of paper and dips his quill in ink. “I must pen a letter to Sunspear asking for a chance to visit. I must try for the kingdom’s sake to bring the Martells back to our side.” He writes Prince Doran, with the fresh ink, then looks up to Arthur, still stony in the doorway. “If I am to go, will you accompany me, Arthur?”

The good knight could not hide the way his face lit up. Despite his vows forcing him to give up such sentimentality, his homeland still held a special place in his heart. Even if she cannot visit Starfall, Sunspear was just as good. It was where he squired, and where he was knighted by none other but the great Lewyn Martell. He nods to his prince, perhaps a little eagerly.

“Good,” Rhaegar returns. “If they may give me their blessing, I shall act on it. We need the Martells.”

He did not forget his promise to remain until his wife was with child. That was paramount to a visit to Dorne; but once it was done, he would go. In truth it only added pressure to the matter. He needed her consent quickly then, for the longer the Martells were let alone, the more dangerous they became.

His eyes went to the balcony again, where he stood and beheld her. Hurry and break for me, little wolf, he implored. Do not let me grow impatient.

Chapter Text

Brandon had spent the last few days angry and drunk. His brother was to wed the mother of his child in just a day's time, and with each passing day he grew angrier, and sometimes more drunk. Visits to the wolfswood to kill whatever passed his eyes did little to temper either sin. Yet this night he did not touch a drop, and he felt frustratingly sober and thus even angrier. It was this night, with the blood of a stag still fresh on his jerkin, that he marched down to guesthouse to where Barbrey was staying and threw open her door.

She does not seem startled by him, but instead sits at the vanity as if she were expecting him. Her long black hair was loose and splayed over the shoulders of her nightgown, which was a maidenly white. Ironic, for what her secret was. Brandon could only stare in the doorway and glare at her, but no words bubbled up to the surface. He could only stare heatedly in fury, hoping to melt her in her spot.

“My lord,” she breathes, rising to her feet. “What brings you here at such an hour?”

“You cannot marry my brother,” he blurts out, ignoring her courtesies.

Barbrey raises a brow. “Has your father made you Lord Paramount so soon, that the decision is now yours?” She was being cheeky, which Brandon usually liked about her. Now it irritated him; he steps forward, closing the gap between them.

“My brother is bound to his duty and will not speak up for himself,” he reminds her sharply. “But I shall do it now: he does not want to marry you, nor do you deserve him.” He knew quiet Ned would not say any of these things. His brother had been born that way, solemn and accepting, even when he ought not to be. Brandon knew this; he was his own blood, after all, and though the two were never particularly close, they were still brothers, and Brandon still loved him.

“I do not deserve him?” she returns with a narrowing of her eyes. “Whyever not? Had I been a maid I would deserve even better—“

“But you are not a maid,” Brandon reminds her sharply. “You carry my child, and I will not let my brother pretend that it is his own. His duty should not extend so far as to raise his brother’s bastards.”

Barbrey scoffed. “Since when did you care so much about your brother? I thought it was your sister who held your love.” The way she said those words, your sister, was like a curse. It only served to enrage him further.

“He is my brother, by the gods!” he exclaims, throwing a fist down at the vanity. “And he shall live in the castle with me, and as will you, along with our babe which he has no place claiming. I’ll not stand the sight of it!”

Barbrey flinched at his tone. She turned her cheek, perhaps to hide it, but then her stare seems to become locked wistfully some place faraway.

“How do you suppose I feel?” Barbrey whispers, shivering. “It is not him I wanted, but you. But my father—“ She cuts herself short, biting her lip as if she feared revealing a secret. Brandon catches this and grabs her chin, forcing her gaze back to him.

“What of your father?” he growls in a tone feral and low. Her eyes seemed full of fear as she looked upon him. She seemed close to trembling, again perhaps out of fear, but perhaps out of adoration too. Nevertheless her heart pounded in her chest.

“He… He had always intended for me to marry a Stark,” she confessed, chewing her lip. “It did not matter which one. And I too wanted to be a Stark, and when I saw you for the first time in the Rills, I knew it had to be you. When I went to my father with the news that I carried your child, I thought he would insist on you wedding me. That is not so, it seems.” She sounds wistful as she says this, as if a dream of hers was crushed and gone, along with a part of her heart. “Now I carry your child and soon your name, but I shall not have you.” Her thin hands reach up to his face, brushing gentle over the stubble on his cheeks. She tilted her head up as if to kiss him. “Brandon…” she murmured, almost against his lips, but he quickly drew back.

“Did you plan all this, then?” Brandon asked, clenching a fist to keep from quivering with rage. “Did you want me to fuck you just for this?”

“No. No!” she exclaims, shaking her head. “Perhaps at first, but not now. I want you.“

“You want to be a Stark,” he added acridly. His sister’s words rang in his head now: They all want Winterfell, brother.

“I want that too!” she returns, backing away. She fell into a fighting stance, her fists clenched and her shoulders square, all topped off with a defiant tilt of her chin. “I wanted to be more than a bannerman’s wife. I did not want to be a Dustin, or a Bolton, or a Manderly. I wanted to be a Stark, and I wanted you.”

“Greedy wench,” is all Brandon can sneer in return. “Now my brother is paying the price for you and your father’s avarice. You say you want me? What can you do about that now? In two days time you’ll be my brother’s.”

The look on her face suddenly softens, and her fierce stance seems to melt away. She takes a tentative step forward, then reached one hand out flat against his middle and another to the laces of his jerkin. As she twirled them around her graceful fingers, she looked up to him, a warmth in her eyes.

“It does not have to be that way,” she murmurs sweetly, yet Brandon stiffens. “Once I am married, we shall be under the same roof. We may still… want each other…”

Her meaning rings clear in his ears. With violent effort, he yanks her hands from him and holds her wrists. She seems jarred by his sudden passion, but makes no noise, only stares at him.

“Is it not enough that my brother has to marry you? Now you ask me to fuck his wife too?” he sneers, baring his teeth. “You are mistaken, Barbrey, if you think I hold anything less than affection for my brother. You ought to be thanking the old gods and the new that you’ve been matched with a man as good and dutiful as he.” It was then that it felt as if his heart fell for his brother. Poor Ned, he laments. Too bloody bound to his duty to refuse what his brother has already had. The thought strikes an idea into him. Very well, then. I’ll give him something else of mine too.

He’s suddenly smiling, which baffles Barbrey. She blinks, and takes a step back, afraid that he may turn mad and do something to her. How strange Brandon seemed, and how frightening. He grips her wrists tighter and pulls her to him, leaning down so that their lips were inches apart.

“You say you want me, sweetling?” he asks in a sickly sweet tone, smiling all the while. Barbrey nods uncertainly, still a little frightened by him. “Then you’ll have me.” With those words he presses a hard, cold kiss to her lips, then leads her out of the room by her hand.

She shivers once she is outside, her thin nightgown offering little protection from the cool night air. If Brandon notices, he does not say anything. He drags her as far as the stables, where he then props her up atop a horse as if she were no more than a doll. Brandon climbs up in front of her, then reached behind to pull her arm around him.

A couple of stable boys have stirred by now, standing by the horse in puzzlement. One is brave enough to speak. “M-My lord, would you like us—“

“Get on a horse and follow me,” Brandon commands of them before digging his heels into the destrier and taking off. Barbrey looks behind her to see the boys scramble to follow orders. She looks ahead again, poking her head around Brandon’s shoulder to see where he was taking them, but the dark of night turned even darker when they entered the cover of the godswood.

“Where are we going?” she asks uncertainly, biting her lip to keep from shuddering. It was cold outside, but when she pressed herself to Brandon she only felt colder. The warmth from him was gone, and what was left behind was a man of winter.

“To the heart tree, sweetling,” Brandon returns almost condescendingly.

“The heart tree?” she returns, still baffled. “What for?”

“Smile, darling,” he tells her, his voice still strange and cruel. “It’s our wedding day.”

Chapter Text

Cat rushes to Maester Rowan, whose thin hands clasped several letters, one of which she hoped hailed from the North. Her father had not written her for some time, but since he had recently departed from Winterfell, she expected a letter from him. And though she always approached the maester asking for a letter from her father, she secretly hoped for a letter from a certain northern lord.

“Anything for me, Maester?” Catelyn asks, trying not to sound too excited. She was to be Lady of Winterfell soon enough, and she had to practice at some glacial regarding.

Maester Rowan smiles, then sifts through the letters to pull one out. Cat’s heart sank when she saw it was only one, and with the Tully seal on it too. But the disappointment was only temporary; her father would still bring news from the North, and hopefully of her betrothed too.

Cat turns away and eagerly begins to pick at the red seal, almost tearing the parchment in the process. She opens it quickly, and her eyes quickly begin to read:

Dearest Cat,

I pray you and your sister are doing well. Edmure is beginning to miss you both, and I am too. By the time this letter reaches you we should be no more than a couple of weeks away.

Things have changed for us. Lord Rickard has removed Brandon as heir to Winterfell. The fool boy had gone and married one of his bannerman’s daughters after getting his bastard on her, though it was against his father’s wishes. Now the second son, Eddard Stark, is heir to Winterfell, and he shall be your husband in three moon’s turns. I’m sorry that you cannot meet him first, but we—

Cat’s shaking becomes too violent for her to read anymore. It cannot be true, she insists as her heart begins to beat wildly against her chest. It cannot be true. She thought for a moment she might faint; she braces herself against the cold stone wall, and reads the words over again.

Lysa comes up around the corner and catches sight of her swooning sister clutching the letter. A frown curls down the corner of her lips as she thought it was another letter from her betrothed that made her sister faint. She comes up to her to catch a hold of her elbow, stabilizing her.

“Is the lord such a great of a poet that you cannot stand on your own?” she asks bitterly. But her ire disappears as Cat pins her with wide, watery blue eyes.

“I-Is this father’s hand, Lysa?” she asks with a tremble to her voice. Lysa blinks, then pulls the letter from her sister’s weak grasp. “Perhaps it is just a pretender… Tell me that it is not his hand, Lysa, tell me it is all lies…” Cat’s stomach roiled at her own defiance. The words had been clear as day before her, yet she could not allow herself to believe it. Her Brandon would not dishonor anyone. He would not defy his father. He would not marry any one other than her.

“Oh, Cat,” Lysa murmurs, finished reading. “Oh, don’t you see? It is punishment for what he did to Petyr. If only he hadn’t—“

“This has nothing to do with Petyr!” Cat snaps back, unable to stomach hearing her sister bring that boy’s name up again. She felt her disbelief quickly melt away into rage; she finds her bearings again, then rises up straight. “What has been the matter with you lately? All you can speak of is Petyr, Petyr, Petyr! Even now, when I am to marry a stranger!” Yes, a stranger, that what Lord Eddard was. She knew nothing of this second son, of the brother Lord Brandon never spoke of, yet he was her betrothed in his place.

Cat wanted to cry. She wanted to cry and scream and moan until the letters in her father’s note rearranged themselves to where everything was the same again. The northern lord that had visited her father’s castle had been an honorable man. He was charismatic, handsome, and mindful. He spared Petyr’s life when he had every right to end it. He promised he would wait on a kiss from her. That Brandon Stark would never dishonor a woman, much less one of noble birth. Yet the evidence was before her, and Catelyn wanted to pretend it did not exist.

Lysa is still frowning at her, but perhaps sensing her turmoil, her voice turns soft and no longer accusing. “I’m sorry, Cat,” she croons, patting her clenched hand. “Perhaps this northern lord is handsome too.”

But he will not be Brandon, she laments internally. She would do her duty by the younger brother, but her heart would not be in it.

“Handsome or not,” Cat manages to sputter, wiping her wet eyes with the heels of her palms. “He is to be my husband in three moon’s turns. I must…” Must what? Cat did not want to do anything by this unknown man. She did not, but she would. Family, Duty, Honor.

“Perhaps I did something wrong,” Catelyn whispers, chewing her lower lip. Perhaps I should have let him kiss me. Perhaps…

She gives a ragged sigh, then clears her throat in hopes of dispelling her unshed tears as well. With shaking hands, she smooths the front of her dress, then folds the letter up into her sleeve.

“I’m going to pray, Lysa,” she tells her sister resolutely, hoping to the gods that she did not sense her lingering weakness.

“I shall join you,” Lysa offers, touching her sister’s sleeve. Cat pulls away, perhaps too sharply, and shakes her head.

“I’d like to be alone,” she insists softly, offering a broken smile before turning away. From inside her sleeve, the letter brushed against her skin, reminding her of its horrid contents. She let it stay in hopes of hardening herself against it. Worse things have happened, Cat, she assures herself. Perhaps the younger is much like his brother. He may be strong and handsome too, but have more honor. Think of it, Cat, think of what a good man he may be.

And yet even when she found herself in the sept, kneeling before the altar of the Maiden, her thoughts are far from pure and clear. In the darkness behind her eyelids Cat saw her handsome lord, smiling and drawing people in, touching her sleeve to call her attention, leaning down to kiss her, but letting herself only feel the brush of his lips on her cheek. ”I shall wait then,” he had promised in his deep, thrilling voice, his grey eyes flashing in the night.

He has dishonored a woman, Cat tried to remind herself to rid her head of Brandon Stark’s clear, hard voice. He has wounded your honor whilst he was betrothed to you. He is no good, Cat, not at all…

And yet even as she closed her eyes shut and squeezed her clasped hands with all her might, she could not rid herself of her heart’s attachment to the wild wolf.

Chapter Text

Lyanna’s heart nearly jumped out of her mouth when a messenger delivered a letter from her father into her hands. She had waited a long time to receive word from her family after their arrival home, wanting very badly to begin what she hoped would be a long string of correspondences. Today it would be her father; perhaps in a couple of weeks it shall be one of her brothers, or even Lord Howland Reed. Thus it is with this excitement that she could hardly wait on returning to her chambers to read it. Her trembling hands already tore open the seal, and her eyes scanned the words immediately, even with her ladies-in-waiting chattering behind her.

Dearest Lyanna,

I pray all is well in your husband’s home. No doubt by now you have won his heart; if not, you will soon.

Lyanna grimaced at this, but did not let it dampen her spirits. Her father was only trying to be helpful.

Fortunes have changed at home. Your brother Brandon has fancied himself in love with Lady Barbrey Ryswell and married her in secret. I had to disinherit him after; you must understand why. Lord Hoster Tully has wished his girl to be Lady of Winterfell, after all, and such an alliance is important in these times.

Lyanna’s heartbeat dwindles down to normal. Disinherit Brandon? The very thought made her shiver. But that was not what was most shocking. Her brother never fancied himself in love with anything but himself. And the Ryswell girl had been no more than a fling. Lyanna sensed something was amiss.

Thus, it stands to be that your brother Eddard is now heir to Winterfell, and his bride shall be Lady Catelyn Tully. The wedding date does not change. Invitations have already been sent; one shall reach the Red Keep soon enough. I hope to see you then.

Your lord father,
Rickard Stark

“Something is not right,” Lyanna whispers beneath her breath. Everything about the letter seemed strange to her; had it not been clear to her that it was truly her father’s hand, she would declare that someone was tricking her. The tone of it seemed impersonal, and the content implausible. Brandon did not love women. He enjoyed them well enough, but her brother’s heart was a wild thing, unable to keep its attentions long enough to declare love.

Yet even rereading it offered no clearer answers. Her father would not keep secrets from her, yet it seemed that there was one hiding between the lines. Lyanna folds the letter, then looks back to her ladies, who stood giggling over something. She thought for a moment to read it aloud to them, to see if one of them did not have a truly empty head and could offer an explanation. The thought vanished as soon as it came. It was a personal matter, one they had no business trying to decipher.

It was almost suppertime now, and as much as she wished she could skip it, she knew she could not. To skip a supper with the king would no doubt inflame him. And while Lyanna cared not if he were angry at her, she knew it would be foolish to outright defy him. Thus, it was with a heavy heart that she walks away from her ladies and toward the small dining hall that served the royal family. She kept her letter tucked away in her sleeve, to reread it again another time, perhaps aloud to Judith. Her handmaiden may be able to think of a reason why her father’s letter was so strange.

When she arrives at the dining hall she is surprised to see that she is the last one to arrive. The rest of them, Aerys, Rhaella, Viserys, and Rhaegar, were already seated, with the servants already serving food. Her usual seat, the one between Aerys at the head and Rhaegar at her side, was open, and her soup already poured. Lyanna did not know if she ought to apologize for her lateness.

She looks to Rhaegar first, to see if he would give her a cue, but he was stoic, his gaze averted from hers. One pair of eyes, however, was focused intently on her. Lyanna felt the Mad King’s stare bore into her, burning her. He was looking right at her and smiling, or whatever you could call those white lips when they were curled up so cruelly. Lyanna’s skin began to crawl, and she warily takes her seat, careful to keep her eyes to her plate and not the king.

She feels his eyes on her even as she hears the clink of his spoon inside the bowl, and his slurping of the soup. Between this and her initial uneasiness at her father’s queer letter, Lyanna found herself unable to eat. To sound him out, she began to draw up theories. Perhaps Brandon quarreled with father and father disinherited him. Perhaps Lord Ryswell forced the marriage. He is an important bannerman, I think…

“Have you heard, girl?” Aerys’s cold voice asks her. Lyanna does not look up at him. “Of that sudden marriage between your brother and that Rsywell girl?”

His knowledge of the matter causes her heart to skip a beat. How can he know already? When I just learned of it? She stays silent, and listens.

“Your father would have the realm think that brother of yours is a bloody romantic. So in love that he damned the Tully girl and relinquished Winterfell. Ha!” His laugh is short and cruel and bitter. Lyanna does not like it one bit. “Well I’ll have you know that you Starks do not live so far north that you escape my spider’s web.” He was leaning closer to her now, close enough that Lyanna could feel his panting breath. With a jerk of her head she looks up, meeting his wild eyes. She fights back how her heart beat in her chest as his dark eyes flashed, determined not to let him crush her. “I’ll tell you the truth, girl,” he promised, that smug smile turning into a yellow grin.

“Your brother had gone and gotten his bastard get on that Ryswell girl,” he hissed, leaning in even closer. “Then the younger one, the second son, was to wed the slut to save his brother’s betrothal. But what did your whore brother do?” Lyanna clenched the spoon tighter in her hand. “Went and married her in the middle of the night so that your father would strip him of his title. Ha!”

“My brother would never,” Lyanna hears herself snapping back, though not of her own accord. She knew he was saying it only to anger her, that it could not be true. Her brother was foolish, and reckless, yes, but to marry a girl just to be rid of Winterfell—

“Are you calling me a liar, girl?” Aerys returns, that smile turning in a scowl. “You Starks think yourselves so bloody honorable! You think yourselves above us all! You lot, who bent the knee to us the moment we stepped onto your land!” He stood on his feet, putting his hands down on the table so that he leaned over her. “Your brother is a slut, his wife is a slut, and I’ve no doubt you are capable of being one too, given half the chance. You can tout your false honor all you like, but your father, your brothers, and your mother aren’t worth the dirt on our boots!” Lyanna felt her blood boil beneath her skin, making her feel warm all over. He could speak ill of her if he wished, but to wag his tongue about her family was no small crime.

You must ignore him, Lya, he is nothing, nothing…

“Look at yourselves!” he continued raving, to where Lyanna could feel his spittle on her skin. “Your brother can’t even pull his cock out of a highborn whore, and leaves her instead with a damned Stark bastard—“

“It’s not true!” she suddenly exclaims, her tongue and mind escaping her. It was within her to defend her brother, even now before a Mad King who could have her hung for her insolence. “My brother would not do something so low. He is a Stark—“

“Are you calling me a liar, girl?” he interrupted in a low growl. The warning melts as soon as it touches her heated skin, and slides off into a regret.

“He is a Stark, and he is honorable! Our house has borne kings too, and we are of that line. We are just as noble as you— no, better—“

Sharp nails scratch at the skin of her neck when she finds that the king has wrapped a gnarled hand around her direwolf pendant. It is as if he had pressed upon her throat itself as suddenly her breath and words are torn from her. That is my mother’s, she wants to say. Let it go, it is my mother’s! Yet she is frozen, ice to the king’s dragon fire.

“You have a filthy mouth on you,” he snarls, clutching the necklace tighter so that the chain bit at her skin. “I ought to cut it out. A quiet woman is better than a wailing one.” His words slide off her as they would before. Now all that raced through her mind was her mother’s pendant clutched in his hand, and how she wished to protect it.

She is able to breathe again when he opens his palm, giving the chain some slack again. He was examining it now with narrowed eyes. Lyanna wanted nothing more than to jerk back, push out of her chair, and run away. Just as soon as he let go…

The sudden sting at the back of her neck makes her jump, and though his hand has gone and he has backed away, the familiar weight of her pendant did not rest against her. With panic in her veins, she finds its silver chain threaded through the king’s thin fingers, with his hand wrapped around the direwolf.

“Give it back!” she cries out, unable to bear the sight. She jumps to her feet and reaches for it, but he jerks his hand back so that it is out of reach. Her blood rushed in her ears so that she felt dizzy, but she tried again, jumping forward. She is midstep when two mailed hands clutch her waist and pull her back. When she beats her fists against her assailant she finds her small hands beating against armor, but she does not look behind to see who it is. Her eyes are bleary with tears as they locked onto the pendant still in the king’s hand, and she shouts again, “Give it back to me! It is mine, please—“ Her own emotions choke her into silence, and for a frightening moment she thinks she might cry.

It is only when she bites the inside of her cheek, tasting her own blood, that she wills herself not to. She would not cry before them. Not before the cruel king, not before his icy wife, not before the little prince, and certainly not before her steely husband. She had already done too much by revealing her weakness.

“Do you like loud women, Rhaegar?” the king asks his son, who has not spoken a word, much less stirred in the face of all this. “Say the word and I’ll have that filthy tongue of hers cut out.” He smirks, then gives a short bark of laughter before waving her away. She is dropped to her feet, untouched for only a moment before she is clasped by the elbow and urged away. Yet even as is she dragged out, her eyes are fixed to her silver pendant, which gleamed and beckoned to her until it was out of sight.

She walked in silence, still shocked by the king’s claims and her missing pendant. “I don’t believe him,” she murmurs aloud, half in rage and half in sorrow. “And that is my mother’s necklace, not his. He is a liar and a thief—“

“Such words are treason, your grace,” the knight who held her arm spoke up beside her. Lyanna looks to him with startled eyes, forgetting that he was there. She feels more the fool when she sees it is Ser Arthur Dayne, her favorite knight, and that she should meet him under such horrible circumstances.

“But it is true,” Lyanna insists in return, unable to let her hero worship soften her. “And I do not care if you tell him. Let him cut out my tongue, if it is in defense of my house—“

The knight chuckles, surprising her. His grip on her arm loosens. “You cannot fight dragon fire with more fire, your grace,” he notes sagely.

Lyanna’s frown deepens. “But you cannot fight it with ice either.”

“But ice can endure,” he returns. His eyes are a soft indigo, she realizes, a color caught between blue and purple. In her thoughts she had always thought them brown. “And so shall you, your grace.”

“Endure,” she sniffles bitterly, feeling a warm tear trickle down her cheek. “I was raised to fight,” she mumbles, reaching up with her free hand to wipe at her face.

“As was I. But I must endure too.” Ser Arthur seems to smile at her then, but even its slightness was too bright for her. She looks away, then brings a fluttering hand to the hollow between her collarbones where the pendant once rested, feeling the patch of skin sting as if it had burned her. She felt exposed without it, the one piece of armor she had torn away from her. The one thing left of her house, of her family, of her mother.

When she began to cry softly, Ser Arthur pretended not to notice. Lyanna is glad for it.

Chapter Text

The scene that unraveled at supper had been enough for Rhaegar to go down to his wife’s chambers and speak to her himself about her behavior. He had hoped that she would have been keen enough to hold her tongue when the king began to shout his degradation, but it became quite clear to him that she was not. And while perhaps such an event may have helped to shake her, and perhaps even break her, it became less a matter of tempering her spirit and more of a need to protect her. It seemed to him that she did not understand what was deemed necessary to avoid the king’s torment. While before he had been able to bear watching her make her mistakes, tonight had been a scene of tragedy, one he would not like her to repeat again.

Yet somehow in his urgency to help her to save herself from more misery, a strange sort of irritation overcame him, and he found himself quite frustrated at her. She was too willful, too naive, and her temper was too short. It would not do as a princess, or as a future queen, or as his wife, and it would not do as a good-daughter to a madman. If she wished to find any happiness in King’s Landing, she would have to change. If she wished to have any happiness with him, all of this must be alleviated.

Fool child, he seethes internally, knocking twice on her door. To provoke him like that is not wise, you stupid, stupid girl.

When no answer came, his hand went straight to the doorknob to turn it open. He finds his wife on her bed with her head resting on a fair-haired woman’s shoulder, who was dressed in servant’s garb. The maid quickly rises to her feet, offering a curtsey and a murmured “your grace”. Rhaegar waves his hand dismissively, his eyes on his wife, who seemed equal parts startled and angered.

“Leave us,” he quickly bids the servant, who does as she’s told and departs. Lyanna scoots off the bed to get onto her feet, then smooths the front of her dress. As Rhaegar nears her, he finds her eyes are rimmed red, no doubt from crying. The sight is enough to make Rhaegar sigh before his lips curl into a frown again.

“You cannot behave like that again,” he warns her in a voice that was not yet harsh but not tender either. He being firm, or trying to be. “You must learn to hold your tongue before him. Silence is your best defense.”

Her jaw sets into a familiar stubbornness before she speaks. “Perhaps you can stand to be silent while your family is insulted, but I cannot.”

“Then you will learn to be silent,” Rhaegar returns, his patience wearing thin. Yet he sees that by demanding he can go nowhere. So he runs a hand over his face, and tries again. “Princess, he is not a common lord whom you can find beneath you. He is a king, and he is not to be parried with. Your fate here is very well in his hands; he may do things to you that I would have no power stopping—“

“How can that be?” she returns stiffly, narrowing her red eyes. “Are you not my husband? Didn’t you swear to protect me? If that is true, then you would protect me from him—“

“A reminder, princess,” Rhaegar cuts in sharply. “That some would consider our marriage null considering what we have yet to do.” He sees chew her lower lip at that, and softens. “Regardless, you are right. I am sworn to protect you; but not from him.”

“My brother Brandon would,” Lyanna insists, a new fire in her eyes. “He would fight the king, and even gods themselves for me. And yet he is only a lord, and an heir no longer, and you are a prince, heir to the entire realm, and you will not speak for even your own mother!”

Rhaegar knew some men, perhaps those with shorter tempers, would strike their wives if they grew so unruly. Yet a part of him pitied her, and understood her plight. She could not understand how a family could neglect to protect one another. She did not understand what it was like to live under the tyranny of a cruel patriarch. To Rhaegar, she seemed more a child in that moment than any other before, and one who was much in need of an explanation.

Rhaegar sighed, then reached out to cup her chin. She winces at first, as if he had burned her, but does not squirm away from his touch. Instead she meets his eye boldly, her lower lip stuck out in a pout, and watches him warily.

“There are things you have yet to see, and hear, and understand,” he tells her softly, trying himself to forget some of those things. “You do not know what my father is capable of beyond shouting and tearing necklaces. You do not know how he may harm you without repercussion. As Ser Arthur pulled you way, there are six more Kingsguard knights who can do the same to me if I were half as bold as you.” He does not know if she understands, with her eyes guarded so, but he continues. “Just as I must submit and be silent, so must you. Until you and I are king and queen, we cannot say or do anything against him. Do you understand?” She does not shake her head yes or no, but Rhaegar does not let it frustrate him. “Please, princess, for your own safety and happiness, I’m begging this of you.”

She still does not respond, but Rhaegar senses in the way that her eyes softened that she has understood. He gives her a slight smile and slips his hand from her chin. As he turns to leave, her small hand reaches for his sleeve and gives him pause. He thinks for a hopeful moment that this is it; that she has acquiesced, and soon enough he would be let into her bed. He turns half way towards her, and waits on her words.

“What of my necklace?” she asks, deflating any hope inside him. Perhaps it was asking too much; perhaps none of this was progress at all. “It is my mother’s,” she adds in a smaller voice.

Rhaegar pats her hand lightly. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promises, and it is with lingering hesitation that she lets him go. He turns again to leave her, hoping he had left her in better condition than before he had entered.
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Being in his father’s solar is always a strange experience. There was always a pyromancer on one side of him and a knight on the other, this one being Ser Gerold Hightower, and in the back lingered the spider, admiring his web.

Rhaegar came to him to discuss the matter of replacing Ser Harlan Grandison, who had died in his sleep a couple of moons ago. The replacement had already been decided between Ser Gerold and Rhaegar, but it was always good to make the king feel as if he had a last say in everything.

“Ser Gerold has thought that Jaime Lannister would make for a good Kingsguard knight,” Rhaegar explained to him. “I know he is young, but Ser Gerold sees promise—“

“Ha!” his father barks, grinning madly. “Yes, let’s bring Tywin’s boy. That’ll leave the bastard with only that monster as an heir. It’ll have him grinding his teeth hard enough to cut diamonds!”

Rhaegar nodded. “Ser Jaime has been in the capitol for some time now,” he told him. “I say that when we sup with the court next week, we shall swear him in then too.”

His father grunted his approval, still smiling wickedly at the prospect of discomforting Tywin Lannister. Rhaegar looks quickly to Ser Gerold, who nods. It would be done then.

His eyes now wandered over to the silver pendant on the desk, which he had his eye on since he entered. He could tell that the chain was broken, and would need repairing, but the rest was fine. It glimmered in the sunlight, the silver direwolf practically glowing. He reached for it to dangle before his eyes. It was not heavy, and quite simple.

His father scowls immediately. “You cannot have that,” his father growls, though he didn’t move for it again. “Teach your wife a lesson and perhaps she can have it then.”

Rhaegar pretended to be uninterested, setting the pendant back down on the table. “The lesson has been taught,” he told his father, hoping for it to sound more vicious than what actually unfolded between them.

“You want to reward her?” his father guesses. “Put a child in her. That’s her reward.”

“A latent reward, your grace,” Rhaegar notes with a shrug. “Every sharp lesson ought to be tempered with a reward soon after.”

“Not so,” his father insists in return, if only to be difficult. Rhaegar stays silent, knowing now was the time to do so. Arguing was fruitless when it came to his father. His father’s scowl deepens as he looks upon the pendant, and he flicks it toward his son with an overgrown fingernail. “Take it if you wish. She clearly needs to be tamed. Hold it against her. Make her beg for it.”

Rhaegar reaches for it again, pocketing the pendant without pausing to glance at it. “I shall take your advice, your grace,” he notes, nodding. Lies and lies, but not his father and not even the Spider would know any different. They did not care enough about his relationship with his wife. Only the fruit of it, which still seemed far away.

Perhaps the necklace will help. Or so he hopes.

Chapter Text

Weeks have passed since his brother had wedded Barbrey, yet Ned still cannot fathom how he was to come to terms with his situation. Everything that was his brother had now become his: his birthright, his betrothed, his responsibilities— whether any of that was preferable to wedding Barbrey Ryswell and raising his brother’s son as his own was a debate in of itself, and one he considered often. By this day he would have been Lady Barbrey’s husband for a fortnight. Instead he had become next in line to the seat of the North.

Duty was not something that Ned shied away from. He knew better than all his siblings how to shoulder a burden, no matter the cost to personal happiness. In this he was much unlike Brandon and Lyanna, who so often sought ways to untether themselves from anything that they believed would put a restraint on their desires. Thus it came as no doubt that both of them would have trouble in their marriages.

The evidence, however, was out of sights. Lyanna was thousands of miles away in King’s Landing, and Brandon had run off with his new bride for a meandering honeymoon around the North, with only a letter to make note of his situation. That note was all they had gotten out of him after he ran off with her: twas just a piece of paper with his messy hand briefly explaining how he had married Barbrey before the heart tree. He had signed it as “the former heir to Winterfell”.

When his father had shown him the paper, Ned had gritted his teeth and almost cursed his brother. He wanted to rage as his brother so famously did, but it was not in him. He was not Brandon. Just as he had been willing to quietly shoulder his other burden, he would do the same with this one.

But now he sat at his writing desk, a blank piece of parchment before him, rolling a quill between his fingers. His father had suggested he write to Catelyn Tully, for this to be an introduction of sorts until they finally met. He knew his brother had been lazy with his correspondences with his future bride, with more letters coming in from Riverrun than going out, and he did not want to do the same. He was not Brandon.

That is right, he laments with a frown. I am not Brandon.

He could only imagine the girl’s disappointment. The man Lady Catelyn met was tall, handsome, charming. He was muscled and strong, dashing and confident, wild in the way that girls liked and men feared. Ned was plain. There was nothing else to say on that matter.

It may have been an easier draught to swallow had the lady not been beautiful herself. Ned saw the portraits and heard Brandon’s praises; she was by all accounts a lovely woman to behold. A woman so stunning deserved a husband to complement her in this. Ned could not do that. He also could not ride like Brandon, or fight like him, or be brave like him. He could not speak as plainly or as sweetly, he could not laugh as loud or smile as broad. None of what coursed through Brandon’s blood with all fury, that wolf blood as his father called it, existed in him. Ned was as calm and flat as a placid lake and just as uninspiring.

Ned tapped the now dried tip of the quill onto the wood with anxiety. He knew that Lady Catelyn would think when she looked upon him. He could already taste the bitterness of her dejection, could imagine the disheartened storm that would brew in her bright blue eyes. She would look into his face to find some trace of his striking brother only to come away with nothing but the shade of their eyes, and maybe their hair. And perhaps as she searched further, she could help herself by closing her eyes to imagine someone taller, broader slipping into her bed on their wedding night to do his duty by her.

He could not blame her if she did. He would not even become disheartened if she whispered Brandon’s name instead of his own.

Grinding his teeth at his fate was hopeless. He was still the second son, after all; no title could change that. He would always live in the shadow of the eldest.

Ned heaved a sigh and set the quill down. There was no point in writing her; it would only be a premature disappointment. He would wait until they met face-to-face, as it would be no more impressive than words on parchment.

He suddenly wished to return to the Vale and spend a few more years there. Jon Arryn’s holds had been the greatest comfort while he was away from home; with little keeping him in Winterfell, he was bound to nothing but his own duties to his guardian and his father, though from afar. But just as Robert was finally leaving the Vale to rule over the Stormlands, Ned would have to do the same in the North.

Still, the memory of the Vale brought a smile to his lips. He thinks his experience there was only as half as good as it was thanks to Robert. Yes, he had learned many lessons and wisdoms from the older Jon Arryn, but it was Robert who had been his staunch companion. In many ways, the storm lord and his older brother were much the same: handsome, reckless, and above all, charming. But where Ned had shrunk under Brandon’s shadow, Robert tried to push him into the light. If Robert was talking to a girl, he’d nudge Ned to do the same, though whatever words slipped out of his mouth would be stuttering and awkward. If Robert was sparring with some men, he’d shout for Ned to come and join them. They were as close as brothers, the two of them, closer than Ned and Brandon were.

Thus, when his father wrote him of a suggested match between Lyanna and Robert, Ned had been quite excited. He had predicted that his wild sister would have been able to tame Robert as he sought to keep up with her. No doubt love would have grown between the two of them. It would have been a wonderful match, had things gone to plan. Yet, it seemed little had been going thus lately.

It was only now, as he dwelled on the matter in retrospect, did it occur to Ned that he might have been too idealistic. Robert was a man who enjoyed company, though none more than that of a woman’s. For a man built like a bull, it was a woman’s soft flesh that was his greatest weakness. That, and drink, but he would take a woman over a pitcher of ale any day. He could not deny that he had beheld Robert’s bastard with his own eyes, rocked her in his arms and watched her gurgle for her father. Lyanna was only a girl; she could have done little to temper so fierce an appetite.

It seems my father is not so wise when it comes to his children’s happiness, Ned notes with a hint of sorrow. He understood what his father was doing with all of these alliances, finding them to be of paramount importance. And perhaps a match between House Stark and House Baratheon would have been the last strike of the iron to craft the beginnings of war. With so many strong houses behind the campaign, their chances of overthrowing the Mad King would have been formidable. But since Lyanna has wed the prince, and lives in King’s Landing at the king’s mercy, such an effort would no longer be wise.

Then we do not need an alliance, Ned reminds himself. Perhaps we can call this all off. We do not need House Tully any longer; there is no point…

But Ned would not be so bold as to tell his father that. With bitterness a metallic taste in his mouth, Ned crumpled the piece of parchment before him between his hands. He would do as he’s been told, as he always did.

Chapter Text

Her goodmother was an intimidating figure from the outside. She had a severe sense of regalness about her, as if everything had a certain way of being done, and if it is not carried out in that fashion, then she would make her distaste known. Lyanna supposed one got such an aura by being queen for so long, and to a cruel king. She shivers to imagine that this may one day be her fate.

Still, such judgement was not fair. The queen was not unkind to her. Even now, when Lyanna had abandoned the fruitless embroidery to sit with Viserys on the floor, the queen did not scold her. She asked many questions though, giving her tight smiles as she executed each one.

“Are you happy here?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Is my son good to you?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“How do you find the court? Are you learning it well?”

“It is fine, your grace. I am trying.”

Though Lyanna had always been a good liar, able to fool even her own father in most matters, something about the queen’s lingering glances seemed to indicate that she read through all of her words. She did not try to think too long on this, as the queen did not chastise her for her fibs. After each question she turned back to Viserys, who seemed much less judgmental.

He had begun this sitting with his blocks, pushing them towards her and telling her to stack them up high. “Higher!” he would cry, even when it was above his head. Lyanna complied with a smile, happy to see the glee in his face. When it had been stacked to his liking, he would give a wicked grin and pushed it over, giggling with delight as they all loudly fell to the floor. The first time had come as a surprise, and Lyanna had ducked and flinched as to not get hit. Every time after that, she had laughed with him.

He grew bored of this quickly, as children were wont to do, and instead found some well-crafted wooden models of a town, complete with houses, a smithery, and a market. Once she had helped him set it up, he pulled out a brown lacquer dragon statuette from his pocket and began to mime destroying the small village. Lyanna did not participate much in this one, as he did not have another dragon for her, but she clapped for him whenever he turned his light purple eyes toward her, expecting such a reward. For his strained surroundings, he truly was a darling child. Beautiful, too. He had fluffy silver hair that framed his slim face and a wicked little smile that would crinkle his button nose.

When Viserys began attacking a poor man’s cart of cabbages, the queen asked her another question. “Your mother died when you were young, did she not?” It had been a sudden question, spoke to a different tune from before. The queen eyed her just the same as before however, with her clear sharp eyes focused upon her.

“Yes, your grace, she did,” Lyanna returned with a frown. It was not a memory she had liked revisiting. She had only been five when the fever took her; she hardly knew her. Yet now her throat burned in a small patch, where her stolen necklace once lied. Her hand flutters there, pressing as if to dissipate the pain.

“Mine did as well,” the queen returns, almost as a consolation. “But I was not without a woman’s guidance. I had septas, and nurses, and other ladies, women who would teach me lessons on being a princess and a lady. Did you have anything similar?”

“No, your grace,” Lyanna replied. “I had only an old woman who liked to tell us stories.” Sweet Old Nan and her knitting needles and toothless smile. Whenever father wanted a lesson to be passed onto her, he would make the old woman tell her different variations of story about a naughty girl who refused to be a lady and somehow met an unfortunate end. Though she certainly cared for her charges, Lyanna would not call that a “woman’s guidance”.

“Us?” the queen asks, arching a brow. “You mean you and your brothers?”

“Yes.”

“And you are close to them?”

“Yes.” Lyanna furrowed her brows. The mention of her brothers only makes her think back to Brandon, and of the night she lost her necklace by denying the king’s criticism. She wondered where these questions would lead; she turned her gaze back to Viserys who pouted at her with his hands on his hips.

“Lyanna, I destroyed the village!” he exclaimed with a huff, indicating with a point of the dragon’s snout the destruction he wreaked upon the poor hamlet. “The dragon won!”

Lyanna gives the boy a smile and claps for him, her heart swelling when the young boy cracked a grin of his own and tilted his chin up proudly.

“Perhaps you cannot be blamed, then, for your inexperience,” the queen suddenly speaks up again, her voice chilly. “You are a lady with no women who taught her how to be one.”

Though Viserys was tugging at her wrists to help him set up the village again, Lyanna takes pause to look back to the queen with a frown upon her lips. “Pardon, your grace?” she asked, baffled.

“You may have gotten away without proper lessons in the North, but you are a princess now,” the queen reminds her with her hands still and folded in her lap atop the shirt she was making. “One day you shall be queen. If you cannot mingle with the court, learn to befriend lords and ladies, and do what is expected of you, then you shall not be well-loved once you take my place.”

Lyanna licked her dry lips. She did not like taking lessons from this cold woman; she did not like being told to act like a lady either, but that was neither here nor there.

“Your job as princess is much simpler now, but if you can learn some of these matters before you take the throne, you will find your job as queen less difficult,” the queen goes on to explain. “And of course, if you obey your husband, and do your duty by him by giving him heirs, you may earn his respect. Such a thing could make your days as a ruler much easier.”

Lyanna bites her lip to keep from saying anything rash. A part of her wants to tell the queen that she had no interest in being a proper princess, or a good queen, and that she would not stoop so low as to succumb to being her son’s broodmare. Respect me? she wants to retort. Is it me he will respect or my womb?

Instead, Lyanna lowers her gaze to her lap in a pose that she hoped made her seem as if she were taking the queen’s words to heart. She remains solemn in this gesture until Viserys sits cross-legged before her, their knees touching and his little hands tugging at her fingers.

“Come on, Lyanna,” he urges of her, pouting impressively.

“Lyanna,” her name passes the queen’s lips almost tenderly, forcing her to look at her to again to be sure that such softness truly came from her. Indeed, her iciness seemed to have melted away, and her light purple eyes were oddly warm. “Do not think yourself alone in this. Should you have any questions, I would be glad to answer them. But you must make the first effort.”

Lyanna parts her lips, wanting to quickly comply, but it cut off by the door opening. The queen rises to her feet, but Lyanna remains on the floor with Viserys, who had given up trying to make her play and just held her hands. But even he jumps up when he sees who enters, and with a smile upon his lips.

Lyanna looks to the figure in the doorway surprised to see that it is Rhaegar. It was rare that she would see him before supper, and more odd that he had sought her out. She rises as well, however slowly, watching as Viserys runs up to his older brother and tugs on his hand.

“Rhaegar!” he exclaims excitedly. “Look, Lyanna and I destroyed—“

“Viserys, my love, come now,” his mother interrupts reaching a hand out to him. “Let us go.”

The boy lets out a whine of disappointment but complies with his mother, taking her hand. Lyanna notices the squeeze that she gives Rhaegar’s arm before leaving, a little sign of motherly love.

Once they are alone and the door had shut behind them, Rhaegar reaches into his pocket and puts out a silver pendant. Lyanna gasps, recognizing that it was hers and swiftly reaches for it. He pulls it just out of her grasp, and pins her with a hard look.

“You shall promise to hold your tongue before him?” he asks her. She nods immediately, too excited to properly respond. With this affirmation, he lowers the necklace into her beckoning palm, his fingertips brushing hers lightly as he did.

Lyanna examines it in her hand for some sign of damage, but she finds none. It is as she had gotten it, though perhaps even more polished than she recalled. Her hands shake as she moves to clasp it about her neck, and she misses her mark more than once before it takes. Its cool, familiar weight upon her skin makes her sigh, half with relief and half with delight. It was back again, her mother was back.

Rhaegar assesses her silently, awaiting some response. Lyanna knew she ought to thank him, yet a stubborn lump in her throat prevents her from doing so. She looks up into his dark purple eyes instead, and waits for him to say something first.

He clears his throat before he does. “The chain had been broken, but I had it repaired,” he explained, shifting his weight to his other foot. “You should find it in good condition.”

Lyanna nodded, and looked down at it again. It looked even better than before, though she would not admit it. A few more moments passed together in silence before Rhaegar turns to leave. As he turns the doorknob, the words finally escape her lips.

“Thank you,” she says in a voice barely above a whisper. It embarrassed her that he had done this for her; it embarrassed her that she had to show gratitude. Yet she was not heartless; he had done her a favor. The least she could do was thank him.

He pauses, looking back to meet her eye again, that intense, melancholy gaze attempting to bare her soul. She put her defenses up, raising her chin a little higher. He does something strange then: he steps toward her, leaving little space between their bodies, and look down straight into her eyes. He is close enough to feel his breath on her lips; she tenses, discomforted by the sudden proximity. Then he nods, gives a slight smile, and leaves her, gone as quick as he came.

A breath she had been holding in leaves her body in a rush. She was always more relaxed when he was not around.

Chapter Text

Elia watched as Doran unfolded the letter, his sharp dark eyes darting across the parchment. It had been closed with the royal seal, and thus he found it of import that his family heard its contents as soon as it arrived. Elia had a feeling that it was not from the king, however, but from the silver Prince of Dragonstone. Somehow the thought delighted her.

When her brother set the letter down, the rest sat in waiting silence. It seemed to Elia that Mellario had read along with her husband, standing behind his seat as she was, and her bright eyes met Elia’s with a knowing glance.

“The prince requests a visit to Sunspear,” Doran explains, drumming his arthritic fingers against the wood of his writing desk. “As a matter of diplomacy.”

“He wants us to go crawling back to the crown’s side,” Oberyn immediately quips from across the room. He had his arms crossed over his chest as he sneered, clearly displeased with the implication. “He’ll put on his charm and play his little harp for us till we forgive his foolishness.”

Elia frowns, not sharing his sentiments. “I say we let him come,” she insists, throwing her younger brother a warning glance. “It was not his decision, after all. No doubt he regrets his father’s actions and wishes to ensure peace in his realm.”

“It is too soon,” Oberyn returns, as quick as a whip. “Let the spineless prince squirm in his keep a little longer. There is no need for us to seem as if we are quick to forgive.”

“Oberyn,” Elia sighs, tired of arguing with him already. She had been exhausted since she woke up, in fact, and her brother’s stubbornness was only making matters worse. “It was I who was insulted, and I have forgiven him. I would like him very much to visit, to speak with him and assure him that Dorne is on his side—“

“We are not on his side!” he snaps back, assuming a wide stance, as if he would take out his spear and wield it. “To be on his side is to be on the side of the mad king’s; that is not something we ought to be doing, not at the expense of your name.”

Elia presses her lips together tightly. While her enraged younger brother kept her level gaze without flinching, her elder brother sighed and stood up.

“Oberyn is right,” Doran says. “We cannot allow the prince a visit yet. We must show solidarity a little longer.”

Elia’s shoulders slump, defeated. She sees Oberyn nod contentedly in the corner of her eye. This pleases him; he would keep any man away from her. With a swish of her skirts, Elia turns to leave. Her elder brother had made his decision, and she was in no position, or spirit, to fight it.

She went past the Water Gardens, feeling too frail to sit in the sun and watch the children play, and all the way up to her room. She did not know what she was to accomplish in here, other than rest. In the middle of her room was a table set up for cyvasse, which she could use to practice alone, but had no need to. Her writing desk had a written but unsent letter to Ashara requesting that she come to Dorne, as she had missed her friend dearly. On her nightstand was the book she was currently reading, suggested to her by Oberyn: An Interpretation of Dreams, which was originally a book from Pentos written in Bastard Valyrian, and translated by her brother into the Common Tongue. She could do any of these things, but her feet carried her worn body to the bed instead, where she laid her head down on the cool pillow.

It came as an unsettling reminder how often she had lain in bed like this, her body tired but her mind racing, playing out all sorts of scenarios. Many times it had been thoughts of her suitors, and how she and Oberyn would plan to scare them away. Most recently, it had been visions of Rhaegar, his silver locks interspersed with her black ones on a crimson silk pillow in the Red Keep.

Elia was no romantic. She had never been the sort to sigh over the thought of a gallant knight sweeping her away on his white horse. She had always been practical, realistic. She knew that she would not necessarily marry for love, that her hand was as much a tool as an army was. In fact, the construct of marriage had not been what had appealed to her. The fruits of it, however, did. Respect, admiration, equality, recognition of her intelligence; to receive this from a husband interested her greatly. As did children, of course, many children. If she could not have love, she wanted a man who could grant her all this with grace.

Thus, when she first laid her sharp eyes on Rhaegar Targaryen, she knew he would be able to fulfill these desires of hers. And unlike most other girls who dreamed of him, never did she envision herself in some enveloping romance with him, of a life filled with pure love and passion. Fondness she might have expected, but never love; nay, a part of her knew from the start that no great love would blossom between her and the prince. But all the things that mattered, the understanding and the respect, the trust and communication— those she had been sure the gentle prince could give her.

And of course, like any woman, she had her fantasies of his strong body against hers in bed, where they would do more than just try at children. But such passion was of the body, and did not triumph over that of her soul.

The prince was well and married now, and thus she had hoped that her thoughts of him would end. Surely, there were other men in the world who could inspire her to marriage as Rhaegar did. It was only that she had spent many years waiting, and such a man had only come along once, only to be lost to her again.

Hours pass as Elia tried to cool her head. The sun begins to set outside her window, giving the pools in the Water Gardens a soft red glow. Perhaps if she were up to it tomorrow, she could swim with her nieces. She had not done so in a while.

The door to her room creaks open, allowing some of the candlelight from outside to peek in, softly illuminating her room. Elia sits up straight in curiosity, before relaxing her form when she sees who it is. The outline of Oberyn’s body was an easy one for her to spot. The tall and slender shadow walks in, his face in darkness until he is near. He sits on the edge of her bed before swinging his legs up on top, and leans back against her headboard.

She wants to chastise her brother for his earlier words, but the fire simply is not there. He had only been looking out for her, as he always had.

She falls back onto pillows, relaxed now that he was there. They sat in silence for some time, Elia’s hand finding his and squeezing it. One bright spot in the aftermath of her broken betrothal is that she did not have to part from Oberyn. She loved her brother dearly, and he loved her.

“I’m leaving,” he tells her plainly, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles. Elia frowns; though she understands his meaning, knows that he would be gone for a while but would surely return, she does not want him to go.

“Must you?” she asks softly.

“I am restless,” Oberyn explains, and that was explanation enough. It was in his nature to be restless. “And I sense that our brother shall allow Rhaegar into Dorne soon enough. I do not want to be here when he comes.”

“Why not?” she asks with a quirk of her eyebrow.

“I cannot trust myself to behave while he is here,” he says with a nearly imperceptible smirk. “I’m sure our brother shall be glad to see me gone when he arrives. One less worry to rub his temples over.”

Elia gives a chuckle. “I will miss you,” she confesses. He raises her knuckles to his lips as wordless reciprocation of the sentiment. “Where shall you go now?” Oberyn was the adventurous sort, and has already had many wild and strange escapades under his belt. It was custom for him to tell her of his deeds each time he returned, and they rarely reflected what he had told her from before he left.

Oberyn gives a shrug. “I may return to the Citadel again, and resume my studies,” he offers. Elia doubts this is true; he had already forged several master’s links, and she does not think he’ll want to repeat what he has already done. “Perhaps I shall go back to the Free Cities, see what I had missed.”

“Never have I heard of a man who returns to his place of exile,” Elia teases, smiling. “Yet, wherever you do go, dear brother, I am certain of one thing.”

This sparks his curiosity, and he lowers his dark eyes to meet hers. They gleam, and without the help of candlelight. “And what is that?” he asks of her.

“You shall return with more scars and yet another daughter.”

He laughs the sort of laugh he shares only with her, the sound bright and cheery. Yet somehow she is turned melancholy all of a sudden, and she turns her cheek to the pillows, avoiding his inquisitive eyes. Oberyn noticed the change immediately, but knew better than to lure the explanation out of her. She would share it on her own.

“I do love your children, brother, and Doran’s too,” she tells him, the very thought of her nieces and nephew making her smile. “Yet I long for a child of mine own.” Her brother does not respond to this right away, which surprises her. She thinks for a moment she may have a struck a sorrowful chord with him, that she has upset him deeper than she intended. To bring light back into his dark face, she gives Oberyn a cheeky pinch in his side and says, “It is your fault I am unmarried. Thanks to you, I have rejected every suitor that has crossed my sight.”

“Then you would have had Baelor Breakwind be the father of your children?” Oberyn returns, teasing. He is smiling, and Elia cannot help but smile too at the memory of her previous suitors. Some had been fat, some thin, some handsome some ugly, some quiet and some loud. Regardless, her brother would find an unkind nickname for each and every one: Lord Lazyeye, Squire Squishlips, the Whale That Walks. As soon as her brother found a fault she would find herself unable to see anything but that. A childish thing to do, for sure, but then she had been very much a girl and the trip from city to city had been more exciting for her than these desperate lords. She did now pity some of these men; no doubt they wondered until this day why she kept botching their names and laughing in their presence.

“Rhaegar is not the last man in the world,” Oberyn reminds her soberly, giving a squeeze of her fingers. “Not that he is deserving of you, not anymore. Not him, and not any other man who asked for your hand before him. You know that.”

She gives a hum, which she hopes he’ll translate as agreement. Inwardly, however, she thinks, I would have him anyways. Elia loved her brothers, loved that they found her to be so valuable and irreplaceable. She knew she was lucky in this. For a second, her mind strays to Lyanna Stark, and her brothers, wonders if they had thought the same thing when she had been wedded to Rhaegar.

It made no difference now. Elia closes her eyes, then gives a doleful sigh. She squeezes Oberyn’s fingers once more, before she gave her body up to the exhaustion she had been plagued with all day.

“Be safe,” she whispers to him right before she is all but gone. The last thing she feels is the brush of his lips on her cheek, then the sweet heaviness of slumber blanketing her.

Chapter Text

Lyanna would have given her lifeblood if meant she could feel less lonely.

The capitol, as she had always suspected, was a cold and difficult place. She felt that there was not a genuine soul in all of it save for Jude and the children. And it was not for lack of trying that she had no friends, since it seemed that being with her ladies-in-waiting only seemed to increase her sense of alienation. To sit among the court as the only northwoman, and a princess no less, made her more an object of whispers than human contact. She felt always as if she were being observed, studied, and judged.

Though she had been content with Jude’s warmth in the beginning, after those first few moons she found herself increasingly dispirited. To always be alone, even harboring that feeling when she was with her ladies, had affected her. Lyanna felt as if the life were leaving her, evaporating under the oppressive heat. And as she continued to suffer the king’s berating, as well as receive letters from her family that were written carefully, void of any personal details (as, what Lyanna concluded, was a precaution in case their letters were ever read by someone other than her), Lyanna felt it would have been easier to resign herself to her bed until she simply wasted away.

No one here would miss her.

At least, that had been her initial feeling. She found her first noble companion in an unusual place: by the queen’s side.

Viserys Targaryen, all of six years old, was a mostly sweet, unassuming boy. What had begun as simply playing together whenever she was alone with the queen had developed into something of a love for this little boy. When she found herself finished with the bare minimum of her duties, she would seek him out. He was an easy person to find; one had only to inquire as to the queen’s location to find him.

The first time had been an accident. The queen had asked her to watch him for a little while as she settled some matter with the king. She had spent those few hours playing any game that crossed the boy’s mind, fulfilling all his requests, even those that a passive septa had clucked was “not very princely”, and indulging his fantasies. If he wished to play a knight and to cast her as the damsel, she complied. If he wished for it to be the other way around, Lyanna would do that too. She did not think she would enjoy her time with a child as much as she did with Viserys. To be sure, she had always had fun with Benjen when they were but tots, and even as they grew older. But that had been her brother by blood. Viserys was her goodbrother, and a Targaryen too.

But he was unlike the rest of his family. He was still young, pure, eager. He still smiled kindly, laughed loudly, and was unafraid to show affection. Some of the hours that Lyanna would spirit him away for would be spent with him in her lap as she read to him, giggling whenever she leaned down to press kisses to his fair face.

Day after day, Lyanna would find the boy at his mother’s side and request that she take care of him. The queen would always comply, though not without marked hesitation. After three weeks of this, it was Viserys who would seek her out, accompanied by a member of the Kingsguard.

She was with him now, the two of them in the prince’s playroom which was adjacent to his bedchambers. They had been playing a game of keep-away, where one of them would walk around blindfolded as the searched for the other. She had let him win the first few times, enjoying the way he laughed whenever she feigned a squeal of surprise when he would lay his hands on her. When it was her turn to find him, she would walk around on her knees, wildly flailing her arms in an exaggerated effort to search for him. This made him laugh too, making it easier to find him.

“Got you!” she cried out, pulling the squealing boy onto her lap. She lifted her blindfold to look upon his face, which displayed a smile that shone as bright as polished gold. She cannot help but draw him into her arms for a hug, forgetting for the time being that it had been her first embrace since her family left the capitol for Winterfell.

He settled sweetly into her arms, accepting the affection for some moments before he gave a gasp and wriggled. Something had caught his eye behind her; she lets him free, then turns around.

The queen stood in the doorway, her thin lips pressed into a hard line. There was nothing kind about her today, nothing tender. She looked cold, and harsh, and frightening.

“Your grace,” Lyanna whispers, pulling the blindfold off her forehead.

“What are you doing here?” The queen asks sharply, fire in her voice. “Shouldn’t you be with the court?”

Lyanna rises stiffly, then lays a hand on Viserys’s head. “The prince and I were playing, your grace. I may sit with the court later.”

The queen narrows her eyes. She does not like her response. But this was not the usual queen, Lyanna realized. There in her lavender eyes sparkled what every Targaryen was said to have: that streak of madness.

“Enough playing with the prince,” she commands between gritted teeth. She seemed frazzled somehow, with her usually perfectly pinned hair bearing some fly-aways. “You have played with him every day now for night on a moon’s turn.” When her eyes fall on her son, who stood shifted from foot to foot in anxiousness, her gaze suddenly becomes softer, tenderer, and there is a quivering smile on her lips. “Viserys, my love, come with mother now. She has missed you very much.”

The boy looks to his mother, then his goodsister, and back to his mother again. “I want to keep playing,” he insists to her, inching a little closer to Lyanna.

The mood in the room shifts entirely, and Lyanna can feel it. Had she been made of weaker stuff, she might have trembled against it. In the queen’s eyes there is horror and sorrow along side that glimmer of madness. There is an unspeakable pain. Yet, in the selfish corner of her heart, Lyanna wishes to protest. The prince had served as her only acceptable companion; she did not want him to go.

“He is having fun, your grace,” she tries boldly. “Why must he go?”

The queen’s visage becomes hard again. “Why?” she scoffs, a cruel smile on her lips. “Because he is my son, that’s why. Because he is mine, he is the only person who belongs to me. You shall not play with him so often anymore.” She steps forward, reaching a hand out to Viserys, who takes it with much hesitation. As soon as his hand is in hers, however, she turns on her heel, dragging her son with her. “Go and do your duty,” she hisses shakily over her shoulder, the last words she hears before she is completely out of sights.

Lyanna’s heart sinks. Just like that, the capitol has robbed her of yet another thing.
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“Oh, Lorena, what wonderful news!”

Her ladies-in-waiting were trilling over some news that Lorena Rosby— no, Pyle now, she had wed— has imparted. Lyanna had missed the announcement, her mind still trying to recover from the day’s earlier events. No doubt it had to do with Lorena’s new husband, whom she had wed about a moon’s turn ago. Lyanna did not care to hear it. They would keep talking and talking and forget to include her, as always. And also per the usual, the court would bustle around her, few ever making contact, most of them whispering and staring.

I am like an animal for show, Lyanna thinks bitterly, trying her best not to become upset. A prized broodmare. Viserys had treated her like a person, had wanted nothing from her but her company. Jude too enjoyed her company, but it did not go unignored by Lyanna that she was required to.

“Princess,” Lorena calls to her, and Lyanna passively grants her some attention. “Would that please you?”

Lyanna blinks, baffled. “Would what please me?” she asks. She had not been listening.

“If my child is a daughter, I would wish to name her after you.” There is a blush to her plain face, as if she were shy to admit it.

The note, however, shocks her. “You… you are with child?” Lyanna asks stupidly. Her ladies exchange looks, and nod in near unison. Lyanna imagines the sight of a baby daughter in Lorena’s arms, named for her. Or perhaps a son, a babe that would please his father. He would be small, and sweet, and sit with them at the table. For some reason her heart twists in her chest, and it felt as if there was no air in her lungs. Lyanna parts her lips, but no noise comes out. Taken aback, she only nods.

“Your blessing means a lot, your grace.” Lorena smiles at her, then places a hand over the flat of her stomach. “It is an exciting time for Gavin and I, as you will surely know one day.”

One day. Lyanna nods, then looks to a rosebush to her right, the reds dappled against the green as it all blurred together. For some reason, she her mind’s ears are treated to the sound of Rhaella Targaryen, hissing my son.
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Jude hums a song by her ear as she pulls the covers over her. It is late at night, hours after she had gotten into bed. She cannot rest. Lyanna’s mind has ventured as far as the edge of sleep, but something keeps her awake. Jude notices, and rubs her arm soothingly, as if she could wipe the thoughts away.

“My princess is tired,” Jude says softly, a smile in her voice. “But tomorrow shall be another day. It may be brighter too; but you must sleep to find out.”

Lyanna turns her face to look up at her maid, who began to smooth away the hair from her face. She is gentle, her lowborn friend, and kind too. She would not judge her. “Jude,” she whispers, trying to ward off sleep.

“Yes, princess?”

“I want a babe.” The confession slips past her lips but does not disappear into the night. It lingers, weighs on her chest, makes her pulse quicken. There is true purpose to those words, too much for it to simply go away.

“That is something you ought to tell your lord husband, princess, not me,” Jude tells her, still smiling.

I know, Lyanna would say aloud if she had the energy. But then I would break my own promise. I had said my body shall never be his, never.

Yet the purpose that had stirred in her heart was stronger than the promise she had made in her mind. As she closed her eyes, she felt that promise fall away, replaced with the strongest wish she had ever known. Comfort, companionship, something that belonged to her, as the queen had said. Viserys was the queen’s only joy in this pit of vipers.

Lyanna wanted joy too. Lyanna wanted a child to call her own.

Chapter Text

Lysa twists her fingers into her nightgown to try to stop from shaking. If she had any doubts before, they had all been scattered. It was true, it was real, and she had to find a way to fix it.

She stands up from the chamberpot that she had just vomited in. She had done this every morning for a fortnight now, and it had been over a moon’s turn that she had missed her moon’s blood. When it had been late, Lysa had thought nothing of it. When it didn’t come at all, she knew what it meant.

She thought many a time to write to Petyr, to tell him that she carried his child. Even though he was not allowed to see her, on account of his banishment, Lysa’s love went past that. She wanted to tell him that she carried his babe, that she was glad to carry it, that she wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything else, even more than being Ser Jaime’s wife. It was Petyr’s wife she wished to be now, and she thinks may have always wished it. Perhaps if she wrote all of that then Petyr would come back to Riverrun, steal her out of her bed at night, and the two could escape to freedom together. Just her, Petyr, and their little babe.

It was an impossible dream, yet once that visited her every night. Lysa knew she must do something soon, that she must tell someone. Soon enough it would be too obvious to hide.

Lysa considered her options. She could tell Cat, she supposed, as she was her sister and dearest friend. But Cat was in no spirits to hear more grave news. When father returned and confirmed the words in his letters, her sister had all but sobbed. Even when Lysa tried to embrace her sister, to comfort her, she had pushed her away and insisted she be left alone. Lysa was not hurt by her repelling. She understood what it was like to lose the person she loved.

Oh, Petyr! He had been so sweet and kind, but that awful Stark boy had been the one to make him leave. To think that she had thought him handsome enough to be envious of her sister. Nay, Brandon Stark had been entirely ugly as he cut down from her Petyr’s face and across his chest. An ugly man who left an ugly scar.

Poor Petyr had been so upset. No one would visit him except for Lysa, not even Cat, whom he had loved like a sister. He had been so sad when he made love to her that night before he left, so sad that he called her Cat. Even bandaged from face to torso her Petyr had shone that night. The night they made their little babe.

She places a hand over the flat of her stomach, trying to feel for the life there. Father would know what to do, Lysa assures herself and her babe. You shall be father and I’s little secret. But perhaps it won’t have to be. Perhaps upon hearing his daughter’s tale, Hoster Tully may write to Petyr himself and demand he come and wed Lysa. Her heart cannot help but flutter at the prospect.

With this fantasy playing as the wind against her back, Lysa scurries to her father’s solar. In her excitement, she does not think to knock. She hurriedly opens the door, and finds her father inside discussing some matter with their steward.

Her fathers frowns at her unbidden entrance, but he does not scold her. He has only been back but a couple of days, and he has missed his daughters to much to start shouting at them.

Lysa looks anxiously between the steward and her father. “I have something to tell you, father,” she says shyly, trying to avoid his eyes.

Her father only nods, then motions for her to sit down. Lysa obeys, and sits patiently as he continues speaking with his steward. They were speaking of how many casks of ale, wine, and beer they must order, of how many chambers must be prepared, of penning invitations. It was all matters of Cat’s wedding. Lysa sat silently through it, but not patiently. She wrung her hands over her skirts as she awaited her opportunity to speak.

When the steward leaves, father pours wine into his goblet. He raises it to his lips, eyes on the red liquid and not her. Lysa waits until he had downed his drink, and his gaze falls on her.

“Well?” Hoster questions, raising a quizzical brow.

Lysa parts her lips and keeps them like for that some time. How could she confess it? She had to be careful, considerate. She had to—

“I’m pregnant, father,” Lysa blurts out, hot tears stinging her eyes as the weight of her situation falls on her. “Oh, papa, I’m so scared—“

His goblet comes down with a slam, red wine spilling over his desk. “You are what?” he asks, shock and anger conflicting in his face. “Lysa, now is not the time to jape so,” he growls, though it is clear in his eyes that he knows it is no jape.

Lysa can do little but burst into tears. They fall down warm over her cheeks, tasting salty on her lips as she begins to blubber, “I’m pregnant, papa, I’m with child, with a child…” She does not know how long she sobs before her father grips her shoulders and shakes her.

“Who is it?” he growls, rattling her hard enough to force her to stop crying. Even through the bleary film of her vision she sees the anger blazing in her father’s blue eyes. “Who’s child is it?”

Lysa licks her salty lips, fearing to say the name. She did not want him to get hurt. She did not want him to have any trouble. But the girlish dreamer inside her hoped that her father asked the question so he may hurry up and wed her. “Petyr,” she confesses softly, looking for her hopes to be confirmed in her father’s face.

His jaw visibly sets as his fingers dug into her thin shoulders. “That boy,” he hisses, clearly livid. “He has brought us nothing but trouble. Damn him! How could you let him do this to you, you stupid girl?” He begins to shake her again until she begins to feel as nauseous as she did this morning. “Have you no care for your honor? Have you no shame?”

“I love him papa,” she squeaks, burying her face in her hands. “I love him! I do!” She looks up to find him still red with anger. “Won’t you write him to come back?” she asks hopefully, tearfully. “Won’t you demand that he wed me?”

Wed you?” her father retorts, his eyes narrowing. “And bring that boy back to Riverrun when our Cat is getting married?” He shakes his head sternly. “Even if he hadn’t acted like a fool I would not have him wed you. He is practically lowborn; bringing him here had been a favor I won’t repeat.” With a wave of his hand, his dismisses the idea entirely. Lysa feels her heart sink down into the pit of her roiling, growing stomach.

“What…” Lysa rasps before licking her lips. It felt as if the whole world had slowed down, shrunk to just her father, herself, and her baby. “What shall I do?” The thought of raising the babe without Petyr frightened her. Who would care for him with her? Who would play with him, proudly carry him around the castle, sleep with him between the two of them? She would do it alone, if she must. And surely Cat would help—

“Gods help me,” Hoster grunts, rubbing his hand over his face. “I cannot say. But I shall make a decision soon.” His sharp blue eyes rest on her, making Lysa’s skin crawl. “Leave me for now. Go and pray that the gods forgive your sin, and that they will find you a husband who would not find you distasteful.”

Lysa swallowed the lump in her throat and rose on shaking legs. The room seemed to be spinning before her eyes; as she tries to leave, she finds herself resting on the doorframe, feeling tired, so tired.

“Whatever you do,” her father warns from his seat. She can feel his harsh gaze boring into her back. “Do not dare tell anyone. Not Catelyn, not Edmure, not your septa, and not Petyr Baelish. You will keep your lips sealed.”

“Yes father,” Lysa whispers, looking down at her shaking hands. Not Petyr. She felt as if she would vomit anew. Her Petyr, the love of her life, would not wed her. He would not raise their child with her. Her father would not allow her this happiness.

I will name him after you, Lysa promises in hopes that the words may somehow reach him. I swear I will.
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A few days later, her father and the maester find her in her bedchambers. It is not yet evening, but Lysa had already begun praying. She had been so tired after all, and so worried. Carrying a child had been such a trying task, and she found herself wanting nothing more but to go the bed early.

She gives an awkward curtsey to the maester, backing away from the door to let the two in. After a motion from her father, she shuts the door behind them, and stands stiffly at it.

“Your father tells me that you’ve been suffering from pains lately,” the old maester says with an almost warm smile, one Lysa cannot trust. He holds a cup of some liquid, she notices, and steam rises out from the top of it. “I have brought you something to ease them.” He brings the cup forward, and nods for her to take it.

Lysa’s heart jumps into her throat. “I-I…” she stammers, her eyes fixed on the cup. The liquid was an amber color with no clear small. It was clear enough to look like tea. Her eyes flit to her father, who stood beside the maester with him arms crossed. “Papa?” she whispers, searching for comfort.

“Drink it, child,” he urges of her, giving her a tight smile. “It is only for the pain.”

Unable to disobey, Lysa reaches for the drink with shaking hands. It is warm in her palms, but not enough to burn the tongue. Her eyes are transfixed on it, on how the liquid rippled as she trembled.

“Fear not,” the maester assures her in a warm voice. “It is not much. I have even put a spoonful of honey for taste.”

“It’s alright, Lysa,” her father adds, giving her a nod. “Everything will be alright.”

With a nod of her own, Lysa puts the cup to her lips and pours the sweet liquid down her throat. Thought its taste was not horrid, she feels as if he would vomit anyways. She felt sick. She felt dirty.

The maester smiles and takes the cup from her hand before leaving. Her father steps forward to squeeze her shoulders. “Rest now, daughter mine,” he told her kindly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

When she was finally all alone, Lysa staggered before crumpling atop her bed. Only for the pain, she declares in her head. What pain?

Lysa knew what was in the cup. It was tansy and mint and wormwood and a drop of pennyroyal. And a spoonful of honey. she adds. Tears fall down her cheeks, and they do not dry till morning, when she would stir to find her nightgown stained red, the same color between her thighs. Red as her maiden’s gift, it was, but with a heavier flow.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar’s solar was an oft visited place by others. Whenever he would find it feasible to retreat into it, it would not be long before people came knocking on its door. Messengers, lords, servants, knights; his solar entertained a variety of guests. Most often it was Jon Connington, who would come with intents to discuss some matter of the realm or another. He was not the only one. Others on the small council would come to him for requests or reminders in hopes that he would relay it to his father. He usually did, but it was no secret that his father had no interest in matters of state.

Increasingly, he had been missing small council meetings, presenting himself only when he wished. Little was ever accomplished while he was there, as he was quick to turn down any proposals that were not directly beneficial to him. Rhaegar did make a point to have his own presence at these meetings, however, so that if his father did not appear the other lords on the council may still be held accountable for their words. He did the same for any public audiences in the throne room. If his father did not come to hear the smallfolks’ complaints, Rhaegar did, sitting in that Iron Throne as people begged for him to lend his ear. He did what he could in these sorts of meeting, knowing very well that he had to be careful not to make any decision that his father would find unwelcome. He could not step on his toes, of course, absent or not.

Yet if truth be told, Rhaegar ruled the realm in all but name. He had the peoples’ love and many a lord’s devotion. He had not sinned yet that the people would turn against him. He would keep it that way.

He tapped his fingers against his desk as he mulled over a letter reporting rumors of brigands in the Crownlands. He prayed they were ill-founded; as desperate as he was to leave the capitol, he would have preferred it had been on more pleasurable business than ridding brigands from the countryside. A knock comes at his door, and Ser Oswell pokes his head in to report on whoever was there.

“The princess, your grace,” he noted curtly before moving out of the doorframe to reveal his slip of a wife. Rhaegar blinked, baffled as to why she would come to him. With motion of his hand, he bids her to come in, which she does. She stands quite proudly before him, her shoulders squared and jaw set. She looked like some stubborn soldier returning from a defeat, he thinks, with how sharply the glint in her eye shone.

Rhaegar rises, offering a shallow bow as greeting. She does not return his courtesy, and instead clasps her hands in front of her.

“What brings you here, princess?” he asks of her, knowing very well that she did not come here for pleasant conversation.

“I want to have a child,” she blurts out gracelessly, taking him by surprise. It does not go past his notice that her cheeks reddened quickly thereafter, though the embarrassment was likely less in the confession itself and more in having to admit that she would need him for such a wish.

He feels he should be pleased at this, as it meant that he too could finally achieve one of his foremost desires, but it was quite apparent to him that there would be no joy in the act.

But perhaps he ought not to write it off too quickly. In a more intimate setting they could become closer in more than just body. And if not, well… They would simply make do, won’t they?

Rhaegar clears his throat, trying not to seem to eager in this pursuit. “You are telling me you want a child,” he confirms. “You know what that entails, then?”

She frowns as she nods her comprehension. He could tell by the way she wrung her hands that this was a difficult decision for her. However she viewed him in her eyes, as a captor, a bystander, an enemy, it brought her discomfort to have to couple with him.

“Very well,” Rhaegar relents, not wanting to speak too much and have her change her mind. “I’ll come to your chambers tonight, then.”

Her shoulders slump as she nods once more. She does not linger long or say another thing. Perhaps she would save words for later tonight, he thinks as he watches her turn her back and leave.
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He had not been quite sure what to expect from his wife when he entered her chambers. While he did not have a particular attraction to her, his mind could not help but play out a few choice scenarios. Some were more lewd than others, but nearly all brought him some degree of discomfort. She was still a child, after all; that had not changed from their wedding night.

He opened the door to her chambers to find that nearly all the candeles had been blown out save for one on the nightstand. His eyes adjust to the darkness to find Lyanna tucked beneath the coverlet, her solemn face looking blankly up at the ceiling. She has an arm laid across her forehead, and from it he can see that she was dressed in a white, long-sleeved nightgown. That had been maidenly enough, but her hair too was put away in a thick plait that was draped across her shoulder.

Rhaegar suppresses the urge to sigh. How he would ever receive enjoyment out of such a sight baffled him. But just as she refused to acknowledge him, he did not pay much mind to her. He stepped around the bed to a chair in the corner, taking his time in removing his belt, then his doublet, and draping both across the back of it. He leaves on the tunic he wore underneath. That he would keep on, if his wife had no intention of removing her nightgown. His fingers then fiddled with the laces of his trousers, unsure if he should remove them now or in bed, or if he ought to remove them completely at all. He decides to only undo the laces.

Awkwardly, he slips into the bed beside her. Her eyes remain fixed at some spot on the ceiling. Absentmindedly, and in hopes of getting her to relax, Rhaegar reaches for her shoulder, pressing his fingers into the sliver of skin bared there. She promptly jerks away. In the faint light that the candle gave off he could she her jaw set. Swallowing another sigh, Rhaegar props himself onto his forearm and turns onto his side. In a slow movement, so as not to frighten her, he rolls on top of her, setting most of his weight on her arms.

Despite his cautiousness, feels her stiffen beneath him. Settling on the same careful pace, he finds the edge of her nightgown and pushes it over her hips, stopping at her waist. Her bared thighs tremble around him, then clench when his fingers brushed the edge of her smallclothes. He does not know what to say as a comfort; he cannot even look into her eyes. Carefully, he undos the folds of the fabric, just enough to gain access to what was necessary.

As clinical as it was, Rhaegar was not cruel. He knew how to ease the pain of the first time. His fingers trail down to the apex between her thighs, prepared to part the curls there and find a way to please her. Before he makes contact, his wrist is grabbed rather harshly.

He allows himself to look into her face to find her hard eyes laden with mistrust. “That won’t be necessary, your grace,” she whispers sharply.

He tries to protest, if only to help her. “It would lessen the—“

“Please,” she urges, before turning her face away from him, pressing her cheek to the pillows.

Rhaegar retracts his hand, which earns him a way out of her tight grip. She does not trust me, he concludes quite simply. Stubborn girl.

Sensing that she would not do it herself, Rhaegar undos the laces of the breeches, and helps himself out of his smallclothes. Arousal did not come naturally but rather, shamefully enough, by his own hand. Then he fists the sheets on either side of her, and makes the first push into her.

His caution does not ease her pain. Immediately she cries out, and he does not hush her. Though her face was turned away, he could see her close her eyes shut and bite her lips. A lover might have kissed her exposed neck, or searched for her lips to swallow any other noise. But Rhaegar was not her lover; he was her husband, and nothing more.

He waits until her body has relaxed, or as much as it can relax, before he makes his second thrust. Any noise she makes afterward she muffles herself, and any visage of pain Rhaegar does his best to ignore. Every one of her muscles are taut, and she is horridly tight around him. Men would often boast of that tightness in their women’s cunts, but the friction only made Rhaegar’s task more difficult. Still, he continues, caring for little beyond the result of this coupling. He moves slowly, but not with much concentration. His lack of thought in the process makes his completion arrive quicker than a young man’s should, and nothing more than a soft grunt passes his lips.

He rolls off of her, and though he is markedly dissatisfied, he does not linger. He rises out of the bed, fixing his smallclothes and trousers, and walks to the water basin across from the bed. A small white cloth has been folded beside it; he picks it up and dips it in the cool water, wringing it out once it has been submerged.

Turning back to the bed, he finds Lyanna sitting upright, examining a red stain on her white gown. When he nears closer, she tugs more of the gown over her bared knees, then looks up at him with a stiff lip. She is still like a warrior, steadfast as she was in her cold stares. A wounded warrior, perhaps, but both her pride and her body would recover. He reaches the cloth out to her, which she looks at as if it were a weapon before hesitantly accepting it.

“Is this all, then?” she asks, squeezing the wet cloth in her hand.

Rhaegar presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Once is hardly enough, if you wish to be certain.” No doubt the notion makes her squeamish. A similar feeling bubbles up in his stomach.

“How often must we do this?” she returns coldly.

“I shall visit your chambers a few nights more,” he offers, noticing how her face managed to fall even further. “Then we shall wait until your moon’s blood, if it arrives.” He walks to the chair where he had draped his doublet so he may retrieve it again. As he shrugs into it, he sees that she has yet to utilize the cloth. He will not lecture her on the matter. No doubt she was too proud to use it before him.

Once he is redressed, he wastes no time in getting to the door. But as soon as his hand touches the cold doorknob, he pauses, and turns back to look at his wife on the bed. “Why do you want a child?” he asks her simply. He knew very well it would not be the same reason as him, but he wished to know what had made his she-wolf of a wife suddenly willing to go to bed with him for the sake of a babe in her belly.

Her sharp grey eyes meet his boldly. “I must give you heirs, mustn’t I?” she answers dryly. Even Rhaegar knows this is a facade. She always seems in need of hiding; from her body to the truth, all was kept away.

Undaunted, he holds her gaze and responds: “You must.” That faint twitch of her lip, halfway curled into a sneer, does not go past his notice, not even in this dim light. He bows once from the waist, then departs.

Chapter Text

“Brandon?”

Brandon groans aloud. He had been halfway out the door and mere seconds away to freedom. Well, perhaps not freedom, but some time alone at the very least.

“Darling, why don’t you come back to bed?”

Cursing the gods that had put him in this situation, Brandon turns back into the room. It was a musty place they had found, and the inn was damn near the middle of nowhere. Not even Brandon had seen this part of the North. He would have liked to, however. Instead, he drudges back to the bed, not quite cruel enough to leave his pregnant wife alone as he found something better to do.

Barbrey’s warm hands quickly slip beneath his tunic, palming the muscles of his abdomen. She was always touching him when they were together, as if she couldn’t bear to be apart from him. Giving a disgruntled sigh, Brandon rolls his head back against the headboard. Her hands moved further down, slipping into his trousers to cup his balls. He closes his eyes and lets her do her work.

“I was wondering,” Barbrey starts to say, as her fingers played over his length. “When we may be going home?”

Brandon snorts. “Home? You mean Winterfell?” How odd that she already took to calling it a home. Perhaps it was just further proof of how long she had been planning her union with the Starks.

“Of course I mean Winterfell, my love,” she returns with a little giggle, her thumb putting the slightest pressure on the tip of his cock. Brandon groans, half out of pleasure and half out of exasperation.

“Not for a while,” he answers lazily, scratching at the stubble that had grown on his face. He had been planning on finding a place where some women may do him the service of shaving for him, as it had been some time. While Brandon fancied his look with a beard, the company of other women would have been a greater balm for his soul. “You know that my brother’s marrying the Tully girl now. My lord father has said to wait till that it done, and the two of them are settled.”

Rickard Stark, in all his determination, had sent a messenger to search for him and deliver him this note. It was the same letter where his disowning that had been made clear to him. While Brandon had desired that result in the first place, he was a little disheartened at it. After all, if he hadn’t been so foolish, all of this may have been avoided, and he would be in Winterfell now, downing some ale with his mates and riding around the grounds.

“My poor lord husband,” Barbrey croons, removing her hand from his trousers so she may straddle him instead. She was already nude, not having redressed from the night before (or any night before for the past moon, really), and her round, full breasts were in perfect view before him. She had promised they would get even larger as her milk came in, which had been exciting a fortnight ago, but was now a fact that had no real affect on him. “Banished from his home because he loved too much,” she continues. “They shall sing songs about you.”

He cannot help but grimace. Loved too much? Fucked too much, more like. He had always known married life was not for him, and after having spent nearly every waking moment with his wife, Brandon knew he had made a mistake. He would have been better off running away by himself, spiriting himself to Braavos and living life by the sword. This moving from one inn to another did little more than spray droplets on his thirst for adventure.

The only bright side now stared him in the face. He could not deny that always having a willing woman in his bed brought him a low sense of satisfaction. That was not to say she would be the only willing woman, but hers was a body that was his by rights, or so the laws of the land said.

“I should like to go riding today,” Brandon remarked listlessly as she tugged down his trousers.

“You are about to be ridden, my lord,” Barbrey quips with a lusty smile.

Such a cheeky remark may have brought him some joy, had it been uttered when they were unmarried. Brandon frowned. “I do not mean that,” he snaps. “I will go riding today; I cannot spend another damnable moment in this room.”

“You know that I oughtn’t be riding,” she returns, pointing to her still-flat stomach. “And I would not like to be apart from you for too long. We both know how you tarry too long once you are upon a horse.”

“I did not ask what you like,” Brandon says in a low voice, gripping her hips right before she sunk down on his cock. “You may stay in here, if you like, but I shall be going.”

“You have spent your honeymoon thus far in bed,” Barbrey says, undaunted. “Why leave?” She wriggled past his grip and received him. Brandon kept her gaze as she rocked her hips on top of him, and though he wished to be cold as she fucked him, his hands were already at her breasts, pulling on her large nipples and squeezing her breasts rather roughly. She was truly a northern bride, however, as she took the pain with the pleasure, crying out in ecstasy when his teeth dug ever so slightly into the tender flesh of her breast. Coyly, her hand slipped between them, helping herself to her peak, nearly reaching it before Brandon pulled her hand away.

He twisted that arm behind her back, and with his other hand wrapped a handful of her long dark hair around his hand, pulling back so that her neck was exposed to him, and her whole body arched toward him. He could see her smile, and met his challenge, as she manages to keep the pace of her bucking hips, mindful to grind her middle against his as she did so. Her free hand, meanwhile, went to his neck, starting as a tender caress before she wrapped her fingers around it and dug her thumb into his throat. Brandon gives a low moan, one whose vibrations he knew she would feel in her fingers.

She shudders; she getting close to her peak once more, and that was a visage Brandon was familiar with. He knew the way she bit down on her lip, how her whole body began to quake in anticipation; he knew it too well, and had grown quite bored of it.

“Scream my name, love,” Brandon growls, pulling her closer so he would put his lips to her jaw. “Scream it and I’ll consider staying in with you.”

“Brandon,” she whispers, her movements growing erratic. “Brandon, Brandon, Brandon,” she chanted with increasing volume until the promised scream came. Then she fell limp in his grasp, and he released her to put her hands to her hips, pushing her onto her back and finishing what she had started.

He pulls away from her panting, her breath doing the same. Her hand slips to the inside of his thigh, feeling the muscles there. Touching, always touching.

Brandon pushes his hair back, then rises from the bed, fixing his trousers. She stands upright immediately, her brown eyes boring into the back of his head.

“Where are you going?” she asks. Breathless as she was, there is an edge of indignation to her voice.

“I’m going riding, love. Care to join?” he responds, grinning at his grimacing wife.

“You said—“

“I said I would consider it,” he retorts before she has a chance to finish. “I’ve considered it.”

As he helps himself into his boots again, she stumbles out of bed, wrapping a robe around her body before she reached him. Her nails dig into his arm, forcing him to look her in the face.

“You cannot go,” she commands with a stiff lower lip. “What shall I do while you’re gone?”

“Think of me,” he quips, leaning down to kiss her lips. Her grip is still strong, but a playful slap of her rump catches her off guard, and her hand flies to rub the chastised area instead.

“Damn you, Brandon Stark,” she mutters under her breath, though loud enough for him to hear. He can only laugh.

“Do not worry if I don’t return by tonight, lady wife,” he adds halfway out the door. “And do not wait up for me.” With those words, he slips away, though perhaps a little too eagerly.

He knows she shall not rile up any trouble on her own. She was still sensible, after all, more so now that she carried his child. That was always a strange think to ponder upon, his child. Whether it was a boy or a girl, if he would name it after someone in his family or give it an entirely new name. But just as every time before, he shooed the thought away. The child will come when it comes, and he shall name it what he may. To grow too excited now would be pointless, since he would have to wait so long for it anyway.

He had married her for that child, so that his brother would not have to claim it as his own. A honorable thing in some regards, though no doubt his brother had swooned at the thought of having to marry another one of Brandon’s women.

At least it is not one I had, he notes. Aye, pure Lady Catelyn Tully would be a perfect match for his celibate brother. The two would spend their wedding night unable to touch the other.

The scene brings a wicked smile to his lips. As lovely as the lady was, he had wanted her no more than he wanted Barbrey. Aye, perhaps he would have liked kissing her and bedding her and filling her with his children, but any woman would do for that. Barbrey would fill that role, though she had in turn taken away his birthright. Just as well; Brandon never had any use for it anyway.

As he saddles up his horse and climbs atop it, Brandon looks to the north. He would ride for a few hours, see where that takes him. Perhaps in the arms of a woman, or in a duel with a man. Both of his two swords would be ready for that. And should it get late by the time he intends to ride back, he would stay the night. Barbrey could manage until then. With his sense of adventure swelling up in his chest, he kicks his heels and rides, the feeling of the wind against his face better than any tumble in bed.

Chapter Text

Lyanna folded and unfolded the letter anxiously. She hated that she did. She was not by any means an anxious person, yet it seemed that King’s Landing had begun to affect her personality. The letter’s contents were harmless enough: a reminder from her father that an invitation to Ned’s wedding had been sent out, and that he looked forward to seeing her in Riverrun. Such a letter would ordinarily make her heart soar.

Now, it made her wring her hands and grit her teeth.

The king never mentioned attending Ned’s wedding. Not once at supper did he even bring up her family, except to belittle her by berating them. But even that had become scarce. An invitation to a wedding would be something he would comment on, surely. And while she would be unafraid to ask him herself, she knew better than to do so. The cold silver of her pendant reminds her of that.

It is foolish childishness that forces her to seek out her husband for answers. While in truth she had enough of seeking him out and making requests, as she so disastrously did a few days ago, he was her strongest connection to the king, since the queen was unwilling to offer more than pleasant conversation.

He is not in the solar this time. Ser Oswell tells her to find him in the Tower of the Hand, where he was likely speaking with Lord Connington. His words were true; as Ser Arthur bids her welcome into the Hand’s solar, Rhaegar is hunched over some papers with Jon Connington at his side.

The Hand of the King is baffled to see her in his solar, but offers a stiff bow. Lyanna quickly curtseys in return before setting her eyes on her husband.

It was admittedly more difficult to look upon him now. He was no longer a stranger to her, at least not in body. Her maiden’s blood had stained them both, and while the memory was an unpleasant one, he had done no more than what she asked. The next couple of nights afterward were much the same; there was less pain, but greater discomfort that forced her to bite her lip and shut her eyes so she may ignore it. She hadn’t understood why he felt so rough between her legs, how each time her entered her, her discomfort would blaze anew. It felt terrible and wrong, but he did not prolong her uneasiness, and he did not do anything to hurt her, not purposely. Perhaps in that observation she could admit that the prince was not ungentle. Regardless it felt like a violation, albeit one she had reluctantly allowed. It was all for good cause, she told herself. If the gods were good the next few nights would be enough, and in a fortnight her moon’s blood would fail to arrive.

Fighting back the abashed blush on her cheeks, she met his dispassionate gaze. She wondered if he looked so bored when he was on top of her; she never looked at him to see. “I have something to ask of you, your grace,” she says, trying to be more eloquent than she was last time.

“May I ask for a moment with the princess, Lord Jon?” Rhaegar asks his friend beside him. “I understand it is your solar, but if you would do us the kindness.”

“Of course, your grace,” Jon quickly fires back, almost eagerly exiting the room. Rhaegar looks after him until the door is shut; then those dark purple eyes rest inquisitively on her.

“I must know something,” Lyanna begins, clasping her hands in what she hoped was a demure fashion. “Does the king intend on attending my brother’s wedding?”

He seems to ponder her words before responding, furrowing his brows in concentration. “I do not think so, princess. He has not mentioned it to me, nor have any arrangements been made.”

Her hearts sinks at this, but quickly lifts at the thought of another prospect. “In that case,” she begins, having to wring her hands to keep from trembling from excitement. “Shall I be permitted to attend?” She had swallowed her pride for this task, being too eager to see her family. If she must ask his permission, then she will. It was but another price to pay.

His response does not come as immediately as she likes. He seems to mull it over, adding sums in his head, until his chiseled lips fall into a frown. “I do not think the king will allow it,” he answers.

Lyanna’s heart drops into her stomach before bouncing up into her throat with bile. “You are my husband,” she returns, her hands clenching into fists. “Is it not your will as to where I go, and what I shall attend? What brings the king into this matter?”

“Princess,” Rhaegar stresses the title as if it is a curse. “He is our king. We live in his castle. He still rules your actions as he does mine.”

Lyanna felt as if she were filling up with hot air. It infuriated her how one man could be so influential, that he may command even whether or not she may see her family. Even her husband, the silver prince the realm adored, wielded no mettle against him.

“You said he had made no comment on attending,” Lyanna pursues, trying to beat down her anger so she did not fall to shouting, or worse, tears. She was failing, and her words turned more into a growl while rising in pitch. “Can you ask him? And if refuses, can you ask for his permission to allow me to go as well?”

Her husband falls silent for longer than she would have like. His stoniness frightens her, wondering if it meant that her insolence was too unappreciated for a response. Licking her lips, Lyanna softens her demeanor, trying to regain some of the demureness from before.

“What I mean is,” she half-murmurs. “If you would ask him in my place, it would please me greatly. And,” she pauses, biting her lip before saying the last part. “If it please you to go as well, then perhaps our traveling together shall be more to his liking.”

“Very well,” he relents, likely appreciating that she has dampened her fire. “I will ask him for you.”

Lyanna’s heart flutters, however prematurely. No doubt that king would not deny his son the journey to Riverrun, even if it meant that Lyanna would escape from his sight as well. He did not trust her, or like her, but surely there was some affection for his firstborn son.

“Thank you,” Lyanna whispers, chewing on her lower lip to keep from smiling. But she did so want to smile; she turns on her heel, making to leave. When her hand touches the doorknob she is smiling, teeth and all.

“Do not get your hopes up,” Rhaegar warns from behind her, as if he sensed her smile. “I make no promises as to his decision.”

Lyanna nods imperceptibly, allowing the grin to slip from her lips. He could try and make it seem hopeless if he wished; for Lyanna, she was already anticipating seeing her family once more.
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“My brother Brandon told me that the Riverlands were lovely,” Lyanna expresses to Jude as she braids back her hair. She can see her servant’s smile in the looking glass, one that mirrored her own. “He said he had only wished he had ridden around them more, so he could have seen it all. Perhaps I will do it for him.”

Once she feels the braid has been plaited, she turns in her seat to meet Jude’s bright eyes. “If we go, we will surely bring others along who wish to see the wedding,” Lyanna explains. “I would like it very much if you came with me, Judith. It should be nice to have a friend for the road.”

The woman’s eyes widen in genuine surprise. “Truly, your grace?” she asks, just to be sure. Lyanna nods, grinning wider. Her jaw drops before her hand flies to cover her gaping mouth. “By the gods!” she mused. “I have never been outside of King’s Landing.”

Lyanna cannot help but laugh at her quaintness. “And I have never been to Riverrun,” Lyanna returns. “It shall be an adventure for the both of us.”

“That does sound like good fun,” Jude concedes, with a soft smile. “No doubt you shall be happy to see your family again.”

Lyanna bites her lip to suppress a giddy sigh. She knows that not everyone would be there; Brandon surely will not, thanks to his recent misadventures, and if he is not in Winterfell then Benjen will be missing as well. There is still Ned and father, she reminds herself happily. She had missed them dearly.

The creak of hinges is what distracts the two girls from their giggling. Lyanna immediately rises, smoothing out a crease in her nightgown, and Jude drops into a low curtsey.

Lyanna searches her husband’s face for sign of good news, but he is as stoic as ever. Look upon this dispassionate prince, she wondered what it was that made many a maid’s heart run aflutter. It had to be no more than appearances and his rumored skill at song; otherwise, he was as cold as a northern wind.

Judith is dismissed with a flick of two long fingers. Lyanna watches her dearest friend as she leaves, noting how she had looked back at the last moment to smile at her. Her heart swelled in her chest; she had felt so wonderful all day, she must be receiving good news.

“I spoke with the king,” Rhaegar begins. She feels his eyes on her, and quickly meets his gaze.

Her heart thumped in her chest. If happy words pass his lips, Lyanna swears to herself. I promise I shall be nothing but good to him. I shall thank him with all my heart and I will let him touch me where he wishes. I will be good and obedient and willing—

“He has decided that neither of us shall attend.”

Lyanna’s mouth suddenly grows dry. She wants to wet her lips, yet finds no drive to do so. All she can do is stand stiff, hands at her sides, and stare at the prince. Perhaps I hear him wrong. Perhaps…

“I’m sorry,” he offers alongside a frown, as if that would make things better.

“How?”

The word pass her lips beyond her will. It is trembling and weak, shamefully so. She does not know why she would engage him in any sort of conversation; she wanted him to go away so she could crumple alone.

“His will is not something that can be predicted,” the princes explains, though it means nothing to her at all. “Your chances of attending had been slimmer than mine, and he had even denied that I go alone. I warned you not to become too hopeful.”

I truly am I prisoner, Lyanna realizes with horrifying clarity. Even with an escort who is the king’s very own son, I am kept here. Caged.

Still, she was too proud to show how strongly it had affected her. Let him think that it had not bothered her in the least; she did not care. No matter what she would not be allowed to see her very own family.

She slips into her bed, underneath the coverlets where she lied on her back. If he could not find a way to get her to go to her own brother’s wedding, then he owed her this child, as the gods owed it to her to let his seed quicken before her moon’s blood.

But he would not even give her this tonight. He slipped out of her bedchambers soundlessly, leaving her all alone. With a shaking breath, Lyanna turns onto her stomach, burying her face in her pillow when the first tear trickled down her cheek.

She knows Jude slips in later, her hand rubbing circles on her back as her tender voice spoke to her, but even that did little to relieve her sorrow. Sobs wracked her body, the reaction a violent one for what had brought it on. But it was for more than being refused the right to see her family.

I am trapped, truly trapped. What have I done for the gods to punish me so?

Chapter Text

He is a good man. Cat tells herself as she walks down the aisle of the sept, her eyes locked on her betrothed. I must believe that. I must try.

She had only met him a few days before, and had hardly caught sight of him since. It had not been a splendid meeting, as her expectations of him were colored by those she set for his brother. Her disappointment had been almost overbearing; he was tall, but not as tall as his brother. He appeared strong, but not as attractively so as his brother. And his face… A plainer face the gods had never created, and to make things worse there was a solemness to his features that made his look completely downcast.

He had spared no broad smiles or sweet words. He had only awkwardly bowed to her and stammered something about being pleased to meet her. Cat hoped her disappointment didn’t show that day, as it certainly did now. The veil was thick enough to where he would hopefully not notice. She had to do her duty, after all, perform to perfection the list that her septa had been repeating to her since she had first bled: Please your husband, make him happy, bend to his will, carry his burdens and his babes, run his house well…

The scent of the septon’s strong incense burned her nostrils as she approached him. She stands opposite her husband, as she had rehearsed. And just as she was told he would do, he reaches across and lifts her veil, removing from her the cream lace film she had been looking through. Now, in all clarity, was Eddard Stark’s plain face, with no trace of a smile anywhere.

In her daydreams she had imagined Brandon grinning down at her as he lifted her veil, perhaps flashing her a little playful wink as he did which would bring such pretty color to her cheeks. Now she could not force herself to blush. Demurely, she breaks her gaze with the younger brother, and stares at the direwolf emblazoned in the black leather of his jerkin.

The septon goes through his words, and the pair go through their vows. The gods they speak of are not his gods, she knew, but the northmen had already paid tribute to their gods in the godswood before arriving at the sept. These words would mean little to him, besides the actual vows, the ones promising to protect and remain loyal. As they pass Catelyn’s lips, she finds they mean little to her too. There is no weight in them, not one that pressed on her heart to drag it down nor one that made it lighter, light enough to float. They were only words, and words are wind.

He removes her maiden’s cloak carefully before setting his own. It is of the purest white, and no doubt there is a black direwolf embroidered someplace onto it. She had always imagined that Brandon’s large hands would be the one to place it on her, his touch wandering as far as her arms to give her an affectionate rub. As tall as he was, she still imagined his breath on the back of her neck, warm and steady and perhaps even a little lustful—

She is brought back to reality as the sept erupts in sudden applause and cheers. As her eyes roam over the crowds of merry people, it dawns on her that this was meant to be a mirthful occasion. It was a wedding, not a wake, she reminds herself. She must play her part.

Forcing a smile, she looks up at her husband. His eyes— eyes a shade of grey too dark —darted over the crowd as well before resting on her. As if remembering something important, he suddenly shakes his head before reaching out a stiff hand. She takes it gently, allowing him to lead them out of the sept and into the feasting hall, where all had been prepared for her day of matrimony.

Music plays from the moment they step in, and already people take to dancing. Had her husband been Brandon, not doubt he would take her onto the floor to be among the first. He would twirl her and spin her and throw her up and down as if she weighed no more than a rag doll. And she would laugh and laugh and dance with him until he saw fit for them to retire to their table, where the two would parch their thirst out of their shared goblet.

This husband did no such thing; he quickly and silently took them to their chairs, paying no mind to the dancing.

Perhaps he simply doesn’t enjoy dancing, Catelyn tells herself as she settles in beside Eddard Stark. He is shy, and dancing is not a sport shy men enjoy.

Nor is talking, she comes to realize. Even when lords and ladies stopped by the table to give them congratulations, only Catelyn had enough wits to properly respond each time. Eddard had more often stammered a thanks or simply nodded. It is not until the visiting Lord Jon Arryn greets them that she hears coherent sentences.

“Your lady wife is a beautiful woman,” Lord Arryn compliments, giving Catelyn a warm smile. There is something undeniably grandfatherly about him, which prompts Cat to liken to him. She gives a demure little smile, and a thankful nod. “Do take good care of her, Ned.” Her eyes may have deceived her, but she swore she saw color fly into her husband’s cheeks.

Ned, she muses, surprised by the nickname. She does not recall Brandon having called him that, but then Brandon had spoken of little but himself. She parts her lips as a beginning of speech, to let him know that he found the name charming and that she had a nickname of her own. But she quickly presses her lips close together when a tall, bull of a man jaunts over to them with a flagon of ale in his hand.

“Ned!” he exclaims with a roguish grin, slapping him on the back hard enough to make him jolt forward. “Sweet, quiet Ned is married! Imagine that! I had always thought it would be me before you, you bastard!” Cat stifles a gasp, surprised by his crassness. But her husband only smiles in a mixture of amusement and embarrassment.

The man’s eyes then roam over to her; they are a starling bright blue, providing a stunning contrasts to his head of black hair and bearded face. His jaw is chiseled into a regal square, and every inch of him from his neck down was muscled and broad and large. As handsome as he is, there is an undeniably lecherous glint to his sparkling eyes. It is as if he saw right through her dress, even through her smallclothes and was examining her nude. It brings an unbidden blush to her cheeks, and an unsavory shiver down her spine.

“Aye, and she’s pretty, isn’t she?” he says with a poke to Ned’s ribs. He then takes her hand from off the table and presses his wet lips to her knuckles. “Robert Baratheon, love.”

Suddenly it all makes sense, and she feels foolish for not recognizing him earlier. “Of course,” she returns with a nod of her head.

“Take care of him, will you? He’s never even been with a woman—“

“That’s enough, Robert,” her husband cuts in, his face a red almost as bright as her own hair. His boisterous friend claps him on the back with a hearty laugh before taking a generous swig of ale. As he walks away he gives her a playful wink. Catelyn blushes again; no doubt, he was handsome, by the gods, he made her skin crawl. She might have been more fond of him if his reputation for debauchery did not precede him. Yet her reserved husband was known to be good friends with him. Cat looks to him, still red from his friend’s japes. She wondered if what Lord Robert had said was true, that she had never been with a woman. Most men took women before their marriage bed. No doubt some girl had found him charming some time ago.

The rest of the evening goes by in relative silence between the two of them. In fact, by observation it seemed that most of her family had taken to it, save for little Edmure, who was always bothering one lord or another. Her father had not stirred or smiled in his place beside Lord Rickard, and Cat hadn’t seen Lysa since the ceremony in the sept. Indeed, looking over the hall now, she was nowhere to be found. Her sister had been acting overly strange as of late. That she did not stay for the entirety of her sister’s wedding proved that.

Suddenly, above the chorus of music, a group of men began to yell and shout. Some chanted a single word: bedding. Cat’s blood ran cold. She had known to expect this, but to see that raucous group of men, among them Robert Baratheon, approach her so devilishly was another matter aside from talking of it. A gaggle of girls who were much less intimating giggled as they approached her lord husband.

Bracing herself, Cat allowed Robert to hoist her up into the air and onto his broad shoulder. That he could carry her so easily was impressive, but she had no time to admire the feat. Before she was even out of view from the hall, men below began to pull at the hem of her lovely green dress, ripping the bottom half to shreds.

She knew she let out some unladylike yelps as the men continued to destroy her gown. When the front of it opened and her breasts spilled out, her arms quickly raised to cover herself, earning the laughs of the surrounding men.

“A pair of teats like that would do well for Ned’s first,” Robert quickly jape, that city glint in his eye growing brighter. The men laughed louder, and encouraged by Robert’s quip, follow up with more bawdy words. Cat blushed so strongly that she felt herself go near faint from how hot her head felt. But each brush of her skin by these stranger’s hands only made her burn brighter, until one commented that her that only thing redder than her hair was her lovely skin.

She is pushed into her wedding chamber wild-haired, red-faced, and with one arm across her chest while the other covered her from below. Her husband has not arrived yet, and she welcomes the solitude. The door was shut, with the voices of the men muffled.

On shaking legs, she crawls into the bed, slipping beneath the coverlets. This was the part that would be paramount in her duties, yet it was the one she knew least about. Yes, she understood the process of bedding, and the pain of it had been mentioned to her, but there was no training for this, not like sewing and sums.

Closing her eyes, she tries to calm herself with how she had imagined it would be. Her handsome husband getting onto the bed with her, holding her hand. He would kiss her cheeks, then her lips, then he would hold her close, whispering to her that she was beautiful. She would call him “my lord” and he would correct her and say, “please, call me Brandon”.

The door swings open, and the noise returns. Catelyn opens her eyes wide, but then quickly averts them, too shy to look upon her husband’s nakedness. When the door shuts again, she hears him take slow steps toward the bed.

She feels the mattress sink beside her as he seats himself on the edge of it, not laying down. His back was to her, and she peeks to see it is sinewy with muscle, not as soft as she had expected. The couple sit in silence, to a point where it is uncomfortable. But Cat does not know what to say. She had not been trained for this.

“My lady,” he suddenly mumbles, still not facing her.

In a small voice, she returns, “My lord?”

“We do not— we do not have to do this…” he says in a low, unsure voice. Cat at first is baffled. Was it not customary that they do this? Wasn’t their marriage false until it had been consummated? True, she would have preferred to avoid this part, but it was her duty to perform and please. She would not stain the Tully name by being a poor wife.

“My lord,” Cat tries, licking her lips. “It is— I must— That is, I—“ I must what? Give you heirs? Must do this, however unsavory?

“I know you had expected my brother in my place, and I do not blame you,” he tells her. Something like guilt bleeds into her. It was as if he looked into her mind and saw her horrible thoughts. “You are not comfortable with me. We only just met. If you would have us wait.”

“No,” she suddenly insists despite herself. “No, we must do this. It is our duty.”

A full minute passes in a heavy silence before he shifts onto the bed, slipping underneath the coverlets beside her. After another pregnant pause, and some movement on his side, he turns to lay atop her. She is surprised to feel him hard against her thigh, but does not let it show. She only shuts her eyes tight and holds the sheets in her hands, bracing herself for what was to come.

He does not enter her straightaway. He takes his time, running the pads of his calloused fingers down her cheek, her neck, over the curve of her shoulder. Cat tries to steady her breathing and grow accustomed to his touch, also while not imagining another pair of hands. He brushes the underside of a breast, then down her waist before settling on her hip. His other hand follows a similar trail, but differs as he reached between the two of them and touched her between her legs.

She gasps, fluttering her eyes open to find her husband’s gaze below, where his fingers were parting the curls between her legs. He rubs the bit of her that her septas had always warning never to touch, and it brings a pleasurable sensation that brews low in the pit of her stomach. She does not have the gall to ask him to stop, because it was wrong, because he was wrong, but he retracts his hand in due time.

He does not kiss her, this husband of hers. Instead he enters her, slowly and carefully, but the pain between her legs is horrendously acute. She grips the sheets between her fingers, gritting her teeth at the foreign feeling of being stretched, of being breached. Any of the little pleasure she felt from before has dissipated now, giving way to the ache that fortunately grew duller with his movements.

It is not till the end of it, just as he spends himself, that their eyes meet. His are dark, focused, but there is a tenderness there too. None of that attractive roguishness, no devilish glint, no humor. Cat knows she frowns at this, but he might not have seen it as he covered her mouth with his. He tastes of the little wine he drank at the feast, and of something cold and metallic. She wonders if Brandon would have tasted the same; somehow, she doubted it.

When he pulls away from her, the first thing she notices is the warmth on the inside of her thighs. Something trickles down from in between her legs, and there is a warm smear on one leg. She guesses that one is seed and the other is maiden’s blood.

Though the deed was done and he was gentle, Cat feels an ache further away from between her legs and right in her chest. She turns onto her side, away from him, and curls into her self. Never had she wanted to disappear more than in this moment, where she laid beside a husband, a stranger she cared not for. It was unlike her to see things so bleakly, but the memory of another man had been too fresh, too indelible. This was not the one she intended to marry. This is not one whose children she wanted to bear.

She bites the inside of her cheek in ire that is largely aimed at herself. She judges her new husband too quickly, she knows. She must be hopeful, must find some joy, some glee.

“Did I hurt you?,” he asks softly from his side of the bed. His fingertips brush across her back, and a horrible part of her wants to swat his hand away. It is your duty, Cat. Your body is his to touch, to use, to take…

“I’m fine,” she insists meekly. “I’m only tired. If it please you, my lord, I should like to sleep.”

“Of course,” he murmurs in return. The room grows darker as he blows out the candle beside the bed. Cat squeezes her eyes shut, digs her nails into her arms. On the morrow, she would be on the road to her husband’s home in the North. A shiver runs down her spine as if she could feel the cold already. But then, the shiver may have been something else. In Winterfell, there awaited more than her new hearth. There was to be two goodbrothers as well; one she had heard was young and kind.

The other, she knew too well.

Chapter Text

Today was the day of Eddard Stark’s wedding; his goodbrother he reminded himself, though such a nicety would imply closeness. There may have been an opportunity for just that, had his father not been so stubborn on keeping both him and Lyanna in King’s Landing. Thinking back, he ought to refused his wife outright so as to not let her hope grow. It would have been better to request something smaller and less personal, like a stay at Dragonstone. Not even his father would deny him the privilege of visiting his own castle, even if it meant keeping Lyanna out of his grasp for torment.

Regardless, all had been said and done, and there was little room for improvement on the matter. He refused himself her bed that night, as she had appeared quite broken up, but returned to it for the next few, determined to fulfill his duty. If the gods were good, they would quicken the seed in her womb, and perhaps all will become better for everyone.

It certainly would for him. Gods knew he had waited long enough for a trueborn child of his own, for the prince he had longed for, dreamt of. He would overcome any obstacle to meet that goal, even that of a willful wife.

He rises from his chair in his solar, rubbing his eyes. The hour was growing late, and had pored over too many letters. He had sent some too, but one in particular she spent a good amount of time on. It was yet another letter to Dorne, one that subverted the request of visiting, though not completely. The Martells had not responded to his first letter, and he assumed it was because he was being too bold too soon.

Blowing out the candle first, he exits his solar and makes his way to his bedchamber. He nods to Arthur standing guard, who raises a brow at him.

“Don’t be startled, your grace,” he tells him cryptically before looking forward again. Rhaegar furrows his brows, unsure of his meaning, but too tired to inquire. He then passes through the antechamber to the inner chambers, where his bed would be.

Despite Arthur’s warning, he is startled by the figure sitting at his window. It was quite clearly his wife, her dark curls loose across her shoulders. When she turns her head, she finds she bears a somber expression.

“What brings you here tonight?” Rhaegar asks her, cutting to chase. He imagines only the worst: she did not take to his seed, and now they must make a mockery of coupling again.

“I am here to tell you that I am with child,” she announces forthright. Despite his exhausted state, Rhaegar’s heart soars. Had there been more affection between the two of them he may have embraced her, kissed her. “And you shall not need to be visiting my bedchambers any more.” The second part is added brusquely, but he does not mind. He had no intentions of visiting regardless.

“I am overjoyed to hear this,” Rhaegar replies. His gaze focuses hotly on her flat middle, where her white hands were folded. Questions race through his mind, though he knows they are not ones she can answer. Is it a boy? A girl? Shall I look to the stars nightly? Shall I write Aemon? It was an almost magical sensation.

Though he knows it would not be to her liking, he closes the gap between them to brush his fingers over her stomach. He swore his skin tingled as he did. It was as if the babe were alive already, and its spirit was reaching out to him.

Predictably, she stiffens, bristling at his unbidden touch. His eyes dart to meet hers, which are large, and dark, and grave. What he would give to have her share his joy in this, to give her reason to smile. He hadn’t seen her smile since he had met her.

An idea crosses his mind.

“We ought to celebrate,” Rhaegar tells her. Her brows raise quizzically, and her silence seems to urge him to continue. “We’ll hold a tourney in King’s Landing. We had missed Lord Whent’s after all; perhaps this one will make up for it.” Rhaegar himself was not a fan of tourneys, but considering that the last event in King’s Landing had been a miserable wedding, it would bring great joy to the realm to find something to truly celebrate. Not to forget that a great tourney brought great fortune to the surrounding area, putting a little extra coin in the pocket of any tradesman in the capitol.

“His grace the king would agree to that?” she asks him, skeptical. Already she was used to being refused all manner of things; whether that was fortunate or not he, he could not ascertain.

“I believe he would; to have his subjects surrounding him is something he finds… preferable.” Preferable to having them far away and plotting, of course. Nay, for all of his paranoia, the king was not repulsed by tourneys. It offered a war of entertainment coupled with extra surveillance provided by that conniving Spider.

“He would rather pay for the grand expense of a tourney than to let me see my family only a week’s ride away?” she retorts, finding fault in the king’s admittedly flawed beliefs. “And in my honor? I doubt you can convince him of this.”

Not yours, he corrects internally. My honor. My heir’s.

“I shall convince him of it,” Rhaegar insists firmly. “Gods willing, we will host it within a moon’s turn.”

Her hard stare is still doubtful. A part of her, however, seems to give up as she shrugs her shoulders. Do as you like, she seemed to say. She moves past him and toward the door. With her hand on the doorknob, he reminds her of something.

“A tourney calls for the invitation of every ruling lord and lady. Your family, naturally, shall be invited.”

Her face is out of sights, but she does seem to take pause at this. He wonders if she is joyful at this; no doubt she would be. He does see her hand as it flutters over her middle; something like envy hits him. Had he been a crueler husband and she a more submissive wife, he might have ordered her to stay tonight, so he may place his hands over her belly and feel the beginnings of a prophecy at long last coming to fruition. He would not even care about her immaturity, or her willful nature, or even her tender age; what matter most had taken root inside her.

Chapter Text

Ned could not described what transcribed from his arrival in Riverrun to his return to Winterfell in any other way but cripplingly awkward. He hadn’t shared Lady Catelyn’s bed since their wedding night, too shy of his own abilities and simply unable to bring himself to be so exposed again. Not only in body, but in soul. When he sat beside her on that bed and felt her eyes on him, he knew it was only to make comparisons. To estimate how much larger and more handsome and more pleasant his brother would have been in his place. How much more skilled at making love or at the very least, how much better he would have been at simply speaking.

Gods, his wedding night had been a travesty, and to repeat the act would bring him more shame than he could handle. He knew he would have to swallow his embarrassment eventually in order to create an heir, but he would rather be patient on that matter than expedite it.

Benjen had greeted them at the gates of Winterfell, this time without angry Rsywells in tow. Once again, his little brother had been stuck being the Stark in Winterfell as his siblings were married off. Though no doubt missing Ned’s wedding was less of a blow to missing Lyanna’s; twas no secret who Benjen’s favorite sibling was, as it was a sentiment shared among Ned and even Brandon.

Ned had not been in Winterfell long enough to know its presence without her, but he supposed it struck him then when only one dark-haired sibling greeted him instead of two. While Benjen had always been one to hang back and wait for Ned to dismount, it had been Lyanna who would bound up to him in all eagerness before throwing herself on him. The thought saddens him as he imagines that happy child-woman being left alone in a dragon’s den.

Perhaps that was the wrong woman to think about in this moment, the more dutiful side of Ned notes. Reluctantly, Eddard dismounts from his horse to cross to Catelyn’s, where she still sat side-saddle upon it. She accepts the gloved hand he extends to her, using that and the horse itself as leverage as she hopped off.

“Welcome to Winterfell, my lady,” Ned tells her softly.

“Thank you, my lord,” she returns with all courtesy. “It is… impressive.”

He wonders if that word is just a kind way of her saying that it is not to her liking. It hardly matters to him; there was very little to be done to the old castle that would improve it. In his mind, it was perhaps the most formidable and no doubt the warmest keep in all the land. Catelyn would come to appreciate it more when winter came.

“I will… show you to your rooms now,” Ned states awkwardly, jerking his head toward the direction of the castle. His wife nods respectfully, and gathers her skirts as she follows him indoors. After some flights of stairs, they reach the hallway where her chambers would be. He takes her to the door, though does not open it, not wanting to have her new private space invaded.

“This is it,” he says plainly, tapping the doorknob. “And you shall have handmaidens, naturally. All of your things will be unpacked in here… if it please you.”

She nods, but does not speak. The pair stand in a strange silence, Catelyn staring at the door and Ned staring at her. Then he spies her lick her lips before she asks, “And… your chambers?”

Ned catches the hidden meaning well enough. “Not here, my lady,” he answers her. “Just a few halls over.”

She nods, and thanks him softly. Ned shifts his weight from foot to foot, before shuffling away with the promise that he would have her things brought up soon.

It is after all of the initial settling in that his father calls him to his solar. The great Rickard Stark sits in his chair, his steward at his side, and a letter in his hand. Ned eyes the red royal seal stuck to the top of it still, and his stomach churns.

Is Lyanna alright? was the first thought in his mind. If it was from the crown, then perhaps something had happened that she could not write it herself. The very thought simultaneously frightens and enrages him.

“A tourney,” his father grunts, handing the paper to him. Ned’s eyes scan it to find his words are true: the crown was hosting a tourney in King’s Landing, in celebration of the princess’s pregnancy.

Ned’s jaw drops. “Lyanna is… she’s with child?” The thought of the young girl he left in King’s Landing now carrying a babe seemed to jar him. Briefly, how wonders how Brandon would react.

“Aye,” his father says with a sigh that sounded rather grave. “She wrote me to tell me so, but alas she sent it here. I’ve only just read it.”

“Gods,” Ned curses beneath his breath. He supposes he ought to have expected such a thing to happen sooner or later, though he always assumed it would be much later. “Are we going, then?”

Rickard shifts in his seat and sighs again. “Truth be told, my bones are tired, lad,” he admits. “Riding all over the damned realm to marry you all off; I do not think I can go. Anyway, I’m an old man, Ned. I’ve no use for tourneys.” He gives a slight, rare smile then. “You may go with the Lady Catelyn, if you like. Take Benjen with you.”

Though Ned was not as old as his lord father, he finds himself hesitant to leave as well. He too had only just arrived at Winterfell after so much riding. His heart had taken enough excitement as it was, and the prospect of a tourney to attend with a lady wife he was not warm with made him weary. Aye, he wished to see Lya again, but his fate seemed rooted in Winterfell for the present.

“I do not think I shall go,” Ned admits with a frown. Poor Lya would despair at not having them there, though her letters seemed to signify she was rather happy in King’s Landing. No doubt, she must be on good terms with her husband to have him throw a tourney in her honor. “I’m rather tired myself; and I do not think Lady Catelyn will want to… travel with me.” Or be with him at all. He did not blame her for this; he was no dashing lord, or even an exciting man. She would be bored on the road there and back with him, and perhaps even more so at the tourney itself.

“Very well,” Rickard tells him. He has taken to accepting most of Ned’s propositions, priming him for lordship. “Be sure to write to your sister. She’ll be rather upset to know that we are not going, but alas…”

Alas, we have no say in our fates.

He would be sure to write her that evening full of congratulations at her joy and regret at being unable to attend. It was the best he could for now.

Chapter Text

Tourneys were meant to be fun, to bring joy to those who attended and entertainment to all, even the surrounding smallfolk. The food would be rich, the wine endlessly flowing, laughter and smiles on every face— Lyanna certainly saw as much surrounding her. Yet no part of her took joy.

The reason why was rather clear: no one in her family could come. Father was too weary, Ned had to see to his wife, Brandon was still off somewhere with his own wife, and not enough men could be troubled to escort the eleven year old Benjen to the South. It was a tourney held in her honor, but she felt nothing but sorrow.

There were some familiar faces from her wedding, however. A rather small, older woman who was Olenna Tyrell and her husband with some of their own children, who were a little older than Lyanna herself. There was Lord Jon Arryn, gaunt yet bearing a warmth in his rheumy eyes. There was Robert Baratheon as well, only without his solemn-faced brother, enjoying himself by way of a drinking contest. All of these more important lords and ladies would be invited for an intimate feast with the royal family on the morrow, the night before the actual start of the tourney.

She could only hope the king would be less miserable with such company.

Missing still from the crowd were the Lannisters and the Martells, brooding as they were, and the Tullys who had no real reason to come to the capital, it seems. Not that their attendance mattered to her. Though Hoster's daughter may now be a Stark, she did not care to see the Tullys. She wanted her family, and her family was not here.

She has her small hands placed on the subtle curve of her middle, trying to maintain a connection with the only being in the Grand Hall that she cared about. It was a strange thing, to see her slender body be so perturbed by the slight rounding of her belly. She was told that later on her breasts would grow too as they filled with milk. Lyanna could only be mortified at the image. She had always considered her small breasts a blessing in regard to how much she enjoyed riding and running; if the growth were permanent, Lyanna thinks she would cry.

Rhaegar sits beside her at this feast in his usual cold and stony silence, sharp purple eyes scanning the hall. How often she wondered what passed through his mind, as he surely must be thinking in order to make up for his lack of speech. She marvels again at how so many women had lauded him; pretty he was to look at, but he was not much for speaking, and that made him rather plain in her eyes.

Still, she thanked the gods his seed had quickened in her womb among their first few tries. Being bedded was not something she enjoyed, at least not with him. Rather, it was not something she wanted to enjoy. She had wanted it to be done quickly, silently, thoughtlessly. An unpleasant duty was not a matter that she wished prolonged or exaggerated.

When the first night of this miserable tourney almost over, the unwanted touch of her husband's hand closes over hers, resting on her middle. She cannot help but stiffen.

"Eat," he commands softly of her, eyes still on the throngs of people. "You have a babe to feed."

She wants to growl back that she did not have to take orders from him, that she did not need his permission to eat from her untouched plate. But his hand was still on her, and it was not the time nor place for being sharp. Lyanna reaches for her fork, spearing a piece of meat on it, then pops it in her mouth, chewing slowly.

It is then that he slowly retracts his hand, putting her at ease once more.
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The dinner begins and continues in relative silence. It seemed every lord and lady at the table was too fearful of retribution should any of them open their mouths. Jon Arryn, Luthor Tyrell, Olenna Tyrell, even Robert Baratheon kept their silence as the supper dragged on. Little did any of them know what a blessing this was; a quiet supper was better than Lyanna could have ever asked for.

“My lords, my lady,” the King finally greets them between chews of his inspected meal. “It is good to have you all at my table. With so much… disloyalty and idiocy… I welcome your presence.” The small group nods respectfully, with Robert Baratheon giving something of a smile. He had the place of honor beside the king, a cousin to him as he was. “’Tis a pity our Stark lords could not join us today… so wrapped up in their scandals as they are.”

Lyanna grips her fork between her fingers, keeping her eyes down at her food. He would not dare slander them before them all, Lyanna assures herself.

“Your eldest brother was disinherited, wasn’t he? For getting his bastard on some highborn girl?” he asks in her direction, but she dares not respond, fearful as she was of creating a scene. Yet her lack of response only seems to fuel his dislike of her. “With all their talk of honor, it seems that Starks have finally choked on it. You could see how that would make me uneasy, my lords… To know that my son has been wed to girl who shares the same shameful blood as that of her brother’s.”

Her cheeks burn red with equal parts mortification and anger. She could withstand this berating of her and her family in a private setting; but in front of all of these strangers? She could feel their eyes on them, judging, cruel, trying to appease their mad king. It was not fair that she had been damned so, it simply was not…

“I shall have to keep a closer eye on her from now on,” the king hisses. “Lest she creep into another bed—“

“Your grace—“ Rhaegar begins to speak beside her, much to her surprise; but this is made less shocking by the words that leave Robert Baratheon’s mouth first.

“She’s not like that,” the young storm lord says, blue eyes fixed on the King.

Lyanna’s head snaps up, surprised to see her champion come in the form of Ned’s dearest friend. For a moment, the king’s eyes seem to blaze and widen, before they narrow ever so slightly.

“Aye?” he asks in a half-growl. “And how would you know that?”

A smile crosses Robert’s bearded face. “I’ve known her brother Eddard for years, your grace, and he’s as harmless as a mouse and as chaste as a septon.” He laughs rather raucously, which inspires a chuckle amongst the others present. “I was rather pleased when I heard he’d be the heir now; he’d make a fine lord. This woman right here is of that sort. I can tell.”

The king is not so amused. “I’ve seen her wild side with my own eyes, cousin. She’s as hungry as her filthy brother.”

Robert waves a hand dismissively. “’Tis all bark and no bite. You have a fine princess on your hands, your grace. I envy our prince.” He grins at the king, but his fierce blue eyes meet hers. For a moment her lips formed the words, thank you, as joyous as she was to find a champion in this dragon’s den. But her delight is dampened by sudden fear, as she wonders what the king would say to him for daring to defend her.

The madman grumbles, giving a half shrug as he returned to his food, finally dropping the subject. It suddenly feels as if her heart was untethered, soaring above her as it was. Finally, a champion, a defender who did not fear the king’s scathing words! A companion, in some ways, a stalwart in every other; and somehow, he came in the form of a man with an infamous reputation.

Still smiling, he directs the kind beam towards her, his eyes sparkling. He did what not even her husband had done. He protected her.

And perhaps that was the reason that her heart skipped so ardent a beat.

Chapter Text

Winterfell was cold. And gloomy. And grey.

Catelyn did not like it one bit.

She tried to, gods she did. She tried to find charm in the rustic old castle with its old stones, tried to appreciate the novelty of its warm walls, the product of the hot springs underneath it, tried to love her bedchambers with its dark green sheets and a bookshelf filled with ancient tomes, but none of it seemed to appeal to her.

The servants in the castle had taken to calling her Lady Stark from the moment she arrived, perhaps trying to force her into the role she had taken on, but not even that name brought her much joy. Lady Stark she was, filling the role of the castle’s beloved princess who had gone south, but it was a dry role, a colorless one. The current Lord Stark, her great, stoic goodfather, seemed to have no need of her, nor did he show much interest in helping her adapt. Thus, she spent her days meandering this grey castle, doing her embroidery alone, speaking to no one but her handmaidens when they asked a question. It was a tiring, lonely existence.

A part of her still whispers that she would not feel so doleful if Brandon had been her husband. The man she had wed instead seemed to have no interest in making her feel comfortable, or even to make his presence known to her. She would catch only glimpses of him throughout the day, then for an extended period at supper before he’d go into his bedchambers and she into hers.

That was one blessing in her unwanted marriage. The man had not shared her bed since their wedding night, granting her more relief than she could express. While it had been said that the first encounter is always the worst, Catelyn could fain see how it could get better. Not when the man could hardly speak to her without mumbling and lowering his eyes. Not when it was not a man she still secretly yearned for.

When her thoughts did not travel so illicitly to Brandon, they would wander, with more sorrow, to her family back home. Lysa was still behaving strangely when they parted, though her younger sister did muster up some tears when she bid her farewell at the gates. They had been distant in her last few moons at Riverrun, but alone in this great gloomy castle Catelyn yearned for her presence more than ever. To at least have a companion at her side as she sewed and wandered, however silent, would have been an indescribable comfort. And oh, how she missed dearest Edmure as well, somberly noting in these silent halls the absence of her little brother’s quick speech and giggles. But recalling those she had left behind was more painful than recalling her lost love; too many times Catelyn had wept in private at all her loss.

Indeed, there was much about her new life that Catelyn did not like. Her septa in Riverrun had left her with some advice to handle this change: prayer and patience, she had preached, and Catelyn had practiced both. Though there was no sept in Winterfell, she would content herself by kneeling at her bedside nightly, closing her hands together and parting her lips as she urged the Seven to grant her strength, health, courage, wisdom, steadfastness, and eventual happiness. They felt so far from her up north, so removed, that she had found herself wondering on more than one occasion if they even heard her. She hoped they did.

Surely, they must have, seeing as her moon’s blood did not arrive the coming moon, or the one after.

It was an almost frightening thought, to know that inside her a babe grew. A babe made from one night, from her wedding night, yet here it was, rooting itself in her womb. It was a strange sensation to be sure, and yet she had come to the realization with a smile. It was her babe, her very own babe. Either a bouncing boy or a beautiful girl, soon to round her stomach and give her aches, but there was no doubt in her mind that there would be immeasurable joy as well.

It was with a measure of reluctance that she had gone to see the maester at Winterfell to confirm her belief. The man was somewhat aged, with large bell sleeves he would hide his hands in and a kindly smile. Luckily, he was the sort who preferred asking questions to touching, and with each positive answer she gave him, he would give a sage nod.

“My lady, it seems you are with child,” he had told her as he prepared a paste that would keep sickness at bay. “A hundred congratulations to you.”

Catelyn could not help but smile her first true smile right there and then, as overcome with joy as she was. Aye, she was aware this meant that she must face her husband and tell him herself, to endure the awkwardness of that situation, but by the gods, she was so delirious with delight, it did not bother her in the least. She would tell him, and with a full and contented heart too.

She caught him right after supper, just before he was about to slip into his chambers. The merest touch of his sleeve stopped him in his tracks, his solemn gaze resting on her as he asked, “What do you need, my lady?” It was a deep voice, but a voice she rarely heard.

“My lord,” she began softly, trying to bite back her smile. She was to be a mother! Gods, what a blessing that was. “I have something to say.” He nods, silently urging her to continue. “I’m with child, my lord.”

Something like shock passes behind his dark grey eyes as she said this, and for a frightening moment she thought he would be upset. He was such a difficult man to read, after all, so unlike his brother whose rages and delights were always plain upon his face. But her fear dissipates when his lips part to speak. “That is… a joy, my lady,” he says softly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Unexpected… yet… how far along are you?” He seemed rather taken back by her, unsure of what to say.

“I would say about two moon’s turn, my lord,” she responded with a half-frown, as the answer was rather obvious. Their first and only time had been on their wedding night, after all, but perhaps the young lord was simply unsure of himself.

“Ah, that is… that is good,” he returns, nodding. “Thank you for this news, my lady. It is… I am overjoyed.”

He could have fooled her, with how his reaction differed so greatly from her definition of “overjoyed”. Dwelling on the matter no further, Catelyn offers a polite curtsey and a slight smile before excusing herself from his presence.

She might have been beaming all day, as relieved as she was to get the confession off her chest, and as thrilled as she was at the prospect of new life. And all day she did indeed smile, feeling warm and oddly light. But her smiled died when she stepped outside before the darkness of evening, catching sight of a dark haired woman with a round belly being helped off her horse by the assistance of a tall, well-built man.

Even from the back, she knew who it was. With a flutter of her heart and a lump in her throat, she watches Brandon Stark place a protective hand on the woman’s belly, his mysterious grey eyes looking right through her, so unaware of the storm that began anew in her heart.

Chapter Text

It was strange to think that the prospect of attending Lord Whent’s tourney at Harrenhal had excited her so. She had at the time so looked forward to setting her eyes upon the knights of songs, watching all the mummer’s troupes perform, for men to participate in the melee, and, most of all, to watch the tourney. For moons on end it had been her greatest desire to hear the sound of lances breaking on a man’s armor, of splinters to fly into the dirt, to hear the cheers of many as the riders advanced, or fell defeated.

Yet now here she was, with the greatest seat in all of the stands, perched dead center on the action on a throne less elevated than her goodparents’, yet the sight did not warrant any sort of reaction from her. Men charged, men fell off, men boasted, and men yelled. One knight even asked for her favor, as the tourney was in her honor, and Lyanna had given it without even a quirk of the corner of her lips.

Her husband too did not seem amused, but rather restless as he shifted in his seat beside her. At one point he had gotten up and left entirely, leaving her alone in the stands. Well, not entirely alone. Above her were the king and queen and inside her was her babe. The life growing within her was company enough; she did not need the rest.

The matches of the day come to a close with a rush of applause that Lyanna is late on joining. Her gaze flicks to the board displaying the sigils of the advancing competitors; she does not pretend to know what houses they belonged to. The only sigils she had memorized were northern ones and that of the seven Great Houses; these appeared to all be from the Crownlands, save for one, which was clearly a member of the Kingsguard. Ser Oswell, or perhaps even Ser Arthur. She did recall seeing one knight clad in white atop a horse but she had hardly paid attention as to who, so detached as she was from the festivities.

Her gaze did, however, wander from time to time to Robert Baratheon in the stands. He could be found surrounded by men, men that he dwarfed with his bulk and height. He sported an easy grin that hadn’t left his face unless it was to shout or holler in the thick of the competition. Lyanna’s eye was innately drawn to him, at times admiring his rugged handsomeness, others simply hoping he’d look back at her. It was rather easy to see why women were so attracted to him; he had an easygoing nature, the physique of every maiden’s fantasy— and he was noble enough to speak up for her. That part, she supposed, only she knew about. Yet it was the most appealing thing about him.

The yard was beginning to be cleared of the squires and knights to put on an acrobatic show. They were performers from Lys, able to twist their bodies into strange and inhuman shapes. It was also one of the few sorts of performances that the king abided by. Still, even at this she could not muster up the excitement, and one more her eye wanders to Robert in the stands.

He is looking back at her, blue eyes bright and smiling. Instead of looking away, he rises from his seat, then jerks his head in the direction of the Red Keep. He keeps her gaze until he cannot any longer, once he had turned a corner and disappeared.

Lyanna rises, heart fluttering. When she turns around, she is face-to-chest with Ser Arthur’s white scaled breastplate.

“Where are you going, your grace?” he asks through his helm.

“Inside,” she returns, placing a hand over her middle. “I wish to lie down and rest.”

“Allow me to escort—“

“No,” she snaps back, perhaps a bit too sharply. “No, I can see myself inside. I am pregnant, not blind.”

She thinks for a moment that her answer had been too hurried, too suspicious. But then the knight nods and moves out of her way, and Lyanna gathers her skirts makes her way to the Red Keep.

The castle is nearly devoid of all humans, as they were all gathered outside for the festivities. There was even an echo to her step as she wandered through the throne room, wondering where exactly Robert had intended to find her. When it appears that he is not in that grand hall, she enters a corridor, rounding a few corners. Perhaps he might be in his chambers, or the court—

Her arm is seized rather suddenly, and Lyanna exhales a gasp. When she whirls around, she finds herself in Robert Baratheon’s possession. An unbidden smile creeps upon her lips as she gently pulls away. “You gave me a fright, my lord,” she tells him with a raise of her brows. “It is no good to treat your princess so.” He laughs, and it is a loud, rumbling laugh that spreads to her, and suddenly she is chuckling. Just like his mirth, it was contagious.

“I did not mean to scare you,” he admits, grinning. “But I caught sight of you and I did not want to miss you.”

Lyanna smiles still, holding his gaze which burned hotter than the southron sun. Softly, she speaks. “And why did you not want to miss me?” Such a loaded question, yet one that gnawed at her. There were others to capture his interest; why her?

He continues to grin in that easy way Brandon would grin. “Your brothers are not here; someone ought to look out for you,” he answers, and she knows it is only half the truth.

“I can look out for myself,” she returns, feigning annoyance. Somehow, her display amuses him, and he laughs a thunderous laugh that is loud enough to make her look around in fear that someone may hear. Her annoyance a little more real now, she adds, “Do I amuse you, Lord Robert?”

He only laughs again, a little quieter this time. “Ned has told me of this,” he returns, declaring the strongest connection between the two: her own brother. He had said himself that Robert would have made her a better husband, though Lyanna had doubted that. A good husband in letting her see her family, perhaps, but in fidelity she would find none.“He told me you were fiery… and beautiful; he was right.” Lyanna cannot help but raise a brow at his boldness, yet no part of her protests. It was pleasant, to be complimented. No one had done so, at least not genuinely, in so long. Then, unexpectedly, he extends a hand to a rebellious curl, twirling it between his fingers. Lyanna lets him. “I thought I would meet you first at Harrenhal, but the king had other plans. Bastard.” He bites out the word so suddenly that she is initially taken aback. Her eyes dart around the corridor, assuring that none heard. “I was meant to ride back with you and your brothers to Winterfell and ask for your hand; we were meant to be together.”

“Were,” Lyanna repeats with a soft, sad smile. She had heard something similar to his story. “No longer.”

His jaw sets in private anger, yet as hard as he looked his fingers were surprisingly gentle as they brushed her cheek. Lyanna was no fool; as kind as he was to her, she understood well enough that in marriage she would possess nothing more than his affections for brief periods of time. Perhaps she would even possess his heart. She thought she had blocked herself off from feeling anything for this man, yet her heart hammered against her chest at his touch.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her own hand fluttering up to cover his. “For speaking up for me at supper. No one dares speak against him, and yet you…” You helped me. For the first time in her marriage, someone helped defend her rather than let her suffer.

“Does your husband not stand up for you?” he snaps, a new flush of rage gleaming in his eyes. When she shakes her head, his eyes narrow. Ours is the fury indeed, she thinks to herself. Yet he was much like her own dear Brandon in this. “Damn him,” he curses. “Someone spineless like that does not deserve you,” he insists vehemently.

I know, Lyanna wants to say aloud, but cannot. For in the moment, she was caught up in something else entirely. She was relishing in the touch of his hand on her cheek, while finding herself so lost in the blue of his eyes. It is without her bidding that her fingers move up to his jaw, feeling the stubble there.

These were the choices her body was making of its own accord. And there was a secret thrill in that, in choice. Since her betrothal she had chosen nothing for herself, only yearned and sought after the feeling of freedom, wondering if the cage that was her marriage would ever allow her to find joy in simply making her own decisions.

And it was that lust for liberation that causes her to rise on toes, pressing her lips to his in a silent prayer. And when he wraps his arms around her waist, his touch warm and heavy, Lyanna feels her heart break past the confines of her ribs and soar. Yet in all of her excitement, there was also solace. This was what she wanted, she was coming to realize. And she would be damned if she could not have it.

When they pull away from each other, it is not without marked hesitation. She sighs rather contentedly, smiling in a fashion that she had not practiced in so long. His hands are still on her, perched on her waist, firm and comforting. She did not want to pull away; not now, not ever.

“I shouldn’t,” were the only words that slip past her lips, yet her hands still held his face. But I want to, she adds internally.

And when he kisses her again, it feels as if the bars of her cage had been lifted, and for the first time in so long, Lyanna felt free.

Chapter Text

Perhaps it was not altogether seemly to leave the tourney so suddenly, but other matters had called for Rhaegar’s attention. This gathering was more than just a way to bring revenue to King’s Landing; it was also a supremely convenient method of bring together some rather important figures in the realm. Not as many figures as he would have liked, of course, as Doran Martell and Tywin Lannister were still held at bay, but it did pull some rather notable people to his side.

In fact, his absence definitely achieved that much. Jon Arryn had sent him a messenger promising a meeting after dark while Luthor Tyrell assured his allegiance to the Crown (and only the Crown, as Rhaegar noted, and not specifically to him) by way of a present in the form of a silver sword with the word Loyalty carved into the hilt.

Now he sat in his solar, a goblet of wine in his hand, feeling rather content with himself. All that was left was a meeting with Robert Baratheon, though how it would be organized was beyond him at the moment. The man had a rather thick skull and a limited understanding of intrigue; a part of him brushed him off, assuring that Jon Arryn and the Starks would be enough to keep him in hand, but Rhaegar was not one for merely hoping.

There is one hope he clings to, however, despite his own nature. He knows his father grows more and more suspicious of him with each passing day; no doubt these sentiments have been inflamed tenfold with all of the lords gathered presently. Yet Rhaegar could do little to ease the madness blooming in his mind, leaving him to the prayer that his father would not find sufficient evidence to put Rhaegar on trial for treason. Even his leave from the tourney was dangerous, but it was a necessary one. He could withstand any glares and hisses for this action for the sake of securing alliances.

The sight of a plot unfolding so well was enough for now. It even brought the prince a little pinch of joy. After all, even with politics aside, there was much that was going his way. His wife’s pregnancy was going splendidly thus far, and the curve of her belly was now subtly apparent through her gowns. Strangely enough, sight of her glowing with health, her small hand atop her belly, made his blood roar in his ears. There was something undeniably beautiful about her pregnant form, something that made him want to pin her beneath him and kiss her until her lips were red and swollen. Not that she would allow him to do so, nor did he expect her to. Yet somehow he feels as if they were reaching some sort of understanding, something unsaid and transparent, but it was there.

And he wished to honor it in some significant way.

The door to his solar opens, and Ser Arthur walks in, helm tucked under his arm. The Dornishman gives a bow, which Rhaegar returns with a nod. “Is the tourney over for the day?” he asks of him, concluding that that would be the only reason for his arrival.

“Yes, your grace,” Arthur tells him. His lips part briefly as if he meant to say more, but they seal shut together just as quick.

Rhaegar takes it as a signal to continue speaking. “I was thinking, Ser Arthur,” he began, circling the rim of his goblet with the tip of his finger. “That I might join the lists starting tomorrow.” It was his tourney after all; he had every right to partake in it. “And it would be rather amusing if you joined as well.”

Arthur is quiet for some time before he speaks up again. “And you intend to win, your grace?” he asks quietly. Rhaegar raises a brow, confused by his question.

“Well, naturally,” he returns. “And since the tourney is held in my child’s honor, I see much benefit to crowning his mother when I do.” The crown for the queen of love and beauty was already done with blue roses, after all, an homage to the northern princess. It would only make sense that it be placed in her lap.

“I do not think you’d wish to honor her in such a way,” the knight insists with a rather sudden zeal, a fire burning behind his pale eyes.

“And whyever not?” Rhaegar asks, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the desk.

The tension in Arthur’s face increases as he begins to explain. “The princess retired to the castle after the tourney, your grace, and asked me not to follow. But I know my orders; I followed her inside and caught her… found her…” His jaw clenches in fury, and he bites out, “In the arms of Robert Baratheon, kissing him with fondness, your grace.”

Rhaegar opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come out. What can he say? Deny what his friend had seen with his own eyes? Insist that his vision had erred? The image slips into his mind, of his little wife in that brute’s arms, the curve of her belly pressed to him as they shared a passionate embrace. If the prince was one to be angered easily, he might have burned right there and then.

Instead he gives a sniff and brings his hands together, closing them above the desk. “Is that so?” he asks flatly, his eyes darting from his friend to the window. Then another intrusive thought makes its way into his mind, one which he vocalizes. “Did she look glad?”

The knight is clearly taken aback by the question as he furrows his brows. “She… was smiling, your grace,” he answers.

He hums his understanding, nodding to himself. “Very well,” he whispers, largely to himself. “I will speak with her.”
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Robert Baratheon twirls Lyanna once before bringing her back to him, his clumsy feet matching the music the best he could. He grins down at her, hands in their proper and polite places and he swayed with her, leading her through this graceless dance. To an unlearned eye one would call the dance rather innocent, a subject granting his princess a favor that was customary at such celebrations. But to Rhaegar with his newfound knowledge, it is an act of flagrant betrayal.

Yet Lyanna smiled up at her in such a fashion that made it seem as if she were on the brink of breaking out into a mirthful grin. Indeed, he had never seen her so delighted, not once.

As the song ends and Robert bows low to his princess, Rhaegar comes to a lackluster revelation: he never did want, or expect loyalty from her. He reminds himself that there is only one thing he ever required from his wife, and that was already blooming within her womb.

So when she returns to her seat beside him with a ghost of a smile upon her lips, Rhaegar’s anger melts away. He finds her hand from underneath the table where it was folded in her lap, leaning toward her as he brought her fingers to his lips. It was an act, a way to make all seem normal among the pair.

“Tell me, princess,” her whispers against her fingertips. “Does he make you happy?”

She turns her head rather sharply, her steely grey eyes meeting his. “Who, your grace?” she asks, bending her fingers ever so slightly in subtle resistance.

“Robert Baratheon, sweetling,” he returns in a voice that is low and sickly sweet. Immediately, her gaze looks forward again, her jaw set in silent stubbornness. “I am not angry with you, Lyanna,” he adds, putting down her hand in favor of pushing a curl behind her ear. “Tell me now: does he make you happy?”

Her chin lifts ever so slightly before it drops again; it is the merest of nods, but Rhaegar understands.

“He not the wisest choice, that one,” Rhaegar continues, knuckles brushing her cheek. “But I care not. Especially not now.” His hand rests ever so gently on the swell of her stomach, not ignoring the way she stiffens. But he does not move his hand nor does he want to. “So long as my heirs are not bastards, you may be as foolish as you want with him, sweetling. Though I suppose there is no danger of that now…” He moves his hand in small circles to emphasize his point. “However, you shall be careful. Should word of this reach my father, dearest one, then I fear that not even I can help you.”

Her gaze remains fixed forward, and from the side it seems as if she is undaunted. He wonders if she even grasps the true meaning of her folly. It is no matter, he decides. If she is discovered, then there will always be others.

And in return, he keeps his hand on her belly the whole night, noting with satisfaction that she cannot bring herself to push it away.

Chapter Text

Brandon pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering if this chastisement would ever end. Though in truth it was less verbal punishment as it was a series of glares; both his father and Ned seemed content to sit across from him, their dark grey eyes boring holes into him.

“What am I supposed to do?” he calls out exasperated, bringing his hands down upon the arms of his chair. “Play keep-away from Winterfell until I die? Barbrey’s fit to burst, and Gods know that I’m not stepping under Rodrik Ryswell’s roof, not if I can help it!” He’d sooner be shipped off to the Wall than withstand the stares that would surely stem from Barbrey’s kin.

His father grits his teeth. “This arrangement is hardly suitable,” he tells him. “You and your wife housed in the same castle as Eddard and Lady Catelyn; it’ll do more harm than good.”

Brandon cannot keep himself from rolling his eyes. “You talk like I plan to steal Catelyn away, father. If I wanted that I would have let Ned have Barbrey, and I’d be abed with my Tully wife instead of being glared at by you lot.”

Ned turns an amusing shade of red as he grimaces, simultaneously furious and embarrassed by the situation. Not by any fault of his, Brandon assures himself. All he had done was come home.

“We’ll move into the guest chambers, if that’ll make you all happy,” Brandon offers, crossing his arms over his chest. “But you can’t make me leave; I may not be the heir anymore, but I’m still a Stark of Winterfell. I belong here. The lone wolf dies but the pack—“

“All right,” his father bites out, giving a tired sigh. He looked so old, his father, with new lines on his face and his long grey beard. Too old, in fact. “Stay here if that’s what you want. But as soon as you misbehave—“

“Misbehave, father? What am I, a—“

“As soon as you misbehave, I will give you a tract of land and a castle and the two of you can live there. Understood?”

His father looked seconds away from throwing him out on his arse there and then, and thus Brandon had the good sense to nod silently. He rises out of his seat, prepared to take his leave and end this tiring ordeal. The wolfswood was calling to him, begging him to gather a party and go hunting. He is almost to the door when his father speaks up again,

“And you ought to know, I suppose, that Lyanna is with child,” he notes flatly, as if it were a comment on the weather. Brandon freezes mid-step, still lingering in the doorway. “There was a tourney held for her this week; it is halfway over by now, I suppose.”

Brandon’s mouth was dry all of a sudden. There was no way, no way that young girl he left in King’s Landing was capable enough to bear a child, not when she was all elbows and knees and narrow hips. He asked Rhaegar to abstain, damn it all, though he supposed his promise had expired by the time dawn broke after his wedding night. That the young dragon had his sister in such an intimate, adult way—

Rage swelled in him though it had no reason to. Lyanna was a wife; she did her duty. She had to do her duty, for the sake of the kingdom’s future. But it is the thought, the mere image, that boils his blood.

“And none of you thought to see her?” he asks through gritted teeth. He turns for the briefest moment, only to pin an accusing glare on Ned. He of all people should have gone. But it is too late to go now, and Brandon turns on his heel, storming through the halls of the castle. He knows if he left now for King’s Landing he’d not arrive until least a week, well beyond the window of invitation that the king had extended to them.

On the tip of his tongue were a few choice words about family and the pack, but they freeze and remain unsaid. Nothing he says will change what has already come to pass; and nothing he would say would be worth being banished from Winterfell either.

Soundlessly, he exits the solar with a head full of hot air. He goes marching down the halls, storming past anyone who had the misfortune of being in his path. It is when he reaches the door that he meets someone on their way in, and he knocks the petite figure to the ground. Finding himself with no choice but to help them up in order to get outside, Brandon casts his irritated gaze down to Catelyn Tully, auburn hair dissheveled after her bump into him.

Inwardly cursing his rotten luck, Brandon extends a hand to her. Her gloved one accepts the gesture, but not without hesitation. “My apologies, my lord,” she half-whispers to him, casting her eyes downward one she is on her feet. “I got in your way.”

Brandon gives a noncommittal grunt, pulling his hand away when hers seemed to linger. She stood in the doorway still, making no effort to move. She just looked down at her feet, wringing her hands together.

“Do you need anything?” he snaps, perhaps a little too harshly. In his disgruntled state, he did not think of retracting his words for kinder ones. But his voice does cause her wide blue eyes to jump up to his face.

“No, my lord,” she returns with a little shake of her head. “I had just— I expected— After all, you had—“

Untie your tongue or move out of my way, woman, he wants to bite back. But she was not his wife to scold, and thus he waits, his patience running thinner and thinner.

Suddenly, her eyes narrow to their normal size, her brows furrowing mysteriously. “I wished to congratulate you on you and Lady Barbrey’s marriage,” she tells him plainly. “I see it is already fruitful. May the gods grant you a son, my lord.” There is something hard in her voice that he cannot translate. As it was, he did not wish to translate it.

“Aye,” Brandon returns flatly. “Congratulations on your marriage, Lady Catelyn. My brother is a good lad.”

Her lip twitches in some imperceptible confession, but no words come out. She only nods, then moves politely out of his way. Taking the opportunity, he moves past her and into the yard, where he makes a straight shot for the stables.

“Saddle up my horse, lad,” he calls to the first stable hand he lays eyes on. “Get my bow and gather my men; I want to be out hunting in the wolfswood before my horse takes his next shit.” The boy scrambles to fulfill his orders, leaving Brandon’s blood still humming and his hand perched dangerously on the pommel of his sword. In his hunt, he’ll have time to think. Or rather, more accurately, to forget.

Chapter Text

It was a strange thing, her affair. Not just the nature of it, though in truth the very thought that she had fallen for Robert Baratheon of all men still baffled her, but that was not all. Perhaps it was the secret thrill of sneaking off to share burning kisses, the unassuming touch of his hand on hers, the foreign, long absent joy that quivered so in her heart. Perhaps it was how her blood rushed in her ears when he chased her around the gardens at night, or how safe she felt in his large arms which enveloped her so sweetly, so kindly.

To think how frightened she was when Rhaegar had approached her! The man proved his lack of affection by letting her go, and it was through his cold indifference that her desire of Robert had only burned more.

Yet despite her lover’s dark reputation, the man had not been anything less than chivalrous in his affections. His kisses were sweet in their hunger, his hands never wandering beyond the expanse between her hips and her waist. And he was gentle, always gentle, despite those roughened hands of his.

It brought her to wonder if much of what was said of him was true at all. Perhaps he had only bedded the women with the loosest lips, spreading lies about him all over the realm, claiming there was a bastard here and a bastard there. Surely, no man’s loins could be that fruitful, nor his travels so vast.

That did not matter to her now. They had found a rose arbor in the gardens, devoid of all people now that it was after dark, and her head nestled sweetly beneath his chin. The stars shone so bright tonight, each twinkle seeming to her like a private little wink, each one encouraging her happiness.

“I’ll be leaving on the morrow,” he murmured to her, his hand moving in the darkness to rub her arm. It was a fact she knew too well; the tourney was only to be a week, after all, and they had only begun their affair after three days into it. She knew he could not linger long, as much as she would have liked it.

“Aye,” she whispered in return. He would leave, and return to his hobbies, his Storm’s End, leaving Lyanna in the capital surrounded by mad dragons. “I do not want you to go.” Her voice is small and possessive. Too afraid to let him go, no matter what.

Yet he laughs, as if she told a joke. It was that loud, booming laughter, the sort that made her heart race as it threatened to reveal them at any time. “Do you think the king would let his good old cousin take up residence in his castle a little longer?” he says with a smile, and Lyanna is unsure if he is teasing her or not. He isn’t, she thinks. As much as he adored her, he was restless. That was his nature.

“You could ask,” she offers weakly, but he laughs again. It infuriates her. “Are you so glad to let me go?” she snaps, drawing away from him. His arm pulls her back in, lips meeting hers in a kiss.

“No,” he murmurs against her, pushing her onto her back. Her hands twist in his hair, pulling him closer, closer. His kisses were so sweet, so divine. They were like wine, rushing to her head, making her dizzy, dizzier. Who knew such joy would be found in simply choosing to kiss a man? Not out of duty, or custom, but truly, truly wanting it. That is what she would miss the most. The choice, the want, the— “I love you,” he grunts against her mouth, hand leaving the chaste purchase of her waist to run up her leg, fingers digging into her thigh.

Something like panic sets in, and she is shoving him away before she knew it. To his credit, he leans up off of her, sitting back on his haunches with eyes wide and wild, like a wounded animal’s.

“Love me? Robert—“ a short, bitter laugh escapes her, but she finds herself trembling. Love? No, she did not do this for love. She did it for passion. So did he, didn’t her? As with every woman, he must have sworn his love before lifting her skirts as he so wished to do. Clearing her throat, Lyanna raises her chin. “I… do not want to do that,” she said, righting her skirts to indicate what she meant.

He makes a low noise, seeming irritated at this decision. What she wanted him to be was hungry, like a lion with his sights set on his prey, but with no way to reach it. Perhaps that would tether his affections, Lyanna thinks with an inward smile. Wave the meat before him, but never let him take a bite. For once he had his fill, what would he want with the bones?

Rising, she reaches out a hand to him on the grass. “Take me to my chambers, Robert,” she commands sweetly of him, and he obliges, silently taking her hand, holding it tight. He even keeps hold of it when they enter the castle, and Lyanna has to wrench it away, fearful of what the walls might see.

He takes her as far as her chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast, playing the part of the visiting lord escorting his lady the best he could. But something was off about him; Robert was a remarkably easy man to read, after all.

Outside her chambers stood Ser Arthur, looking disapproving as he laid eyes upon them. “Good evening, Ser Arthur,” she greets gently of him, but he scowls instead.

“It’s Lord Robert’s last night, isn’t it?” Arthur asks, indigo eyes flashing. “Best make the most of it.” With those words, he nods his head to her chambers.

Lyanna’s heart thumps in her chest. He knows, Lyanna ponders with panic. He knows. How does he know? Who told him? Who—

Rhaegar. Of course, it must be Rhaegar. The two were confidants; perhaps he had even had it arranged that night, so that Arthur would be at her door with lips sealed.

Robert, too thick-headed to contemplate and panic as she had, smiles and leads her through the doors of her chambers, clearly unperturbed. It amazed her, how stupid her man of choice could be. But then, that was how such passionate minds worked.

“I-I do not understand Ser Arthur,” Lyanna mumbles, laughing nervously once they are inside. “It is not like… Well, I do not intend…”

“Lyanna,” Robert says her name with a measure of exasperation. He is already sitting on her bed, comfortable. He beckons her with a tilt of her head, and Lyanna obeys cautiously.

He pulls her down atop his lap, face buried in her neck. She thinks it an innocent gesture, sweet even, and she cradles his head, nestling her nose in those fine black curls. But then she feels it, the rough, wet kisses down the column of her neck, trailing down, across the tops of her breasts as his hands squeezed her waist.

“No,” she commands firmly, wriggling off him. “No, Robert, we cannot. I do not want to.” She’d made many choices with Robert, many rash ones that were just enough to send her blood pumping… But this?

It was not attachment to her husband that prevented it. It was more than depriving Robert, even. It was simple discomfort, that was all. She hardly trusted the man she called husband to bed her, and she hardly tolerated it. If she were to do it, it would be on her terms, on her desire… And the desire was simply absent.

Robert rises, looking exasperated again as he headed for the door. Like a petulant child, Lyanna clings to his arm. “There are other things we may do tonight,” she begs of him in a manner she hoped did not sound desperate. “It shall be our last night together; why don’t we talk, share stories until the sun comes up? I have so many about Ned, and I’m sure you do too—“

“I don’t want to talk about Ned,” he tells her rather gruffly, alarming her when his brows furrowed in irritation. “I want you, Lyanna. Gods be good— I have never loved a woman as I love you.”

“Don’t— Don’t be foolish—“

“You don’t want me, then? Have the last four days been a mummer’s farce? I don’t like plays, Lya—”

“I do want you,” she insists, frowning at how little passion she had for those words. “I want you with me, always. How can we make that be? Please, Robert, I want to get away, I must…” There are little tears in her eyes, pathetic tears of frustration at her own game. What was she doing? Why did she want him to stay, when she so desperately wanted to go?

Robert pauses, possibly contemplating her words and her watery eyes. “Ah, gods,” he curses, before pulling her into a warm embrace. “And how am I meant to take you away? Shall I stow you in one of my chests?” He laughs, but Lyanna doesn’t. Do it, she almost says. “Not tonight, love, not tonight,” he murmurs, kissing her again. It is sweet, gentle. It is almost enough.

“I’ll write you,” she promises when they pull away. “Please, don’t forget me.” Please, remember to save me.

“Of course not, Lyanna,” he murmurs. “I love you to the stars and back, I do.” Then he smiles, kisses her once more, and exits her chambers.

If such words would earn her passage out, she would accept them with a smile.
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It two moon’s turns later that she was recounting her tales of joy to Judith that her husband walks in. An inopportune time, as Lyanna was responding to one of Robert’s letters. Still, she does not hide it when he comes. He knows, and he did not care.

“He was so wonderful, Jude,” she has whispered before the door flew open. She had sighed such words of praise about her storm lord lover over and over to Judith. Her servant always accepted them with anxious smiles. “Kind, and gentle, and sweet. No one ever mentioned his sweetness.”

“Y-Yes, princess,” her servant responded uneasily. She spoke with this hesitation and discomfort each time Robert was mentioned. Perhaps Lyanna oughtn’t have burdened her with her secret. Or perhaps she was only falling ill, poor dear. She worked so hard.

A throat clears, and Lyanna whirls around. Her regal husband stands in the doorway, cold eyes boring into her, hair gleaming by candlelight, looking flawless as he always did. “Husband,” she regards him cooly.

“Wife,” he returns stiffly. “I’ll be taking my leave on the morrow to Dorne. Prince Doran has invited me to make peace.”

“Good,” she offers, closing her hands over the swell of her belly when his gaze fell so harshly upon it. “I hope you enjoy your trip.”

“Yes,” is what he murmurs in return. “Be sure to take care of yourself while I am gone.”

“And how long will you be gone?” she asks only out of courtesy.

“We shall see.”

With that, he leaves, and Lyanna restarts her praises of Robert once more, ignoring the sharp pang in her chest.

Chapter Text

Elia eyes the procession of Targaryen banners and men on horses pouring in from the gates and into the courtyard of the Old Palace. Not a large party, but a party nonetheless, with rather important people among them. Ser Arthur Dayne, a knight of the kingsguard, and a friend since childhood. Her own dear uncle, Prince Lewyn Martell, a member of the esteemed kingsguard as well. And then, perhaps most the most important of them all, was their crown prince, looking regal in his black, ruby studded armor, atop that silver stallion of his.

She never did know exactly why her brother had finally consented to a visit from the prince. Rhaegar had sent him letter after letter, never outright begging for an invitation, but never demanding one either. Oh, Elia knew well enough that her brother still bore him ill will for his spurning her. Perhaps it was the news that Rhaegar’s Stark wife was with child, and the tourney in her honor promised a prince of only good intentions.

Regardless here he was, a vision of splendor and grace and a hundred other princely things. Something worthy to bow to, but she notes that Doran and Mellario stand tall among the lesser nobles who kneel low around them. Elia follows her brother’s example, understanding the symbolism. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Not for a prince, or anyone who dares tread on them.

If the prince disapproves, he makes no sign of it. He dismounts, shaking his silver hair out of his helm, a serene smile on his chiseled lips. A beautiful man, in all definitions of the word. Even that Oberyn and Doran could not deny (though the former had grumbled that he was too pretty for his tastes, but Elia could tell her brother was only making excuses).

“Prince Doran,” Rhaegar greets in his silvery voice, high and clear above all of the prostrated people. “I thank you so sincerely for allowing me to visit. I fear I’ve tarried on the way here, taken as I was by Dorne’s beauty. I did not appreciate it enough the first time around, and now I have taken my time to do so.”

Her brother gives a little nod, unmoved by his praise. “I’m glad she pleases you,” he says flatly, warily accepting the hand that the Prince of Dragonstone had extended so amiably.

The flash in Rhaegar’s eyes dazzles. “Of course, nothing pleases me more than meeting with you again,” he tells the still guarded Doran with sincere warmth. “My company is smaller, but also more pleasant, you see.”

They understand. The absence of the mad-eyed king made things a little easier. Doran nods, unable to deny it, before reintroducing Mellario to him, along with little Arianne and even little Quentyn, still a babe in arms. Things appear sweet, perhaps even amiable at this point, the young prince smiling sweetly down at the children, removing a gauntlet to gingerly brush Quentyn’s cheek with a thin finger. Then the tense moment arrives, with Doran calling her name to greet the prince.

Though none had thought it proper to do so, Elia curtsies to him, knowing her place. In a different world he would have been her lord husband; in this one, he was still her formal superior, her future king.

The prince returns the courtesy, bowing low and deep. When he rises, there seems to be a hesitation in his speech, his upper lip twitching almost imperceptibly in an unsaid phrase. When he does speak, his voice is quiet, soft. “I have a hundred apologies in my head,” he tells her with surprising emotion. “Yet I fear none are adequate for what has transpired.”

Elia’s breath catches in her throat, caught off guard. Kindly, she extends a hand to his armored forearm, and smiles. “I shan’t accept any of your apologies, your grace,” she tells him with the merest of smiles. “For there is no need of them.”

His silver brows rise in silent surprise. Nothing more is said. With a nod, and another bow, he slips inside with Doran. Elia looks after him for some time, moved by him. He would make any woman a proud wife, she thinks, with a twinge of envy which she shrugs off.

Lewyn greets her, the deep lines of his face all lifting in unison upon seeing her. They embrace the best they could through his heavy armor, her dear uncle showering with praises of how beautiful she was, how lovely, how sweet-smelling and kind. He had always behaved thus with her, bouncing her on his knee when he was younger and cooing over her. It was a benefit of being the only girl amongst her siblings, the only one that people could sing of beauty to.

(Though, secretly, she had wished people would speak more of her mind and craftiness, as they so often did of her brothers.)

Lewyn becomes distracted by his great-nephew and niece, leaving Elia to watch on fondly as Arianne laughed and giggled in his arms. Some of Oberyn’s own daughters had fallen out of their ranks in the crowd to greet him as well, clinging to his legs and arms and whatever limbs they could grasp.

A cold touch at her shoulder warrants from her a gasp as she whirls back around to come face-to-face, or rather, face-to-chest, with Arthur Dayne. “You snuck up on me,” she tells him with a fond smile, as if it were possible for a man six-and-a-half feet tall to sneak up on anyone.

“Did I frighten you?” the knight asks with sudden embarrassment, fair skin reddening at his cheeks. She knew it would garner such a reaction; for a man known for his martial prowess, he was still very much the kind-hearted boy she knew as a young girl herself. She would never forget young Arthur Dayne, tall even then and a page to her uncle, patrolling the edges of the water gardens like a knight on duty, becoming red-faced and flustered whenever someone asked him to join them in the waters. So often Elia wondered why he so ardently refused to play in the waters. Now, she thinks, it was a simple matter of pride.

Elia laughs, then shakes her head. “Never,” she assures him. “Have you been well, so far away from Dorne?”

His face is regal and calm again, skin all one tone now. “I have been well myself, yes. As for those around me—“ he pauses, then shakes his head, guarding a secret. “All I may say is that the company I keep have not done many wonders to my health.”

Elia quirks a brow, wondering his meaning. Was it the prince he spoke of? The king? Perhaps it was even the queen, or the new princess? Whatever it was, Elia knew Arthur well enough that he would not utter a word that carried even a hint of treason.

“Lucky you are here now,” Elia assures him. “The worst thing you shall have to withstand are Quentyn’s cries at night.”

He smiles in a sweet, almost shy way. “A welcome sound, princess,” he says.
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She spots him in the library, long, elegant fingers brushing over the spine of a book. She had not gone searching for him, no. On the contrary, she was one her way to her bedchambers. Her lungs had been bothering her since that afternoon, and under the cover of night they had somehow got worse. After a coughing fit and a goblet of wine, Elia found her composure again, and on the way, the crown prince.

Leave him alone, Elia, she tells herself, beginning to move from the doorway. But it is too late; she catches the prince’s eye, and he does not look away. Courteously, she turns back to him, dipping for a curtsey.

“Princess,” he calls to her respectfully. “Good evening. Do you know this library well?”

Elia raises her brows, slowly closing the gap between them. Closer to him, she smells a mix of lavender and something more metallic, like silver or steel. The lavender, she supposes, must have been from his bath water. The metal, his natural scent. “I do know it well, your grace,” she returns with a nod. “Is there a book in particular you search for?”

His eyes are back to the shelves, scanning them. “Yes. Is there anything on children, whilst they’re in the womb?”

A strange request, until she recalls the state of his wife back in King’s Landing. It almost makes her heart flutter to know that he thinks of her even now. Elia silently fetches the book he searched for, as it was, by coincidence, a book she had read herself. Anything on children interested her.

He accepts the leather-bound tome with a thank you, turning it over in his hands with deliberate gentleness, as if it were a babe itself and not just a book on them.

“It is good of you to read about these matters,” Elia notes with a hit of admiration. “Most men are more than glad to remain ignorant of the birthing bed and pregnancy besides.”

His dark lilac eyes finally rise to meet hers. A chill runs through her body at the sight of them; they had played a rather central role in her dreams as of late, though less in romantic situations and more in carnal ones. Not that she would ever admit to the prince that she had been dreaming of sharing his bed; nor would she act upon it.

“It seems the topic has been one that I cannot escape,” Rhaegar notes in a soft murmur. “The princess… My wife, that is, is with child. And I had learned on the road here that the queen is as well.”

Elia hides her surprise the best she can. The queen was in her mid-thirties, at least, and from rumor not very able in carrying children to term. The prince’s troubled tone seems warranted in this regard. Yet, at the same time, she cannot stifle all of her cruel envy that bubbled up in her starting at the mention of his wife. The child inside the young princess was meant to be hers, after all, and now that opportunity was lost to her. The weight of such thoughts make her sway.

The prince braces her by her elbow, fingers firm yet gentle on her soft skin. With a tight smile, she rightens her self, and thanks him softly. “I wish them both easy pregnancies and healthy children, your grace. What a wonderful thing it must be to soon greet both a sibling and a child of your own and only months apart.”

The prince does not readily agree with her. He is silent, pensive, as he flips through the pages of the volume in his hands. A question hangs in her hand, then rebelliously slips past her lips.

“…Unless his grace disagrees?”

Those intelligent eyes snap up again, shocked at her boldness. Yet Elia does not find herself begging forgiveness. With a smile, she gently closes a hand over the one resting atop the cover.

“There is much on your mind, it seems,” she reads him without cruelty. The heaviness of his brow, the slight part of his lips, indicative of a hundred unsaid words— signs of a troubled mind. Her maternal nature wishes to ease it. “Yet your visit to our fair land ought to be one of leisure, and not only diplomacy. Tell me, your grace, have you every played cyvasse?” The prince shakes his head, silver locks gleaming by candlelight. “Ah, then it is a good thing that I shall be the one to teach you. I am rather good at it, you see. I have not been beaten yet.”

“Is it a game of wit?” Rhaegar asks with more warmth than he had displayed before.

“Yes, among other things.”

“I would think so,” he agrees with the smallest of smiles. “If you are so apt at it.”

An appreciative laugh hides her content sigh. “You flatter me, your grace,” she quipped ever so demurely.

He was not wrong, of course. They had played cyvasse until the sun came up, its soft light warm upon their tired skin, and only once did he ever come close to beating her.

“I yield,” the prince had finally said with a sleepy smile, hands up in surrender. How brilliantly he shone in the morning light; how beautiful.

“Dorne gladly accepts your forfeit,” Elia allows with a small yawn. She had not coughed once the entire night, somehow making her feel more rested now than she was the night before.

Tired purple eyes turn hot as they land upon her, his regal voice speaking in a clear tone: “And I am glad for Dorne.”

Elia says nothing, but she smiles.

Chapter Text

Another shout tore through the castle, practically shaking stones in the walls. Ned rubbed his face, squeezing his eyes shut, though he knew no sleep would come. Barbrey, it seemed, was either having a truly difficult time birthing her child, or was just naturally a loud woman.

Ned rolls up out of bed, tying on a robe that hung from one of the four posters of his bed. There would be no sleep tonight; that much was certain. He glanced at his writing desk, empty and devoid of anything that required his immediate attention. His letters from Lyanna, from Jon, from Robert, from Hoster— all were answered and already attached onto a raven’s leg. There were no books he had a mind to read, no swords that needed particular sharpening— it was an empty night, but even then he could not spend it in rest.

In a daze, he walks out of his room, following the sounds of the pained woman. He had no intention to enter the birthing room, of course, but some cloudy part of his mind insisted that asking about her might ease the throbbing in his head.

Outside of the room he finds his older brother, slumped up against the wall opposite the door. Ned can tell by his slouched frame that he was either very tired (unlikely, as Brandon’s energy can only be described as limitless) or very drunk. When he comes closer, the smell of him confirms the latter.

Brandon shoots him a lopsided smile, leaning forward to slap him hard on the shoulder. He uses the gesture as an excuse to lean his weight on him. Ned bears the burden with a grunt.

“Ned, my brother,” he calls to him drunkenly. “I was halfway to Barrowtown, I was, when father came an’ dragged me back. Can ye believe it? As if I’d be any help in this…” He motions wildly to the birthing chambers. “This womanly matter.”

Barbrey lets loose a shrieking howl from inside. The faint sounds of Maester Walys insisting she was almost done could be heard, along with the encouraging voices of some midwives.

“Is she all right?” Ned asks with a furrowed brow. He wondered briefly if own lady wife was to suffer so; Barbrey had been shouting for hours.

Brandon waves a dismissive hand. “She’s fine,” he insists with sleepy eyes. “She doesna need me.” As he rolls off Ned to return to slumping against the wall, Ned notes briefly that he doubts anyone could need him in such a state.

The noise inside comes to a sudden hush, before it is broken again by the sound of small, gasping cries. The babe, Ned thinks with a pinch of wonder. His eyes flit back to his brother, who blinks listlessly at the door.

Within a few minutes, the maester steps outside, nodding toward Brandon. “A healthy baby girl, my lord,” he tells him, largely emotionless. “You may come inside to see her now.”

Brandon doesn’t seem any more sober as he stumbles inside, nearly knocking into the maester as he did. Ned nearly pitied Barbrey for the sloppy sight she’d be greeted with. His brother, once again, acted on his own emotion and neglected those of others.

Knowing there would be plenty of time in the morning to congratulate Barbrey and look upon his new niece, Ned rounds the corner to go back to his room, but ends up nearly colliding with someone else. Taking a step back, he realizes it is his lady wife. Her auburn hair was in a plait down the center of her back, and her lovely body was wrapped by a forest green robe. Her stomach was a round protrusion at the front, the curve of it flowing seamlessly with those of her hips and breasts.

Ned flushes at the sight of her, which is almost intimate in nature. He is not even sure if she has something on underneath the robe, nor did he feel it was his right to wonder. Though they were surely wedded, their interactions were few and far in between, and his crippling shyness made it difficult for him to make more of an effort.

“What… What are you doing up, my lady?” he asks of her, forcing his gaze up to her wide blue eyes.

“I could hardly sleep,” she admits, blinking though it should have been obvious. Ned felt foolish. “Did she deliver her babe?”

Ned nods. “A girl,” he informs her weakly.

“Healthy?”

“As far as I know.”

She exhales, seemingly relieved at this news. “Thank the Gods. I had been praying for her all night,” she tells him solemnly.

Ned raises his brows. “In the godswood?” As soon as he asks the question he knows it is foolish. Oh, Gods, I can’t speak two words around my wife…

Catelyn, bless her, shakes her head. “In my room, my lord. I fear the godswood is no true place for me, and it is dark besides.”

“Of course,” Ned says perhaps a little too eagerly, for the thought of her praying in her room was rather sad. He knows that such prayers would have more of a spiritual impact in a sept, just as his own prayers felt more resolute in a godswood. But there was no sept in Winterfell, and thus, he supposed, she had to pray thus.

“I do hope things shall be less difficult with our babe,” she suddenly says with a wistful tone. “Or at least I may be more quiet.” The last part was said in jest, as her small smile implied.

Ned thanks the darkness of the hall as his cheeks burn red. “I’m sure all will be fine, my lady,” he assures her in a small voice. He allows his eyes to flit quickly down to their stomach before returning respectfully to her face. “And you are… all right? The babe is not…?”

Catelyn nods, understanding his meaning. “We have a gentle babe, apart from his kicks. He gets rather violent about those,” she tells him with a chuckle.

He. Ned notes her use of pronoun. She thinks it’s a boy, then. Strange, for Ned had thought so too.

“Nothing too serious I hope?” he asks, still curious.

“No. They pass in short time, though I do have to stop and sit.”

“Good.”

He shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot, unsure of what there was left to say. Catelyn mercifully spares him the mental acrobatics and offers a little curtsey before she leaves his sight.
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Even with the newfound silence, sleep does not come easy. Something in the back of his mind is pecking at him, though what he could not say. It had faintly to do with Brandon, with Catelyn, with their babe, but what he could not say.

Yet strangely enough, when morning comes, Ned feels wide awake. He dresses, then goes out to the courtyard, eyes scanning what they could of the land around him. Winterfell was no small castle, he knew, with land aplenty. Sometimes it seemed packed to the brim, the buildings side by side… other days, it felt sparse and empty.

There is an empty spot of land between the Great Hall and the Great Keep. Not an incredibly big place, but big enough, he thinks. His feet lead him back inside, up into his father’s solar where sat with a little swaddled babe in his large hands. A ghost of a smile is on his face, a rare thing indeed. He was in an amiable mood.

“Ah, Ned. Did you meet your niece yet?” he asks, tilting her toward him. She was red-faced, with a few strands of dark hair atop her head, and her eyes were still closed.

“No,” Ned admitted.

“Lyarra is what they’ve named her. Wonderful.”

“Aye,” Ned agrees hurriedly. “Father, how soon can we commission an architect?”

His father’s grey brows rise. “What for, lad?”

“A sept.”

Chapter Text

She hardly even felt Rhaegar’s absence. In truth it had never made much of a difference if he were present or not; he rarely paid her much mind as it was, only speaking to her about the babe and how she fared. When she saw him off at the gates of the Red Keep, she could not help but bitterly think good riddance.

It took them a number of weeks to arrive in Dorne, according to the raven he had sent the queen, due to their tarrying and whatnot. At that, Lyanna could not help feel a pinch of envy. She would have loved to go outside of these gates and as far as Dorne. Alas, the king had not even allowed her a trip to the Riverlands and back. A dream of Dorne would be just that: a dream.

It was in those few weeks that the queen herself had an announcement: she was with child, a feat Lyanna could only imagine was miraculous at her age. The child would be a full twenty-three years younger than Rhaegar, and only fifteen years apart from Lyanna. Closer to her as a sibling in age than her own husband; a strange matter to ponder on.

The promise of new life seemed to stir very little outward emotion from the queen. Perhaps she was only aware of her own mortality, knowing how dangerous as it was to give birth at her age, or perhaps she hid her joy. Seeing to how she clung to Viserys, Lyanna found it hard to believe that the queen would truly be indifferent to a child growing within her. Even if it is not the child of a man she loved, she must love her babe. That much was true for Lyanna.

Still, this somehow sparked a kinship between her and the queen. Or at least, that must be what the woman was attempting to do when she invited her to her chambers to break their fasts every morning. Their conversations rarely stretched beyond basic courtesy. Luckily, Viserys was available to make the mood light. He had taken to sitting on Lyanna’s lap on those mornings, poking and palming her round belly playfully, and earning them both vitriolic stares from the queen.

On this particular morning, Rhaegar had been gone one-and-a-half moons, and Robert had not sent a letter in weeks. To sit with the queen was not a tiring task; it required little thought, and only basic courtesy. Viserys sat on her lap, laying his silver head against her shoulder as he patted her belly.

“Lyanna,” the queen’s cold voice calls to her. “Have you learned anything since your coming here?”

A strange question, and one Lyanna did not know how to respond to. “What do you mean, your grace?” she asks flatly.

The queen shrugs lazily. “You have not come to me for any advice. Not on diplomacy, or marriage, or your responsibilities…”

“I’ve learned some,” Lyanna snaps back a little too quickly. The queen raises a thin brow. “That is… I am sure I will have plenty of time to learn, your grace. With your help…”

The queen drops the subject with a disapproving shake of her head, remaining in silence for some time before speaking up again.

“Rhaegar has been gone some time now,” the queen pipes up from her side of the table, eyes scanning a letter in front of her. “Has he written you?”

“No, your grace.” There was no point in lying. The prince did not write her, nor did she write him.

“Hm,” she intones curtly. “Do you miss him at all?”

Before Lyanna can reply, Viserys grumbles, “I don’t.” He pouts and rubs Lyanna’s belly affectionately. Lyanna can only stare at him in disbelief.

“Viserys,” the queen chides him through gritted teeth. “That is not the proper thing to say about your brother—“

“Well, I don’t!” he snaps back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Rhaegar never talks to me, or plays with me. He’s not nice like Lyanna.” His face is dark, narrowed eyes glossy with tears unshed.

The queen looks at her as if it is all her fault, her gaze darkening. Lyanna can only sit in silence, trying to recall Viserys’s few interactions with his older brother. The wide eyes that looked up to Rhaegar, seeking attention and approval. The small hands that grabbed at the edge of his shirt, urging him to look. And then the radiant smile when Rhaegar finally paid him a look, or a pat of the head— or when nothing was given to the young boy, how his face would fall as if he had been struck. Viserys loved his brother, but he hated him too.

What an awful family, she thought to herself, and not for the first time. It truly astounded her how disconnected they were with each other, how brother did not love brother, how a husband did not respect his wife, a father did not love his children. In truth, the queen, with all her maternal instincts, always looking out for her children, seemed the most forgivable, along with the young Viserys.

She looks to the queen and she cannot help but wonder if this was to be her fate someday. A cold and quiet woman, strong at her core, but only through the endless torment of her marriage. A mad husband, distant children. A shiver passes over Lyanna at the thought. She would die before she would let that happen. Lyanna knew her worth.

“’Tis one of the trials of motherhood, Lyanna,” the queen tells her, her dark eyes hard but roiling with emotion she didn’t understood. Lyanna waited for an explanation. When one came, she inquired.

“What is, your grace?”

The queen shakes her head and looks aside, away from Viserys who glared at his mother with his arms still crossed.

Raising them? Lyanna thinks to herself.

“No matter how hard you try,” Rhaella whispers in a voice so low, Lyanna wonders if she was meant to hear it. “It is never enough.”
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Lyanna sits at her vanity with Judith running a brush through her hair. It was a soothing task, and an opportunity for the friends to exchange some conversation. Lyanna cradles her round belly between her hands, stroking her child from the outside. In her mind, she spoke her nightly mantra:

You shall be strong like Brandon, gentle like Ned, and sweet like Benjen. You will be brave and good and kind. I shall love you and protect you, no matter what.

This child would be her child, and she would cherish it till her dying breath.

“The child cannot come soon enough,” Lyanna muses aloud with a faint smile. “I cannot wait to welcome it into this world.”

Judith remains uncharacteristically silent, not even nodding. Lyanna stares at her reflection in the mirror, wondering why. Then suddenly, Jude speaks.

“I must forfeit my services, your grace. I cannot be by your side any longer.” Her voice is soft and slow, but it wavers ever so slightly.

Lyanna turns in her seat, yanking her hair out of the bristles of the brush as she did. “Why?” she asks with fire, eye narrowing. “You cannot leave me. You are my only friend. You—“

“I can’t,” Jude mumbles, pulling her hands away when Lyanna reached for them. Her eyes are filled with tears and an unsaid shame. “I am unfit to serve you. I cannot stay by your side.”

“But I won’t let you!” Lyanna shoots back childishly. “You must stay. I cannot be without you. I will not allow you to go.” Fat tears begin to roll down her servant’s rosy cheeks that serve to soften her heart. Lyanna scoots out of her seat, bracing Jude’s shaking shoulders with her hands.

“I’ve betrayed your trust, princess,” the girls whispers through her tears. “I am so ashamed; I cannot stay, I cannot.”

Lyanna’s brows furrow in concern. She squeezes her shoulders. “Why not?” she asks in a small voice. “Tell me, Jude. Whatever it is, we shall fix it together. It can be mended.”

The girl shakes her head mournfully. “It is irreversible,” she insists. “I’m with child, your grace.”

An invisible weight lifts off Lyanna’s shoulders as she says this. As Jude continues to cry, Lyanna only chuckles, her hands brushing the tears off her face.

“And so am I. We shall be mothers together, then,” Lyanna says with a smile. This does not ease Jude’s sorrow, and she continues to sob. “I shall help you take care of it. You may take a holiday if you wish, and I shall pay you for it. Fear not, dear Jude, that is such a small matter…”

“No, your grace,” Jude returns. “The father— The father is absent.”

“Tell me who it is, and I shall make him support you,” Lyanna shoots back in a hiss. A stableboy or wine bearer may not make much coin, but it hardly seemed fair that his life continued unburdened while Jude’s was crushed.

“Your grace, oh Gods forgive me, your grace,” she cries out, half-hysterical. “It is Robert Baratheon’s child your grace. Oh Gods!” Another wave of sobs tears through the girl.

The combined force of her tears and words forces Lyanna to take a step back. “R-Robert’s?” she whispers. Her heart feels as if it had been torn out and trampled on. Jude knew. She knew of her and Robert from the start, as excited as Lyanna had been to tell someone, anyone. She knew of their love and their affair. She knew, and yet—

You are a fool, Lyanna Stark, a cruel voice insists in her head. You fell for his tricks, and so did she.

Lyanna wraps her arms around herself, the taste of betrayal bitter on her tongue. But whose betrayal? She looks to her servant, whose face was buried in her hands, her shoulders still shaking with her sobs.

“Stupid,” Lyanna bites out, clenching her fists. “We are both stupid.”

I love you. It should have been me. You deserve better than the likes of him. His voice repeated his pretty words in her head, words a hundred women must have heard before, but words are wind. Gods, she knew he would not be true, but never, never did she think he would practice his wiles not 20 feet outside of her bedchambers. Out of sight, out of mind.

Stupid.

Straightening, Lyanna turned back to her servant. Her cries had ceased, but her head remained hung, as if she were waiting for chastisement.

“I shall write him,” Lyanna tells her softly. “He shall send you coin, or I shall.”

Judith looks startled, her red-rimmed eyes wide and astonished. “Your grace— No, you do not have to. I shall leave, I shall get by—“

“I want to,” Lyanna tells her. “He shall pay for what he has done to you.” What he had done to us.

“I was willing, your grace,” The girl insists. “I have betrayed you. I do not deserve your kindness, nor your coin, nor his.”

“Jude,” Lyanna calls to her softly. She crosses back over to her, and holds her tearstained cheeks between her hands. “We are friends, are we not? I do not care for him. I care for you. And you are forbidden to leave my side.”

Jude nods, silent in her surprise. She kisses Lyanna’s hands, and Lyanna dismisses her with a smile. Alone now, at her writing desk, she pens her last letter to Robert.

Lord Robert,

I write to inform you that my chambermaid is with child. You know the one I’m sure: flaxen hair, fair skin, blue eyes. She is penniless and without a family. When you send a raven in return, I expect its leg to be carrying several golden dragons and nothing else. If I see a piece of paper, I shall burn it before reading.

You are never to write me again. You are never to speak my name. To you, I am ‘your grace’.

You may refuse to support this child if that it your wish. You cannot disappoint me anymore than you already have.

Your grace,
Princess Lyanna Targaryen

(Ned was wrong about you. You are not good. You never will be.)

Chapter Text

His trip to Dorne had been on the pretense of diplomacy, yet the trip there along with the stay ended up being one more of leisure. He’d sat twice, perhaps three times in Doran’s solar discussing actual politics. Even then each of Rhaegar’s words were thinly veiled apologies.

“’Twas not my action that ended the betrothal, my lord,” he assured had him in a low, sympathetic voice. “My father saw fit to end it on false pretenses, and now I fear it’s too late to make amends.”

The older man had remained hard faced and serious, nodding sagely at Rhaegar’s words, replying very little. Rhaegar sensed it was his way of getting as much information as he could out of him. Thus, Rhaegar remained sparse on the topic of his new wife, of his father’s growing madness, of the general unhappiness that had festered in the castle.

“She is a good enough girl, prince Doran,” Rhaegar had told him once of Lyanna. “But rather childish in several ways. I would have preferred one a bit older, a bit more learned.”

Doran had raised a brow at that. “It seems the stories of the savage northmen are still true,” he commented with a bit of vitriol. Rhaegar had given him a tight smile, but said nothing, letting the prince of Dorne decide whether or not Rhaegar agreed with him.

This had all followed the customary, which was the practiced remarks of The crown bears House Martell no ill will, my lord. The crown seeks to mend relationships between our two houses. Offending your family was not our intention, Prince Doran, I swear it. It was a matter of keeping war at bay, not a personal one.

Rhaegar supposed that Doran had eventually bought into all of this, and on the third visit to his solar, the two played cyvasse for several hours over chilled wine and blood oranges, and not once did the two of them exchange a single word related to politics.

Of course, not all he had fed Prince Doran were honeyed words. He would have preferred an older wife, a wiser one, not one that gave into girlish fancies with the first young lord that paid her a flattering word. Once he had traveled away from King’s Landing, thoughts of Lyanna receded further and further into the back of his mind, and as she faded into a bitter afterthought, Elia became illuminated as a greater mate. For true, as he spent his time in Dorne, riding around Sunspear and beyond, his former betrothed become more and more of a temptation.

He had taken that first night in each other’s company as a welcome to Sunspear. Elia had a dazzling wit and boundless patience, and he had only assumed that their game of cyvasse was a courteous attempt to make amends. Yet it developed so that she seemed unwilling to be rid of his company, and he had greatly enjoyed hers. When dawn broke the next day, casting light on the lovely angles of her visage, brightening that covetous acuity in those deep brown eyes, Rhaegar had fancied himself half-enchanted.

They shared little more than private looks and polite conversation for two weeks afterward, their distance a result of Rhaegar’s deliberate efforts to remain out of her way. They had no business being close with one another, no obligation to speak or be friends. That delirious feeling he had achieved the night they played cyvasse could not be repeated. It was an ecstasy too great for his tastes.

Yet he supposed it was rather inevitable that they would cross paths again during his stay. By accident, he come across her as meandered through the gardens alone, searching for a tree of blood oranges, which Rhaegar had developed a keen taste for during his time in Dorne. There he found her swathed in red silks that fell along the slender lines of her body, bronzed arms carrying a small blonde child on her hip. To his surprise, the girl was completely nude.

“Now, Tyene, I know you have thicker skin than that,” Rhaegar heard Elia tell the pouting child. “Nym did not push you on purpose, surely. Perhaps you got in her way as she was playing.”

The girl mumbled some more protests, but after a few more reassuring words and a kiss to the cheek, the girl was out of her arms, face smiling and bright as she scrambled away form her. Rhaegar took the moment to tentatively approach Elia, who caught sight of him in the midst of her looking after the running child with a soft smile.

“Your grace,” she greets him, dipping into a curtsey.

“Princess,” he returns, bowing. He looks off in the direction where the little one had run off, but she is no longer in sight. When he looks back to Elia, it seemed as if she had read his question.

“That sweet child is Tyene, one of my brother Oberyn’s daughters,” she explains. “She had been playing in the Water Gardens when one of her sisters gave her some trouble. A kiss and an embrace usually puts her into good spirits again.”

Rhaegar nods, content with the response. There had been many children at the Water Gardens, as it was known to him that the offspring of all ranks were invited to swim and bathe in the waters. Rhaegar had not spent much time around the pools himself, though he did catch sight of children within in the castle who were not Doran’s. They were, he assumed correctly, the infamous Prince Oberyn’s.

“My brother has a few daughters, you see,” she explains, continuing to read his mind. Her tone is loving, doting even. “There is Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene, the one you saw just now. All are very different, yet there is no mistaking they are all his own.”

And they are all bastards, Rhaegar notes internally. But Dorne had a drastically different treatment of their bastards. Yet Rhaegar could hardly imagine the consequences of producing so many illegitimate offspring; then again, it may be his family’s own dark history with bastards that makes him so wary.

“You are more their mothers than the ones that birthed them, I imagine,” Rhaegar notes kindly. “You’re very good with children, princess.”

Elia’s smile wavers for some unknown reason. “That’s very kind of you to say, your grace,” she tells him in a soft voice. “It has always felt like it was my destiny to become a mother. However, until I am granted such an opportunity, I content myself with Oberyn’s children.” There is a comfortable silence between them after this, leaving Rhaegar to mull over her words. It was true, if they had wed when they were meant to, Elia might not have had to do very much waiting by now.

Her arm suddenly touches his, looping around his elbow as she guided them through the gardens. It was such a toward touch that he did not know how to respond to it except to stiffen, then relax when he saw that she did not mean ill by it. They walk in silence, her thin arm warm on his and the shade of the overhanging trees cool on his ruddy cheeks.

Then she makes a soft noise, a breathy ah, and they stop. She points above her to a blood orange that drooped low from a branch, the weight of it took much for it to bear.

“A perfect orange,” she says. “Might you pick it for us?”

He does so, reaching above them to pull it off the branch. She removes her arm from his to gingerly take the orange from his hands. He watches in silence as she deftly peels the fruit with her fingers, the peel coming off in one long coil. Juices drip down her fingers, as red as the fruit within. When the peel drops to the floor, she splits the orange in half, handing one part to him. He accepts it gratefully.

“Oberyn and I used to sit in the gardens and spend much time picking these oranges and eating them,” Elia told him before pulling away at the crimson flesh of it. “We’d disappear for hours, eating oranges, telling stories…” Rhaegar takes a bite into piece of the fruit, juice running down his chin as he does. As he chews, he wipes away at it with the back of his hand. “Our hands would be so sticky afterward and our clothing stained. My mother threatened to let us wander around nude once, since we went through clothing so fast.”

Her words summon a small little smile on his lips. He could only imagine that she had a rather idyllic childhood. Dorne was a beautiful place, and the Martells have been without tragedy for many years. One could grow up happy, careless, directionless, as children ought to be when they’re young. But that was an opportunity long gone for him. His childhood was stifling, and he would remember it as such for years.

“It sounds like you had a rather enjoyable childhood, princess,” Rhaegar finally muses aloud.

“Oh, yes. Very much so. I was not blessed with sisters like our lucky Tyene, but brothers make for an interesting experience, as I’m sure your wife has told you.”

“No,” Rhaegar catches himself saying thoughtlessly. “No, she hasn’t.”

Elia quirks a brow. “No?” she asks, surprised. Then she begins to recount some of her times with her brothers in her typical gentle fashion, never making any of her words insulting, always making sure he was still interested in the conversation. As she spoke, he chewed on his blood orange, savoring the taste of them until they were all gone. The orange in Elia’s hand remained there, juice still dripping off her fingers as it sat neglected.

With her gentle fingers, she pulls off a segment of it, and raises it to Rhaegar’s lips. He is surprised, unsure of how to respond, how it was quite clear she meant for him to eat out of her hands. Her black eyes dazzled beneath the sun, and in a moment of bewitchment, he accepts the morsel straight from her fingers, lips barely grazing her skin.

“Our prince has an appetite for our blood oranges,” Elia notes with a kindly chuckle.

“Dorne’s princess is bold,” Rhaegar returns with a raise of his brows. She was playing a coy little game, one he was not too practiced in. With an effort, he reaches for a glossy black lock to push behind her ear. “Do you feed every visiting lord from your hands?”

“No,” she returns, stilling smiling. “Only the ones I’m fond of.”

By some unknown attraction, they near each other until their lips meet. The taste of fruit is sweet on both their tongues. Her sticky hands have dropped the orange in favor of one cupping his cheek, the other resting on his shoulder. Her lips are soft and warm beneath his, the first he’d ever properly kissed, and the scent of her mingling with the taste of the fruit nears intoxicating.

But he pulls away, alarmed by his action. He’s married, he reminds himself, unhappily so. He would not be the first prince to take his attractions to other women who were not his wife, but it was wrong to do so. Worse yet to do so with a Dornish princess.

Just as it was wrong for my wife to seek Robert Baratheon, a voice reminds him. But it was true; if his wife could take a lover, why not him?

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out all the same, knowing that her intentions may not wander in the same path. She ignores his apology in favor of another kiss, a sweet peck on the lips.

“I had been waiting for you to do that,” she admits, unabashed. “There is a loneliness in you, your grace.”

A loneliness, or a hunger? he wonders.

Elia scatters the thought away when she rises and presses another kiss to his lips. His reluctant hands grip her waist, feeling the warmth of her thin body through her silks. It is unlike any touches exchanged with the woman he called wife. Those were always cold, forced, necessary. With Elia, it was effortless. Natural. Worthy of his desire.

He cannot recall how much longer they stood, lips locked and tongues tied, but they had eventually found their way indoors again. She led him by the hand, and he let her; the castle was empty, every soul outside enjoying the cool breeze. When she takes him down a corridor, it occurs to him that she may have intentions to take him to bed. At that thought, he stops, jarring her backwards at the sudden inaction.

Dark eyes turn to him, gleaming with curiosity. “What’s wrong?” she asks softly, her voice sounding a little hurt.

Rhaegar pauses, wondering. She would be an enjoyable bedfellow, he supposed. But that is not what he searched for in a mate; if he were to take the princess on, it would be for more fruitful matters.

“Nothing,” he assures her, stepping forward to stroke her smooth cheek. She does not believe him, and instead she clasps his wrist, stilling his actions.

“I am tired,” she admits, and indeed her voice sounds weary. Still, she smiles. “I know it is toward of me, but I have had a harp brought into my rooms, and I should like to hear you play.” Rhaegar hides his surprise with a lick of his lips. “However, I do hope you will not be offended if I sleep, my good prince. Your presence calms me.”

Rhaegar keeps a smile at bay, trying not to seem too eager. In acceptance, he leans down to brush a kiss to her warm brow.

“It would be my pleasure, princess,” he tells her.

“Please, my name is Elia.”

“Elia.”

A name that rolled off the tongue with ease; a good sign, for a woman that he might need later, for more than just companionship.

Chapter Text

Catelyn found Brandon’s daughter to be a lovely little thing. She had her mother’s dark, fine hair and her father’s bright grey eyes. When contented, color would rise high in her cheeks, turning her pale face a lovely rosy shade. She was sweet tempered, only growing fussy when she was hungry or needed changing. Catelyn supposed they were a very lucky couple in that respect.

She had only managed to come close to the child through pure boldness. Barbrey had seemed wary of her at first, perhaps concerned that Catelyn would exact revenge for stealing away her betrothed, but Catelyn was not so petty. That was not to say that she like Barbrey very much; their personalities did not mesh easily together, as one was brash while the other was demure, but Catelyn overlooked that in favor of getting close to her little niece. The two women would tolerate each other with polite speech as they fawned over the small child, glad to have found some common ground.

Of course, one could not spend so much time with another in complete silence. One day Barbrey had initiated conversation, though rather unpleasantly.

“Do you hate me?” she asked her out of the blue, her brown eyes guarded.

Catelyn shook her head. “No. I do not hate you Lady Barbrey,” she had told her plainly. And she didn’t. To hate her would take blame away from Brandon, who was far from blameless.

It had taken time to come to that realization. He was still of course handsome, and at suppers he proved to have remained his charming self, regaling the table with outrageous stories, causing a stir in everyone’s hearts. It was hard not to look at him and not want him so very desperately. He had no rival in appearances, in charisma, in fighting or in hunting. He could not be compared to his brother or his father or any other man; Brandon Stark was a force of nature. It still pained her to think that she was so close to being the woman behind such a man. But Catelyn knew her duty. She swallowed her desire and forced away thoughts of him, replacing them with ones more worthy of her passion. The child within her, for one. The one she was so sure was to be a bouncing baby boy.

The intimacy of the castle had allowed her to shake some of his golden edges. She had been walking to Barbrey’s room to look after Lyarra when she found voices of anger emanating from the room instead. Lyarra could be heard crying inside while a man and a woman argued. Catelyn knew she had no right to eavesdrop, but she was frozen in her spot, unable to block out the noise.

“It is not so hard to hold your own child properly!” She head Barbrey yell from inside, clearly upset. “And it is not so hard to spend time with her! You put forth no effort—“

“No matter how I hold her, she cries!” Brandon’s booming voice carried well through the wall. “What am I supposed to do with her at that age anyhow? She wants a teat to suckle, not a man to sit and talk to her!”

“Is it so hard for you to be a father to her?” Barbrey returns, hurt. “To love her?”

“I do love her!”

“Aye, of course, just as you love me, and that blue-eyed kitchen girl, and that girl who poured your wine last night. You love our daughter just as fiercely, don’t you?”

Catelyn’s cheeks burned at the accusations. She had known Brandon to be a lusty man, but it was another thing entirely to know who he was practicing his affairs with, or to call them out to him. Catelyn had known that lords would often seek the company of other women; it was something she had been told to expect, to tolerate, so long as the fruits of such affairs were not brought before her. Barbrey was bold, too bold some might say, but her ire was not unreasonable. She felt embarrassed for Barbrey to be spurned so publicly.

“Enough,” Brandon’s guttural growl comes from inside, shushing almost everything for a moment. Lyarra still cries, however, her parents’ noise clearly too great for her little ears. “What I do is none of your business, Barbrey. I was told by the maester not to enter your bed for at least a moon’s turn afterward—“

“Do you know how old your daughter is?” Catelyn can barely hear them as they spoke in lower tones, but she strains to catch it anyway. “She is nearly three moons old. Where is your excuse, Brandon Stark? Where is your honor?”

“I fucked them all away when I met you!” he snaps back. Something crashes to the floor before the door flies open. Catelyn takes a step back, shrinking against the wall. Brandon does not even catch sight of her as he storms past. His footsteps fall hard against the stone floors, and his rage comes off him in waves.

Lyarra’s cries from inside are mixed with softer sobs. When Catelyn dares to poke her head in, it is just as Barbrey puts her breast to her daughter’s mouth, shushing her though her tears. Barbrey does not even seem surprised to see her, nor does she appear embarrassed. On the floor lies a silver bowl, which Brandon must have swatted at in anger.

“He is not always like that,” Barbrey whispers, wiping away at the tears on her pale face. She seemed the very image of suffering then, the mistreated wife with a little babe at her breast. “He’s in a dark mood. Damn men their moods.”

Catelyn hadn’t a clue about men’s moods. Her father had been a docile man, and her husband was quiet and reserved. It seemed that in exchange for beauty and charm, the gods would grant a man an imperfect temperament.

“I’m sorry,” Catelyn whispers. But sorry for what? That Brandon was the way he was? Or that he was meant to be her burden, but fate made him Barbrey’s instead?

“It does not matter,” Barbrey insists, looking down at her suckling daughter, stroking her hair with gentle fingers. “He shall be back in my bed in a few days’ time seeking forgiveness, and I shall give it to him.”

Her manner was so blunt that Catelyn blushes despite herself. Her hands close over her swollen stomach as she sends a silent thanks to the gods that her husband was half the wolf his brother is.
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Catelyn did not often wander outside of the walls of the castle. Her growing stomach made her rather reluctant to walk much more than what was required— not that there was much to see or do in Winterfell. It was no wonder that Lord Rickard had fostered his sons away, for truly there was very little to keep them in Winterfell. Men here would just ride or hunt to pass the time, while others tried to busy themselves in training or other martial pursuits. The clashing of steel could often be heard from sunup to sundown in the training yard, men scrambling to get their hearts pumping for the day.

But for a woman like Catelyn, there was even less. Embroidery was the default activity, along with light reading and basic supervision of the household’s help. All of this would only take up a fraction of the day, leaving Catelyn sitting on her rump doing much of nothing for the other part. It made her wonder what Eddard’s sister did with herself, sheltered away so in these walls. It was her understanding that the princess rode just like any man, something Catelyn had no taste or desire for.

She did pity young Benjen, who at two-and-ten seemed rather restless around the castle without his sister around. He would shyly trail after Catelyn as if there was a question he could not gather the courage to ask, leaving the castle only to ride or practice at swords, both activities that were diminished by required supervision for the former and only wooden weapons for the latter. He was a sweet boy, that much was certain, but a sweet boy with very little distractions.

Even with her self-imposed confinement, Catelyn was not entirely blind to what occurred outside of the walls of the castle. She’d seen construction begin at the far end of the courtyard, with her quiet husband often supervising. It was little more than a wooden frame now, though men were constantly moving around it, preparing for more solid construction.

She takes tentative steps toward the structure, spotting her husband standing before it, wrapped in furs with his arms crossed over his chest. Even from behind he looked as pensive and serious as he always did. It did make him rather hard to approach, and for a split second Catelyn thought to turn back and scurry indoors where a warm fire and a soft seat would be infinitely more welcome.

It’s no crime to speak to one’s husband, Catelyn reminded herself. She wraps her cloak about her a little tighter, and makes her way to him.

Not wanting to surprise him, Catelyn shuffles her feet behind him and clears her throat to alert him to her presence. It seems to work, but he still turns with a start. “Lady Catelyn,” he said as courteously as he always did, as if she were a visiting lady and not the woman carrying his child. “Ah, isn’t it… It’s rather cold out here, perhaps indoors will be… better?” His fumbling speech forces her to bite back a giggle. His perpetual timidness was an object of amusement for her. How a man can live with a woman for six moons and still be unsure of how to speak to her was beyond all reason.

But she is polite, as she always is, offering a small smile. “It is not too bad,” she assures him. “I had thought to see what you’ve been building out here, my lord.”

She swears that color fills his face at her words. He shuffles awkwardly, looking behind him as if he were unaware of the building, then nods. “It’s, uh, rather unfinished at the moment, my lady. Finding a competent architect for this project is proving to be rather difficult.” His eyes dart everywhere except her face, like a man with a secret.

Catelyn lifts a curious brow. “Will you tell me what the project may be, my lord?”

His eyes widen ever so slightly at that, as if it were a question he’d been dreading to hear. “Well, my lady, it is the beginning— Well, the bare bones truly, it’s uh…” Suddenly, the anxiety visibly melts away from his face, and in its place is a calmer confidence. With a commanding clearing of his throat, he is composed, and his speech is soft but clear. “It’s a sept. For you, my lady.”

Catelyn’s breath leaves her in one fell swoop. Her eyes dart to the wooden frame behind him, counting its seven corners and seven sides. A sept. For me. It was a wondrous feeling that swelled within her now, her heart soaring into her throat at the very thought. No more prayers at her bedside, no more wondering if her gods heard her or not— In its place would be a true sept, with oils and candles and the energy of her gods flowing within it.

Without realizing it, Catelyn’s jaw had dropped and her hand had been pressed over her heart. It was her turn to be graceless and stuttering as she tried to find the proper words of gratitude. “My lord— That is— I do not know what I say, I—“ Tears suddenly jumped to the corners of her eyes, but she wipes them away quickly. “I’m sorry, the babe is making me rather emotional,” she tries to claim, but she knew this was not one of her pregnant moods. She was overjoyed, and overwhelmed by that joy.

“I had hoped it would please you,” her husband says ever so softly. His plain face suddenly looked like the kindest she’d ever seen. For a fleeting moment she thinks to kiss him, but she refrains.

Gathering her wits about her, Catelyn nods vigorously. “It pleases me, my lord,” she says thickly. “This is truly a wonderful gift. Thank you.”

Her husband seems to blush again. “You’re welcome,” he mumbles in return, embarrassed perhaps by her rush of gratitude. “With any luck it shall be finished in the coming year…”

“I cannot wait,” Catelyn returns with genuine excitement. “Thank you, my lord, truly.”

He nods, skin still ruddy at the apples of his cheeks. There was something sweetly boyish about Eddard Stark then, as shy and awkward as he was. It reminded her a little of her own sweet brother. Edmure and Eddard, Catelyn notes internally, the similarity between their names not lost on her.

In a moment of tenderness, Catelyn reaches out and squeezes his elbow. It is the most physical affection she can allow in their uneasy marriage. Eddard seems daunted by it at first, his grey eyes fixed on her thin hand as if it may burn him. Then there is a ripple of relaxation across his body, and his hand closes over hers, squeezing it gently.

“You are a good man, Lord Stark,” she tells him softly. A better man than your brother, she almost says.

In the moment afterward, Catelyn swears a ghost of smile pulled at the corners of his closed mouth.

Chapter Text

Whenever Lyanna walked into a room now, she led with her belly. It was full and round and ridiculously heavy. It brought aches to her back and swelled up her ankles till they were black and blue. The grand maester, an ugly, wrinkled old man that she despised, told her it was due to her slight weight. If she were bigger, if she ate more, she would ache less. Lyanna believes what he truly meant was if you were older.

But she had no right to complain on that point. The child had been her choice at fourteen. By now, she was well into her eighth month of her pregnancy and had seen her fifteenth nameday only a few weeks after Rhaegar had departed. It had been three moons since then. The last she had heard, he still had no intentions of departing from Dorne. Diplomacy takes time, they told her. Wounds heal slowly. There were meant to be words of comfort, but what they did not know is that she yearned not for her absent husband. Lyanna was fine. She had Jude, she had Viserys when his mother would allow it, and she had the child within her. She did not need him.

Her ladies fussed over her more than usual, often seeing to it that she would stay indoors and remain inactive. They all shared a giddy sort of excitement over her coming babe, each one taking guesses at whether or not it shall be a prince or a princess, if it would take after her or the father— matters Lyanna hardly even thought of. She just wanted her child, boy or girl, as silverly as a Valyrian or as dark as a Stark. It was her babe, no matter what.

Isabel was seated at her feet, soft hands massaging her bruised ankles. She chided her softly on taking such pains to walk around. “You ought to have your meals brought to you, your grace,” she told her haughtily, blissfully unaware of the slight the Mad King imagined when Lyanna was absent at the dinner table. “At this rate, you’ll run yourself down till you’ve no feet left.”

Lyanna bit back a sigh. She was only trying to be helpful, she reminded herself. They all were, she supposed, in their own strange ways. Cedany would read aloud to her the most horridly tragic tales, Emeline had taken it upon herself to water down her wine till it neared tasteless, and Lorena offered trite advice about raising babes (as she considered herself an expert with her one, which she hoisted off on a nurse the moment she delivered).

Forced into their company by her involuntary idleness, Lyanna did come to appreciate her ladies a bit more. For all of their airs, they were all truly kind at heart. Their shallowness would often part for more heartfelt conversation, even treading down personal paths that left them blushing and giggly.

They had all once bothered Lorena into admitting some of her bed practices with her husband, who according to her, was powerful but lacked in endurance. That conversation managed to veer off into a red-faced Lorena asking the same of Lyanna, a scandalous question that likely developed out of embarrassment.

Lyanna had grown so silent and her ears so red, the ladies had called off the entire conversation with nervous glances and a sudden, awkward exclamation from Cedany wondering where on earth the boy with the lemon cakes had gone off to? Later, Lyanna found the good grace to laugh privately over it. They were all so innocent, she realized. They still fawned over the prince and wondered at his skill in bed, as any young maid might do and fantasize over. Had circumstances been different, Lyanna would have likely been much the same.

No matter their faults, they were all good women. They were older, though perhaps not wiser, but they were sweet and thoughtful and never meant any harm to their princess. It was Lyanna who had ostracized them she’d come to learn, not the other way around as she had believed.

As the warm sun poured onto Lyanna’s relaxed form on the bed, she took in her environment with heavy lidded eyes. Lorena was in a corner, chatting about how big her son had become as she knitted baby’s socks. Cedany had just begun a passage out of a history book that detailed the short life and horrid death of Brave Danny Flint, her thin little voice barely concealing her own shock at the scandal of it all. Emeline was leaned over Lyanna, wiping the sweat from her brow with a wet washcloth, her straight hair tickling Lyanna’s neck. The room smelled of rose perfumes and honeyed wine, the noise that all the ladies were making developing in a harmony of bells and breaths. The sweet rhythm of it all nearly set Lyanna to sleep, until a knock at the door introduced itself like a cacophony.

Lyanna sits up, warily eyeing the door. “Who is it?” she called out, giving her ladies time to settle themselves.

“Ser Harlan, princess,” the older man’s sharp voice cut through. “The king has asked me to deliver you to the throne room. Are you decent?”

Lyanna tries to hide her surprise, for the sake of the women surrounding her. It would do no good to worry them. “Come in,” she commands of the knight at the door, and he does so. His face is long and hard like steel. His eyes are unkind, unsettling.

With the help of Emeline and Isabel, she was helped into shoes and brought to her feet. Finding her balance, Lyanna nods thankfully to the two women, who back off reluctantly as Lyanna makes her way to the knight.

He does not even offer an arm to help her, though she is wobbly and teetering upon her swollen feet, nor does she think she would wish to accept it. There was not a man on the Kingsguard she remotely trusted, save for Ser Arthur Dayne who was away in Dorne with Rhaegar. The rest, she assumed, were unchivalrous and thought only of the King.

Upon arriving, she is surprised to see that there are people in the throne room. Not many people; only Sers Jaime and Gerold, the Queen Rhaella, and a few guards who were situated in the center of the room. When Lyanna was led to her set at the foot of the throne, she spots two young children, a girl and boy in rags, between two guards at the center.

“The princess has finally decided to grace us with her presence,” the king notes shrilly above her. Lyanna ignores the slight. “Just in time. I had thought you were well overdue to see the king’s justice at work.”

Her eyes flit back to the children, their arms clutched harshly between gauntleted hands. The king’s justice? Already, she feels her throat tighten.

“Before you are a pair of bastards who saw fit to rob food from the marketplace,” he spits, as if it were a heinous crime. “Thievery is second only to treason, wouldn’t you agree princess? To steal from a man, take what is rightfully his… punishment is in order for such crimes.” His voice is high and cruel, grating on the ears. Lyanna closes her hands over her belly, as if to shield her child from the words.

The children are brought forward roughly, then pressed back to back. At closer view it is easy to see that they are siblings with the same frightened brown eyes. The girl is older, and braver. Her lips are in a tight line while her brother cries freely.

Rope binds them together. Then from either side of them, guards drag iron balls, shackling them to one leg each. Their punishment was unclear until a man in dark robes shuffles soundlessly from the king’s side, emerging from the shadows. Though she had seldom seen them, she knew them for who they were: pyromancers. Lyanna’s heart races within in her chest as the children’s fates become increasingly lucid.

The boys cries fill the air, piercing Lyanna to the heart, but the king watches on with a satisfied smile. He enjoys fire, he enjoys death, he enjoys suffering. Screaming and wails were music to him. The queen, on the other hand, looks away slightly, careful not to fully turn her head lest her husband reprimand her.

As the pyromancer neared, pulling a small vial of something green and glittering from his sleeve, Lyanna rises to her feet, jarred by the sight she was condemned to see.

“Stop!” A voice cries out, echoing off the walls. And indeed, all stills— even the child’s sobs. It was not till she found all eyes on her that Lyanna realized it was she who cried out so. Strongest of all the gazes are the ones boring into the back of her head, burning her. She turns carefully, meeting the king’s gaze. “Your grace, they are but children. Surely there is another way—“

“Do you disagree with my orders, girl?” He spits, his mad, mad eyes widening then narrowing. “Thieves are thieves are thieves. They all burn the same, as is the king’s justice!”

Her babe stirs, and for a moment Lyanna feels invincible. She lifts her chin high, balls her hands into fists, stares down the king in the iron throne. He could not hurt her; he dare not, not when his heir’s heir settled inside her. Thus her complacency leaves her, and for a short time, Lyanna felt herself a she-wolf again.

“Let them go,” she commands without a single courtesy. But her voice is strong, unwavering. She feels tall and powerful. “If you must punish them, then cut off a finger each. This is not justice, it is tyranny. They are children. The gods will not stand for such cruelty, I swear to you—“

“Silence!” he screeches, jumping out of his throne. His hand had grazed the arm of it and he bleeds from the wrist but he pays it no mind. “Bring the bitch to me! Bring her and let me teach her the manners my insipid son failed to give her!”

You cannot touch me, she thinks, but the thought falls away when a gauntlet digs into her elbow, half dragging her up the stairs to the throne. Ser Harlan’s grip is relentless, but he does not throw her at the king’s feet. Perhaps the king could endanger Rhaegar’s child, but not a knight.

Lyanna meets her aggressor with a set jaw, keeping his gaze though it disgusted her. His eyes were bloodshot, the irises pale. His skin was translucent, blue veins throbbing, highlighting the hideous lines of his jutting bones. His mouth is a gash of red, ugly and cruel, but Lyanna stares. She dares him to harm her.

A blow is delivered to her cheek, throwing her head to the side, her gaze landing on the stoic Ser Gerold at the king’s right. A second connects with her other cheek and she looks upon Ser Jaime, standing at the king’s left with his green eyes wide. A third sends her to ground with her hand clapped over her mouth to staunch the blood on her lips.

“Insolent!” he screams above her. “Insolent, savage slut!” It is only when he speaks that pain fills her body at a roaring pace. Her cheeks throb and burn; she wants to cry like the child sentenced to death but she does not, dares not. His gnarled hand reaches for her hair, yanking her gaze to the direction of the children. He screams something in her ear, but it is drowned out. It was as if she were dunked underwater. Everything sounded garbled, distant.

Even the shouts and sobs of the charred children sounded miles and miles away.
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She was escorted to her rooms immediately after, Ser Gerold (or perhaps it was Ser Jaime? She did not know. She could not tell.) carrying her the whole way. Her shock had begun to wear off just as they entered, and she could hear the gasps of her ladies as they cast their gazes upon her. The women are scattered, made to leave by the knight who bore her.

Before the Grand Maester arrives with cold wash cloths, Lyanna mulls over her fate. She had never been struck before. Never, not by her father or her brothers or any man or woman. She’d been yelled at, shoved, broke her leg, scraped her knees, but never, never had anyone ever raised a hand to her in chastisement.

The incessant stinging had simmered to a dull ache. Her wits had been gathered about by then, and she pushed the Grand Maester away from her. “Leave,” she hissed, eyes burning with tears. He was insistent, grumbling about how she needed proper care if she wished to heal quickly.

“Leave,” a colder voice called out from the doorway. Lyanna’s watery eyes rested on the queen’s elegant figure, too numb to shiver at her cold glare. The maester exits immediately. Even he could not deny a queen.

Rhaella crosses to her bedside, catching the younger girl’s chin between her fingers. Lyanna struggles, wrenching her head away, but the queen pins her with a hard gaze and harder fingers. Lyanna stays, though she keeps her neck stiff as the queen turns her head left and right, examining the damage. Then, she sighs. “They should fade before Rhaegar returns,” she notes with surprising relief. Lyanna does not question her immediately, only furrowing her brows. “You are a willful girl, Lyanna. You should have known better.” Though her voice carries an edge, her gaze is soft, concerned. “No matter what the king does, you must learn to hold your tongue.”

“I should sit silently as you did and let innocents burn?” Lyanna shoots back, in no mood for courtesy. “They were children! And they— and he—“ The image of green flames and small bodies slides before her eyes, and she shuts the vision away.

“We all do things we do not like to protect our family,” Rhaella returns cooly. Her hand gently cups her throbbing cheek in a maternal gesture. “I learned long ago that defying him means certain ruin. I’ve learned to endure, and you must too.”

“I do not want to endure,” Lyanna says in a gasp. “I want to live. I want to do what I feel is right. I cannot sit back and hold my tongue forever, goodmother. I am not you.” The confession makes her want to weep. Rhaella was strong in a way Lyanna could not achieve. The queen had iced over every part of her body and sat as heavy as a stone. Lyanna’s strength came from her heart, and the king sought to crush it.

“You must,” Rhaella insists with sudden fire, the purple in her irises flashing. “If you have a care for your wellbeing, for that of your children’s, you must. We are all kindling to him. He will be patient until he cannot be patient anymore, and then he shall be the first to throw sparks on us.” In a lower voice, she adds. “We cannot rebel, Lyanna. Not now. Not yet. Nor can we afford rebellion. That is why you cannot tell Rhaegar what had transpired today.”

Lyanna’s mouth falls open. She had been told to hold her tongue against the king, and bow she must hide this from her husband? There were seldom times where she wished to speak to Rhaegar, but this event deserved to be heard. “The king hit me,” she tells the queen uselessly. “Your son must know.”

“You do not know my son,” Rhaella returns sharply. “At the very least he shall take his household to Dragonstone and let distance frustrate his father into further madness. At the worst, he will want revenge.”

Lyanna almost laughed. Rhaegar would not lift a finger for her, much less start a war. “Fear not, your grace,” she says almost mockingly. “I doubt my husband will be so affected that he’ll move against his father. Let him take me to Dragonstone. It cannot be worse than here.”

“Lyanna,” Rhaella warns sharply. “If he leaves, the king will not like it. He prefers to keep him close; even now, with Rhaegar in Dorne, he fears the worst. What is meant to be a harmless trip is appearing more and more an act of defiance, of secret plotting in his eyes. Why do you suppose he married you to my son? He imagined a rebellion from the North and he acted rashly.”

Lyanna is silent for a moment, watching the queen. She had no reason to doubt her words, but a stronger force was acting within Lyanna. Subversion tasted bitter on her tongue. “And what makes you think that Rhaegar would leave to Dragonstone?” Lyanna asks warily. “He cares not for me. That is the truth.” A truth that stung, but not as much as the pain in her cheeks.

“He cares for his honor. He cares for the child in you.” Rhaella squeezes her hand. “What is more, I shall not take the chance. And neither will you. You shall say nothing to Rhaegar.”

Lyanna is silent. She wanted to tell him. She wanted him to rage, to take her away, to move against his father. War was ugly, but the man on the throne was uglier. He deserved a rebellion.

“Please,” the queen suddenly begs of her, her eyes soft. “Please, Lyanna, if not for me than for Viserys. For my unborn babe and yours. Now is not the time for slights or for men to whisper rebellion in the king’s ear.”

Her cheeks throb in defiance, the blood rushing to them warmly and swiftly. Is this how it would be? The king would wrong her, and Lyanna would suffer silently? All while her husband remained blind to her suffering; though, perhaps, no less blind than before. Yet the king was the king; if he had reason to mistrust his son, if he won a war against him, what would stand between her and her child and certain destruction?

Lyanna swallows her pride and gives a nod. “I won’t tell him,” she promises stiffly. The queen surprises her with a kind kiss on her forehead.

“Rest now,” she whispers to her, gingerly helping Lyanna’s shoes off her feet. “The babe within you needs no more stress. I will be sure to have you excused from supper tonight and your food to be brought to your rooms instead.”

She almost sounds motherly, Lyanna thinks with a measure of bitterness. If getting struck thrice across the face was what the queen needed to show concern to her gooddaughter, Lyanna thinks she might have goaded the king into slapping her moons ago.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar was an inexperienced lover. Though Elia had convinced herself otherwise for some time, assuring herself that a man of his beauty and grace had most likely effortlessly wooed countless numbers of girls, it was clear in most of their interactions that he was rather unsure. His kisses would be sweet when she wished them to be passionate, forceful when she wanted gentleness. His hands would never know if they should settle on her shoulders or her waist, or if it was proper to touch her at all. She knew if they were to ever go past kissing and light petting, he’d need more guidance than what she’d already given him.

This was by no means a complaint. It had been some time since she’d shown interest in a man. The ones she had known before were often the arrogant sort, overconfident of their prowess to the point where the princess had parted ways with them before they would ever make it to her bed. The prince’s innocence was not something she disliked. On the contrary, it was rather refreshing.

A pity he was not much for physical affection. It seemed to her that he preferred her company over her body, and their time together was often spent in relative innocence, with no more than shoulders touching. He would read to her with her head in his lap, play the harp for her as she sat away from him, listen to her speak with no more than a finger tracing patterns on her shoulder. Kisses would introduce themselves intermittently; embraces were seldom seen. Coupling was entirely out of the question, though Elia had a great desire to take him to her bed.

And perhaps she would. The prince gave no sign of leaving yet; she had time.

They sat side-by-side on her bed under the cover of night, the only time the prince would dare enter her rooms. He read aloud from a history book, his silvery voice as melodious as music, filling the air with lightness. Her cheek was pressed to his arm as her eyes followed the words on the page. She’d read this tome once before, but she will not tell him. The way he read it, it may as well have been another book.

Her hand moves from its perch on his arm to his chest, resting there so as not to alarm him. After a few more lines, she travels downwards, fingers smoothing the silk of his doublet before pausing on his lower belly.

He ceases speaking immediately, sharp eyes snapping to her hand. Elia pays him no mind, hand traveling further down until it is stopped by his own.

“You do not need to do this for me, Elia,” the prince tells her in a fashion that would be chivalrous if it were not in reference to a coupling.

“I do not do this for you alone,” she challenges with a raised brow. “I want this.”

The hitch of his breath is barely audible, but she hears it. Encouraged, she wrenches her hand from his grasp, shifting her body so that she straddled his. Gods be good, he was a beautiful man. The most beautiful in the Seven Kingdoms, of this she had no doubt. She leans down for a kiss; Rhaegar’s lips are still as ice beneath hers.

He is unsure, Elia realizes. I must make him sure.

She pulls his hands away from the book and to her breasts. She knows they are small and unimpressive, but they fill his large palms. A perfect fit. He begins to kiss her back, mouth moving over hers slowly. Her hands find the clasps of his doublet, and she undoes them one by one.

How long had she dreamed of this? For the opportunity to have their flesh meet, bronze meeting porcelain, limbs tangled and arms tight around one another. He is married, a voice in the back of her head warns.

But he is beautiful, her own voice returns.

Suddenly, he draws back, hands leaving her breasts, mouth slipping away from hers. He grabs her firmly by the waist and returns her to his side. Then he picks up the book again, as if nothing had passed between them.

Elia’s eyes meet his, searching for an answer. He gives one of his own accord:

“There is too much risk,” he tells her flatly. “It will do neither of us any good should a child come about.”

He sounds thoughtful, clinical. Elia does not accept it, nor would she dare tell him that she would accept any child he would give her. “There are ways for that to be prevented, Rhaegar,” she returns, a hand returned to the front of his blouse. “Let me.”

His hand folds over hers, lifting it to his lips. A cold kiss is pressed to her knuckles before it is deposited back onto her lap. “Not tonight,” he tells her, purple irises meeting hers. He looks regretful perhaps, but not embarrassed.

Elia presses the matter no further. ‘Not tonight’ implied there was still a chance.
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They walk side by side in the Water Gardens, Elia’s gaze torn between Oberyn’s daughters in the pools and the handsome prince at her side. The occurrences of the other night were not brought up between them again, nor were they attempted. Elia sensed his reasons for refusing her were simply more complex than the fear of producing a bastard. Lingering affection for his wife, perhaps, or maybe his own sense of honor prevented it. She could not fault him for either, she supposed, though she wished dearly that he would give her another chance to take him to bed.

She reaches out to squeeze his arm, drawing his loaded gaze from the sky down to her. His eyes shone, two amethysts in his fair face, violets against the Dornish sky. It was a gaze she’d have in memory forever.

Perhaps now was the time to explain her true feelings. Surrounded by scores of children, it seemed somehow appropriate, yet her tongue struggled to put together the right words. “Rhaegar,” she says to him softly. “I want— You see, I—“

I want children.

Was she bold enough to ask this of him? She had to be. A furrow was starting between his brows as he grew baffled; it was now or never.

“I want—“

“Your grace!” a voice calls from across the pools. In his brilliant white armor, Arthur Dayne comes rushing over, a distraught look on his face. “Your grace,” he says again when he reaches his prince, kneeling until Rhaegar bid him to stand upright. “There is a messenger in Prince Doran’s solar who would wish to speak with you. It is urgent news from King’s Landing.”

The alarm in Rhaegar’s face then was the most naked emotion she had ever seen him share. Yet it melts away as quick as a whip, allowing his mask of calm to return without risk of shame. He gives a short nod to Arthur and an apologetic glance to Elia; she nods, bidding him off, and he goes, quick on his feet yet graceful.

Arthur stays behind, understanding that it was Rhaegar’s job alone to listen to whatever the messenger had to say. Yet the concern on Arthur’s brow seemed to imply that he already knew.

Too curious to remain silent, Elia asks, “What is the matter?”

The knight blinks away his troubles, and smiles softly down at her. “A secret,” he replies playfully. “Though not a secret for long. If Prince Rhaegar does not tell you, then you shall surely hear the news in a few days time.”

Elia lifts a brow, unable to decipher his meaning, but letting the matter go. Rhaegar would tell her, whatever it was.

“I am glad I came along with his grace to Dorne,” Arthur muses beside her, his violet eyes smiling as they looked upon the bouncing children in the pools. “I had missed my homeland very much.”

Elia smiles softly, looking upon the serene face of her old friend. “We have been glad to have you,” she tells him sweetly. “It has been too long, Arthur.”

“It has,” he agrees. He had not come along with Rhaegar when the betrothal was announced, instead remaining in King’s Landing. That made the last time she had seen Ser Arthur ten years ago, when he was knighted by her uncle at the old palace. He had been so young and full of life then, prepared to go on many adventures— or so he had claimed to her hours after he had been newly knighted. And indeed, he left on the morrow, yet somehow his adventures were cut short by a calling to the Kingsguard.

He was still young, seven-and-twenty by her count, but not so exuberant. She recalled a boy who smiled often, played with children almost as often as he played with swords. She remembered his boyish chivalry, his polite behavior, his massive sense of honor that had bloomed at such a young age. He was made for knighthood. She had also thought he was made for parenthood, as he had been remarkably patient and gentle with the children at the Water Gardens, but it seemed that gods had a different fate for him.

“Did you visit Starfall before you came here?” Elia asks of him, wondering about his family.

“I did. Ashara sends her love,” Arthur says, his voice tender at the mention of his sister. They were close, she knew. Ashara had often visited the Water Gardens to see her brother when they were younger, which had led to a kinship between Elia and the young Lady of Starfall. Ashara was vivacious and beautiful; she still was, if her fiery letters slandering insistent suitors signified anything.

“I do wish she would visit soon,” Elia admits. “I sorely miss her company.”

“And she misses yours.” He looks upon her warmly. “She talked my ear off about you.”

Elia cannot help but laugh. “Oh gods. What did she tell you? Nothing bad I hope!”

Arthur chuckles. “Nothing bad. She is eager to get a chance to see you again.” There is something wistful in his tone. It occurs to her that this visit may be the last in years. Who knows when the two siblings would see each other again? Arthur was a Kingsguard knight, and Rhaegar could not stay in Dorne forever.

“Do you miss it when you are away?” Elia asks him. “Home?”

He hesitates, perhaps searching for the proper respond. There is something like turmoil behind his eyes, something Elia didn’t understand. “I do,” he admits softly. “King’s Landing does not have the same feel to it.”

Perhaps that’s why Rhaegar has lingered, Elia notes. She extends a hand to squeeze the knight’s arm, who returns the gesture with a soft smile.

“If only we were children again,” Elia says playfully, trying to raise his spirits. “Then I can push you into the pools and force a cold that will keep you here a while longer.”

He laughs, amused by the image. “I’m afraid if you pushed me in with my armor on, I’ll drown.”

“Then everyone shall stay for your funeral instead,” Elia returns, soliciting another laugh from the forlorn knight.
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When Rhaegar comes to her that night, there are no sweet words or tender touches. He hovers in the doorway with a cold expression and a silent storm behind his eyes. Elia rises to greet him, trying to coax him inside with a pull of his arm, but he remains in place.

“I leave tomorrow morning,” he tells her flatly. Though an expert at guarding his emotions, it was clear to the observant Elia that whatever news that had been delivered to him today weighed heavily on his mind.

“So soon?” Elia asks, hurt. She did not want him to leave. Not when they had done so much, shared so much.

“My wife has given birth,” he explains, and it feels as if a blow were dealt to her chest. “To a son.”

She hardly knows what to say in return, her mouth hanging open with unformed words. It should not shock her, she knew. Elia knew the northern girl was pregnant. She would have to give birth eventually. Yet something bitter, something like envy, pinches at her heart.

“My,” Elia finally manages, forcing a smile. “Our prince is lucky then. Congratulations.” She crossed her arms over her chest. He was lucky. If he had a child of his own, then what need would he have for one of hers?

She tried not to seem too outwardly upset by this news. She knew this day would come. He could not have spent forever in Dorne, after all. He had a family in King’s Landing to return to, and one that evidently was only going to grow.

“Thank you,” he offers politely. Elia took a long look at him, at his long silver hair gleaming in the moonlight, dark purple eyes flashing, chiseled lips a tempting sight. A paragon of man by all accounts, and he was hers for a short while.

Unable to resist, she rises on her toes, pressing a kiss to his cool lips. They part for her, deepening the gesture, even stroking her cheek before he pulls back.

“I will come see you again,” he promises in a low voice, as if he were guarding a secret.

A flutter of hope blooms in her chest. “I shall hold you to that,” she whispers, though she wondered if it were true.

They always leave, but they do not come back.

He disappears in the blink of an eye, the taste of his lips still dizzyingly sweet on her tongue.

Chapter Text

When her son began to cry out in the middle of the night, Lyanna got up as quick as a whip. With him in her bed since his birth two weeks prior, she had grown accustomed to waking up at inordinate times. She blinks away the dust of sleep to settle her eyes on her little child. She smiles; she cannot help but do so when she looks at him.

Gently, she takes the small bundle into her arms. He shushes immediately, perhaps catching a whiff of the woman who birthed him. Her careful hands smooth back his dark hair, her grin growing wider when her little boy opened his eyes for her. Grey, like hers, like her brothers’, like her father’s and mother’s. He was all her prayers answered: a boy that was all Stark, with no hint of Valyrian.

Gaze darting to the door, Lyanna checks to be sure the wet-nurse in the antechambers did not hear. Lyanna had to contest that Jon sleep in her bed rather than the nursery with the wet-nurse, resulting in the current situation of the woman sleeping in the antechambers. When Jon would wake, she was supposed to hear it and come in to nurse him. Lyanna sat in silence a little longer, and it was only when she was sure that the woman was still asleep that Lyanna bared her breast and let her babe suckle.

The wet-nurse had pulled him from her when she had first tried to give him suck. “It is hardly proper for a princess to feed her child from her own breast,” the woman warned with a sharp glance. “The longer you feed, the longer our prince will have to wait on another child.”

Lyanna had been so haggard then that she hardly protested. The birthing had been long, arduous, and particularly painful. She had flitted in and out of consciousness, leaving her memory of the process blurry, though the sensation of pain remained. The maester had told her she was lucky to have lived, luckier still to have a healthy womb afterward. But all of that hardly concerned her when they had first deposited her first child, her first son into her arms.

And because he was hers, she felt she had every right to feed him. Every northwoman did so, and she would be no different, even if it meant doing so in secret. That point of pride along with the horrible ache in her full breasts was enough to convince her it was right thing to do, propriety be damned. He was the greatest gift ever given to her.

He was her Jon.

Or so she had called him, though also in secret. The queen warned her not to give voice to any name she would give him, as it was Rhaegar’s right and Rhaegar’s right alone to name him upon his return. Miffed, Lyanna took to calling him a series of different names whenever they were together. She had tried them all: Rickard, Brandon, Eddard, Benjen, Torrhen, Harlon, Rodrik. If her son had the capacity to understand her, she thinks she might have confused him. But no name sounded appropriate until she said Jon. Lyanna swears his face lit up, that his eyes widened and his mouth open. Though that might have an expression accompanying his soiling his swaddling, Lyanna took it for a sign.

“My sweet Jon,” she whispered to him, a finger brushing his soft cheek as he suckled gently. He had captured her heart from the moment she laid eyes on him, from when he was red-faced and squalling and his shock of brown hair a matted mess. And she was not alone in this feeling; her ladies cooed and giggled over him, Jude would walk around the room and sing to him, and little Viserys would spend hours at her side, begging her to let him hold his nephew until Lyanna relented, letting the sweet boy grin broadly down at the bundle in his arms. “He’s a nice baby!” he had admitted once, giggling with joy as he said it.

Even the queen had thawed for him, pressing kisses to his smooth forehead and smiling down upon him. Not a day went by where she didn’t visit him, glad to hold and pamper what she undoubtedly saw as a piece of her distant son. “He’s as quiet as Rhaegar was when he was a babe,” she had mused to her on more than one occasion. “’Tis always a blessing when a woman has a silent child. It means he will grow into a thoughtful man. And you will have less headache, of course.” Lyanna thinks the queen might have chuckled then, but that may have been no more than a tinkling of bells somewhere down the hall.

There was one in the castle who had yet to come see him, and it was a man she would not dare volunteer Jon to on her own: the king. She had not entered the same room as him since the day in the throne room, though by now the bruises had faded. Moreover, he had conspicuously made no comment on his new grandson, remaining silent on that matter to the point that Lyanna wondered if he even knew. He did know, according to Rhaella; he simply had no desire to see him.

“Not until Rhaegar is here,” the queen informed her cryptically.

“Why then?” Lyanna asked, curious though she did not want to force the matter.

The queen had only given her a somber stare with her clear lavender eyes, leaving the topic a mystery to her. Lyanna supposed she would find out soon enough; Rhaegar was already on his way home.

A wet popping sound could be heard when Jon pulled away from her. He was satisfied for now, eyes heavy-lidded with the need for sleep again. Lyanna covers her breast before placing a finger in the palm of his hand. His tiny fingers instinctively close around hers. She presses a kiss to his knuckles, smiling broadly down upon him.

“My wonderful Jon,” she croons, sinking down onto the mattress with him. “My northern warrior.”

My salvation, she continued in her head alongside a prayer whispered against her sleeping son’s temple. My only joy. My son.

It was easy to forget he was of Rhaegar’s seed when he looked so much like her brothers. She wondered, not for the first time, if such a visage would disappoint him. Not that Lyanna cared; if he could not manage any love for his son, Lyanna could compensate. She could love him enough for the both of them and then some.

Drawing herself around him, Lyanna breathed in his sweet scent. She rubbed his small feet and smoothed his fine hair, kissed his cheek and rubbed his belly. There was no greater joy than this, she concluded. Never in her life was she so filled with love for another being, and to spend her days and nights at his side, watching over him and caring for him, loving him with her whole heart—

She thanked the gods again for such a blessing. She did not know if she deserved it, but she certainly needed it.

Chapter Text

“Congratulations, your grace. The princess Lyanna has given birth to a son.”

Those words from the anxious messenger in Dorne had since sent Rhaegar into a frenzy. He had left everything behind, left Elia so suddenly, and rode hard to King’s Landing to see the truth of those words with his own eyes.

A son! A son meant one thing and one thing alone: that the prince that was promised has already introduced himself to the world, and Rhaegar had completely missed it. It was such a foolish thing to let time fly without his notice, days melting into each other under the hot Dornish sun. Further distraction in the form of Elia Martell only helped to increase his inattention, and now it was much too late to have observed the signs.

Words that had been written on paper whispered in his head on the whole way back: Salt and smoke. A red star bleeding in the sky. The song of ice and fire. Prophesied words that he had read and memorized until they were burned in his mind, words he’d waited years to come to life, and now he was unsure of everything.

He arrives in King’s Landing well after supper, after the king had retired early to bed, meaning there would be no need of a formal greeting stiffly given in the middle of the throne room with his father’s mad eyes boring into him, wondering what treasonous transgressions he had committed in his time away. It was by the grace of the Seven that he was spared this, urged to go forward and see what he had missed.

The nursery was empty when he came to it, and a nurse inside directed him to the queen’s chambers instead. He takes long strides to her rooms, crossing the antechambers in seconds, nodding absentmindedly at Ser Oswell’s greeting. He must have looked mad, but damned if he did. Madness was in his blood, after all.

The door is flung open before him, revealing the sight inside. Lyanna was sitting up on the bed, eyes wide with surprise. She looked different somehow— older. Perhaps that was only the effect of motherhood that fooled him into that. Her breasts better filled out her nightgown and she had a little bit more fat on her, giving softer edges to the skinny, sharp-angled girl he had married in the sept. Her hair was longer, brown curls tumbling on her shoulders, and her lips parted in an unspoken greeting. She could even be called lovely.

But it was what was in her arms was the object of his desire. Swaddled in white blankets, she cradled a babe against her chest, her hand placed protectively over his undoubtedly soft head.

He is stricken for a moment, unsure of what to do or say. In her arms laid the prince that would deliver them from the end of the world. In her arms is the center of every dream he had ever had. He moves toward the bed, sitting himself on the edge of it. Then he stretched out his arms toward her.

She understood his meaning, but she hesitated. For a moment she drew him even closer, unwilling to give him up. Some battle was waged behind her guarded grey eyes before her shoulders slumped, and she relented, carefully depositing his son in his arms.

His heart feels as if it were squeezed by a gentle hand. The little one in his arms rested quietly, eyes heavy-lidded with the need for sleep (grey eyes he noted, Stark eyes), his small mouth folded into a pout. There was fine brown hair atop his head, the same shade as his mother’s. In truth, it seemed as if simply everything about him was his mother’s. A true Stark child, with not a drop of Targaryen in him.

He was not any less perfect for it.

With a hand behind his head, Rhaegar raises him up, pressing a kiss to his sweet-smelling forehead. “He is wonderful,” he whispers largely to himself.

“He is,” Lyanna returns from beside him. He had almost forgotten she was there. He looks to her, meeting those dark grey eyes that were guarded, always guarded. Something like guilt builds up in his throat. She had endured his father’s company, the court, and the birthing bed while he was carousing in Dorne. He tries to justify it through her own liaison with Robert Baratheon, but he does not have the heart for it at the present, softened as it was by the bundle in his arms.

“And he is ours,” he tells her, almost breathless. Gods be good, he had waited so long, waited and waited, and now he was in his arms, with the women who gave him life right beside him. The moment between them nears tender as she moves closer, keeping careful watch over their son. Their shoulders touch and they share the same breaths. They were more synchronized in that moment in time than in any other before.

“Lyanna,” he begins in a murmur, swayed by the emotion between them. “Do you want for his happiness?”

Lyanna does not even have time to put up her guard. She nods vigorously, her brows furrowing in her passion. In the past he had pushed her away because of her childishness and she had done the same in turn. But now they had something tangible to bind them together. Though he shared her likeness, the blood flowing in their son was from them both.

“Then forgive me my follies and I shall forgive you yours,” he returns, keeping her gaze. “For if we wish for his happiness, then he cannot see us at odds.” He pauses, then adds, “It brings a child no joy to see his parents despise each other.” He would know.

Though now she has had time to throw every defense up, it is clear to him that she was debating the concept. She was surely doubting him, perhaps wondering if this was a trick or a short-lived promise. Her eyes flit from him to their son then back to him. Then her jaw sets, and her eyes seem a little clearer.

“Can you promise me something?” she asks.

Rhaegar did not expect a request, but he does not think to brush it off. “If it is within my power.”

“Promise me you will protect him. That is all I want from you.” Her voice is cold, but it trembles with anticipation. Perhaps she did truly want to trust him; perhaps it was too soon.

“I would protect him with my life.”

She relaxes, then nods. “Then we live. For our son,” she says with an ounce of reluctance. Just as well; he did not expect her to open her heart to him so easily. But it was a start.

He reaches for her hand, pressing the cold fingers to his lips. It was a kiss to seal their words, and the most intimate one that the couple dare share. Still absent was the spark and hunger that he felt so strongly with Elia— but now was not the time to think of the Dornish princess, nor was it appropriate to ponder his wife’s desirability.

“You know he must be presented to my father.” He begins with the most unsavory topic, though one that was necessary to address. A formal presentation to the king was what was expected of a prince; at the event he would reveal his name, offer him as proof of their continuing line. It was a public affair, with the court known to attend.

He senses Lyanna’s dislike from beside him. He looks to her, surprised to see a hint of rage in her face.

“It cannot be helped,” he tells her. “It shall not last long. We must present him to the king lest we inspire his ire.”

“I would not want him near him,” Lyanna returns unabashed.

“Nor I. But we must.” He half expects her to protest further, but she remains silent. It seemed to him that she had learned to pick her battles in his absence. “We shall present his name then too. He shall be…” He pauses, mulling it over briefly. Of all the time spent on the road, he did not give any thought to this. But the answer comes quickly. “Aeg—“

“I have already named him,” Lyanna says, her finger stroking the child’s cheek. “Not publicly, of course. I did not tell anyone. But I could not spend nigh on a month with my son and leave him nameless.”

Rhaegar pauses, uncertain. There was little doubt in his heart that she did not name him something that would please his father. Still, he gives her the chance. “What did you name him?”

“Jon,” she murmurs in return. The child gives a sudden kick in his sleep. “See? He likes it.” There is a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“That is not a kingly name,” he offers, trying to shoo the fancy away. He knew plenty of lords named Jon, chief among them one of his closest confidants, but no Targaryen had ever borne such a name.

“It is,” she returns with a little more fire. “King Jon Stark of the North. He rid the coast of sea raiders and built Wolf’s Den. It still stands today.”

No, he almost says to end it all. He considers it instead, looking down at the boy who truly did look like the seed of a northern king. It would be a Stark name for a lad who by appearances was all Stark. His father would hate it. but it was not his father he was trying to make amends with; the time for that was long gone. He had promised Lyanna togetherness not a whole five minutes ago, and he would be a liar to refuse her.

“Very well,” Rhaegar allows after a pregnant pause. “He will be Prince Jon Targaryen, first of his name.” There would be time yet to follow tradition and name his daughters Rhaenys and Visenya. For now, he would compromise.

Lyanna reaches for Jon as she speaks again. “He is sleeping now,” she informs him in a whisper. “It is best to let him rest.”

With reluctance, he gives him up, allowing Lyanna to lay him down on the bed. He presses a kiss to his unlined forehead before he rises from the bed.

“I’ll come in the morning to help prepare,” he assures her.
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They step into the throne room side-by-side, Jon folded in the crook of her elbow while her small hand wrapped around his arm. Rhaegar did not doubt they looked resplendent, the trio dressed in gilded crimson with not a hair out of place. Even Lyanna had a certain glow to her, something that started in the proud lift of her chin and spread throughout. He knew she had her reservations; she had frowned as she dressed their son, clearly miffed by the situation though she did not give voice to it. She did not need to when everything was so clear in her face.

The court buzzes and shuffles around them, each one craning their neck to catch a glimpse of the couple, specifically their returned prince and their new little one. But the only gaze he had paid any attention to was that of his father’s, clearly hard and displeased even from so far up on his throne. Rhaegar sets his jaw, anticipating something unpleasant.

They stop before the steps leading to the throne. Lyanna gives Jon to Rhaegar, as he had told her she would do, and Rhaegar holds him with utmost caution, careful not to jostle his son. Jon makes makes a soft noise regardless, unhappy with being separated from his mother, but remains silent afterward, grey eyes blinking up at him in confusion. Rhaegar lifts him, almost like an offering, and says aloud, “Prince Jon Targaryen, first of his name, your grace.” There is an imperceptible narrowing of the king’s eyes. “Your grandson, and the heir to Dragonstone,” he adds.

At the point it was customary for the king to come forth and bless the child in some way; a kiss, a touch, even holding the child, though Rhaegar would be pained to allow him to do the latter. The king does not move, however. Instead, he speaks.

“He has his mother’s look,” he calls out in his thin voice which reverberates throughout the room. “I would not come near that child, if he’s as savage as she is.”

A hush falls upon the stunned court. If Rhaegar had a little less composure, his face might have burned. He says nothing, nor does he look back to his wife to gauge her reaction. The tension in the air could be felt, tasted, without looking at a single face.

The silence is broken only by the click of a woman’s heels. His mother, heavy with child with her hands folded across her swollen stomach, steps down from her seat and walks to him. She gives him a soft look before taking Jon from his hands, drawing the child into her chest. Jon makes a few more fussy noises, but falls silent again when the queen pressed a kiss to his head.

“Thank you,” Rhaegar murmurs below his breath. It was a gesture that would earn her much ire from her husband, but it was an action that was sorely needed.

Her eyes meet his briefly, then dart to someone behind him. Rhaegar turns to see his wife, cheeks aflame with embarrassment, her sharp eyes still fixed on the king. When he reaches toward her, she flinches away as if he might strike her. He is surprised by her reaction, but makes no comment. Instead, he offers his arm to her, and she takes it, thin fingers gripping him tightly.

“It is over,” he whispers as the court begins to flock around them to give their congratulations. She nods, her chin lifting again, and her curtain of armor falls around her once more.

Chapter Text

The hunting party was trudging back from the rather unceremonious hunt, each man atop a horse with their modest kills behind them. It was not a very successful event, with only a few full grown stags between the group of ten or so men. It could not be helped, when the leader of their group had such a heavy step after an argument with his lady wife.

Ned looked to Brandon, who seemed to still be fuming atop his horse, with nothing more than hares tied to his steed. His arguments with Barbrey seemed only to be more frequent, each one rattling the stones in the castle. What was worse still was the rather noisy making-up process the couple carried out, which usually started with another argument and ended with rather passionate moans and grunts from inside their bedchambers. Not that Ned stuck around to listen to it all; on the contrary, he took pains to avoid it, but he always seemed to end up in that hall at the most inconvenient of times.

He urges his horse to meet Brandon’s pace. His brother briefly glances to the side before looking forward again. “Are you going home after this?” Ned asks of him.

“Gods, no,” Brandon returns with a huff. “I’ve damn near had enough of that woman, Ned. I’ll find myself a different bed in sleep in, and a different woman’s legs to settle between.”

Ned suppresses the urge to roll his eyes and sigh. “Then shall I take your kills back to Winterfell while you find yourself just that?” he asks dutifully. It was something of a habit of his to accommodate his older brother, even now when he ranked higher than him. Call it filial love, if you will, as Ned Stark found it difficult to be anything less than steadfastly loyal to his brother. He could trust Brandon to do the same for him.

“You got yourself a stag,” Brandon says pointedly, looking to the back of Ned’s horse. “And plenty of hares besides. I was just going to take these to whatever beggar I come across on the way out.”

Ned nods. “Fair enough.” He did not tell Brandon that his wife had grown something of a revulsion toward venison and a penchant for hare. She did not tell him this herself, but he had paid enough attention at suppers to notice her crinkle her nose at the sight of a roasted stag. He had gone to the new master, who went by the name of Luwin, who had explained to him that many pregnant women developed very particular tastes. Their former master, Walys, had died rather suddenly in his sleep, but this man seemed just as capable, if not more so. He did not encourage his father’s southron ambitions so zealously, at least.

“Now you get home before the rest,” Brandon commanded with a tilt of his head toward the castle. “Your wife seems fit to burst; better get proper drunk before she does.” He grins his trademark devilish grin that makes Ned feel as if he ought to blush.

His brother was not wrong about Catelyn’s pregnancy being on his mind; since they had heard the news of Lyanna’s birth a couple of months prior, the idea of children had weighed heavily on his mind. They had celebrated the arrival of his nephew with a strange mixture of discomfort and delight. Discomfort at the thought of their young sister being a mother already, and delight at the news that it was a healthy son with the Stark look and a Stark name, and that Lyanna had survived it all.

It left him pondering if his own child would be much the same. Whether he would have a little lord with dark hair and dark eyes, or one with auburn locks so deep and blue eyes so bright.

He rides on ahead as Brandon suggested, handing his horse to a stablehand when he arrives and the meat to a serving boy who would rush it to the kitchens. Before entering the castle, he takes a look around to find Catelyn’s swollen form standing before the still unfinished sept, with Jory Cassel at her side, likely keeping watch over her in all chivalry.

He makes his way over, giving Jory a light clap on the back in greeting.

“My lord,” the young captain said with a proper bow. “Did your hunt go well?”

“Not as well as we’d like,” Ned admitted, eyes moving from Jory to his lady wife. She was all swaddled in furs, likely unused to such cold in summertime. The bulk of the furs made her look even larger. She truly was fit to burst, as Brandon as so eloquently put it. “We’ve brought back a couple of stags and plenty of hare. Few pickings for tonight’s supper. My apologies.” He could have sworn Catelyn’s eyes lit up at the mention of the hare. It pleases him too, somehow.

Jory gives a shrug. “You know I’d dine on frogs and crows if it meant a full belly,” he says with a cheeky grin. Then he looks between the two and gives a short nod. “I’ll be on my way, then. I’ve already made the effort of getting Lady Stark to come indoors; I’ll leave the rest to you.”

Ned nods appreciatively, with the young captain gripping his shoulder before walking past. Ned turns back to Catelyn, who had color high in her cheeks and on the tip of her nose. “He is right in making the effort, my lady. You ought to be inside.” He was pleased to hear that he did not sound so fumbling anymore. They’d reached a tentative acquaintance of sorts, and Ned had slowly become more comfortable around her.

Catelyn huffs haughtily. “A little bit of cold wind will not break me, my lord. I’m with child, not an invalid.” A smile graces her pink lips. “And it is rather wonderful to see the sept look more and more like a place of worship as the days go on. When do you suppose it will be truly finished?”

Ned looks to the building, which had walls up and a roof, but little by way of decoration. “A month or so, I should hope. Not that much longer.”

Catelyn nods. “That is good. I’m afraid I can’t wait.” There is a lull in the conversation then, with the two soundlessly looking at the sept. Catelyn is still smiling serenely when her small hand reaches for his arm, gripping his elbow as she leaned ever so slightly onto him. Ned’s cheeks burn at the gentle touch. “You do not mind, do you?” Her soft voice inquires. “That our children will be raised with both the Old Gods and the New?”

Ned ponders the question for a moment. His father would not be thrilled to have his grandchildren be raised with the teachings of the Seven, but his father was also a thoughtful man who left Ned to his own devices regarding his new family. He was to be Lord Paramount of the North someday; his father understood that meant Ned would have to learn to stand alone.

“I do not mind it,” he decides. It would be different, but such a difference he could live with.

“I’m glad,” Catelyn says. “Our children shall be— Oof.” Her face is suddenly twisted into an expression of pain; the look passes, but Ned’s anxiety does not.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Ned asked, concerned.

“Oh, I— Oh.” She has a hand over her stomach that twists into the fabric of her gown. “I think— I daresay, that— The babe…”

She needn’t say much more. In a single swift motion, Ned has scooped her up into his arms. Her hands hold onto him with deadly grip as he moves from the courtyard to the castle indoors. As he took her to her chambers, he called for the closest servant to send for the maester before he begins to ramble comfort to his wife. “It’ll be all right… The maester shall be here soon… Are you all right? Are you hurt? Did I move too fast? Did I— Gods, I’m sorry.”

Somehow, she has the strength to laugh. “I will be fine,” she assures him as he carefully deposits her on her featherbed. Her hand flutters above her large stomach. “Thank you.”

Ned nods mindlessly before a flurry of nurses and the maester urge him out.

“You’ve done your part, my lord,” Luwin tells him with a sage smile. “The rest is up to her, and the gods.”
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Ned does not know how Brandon had the resolve to drink the night that Barbrey gave birth. All he could do was pace back and forth, back and forth, and nothing that was offered to him helped distract him from Catelyn’s pained shouts.

Brandon had fetched him pint after pint of ale, uselessly urging him to drink it before he gave up and drank them all himself. Food was brought to him, as were books, letters, and even Benjen, who proved to be a rather amiable companion. His youngest brother rocked back and forth on his heels, smiling sweetly when things were quiet, and blanching when Catelyn howled from inside.

At one point the boy looked pale enough to pass out. “Do you think Lyanna hurt so much?” He had asked in a small voice. Ned looked at him with concern.

“Perhaps.” He returns thoughtlessly, and the boy frowns and fidgets until he walks away completely.

As time went on, every shout from Catelyn made him tremble with a queer rage. He wanted to send a fist flying into a wall every time his lady wife made a noise of pain. It was such an unnerving sound, made worse by the fact that he could not alleviate it if he tried. The rage had melted away to a bout of spirituality; Ned had been praying when Maester Luwin emerged from the chambers with a kind smile.

“A boy, my lord.”

Relief and delight floods Ned Stark in one heady rush. He moves past Luwin and into the bedchamber, his heart nearly stopping when he saw the lovely scene before him. Catelyn, sweat on her brow and color in her cheeks, smiling down at a bundle in her arms. “My lord,” she murmurs without looking up. “Look what we have made.”

Ned licks his dry lips as he neared the bed, kneeling down beside her. The child in her arms was red-faced, lips parted slightly from the bout of crying he had suffered through. He looks so small and fragile that he is afraid to touch him. Instead, his hands hover, unsure of what to do.

“He is beautiful,” he tells her in a reverent whisper. Wisps of hair on his head, a pouty mouth—

Ned look up to Catelyn and finds himself pushing back a lock of her messy red hair. Overwhelmed by emotion he kisses her, just at the corner of her mouth. He is unsure of himself, unsure if it is appropriate, but her soft smile tells him he did not overstep.

“What shall we name him?” she asks, looking dazed.

“Later,” he says. “We’ll think of a name later. For now— Gods.” He is in giddy disbelief, losing track of his words. “My lady—“

“Catelyn,” she murmurs. “My name is Catelyn.”

“Catelyn,” he returns, and in the moment, it is the only name that matters.

Chapter Text

Tyene giggles happily as she splashes Elia with water, her little legs moving quickly to dart away from the edge of the pool where her aunt might playfully reprimand her. “You can’t catch me!” She gurgles happily. “You can’t! You have to jump in!”

Elia laughs, but does not move. She had her feet dipped in the pool, but no intention of submerging herself entirely. Tyene could splash as much as she desired; Elia was not about to let her thin silk dress cling to her anymore than it ought to.

A high-pitched scream suddenly tears through the Water Gardens. Elia looks to the source to see Obara, hands twisted in Nymeria’s hair, while the poor girl squealed and screamed. “Obara!” she howls, trying to pull away.

Elia bites back a sigh. “Obara!” She scolds. “Let go of your sister’s hair!”

“No!” The girl bites back defiantly. “Only if she—“ The girl suddenly gasps, her fingers going slack as Nymeria’s glossy locks fell out of her grasp. The two other sisters are turned to look behind her with their mouths open in shock as well.

“What?” Elia asks, brows furrowed. “What is—“

“My, my,” a warm, familiar voice calls out from behind her. “I see my girls have grown very little in the time I’ve been gone.”

“Papa!” Tyene squeals, climbing out of the pools on her chubby legs, running naked and sopping wet towards her father. Elia too rises, looking with bemusement at Oberyn, who laughs and scoops up his fair-haired daughter. His other two children greet him as well, in the same nude, unabashed fashion as their youngest sister.

Elia stands where she is, arms crossed over her chest with a smile on her lips. Oberyn was rather generous in his affection for his children, kissing each one on the head and embracing them warmly. But the girls tired of this rather quickly, and after each one said their hellos and offered their kisses, they ran back into the pools with a splash. Without a single child hanging off him now, Oberyn opens his arms up to his sister. Elia enters his embrace with a smile.

“Ah, sweet sister mine,” he says to her fondly. “I would ask if you missed me, but I fear I’d only be setting myself up for disappointment.”

Elia pulls away from him, giving a quizzical lift of her brow. “And how is that?”

“How could you miss me when you had Rhaegar Targaryen’s company instead?”

She slaps him on the chest, feigning offense as she crossed her arms again. Oberyn only laughs, yet somehow it unnerves her. Did he know of her and Rhaegar’s indiscretion? It certainly sounded like he did. But that was impossible. No one knew but her, Rhaegar, Arthur, and perhaps some nosy servants as well.

“To think I had missed him by only a couple of weeks. Damn.” He’s smiling his sly smile, making his regretful tone sound rather sarcastic. “I had been waiting for the chance to challenge the great crown prince to see if his blood is as blue as they say.”

“Oberyn,” Elia returns in warning tone. “He was very courteous.”

“Oh, I’m sure he was,” Oberyn says quick as a whip, serving to increasing Elia’s wariness. The conversation does not continue, however, as an unfamiliar woman walks up behind him, a small bundle in her arms. Her skin is very dark and lovely, indicating that she was not a Westerosi native.

“Shall I take her indoors, m’lord?” Her accent is thick and suave, her tongue heavily enunciating every word. Elia looks to the swaddling in her arms, then gasps when she sees what it was.

“Another, Oberyn?” She asks incredulously. She is a babe, perhaps a little over one year of age, sleeping soundly in the blankets. Her skin is like the woman’s, that same deep, dark brown.

“Ah. Well,” Oberyn begins to explain. “She is the daughter of a captain I bedded from the Summer Isles. I left Dorne to go see that child and her fiery mother; she says she cannot care for her anymore. Her ship is her firstborn, and she cannot provide for Sarella any longer. And so, I take her home.” He says this rather wistfully, as if the whole journey had been some magical dream and not just a trip to go retrieve another one of his children.

“And you are certain she is yours?” Elia asks with a raised brow. “And that this captain is not a woman who means to pawn her child off to you because you are the richest man she’d had laid with?”

Oberyn grins. “I always know when a child is mine, Elia,” he tells her. “Spend a day with Sarella and you’ll have no doubt of it either.”

Elia shakes her head, but she is smiling. Even now, she can only imagine Doran’s reaction to yet another one of Oberyn’s daughters finding their place here. She’d imagined that he’d give a shake of his head, a tired sigh, and a monotonous welcome home before he caught an eyeful of the babe herself.

“That is not my only surprise, however,” her brothers speaks up, drawing Elia’s curiosity. “Though I fear this one will not be able to make itself known till later today. It took something of a detour on the way here.”

“Is that right?” Elia asks. “Would what’s coming happen to be your senses? I’d certainly be surprised to see that return…”

Oberyn rolls his eyes as if she were the irritating younger sibling. Elia laughs again, but masterfullly hides her interest.

Just what have you brought back, brother?
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Elia does not have to wait long to find out.

She is walking back from the nursery after having gotten to know her new niece better (who, as Oberyn promised, was very much his daughter), when a pair of arms wrap around her waist from behind, and a woman’s soft body is pressed to her back.

“Elia!” The voice calls out fondly against her shoulder. Elia is smiling when she turns around.

“Ashara, sweetling!” The pair embrace again, properly this time. When they pull away from each other, Elia looks over her old friend. Ashara is, as expected, as beautiful as ever, with her long dark hair billowed out over her shoulders, those deep violet eyes bright, and her body still a sumptuous daydream. “It is truly a joy to see you with mine own eyes again,” she tells her breathlessly. It is only when she is in proximity of her again did she realize how much she missed her companion. Grasping her hands, she gives her fingers a squeeze.

“And it is a joy to see you,” Ashara returns, almost shy. “Have you been well? How is your health? Are you happy?”

“I am as well as I can be. As for happiness…” Her thoughts drift to Rhaegar as they had often done since his departure. “I’ve had my share of it.” It was strange, how thinking of him did not bring any pangs of pain one would expect from being parted from a lover. But is that what he was to her? A lover? Or a stand-in for something greater?

“Good. You deserve to be happy, Elia, you truly do.” Her friend leaned in for another embrace, paired with a kiss on the cheek. “I am so glad I came. When Oberyn came by Starfall, I had thought it was just to see Arthur. Then he showed us his little daughter and invited us here; I would have come with him anyway, invitation or not, make no mistake about it—“

“Invited ‘us’?” Elia asks curiously. Did her friend make a mistake by using the plural?

“Oh!” Ashara gasps suddenly. “You did not know that Arthur had not left Dorne? The prince granted him more time here, and he has come with me.”

Elia raises her brows. “Is that right?” Arthur had not mentioned that point, nor Rhaegar. “And he is here? Now?”

Ashara nods. “Why, he was following me up until a minute ago— Arthur!” She calls his name, and like an obedient puppy, he emerges from around a corner. He is without his armor, a sight Elia was very unfamiliar with, his tall, broad form covered in rather humble attire. “Well, there you are. Didn’t you think to say hello to your princess?”

Arthur gives a shy smile, stepping forward to fall into an elegant bow. “Princess,” he says warmly, rising again. “You’ve seen so much of me as of late, I did not think you’d want to see me again.”

Elia laughs. “Nonsense, Arthur,” she assures him. “I am always glad to see you.”

He runs a hand through his sandy blond hair, still smiling softly. There was something rugged about him that didn’t exist in the ethereal Rhaegar. Even his eyes, a shade lighter than Rhaegar’s were somehow different; less perceiving, she supposed, but kinder, warmer.

“Oh, it shall be just like the old days,” Ashara says dreamily, linking her arm with her brother’s. “The four of us, Oberyn included, shall raise all Seven Hells from one end of the Water Gardens to the other.” She gives a mischievous grin, which Arthur returns with a shake of his head.

“Yes,” Elia says, excitement blooming low in her stomach as she looks at the pair. “It shall be just like the old days.”

Chapter Text

Lyanna walked briskly through corridors in Maegor’s Holdfast, moving at a pace that may have been too swift for Ser Oswell in all his armor. But emerging from the nursery without her son did prompt a sort of panic in her blood, even if the nurse had assured her Jon was safe with his father. Whether it was from lack of trust or a glimmer of disbelief, Lyanna had set out to see it for herself.

She barges into Rhaegar’s solar, forgetting all about knocking and propriety. Inside is an unperturbed Rhaegar, writing alone at his desk, with little Jon sleeping angelically on his chest. Lyanna pauses in the doorway, taking in the sight. It was almost precious, in how Jon’s small form rested so serenely on his father’s accommodating chest.

“Are you all right?” Rhaegar asks with a raise of his brows, his free hand pausing in its writing.

“I—“ Lyanna begins, but then pauses. She folds her hands, and nods. “I’m fine. I had only come by to see if Jon may have been causing you any trouble.” This new dynamic between her and her husband was still unusual, even when she followed her gut.

Rhaegar gives the smallest of smiles, and even this is strange to her. “He is as quiet as can be. Don’t worry about him,” he assures her. His voice is warm, but she is still unused to it. Since his return she had been wary, afraid to give away too much or trust him too much. He promised her unity and protection, yes, but was she ready to accept it?

“Come here,” he suddenly commands of her, motioning for her to walk over. Lyanna does so, taking steps considerably smaller than before, stopping in front of his desk. “Here, Lyanna,” he adds, jerking his head to the empty space beside him. Lyanna obeys while still silent. “I’m writing a letter of congratulations to your brother, for the son he was blessed with.”

Lyanna quirks a brow. She had already sent her congratulations, as she had with the birth of Brandon’s daughter. She did not expect Rhaegar to do the same. “I’m sure he will appreciate that, your grace,” she tells him.

He makes a soft noise, then raises the paper to her. “Would you read it and see if it’s acceptable? I fear I don’t know as much about your family as I should; I do not want to inadvertently offend them.”

Lyanna is intrigued, but makes no indication of her surprise. Instead she nods, and takes the paper from him, scanning it quickly. It all seemed in order. It was a rather courteous letter, written in a way that was both comfortable and formal, closing with Your goodbrother, Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone.

“I think it is appropriate, your grace,” she assures him. He nods in return, his hand now rubbing circles on Jon’s back. Lyanna sets the paper down on the desk.

“It’s an interesting name they picked,” Rhaegar says softly, as if he did not wish to wake their son. “I was not aware they were so close.”

Lyanna swallows. He is talking about Ned and Robert. Ned did name his son Robb, after all. Upon first learning of this, she wondered if Ned would dare name him thus if he had known what had transpired between her and Robert. “Yes,” she says quietly. “They are.”

An uncomfortable silence pervades the room. Lyanna wonders if she should speak up, lay bare the truths that had made themselves known to her. She wonders if she should tell him what Robert said, what he wanted, that her maid’s belly was swollen with his child, and that Lyanna hated him almost as much as she hated herself for falling for him.

Rhaegar speaks first. “Robert Baratheon,” he says the name like it is beneath him. “How is he?”

The question jars her, but her response is immediate. “I do not know,” she informed him with an edge of venom. “And I do not care. Never, your grace, never— I never—” Want to see him again. It is a confession she is too prideful to make, but the change in his gaze assured her that he had heard what was unsaid.

“Never,” he repeats as if it were a promise. “I will see to that.”

Lyanna nods, then looks away, afraid he’ll catch the weakness in her eyes. “Thank you, your grace,” she says in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Rhaegar,” he returns. “Say my name, Lyanna. It’s yours to speak.”

Lyanna looks back to him, startled, but not mute. “Rhaegar.”

He rises from his seat, hand still placed protectively on Jon’s back. Then he leans over, and his lips brush her hair. He is close enough to touch; close enough to smell. “I’ll take him to the nursery,” he says, and for a moment, everything almost felt normal.
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Lyanna does not know how Rhaegar had managed it, but suppers for every night since he had been back had consisted of only Lyanna and Rhaella, and sometimes with Viserys, in Rhaella’s grand antechambers. It was Rhaegar who dined alone with the King now; a feat that she would not wish on anyone.

Regardless of this new arrangement, the princess and the queen were still rather unsure of each other. Though Rhaella had certainly shown her more kindness since the incident in the throne room, the two women were still incompatible in some way that was difficult to pinpoint. Perhaps it boiled down to how they were raised; perhaps Starks and Targaryens were never meant to be friends.

The two ate their suppers in relative silence, with this one instance being that Viserys was not present, but rather dining with the men of his family. Lyanna ate her soup as silently as she could, not offering up any words, wondering if the queen would say something first.

“How are you tonight, Lyanna?” The queen does finally say, those strange purple eyes boring into her.

“I’m fine, goodmother. And yourself?”

“Well enough,” the queen returns. “I, myself, have had a rather quiet day of reflection.” Lyanna nods, but pries no further. If the queen wished to explain, she would do so herself. “Life, I have determined, is terribly unfair. Perhaps it is the babe that affects me so, but I find myself often wondering when I shall lose this one.”

Lyanna raises her brows. She had learned early in her stay at King’s Landing that the queen had suffered many miscarriages before this child. She had even had a prince live for a whole year before greeting death. Several little princes and princesses succumbed to whatever curse affected her, tearing them early from life.

“I’m certain you’ll be fine, goodmother,” Lyanna assures her softly. The queen was one who suffered much; Lyanna had often attempted to put herself in her shoes, only to recoil at the harshness of her condition. If she had lost Jon, either inside the womb or outside— Lyanna could not fathom her sorrow.

“Will I?” The queen returns cryptically, her gaze falling to her lap, and inadvertently to her swollen belly. “What do you know of Joanna Lannister, child?”

Joanna Lannister; wife to the former Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister. Mother of three children: twins Cersei and Jaime Lannister, the latter who was the newest inductee into the Kingsguard, and one other child who was only whispered about. They say he is a monster, but Lyanna doubts the story.

“She was Tywin Lannister’s wife. She’s dead,” Lyanna answers simply.

“Yes, she was and she is,” the queen confirms, her voice suddenly becoming thin and wistful. “When she was unwed, she was my closest friend. She had been my lady-in-waiting and I loved her with all my heart. I was envious of her, too. Joanna was charming, intelligent, witty, beautiful, and kind to me. I had trusted her with all my secrets, and she had not once betrayed me. At court, she was always the most beautiful, the most courteous. Every man wanted her; every woman wished to be her. I was jealous of all this, I think. But I loved her more than I was jealous of her.”

Why is she telling me this? Lyanna wonders. It was the first time the queen had ever put to rest her armor and confessed something personal. Regardless of this oddity, Lyanna listens.

“Then, she got married. To a man she loved, no less, a man who worshipped her. During the wedding, the king, he—“ She pauses then, and her nose wrinkles in disgust. The expression passes with a shake of her head. “A few years later, Joanna falls pregnant. And she gave birth to twins, both beautiful and golden like her. I had only Rhaegar then, and I had lost two more before Joanna’s twins were born, and I would come to lose another two. I was angry; angry that Joanna had all the luck, that she had all the beauty and charm and children and a man who adored her, and I had nothing but bitterness and dead children. Or so such thoughts would come to me when I was not in Rhaegar’s company. There is no greater joy in a woman’s life than her firstborn son. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Lyanna nods. There were no words to punctuate the truth of that statement.

“I continued in my envy. I had all but cut myself off from her when she fell pregnant with her third. And I wanted to hate her for her luck, for the richness of her womb— But when she gave birth to her third, a twisted, ugly creature, she died. And I had realized then, in my shock and in my sorrow, that there can be no happiness for women like us.” The queen’s eyes raise again to meet hers; for the first time, Lyanna sees them wide and misty with emotion. “In our positions, as queens and princesses and ladies, there would never be a chance for true, unfiltered joy. Our privileges make others envious. Our bodies are our prisons. Any joy we are granted can be taken away from us in an instant by our men or by our gods or our curses. That is why I do not feel secure. That is why I fear for this child.”

Lyanna is stricken. She hears her heartbeat pound in her head, blood rushing and roaring in her ears. What the queen said was based in truth; did not her own lady mother die, when she had a loving husband and four children? Did Joanna Lannister not perish giving birth to a twisted creature? The queen suffered endlessly, women at court suffered endlessly— they all just knew how to hide it.

The queen slips back into her cool, levelheaded self, those fearful purple eyes glossing back over to sharp collectedness. Lyanna, however, must have blanched, for the queen reaches over to cup her cheek.

“You are still young; you have a lifetime to find your happiness,” the queen tells her kindly, her thumb stroking her cheek. “And when you do find it, latch onto it and do not let go. You shall be luckier than most if you can say that you were happy until you could not be happy any more.”

“I do not know how,” Lyanna admits in a voice smaller than she would have liked. And I do not want to be like you, she does not dare say.

“You will,” Rhaella assures her. “You are strong, but you let your emotions guide you. Do not let them take you the wrong way. Think, child. For the sake of your son, think. Guide him, teach him, love him, and he will be your greatest champion. Do not make the same mistakes I did. Learn from me, Lyanna.”

Learn? Was she supposed to be like the queen then, silent and malleable? Obedient and cold? Lyanna had already had the flame within her stamped out to a mere flicker. If it were snuffed out completely, Lyanna would surely die. Lyanna was tired of silence. She was no mummer, and she would not pretend. She wanted to be as she was, fiery and wild and free— all the things the king hated, all the things she’s hidden away until it could not be hidden any longer.

Lyanna retires to her rooms after supper in a strange haze. She recalls laying down beside Jon, giving him suck before he slept, stroking his downy cheek as he breathed. She recalled Jude entering the room, teetering due to the weight of her large belly to tell Lyanna that the queen had entered the birthing chambers. It is too soon for that; she still had a few more weeks. Lyanna does not sleep that night as she wondered if she ought to be in the room with the queen, whether she should offer support in some way or another. Did Lyanna want to be there, to watch the strong queen waver due to the pain? Would the queen want her to see her so?

By the time Lyanna had risen on the decision to go to her, only a couple of hours before the sun comes up, the sound of many bells echoes throughout the castle. To a trained ear, one would hear seven different cadences from seven different bells, all coming from the direction of the Great Sept of Baelor. Her heart sinks.

Even before Jude comes rushing in, wild-eyed and breathless, Lyanna knows what she is going to say:

“The queen is dead.”

Chapter Text

Rhaegar emerges from the impromptu Small Council meeting feeling rather exhausted.

The news of his mother's death traveled fast, requiring them to make plans for her wake and burial in much haste. Though everyone arrived to the meeting, even the king, it was truly only Rhaegar and Jon Connington who did the work and discussed the details of the processions. Granted, the grand maester Pycelle had mumbled about the circumstances of her death for some time, but Rhaegar hardly considered that a contribution.

His father, however, seemed not to care. When a suggestion was passed his way, he'd allow it without any thought. For a while it almost felt like his father was silently grieving, until he opened his mouth to speak.

"When will this blasted meeting finish?” He had growled with narrowed eyes and sneering lips. “Just put the woman in the crypts and be on with it. A cursed womb should be put in the ground before it wanders."

Rhaegar had bristled at his callousness, but he was not surprised. He'd spent his whole life observing the king's hatred of his queen, and hearing in whispers how it violently manifested behind closed doors. He'd even witnessed it once or twice as a child. It was a matter he did not like to linger on.

When he does leave the oppressive room, it is to make his way to the nursery in Maegor's Holdfast. He opens the door slowly, letting himself in before closing it carefully behind him. The nurses inside immediately stand to bow.

"How is she?" Rhaegar asks quietly. Then, recalling the name his father had so hastily chosen, he says, "How is Princess Daenerys?"

"She's fighting, your grace," one of the women answers. "But she is fine, and I daresay she will grow."

Rhaegar walks over to the crib to take a look inside. He understands the latter part of the nurse's statement immediately. The babe before him was smaller than Jon was when he had first seen him weeks after his birth. Smaller hands, smaller head, smaller body. She was pale enough to see the purple veins beneath the skin on her eyelids.

His sister slept peacefully now, her chest rising and falling with every breath. It almost sounded like soft wheezing, the way she did it. She truly was fighting for life, as no doubt his mother did to bring her into the world. But his mother was gone, and in her place was this small girl child named Daenerys Targaryen.

He leaves without a word, slipping out of that tranquil scene to walk into one that was decidedly less so.

Cacophonous screaming could be heard from the other end of the hall where Viserys's chambers was. As he neared it, the sounds only got louder and louder, until he entered the room and the wails grated on his ears.

His younger brother screamed and sobbed in gasping fits, throwing whatever was near him across the room, tearing up his sheets and driving his caretakers into a corner.

"He is inconsolable, your grace!" One of them yelled above Viserys's noises.

"How did this happen?" Rhaegar returns in a boom, biting back a sigh.

"He asked to see his mother-"

"THEY WON'T TAKE ME TO MAMA!" Viserys screams, his red-rimmed purple eyes wildly boring into him. "They keep saying she's gone, but they won't say where! They're liars! Liars!" He punctuates his agony with a new wave of shuddering sobs, dropping to his knees to cover his eyes.

Rhaegar knows it is Viserys's first brush with death. His mother had made sure that her youngest son would not witness anything that would affect him so harshly. And while Viserys no doubt understood the concept of death, it was the application of it that he struggled with. Worse still, it had been applied to a woman who had given life to him, and had not left his side since.

Rhaegar walks over to him, kneeling down to his level. He takes his shoulders in his hands and rubs them gently. "Viserys, mother is gone. She won't be coming back," he tries to explain in a tone that was soothing as he could managed.

"No! No, that means mama's dead, and she's not! She's not dead, right Rhaegar? She's not-" The boy suddenly grows quiet as he examine his elder brother's face. Something behind his eyes clicked, or snapped, and Viserys's pained howls restart louder than before.

Rhaegar attempts to calm him again, reaching for him to pull into an embrace, or just to rub his arms again, but Viserys would have none of it. He wrenches his body out of his grasp, refusing any affection in favor of hunching over and beating his small fists on the ground.

"The king said to keep him in here until he is quiet, your grace,” Another woman tells him in an elevated voice. "He said he will not have meals brought to him until he behaves.”

Rhaegar's mood quickly grows sour. Of course, the best way to console a grieving, motherless child was to starve him until he discontinued his tirade. Of course his father would think of something so callous.

But he was at a loss. Any further attempts at consoling him were beaten off with louder screams, by the scratch of his nails and vicious bites. The women caring for him had run all out of ideas. Rhaegar leaned against a wall, weary, and with a headache splitting his temples.

Then the door opens, and none other than Lyanna walks in. Her slim body is dressed in a black mourning gown, with her wild curls contained in a plait down the middle of her back. "The poor boy," he barely hears her mutter. "He has been shouting for almost an hour."

"He will stop eventually," Rhaegar returns wearily. She meets his gaze with a defiant furrow of her brows and shakes her head.

Boldly, she strides forward, meeting the crumpled Viserys on the floor. Rhaegar watches as she reaches a hand out to him, and how Viserys swats it away.

"Lya, take me to mama!" He commands of her between gritted teeth. "Now! Take me!"

"Oh my sweet boy, I wish I could," she tells him softly. Viserys sobs, and begins to rain his fists down at her chest. Rhaegar steps forward to stop him, but Lyanna raises a hand to still him without looking back.

Rhaegar stills, watching as she took the violence with relative ease until she attempted something else. She wraps the boy up in her arms, and though she is greeted with screams and scratches, she endures, pulling him to her as he continued to thrash against her.

Rhaegar sees her whisper softly in Viserys's ear, things he could not hear. Then, by some miracle, his brother's fit slowly winded down to near silence, with only the sound of sniffles remaining in the room.

"Shh," he hears Lyanna murmur consolingly. Then Viserys suddenly goes limp, the boy curled up on her lap as he pressed his face to her shoulder, one arm wrapped about her neck, clinging to her.

Soft sobs could be heard, sounds Lyanna punctuates by rubbing gentle circles on his back. Rhaegar watches all this with awe. Was it northern magic that she used? Or was it all maternal instinct? Perhaps she was closer to Viserys than he knew. Closer to him than Rhaegar, though that statement was not impressive in itself.

Rhaegar observes silently as Viserys's sniffles cease, and he has fallen asleep in Lyanna's arms, likely out of his self-inflicted exhaustion. Lyanna remains soothing, running a hand through his silvery hair, wiping the tears off his red face. She makes an attempt to rise, perhaps to lay him on the bed, but he is a boy of six and not small and light like a babe. Rhaegar steps forward, doing his small part by taking Viserys from her arms and very carefully, very slowly laying him down on the bed.

As he watches her press a kiss to his brother’s cheek, he wonders if he should say something. A compliment, perhaps, or a confession of his awe. But Lyanna was in no mood to be receiving any frivolous words.

“When he wakes, send for me,” Lyanna commands of the nurses in a whisper. Then she turns to Rhaegar, her strong gaze meeting his. “Where is the princess Daenerys?” she asks of him, her tone as commanding as it had been with the nurses. He tells her where, and she nods, steadfastly moving past him and out of the room.

Whatever it was she aimed to do with the princess, he could only imagine that it would heal her.
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It is by the end of this bone-weary day that Rhaegar finds himself at Lyanna’s door. He knocks, if only to be polite, and her voice from inside bids him entrance. When he walks in, she meets him with wide, mistrusting eyes. She straightens on the bed, where Jon is already asleep beside her.

“Did I wake you?” Rhaegar asks, moving to the bed. She shakes her head no, and pulls the robe around her tighter. He sits down at the edge of the bed, props his elbows on his knees, and cradles his head in his hands. Gods, he was tired. Yet for all the thought he’d given for the arrangements of his mother’s passing, he had hardly had time to dwell on the incident in itself.

It likely reflected poorly on him that he did not appear heartbroken. Yet what could he do? What could he say? She was the woman who gave him life, who tried her damnedest to shelter him, even when it was too late.

And what did I do for her in return? When he was a boy, he recalled running into other rooms when his parents argued. As a young man, he did not champion her or stand by her. He drifted, as men often did with their mothers. But for what his mother endured, this excuse was not enough.

Guilt rises as bile in his throat. He felt disgusted at himself. Where was his sorrow, his pain? Why did he not howl as Viserys did? All he felt was an ache that was akin to pity.

A warm body slips beside him. It is Lyanna, her leg pressed against his, bent over to try to catch a glimpse of his face. Why did he come here, to her? What could she do or say?

“I was a poor son,” the confession slips out unbidden. Why would he tell her this? What could she fix? “I failed her. I did.” He sits up straight again, his eyes falling on her blank face. “And now it’s too late.” Too late to show her his appreciation, too late to protect her, too late to mourn her.

“It’s not too late,” Lyanna’s armored voice insists. “She is gone, but her memory lingers. What shall you do about that?”

He looks at her, at a loss. “I don’t know,” he admits flatly, honestly.

She looks at him with a mixture of disappointment and pity. “If you’ve failed her in life, then do not fail her in death,” she states plainly, but Rhaegar does not respond. He is hanging onto her every word, waiting for the next. “In the crypts at Winterfell, the lords of Winterfell have statues built for them, so their likeness may protect them in the afterlife. They stand vigil at the coffin with swords in hand.”

Rhaegar examines her youthful face after this, wondering what direction she was pushing him toward. “Shall I build her a statue, then?” he asks of her. It would be highly unusual, as no other in the sept had a statue, not king nor queen.

She shakes her head and almost sighs. “You said you have failed her,” she reminds him with a lift of her brow. “Do not fail her now. You shall be her statue. Stand vigil by her body for the night.”

Rhaegar hides his surprise. What good will that do? He almost asks, before the weight of her words fall against him. To protect his mother in death when he could not in life; to pay his respects by forsaking sleep and filling his head with thoughts of his mother. No doubt word of this would reach beyond the walls of the sept, and the courtiers would gossip and praise him as his father seethed. It will be the last thing I do for her.

He rises and Lyanna does the same. “I’ll wake my squire and have him fit me into my armor,” he tells her. She nods, and Rhaegar takes his leave to do just that. His sleepy-eyed squire is sent for, not Myles or Richard as they are both knighted, and he is fitted in his own chambers. It is his ceremonial armor, obsidian black with crimson rubies beaten into the shape of a three headed dragon on the breastplate. He dresses in all of it, from gauntlets to greaves, leaving only his helmet behind. He would want his mother to look upon his face.

His sword is at his hip, and he is ready for his vigil. But before entering the sept, he finds himself again at Lyanna’s door. He was drawn to her for some inexplicable reason; perhaps approval, or just to have her look upon him and know that his words were true. Lyanna comes to the door with their sleeping son folded into her arm. Her sharp grey eyes examine him from head to toe, before her delicate fingers reach forth to trace a ruby.

“The armor is beautiful,” she tells him, sounding genuinely awed. She tilts her gaze up to his face. “Give your mother my regards.”

He nods, then leans down to press a kiss to their son’s smooth forehead. He dares even to press one to Lyanna’s cheek. Her expression remains unchanged, always regarding him cautiously, but he hopes the affection was not lost on her.

In the sept, he stands tall behind the slab his mother laid upon, his towering form looming over her head. Her eyes are closed; her mouth was parted slightly. The Silent Sisters have already prepared her body, as it is swaddled in silks and smelled of a floral perfume. She was the woman who birthed him, raised him, and now she was dead before him.

I’m sorry, he tells her. I should have done more. It was too late for her to hear those words, he knows. Yet the energy in the air between them shifts, the pressure on his chest is heavy and light all at once.

It’s alright, she might have been trying to say. Or perhaps that was only wishful thinking.

Not a sound was made in the sept that night, but by dawn Rhaegar felt as if a thousand words were spoken. Yet for all of that, he did not wish for this; rather, he wished he had wept. Wept as recklessly and unabashed as Viserys had done, throwing all propriety to the wind for the sake of sorrow, ignoring that it was weakness. But Rhaegar did not weep, not once. He did not know how. His mother never taught him.

Chapter Text

When women speak of raising children, they always speak of the laughter, the smiles, the joy. The first time their child opens their eyes or babbles or says mama. Women spoke of only the jovial parts of children; they failed to inform Catelyn of all of the crying.

Robb Stark, for all of the beauty her little son was blessed with, was a particularly loud child. This may have been less of an issue had northman tradition not dictated that the woman care for her child in all regards, forgoing wet-nurses for the sake of having the mother feed them themselves. While her husband had benevolently asked if she preferred a wet-nurse, Catelyn found herself taking on the challenge. She was a lady of the North now, after all. She would impress those around her and prove she was not some fragile southron flower. This, however, was done at the cost of much precious sleep.

And thus, every morning she’d rise tired-eyed and bone-weary, making her way to Robb’s nursery a short ways across from her own chambers, and give her son his morning suck. Being the auburn-haired rascal her son was, he’d greet her with excitable kicks and clenches of his fists, those bright blue eyes melting her heart and doing away with all of the trouble he’d put her through the night before.

On this particular morning, she found her husband in the nursery, already having beaten her to helping Robb out of his crib and into a warm pair of arms. She watches from a distance, admiring in silence how a man of his size could so gently cradle a creature so small. His thick fingers were tender as they stroked his cheek, his voice hardly more than a whisper as he spoke so sweetly to their son.

Their son. Two moons had already passed and the very thought still felt so new to her. For indeed, there was a sense of togetherness in this blessing. Ned was not like his brother when it came to his child; on the contrary, he was a rather involved father, checking in on his son almost on the hour, every hour, to shower Robb with affection and inquire kindly after his health and her own.

Ned turns toward the doorway. His brows lift in surprise at seeing her there. Catelyn almost blushes, though she cannot say why. She smooths a crease in her gown and curtseys. She can catch the bulge of her stomach as she does so, pressing against the fabric of a gown untailored since her arrival in Winterfell. Grimacing internally, Catelyn thinks, I hope he does not notice. Gods be damned; I had been taking that maester’s rotten broth everyday since birthing, when shall it go away? Catelyn does not catch the weight of her words till after.

Since when did I care so much if my husband thought me getting fat or not?

Further contemplation was cut short by her lord husband’s deep and gentle voice. “Good morning, Catelyn,” he tells her kindly. Robb begins to smack his wet lips at the sight of her, perhaps already tasting his mother’s milk on his tongue.

“Good morning, my l— Eddard,” she says dutifully in return. He had encouraged her to use the name that his siblings had bestowed upon him, the ever so intimate sounding Ned, but Catelyn hardly had the nerve for it yet. By the Seven, her husband would not call her Cat, so how could she be expected to say ‘Ned’?

Unexpectedly, her lord husband chuckles. For a moment Catelyn fully believe he’s read her mind. “My lady, how about you sleep in this morning?” he asks of her.

Catelyn is almost miffed. “Are you saying I look tired, my lord?” She asks with crossed arms and raised brows. “That is hardly a kindness to pay your wife.” Her words are said in full jest, but she is aware of the truth behind them. She did look tired. Dark circles were beginning to form under her eyes and she swears she found a grey hair where she was bathing the other day.

“No, not at all,” Eddard returns, sounding a little bit embarrassed. She almost laughs at that; it was far too easy to make him fidget. “I mean, I hear how this one wakes you at night. And he is fine enough now to wait on his breakfast for a little longer.”

Catelyn allows herself a small smile. “That is very kind of you,” she tells him sincerely. “But I fear that once I wake, I don’t easily fall back asleep. Going back to bed now shall serve no purpose.”

Eddard shifts from foot to foot, then suspiciously rolls his eyes. Robb fidgets in his arms, looking up at his father with unblinking curiosity. “Well…” he says almost playfully. “If you insist on seeing it before the finishing touches…”

Catelyn’s curiosity is piqued. “Seeing what?” As soon as the words leave her mouth, she realizes his meaning, and gasps. Her husband smiles amiably, and moves past her. Catelyn follows, hot on his heels as he led them outside. There, in plain sight in the far edge of the courtyard, is her sept, fully completed.

As they near it, Catelyn’s heart begins to soar. Of course she had seen its progress and knew it was soon to be completed, but it seemed that with all the time she spent indoors tending to her son, she lost track of its progress. A group of men stand idly around it, workers who are no doubt admiring their own craftsmanship. At the front of the sept was, oddly enough, Brandon, who seemed to be fitting one final stone into place. When they arrive, he looks to them and grins.

“I figured I’d be the one to finish this off,” he announces haughtily. “That way I can say I had a part in giving this gift to you, goodsister.” His charm and beauty was in full form out in the clear morning light, and yet Catelyn’s body did not respond. She only gives an amiable smile before she holds onto her husband’s elbow.

It is not a very large sept, which was to be expected, but it was impressive in its own right. It had its seven walls of stone, a wooden roof, and two large bronze doors. Eddard jerks his head towards those doors. Catelyn needs no further encouragement. She surely must have looked like a child, her grin as wide as it was and a spring in her step that could not be dampened.

The doors open with a homey creak, giving way to the humble splendor inside. Small stone statues stood for all seven deities upon platforms, each one evenly spaced apart from each other. The spicy smell of incense permeated the thick air, breathed life into her frigid lungs. Beneath that musk was the sweeter smell of oils, jasmine and sage and rose, which sat in bottles on shelves. A few men were inside, hanging tapestries of the Seven and polishing the stained glass windows high on the walls.

Tears spring to Catelyn’s eyes. “It is beautiful,” she says aloud in a thin voice to no one but herself. Enthralled as she was, she does not even notice when Eddard appears at her elbow with Robb still in his arms.

“You like it then, my lady?” he asks of her, jerking her attention away from her surroundings. He looked rather worried, as if there was a chance she might dislike it and say so out loud.

Catelyn nods, hopefully dissipating such fears. “It is perfect,” she assures him, smiling. “Thank you.”

He seems pleased, though not entirely unaffected, judging by the blush that ran into his fair cheeks. “I will admit, I do not know much about the Seven,” he says in his rumbling tenor. “But I have sent for a septa and septon to keep the place and to teach our children, when the time comes for an education. I hope that’s proper.”

“Yes,” she enthused. “It is proper.”

“Old Nan and our gammer shall teach them of the Old Gods too,” he adds. “I hope our children will—“ He pauses to cast his gaze down at Robb who had gotten a hold of his finger and began to suck on it. “Does this mean he’s hungry?” He asks Catelyn, eyes filled with genuine curiosity.

Catelyn laughs mirthfully. “I fear it does,” she tells him. Her husband seems hesitant to hand him over, but he does so with all carefulness, wiping his wet finger on his jerkin once Robb is out of his grasp.

“Pity,” Eddard says, frowning as Robb begins to fuss. “I had hoped you’d have more time in here before tending to him.”

Catelyn shakes her head, rocking the already fussy Robb in her arms. “Well, the sept certainly isn’t going anywhere, is it?” She asks playfully. Eddard shakes his head solemnly in turn, offering a small smile. “I shall see that he breaks his fast, and then I shall return.”

He nods, accepting these terms. He turns slightly away from her, perhaps to oversee the men still hanging up the tapestry. His solemn face studies them carefully. Catelyn pauses to appreciate the angle, to note the slight stubble on his face, the straight line of his nose, the wrinkles in the outer corner of his eye. Serious features, old features for a man so young. He was much older beyond his years, and likely wiser too.

Catelyn has no words to explain her reasons for what comes next. She steps to him, and rises on her toes to press a kiss to the side of his jaw. He looks to her with such a startled expression that she almost laughs.

“Again, my lord,” she says. “Thank you.”

He seems rather at a loss of what to say, his lips parted in some unspoken courtesy that was lost in the heat of things. Catelyn takes her leave then, with his wide eyes still following her. She is not sure why she kisses him, but she is glad she did. For if there was a man who deserved her kiss, it was surely him.

Chapter Text

With Ashara back, it does not take long for Elia to feel like a girl again. By only the second night they are giggling over beautiful men and spending their nights being up for hours, talking about everything and anything before falling asleep in the familiar circles of each others arms. Ashara, in many ways, was like a sister to her. Her friend had once promised to follow her to King’s Landing upon her wedding, to serve her in the capital and act as a familiar friend in that foreign viper’s pit. That never came to be, but Elia cannot help but appreciate the sentiment.

They spent nearly every waking moment together, the two following around Oberyn’s daughters like mother hens. Often hovering nearby on these occasions was Arthur, ever the sentinel as his eyes followed the girls, trailing behind them farther than Elia and Ashara would. He was not terribly talkative with Elia, she noticed. With his sister he would have often have casual conversation, the two a rather striking pair as they walked around the Water Gardens with the sun illuminating Arthur’s hair and Ashara’s skin.

With Elia, however, he seemed more reserved. Most conversations were courteous, soft spoken. He bent easily to her opinion and engaged her on few fronts. Elia did not understand why. Granted, they were no longer children, but they were still friends. Or so she thought.

It mattered little in the end. He would be leaving shortly, as his time at the Water Gardens was limited to only a fortnight before he would head straight back for King’s Landing to arrive back at the King’s prescribed date. All holidays would come to an end, even in a place of such endless leisure like Dorne.

His stay was nearing to an end. He had only a few more days left here, yet Elia would swear he was now purposely avoiding her. She could hardly fathom why. Had she done something to offend him? Did she say something untoward? Elia scarcely knew.

Or perhaps she did know. A part of her urged her not to confront him. It was an awkward thing to ask, and she would be unhappy with the results of the exchange no matter what. Yet it gnawed at her to the point of physical distraction.

It is evening when Elia makes her way back through the Water Gardens. Ashara had went on ahead to prepare some fruit and wine to be indulged in before bed. The darkness of night was already creeping in, blanketing the Water Gardens in a dark blue haze, the empty pools shimmering in the creeping moonlight.

A figure at the far end of the pools give her pause. It is the tall, broad silhouette of a man’s, an unfamiliar one. As Elia quietly nears him, his face turns to catch the moonlight, and it is none other than Arthur Dayne’s.

Unable to suppress the urge to get this burden off her chest, she marches toward him. “Arthur!” She calls to him. “Arthur, it is good I found you, for I-” He seems to hear her, and turns his body toward her. Elia almost falls forward as she came to a sudden stop. He is naked to the waist, with his trousers being the only garment on him. Light makes his chest glisten from the water that had settled upon it.

“Oh,” she says rather awkwardly, jerking her eyes from his chest to his face. “Y-You were bathing weren’t you? Here, I shall leave you be and get on my way--”

Arthur chuckles, cutting short her rather embarrassing exclamation. She looks at him with an expression half-way between horror and a glare. “Well, you have me cornered now, don’t you?” He asked, opening his arms as if he were surrendering. “I’m at your mercy, princess.”

Elia resists the urge to look down at his middle again. Instead, she crosses her arms and takes a tentative step forward. Now that she did have him alone, she felt unsure of how to approach the matter. Frowning at her feet, she finds her mind urging her onwards. Just ask him and put it to rest. He will answer you with honesty, you know that.

Yet perhaps it was honesty she feared.

Tilting her eyes back up to his, Elia opens her mouth to speak. “I must know something,” Elia begins. “I must know why you won’t speak to me. Is it because… the prince and I…?”

That he silently casts his gaze off to the side answers the question for her.

“I see,” she says plainly. She is not surprised, but for some reason she is hurt. “Then I should want you to know that it is not what you think. I do not love him.” She says it flatly because it is the honest truth; she was a woman grown, and she understood the difference between an infatuation based on attraction, and a true, unyielding, unabashed love. “And should I ever see him again, I shall not repeat what had transpired between us.”

“He has a son now,” Arthur says rather hollowly, as an addendum to her argument.

“Yes,” Elia says. A little prince and the realm’s heir. “He has a son.” A son that should have been mine. She looks up to him and takes another cautious step forward. “You must think poorly of me, Arthur.” She grimaces as she says this; she had known this man for years, and the thought of that friendship being dampened by foolish actions on her part had saddened her more than Rhaegar’s departure.

“I could never think poorly of you,” he returns softly.

“Do not lie to me, friend,” she tells him.

“It is the truth,” he insists. Something has changed in his pale purple eyes, and passion is imbued into his voice. “I have watched you for years, princess, and I had always known someone worthy of your love would come your way. Someone of great rank and respect; not one like me. That you turned to the prince hardly struck me as a surprise, nor did it strike me as a blow.” He pauses, as if taken aback by his own words and boldness. He bows his head, and his voice is hardly a whisper as he says, “Elia, I have loved you. I love you still.”

Elia takes a step back. When she had come across him, she did not expect a confession of love. Yet the seemed the nakedness of his body lent to a nakedness of his soul, and suddenly he was only harmless young Arthur again, the eager and honest squire at Sunspear.

“I have overstepped,” Arthur mumbles, raising his head. “I have no right to such words. Forgive me.”

“Arthur,” Elia returns softly, swallowing the last of her shock. She extends a gentle hand to his arm. “Why did you take your vows? Why did you not wait to ask for my hand?” Oddly enough, the thought of being wed to him was not an unwelcome one. She had known him to be gentle and kind and true; what more could she want for a husband?

“You are a princess,” he returns, glancing at the hand on his arms. “And I was little more than a knight.”

“And?” Elia asks. “It is not as if I was to rule Sunspear. I could have any pick of any man I chose.”

“And would you have chosen me?” Arthur’s voice is almost trembling with the anticipation of her answer. Elia takes a moment to consider his question. Would she have? Out of all the suitors she had met and scared off, Arthur outshone them all. “Given the choice between the prince and I, would you have chosen me?”

That was a different question. Would she have? In their time together, Elia learned she could never love Rhaegar. She could grow fond of him, perhaps, appreciate him as a husband and a father to her children. Would it have been different with Arthur?

The man who claimed to love her so was not a man she loved either, not with the same intensity as he did her. She loved him well as a friend, but had never entertained the idea of him as a lover.

Keeping her silence, Elia rises on her toes and presses a tentative kiss to his lips. Arthur leans in for a fraction of a second, returning the affection, before pulling back suddenly.

“I have my vows,” he says hoarsely, as if it took effort to say those words.

“And I have my desires.” Her hands are flat against his chest. “If you want me, Arthur, then I am yours. If not by word, then by deed.” She takes one of his hands, which dwarfed hers as she linked them together. “We know each other well, do we not?”

He hesitates still, standing stiffly even as she stroked his knuckles with her thumb. His honor was important to him; that much was clear. But if he loved her, and she wanted him, or rather she wanted something from him, then where was the harm in a single night? In two nights or three?

“Living in the capital has made you less of a Dornishman, it seems,” Elia notes with a sly smile. “Had you been any other knight at Sunspear, they would have leaped into my bed without a second thought.”

“I’m a knight of the Kingsguard,” Arthur returns, drawing slightly away from her.

“And I am a princess of Dorne. It is just like a song, is it not?” Her jest paired with her soft smile does not sway him. He looks away from her, pulls his hand back. Elia tries not to frown.

‘Tis a pity, Elia thinks. I should have been glad to have a son like him.

Elia clears her throat and takes a single step back. “I admire your dedication to your honor, Ser Arthur,” she says courteously. “Though you should know I would have carried such a secret to my grave.”

“I do not doubt that.” He returns hoarsely. “I’m sorry.” He reaches down to pick up his blouse, pulling it over his head and covering his muscled abdomen. He begins to tie the laces at the top of it, thick fingers fumbling with them.

Elia steps to him again, and takes the laces from his hands. “Let me,” she murmurs before deftly tying the laces herself. She feels him holding his breath, feels the heat of his gaze on her. He loved her, that much was sure. And she loved him, as a brother perhaps. “I remember when we were children,” she begins to say, crossing her arms over her chest and looking up at him. “You never used to bathe with the rest of us. You were always so shy.”

In proper light, she might have noticed his blush. “Aye, well,” he says awkwardly. “Things haven’t changed much, I fear.”

Elia smiles again, and shakes her head. “No, I suppose they haven’t.” She licks her lips, then looks away for an instant before meeting his gaze once more. “I know it is not fair to ask you to be rid of your honor for me,” she explains. “Though I feel that no matter what you do, your honor shall never leave you, for that is simply the sort of man you are. However…” She pauses, considering her words. "However, you shall be doing me a favor that I could never repay. I will be... Enormously thankful."

His eyes are questioning, perhaps even confused at her words. But Elia has said what she wanted to say. She rises on her toes and kisses him again, only on his cheek this time. Something chaste and sweet to leave him with.

She turns and leaves as her heart plummets. She should have wanted it to be him. A good man, a strong one. She would have been proud to call him husband. Whether she would love him or not was another question.

There was no use on speculation now. He was beyond the bonds of marriage. But she would have liked very much to name him the father of her child, at least. A beautiful baby with his soft blond hair and a face as lovely as Ashara's...

She could scarcely imagine something more wonderful.

Chapter Text

Jon makes a smacking sound with his lips as his little hands reach forward to take hold of letter Rhaegar was penning atop the writing desk. He chuckles as he pushes it farther out of his reach, noting with amusement how his little son then threw his weight forward in order to try again. A protective hand on his middle prevents him from falling forward and hitting his head on the desk.

“You will have plenty of time to pen letters when you’re older,” he tells his son, who looks up to him at the sound of his voice, grey eyes wide. “Allow your father this task.”

His son babbles something, almost as if it were in response, some string of mamas and dadas that could hardly be comprehended. Rhaegar lifts him up off his lap to prop his legs on his thighs, the child teetering on weak knees as his father held him upright.

“How are you so smart?” He asks him playfully. Jon responded by placing his sticky hands on his face, a dark curl flopping forward to cover his eye.

Rhaegar’s attention is stirred away from his son with a knock at the door. He looks up, blinks twice, and bids whoever is on the other side of it to come in. Jon Connington saunters in, his bright red hair slightly disheveled and with his face unshaven. He looked oddly tired, with dark circles underneath his eyes. Rhaegar could only assume it is the task of being a Hand to a maddening king that wears on him so. It was why the lord Hand came to Rhaegar so often before he came to the king.

That, and rather unshakable personal loyalty to the prince.

“Your grace,” Jon greets politely. Rhaegar sets his son back down on his lap, who accepts this lowered position with a soft noise.

“Jon,” Rhaegar returns with a smile. “How are you this day?”

The Hand grunts. “All right,” he mumbles in response. “I fear I come with bad tidings.”

Rhaegar’s face quickly falls serious. Jon was not one for exaggeration; whatever it was, it was surely grave. “What news do you have for me?”

“Brigands,” his flame-haired friend returned with a grimace. “They’re terrorizing the countryside, not far from Maidenpool. Maybe mountain men who came down from the Vale; gods know who. But they’re burning crops and pillaging as they go.”

“That’s rather serious,” Rhaegar notes with a lift of the brow. “How did this happen?”

“You know how they are,” Jon returns with a shrug. “They come down every few years to rape and pillage before their arses are kicked back up the mountains.” His eyes dart to the little prince in his lap. “Sorry,” he says, as if asking for an apology for his foul language from the boy with his fist in his mouth.

His son babbles something incomprehensible in his lap, as if accepting. Rhaegar rubs Jon’s soft foot between his fingers as he mulls over the lord Hand’s words.

“Does his grace know?” Rhaegar asks. That was the sort of complaint brought to the throne, usually by some desperate smallfolk or traveling knight.

“His grace does,” Jon returns gruffly. “And he’s asked me to send for you.”

Rhaegar’s shoulders involuntarily slump. He can already predict the bitter outcome of this exchange. “I suppose I ought to go, then,” he half mumbles, rising out of his seat. His son is still sucking on his fist when Rhaegar presses his lips to his forehead and extends him toward Lord Connington.

“Take him to his mother,” Rhaegar commands of Jon, who takes the little prince in his arms with a startled expression. The prince reacts with a little pout, his lower lip wobbling as he’s separated from his father. “Quickly; he’s like to start crying soon.”

Jon nods vigorously and darts out of the room. Rhaegar exits as well, and makes his way to the throne room, where his father sat stiffly atop the throne. There were some members of the court present, but not many. It seemed to Rhaegar through the recognition of familiar faces that he'd invited many of his staunchest loyalists. But of course, their loyalty to the king came at the price of loyalty to the prince.

Regardless of this sour company, Rhaegar stands tall as he faces his father, offering a shallow bow. "Your grace summoned me?" He asks stoically, meeting his father's eye.

"I did," he returns, shifting uncomfortably in his throne. "As our Lord Hand might have told you, there are brigands terrorizing the Crownlands. The men there can't fight them off, and they're getting too close to King's Landing for comfort." He speaks with an omnipresent sneer. "So I'm sending you to be rid of them."

Rhaegar lifts a brow. "Me, your grace?" He can't remember the last time he’s been sent on a knight’s errand such as this one. But the reason for this struck Rhaegar rather swiftly and clearly; if something were to befall him, his father would have Viserys as an heir, and the young boy was far more malleable than Rhaegar would be. Hiding his contempt, Rhaegar simply lifts his chin and says, "Very well, your grace." Of course the errand sits ill with him, but he knows he cannot refuse with consequence. Thus, moving past the smile that began to form on his father's lips, Rhaegar asks, "I presume I have command of your armies, then?"

Aerys's smirk slips into a grimace. "Yes. You do."

“And what knights of your Kingsguard may I bring along with me, to aid in this battle?” He hopes he sounds unaffected; he did not want to give his father the pleasure of his discomfort.

“Take your pick of two,” Aerys returns, visibly irritated. “But Gerold stays with me.”

“Very well. I choose sers Arthur and Jaime,” he says, eyeing both knights. One he trusted with his life; the other, Rhaegar determined, had great potential. At the sound of his name, the golden-haired knight’s eyes widened. He was still so young, and had seen much of the king’s madness. Rhaegar could easily sway him to his side. “And I should request one more for my family,” he announces.

The king’s eyes narrow. “They live here already; they are guarded by whoever I decide should guard them,” the king returns in a hiss.

“I shall be moving them to Dragonstone, your grace,” Rhaegar informs him resolutely. “If you say that the brigands are close to King’s Landing, then I shall want my wife and heir away from here. What’s more, they have not seen my lands yet, and I shall like to see them settled there before I carry out the king’s justice.”

The king does not answer immediately to this. It is clear that he is displeased by this announcement, that the notion of Rhaegar and his family migrating to Dragonstone is something that sat ill with him. And yet, Rhaegar was within his rights to do so. It was his lands, and his family.

“Be quick about it,” the king snipes in return, eyes still narrowed and glaring.

“I’ll send soldiers to hold the brigands off until I meet with them,” Rhaegar promises. “And though I take my wife and son with me, I should want to request that my brother and sister come along to Dragonstone as well, for their own protection--”

“No!” The king bellows in return, taking this opportunity for his anger to flare like dragonfire. “They are my children, not yours. They stay with me!”

Rhaegar knows he does not say this out of any familial love. It was simply a matter of pride; yet, Rhaegar concedes this point. There was no sense to pushing a matter his father had already made an impassioned decision on.

Thus, Rhaegar nods, and bows. “With your leave, your grace.” His father waves him off with an impatient hand, and his mistrusting eyes follow him out of the throne room.

Rhaegar makes his way into Maegor’s Holdfast again, this time seeking out his wife. He enters her antechambers without warning, finding her in the middle of a conversation with her ladies-in-waiting. The women all rise immediately, save for Lyanna who remains seated with Daenerys sleeping in the crook of her arm and Viserys beside her, his head resting on her shoulder. Jon babbles from the arms of one of the ladies.

“My apologies, my ladies,” Rhaegar offers as they all curtsy to him. “If now is not a good time…” He looks to Lyanna, who subtly raises her brows.

“We were not in the middle of anything important,” she assures him. Then she looks to the women. “Might I have a moment with our prince, my ladies?”

They all move out of the room, but not before Rhaegar takes Jon from the woman who held him. Viserys stands as Lyanna does, clinging to her skirts while his wide eyes looked up to Rhaegar. He had grown a rather staunch attachment to Lyanna, in a fashion that was even stronger with the one he had with his mother. It seem to Rhaegar that he was afraid to let her go, as if she might disappear too.

“Viserys,” Rhaegar calls softly to his brother. “Can Lyanna and I have a moment alone?”

He narrows his eyes and pouts, crossing his arms as he shook his head no. Lyanna extends a gentle hand to the top of his head. “Please, Viserys?” She asks of him. “Ask Cedany to tell you a story until we’re done.” The little prince still seems stubborn, but it somehow melts away with a little sigh and a nod before he stalks off. Once the door is closed, Lyanna moves to her husband’s side, with Daenerys still in her arms. His sister had her tiny fist closed around one of Lyanna’s fingers. Jon is suddenly quiet too, his knowing grey eyes looking between his mother and father with alarming curiosity.

“What is it?” Lyanna asks of Rhaegar, cutting to the chase. “Is something wrong?” Her grey eyes appeared genuinely concerned as they met his.

“Not horribly,” Rhaegar tells her, trying to sound nonchalant. “My father is sending me to put down some brigands, and I shall be leaving as soon as I can.”

Surprisingly, her face fell. Her frown deepens into something akin to fright. He’s taken aback for a moment, wondering where all this emotion came from. It was as if she did not want him to go.

“It is nothing to worry about,” he tries to assure her. “They will be easily taken care of.”

“But you will be leaving us,” Lyanna manages to say in a small voice. “For how long?”

“First I shall escort you and Jon to Dragonstone. You two shall reside there till I return, and perhaps longer. We shall be away from the court for a while.” At this explanation, the fear seemed to go out of her eyes. “The errand should not take me more than a month or so to resolve. It is not a large group, and they shall be easily scared off.”

She nods, seemingly digesting this information. Jon begins to whine softly in his usual quiet manner. He was reaching with extended arms toward his mother; Lyanna, with her hands full, only reaches out to press his fingers to her lips. “What of your brother and sister?” Lyanna asks him as Jon hushes. “Shall they be joining us?”

Rhaegar shakes his head. “I tried to convince him-”

“We cannot leave them here,” Lyanna returns passionately, interrupting him. “Especially not Viserys. He shall not forgive me if I leave him.” She spoke with much ferocity and emotion, as the issue seemed to be something of special importance to her. But there was nothing he could do. He extends a gentle hand to her cheek, his thumb swiping across soft skin.

“He shall have to forgive you. It is out of my hand.

Lyanna looks away from him, lips curled into a frown. She is displeased, and somehow it upsets him to see her so. Even Jon has reached out to her again, finger on her lips as those wide, expressive eyes bored into her.

“Very well,” she finally speaks. Her hand brushed his wrist. “But you shall request again that Viserys, at the very least, join us on your return.” It is a command, not a plea, he notes. He nods regardless.

“You shall enjoy Dragonstone,” he tells her, fondly recalling the endearing mass of stone that had sat as Targaryen property for years. “It is much more intimate than the court.”

“I do not care where we go, so long as it is away from here,” Lyanna returns plainly, pressing her lips together.

"He cannot reach you there," Rhaegar tells her, inferring that those words would bring her ease. It seems to do just that; the tension in her shoulders relax, and her features are softer.

"Good," she murmurs in return. Her eyes fall to Daenerys in her arms as she strokes her downy cheek.

Rhaegar reaches for her chin to tilt it upward. Then he leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead. "I'll see to it that you're happy there," he assures her, lips moving against her skin. She says nothing in return, and does nothing. She seems confused and appears doe-like at his sudden affection.

"I shall hold you to that," she says softly. She begins to rock Daenerys in her arms, who had begun to whine, relaxing the babe in her arms though her own face seemed oddly disturbed.

He does not understand his wife still. But he did very much wish to protect her.

Chapter Text

Brother mine,

I write to you from my husband's castle at Dragonstone. It is a grand old place, however ominous in its own ancient way. I am rather enjoying it, being so far from the court, though perhaps part of my joy comes about from being on land after such a horrible spell on boat. The sea is certainly not for me.

As you may have heard, the prince is away to be rid of a band of brigands. Jon misses him, I think, for he will not stop asking for his 'papa'...

Ned smiles as he reads the rest of his sister’s letter, going over her words with an odd sense of relief. Though all her letters insisted the same, promising that she was content in all things, it still brought Ned a certain measure of joy to learn that he did not leave his sister behind only to fall into that pit of vipers that was King’s Landing.

Ned knew that the rest of his brothers, and his father, would receive letters from her as well, as she often sent them all at once so that every member of her family could reach her through their own sheet of paper. It was a rather sweet gesture, perhaps indicative that she could not abandon her Stark roots, but it certainly helped to involve everyone in her distant life. Though Ned hadn’t a clue what the others’ letters contained, he could only imagine that they were not so dissimilar to his own.

Due to his sister’s habits, they were rarely surprised by any news regarding her, save for the few times she would send one letter to her father to be disclosed to the rest of the family at a later time. Even with this process, everyone would eventually learn of Lyanna’s news.

Everyone, that is, save for his lady wife. Lyanna surely meant no harm by neglecting to send a letter to Catelyn. The two women did not know each other, and thus a correspondence was not expected. But as of late, Ned took pity on Catelyn, seeing how sheltered Winterfell rarely provided for any new stories, and he had begun to share Lyanna’s letters with her, hoping that the pieces of a princess’s lives would color her rather routine days. Catelyn, by sights, seemed rather appreciative of this gesture. She would smile so sweetly and lean in her auburn head until it almost touched his as she read along with him.

The very thought stirs a pleasant emotion in his chest. He knows it is early enough in the morning that she would be awake and Robb still asleep. He could intercept her before she went to their son and read the letter together before the two go to the nursery to be Robb’s first sight in the morning.

He makes his way to her rooms, but not before crossing the hall first to put an ear to Robb’s nursery door and be sure he was still asleep. With that confirmed, Ned thoughtlessly crossed over to Catelyn’s door, and opened it to let himself in as he’d done plenty of times before.

Only that he usually knocked.

“Catelyn,” he calls to her, eyes peering down at the letter in hand before glancing back up. “My sister sent a letter--"

There, with her face and neck flushed the same color as her hair, was his wife standing half-nude, with her dress only covering her legs and pulled up to her hips. Ned freezes, gawking in utter embarrassment for longer than he should have. He stared, and Catelyn stared back, her red lips pressed together in soundless mortification.

After some incoherent, bumbling apologies, Ned turns on his heel and escapes out of her rooms in a dizzying blur. He does not stop his swift strides until he finds himself removed completely from the castle and into the courtyard, where he stands conspicuously in the middle of it.

He feels a blush on his cheeks burning. I didn’t see anything, he insists to himself, as if it would help shed some of his guilt. But that was a lie; Ned did see something. He saw very much. He had seen her shocked face, her mouth hanging ever so slightly open, her hands still latching onto the dress that had hung over her hips. He had also seen, though he could not admit it, the way her auburn locks splayed over her shoulders and over those full, round breasts, the tips of them a cherry red. He had seen the small curve of her belly, and just a peek, only a peek, of the reddish curls between--

Ned shakes his head furiously. He knows most find would find it foolish how this instance bothered him so. It is not as if he had not seen her nude before. But that time was only once, with her consent, and he did not treat himself to any lascivious stares. That time had been duty. This was folly.

A nudge at his side forces him out of these uncomfortable thoughts. Face still red as a tomato, Ned jerks his gaze to his aggressor, who turned out to be none other than Brandon. A rather disheveled, unshaven Brandon at that, thanks no doubt to the fact that he didn’t spend last night at the castle.

“What are you doing, standing like a stick in the mud in the middle of the damned yard?” His brother asks him gruffly. “How long have you been standing here anyways? The sun’s burned your face bright red.”

Ned chews the inside of his cheek, trying not to dignify the comment with a response he might regret. His silence furrows Brandon’s brow, who gives him another elbow in the ribs. “Stop staring like that,” he grumbles with a grimace. “Gods Ned, next time I go out on the town, I’m taking you with me so you’ll learn to bloody relax.”

“I don’t need to relax,” Ned retorts between gritted teeth. “I need to-- I need to go for a ride.”

Brandon shrugs, clearly disinterested. “Take Benjen with you. He’s been begging for someone other than the guard to take him out.”

Ned nods eagerly, glad that the attention had shifted off of him. A ride would clear his head, surely, erase some of what he’d seen. With any luck, they’d both forget about this incident, pretend as if it never happen, and move on…

Too bad such luck only existed in stories and songs.

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He returns from his ride feeling worse off than before. Benjen proved himself to be a silent riding partner, unable to fill the silence with words, any words, that would take Ned’s mind off of the embarrassment from that morning. All attempts at conversation were also cut short by his younger brother’s guarded responses, allowing no opportunity for follow up questions or even small talk.

He should have expected as much. Benjen had been oddly sullen as of lately, adapting a characteristic that was said to have blossomed in Ned which involved dark stares and closed lips. It was a rather sudden departure from Ben’s usually sunny mood, though perhaps it was only the effects of manhood that was molding him so. His brother was almost three-and-ten after all, only a couple of years short of being a man grown. A strange thought to consider when Ned only known his younger brother as a babe in arms before he returned to Winterfell a married man.

Benjen stalks off into the castle, his mood seeming darker than from before. Seems I’m not the only one who benefited little from this ride, Ned considers with a frown. He looks to the castle, wondering in a rather cowardly fashion if there was anything else he could attend to before heading indoors.

Ned’s desperate mind allowed him this, and before long, he was seeing to every horse in the stables, inquiring as to every servant’s well being if he crossed paths with them, and even opened an audience for an hour to hear some smallfolk’s grievances, making sure that he spared no detail in their long winding tales. Sun set before long, and Ned found himself begrudgingly stalking back indoors, driven by his own hunger to the supper table.

His father and brothers were already seated and eating, the gruff lot sparing him little more than a glance as greeting before returning to their food. Ned ignores them in favor of noting rather too cheerily that Catelyn was nowhere to be seen. That pinch of luck was coupled with a devastating drop of his stomach, along with the thought: Oh Gods, she can’t even bear to look at me.

His appetite slipped between his fingers like sand. He managed a few mouthfuls of mutton and a swig of beer, before he excused himself, feeling like a wounded animal. A very stupid, very foolish wounded animal.

He slinks off to his room, perching himself on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh. He owed her an apology at least. A true apology, not like the one he mumbled before damn near sprinting away from her. He ought to go to her room now, knock before entering, and deliver a true and proper apology--

A knock at his own door pulls him from his planning. Clearing his throat and rising, Ned calls out hoarsely, “Come in.”

A prettily shaped head pokes through the crack of his door. Ned’s stomach flips. “Good evening, my lord,” Catelyn’s sweet voice murmurs. Eddard, not my lord, Ned thinks. His lips were too dry to correct her. She slips through the door, closing it behind her. She is in her nightgown, the fabric washed yellow by the light of the candles flickering in his room. Her small hands are being wrung together, over and over.

“I-I…” Ned starts before licking his lips. “I missed you at supper.” He almost knocks his own lights out at this insipid statement.

“I had it in my room,” Catelyn assured him. “Robb was being awfully fussy; I fed him, then myself, and put him down to sleep.” Her eyes flit from him to the floor and back to him. “You mentioned a letter this morning. One from your sister?” Ned nods, still too parched and embarrassed to choke out his apology. “Would you… would you still be willing to read it to me?”

He is initially taken aback by her request. She ought to be asking an apology of him, not a favor. Yet Ned was not one to deny her this simple task. He nods, then motions to bed for her to sit down. The letter was still folded in his doublet; he unfolds it, then sits down beside her.

Immediately, she leans in closer to his to follow along as he read. “‘Brother mine’,” he starts, clearing his throat more than once. “‘I write to you from my husband’s castle…’” As he reads the letter, her presence manages to become more and more distracting. She was so warm against his shoulder, her scent so sweet and spicy from the incense that ever burned in the sept. He stumbles over his words more than once, and each time she smiles kindly and nods, silently letting him know that she caught his meaning.

“‘I hope all is well back home--’ Oh Gods, Catelyn, I can’t do this,” he blurts out, shaking his head. “I owe you an apology from this morning. I ought to have knocked, and I didn’t. I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t look-- no, that’s a lie, I did look, but I did not mean to--”

His speech is cut short by her soft fingers on his lips. “You are my husband,” she tells him with a soft smile. Even in the candlelight he can see the apples of her cheeks turn pink. “You have every right to look.”

Ned’s blush comes back in greater force than that morning. “I-It’s not a matter of rights,” Ned returns. “You did not give me leave to look upon you, and I was foolish enough to forget something so simple as a knock. It was not proper of me.”

“I do not mind a lack of propriety from time to time,” she tells him, her smile turning shy. “Though I must admit, this morning’s incident has weighed as heavily on my mind as it has yours.” I doubt it, Ned almost says, but he stays silent. “I must know: did you… were you pleased by what you saw?”

Ned jerks his face away immediately. This was too much. She was asking too much. He would have much preferred her scolding him than this. His actions, however, cause her to draw back rather suddenly. When he looks back to her, there is a hurt look on her face.

Ned backtracks as quickly as he could. “You were… you are very pleasing on the eyes, my lady,” he tells her, swallowing as much of his apprehension as he could. He wasn’t a godsdamned septon, after all, and he had committed no crime. But he is as inexperienced as one, perhaps even more so, and he is not proud of it. If only he were more like Brandon; he wouldn’t have half as much trouble with this exchange as he was right now. “You are very, very beautiful,” he assures her sincerely.

Her smile returns at this. “Thank you for the compliment,” she tells him, her blush still glowing. It was more than a compliment he had granted her; it was the truth. She was beautiful. Her bright, clear skin, her lovely blue eyes, full pink lips, and her head of pretty auburn locks were all items of feminine perfection. Placed side-by-side to Ned’s plain face and dark features, he hardly compared.

“I am sorry,” he whispered again, before cupping her face in his hands. Then, in a movement that was out of his power, he leaned forward and kissed her soft lips. He feels her breath hitch in her throat, feels her body stiffen for only a second before it relaxed again. Her whole body yields to his kiss, hands flitting to the front of his doublet to grab hold of it.

Then it was over. He pulls back, sharp grey eyes assessing her face for a reaction. She seemed breathless, strangely enough, and her lips still parted, as if hungry for more. Then she clears her throat, looking off to the side. A curtain of auburn hair covers her blushing face.

“Good,” she suddenly whispers. “Good.”

Ned smiles. “Good night, Catelyn,” he tells her softly.

She rises, avoiding his eyes until the last second, when she licks her lips. “Good night, Ned.” Then she hurries off, looking much like Ned did when he came upon her this morning.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar pulls off his helmet with a heavy sigh to examine the damage around him. There was much to be accounted for; more than Rhaegar had expected. The brigands had descended in larger numbers that was initially predicted. By the time Rhaegar and his troops arrived, they had pillaged and raped and burned damn near every village east of Maidenpool.

Around his feet were the corpses of many. Some were his own men, some were those of the others. It would have been nice to say that few of his men fell compared to that of the brigands', but that was not the case. His men hardly outnumbered those of the other forces, as their numbers it seemed had been sorely underestimated by a careless scout. That, and even trained troops had a difficult time against bloodthirsty barbarians, as they lacked the refined skills that the soldiers were used to fighting against.

Nonetheless, the first battle was won. Rhaegar knew he would have to weed out the stragglers in the area and put down the last of the pillagers before he could report to his father of a finished job. Rhaegar imagined he'd be rather disappointed to see his son return in one piece. But it did not matter. After delivering a succinct report, Rhaegar would travel back to Dragonstone, where his wife and son awaited him.

Perhaps 'awaited' was not the proper word. But in the recent moons he felt he'd developed something a little greater than a mere bond of duty between him and Lyanna. Or perhaps he’d only imagined it. Regardless, they had their son, and that was more than enough reason for the two to agree.

Arthur appears out of the corner of his eye, the esteemed knight not once leaving his back unguarded. Watching Arthur fight was like watching a dance; he held that large, gleaming greatsword with such gentle grace that it turned spilling a man’s blood into an artform. It was a rather marvelous thing to admire, if one forgot that he was simply killing.

Young Jaime Lannister’s form was not the same. He was graceful, yes, but his swordplay was less like a dance and more like a performance. Sweeping flourishes, wide swings, and what even seemed like a playful look on his face made him seem like a madman as he sliced through leather and armor alike. But he was also young, and at only seven and ten no doubt eager to make an impression.

He’d missed Lyanna’s nameday as he was away, Rhaegar realized. She would have turned six-and-ten in Dragonstone, and Jon would have seen his half-year.

Shaking his head, Rhaegar turns to Arthur who stood dutifully by his side. “Fetch Ser Jaime if you would, Arthur,” he commands of him, nodding toward the young knight walking aimlessly amongst the dead bodies, white cloak stained red. Arthur nods, and calls out Jaime’s name.

He perked up his golden head like a dog being called to, and approaches them with the same enthusiasm. “Yes, your grace?” He says, immediately deferring to him. His green eyes were wide with a queer sort of excitement. It seemed to Rhaegar that if he asked him to kiss his boot, the boy would gladly do so.

But Rhaegar was not so cruel. “Gather up our remaining men. See how many bodies they can identify so we may make a list of the dead." Rhaegar paused, considering something. "Those who are injured, have them sent to the nurses' camps. Those that are able and unharmed, send to me. I intend to move forward and be rid of any last of the brigands."

Jaime blinks quizzically. "You are asking me to stay behind, your grace?" He asks, unsure.

"Precisely, ser. You have command of the men I leave behind, and any others in your midst. And if you spot any more of the enemy lingering about, you shall dispose of them. Once there are enough healed and able men to form a well-sized troop, send them east to me."

Jaime nods, though he still seems uncertain. No doubt he was taking in the responsibility that Rhaegar was hoisting onto him. Should things go smoothly, then Rhaegar could find true value in the young knight. Should things go awry, then Ser Jaime would certainly need to prove his worth depending on the outcome of such a situation.

"I'll not disappoint you, your grace," Jaime promises with a bow. Rhaegar remains unsmiling as he nods his approval.

"Go on then, lad," Arthur calls from beside him. Jaime looks to Rhaegar to be excused before bowing again and running off. The two then began to make their way back to the camps.

“The boy is excited to be out here with you,” Arthur informs him as Rhaegar’s tent was in sight. “The court’s shaken him more than he’d admit.”

Rhaegar raises a brow as Arthur pulls up the tent flap, letting him in. “Shaken him? What did he see?” He had a few ideas of what might rattle a new member of the Kingsguard.

“He’s seen it all,” Arthur returns cryptically. “He likes to laugh and play at indifference when he’s surrounded by white cloaks, but I’ve seen his eyes. He’s scared.”

Rhaegar grimaces. “He’ll get used to it.” The boy would develop thicker skin if he wished to survive. After all, he would be spending the rest of his life at court, and a portion of that would be under a mad king.

Rhaegar sets down his black helm on the table in the center of his tent, then pulls off his gauntlets and the gloves underneath to set beside the helmet. He stretches his fingers by closing and opening his hands, getting the last of the cramps out of them. He hadn’t been training regularly before he was called to put down the trouble in Maidenpool, and the feeling of a sword in his hand was one he had forced himself to get used to again, in a very short period of time.

He reaches for the jug of wine and pours a helping into two silver goblets, handing one of them to Arthur. The two drink in silence as Rhaegar’s eyes scanned the map in front of him. They’d marked all of the places on the map where brigand activity had been reported with a small wooden figurine of a horse. Rhaegar’s troops were represented by red lacquer dragons.

He knocks down one horse, pushing the piece off the map. A few others were still scattered about, but Rhaegar knew he’d been rid of the majority of them in this battle. Still, he would scout the countryside and finish them off as quickly as he could.

“Eager to go home, your grace?” Arthur asks, reading his mind. Rhaegar glances to the knight, and gives a expression between a smile and a scowl.

“To Dragonstone, yes,” Rhaegar responded curtly.

“Can’t wait to get started on that second babe, then?” Arthur was smiling devilishly in his cup, violet eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Gods be good, Arthur,” Rhaegar returns in a grumble, brow lifting at the sudden turn in the conversation. “Is it the thrill of blood well-spilled that makes you bold, or is that simply the wine speaking?”

"It was only a jape, your grace," Arthur clarifies, casting an embarrassed look his way. "I did not mean to offend you."

"I know," Rhaegar returns, sighing. "I'm tired is all. Battles exhaust me." He knew he was venting to the wrong person; Arthur could do battle as easily as he could breathe. He had been the one to slay the Smiling Knight those years ago, lured him out and impaled the madman who had terrorized so many. Rhaegar preferred the structure and cleanliness of a tourney to bloodshed. It was simply in his nature.

Studying the map once more, he put to memory the last hundred miles or so of scouting. He downed the rest of his wine, then ran a hand through the hair that had fallen out of his ponytail and into his eyes. “Are you ready then?” Rhaegar asks Arthur, whose gaze suddenly became rather distant.

Arthur nods lazily. “Aye, let’s go.”

"I'll send a message along to the king that our job is largely done," Rhaegar says as he pulls on his gauntlets again. "I'll send as many details as I can; I do not intend to hold audience with him for long when I return." He adds that last part in a grumble, not bothering to hide his contempt.
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It takes them just a sennight short of another moon's turn to weed out the last of the brigands. The events of those weeks could have been summarized as a series of surrenders and skirmishes, with the former blessedly outnumbering the latter.

Yet even though the end was near, poor luck fell upon them in the form of minor battle right outside of Maidenpool, when he and his tired men were already on their way to King’s Landing. It goes well at first; with Arthur at his back, few men ever reached him, but for those who did, Rhaegar’s swings hit their marks, sending man after man falling around him. There is a lull in the clash of swords as Rhaegar looks around him, taking note of the thinning numbers, the pained moans, the shouts of triumph and of fear. Blood painted the green fields beneath them a dark crimson, some spots so saturated that it seemed black as pitch.

That was when Rhaegar saw him. It was too late by the time he whirled around; a blinding pain had already exploded in his shoulder. His vision goes black around the edges, framing the large, gruff man who had plunged his mace into his flesh, and he wavers on his feet for a moment. His body reacts with him knowing, and Rhaegar’s silver sword has sliced him from neck to navel, sending the man slumping forward. He takes a step back just in time to prevent being fallen upon by this monster of a man, but that is all he is able to do.

He stands among the carnage, hunched over with his gauntlet gripping his shoulder. Falling was not an option. Neither was dropping his sword. The commander of an army was to stay on his feet if he wished his men to do the same.

Arthur must have noted his sudden shift in behavior, for he works fiercely keep men off of him, circling his prince and snarling like a wolf protecting its young. With each throb of his aching shoulder, he felt blood pump out, seeping into the clothes beneath his armor.

He is not sure how long he stands there, hand on his shoulder, sword in his hand with a white knuckle grip. But eventually, the sound of steel ringing out and blood smattering the ground ends, and all that remains is the eerie silence of a weary victory.

Arthur is on his heels as Rhaegar casually makes his way back to his tent. The knight knew better than to offer his help, and Rhaegar knew better than to show any sort of disturbance. Men bow to him as he passed them; some kneel or shout his name. Rhaegar simply nodded his acknowledgement in return.

But once he is inside his tent, behind the closed canvas flap, Rhaegar falls into the nearest chair. Arthur at once begins to rid him of his armor, his hands still nimble despite the gauntlets that still covered them. In minutes, Rhaegar’s black armor adorns the grassy ground, and Arthur is shouting for medics.

The pain in his shoulder has simmered to a dull ache by the time a few nurses arrived. The women helped him out of his shirt which has stuck to his skin, and gasped at what they saw. Only then was Rhaegar curious enough to examine the damage done.

There is blood, and plenty of it, though some had already caked itself to his skin. There is an unnatural sag of skin there as well, as if the bones had simply caved in, and his shoulder seemed to have fallen out of the socket entirely. Looking at it sends a wave of pain anew, and Rhaegar groans without his volition.

“Stay still, your grace,” one of the nurses implores as she wrings out a washcloth above a basin of water. “The maester shall be here soon, but we shall clean up this wound first.”

Rhaegar nods, gritting his teeth as the women washed away the blood, their tender movements and soft washcloths feeling like daggers as they brushed his burning wound. Their hands were soft and lovely when they wandered outside of that tender area, touching his throat and chest and arm. He wondered if such caresses were for his benefit or their own, but he does not complain, as they offset the pain of the wound for seconds at a time.

When the maester enters the tent, a disheveled old man with a beard that needed combing, he immediately begins to speak. “So sorry your grace, I came here straight away when I heard of your injury, but some wretched buggers kept pulling me this way and that until--”

“No one bloody cares, good maester,” Arthur spits out, his face contorted in a queer rage. He had been pacing the tent like a nervous animal this whole time, appearing more worried than a mother would be. “Attend to our prince or I’ll pull you in way that--”

“Arthur,” Rhaegar warns, managing to cast a glare his impassioned friend’s way. The knight immediately quiets, though his glower does not leave his darkened face.

The maester too falls quiet, shooing the nurses away as he examined the wound with less gentleness than the women had paid it. Rhaegar squeezes his eyes shut to shut out some of the agony of it.

“Definitely broken,” the old man mumbles. “Splintered, too. I’ll try to set the bones as well I can, but you’ll have to keep your arm in a sling so that you don’t upset it. Shouldn’t take very long, but I warn you, it will be painful.”

Wonderful, Rhaegar muses sourly.

“Just get it over with,” he says instead, straightening his back. “I just want to go home.”

The maester nods, then shouts some commands at the nurses, who scurry out of the tent to carry them out. There is a blessed silence, along with an interlude in the pain that allows Rhaegar to close his eyes and simply relax. He felt a fool for getting himself injured so. He should have paid more attention. He should have relied less on Arthur…

The sounds of a quarrel outside of the tent yank him out of his thoughts. Arthur reacts more dramatically to the unwelcome noise, storming outside to presumably settle it. More angry words are exchanged, until Arthur comes through again with a gangly boy in his gauntleted grip.

“He claims to be a messenger from the capital,” Arthur informs him darkly. “Says it’s urgent. Shall I send him away for a later time?” The boy lets out a little squeak as Arthur’s grip tightens on his elbow.

Rhaegar shakes his head. “Just tell me,” he grumbles, trying to keep his mind off of the prodding the maester was doing at his wound. “This is a worse a time as any.”

“A hundred apologies, your grace,” the boy says, licking his lips. He was red faced and appeared rather frightened. “A serving girl from the Red Keep gave me a letter and told me to send it to you as quickly as possible.”

“A serving girl?” Arthur roars, narrowing his eyes. “How is a bloody servant’s message urgent? Aye?” He shakes the lad, and he squeaks again.

“N-No, I do not think it was from her. I-I… It might be from someone else, she told me it was a royal order and gave me a gold dragon to keep quiet about it… Servants don’t have that sort of coin, your grace.” With his free hand, he reaches into his cloak and pulls out a letter with a red wax seal.

Rhaegar recognized it immediately. “Take that from him, Arthur,” he commands hurriedly, eyes never leaving the letter. “Tell me what it says.”

Arthur does so, pulling off the royal seal, his eyes scanning the letter. He licks his lips when he reaches the end of it; not a good sign in the least. “It’s from the princess, your grace,” he informs him gravely.

Rhaegar felt his heart drop into his stomach. His gaze darts to the boy. “You said it was from the Red Keep? The princess is not in the Red Keep. She’s at Dragonstone.” Isn’t she?

“Y-Yes, your grace, but--” the boy began to insist.

“She’s not, Rhaegar,” Arthur tells him, letting go of the messenger to hand the letter to him. “She says the king had her moved back. To greet you when you returned to the capital.”

Rhaegar found himself doubting his friend’s words. It can’t be true, he insists to himself. My father doesn’t have the right...

He reads it quickly once, then carefully a second time. The maester’s sudden press at his shoulder as he mopped up more blood made him cry out and yank his arm away, his gaze rapidly falling into clear focus at one line of the letter:

I don’t know why he did this. I don’t know. I’m scared, Rhaegar. Please come quickly.

Chapter Text

Lyanna wrung her hands and paced the floor, feeling like a bird in a very small cage. It was evening, and like most evenings since she'd been forced out of Dragonstone, she would spend it sleepless, mind wracked with worry.

I could have been happy at Dragonstone, she tells herself, and not for the first time. It was such a beautiful place once one got past the eerie exterior. It's halls were blessedly quiet, save for the rooms which were filled with the sounds of waves crashing against the rocks, a sound she found rather lovely despite the treachery of them. There were no whispers to speak of, no gossip, no duties or obligations save for the caring of her son, which she did so gladly.

She had laughed for the first time in ages on Dragonstone. Jon laughed plenty too, and those were sounds that she cherished above all. Even his crying was something she adored, as she was more than glad to hold him in her arms and love him until he shushed. It was like a beautiful dream, the two of them spending their nights with Lyanna dancing around the room with a sleepy Jon in her arms. She would hum to him, sing to him, kiss his little fingers and hold him knowing that when the two of them woke, it would be in a castle where no one wished them harm.

Her brief stay there had been a blessing in all ways, but one. Parting from Viserys and Daenerys had been enormously difficult; Daenerys was too little to understand, but Viserys had all but torn his hair out, sobbing into her skirts when she told him she would have to leave, scratching at her arms as he begged her to stay. She had soothed him the best she could, promising that she would return to him soon, or have him brought to her. It had broken her heart to leave sobbing little Viserys on the threshold of the Red Keep, knowing that she had left the boy to no one but himself. Yes, he had his caretakers, but there was no other to understand him, love him.

Lyanna swore that when Rhaegar returned, she would beg him to try again and convince his father to allow Viserys to come to Dragonstone.

There would be no need for that anymore. Viserys had been the only one glad at her return; not even the king who summoned her was eager to have her. When she was brought to him in the throne room, Jon sleeping in her arms, he snarled at her that a woman ought to greet her husband right as he came home from a battle, not the other way around. I’ve made things easier for you both, he told her coldly. This is Rhaegar’s home, after all.

She wanted to spit at him and curse him and wrap her hands around his throat, look into his eyes as she squeezed the life out of him. But she did not speak a single word. To do so, she knew, would be folly. And now that she was beneath his thumb once again, at his mercy until Rhaegar returned, she remained cautious. Lyanna stayed in her rooms with Jon, a wolf in a cave refusing to leave her young out of sight. If anyone wished to see her, they would come visit her themselves, for Lyanna would not stir from her chambers. Not many did see her beyond her ladies, or Jude with her little daughter, or Viserys. It was just as well; even with such familiar people Lyanna could not even manage a feigned smile.

She rubs her tired eyes, throat burning for tears unshed, tears she refused to shed. Even as Jon and Viserys slept soundly on her large bed, she could not bring herself to cry before the two of them. Tears were weakness; Lyanna was not weak. She had to be strong, had to prepare herself for anything. If the king were to suddenly summon her, or command her to bear witness to things she did not want to see, or even so much as spoke to her, Lyanna knew she would need all her strength to survive it.

I could have been happy at Dragonstone, she thinks again, recalling how tranquil she had felt that morning before a group of men arrived at the gates and demanded her return. Sitting on the grass in Aegon’s Garden, watching with delight as Jon attempted to crawl, wriggling on his belly like an unearthed worm as he tried to get himself to move had brought broad smile on her face that would not fade away. His dark curls would flop on his face as he grunted and blathered, calling out for his mama to look at him. Jude had been sitting in front of her, her own babe in her lap, a black-haired, blue-eyed girl she named Ellya. Lyanna had been braiding her friend’s flaxen hair, weaving little flowers into the plait, and rather proud of her work too.

It was when Ellya began to wake, her cries ringing throughout the gardens, did Ser Oswell arrive, grave faced and with a letter in his hand. “Your grace,” he said in a tone that could not hide his bad news. “There is urgent news.”

For a fleeting, frightening moment, Lyanna had thought that he would tell her that Rhaegar fell. The very thought sent her heart racing; if Rhaegar was dead, what would happen to Jon? What would happen to her? Where would they go? What would they do?

She tried to hide her apprehension as she rose on shaky legs, scooping Jon up off the ground, clinging to him like a child’s favorite blanket. “What is it?” She asked of Ser Oswell in the bravest voice she could manage.

“You’re to return to King’s Landing immediately, your grace, on the king’s orders,” he informed her, handing her the letter with the red wax seal. “He’s sent men to escort you. They’re outside the gates now; I tried to reason with them, to tell them that the prince would not approve, but the king sends them on pain of death. You must understand, your grace.”

“Understand what?” She asked in a wavering voice hardly above a whisper. This news was hardly any better than news of Rhaegar's death would have been. Her heart falls into her stomach. “It is the king who does not understand that Dragonstone, and those who live on it, are not his concern. I will not go.” Empty words, she knew, but they were words that were better said than kept inside.

“Your grace, please,” he urges of her. “If you will not go willingly, I would not put it past these men to drag you the whole way there.”

“Then they’ll have to drag me,” she returns sharply. “If one of them thinks to lay a hand on me or my son, I shall kill them before the king does. Tell those men that.”

To his credit, Ser Oswell did just that. She heard their rumbling laughter from the other side of the castle. They found it amusing no doubt, that a girl would threaten them so. Lyanna wondered if they would laugh if her words had come from Rhaegar’s mouth instead. She knew they wouldn’t. The thought frustrated her.

Her defiance came to an early end there and then. She complied, coming along as willingly as she could manage, chin lifted high with Jon cradled to her chest. The journey back to King’s Landing was one filled with dread, confusion, and rage. Her thoughts oscillated between horrible ideas regarding the king’s intentions, overwhelming apprehension at being returned to court, and childish protests of Rhaegar promised me, he promised the king could not reach me here, he promised he promised....

It was not his fault, Lyanna knew. His protection of her from his father only stood when the man himself was there to see it through. When he was not there, she was at the king’s mercy, damned to go along with his sadistic whims. The memory of her bruised cheeks reminded her that.

That was almost a full moon’s turn ago. Since then, she’s felt like a lute string pulled too tight, ready to snap at any moment.

The door to her chambers open with a creak, and Lyanna takes an involuntary step back. If it was the king summoning her this late, she would fight tooth and nail before that would come to be. She'd wake the whole damned Keep before she came along quietly to her torment. Her small hands ball into fists, and she grits her teeth.

Who comes through the door is not a knight of the kingsguard, however, but a man unarmored, a man unexpected.

"Rhaegar," she whispers, her voice suddenly becoming thick with emotion. The sight of him, so tall and serious, so beautiful and gallant, the only man who could protect her in this city, brings long suppressed tears to her eyes. "You're back. You've come. Did you get my letter? Did you...?"

Then suddenly, as swift as a crack of lightning and as powerful as a crashing wave, the straining levee within her breaks, and all of her frustrations and fears poured out in the form of thick sobs.

She runs into his chest, pressing her wet face to his shirt and crying as freely as a child. Oh, she was tired, so tired and angry and broken, and the warm feeling of his arms wrapping around her, of his hand running through her hair was the most soothing feeling she's experienced in over a year.

"I was happy there," she manages to utter between sobs. "I was happy before he sent for me. You told me he couldn't, you told me he had no right..." The childish words come out by their own volition, but Rhaegar responds to them calmly.

"And he doesn't," he answers softly. "He's overstepped. Hush, Lyanna, hush now."

"Then why?" She returns, still sniffling. "Why does he do it? Why does he like to torment me so?"

"I don't know," Rhaegar responds sorrowfully. He draws her away from him by her shoulders, purple eyes examining her. "Has he hurt you? Or Jon? Are you alright?"

Lyanna shakes her head. Physically, she was fine, just enormously exhausted. Her fit of tears did little to help that.

"I intend to speak to him in the morning," he tells her with a tight lipped frown. "This shall not happen again."

He sounded sure of himself, but it was not enough for her. "And how can you be sure he will listen?"

"He will listen." He says it with the slightest flare in his eyes; still, Lyanna cannot trust this alone.

"You do not know that,” she snaps, sniffling. “And if he sends you away again, who's to say what he shall do next? When you are not here, not a single soul champions for me. And I am tired of being scared of him, Rhaegar."

"Do not be scared. He does this to show off his power whenever he feels it is slipping through his fingers,” his hands run up and down her shoulders gently. “He would not dare bring you or Jon harm, Lyanna."

"That's not true,” she returns adamantly. “When you were away in Dorne, he-" Lyanna stops herself, recalling with sudden clarity how the queen had begged her to keep silent on this issue. I’ve learned to endure, and you must too. But Rhaella was not here anymore; there was no one to hold her tongue and keep her pliant. And Lyanna would not let herself develop such habits.

Rhaegar was eyeing her curiously, but not pressing the matter; he was waiting for her to explain of her own accord. Taking in a shaky breath, she begins. "When you were in Dorne, he summoned me to throne room and made me watch two children burn as punishment for thieving.” The recollection of those two poor orphans, the girl’s wide eyes and the boy’s frightened tears makes her throat tighten. “I refused to silent; it was wrong, Rhaegar, they were only children. He grew angry with me and said I had no right to command him." She paused, looking up into her husband’s face. "Then Ser Harlan brought me to him. And the king slapped me thrice." She swallows the lump in her throat, eyes burning with tears again. She so despised how foolish and meek these tears made her look, but Lyanna was tired of holding them in. Tired to the point of complete exhaustion.

Her husband is silent for an unsettling amount of time. His purple eyes darken, but his lips do not move, and the grip on her shoulders tightens. For a moment Lyanna wonders if she made a mistake in confessing this. Perhaps he would call her a liar, be angry at her for thinking she did not deserve her punishment. Lyanna feels like shrinking beneath his gaze.

A hand moves off her shoulder and to her cheek, the tips of his calloused fingers tracing the bones beneath her skin. He blinks, as if snapping out of some dream, and suddenly his eyes are the darkest purple she’d ever seen.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” He asks of her, his voice taut.

“Your mother-- the queen begged me not to. She said no good would come of it.” Now Lyanna thinks she might have been right.

“Who was there?” He asks, still frighteningly calm.

“No one. Just the king, your mother, Ser Jaime, Ser Gerold, and Ser Harlan.” Ser Harlan was dead now, so she supposed it did no good to mention him. Still, he asked, and Lyanna felt compelled to answer.

The hand that had grazed her cheek now cupped it gently, thumb brushing across as he wiped away at errant tears. “He shall not hurt you ever again,” he told her resolutely, as if he were declaring a new law. “I’ll see to it.”

The tone of his voice sends a shiver down her spine. But she nods anyways, not even minding when he leaned over and kissed the top of her head. He will protect us, Lyanna assures herself. So long as he’s with me, he will.

Her eyes are clearer now after all her tears, and she begins to take in the sight of him. He did not look as haggard as she thought he might be; in fact, there was not a hair out of place on his silver head. She wondered if he came out of the womb being able to keep a visage of cleanliness and beauty at all times. She supposed that the gods must smile upon him often, as he seemed to have emerged from battle unharmed as well.

Then her eyes catch sight of something she’d missed entirely. A white piece of cloth hung across his chest; Lyanna knew from her brothers’ childhood injuries what purpose such a cloth had.

She gasps, and reaches for his arm gingerly. “Did you break your arm?” She asks, wide-eyed with panic. He had held her to him with two hands, meaning he pulled it out of the sling. Yet there were no bandages on his arm, she noticed, as she carefully guided him back into the sling. “I’m sorry, I did not even notice…”

“It’s not my arm; I’ve broken some bones in my shoulder,” he tells her, his tone and expression still as grave as from before. “Do not fuss over it; it does not hurt much.”

“I’m sure that’s a lie,” she returns with a frown. “You should not be moving it anyways. The bones must heal.”

“Do not worry, Lyanna,” he tells her, gently wiping away at tears that still lingered on her cheeks. It struck her as passing odd how a man so tall and powerful could be so tender; by sights alone, one would guess him as icy as his exterior.

He moves past her to her bed, where he sat on the edge of it and smoothed back Jon’s hair from his face with his free hand. Lyanna watched in silence as the sweet scene unfolded, smiling ever so slightly at how Rhaegar kissed his sons fingers and cheeks, his face at peace as he did so. He even touches Viserys’s hair before softly squeezing his shoulder. Rhaegar’s cautious touches did not stir them from their slumber.

Then he rises again, crossing the room to come back to her. “Sleep,” he commands of her quietly. You must be tired.”

Not even attempting to protest, she nods. She was tired, so tired. But first, she would ask him one last question. “Are we moving back to Dragonstone?”

He seems to contemplate this for a moment. “Do you want to?”

Lyanna pauses. Did she? A part of her did, for Dragonstone was away from here, and away was good. She thinks of Viserys, however, of how fiercely he sobbed, how lonely he must have been. She senses they had no chance of persuading the king to let go of him. Thus, she shakes her head. “We’ll stay here. With Viserys,” she says. “And you will stay too, won’t you?” Please don’t leave.

He nods. “I’m staying,” he assures her, before reaching out and rubbing her arm one last time. “Sleep now.” He walked out of her bedchamber with a stride of a man with purpose behind his actions. She hoped he would sleep too.

It is not till he left her room did she realize she had greeted him wearing little more than a thin slip over her smallclothes. Cheeks burning red, she slips beneath the coverlet to belatedly cover herself, but paid it no further thought. Once her head hit her pillow, Lyanna found herself sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks.

Chapter Text

Elia sits comfortably beneath the shade of a canvas pergolas, her legs pulled up beneath her on the pillowy chair. A noises of children splashing around in the Water Gardens before her served as pleasant background noise as she read a book that had been recommended by Rhaegar when he was here. It was a tome by the uninspiring name of A Bestiary of Old Valyria, Vol. 1, and it was just as dry as she expected it to be. She had drudged through it so far in hopes of learning something actually interesting. Instead, she was doomed to read through a rather arduous collection of information on various mythological beasts, narrated with a dead maester’s pretentious affectation, which made it difficult for Elia not to pause her reading every so often just to roll her eyes.

She is put out of her misery through the form of a piece of parchment and a quill being dropped on the book. A shadow looms over her, long and unyielding. Elia looks up to see who is her savior.

“Oberyn,” she coos softly, looking up at him. His mouth was in a thin, hard line, and his dark eyes were wild. He’d come back from a rather short trip about a sennight ago, and he’d been in a foul mood since. “Have you come to demand a poem from me, one you can send to a lady whose heart you’ve surely broken?” She asks this rather cheekily, nodding to the objects he’d dropped on her lap.

“Write him,” Oberyn demands darkly. “Write that whoreson and tell him what he did.”

Elia raises a brow. “What he did? Did I have no part in this?” She gestures to herself. “I knew what I wanted from him and I took it, brother. I had thought you would be proud of that.”

He grits his teeth, clearly unsatisfied. “I want to see that pampered sisterfucker sweat when he realizes his mistake. I want him to offer his head in return for this dishonor.”

“And what dishonor is that?” Elia asks seriously, eyes narrowing. “He did not deflower me. He did not force me. He did not give me what I did not want.”

“Elia,” Oberyn says in a warning tone.

“And what is more, I want nothing from him. The part he played in this is too small to write him for.”

“You’re carrying his bastard!” Oberyn spits, pointing to her rounded belly. “Do not say his was a small part. Half of that child will have his blood running through it. It may satisfy me, sister, to know that the honor and melancholy everyone claims to possess was little more than his bloated affectations, but it displeases me that it is through you that I must confirm it.”

Elia levels her gaze with her brother and crosses her arms defiantly. She did not think that Oberyn would react so to her being with child. She is only two moons’ turns away from being due, thus it would have been an impossible task to hide her swelling belly from him, or anyone. Even Doran surely had to have noticed though he did not yet approach her on the matter, perhaps waiting for Mellario to return from her trip to Norvos and seek out her advice before bearing down on her. Oberyn, however, will wait for no one.

“There is no point in writing him,” Elia returns with a casual shrug. “The child is not his anyways.” There was no need to belabor the issue, she supposed. It was only fun to banter with an irate Oberyn for so long.

“Seven Hells, Elia,” Oberyn hisses, balling his fists. “Do not tell me it’s not his. I’ve done my maths; it can only be his.”

“Is that right?” Elia asks with a raised brow. “Were there no other men in Dorne when he arrived? Did he banish them all when he bedded me?”

“That is not what I’m--”

“Even if it was his, why should I tell him? So he may stake his claim on the child when it is born? Nay, I will not write him, nor the true father of this child. Both shall remain ignorant of it. The child is not their concern.”

This seems enough to silence Oberyn. He simply glares down at her instead, perhaps wishing to best her through the means of staring contest. Elia does not return the glare. Instead, she picks up the parchment and quill, sets it down on the table beside her, and opens her book again.

She is not focused enough to read. Through narrowed eyes she contemplates the actions that had led up to this point. She knew for certain that she had never meant this to be something abhorrent; Elia wants this child more than anything. When she had missed her moon’s blood for two moons’ turns in a row, she had been filled not with shame, but with glee. She told no one of course; Ashara had been long gone by then, returned to Starfall prematurely, though she promised to return when she could. She did not dare tell Doran either; she knew her brother would ask questions of her, demand information she did not want to provide. Thus, she kept silent, and so did everyone around her. No one mentioned how large her belly was; no one asked anything about her condition. Everyone simply looked on in shocked confusion.

It is true that society is different in Dorne; women are allowed more freedoms here than in other kingdoms, but those freedoms only extended so far. Inheriting a title was not as scandalous as being an unmarried lady with a child in her belly. And the scandal of it only ran deeper when the lady was a princess.

Elia knew this could very well ruin her prospects of marriage. No nobleman, not even a Dornish one, would take kindly to his wife’s bastard running around his castle. But Elia did not care for that; her marriage prospects were dashed when Aerys Targaryen exchanged Elia’s hand for Lyanna Stark’s. A husband, security, or whatever came with marriage did not matter anymore. She would have this child, raise it herself, and that would be the greatest joy in her life.

“Doran is the one who wrote me to come back,” he tells in a low grumble. “He saw how your belly grew and was too scared to bring up the issue himself. But I will get answers out of you.” She knows that he means to sound threatening, but Elia knew her brother better than that. When it came to her, his harsh words were always empty.

“Perhaps he was too afraid of simply accusing me of growing fat,” Elia notes warmly. “And he brought you here to ask instead.”

“Oh, you’re funny,” he returns, though his words lack the fire from before. he only looks haggard now. The tension in his shoulders was gone, and his arms lay limp at his side. A viper subdued. “Elia, whose is it?”

Elia shakes her head. “I will not say.”

“Do you care for the father?”

“I do.” More than she could be allowed to admit.

“Do you love him?”

Elia smiles softly. “I’m fond of him,” she allows.

“Then you would marry him, given the chance?”

Elia pauses, considering this. “I could not marry him if I wanted to,” she admits. “And he could not marry me if he wanted to. And I’m certain he does.”

“Is he married to another?”

“Not to another woman, no. He is not married at all, though he might as well be." Married to his vows, that is.

Her answer visibly displeases her brother, whose frown deepens, becomes threatening again. "And you are fine with this? This arrangement sits well with you?" He asks her almost accusingly.

Elia gently nods. "This was all I really wanted from him," she assures him. "Though he does not know that." Oberyn frowns still. Elia sighs, and leans forward. She holds one of his hands between her own. "Oberyn, you know as well as I do that Rhaegar was my only chance at a proper life. After that ended, I was left wanting but not wanted." Stories of her failing health had warded enough men off, and gods knew that Elia would not settle for just any suitor. If it were so simple, she would have found her mate when they first searched for one years ago, when her and Oberyn were only children.

“There are a hundred men who’d have you. Even now,” Oberyn returns fiercely, ever the little brother.

“And yet I do not want any of them. Think of the women you bed, the ones who bore your children,” she tells him. “Some of those women would gladly give their hand to you if you asked it. But could you say that for all of them?”

He has a mildly embarrassed look on his face as she said this. Perhaps drawing that comparison between his sister and the women he’s had was something rather uncomfortable for him. But he seemed to finally understand her point. Shoulders slumped, he seats himself on the arm of her chair, his hand still grasping hers.

“Very well. If that is what you want, then I’ll not mention it again,” he says, dejected. Elia cocked a brow at his quick submission. “But,” he began in a much fiercer tone. “If I ever do find out whose bastard it is, I’ll beat the Seven Hells out of him."

Elia chuckles, shaking her head. “You may try to do so if you so desire,” she returns cheekily. “Though I fear you will be met with quite a challenge.”
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She knew it was wrong to cheat his honor so. She knew how he clung to it, wore it like an armor closer to his skin than his scaled plate. She knew how he loved his prince. She knew how he loved her.

Perhaps that night she had wronged him. She had shed herself of only her clothes, but he shrugged off the weight of his vows, and they hit the floor like a sack of rocks.

It was seduction, in its purest form. It was deceit too, and trickery, and Elia would regret that later.

His last night in Dorne was commemorated somberly over warm wine and lemon cakes. Elia had invited Ashara and Arthur to indulge in these on her balcony, the three of them in comfortably overstuffed chairs with a cool breeze blowing in. They spoke on rather mindless matters, the three of them simply passing time more than anything. Rather, it was mostly Elia and Ashara speaking, with Arthur queerly silent in his corner. He was likely still embarrassed over the other night; yet he came to her rooms, and that was a good sign.

Then Ashara left. She had stretched her arms lazily over her head, proclaiming that she was awfully tired and ready to sleep. And instead of sleeping in Elia's bed, she had gone off to the guest rooms that she hadn't used once since her arrival.

Arthur too had seemed ready to leave. He set his goblet down and he rose to his feet, mumbling a good night.

"Arthur." She said his name like a blessing. "Arthur, please don't go."

"I must," he returned softly. "It's late. I leave early the next morning."

“Just stay a moment,” she insists, rising to her feet as well. She crosses to him, but he takes a step back, keeping a small distance between them. Elia notes this with an injured look. “You move away from me as if I’m a disease,” she said sadly.

“You are,” he tells her hoarsely. “If I touch you once, I am doomed.”

“One touch will not doom you. One night will not kill you.” She moves to cup his face between her hands, but he backs away again. “Arthur, please. Once is all I ask of you.”

He shakes his head, though Elia sees that his determination wavers. She tries to convince him, one last time.

“You are the last man in the world who I want, and who wants me in return,” she tells him, unbidden emotion straining her voice thin. “I shall never marry. I shall never know the comfort of another man within the bonds of matrimony. And that is fine; I do not need it. Perhaps I do not deserve it.” Arthur opens his mouth, perhaps to protest, but she continues before he can speak. “But before me is a man I desire because of my trust in him. I know you, Arthur Dayne. I know the depths of your honor and of your love. And I know you’ve promised yourself to the king’s service, yet that does not throw chains around your heart.” She surprised herself when tears began to slide down her cheeks; even she did not plan for this, for all of the emotion. Yet here it came in merciless droves. “If you will not have me even now, Arthur, even so far away from your king and prince, then I shall break. It is enough that I am sickly and jilted and unwanted, but to be pushed away by you...”

He was at her side in a second, kissing away the tears on her cheeks. His hands had been so gentle on her shoulders, so kind and unassuming that she nearly called it off. It was not fair to do this to him. It was not fair to have him give up so much.

But when his hands began to pull away at her clothes, all thoughts of protest disappeared. What was left was only his gentle embrace, the cool breeze from the open doors of the balcony, and a night full of joy.

Chapter Text

There was something to be said about the anger of a gentle man. A man such as himself could take many, many insults before he reaches his limit, and his rage makes itself known gradually, simmering like a pot over a fire until it reached a boil. It was nothing explosive or passionate; it would simply burn beneath the surface, leaving little room for mercy.

The pain in his shoulder was insignificant that morning. Rhaegar had done away with the nurses who arrived to his chambers to treat his wound, not waiting for them to shuttle out before he dressed himself. It was rather awkward with one lame arm, but Rhaegar’s anger was enough that he could move it without causing himself to grit his teeth in agony.

He does not storm through Maegor’s Holdfast; it was too unseemly. But after his wife’s confession the night before, gods knew Rhaegar could be capable of stomping if it came to it. He had hardly been able to sleep, after all, and such a thing could lead to impaired judgement.

Ser Gerold and Ser Jonothor stand guard outside of the king's chambers. They are gracious enough to bow to him, even when Rhaegar pins them both with an icy look.

"Ser Gerold, we will speak later," Rhaegar tells the knight curtly. "For now, I would visit his grace and let him know of my conquests."

“His Grace is being seen to by the Grand Maester,” Ser Gerold explains, taking a step toward the door. “I would wait until he is through.”

Rhaegar uses every ounce of self control to keep from gritting his teeth. “And do you both trust the Grand Maester so much that you leave him unattended with my father inside? If you two shall not do him the courtesy of observing the good maester, then as his son, I gladly will.” He moves to the door, but Ser Gerold seems adamant. He stands in front of him and shakes his head as he offers an apologetic frown.

“Please, your grace,” Ser Gerold says. “I humbly ask you practice patience in this.”

Rhaegar levels a cold gaze with him. “Very well. I will wait.” He takes a step back, but does not let his iciness fall. “In return, I humbly ask that the next time something unnatural occurs to my wife or child, that I am given the courtesy of having such information relayed to me.”

“You were sent a raven as soon as we knew of this plot, your grace,” Ser Jonothor speaks up sheepishly.

“Yes, of this plot. But I’ve learned there was one before it that had been kept from me. Unfortunately, it seems traumatized wives are able to keep silent for only so long, whereas trusted knights will seal their lips forever.” His sharp words seemed to have humbled the two knights, who both bowed their heads.

Luckily, Rhaegar does not wait long outside of the doors, but he waits just long enough for the pain in his shoulder to flare up. He's irritable by the time Pycelle comes out from his father's rooms, his hands hidden in his sleeves. The Grand Maester looks at him quizzically, perhaps not expecting him to be here, but quickly comes to his senses and bows.

"Welcome back, your grace," Pycelle tells him in his gravelly voice. "I've heard of the wound in your shoulder. I would recommend you come by solar later to--"

"How is his grace?" Rhaegar interrupts, nodding to the door.

The Grand Maester purses his lips before speaking again. "He's fallen ill, due to his malnourishment. A few days bedrest and proper meals should help. But he is frighteningly thin."

Rhaegar nods curtly. The maester seems to take it as a dismissal, as he bows again and tries to move past him. But Rhaegar stops him by the elbow, looming over him as he asked, "How long did it take for the bruises on my wife's face to fade away?" He asks cooly. "Or did his grace not strike her hard enough to bruise?"

Rhaegar can see Pycelle gulp. "A fortnight, your grace," he answers quietly. "With the help of balms."

Rhaegar drops his arm and dismisses him with a wave of his hand. It was a fortunate thing that his temper was one that could be easily contained, for by now he might have erred a hundred times over. He aligns his senses again before entering his father’s chambers, neither knight stopping him this time.

He finds his father sitting up in his grand bed, glaring suspiciously at what appeared to be a bowl of broth in his lap. Upon Rhaegar’s entry, his narrowed eyes snapped to him, cold and disapproving. He could see that he was studying him, perhaps trying to assess if the damage done to Rhaegar was enough to punt him out of the line of succession. The king scoffs suddenly, and nods at him.

“Did you break your arm?” He asks in a thin voice.

“My shoulder,” Rhaegar corrects. “My arm is in a sling so that--”

“I know why it’s in a sling,” his father interrupts sharply. “I’m not as stupid as you think I am.” Rhaegar says nothing to that. There was no point in baiting him. “Tell me, is the threat of brigands eliminated? Did you finish your task?”

Rhaegar explained in small detail a summary of the events of the past few moons’ turns. The few battles, the many skirmishes, the number of villagers affected. The number of men who surrendered, those who would be imprisoned, the low rate of desertion among his troops. It was by and by a great success, though if the king were pleased, he did not let it show. He only glared, his mouth curled into a displeased frown.

“Do you have any more questions for me, your grace?” Rhaegar asks calmly.

“No. None. You may leave.” His father dismisses him with a grunt, and casts his eyes back down to his soup.

“In that case, your grace, I have a question for you,” Rhaegar said, drawing his attention back. “Why did you think it necessary to uproot my family from Dragonstone, when I was the one who sent them there?”

The question causes Aerys’s nostrils to flare and his eyes to grow wide. He is offended by the question, that much was clear. Offended that Rhaegar had the gall to question one of his many poor decisions.

“I brought them here so you would not have to make two trips,” Aerys returns gruffly. “I’ve saved you the trouble of meeting up with them. You ought to thank me.”

Rhaegar raises a brow. “Forgive me for saying this, but that was not a decision you had the right to make,” he tells him, speaking as calmly as he could manage despite his burning rage. “When it comes to arrangements I make for my wife and my son, I'd like to see them respected, your grace. They are my--”

“How dare you!” The king hollers, knocking his broth to the floor, the bowl dropping with a crash. “How dare you tell me what rights I hold in my kingdom! I’m not dead yet, Rhaegar, that you may throw your weight around like a king! I am king. Your family are my subjects, and they are my family! And as such, I will make decisions as I see fit!”

Rhaegar presses his lips together in a tight line, soundlessly keeping his eyes focused on his red-faced father. A hundred different words he could throw in return bubble up to the surface, but he holds them back. He knew very well there was no use in exchanging words when his father was behaving so.

“You will respect me, Rhaegar, or I shall make you regret that you were ever born,” his father snaps. His gnarled hands are balled into fists, long fingernails piercing the skin of him palm, blood running down his wrists. “You have never respected me, and that will change. That will change! That will change. Change…” His father was red-faced and out of breath now, panting furiously.

Rhaegar takes advantage of this lull to offer a shallow bow. “Thank you for your time, your grace,” he says before turning on his heel and calmly walking out the door. He has left much unsaid, but perhaps that was for the better. If his father reacted so violently on the mere subject of moving his family, then the matter of his laying a hand on Lyanna would surely cost Rhaegar dearly.

Still, it ate at him. The memory of how she had trembled in his arms, small hands twisted in his doublet as she wept so freely-- He would not see her weep again. There was something rather heartbreaking about seeing strength of spirit wither away.
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Sitting atop the Iron Throne, Rhaegar has a slight sense of just how intimidating he must look. In truth, Rhaegar cuts an intimidating figure in most situations. His tall, lithe form towered over most, and those who mistook his slender figure for physical weakness would find themselves terribly wrong. But with an arm in a sling and a child on his lap, he is decidedly less threatening.

Yet he could not resist stealing Jon away for a few hours. Lyanna was visibly haggard when he saw her that morning, and thus she gave their son up to him with none of her maternal warnings. Jon had not shown many signs of recognition when he first saw him after almost three moons’ turns of absence, but he did not fuss or cry when his father held him either. Those curious grey eyes bore into him for quite some time, perhaps trying to place where this familiar face came from. It did not take long for Jon to at least warm up to him, the boy now sitting on his lap and fiddling with the pendant that hung around his father’s neck.

He’d grown so much in his absence. Lyanna had told him that he had just begun to crawl, and indeed his little legs wouldn’t stop kicking, even when seated. He was able to hold himself upright as well, not needing his father’s chest to keep him from falling back, instead propping himself up with a straight back. Rhaegar was both delighted and melancholy to see these developments; it seemed to him that he was missing too much.

“Do you see where you’re sitting now?” Rhaegar murmurs to his little son, who actually pauses to glance around the throne room. “One day, you’ll sit here alone. This room, this castle, this throne will all belong to you.” Jon responds by shoving Rhaegar’s pendant in his mouth. He chuckles and pulls it out of his grasp, smiling when the little one furrowed his brows and demanded it back with an outstretched hand.

Rhaegar’s attention is brought away from Jon by the sound of heavy footsteps hitting the stone floor. Straightening, Rhaegar watches as Ser Jaime, clad in his armor, walked in. The young knight stops a distance from the throne, and bows low. He takes a quick look around the empty room rather nervously before locking eyes with the prince.

“Your grace,” he says courteously, bowing at the waist.

“Ser Jaime,” Rhaegar says cooly. He let go of his pendant, which ended up in Jon’s hand, and soon enough his mouth, again. “I trust your return to King’s Landing has treated you well?”

The knight nods. “It has, your grace,” he says in a voice closer to a man’s than a boy’s. “I’ve missed having a warm bed and frequent baths more than I thought I would.” In Jaime’s stance, traces of his father could be seen. The proud lift of his chin, the clear look in his eyes, the commanding presence-- these subtle things made it clear he was Tywin Lannister’s son. But there were other things in the boy not present in his father. Among them was the laugh that glimmered in his eye, as if the whole world’s purpose was to amuse him. It was a slightly irritating quality.

“Good,” Rhaegar says flatly. “I’ve asked you to come here to see me, Ser Jaime. Do you know why?”

A little bit of his arrogance faded at his question. The boy’s shoulders weren’t so square anymore, and the glimmer in his eye was wavering. “I’m not sure, your grace. Perhaps to follow up on the task we’ve completed?”

Rhaegar shifts Jon in his lap so he sat on his knee. “Not quite. I’d simply like to pay you a reminder,” he says cryptically. “When I’m not here, Ser Jaime, I leave my wife and son in the capable hands of the Kingsguard. Some of these hands fail me, it seems.” He pins the boy with a debilitating look. “As do some of their voices. You were there, in the throne room, when the king delivered to my wife a rather cruel punishment, were you not?”

The glimmer is completely gone now. He is closer to a cat with his tail between his legs than a lion. “I was, your grace,” Jaime answered in a small voice.

“You were,” Rhaegar affirmed. “And yet you did not mention it to me once. Am I wrong to put my trust in you, Ser Jaime? Your father was a good servant to my father when he was here; was I wrong to believe you would be the same?”

The boy says nothing. He only levels his gaze with a shamed look on his face.

“Was I wrong, Ser Jaime?” Rhaegar repeats.

“They told me not to say anything, your grace,” Jaime admits weakly.

“And do you believe I would have betrayed your confidence if you did tell me?” Rhaegar returns sharply. “The men I trust, I trust because they know the difference between the king they serve and the king they will serve. They see it and they make a choice. What do you choose, Ser Jaime?”

“I would follow you into anything, your grace,” the boy says with unnerving confidence, green eyes hardening with assurance. "But the king-- They tell me to turn a blind eye. The things his grace did to the queen, they..." His voice grew smaller and smaller until he stopped speaking altogether.

Rhaegar waits for the young knight to regain his composure. The Lannister brat was earnest, at least. Still young enough to leave an impression on, not yet old enough for him to become jaded. Rhaegar would use that to his advantage.

“You may leave now,” Rhaegar tells him flatly. “But know this: It was my words that put a white cloak on your back. Do not let me believe I’ve wasted my efforts on you again.” His thinly veiled threat is punctuated by a inquisitive “papa?” from Jon. Rhaegar keeps his eyes on Jaime for only a few moments longer before his gaze is torn away to his son.

“Papa’s here, little one,” Rhaegar murmurs warmly, smiling. He pulls his arm out of the sling, ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder as he lifted his son off his lap. Jon kicks his legs in the air, pendant still in his mouth as a dark curl flops onto his eye. “You remember me, then? Good. That’s good.”

His sweet face breaks into a grin. Rhaegar brings him back down, resting his curly head on his shoulder. Looking back up, he sees that Jaime’s already left. Rhaegar presses a kiss to his son’s head, his sweetness and light pushing away dark thoughts, but only for a while. After that, Rhaegar would make peace with them, and pray the gods don’t judge him too harshly for what he may do.

Chapter Text

Watching Robb pull himself up to a sitting position was an oddly exciting thing, even after she’d seen it for the tenth or twelfth time. Watching his little chubby body crawl forward before stopping and pushing up on his hands to land on his rump was endlessly exciting. He’d sit straight, wobbling a bit, his head turning from side to side to examine this new angle before looking to his mother expectantly.

Catelyn smiled and sat down on the floor beside him. “Look at you,” she praised him softly, pushing back a few strands of his auburn hair from his face. He stuck his fingers in his mouth as he smiled. “How do you like sitting up on your own like this? Isn’t it exciting?” He regarded her with a string of babbles. Catelyn laughs and kisses the top of his head. Unable to keep her hands off him for long, she pulls him onto her lap. He complains with a little whine before wriggling in her arms to free himself. He was too independent for his own good, Catelyn thinks before giggling and letting him go. He crawls to the other side of the den, far away from her grasp.

“You horrible boy,” Catelyn playfully admonishes him. “What would your father say if he saw you treating your mother so coldly?” She considers the thought for a joyful moment. Eddard had taken his role as a father rather seriously, trying his best to embed rather complicated ideas of respect and goodness through plain conversations that were had with Robb half asleep in his arms. Just the other day he was lecturing Robb on the topic of patience all while their son flailed and cried out to be free of his embrace. He’d let him go then with a sigh and a shake of his head, but he had been smiling too.

“I’m sure Eddard would have a few choice words for this little hellion,” a deep voice boomed from behind her. Catelyn craned her neck to find Lord Rickard Stark towering over her, a small smile hiding behind his thick beard. Catelyn quickly rises to her feet to respectfully curtsey for him. While the Lord of Winterfell was a kindly goodfather, she rarely found herself in his presence, save for suppers. That he sought her out was a confusing thing.

“My lord,” Catelyn regards him respectfully. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Robb crawling back her way until he reached his grandfather’s boot. He sat up and waved his little hands at him; his grandfather humored him by bending down to pick him up. Robb gurgled excitedly, happy at this new elevation, and happier still that Lord Rickard’s beard was thick enough to tug on.

“It is lucky he’s a handsome hellion, else I fear he’d have a much more difficult time getting away with mischief,” Rickard says, not even minding that Robb has two fistfuls of his beard.

“That is certainly true, my lord,” Catelyn returns with a smile. “With any luck, he’ll be a little less handsome by the time he is older so that he shall learn his lessons quicker.” It was a jest that her goodfather chuckled warmly at. At first sight, one would say he was much like a bear, tall and wide and from an emotional distance, rather menacing. But upon living with him, one would find that he was also warm and wise, traits he passed on to at least one of his children.

His goodnatured smile then melts away to sudden seriousness, but even this is hard to believe considering that Robb was still jovial in his arms. “I’ve sought you out to inform you of a matter regarding your family,” he says.

Immediately, the blood in her veins runs cold. Had something terrible happened? Was her father alright? He wrote her recently, and all seemed well then. Perhaps it was Lysa? Her letters were once more frequent; recently they’ve been rare. Or is it Edmure? The thought of her little brother in any sort of harm made her swoon.

Lord Rickard must have sensed her fear. “It is nothing grave, Lady Catelyn,” he says pointedly. This calms her nerves some. “Your sister Lysa is to be married to Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale; their wedding is planned for three moons’ turns from now.” From the inside of his jerkin, he hands her a letter. Catelyn quickly scans the paper as it detailed the event that would occur. She furrowed her brows at this; it was such a sudden matter. Her father had once discussed Lysa’s betrothal to Jaime Lannister, some years back. But this was more than a betrothal; it was a wedding announcement too.

“Thank you for telling me, my lord,” Catelyn says in the calmest voice she can manage. “I…” She isn’t sure what else there was to say. She needed time with her thoughts.

“If you wish to attend, I suggest you discuss it with your husband,” he tells her kindly. “I shall leave this decision up to you two.” Catelyn nods, still stuck in her own mind. “And I’ll take this little one to keep me company in my solar; I’ll have him sent back to you if he becomes too troublesome.” He chuckles as Robb tugs again at his beard. Catelyn nods again, managing a small smile as he walked off with a gurgling Robb.

Catelyn turned the invitation over in her hand. From what Catelyn knew of Jon Arryn, he was an old man. Older than her father, and if she recalled him at her wedding, he had certainly not aged with grace. He was without sons to call an heir, which no doubt is what inspired him to ask for Lysa. But Lysa was so young. She was still seven-and-ten and lovely; she deserved someone romantic and handsome, strong and dashing.

It sat ill with her.
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She approaches the subject with Eddard later that day. The two had put Robb down to sleep in the nursery, and he had escorted her back to her room. He seemed prepared to bid her good night and leave, as he did every night, but Catelyn calls him back.

“Ned,” she says, in as soft a voice as she could manage. He seemed surprised to be called by this informal name, but pleased as well. “Has your father told you of my sister?”

Ned nods, still standing in the doorway. “He has. We should speak of it.” He closes the door behind him, but still stands by it. Catelyn moves over on the edge of her bed and beckons him to sit by patting the space beside her. He obeys reluctantly, sitting down beside her while keeping a respectable distance. “Would you like to attend?” He asks simply of her.

Catelyn contemplates this matter briefly. “I suppose I would,” she allows. “Though I must admit, I find this marriage rather strange and sudden. Don’t you?”

Ned nods gravely. So he did not know any more than she did; that was a comfort. “I know he is old, but Jon Arryn is a good man. He will do right by your sister.” He spoke so fondly of the man, but she supposed it shouldn’t come as a surprise. He had been the man who raised him for half his life. He did a respectable job too, Catelyn thinks.

“I know that is true,” Catelyn says with a sigh. She liked to believe her father wouldn’t give a daughter of his away to a terrible man. Oddly enough, Brandon makes a brief appearance in her mind, but he is gone in a second. “My sister has had troubles recently. She could use a good man. And this is as advantageous a marriage as any…”

Ned nods. “Jon will gain heirs, your father an alliance, and Lysa will surely find happiness in time,” he said warmly. He seemed so hopeful that she could not help but mirror him. Her troubles momentarily melt away as she nods and smiles. Then she reaches for his hand on his knee, covering it with her own.

“Three moons’ turns is a ways away from now,” Catelyn notes. “You’re certain we can go?”

Ned looks puzzled, but nods anyways. “With any luck, Robb will be easy to travel with as well.” He gives a small smile that adds warmth to his face. His eyes, which were usually like two chips of grey ice melt way to two dark pools. Smiling was a rarity for him, but it was always a pleasant sight.

“But what if…” Catelyn begins. She almost retracts her words completely, but something makes her bold. “What if I am unable to travel?”

Ned looks to her with concern. “Are you not feeling well? Are you all right?”

Catelyn chuckles. “I am fine. I’m only saying… That there is always the chance that I shall be with child, and if that is the case, traveling may be difficult…”

Ned’s eyes were comically wide. “Y-You’re… Catelyn, that’s not possible, we haven’t…” She can see him blush, and she does the same.

“Oh no, I’m not saying I am now,” she quickly clarifies. “Only that I… am open to the idea.”

This flusters him, as he’s left in silence from some time, looking at her with emotions flickering between shock and curiosity and something much stronger, much hotter. It makes her skin burn underneath his gaze. Catelyn does not want this to pass as it did last time. She takes advantage of it.

“You have seen me,” she says softly, her hand moving up to his cheek rough with stubble. “I pray I didn’t disappoint you.”

Has hand holds her wrist gently. “You didn’t,” he assures her. “I… I’ve dreamed of you, you know. You are so beautiful, Catelyn.”

“Cat,” she corrects him, leaning in closer. “Please, Ned, call me Cat.”

“Cat,” he repeats huskily. He leans in to cover her lips with his own, hand moving to gently cup her cheek. It is a kiss that begins gently and tentatively, the two of them still unsure in their abilities. But it soon gives way to something heady and powerful. Warmth steals through Catelyn’s body, pouring through her limbs like molten iron. She gasps at the power of it, a soft noise hissing through her teeth when his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her onto his lap.

Catelyn’s hands tangle in the fine dark hair that falls to his shoulders. She adjusts in his lap so that she straddled him; the hands on her waist grip her tighter. Unconsciously, she rocks against him, warmth pooling between her legs. Her husband lets out a strangled moan, as he hurriedly and messily undoes the knot her hair was wrapped in.

“You have such lovely hair,” he murmurs against her lips, hands smoothing the object of his fondness. Catelyn’s skin burns even fiercer. Such a simple compliment, yet so powerful! Her desire builds quickly, and she is guiding his large hands to her breasts. They are rough and calloused beneath her touch, but she knows them to be gentle too. She lets out a little whine as he removed the warmth of his hands to undo the laces on her gown, pulling the oppressive fabric away from her. He peels off the shift underneath too, leaving her only in her smallclothes. His hands ran reverently over her skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. The rough calluses of his hand caught on her soft skin in deliciously exciting ways; the sensation of it sends Catelyn’s mind spinning.

Things move quicker after that. She rids him of his clothes too, hands running up and down the muscles of his chest and arms, trying to memorize as much of him as she can. For a man who hailed from the icy north, he is nothing but languid warmth without his clothes.

They do not linger on touches like these for long; the hardness concealed in his smallclothes becomes difficult for either of them to ignore. He splays her on her back, settling between her legs with surprising animal grace. His finger catches the edge of her smallclothes, but does not undo them. He looks to her with warm dark eyes that threaten to extract another unladylike sound from her.

“Are you sure of this?” He asks of her, the strain of holding back pants turning his voice low.

“Yes,” she says in a half whine, almost shocked by her own eagerness. Her heel scraped against the back of his thigh as an addendum to her argument. “I’m sure, Ned, just please…”

The corner of his lips quirk in a threat to smile. But he heeds her without further frustration, baring both her and himself.

The act of making love is a sensation entirely different than what she had practiced on her wedding night. When he moved against her, inside her, there was no pain or discomfort to speak of, only an overwhelming, beautiful pleasure. But it was more than what occurred between her legs. He pressed kisses to her neck, his beard scratching her skin as he did, the affection drawing from her a high moan. Her nails dragged along the hard expanse of his back, his hips crashing into hers in a way that sent jolts throughout her whole body.

Then when he hand touched her where they were joined, something crept up on her. Her stomach tightened before it relaxed, and suddenly she was arching her back off the bed as a wave of pleasure came crashing over her. She calls out Ned’s name, but it becomes mangled in the force of her own body’s reaction. It was unlike anything she had ever known.

Ned groans lustily, seemingly pleased by this as well. “Cat,” he mumbles against her neck before joining his lips with hers. His hand was still settled between them, touching her in a way that would turn her septa’s face red. She whines against his lips, a hand slipping off his back to touch his cheek.

“Ned,” she whispers in return. “Oh, gods.”

That seems to affect him. He lets out one last throaty moan, pressing his hips to her as he spilled inside her. He collapses atop her, the weight of him pressing on her in a strangely sweet way. He does not linger, and rolls off her, laying on his back beside her.

Catelyn found herself having a difficult time catching her breath. She looks to Ned, watching him hungrily take in breaths to settle his own erratic breathing.

There is still warmth between her legs, but it is unlike the one she had as they made love. It was a sweet ache she felt, and the heat of his seed trickling down her thigh. Neither are unwelcome feelings; it is a lovely ending to what was a wonderful time.

Ned rolls on his side to face her. He tentatively places a hand on her cheek, rubbing the skin beneath his thumb. “Are you alright?” He asked with touching concern.

“I’m very well, thank you,” she returns politely, as if they were discussing the weather and not coupling.

He does not smile, but she can tell from his eyes he is relieved. “Good,” he says. He seems unsure of where to proceed from here. Catelyn leads, inching closer to him and urging him onto his back so that she can lay her head on his chest. She hears the rapid beating of his heart through his skin. It is a lovely sound.

Ned is still unsure, placing a hand on her shoulder. She keeps it there; he may change his mind where to put it later, and that would be fine too.

“I enjoyed this,” she said shyly. “It would please me greatly if you would visit my room more often.” She does not see his face in order to gauge his reaction, but she hopes he is pleased.

“I would be honored,” he said softly, sounding more like knight accepting an invitation from a queen. She chuckles privately at the thought.

He was a good man. That much could said for certain of Ned Stark. A good man, and he was hers.

Chapter Text

Lyanna hasn’t a clue where Cedany found this bard and his poorly tuned lute, yet there he was, sitting on a couch in her antechambers, playing a jaunty rendition of A Rose of Gold. Her ladies were in a mirthful mood, as each one took to dancing around the chamber with beautiful smiles on their faces. Isabel had taken Jon into her arms, his curls bouncing in time with her movements, a little confused smile on his face as Isabel spun around with his hand in hers like a true dancing partner’s. Emeline was doing her best with Viserys, who was pouting sullenly and digging his heels into the floor, refusing to step with her; this hardly dampened the lady’s mood, as she giggled and trounced around him instead. Cedany, on the other hand, danced alone, her blue eyes only focused rather scandalously at the bard she’d brought in.

Lyanna was content to sit at the table, sipping her tea as her ladies-in-waiting enjoyed themselves. She was not much of a dancer as it was; she liked songs, certainly, and music, but she was not as graceful on her feet as she’d like to be.

Cedany certainly was, however. She moved her plump body with effortless grace, her golden curls bouncing around her face rather prettily. The bard whose attention she was trying to capture was not immune to this either, smiling lewdly at her as he sang. He even took a moment to pause and grin at her before breaking into The Dornishman’s Wife.

“Oh, Lorena loves this song,” Cedany exclaims as she swayed. “It is too bad that she is away; she and I dance so well together to this.” Lady Lorena Pyle was at her husband’s estate, preparing for the birth of her second child. Before she had left, she had insisted she would keep her promise to her and name the child Lyanna, if it is a girl. “Your grace, why don’t you dance with me?”

Lyanna looks to her lady with raised brows. She looked so cheerful and sweet, her hands already extended to take her into the dance. Lyanna only smiles and shakes her head.

“Nonsense!” Cedany returns firmly. “I haven’t seen you dance since… Why, since the tourney! And that was only a short dance with Lord Baratheon.” Lyanna hides her cringe at the mention of Robert. “Please, your grace, this dance is only fun with two partners!”

Lyanna had it on the tip of her tongue to gently refuse her again, but a lively chorus of her ladies’ insistences prompted Cedany to simply march over and pull Lyanna out of her seat. She staggered at first, not expecting this sudden uprooting. Cedany giggled kindly.

“There we go, your grace,” she says, excited. “Now shall I lead, or shall you?”

Lyanna swallows the urge to refuse her again. She looked so elated, and her other ladies looked to her so expectantly, it seemed rather cruel to deny them this. It wouldn’t be the most embarrassing thing she would do.

“Do not ask me to perform the steps backward,” Lyanna says with a chuckle. “I hardly know them forward.”

Cedany nodded. “Then I shall lead.” She extends a hand and offers a gentlemanly bow. “May I have this dance, your grace?” She asked in a poor imitation of a man’s deep voice. Her ladies giggle around her, and even pouty Viserys cracked a smile.

“You may,” Lyanna says, putting her hand in Cedany’s. The bard restarted the song, and the two began their rather graceless dance. Lyanna tried her best to keep Cedany’s pace, though he managed to step on her toes quite a few times. She would let out a little squeak each time she did, forcing Lyanna to mumble apologies that were brushed away with kind laughter.

It was when Lyanna had finally managed to keep a decent pace when the music, and Cedany, came to a sudden stop. Lyanna accidentally stepped on her toe again, garnering from her another squeak. But then she slowly stepped away from her, and offered a curtsy to someone at the door.

Lyanna looks to that direction to see Rhaegar, flanked by sers Oswell and Arthur. Her other ladies have dropped into curtsies as well, and the bard has risen from his spot on the couch to dip into a low bow.

Lyanna looks to Rhaegar curiously. They hadn’t shared much conversation since his return, as he’d made himself largely unavailable. It was only at nights, when he’d come into her room to bid Jon and herself a good night. He did not mention Lyanna’s tearful confession again, nor did she want to hear about it. Lyanna offers her husband a little curtsy.

“A hundred apologies, my ladies,” Rhaegar’s warm voice said. “I had heard music and found myself drawn here.”

Her ladies slowly straightened themselves. Viserys walked to Rhaegar’s side and tugged at his hand. “We were dancing,” the boy told his older brother simply.

“I saw,” Rhaegar said.

“Lyanna doesn’t know how to dance.” Viserys had said it so matter-of-factly that it drew giggles from the women. Lyanna felt herself blush.

“While my toes are certainly worse for wear, little prince, our dear princess does have some grasp of dancing,” Cedany said shyly, thinning Lyanna’s embarrassment. “And while our bard here is talented, he pales in comparison to your own musical abilities, your grace.”

Lyanna wonders briefly what she means, though not for long. “Oh, your grace, we haven’t heard a song from you in ages,” Isabel proclaims, perhaps emboldened by the fact that Jon sat so snugly in her arms.

Rhaegar waves a hand dismissively. “I have hardly had the time to write one, Lady Isabel.”

A vague memory of a conversation with Brandon suddenly comes into mind. “You play the harp, don’t you?” Lyanna asks of him, remembering.

Rhaegar looks to her and smiles warmly. “I do,” he admits.

“How lovely,” Lyanna says breathlessly, genuinely pleased by this. She did so like the sound of a high harp. “If you are truly as talented as my ladies claim you to be, then I should like to see proof.”

Rhaegar smiles faintly. “Your ladies kindly exaggerate.”

“Nonsense,” she insists. “Would you play your instrument for me one day? You’ve left me wanting see you perform even more, now.” There is an odd hush in the room after these words. She feels all eyes on her; in a brief panic, Lyanna wonders what she had done.

A giggle from Emeline breaks the tension. “Come along, little prince,” she says cheerily to Viserys, shuffling him out. “Let us leave the prince and princess alone.” There are a few more scattered giggles, and suddenly they have all poured out, taking the bard and Jon with them.

Lyanna looks to them quizzically before throwing the same look to Rhaegar. “What did I say?” she asked, wringing her hands.

Rhaegar’s gaze was hotter than the southron sun before it melted away to amiable warmth. He gives a rare chuckle. “I think they had very much the wrong idea of what sort of instrument you had an interest in,” Rhaegar allows, dodging a more precise answer. When the meaning sinks in, Lyanna finds herself covering her face with her hands.

“And what?” Lyanna manages to say through her profound embarrassment. “Do they expect you to perform such a task right now?”

Rhaegar chuckles again, clearly not as self-conscious as she was. “That would be quite a show,” he says before shaking his head. “No matter. I had wanted to speak to you alone anyways.” He crosses the room to close the gap between them. He gently pulls her hands away from her face, and Lyanna relents with a deep sigh. “I’m heading into the city for some purchases. Should you like to come along?”

This piques her interest. The last time she had went into the city, Ser Lewyn had come along with her, and was none too pleased to be escorting her. He had also been unable to offer a single suggestion as to what she might see; it put a quick end to any desire to view the city afterward.

“Yes,” Lyanna finds herself agreeing swiftly. “That would be nice,” she explains, consciously aware of the fact that he’d pulled his arm of his sling to hold her hands.

“Good,” he says, looking pleased. “Your ladies-in-waiting… Can you trust them with Jon?” He is reasonably worried; Lyanna nods to ease his concerns.

“They love him dearly,” she elaborates. Rhaegar looks pleased again.

“Very well,” he says. “I shall be waiting outside; meet me when you are prepared.”
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The sun was merciful that day, hiding behind clouds so as to keep the day cooler than it might have been had it been cloudless. And atop their horses, the couple were certainly allowed a more comfortable way of foraying into the city. Their comfort was further guaranteed by the presence of sers Arthur and Oswell, as well as no small number of the royal guard. It was a rather extravagant amount of defense by Lyanna’s guidelines, though she supposed she should have expected no less. If the prince and princess were to be in the city, there would surely be plenty of people who would flock to see.

Lyanna wore her riding trousers beneath her grey dress for the purpose of riding astride her horse. She had received pointed looks from the men when she did so, though she paid them little mind. She would be damned before she would ride a horse side-saddle. She was a northwoman, after all.

As they crossed the threshold between the Red Keep and a street named The Hook, the first flock of people began to gather around them. The guard surrounding them did a good enough job of pushing them away from the couple, some rougher than others. They all shouted at once; some seem pleased, some rather angry. Lyanna heard Rhaegar’s name often throughout the crowd, and even her name once or twice.

Lyanna looks to her husband, who sat tall and regal upon his horse. He’d done away with the sling, no doubt for appearances’ sake, and he smiled softly down at the people around him. It occurs to her that this whole outing was for appearances sake; he could easily send a servant to fetch whatever he needs from the city. He was taking this opportunity to connect with the smallfolk, she supposed.

Lyanna waved back at those who waved at her. It was a varied group; some fat, some thin, some dirty, some clean, some in simple finery, and some in rags. There were children among them too; some Lyanna had no doubt were orphans, what with their dirty faces and bare feet. One little girl caught her eye. She was dressed in a burlap sack, and her hair, which might have been flaxen, was matted with dirt. Looking at her reminds her of another orphaned girl-child, crying as he her little brother burned...

The girl looked at her with wide brown eyes. In her hand she clutched a daisy, which was stretched out to her.

"For me?" Lyanna mouths to the child. The girl grinned and nodded.

Coming down from her horse, she finds Ser Oswell has done the same, and stood to her elbow. "Best to stay atop your horse, your grace. There is quite a crowd gathered." he warned.

Lyanna brushes him off. She wedged herself between two guards and kneels down to the little girl. The child extends the daisy to her, still smiling.

"What a lovely flower," Lyanna says, gingerly taking it from her hands. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and sets the flower there, among the dirt caked in her once-blonde hair. "And she is a lovely girl who wears it.”

Lyanna feels a tug at her sleeve from a peasant, and she is pulled to her feet. Others too begin to reach for her. The sharp actions of a few guardsmen, paired with Oswell's pull at her elbow brings her back into the safe circle of guards. She is ushered back atop her horse. Rhaegar from beside her eyes her curiously. They move forward soundlessly, and in short time, the crowd has thinned.

Rhaegar makes several stops in which Lyanna lingers behind, too rattled to get down from her horse. They’d stopped by a finery shop, an apothecary, and a smithy, the last of which had coaxed Lyanna down from her horse. She stood a ways behind Rhaegar, admiring the manner of weapons that had adorned the walls. There were swords, hammers, and maces of every metal. It was far more illustrious than the armory at Winterfell.

“...A silver sword, yes.” She hears Rhaegar tell the blacksmith by his force.

“Not for fighting, I hope?” The man returned, cheekily.

Lyanna turns in time to see her husband shake his head. “For ceremonial purposes. I should like for there to be rubies in the hilt. Perhaps in design of a three-headed dragon… But I will leave such details to you. I trust your work.”

The smith nods and grins. “I’ll send my boy over to fetch the rubies from Vimion, then.”

“No need. I’m headed there now; I shall buy them and have them sent your way.”

The blacksmith nods again, then bows. “I’ll make it the most beautiful sword I’ve ever crafted, your grace,” he said humbly. Rhaegar seems pleased by this. He reaches into his purse at his hip, and puts down a few golden dragons. Lyanna sensed this was not the payment in full; likely only a tip. It amazed her how lavishly southroners spent their money.

When Rhaegar turns he catches sight of her and makes his way to her side. He surprises her by placing a kiss at her temple. “Thank you for waiting,” he tells her. “I have something for you. Or rather, I will be getting something for you.”

Lyanna’s heart soars. “Is it the silver sword?” She asks excitedly. It would be the first of her own, and while such a thing would be difficult to make battle with, it would look lovely on her hip.

He chuckles. “No, that is for me.”

Lyanna supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. She tries not to let her disappointment show as he took her a ways down the Street of Steel, flanked by their ever present guards and the crowd that simply wouldn’t leave them be. Rhaegar granted them his attention in the form of small smiles and soft greetings, sometimes even reaching into his purse to donate a penny or two. The people that trailed after them adored him; that much was abundantly clear. They had blessed his name a hundred times and wished him good health twice that.

They reach what appears to be a jeweler’s shop, as the metal sign with the cut-out ring seemed to imply. There are guards outside this shop, no doubt to keep thieves at bay. They both bow immediately to the royal couple.

Inside, a tall, thin man with sparse white hair stands behind a glass counter, polishing a gold pendant. Upon their entry, he bows low, putting the pendant back into case. “Your grace,” he said pointedly at Rhaegar. He spoke with an Essosi accent; which one, Lyanna could not say. “Your presence has been sorely missed in my shop.” His pale blue eyes wander over to Lyanna. “Ah, and this must be the beautiful princess. Come in, come in; I have trinkets aplenty that would please you.”

“Hello, Vimion,” Rhaegar says plainly with no trace of warmth. “I’ve come here to order loose rubies for a sword I’ve commissioned from Mott; and to have something made for the princess.”

At this, Lyanna frowns. She looks up to Rhaegar and shows him as much. “I don’t want anything,” she tells him in a quiet voice. His brows furrow almost imperceptibly. “I’m not fond of jewelry.”

He points to her throat. “You have your pendant,” he notes.

“And it was my mother’s,” Lyanna reminds him. “I wear it for her. And I was not raised to treasure such trinkets as it is; you would be wasting your money on me.” She spoke plainly, as she found no reason not to. Pretty things were never something she pined for, and when her father’s bootlickers would gift them to her, she would lose them in a sennight. Rhaegar looks to her flatly for a moment before Vimion’s foreign voice chimes in.

“Now princess, you have not seen my craft. I can make you a necklace that would bring out the red in your lips and earrings to bring out the blue in your eyes.” Lyanna holds her tongue to remind him that her eyes were grey, thank you very much.

“I understand,” Rhaegar relents, covering her hand over his arm. She hadn’t even noticed she had placed it there. “Yet we’ve married for two years now, and I haven’t even gotten you a ring. You don’t have to wear it; just to know it is in your possession would be enough.”

He seems to await her consent on this. His intentions were noble, Lyanna knew, yet it still sat ill with her to make him spend money on something she had no interest in. She also sensed that there was no point in asking him for a sword instead; with a small, uncomfortable smile, Lyanna nods her approval.

“But it shall not be anything grand,” Lyanna warns him as they walk up to the counter. “Something simple. Something that won’t bleed you of your purse.” Amusement glimmers in his eye.

“I could make for you a ring of any metal you choose, princess,” Vimion begins. “I’ve the purest gold this side of Casterly Rock, the brightest diamonds, and even rare jade…”

Lyanna ignored him as she looked down at the rings on display in his glass case. Some were made of iron, as it seemed to her, and some of steel. There were few silver rings and no gold ones; no doubt they were locked away somewhere safer, for nobler patrons. Half-heartedly, Lyanna tried to build some excitement over this. She could feel Rhaegar’s eyes on her, and strangely enough, she did not want to disappoint him.

It was then she saw it. It was a ring made of a light, bright metal that might have been silver, but was most likely a mix of poorer metals. The band was thin, and the setting simple. But the stone was what was truly lovely: it was a light cerulean, almost lavender, and it shone with an opalescent quality. It was not a cut gem, but rather had a surface like a smooth stone you may find at the bottom of the river. It was shiny and almost seemed to glow.

Lyanna points to it. “That one. I should like that one.”

The jeweler looks to her, perplexed. In his hands was a box of other rings, rings more fine and expensive, which he might have planned to show to her. He clears his throat before carefully breaching the topic. “Those rings are hardly worthy of a patron so lovely as you,” she says without a hitch. “Look here, I have--”

“I would like that one, please,” she returns resolutely, level her gaze with him. The man seems to bite back a grimace before glancing down at the ring she wanted. Then he looks to Rhaegar, who silently looks back.

As he opened the glass case to pull it out, he explains the ring. “This is only a common moonstone set in steel. It is silver-plated, but not entirely made of silver.” He hands it to her reluctantly. “If it is a blue stone you should want, your grace, I have recently received a collection of sapphires from a most trustworthy trader…”

Lyanna slips the ring on her left ring finger, finding no resistance as she did. It was a nearly perfect fit; perhaps a little large, but so long as it didn’t fall off, Lyanna would have no issue with it. She looks to the lovely pale blue stone, then to Rhaegar. He still looks mildly amused.

“Isn’t it lovely?” She asks of him, still ignoring the jeweler. Rhaegar reaches for her hand, turning it over to examine it.

“I fear it will tarnish quickly,” he mumbled beneath his breath. “But if you like it, it’s yours.”

Lyanna nods. “I’m rather fond of it, I think.”

Vimion is still speaking when Rhaegar returns his attention back to him. “And if her grace so decides to order a ring from me, I guarantee--”

“We shall take this one, Vimion,” Rhaegar tells him, removing his purse from his hip. “And the rubies for Mott.”

Vimion seems miffed, though he would never say it. No doubt he was upset at today’s great loss; with two patrons such as the prince and princess, he might have expected greater spending. He tries one last time to increase his profits. “I may have the band redone to be pure silver. Or gold, if her grace wishes. And I shall include an engraving of whatever you wish at no extra cost.”

“Should you like any of that, Lyanna?” Rhaegar asks of her.

Lyanna shakes her head. “I like the ring the way it is.” Then he does that strange thing again; he touches her shoulder and leans over to kiss the top of her head. His straight silver hair tickles her cheek as he does so. She briefly wonders what she might have done that had him so pleased with her. Oddly enough, she finds it does not matter. She is comfortable with this, and that was enough.

Rhaegar settles the price with a disgruntled Vimion, who would send an invoice to the castle. It was largely seen as improper in southron company for a nobleman to deal with payments firsthand, unless it was a gratuity like that one Rhaegar had paid to Tobho Mott.

They two walk out side by side, with Lyanna still staring down at her lovely little stone. She is stopped in her tracks by Rhaegar’s hand on her shoulder.

“Since you’re one for sentimentality in your trinkets,” Rhaegar began with a soft smile. “How shall you remember this ring?”

Lyanna turns it on her finger absentmindedly. “I shall remember this ring as…” She pauses before coming up with her answer. “The second gift you ever gave me.” She surprises herself by smiling.

Rhaegar raises an inquisitive brow, as predicted. “The second? What is the first?”

“Jon,” Lyanna answers simply. There was no further explanation needed on that point.

Chapter Text

Brandon bounced Lyarra on his knee as she fiddled with a little wolf statuette in her hands. She stuck it in her mouth and chewed on it, leaving little bite marks imprinted in the wood as she did. She looked back, the thing still in her mouth as she seemed to frown at him, brown eyes wide with wonder.

Brandon sighs, and fiddles with her dark curls. How he got stuck with her, he hadn’t a clue. He had half a mind to spend the day riding and drinking, but instead he was met with a servant who carried a screaming Lyarra in her arms, insisting that Barbrey had told her to deliver her to him.

In truth, he oughtn’t complain. He did little to help raise their daughter after all, the girl who almost became his bastard. And yet, he knew in his bones that fatherhood was not his calling. At least not with young children, and certainly not with girls. Now if he had a boy, a lad who’d grow to be strong and strapping, he could make do with that. He’d put a sword in his hand the moment he learned how to walk and practice with him until his soft little hands would callous.

“Where mama?” His daughter’s soft voice called out to him, saliva covered wolf now discarded on the floor. There was a tiny furrow between her brows as she said this. “Where?”

“I don’t know,” Brandon returned irritably. “Sleeping, probably.”

She frowned at him, as if disappointed by his anger. The expression was almost comical on her chubby face. Then her lower lip began to quiver, her cheeks flushing as she let out a cry.

Brandon nearly jumps. He takes hold of his daughter, holding her to him as he uselessly patted her back. “Gods, don’t cry,” he says miserably, rising to walk around with her. She continues to let out peals of sobs, kicking her legs against him as she did.

Oh gods. He bounces her about a little bit more, hoping the motion would rock the tears out of her, but there is no such luck. She’s screaming as much as her little lungs would allow, gasping for breath after each sob.

“Oi,” he calls to her, pulling her away from his shoulder to look at her. “You’re with papa, aye? Why don’t we, uh, do something fun?”

That actually ceases her noise a moment for her to pause and analyze him with teary brown eyes. But before he can catch his breath, her lip wobbles and she cries again.

Brandon was at a loss trying to think of what to do. With her mother, Lyarra was quiet and sweet. Little Robb was the same most of the time in the arms of his mother-- and father, Brandon seemed to recall. Ned often had his little rapscallion on his arm.

He tries to hold her to him as he’d seen his brother sometimes too, but that ended in tears as well. “Hush, hush,” he admonished her softly, stroking the back of her head. “It’s not so bad, innit? There’s nothing to cry about.” She proved the contrary as she began to cry louder.

Brandon had half a mind to sit down and simply resign himself to the noise. He was hopeless with children; he always knew he was. Had things been different, he might have handed Winterfell to Ned before he ever got into this mess, found himself as a mercenary to some rich Essosi, lived his life fucking and riding and fighting as he pleased.

Catelyn walks into the room with Robb on her hip as he uselessly holds his crying daughter on his arm. He stiffened at the sight of her, already sensing the insult in her sharp blue eyes. Too smart for her own good, this one.

“Are you really so useless, Brandon Stark?” She asks him over the noise, a thin brow lifted in a cross between amusement and disappointment.

Brandon scoffs. “She wants her mother; what am I to do about that?”

Catelyn sighs and shakes her head. “Come along to the nursery,” she commands of him. Brandon listlessly obeys, trailing after her as Lyarra wailed in his arms. When they reach the nursery, Catelyn sets Robb down on the floor, where some toys were scattered about. She turns to Brandon and plucks Lyarra from his hands.

“Hush now,” she croons comfortingly to his daughter, propping her on her hip as she wiped away at her wet face. Her sobs were bubbling down to little sniffles. “Wouldn’t you like to play with Robb?” She just stares at her with a tear streaked face. “Don’t be so sad, little Lyarra. Here; play with your cousin.” She leans down to set her on her rump. Lyarra looks around to the toys around her before looking to Robb. His little nephew smiles amiably, and pushes a block her way.

Brandon looks to Catelyn, who kept a watchful eye over the two of them. “Thank you,” he said dumbly.

Catelyn rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “It bodes ill that she’s more comfortable with me than her own father,” she notes with a hint of disappointment. Brandon almost snorts in reproach, but contains himself. She’s right, of course. He couldn’t deny that.

But he didn’t like the accusation either. “What’s her mother doing anyways? It’s her job to watch her, not mine,” he retorts gruffly.

Catelyn gives a slight shrug. “You should ask her that yourself. She’s your wife.”

My wonderful wife, Brandon muses sardonically. Matters between him and Barbrey have been less than savory from the start, but they’ve soured even more recently. They’d even given up on arguing, finding it infinitely easier to ignore each other than to address any issues.

He supposed that it was no fault of Barbrey’s; no matter who he married, his wife wouldn’t be enough. He’d always need something more.

“Go on, then,” Catelyn insists with a nod toward the door.

She's bossy, this Catelyn, something Brandon decided he didn’t like. But since she got Lyarra out of his hair, he obliged her without any protest. He stalked out of the room, but instead of heading to Barbrey, he made his way to the kitchens first for canteens of ale before heading off to the stables to ride the rest of the day away.
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He makes his way to Barbrey's chambers in the hour of the wolf, feeling a little tipsy but not utterly drunk. The rain had forced them to end their ride early, but it only served to drive them into a tavern outside of Winterfell where he remained for the rest of the day.

Rain was not something that particularly bothered him, but the men he rode with begged to differ. There was something primal about standing in the rain, feeling it soak you to your bones. It felt wild and free. It would also surely kill his horse; another reason to come indoors.

He's well and dry by the time he reaches his wife's room, a good thing for she would surely gripe about how he's dripping water on her floors. He walks in to find her sitting on the edge of her bed in her nightgown, looking as if she'd been waiting up for him. She looks to him with flat, solemn eyes.

"Good. You're here," she says, void of any emotion.

"I am. Did you miss me?" He returned with a cheeky smile, walking to stand in front of her. He leans down and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. Two hands twist in his hair and yank him away. Brandon looks to her, confused.

"We need to talk," she told him like a woman delivering grim news.

Brandon groaned. He didn't want to talk, he wanted to fuck. He sits himself down on the bed beside her anyways, seeing no point in belaboring the issue.

"You didn't come to see me this morning," she states as an accusation. "Didn't you want to know why your wife wouldn't leave her bedroom?"

Brandon grunts. "Someone tossed Lyarra on me. She cried up a storm before I could finally get away."

"Get away?" Barbrey returns with narrowed eyes. "Is our daughter such a burden to you?"

"I had matters to attend to," he snaps, quickly getting tired of the conversation. If he weren’t so wobbly on his feet, he would leave.

“I’m sure you did,” she replies bitterly. Brandon takes a moment to truly look at her. Her long dark hair was messy over her shoulders, her brown eyes narrowed and sharp, her mouth a hard line and dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked older than her age. “I wonder why I had ever wanted to marry you,” she suddenly hissed. “I wonder what I saw in you.”

Her words jar him, but Brandon makes no indication of it. “And I wanted to marry you?” He returns unfazed. “You were a sennight away from marrying my brother and raising a bastard with him. Would you have liked that more?” He’s surprised himself with how calmly he spoke. Perhaps it is because it’s a conversation he’d had a hundred times in his own head. Or perhaps he truly didn’t care.

“At least Lady Catelyn seems happy,” she spits in return, her hands balling into little fists. “With you I feel nothing but rage.”

“And being with you is such a joy,” he says dryly, frown deepening. “Be thankful you got the Stark name at all when my father could have crushed your father’s house instead.” Empty words, but he was none too clear-headed nor did he quite care. They snapped like this too often for him too care.

“I would have preferred that, I think!” She says in a voice nearing a shout. “Then I won’t have to see your face everyday, won’t have to smell the wine and women on you every night, won’t have to…” To his surprise, her voice began to waver. He saw her lip wobble until she burst into loud tears, burying her face in her hands.

He stares at her, dumbfounded and confused. Was he supposed to say something? What did he do to make her behave so? With a disgruntled sigh, he pulls her to his chest where she sobbed into his jerkin.

“It does not matter anyways,” she says in a mumble after her tears ended. “I’m stuck with you. I’m with child again.”

The words don’t drive emotion into him as they should. Instead of joy, he’s pressed with the unbearable urge to run.

“Good,” he says flatly, unsure of what else to say. She moves beneath his arm to look at him, red-rimmed eyes wide and brows furrowed. “I…”

“Say no more,” she commands in a low voice that could not mask her hurt. “I don’t want to hear you speak.”

Regardless of this, she takes him into her bed anyways. By morning he’s slipped out for a ride, feeling as if his whole body could burst at any moment. Another child meant another tie to Barbrey, to Winterfell as a whole.

Strange that home felt more like a trap than a safe haven. And yet here he was, riding as he did everyday, feeling its grip on him loosen with every gallop. He did not want to think about Barbrey, or Lyarra, or his next child. He didn’t want to think at all.

Why should he, when a wild, broadening horizon with the sun peeking over the hills were a more beautiful sight than anything he had back home?

Chapter Text

Rhaegar opens the doors to Lyanna’s antechambers, pleased to find her sitting at a table with her fair haired maid, eating her supper. Viserys, Jon, and Daenerys are seated on the floor a ways beside her, playing amongst each other. She glances up at him when he enters the room, eyes widening, no doubt surprised to see him. Her maid quickly rises out of the seat, offering a low curtsey before hurrying into a corner.

He smiles faintly and takes the seat opposite hers. The children are too distracted to pay attention to him; Lyanna’s eyes, however are fixated on him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” She asks after swallowing her last bite, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Nothing,” he answers her dishonestly. “I only wanted to see you.”

If these words affect her, she does not let it show. He seemed to remember a time when she was less adept at hiding her feelings.

“Shall I have supper sent for you?” Lyanna asks kindly.

He shakes his head. “I already ate.” A lie, as he discovered that he could not swallow a bite. He had hoped that seeing Lyanna would ease his nerves.

“With the king?” She asks curiously. He can see her gaze darken at the very mention of him.

He shakes his head. “The king is still ill,” he explains to her. “He does not eat.”

He locks eyes with her long enough to see a glimmer of satisfaction.

He glances over to the children, watching how Viserys laid on his stomach, idly playing out a scene with a set of blocks and a wooden horse he dragged along on a string. Jon sat there riveted, while little Daenerys peeked around her, interested in other things. Looking at his son wrenches his heart.

“He’s almost a year old now,” Lyanna says, smiling softly at Jon. “Can you believe that?”

Rhaegar switches his attention over to her. She was so gentle when it came to the children that one would often forget that her gentleness was rooted in a savage strength. “Time has gone by far too quickly,” Rhaegar mused. “I feel like I’ve missed too much.”

Lyanna looks over to him with forgiving eyes. “It’s not your fault. I know that you’re often busy.” She pauses then. “I know you see to Jon most every night. You should do the same for your siblings.”

The request surprises him, but he says nothing.

“Viserys adores you, you know. You break his heart when you don’t pay him the attention he wants.” She seems a little angry at him. “You shouldn’t do that to your brother.”

Rhaegar nods reluctantly. “You are right,” he says, leaning forward to cover her hand on the table. His thumb moves idly over her knuckles, over the moonstone ring he bought her. “Things will change soon, I promise.”

She gives a little sigh, one full of sorrow and confusion and irritation, and perhaps even a little bit of tenderness. “Change comes too slowly,” she notes with a hint of melancholy.

“I know,” he said softly, fingers intertwining with hers atop the table. “I’m sorry.”

But change would come tonight.
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Rhaegar glances to his door, then back to window, eyes focused on the bright, full moon. Whether this was an auspicious sign he could not say; it sat like a white eye in the black landscape, pondering everything that fell under its soft light.

Not wanting to be unnerved, Rhaegar closes the shades. Too much had been said and done to reconsider only because a full moon scared him.

They'd met one last time in the middle of the night last night. Him, Jon Connington, Ser Arthur, and Ser Oswell, standing around a table in the Tower of the Hand. The only men he trusted to hear his plan in full, as he needed them to help him carry it out.

Ser Gerold knew of it too, but Rhaegar would not ask him to assist. He was Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, apt at serving his prince, better at turning a blind eye, but beyond that Rhaegar could ask no more of him but silence. For now, it was good enough.

The meeting the night before was brief; they knew what each of them had to do. They knew the consequences of their actions, should it ever come to light. But Rhaegar was careful. He’d spent moons planning and arranging, waiting for the perfect moment. With any luck, the gods would be on their side, just for tonight.

Rhaegar goes to his door, emerging from his room on quiet feet. He gives Ser Jaime at his door only a passing glance; the young knight knew nothing of his plan, yet he placed him at his door for a reason. Though he could not trust him as he would like, he sensed that the Lannister boy knew his place among the Kingsguard. He knew who he served; for tonight, that would be enough.

It is fortunate that the door to his rooms are hidden from view of Lyanna’s rooms. Ser Jonothor was posted outside her door tonight, and he too was in the dark about his intentions for tonight. Rhaegar slips past Ser Jaime, moving through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast as quietly as he could.

Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell stand posted outside of the king’s chambers; it was their turn in the schedule to do so. Rhaegar does not meet their eye when he opens the doors and slips past.

The king’s sleeping form is thin and slight, even beneath voluminous sheets. This, he will admit, was no fault of his own. His father refused to eat, and as a result his health was failing. Rumors of his illness were ones that Rhaegar greatly encouraged.

Rhaegar knew he ate tonight. It was very little, but it was enough. He even drank some wine; again, not much, but it was enough. It was a tricky and potent concoction that Rhaegar had come into his possession. A small, thin vial the size of his thumb, filled to the stopper of something the apothecary described as having twice the effect of milk of the poppy, only in poor time. Where milk of the poppy could induce sleep in seconds, this potion induced it in hours. A useless potion, for all intents and purposes. But not for Rhaegar.

By now, the king and his taste testers should themselves immersed in the strongest slumber of their lives. Rhaegar knew this for fact, as Ser Arthur had told him the same before Rhaegar tried it himself. The fact that Arthur was still in good health assured him it was no poison; instead he had found himself in the arms of a most potent slumber, waking up hours later with a remarkably clear mind that seemed to recall only falling asleep moments ago.

He watched the sheets gently rise and fall with each of his father’s slight breaths. He lingers in the doorway, too apprehensive to step forward. Now is the time, his mind told him. If you want to turn back, do it now.

If Rhaegar turned around, he’d be left with only two options. War, or patient suffering. The former would end in blood, and the latter was filled with uncertainty. It was that uncertainty that frightened him; not knowing was worse than any war, Rhaegar thinks, and may end in blood anyways.

No. Now was the time.

He steps forward, sitting himself on the edge of the bed. “Father,” he calls out in a voice above a whisper. “Your grace?” He gently shakes one of his thin shoulders, but he makes no response. He reaches for a pillow by his head, keeping his gaze locked onto his father’s face. He looked oddly at peace, an expression that Rhaegar hadn’t seen on him in years. How many years?

He thought back to when he was a boy. Did he have that expression then? Memories of his father were scarce and blurry at best. Rhaegar only remembered only his mother. He remembered feeling alone. He remembered his father coming back from Duskendale with a strange look in his eye, and a spark that would start a fire.

It’s not too late. Rhaegar could have the Starks, the Tullys, the Arryns, perhaps even the Martells and Lannisters at his side. The Tyrells may listen to reason, and the Baratheons would agree in time, even despite Robert’s bitterness. The Crownlands may make a show of loyalty to the king, but they too would bend. It would be a war that may end in a fortnight. It was a war his father would see coming. But it was still war, a bloody beginning to Rhaegar’s reign. They would call him a traitor to his own blood, a kinslayer. And if somehow Aerys got his overgrown claws into Lyanna, into Jon, if those pyromancers he kept around him tried to make a show of loyalty, if somehow one part of Rhaegar’s plan failed…

No. This was it.

He took the pillow between his hands and covered his father’s peaceful expression. Standing up and leaning over, he pushed all his weight and strength at the edges of the pillow. No response comes from his father’s suffocating body. The opiate was as strong as Rhaegar had known it to be. Even if the whole Keep came falling down around him now, he would not wake.

Minutes pass, but they may have been hours. Rhaegar does not know how long he stands there, pressing a pillow over his father’s head. Suddenly, his body begins to twitch. It’s nothing violent, nothing to make Rhaegar budge. He sensed it was his body waking up for the last few moments, trying to kick itself out of a heavy slumber to save itself...

Then, nothing.

Rhaegar waits for another indeterminate period of time. Then slowly, carefully, he lifts the pillow, places it by his father’s head. He presses his ear to his slight chest, searching for a heartbeat. None came. He puts fingers at his wrist and neck, trying to sense a pulse. Again, nothing. His father’s face was still frozen in a permanent mask of calm, and what was once beating and alive was now still and dead.

Kinslayer. A voice accuses him. The gods will never forgive you for this.

A war fought in his own mind was one Rhaegar would take over one fought with swords and fire. To bring about a quicker end to a reign of terror, to know that he saved people from being subjected to his cruel punishments, to see the fear taken out of his wife’s eyes whenever she found herself in his presence, for Jon never to truly know the monster his grandfather had become--

He would take a lifetime in the Seven Hells for that.

He returns to his rooms in hopes that sleep would come; it does not. Instead he stays awake, sitting in the light of the moon until the bells of the Sept of Baelor rung out in the early morning air, and the first words he hears comes from a wide-eyed, kneeling Jaime Lannister:

“The King is dead! Long live the King.”

Chapter Text

This had been the second funeral Lyanna had attended in King’s Landing. Yet unlike the first, not a single soul wept.

None save for Viserys who cried into her skirts, for his heart was still tender toward his cold father, and it seemed to Lyanna that he could not let yet another member of his family go unmourned. She stroked his silver hair as he cried, her gaze still fixed toward the funeral pyre.

When she heard the sound of bells the morning before, fear had gripped at her heart. Her mind went to dark places quickly: was it Viserys, somehow meeting a premature end by some horrible accident? Daenerys, suddenly dying in her crib as she’d heard of some infants doing? She would have questioned Jon if he were not sleeping soundly beside her. Was it Rhaegar then, by a knife in the dark?

She did not think once that it may have been the King. She did not like to think of him at all.

Yet that was exactly who it was. He perished silently in the night due to his ill health, and while it was cruel and heartless to feel joy at any death, the sweetness of the news had been on her tongue since the morning she heard the words the king is dead.

And in his place was a better king. She spied him at a spot close to the pyre, Jon in his arms whose eyes were wide against the growing flames. His father stood tall and handsome, lithe and strong, black silks and silver hair shimmering in the light of the pyre. She and Rhaegar had not had a moment alone since the news broke. He had been burdened with a hundred different tasks, Lyanna had no doubt, as she had her own set of tasks slowly falling into her lap.

She had been charged with making arrangements for their upcoming coronation; Rhaegar was inviting the lords of the Great Houses to be present to pledge their allegiance and explain their grievances. The event was to be grand and overwhelming, the first show of their power in the capital.

Daenerys began to make noises of growing curiosity in Isabel’s arms beside her. She was too pale and bright to be dressed in black, and too young to understand why. Her wide purple eyes were turned toward the pyre too, watching as the flames grew higher and higher.

Viserys choked out another sob. The heat of the flames came off in waves, mingling little beads of sweat with his tears. Lyanna took a single moment to bend down and wipe his face, kissing the top of his head as she did.

Soon the high septon ceased waving his pot of incense, indicating that the spectating part of this funeral was over. The body would still need more time to burn away completely, and no guest loved the mad king enough to stand by his pyre for hours.

There was a quiet bustling as everyone began to move away, the procession cutting back through the city to return to the Red Keep. Rhaegar led it at the front, atop his white stallion, Jon sitting in front of him on the saddle, his father's hand placed protectively at his middle. Lyanna was confined to a wheelhouse with Viserys and Isabel, who held Daenerys still. For once she did not mind this lazy form of transportation; Viserys was pressed against her beneath her arm, and she was able to properly comfort him.

“Hush now, little prince,” she cooed softly to him. “I am still here. Aren’t you glad that I’m still here?”

He nodded against her before looking up. His purple eyes were rimmed red from his tears. “Everyone leaves me. Promise me you won’t leave too,” he said in a broken voice. Lyanna’s heart ached at this; she smoothing back his hair in all gentleness.

“I promise,” she said with a serious face. Daenerys began to babble softly across from them, extending arms out to them. “Look, Viserys. Dany is making you a promise too.” His tear streaked face lit up as he beamed, reaching out for his sister. Lyanna helped him to settle her in his lap, smiling fondly at them as brother and sister exchanged a gentle hug.

The sight riled up a new and unexpected emotion in her: excitement. Her family were receiving an invitation to the coronation, and now with nothing barring them from leaving Winterfell, they would surely come. Not all of them, perhaps, for there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, but it would be enough to see just one of her brothers. She missed them more than she could ever explain. Two years apart from them were two years too long; she needed to see her family again.

The wheelhouse comes to a gentle stop. The doors are opened, and Viserys shuffles out with his sister still in his arms. Lyanna emerges after him, face turned to the sun that was just beginning to peek out from behind the clouds.

From the crowd around them, those who did not look to Rhaegar looked to her. Those hundreds of eyes scrutinizing her brought back an awful echo from her first months at court, when she was little more than a new oddity to ogle. They were judging eyes, merciless ones and cold.

And now I rule over them all.

She lifts her chin as she meets their eye, letting her gaze fall over each person. They could not scare her anymore, nor would she let them. And as the lords bowed and ladies curtsied Lyanna found that she had to force herself to keep from smiling.

"My queen," a few whispered in muted reverence.

Yes, that's right, she wanted to say. I am queen now. Not one of you may make a mockery of me now.

Though her confidence was unshakable as a front, she found herself trembling. I am a queen now. The weight of the words fell upon her shoulders like a heavy cloak. And all Lyanna could do was try not to bow under it.
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Lyanna hunched over her writing desk which was now covered with a floorplan of the throne room and little wooden statuettes. While Lyanna had wanted nothing more than to rest after such an exhausting day, she found herself instead burdened with the task of deciding on seating assignments for the coronation feast.

An older woman by the name of Lady Anya was the one who forced this upon her. She was the Queen Rhaella’s assistant when she ruled, and served as an advisor to the queen in matters of diplomacy. She had also taken on most of the queen’s diplomatic duties when she died, and was the woman who chiefly dealt with matters of public arrangements. She had decided on food items for a feasts, seating arrangements for parties, planned itineraries for the female guests. But now that Lyanna was queen, the woman was eager to test her mettle with all of the duties that she had carried herself for so long.

Lady Anya promised to take her direction on any of her decisions. No matter how Lyanna arranged the seats, or set up the tables, or decided on the food, she would carry out her tasks with no questions-- something Lyanna found rather disconcerting.

She tapped the little flower statuette on her desk, trying to decide on where to place the Tyrells. She had already arranged it so that there were two large tables perpendicular to the Targaryen dais, with an aisle's worth of space apart. The Starks sat closest to the dais, with the Tullys, Arryns, and Baratheons, in that order, beside them. Opposite them were the Lannisters, Martells, and Greyjoys. She was unsure where the Tyrells would fit into all this; with a hint of exasperation, she wedges the flower between the sun and the lion, and hoped for the best.

The door to her chambers opens, and she is surprised to see Rhaegar come through. He is still in his mourning silks, wearing a haggard expression on his face that wasn’t there that morning. He glances to Jon sleeping on the bed, and then to her. A little tired smile makes it to his lips.

Lyanna is at a loss for words. They haven’t spoken more than a few times for the past two days, as hectic as they were. He makes his way to her side, but before she can think to say anything, he cups her face and tilts it up to press a kiss on her open mouth.

Her body reacted slowly after the initial surprise, a gasp slipping past her lips before her muscles relaxed, becoming languid. If this was his way of paying his respects to her new title, then she must admit that it tasted sweeter than any formality.

He broke away after a time hand moving to the back of her chair as he looked down upon her face. The gaze was warm and his body warmer. Lyanna was still unsure of what to say or do. She licks her lips to savor the kiss once more, then makes an attempt at conversation.

"Are you... Are you alright?" She asked, out of both shock and genuine concern for him. She realized now that it sounded rather critical, and she shook her head. "That is-- You have been through much, and so busy besides..." Her cheeks colored at her meek attempts to recover. He chuckles warmly, still leaning over her and bracing himself on her chair. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"I'm fine. Tired, is all," he admitted softly. "There is so much to do. So much to fix. The Grand Council I aim to arrange with the visiting lords already comes with its complications. I had known from that start that some lords will send envoys in their place, yet to hear that some will not even send that..." He trailed off in his lament, looking down at her work on the table. "You may as well take the Greyjoys off. They are not coming."

Lyanna glanced down to the little kraken at the end of the table. She nodded and pushed it off the map.

"And that," he said, pointing to the sun and flower with two fingers. "Is a terrible idea."

Lyanna frowns at it and looks back at him. "Why is that?" She asked innocently.

He chuckles. "You need to brush up on your history. The Tyrells and Martells have despised each other for centuries. I fear for the outcome of such an arrangement." He admonished her gently, seeming more kindly than critical. Lyanna nods, still frowning.

"I never liked my history lessons," she mumbled, picking up both statuettes. "The maester who taught me was an awful bore." She heard Rhaegar's warm chuckle again by the heat of her breath on her cheek. He was leaning still, one hand on the chair and the other on desk, his shoulders hunched as if a weight sat atop them. "Do you need to sit?" She asked, motioning to her chair. "Perhaps you can help me with this. I'm... Still learning." She imagined she'd be learning for a long time too; but how much time would her subjects allow?

"That is a generous offer. I shall take you up on it," he answered. She rose from her seat, letting Rhaegar take her place. She moved to stand beside the desk, but was caught by surprise when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her down atop his lap. She gives a gasp that makes him chuckle, and he wraps his arm around her waist, his chin tucked above her shoulder. "I would never take a lady's seat without ensuring she had one of her own," he said in a low voice.

Lyanna recovered more quickly from this than the kiss. "I’m not a lady anymore. I’m a queen,” she returned, relaxing in his arms. She felt so small and slight against him, but it was not an unwelcome sensation. It was soothing in a way. Protecting.

“That you are. My apologies, your grace,” he said. His gaze moved back down to the plan before him. “I do not object to placing your family closest to us. And to put the Tullys by them makes proper sense. Now…” He placed a finger atop the hawk of House Arryn, moving it to the other table. “It would be wise to place the Jon Arryn on the opposite table, between the Lannisters and the Martells. He is a good conciliator, from what I understand. And the Tyrells may sit beside the Baratheons. They will not take being placed farthest away for much of a slight, and I do know that Lord Baratheon would wish to be nearer to your brother.” At the mention of Robert, Lyanna falls silent. She had tried to place him farthest away so that she would not have to meet his eye. Surely Rhaegar may have thought the same way. Her cheeks color and she nods absentmindedly.

“Does that bother you, Lyanna?” He asks gently, as if reading her mind-- or perhaps only her expression. “To tell you the truth, I do not see Robert Baratheon attending at all. He may send his younger brother in his place, if he has half a mind.” Her stomach churned at his nonchalant turn of phrase. Did it not enrage him to think of Robert? Or unsettle him, as it did with her? Or did he truly forgive her the night he returned from Dorne?

“It does not matter,” she lies. “I don’t care. I…” She trails off, something like shame building up in her. It is partially alleviated by a kiss he puts to her cheek.

“Here. Let’s do this,” he said as gently as a breeze. He moves the flower beside the trout, and placed the stag on the opposite table on the end, beside the sun. The hawk sat between the lion and the sun, still the conciliator. “So it goes: Stark, Tully, Tyrell,” he points to each one as he mentions them. “Lannister, Arryn, Martell, Baratheon. What do you think?”

Lyanna nods again. It placed the Baratheons on opposite table, and in the farthest seat. This, she supposed, she could handle should Robert decide to come. The very thought of him made her feel ashamed; to have to look at him would be too much.

"And I see you've rearranged the seats of the Crownlands' houses as well," he mumbled. His hand was moving up and down her hip as he spoke. "I assume it is to accommodate your ladies. That is kind of you." She had moved the Rosbys and the Pyles side-by-side, so Lorena's house and her husband's could be together. Byrch, Farring, and Hardy were too nearby.

"I supposed it was only right. They are quite close," she explained.

"Mmm." It's a noncommittal noise, and a weary one too. "You are a considerate woman. More than most. That is good; I need someone with a heart as full as yours."

She blinked, surprised at his words. "Do you mean to come to me for advice, your grace?"

His hands moved to capture hers above her lap. “I do,” he answered softly. “Would you give it to me?”

Lyanna does not pause to consider this. She nods.

“Good,” he answered. “It is our kingdom, after all. The kingdom that we are building for Jon What we do now shall echo in his future; of that I have no doubt.” His words took on a more cryptic tone than he had perhaps intended. “Even before we are crowned, know that our era begins here and now. But I need your trust; tell me you trust me, Lyanna. Or at least tell me that I may soon earn it.” Strange how his voice could become so ethereal so quickly; it was as if Lyanna were reading poetry off a page and the words had begun to dance around her.

“I trust you,” Lyanna admitted in a small voice. “I do.” He had proven time and time again that she had all reason to trust him. And now with the most singular threat to their happiness gone, who was she to fight her own feelings?

He looks faintly pleased to hear this, to where a spark appeared behind the dark purple of his eyes. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Lyanna nods, melting in his arms as she fell ever so slightly forward, their foreheads meeting. They shared a breath, then two. Then in poor timing, a yawn bubbled up to her lips. She quickly covered her mouth, but as soon as she did, she felt the terrible need to rub her eyes.

"I am keeping you up," he notes softly. "I shall leave you be to sleep." His hands rest on her hips as she slides off his lap. He rises after her, looping an arm around her waist as he treated her to another kiss. This time Lyanna is prepared; she gently touches his cheek, rising on her toes such that he does not have to lean down so.

It was a strange thing, kissing him-- or rather, kissing him and feeling something. She recalled their first kiss in the sept, the cold press of his lips on hers, the stiffness that pervaded her body. This was different. She felt warm, relaxed. It felt natural. He tasted divine.

Recognizing these thoughts made her bold for a moment longer, opening her mouth to deepen the kiss for but a second. Then shame turns her shy again, and she breaks the kiss by simply dropping back to her heels. She meets his eye for a fleeting moment, then looks away. To think that the last man she had kissed like this, the man who had taught her to kiss like this was not her husband made her feel very small and stupid. To think that kissing her husband now riled up such emotions simply startled her. Half a year ago she may have been able to boldly stare him in the face and tell herself that he was only the father of her child; nothing more. Now...

"Good night, Lyanna," he whispered, a tentative hand smoothing her hair. She stands in stony silence until he moves away, as silent as breath.

She lay awake in bed thinking of the way her lips burned. Thinking of how hard his thighs were as she sat upon them. Thinking of how firm his hands held her waist. Thinking of the warmth boiling low in her stomach.

There was something there, Lyanna realized. Something base and animal-like had rooted in her mind. Men called it lust. What did women call it?

No matter. It was an emotion much easier to bear than unabated sorrow.

Chapter Text

How long have I waited for this?

Cersei asked herself this as she crossed the threshold for the Red Keep for the first time in years. Her last trip here was when she was little more than a child at her father’s heel as he gave her and Jaime a tour of the Red Keep. Mother had been there as well, but away with the Queen and not with them. Still, the memory was sweet. It was a memory from a grander time, a happier one. From when her father was Hand of the King, when her mother was still alive and the most beautiful woman in the world, and that twisted little monster she called a brother never existed.

Things had changed since then. As Cersei took her first step into the throne room, bustling as it was with others who had come so far to pledge their allegiance to their new king, she knew that this was all supposed to be different. The journey she took was not as it was supposed to be; these steps into the Red Keep were not the ones she was meant to take.

On this day, she was supposed to be entering King’s Landing as Rhaegar’s bride.

People were supposed to turn their heads toward her, bow and curtsey at her feet. They would whisper my lady in soft, reverent tones, and within the week they would have whispered your grace. Queen you shall be, that ugly hag told her years ago.

Queen she was not. The lack of attention she received on her entry was frustrating. It is all that horrible northern bitch’s fault, she reminded herself not for the first time. She stole my rightful husband. My rightful title.

Cersei had bided her time long enough in Casterly Rock, sitting like a maiden in a tower waiting upon a prince that would never come. Not even Jaime would come to her; while she had ensured his place on the Kingsguard to keep him from marrying another, he might as well have been married for how little she saw him. “Little” being not at all; for two years she had not laid eye nor hand upon her twin. She wondered briefly if he’d changed.

Her father took hold of her elbow, pulling her closer. Tywin Lannister’s face was grim as ever, but there was a glimmer in his eye that Cersei took notice of. She doubted it was due to any love of King’s Landing; by all accounts, he despised the place and loved Casterly Rock more. His true reason for joy lied in an offer that the king would surely present to him. Not his old title of Hand of the King, as the honor now belonged to Jon Connington, but a title that would surely grant him some of the power and glory he so craved.

"You know your job," he reminded her in a low tone, disregarding the greetings of men around him. "What you are doing a woman's task, and a simple one too. Do not force me to get involved."

Cersei nods, smiling sweetly. "It shall be done easily, father," she assures him. "What queen would dare refuse a Lannister?"

He did not respond to that. Instead, he looked away, gaze following a figure clad in white armor approaching them from across the room.

Cersei swallowed her gasp. My Jaime! She wanted to cry out, throw her arms around him. He looked no different from the last time she had seen him; he was still tall and lean and beautiful, his golden hair shining and green eyes bright. He drew the eye of many a woman and man too as he crossed to them, a small smile on his face. It was his usual expression; proud and smug. It felt good to know that remained unchanged.

"Father, Cersei," he greeted them, offering a low bow. "Welcome to the capital." His eyes held with hers for a telling moment. There would be plenty to discuss later.

Father regarded him coldly, sharp eyes cutting up and down him. Cersei knew what he was thinking; the visage of that white armor on his eldest son sat ill with him. Her brother's position on the Kingsguard was not something he was proud of; it was not something he ever wanted.

Jaime sensed the disapproval, no doubt. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to seem casual as his father scrutinized every inch of him. His eyes dart to her again, a single statement reflected in them: I do this for you.

"You must be glad, father, to have received an invitation back," Jaime finally spoke up at the peak of his discomfort. It was a dangerous statement he made, one that bordered on disrespect. Her father's eyes gave away nothing of his true emotions.

"I'll be glad when our king gives House Lannister its due," he responded coldly. He looks between his children briefly. "I'll be in my chambers should any of you need me. I expect a summons from his grace in time, thus I shall remain there." With that, he nods and walks in the direction that his men were taking his things.

Cersei looks to Jaime, whose disconcerted expression breaks into one of joy-- smug joy, of course. He grins cheekily and leans in to kiss her on the cheek in the most acceptable way they can express their love.

“I’ve missed you, sweet sister,” he said in a low voice, offering his arm.

“And I’ve missed you, Jaime,” she responded. The words left her mouth of their own accord; she did miss him, her other half, her lover. Two years in Casterly Rock had left her hungry and wanting. “Your letters have been infrequent as of late.” And when he did send letters, they were less gossip and more of personal well-being. Of course she cared for her brother’s health, appreciated that he asked after her own, but quite frankly, she wished to know more about the king and his wretched wife.

“Things have been busy lately,” Jaime responds with a shrug, leading her through the castle. “Between going off to battle, managing Aerys, Rhaegar’s ascension… There’s been much to keep myself away from quill and paper.”

“Well then,” Cersei says in a sweet voice. “I suppose that means we have much to talk about.”

He looks slightly uncomfortable at this statement, but says nothing about it. Cersei realized now that he had led them into a secluded alcove somewhere in the castle, and shut the door too. He looks around in the dim light, perhaps trying to weasel out any eavesdroppers. Cersei steps to him, pushing back the golden curls from his eyes. The look he gives her is pleasantly familiar. One filled with longing, and lust, and an excitement that hummed just beneath the surface of his eyes.

“Casterly Rock is lightless without my brother. Without my lover,” she whispers leaning in for a kiss. He allows her that, hands reluctantly resting on her waist as he kissed her back with equal passion. He breaks away sooner than she expected, leaving her breathless in his arms.

“It’s not safe to do this here,” he warns her softly, thumb stroking her cheek.

Cersei hums and leans into him. “Where is it safe, then?” She asked, smiling. It was true that she came here to curry the queen’s favor, and then the king’s, but she cannot help but feel tender toward her brother. When she married the king, she would not need him like this, not in love or physical affections. For now, she wanted him more than she could say.

“I… Well it can’t be the middle of the day, for one,” he pointed out. “I’ll figure something out. Let’s speak for now.”

Cersei nods, stepping away from him. “Very well. I have many questions for you, brother, and surely you’ll have many answers.” She sits down upon a sack of grain in the room, motioning for her brother to join her. He does so quietly.

“I have questions as well,” he said once seated beside her.

"Mine have been waiting longer. Let me ask first." Jaime shrugs his consent, and she begins. “What is the king like? And his wretched queen? Do they get along? Will it be easy to sever them?” Plenty of questions, and yet not enough. If she could wring every detail from Jaime, she would. But he only knew so much; she would take whatever he would give her and piece the rest along the way.

Jaime looked displeased at the nature of her questions. “Why yes, sister, I’m fine, and yourself?” He asked in a scoff.

“Don’t behave so, Jaime. You know why I’m here. There will be plenty of time to chat about our health once I accomplished what I’ve set out to do.” She felt her patience wearing thin at Jaime’s disapproval. If she wanted a man to glower at her, she’d enter the company of her father.

“Yes, of course, Cersei,” Jaime returned bitterly. “Though I’m no close friend of the king’s. Whatever I know comes from idle gossip and what I’ve seen and heard--”

“Well, get on with it then,” Cersei snapped. He threw her another displeased look.

“The king is good and honorable,” he replies after a pause and another dirty look. “He works twice as hard as anyone else in this castle, though you’d be hard pressed to see him glad about it. He’s serious; very serious. But he’s good to those who are loyal to him.”

This was not what Cersei wanted to hear; she wanted to hear about how he’d only grown more handsome since the last time she saw him at the Tourney at Lannisport seven years prior. She wanted to hear about how gallant he was, how brave and bold and sweet. But she would not ask Jaime for such details; he would surely refuse them out of spite, if he was even familiar was such information to begin with.

“The queen is…” He began, piquing Cersei’s interest again, especially when as paused. “She is… unconventional. Her own person, to be sure. She’s a hard shell. Do not expect to break her so easily, or to even get close to her heart.” It sounded as a warning above all else; one Cersei smirked at. “She raises the king’s siblings in addition to their own son. The protective sort, I’d suppose.” He says this last part quietly, glancing at Cersei before he continued. “Do not underestimate her, Cersei.”

Cersei nearly scoffs. Underestimate? No, she would never. Cersei was not one for soft steps and gentle pushes. She would be a storm, prepared to shatter whatever stood in her path.

“Well?” She asked. “How fond is the king of his unconventional queen?”

Jaime’s initial silence is telling; there’s no great love, then. Nothing so strong or passionate as that to tear through. That makes her job much easier.

“He respects her,” he began stiffly. “They’ve reached an understanding of one another by now, I think. They do not dislike each other as they did at the start.” This, admittedly, irritates her. She recalled her brother’s earlier letters detailing their coldness to one another, of how neither one was fond of the other. If only Cersei had been at court then; it would have been so much easier to step between them. “He does not sleep in her bed, however. He visits her some nights for conversation, but nothing more.” He scowls. “I see that pleases you,” he adds in a spat.

Cersei did not even notice that she was grinning. “Why wouldn’t it please me? I had always known there was some flaw in that northern bitch. He is disgusted by her; why else won’t he take his rights?” She almost giggles at this. There was not a man in the world who did not think with his cock, and it seemed that the king’s was sorely untouched. Her job became simpler than she could ever hope.

“I answered your questions. Now you answer mine,” Jaime snapped at her, discomforted by the direction their conversation had taken. Her brother was so sensitive when it came to her matters with other men. If he could, he would kill any suitor who came her way, the king included.

She places a hand on his arm to placate him. “Of course, Jaime dearest. Ask away.”

“Where is our brother?” His voice is hard and unyielding as he asks this. Cersei stiffens at the mention of the murderer, her features twisting into a scowl.

“He’s a monster. Not our brother,” she hisses with clenched fists, her fair mood evaporating quickly.

“Call him what you want, sister, but he came out of our mother’s womb,” he returned in his frustratingly casual fashion.

“And killed her as he did,” she reminded him. “Father would not dare bring that thing here. He would shame us all.” Just thinking about the wretch set her afire. Why Jaime cared so much about him, she'll never understand.

"Of course he would," he replied sardonically.

Cersei was growing impatient with his mocking attitude. "Do you have a question of worth brother? Or might I leave now, so I may arrange an appointment with the queen?” Time was too precious to be wasting it quarrelling with Jaime. In the end, they’d forgive each other, and all of this would be nothing more than wasted breath.

“I’ll take you to her myself,” Jaime snaps, rising from his place beside her. He pinned her with a hard glare, jaw set in anger. “I know you and father are planning something. You two may do what you like, but I ask that you keep me out of it. My loyalty lies with the king.” Cersei rises, taking Jaime’s hand as she did.

“Of course, Jaime,” she purrs, smiling sweetly. “Our loyalty lies with the king as well.”

If her loyalty could not lie with her future husband, then who else could it possibly belong to?

Chapter Text

Elia lowers herself carefully on the bed provided for her, handling the babe in her arms gently so he wouldn't fuss. Her little Lewyn had handled the road with as much grace as one would expect from a babe who'd known the world hardly three moons’ turns. Elia did little better than him; childbirth had left her weakened and frail, and by all accounts she ought not have left Dorne.

But she had to; she owed a man a debt, and he deserved to see what became of it.

Ashara came in to sit down beside her, her soft hand gently rubbing her arm. “Are you tired?” She asked gently, smiling down at Lewyn as he yawned and blinked his eyes open. “I’m sure you are; you really should have stayed home, Elia. I can see it in your eyes that you’re tired.”

Elia shook her head weakly, stroking her son’s cheek with her thumb. His skin was dusky like her own, and his hair too was like hers, black as night. He was her child, surely, all but in the eyes. He opened them lazily, a blue so dark that they appeared purple. They were almost like Ashara’s eyes; only a shade off. Elia was certain her friend had noticed by now. Even little blue-eyed Tyene had gasped as she held him in her lap and whispered, pretty eyes.

“I’m fine, truly,” Elia responded thinly, smoothing back her babe’s hair. “I wanted to come here, Ashara. ‘Tis a rare and hopeful thing to see a new king and queen crowned.” She would not tell Ashara the true reason for the visit, not as she had told Oberyn. Her brother was dark-faced and fuming when she informed him that she wished to come along. He had raved about her health and threatened to tie her to the bed she was confined to if she dared to travel with him; but when she admitted the truth, the rage evaporated from his face.

”His father ought to meet him. I owe him that much. He deserves to know.”

“Arthur has great faith in Rhaegar,” Ashara admitted, speaking her brother’s name almost knowingly. “He is certain he shall be a great king. He has less enthusiasm for his wife, however. Calls her a willful and difficult thing. Unfortunate that we’re expected to share her company above the king’s, though I suppose it can’t be helped.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Elia murmured absentmindedly, too focused on the natural wonder unfolding before her. She wondered if she would ever tire of it, of watching him wake up, of seeing him do the simplest things. He smacked his lips with a wet noise before wrinkling his nose and squinting his eyes. His gaze darted around, perhaps trying to make sense of this new place. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his smooth forehead.

Ashara giggles beside her. “My princess is in love,” she teased, giving her arm a squeeze. She removes her touch to stretch her arms above her head, flopping down on the bed as she did. A comfortable silence passes between them, one Elia spends marveling at her son. He was fully awake now, inquisitive gaze still searching the room as much as he can without turning his head. When his purple eyes meet hers, he makes a soft noise.

“Yes, I’m here, little one,” she quietly assures him with a smile. The aching in her bones dissipated as he looked upon her. “This is a strange place, but I am not. And soon enough you shall meet the man I named you after, and everything will make proper sense again.”

He gurgles in response, kicking his legs. Elia chuckles and lets him grab hold of her index finger, his small hand wrapping around the whole of it. Though she knows such a thought is wasted, she cannot help but feel a twinge of pain for him. She had felt the staring eyes and speculative whispers walking through the castle; she knew what it looked like, what it meant that she brought him here. This was not Dorne, she had to remember. People in this part of the south did not look upon bastards as anything more than a shameful nuisance. Yet even in Dorne she had received similar treatment; being a princess made this transgression worth speaking about. Twas lucky that Elia cared not for such whispers. Even so, and even though he could not understand, she did not like her son to hear such things. Bastard or no, he was loved. He was as much a part of her as her own flesh.

“Tomorrow is the coronation,” Ashara comments lazily from beside her, still lounged atop the bed. “I’m sure the queen is preparing for that today; perhaps we shall meet her tomorrow, then? During the feast, or perhaps Arthur or Ser Lewyn can find us a better time…”

“Certainly,” Elia responds, looking back to her friend. “We have plenty of time here, Ashara. We shall meet everyone we want to meet.”

Ashara nods. “You’re right. And perhaps it would best to leave our meeting till the day after; the poor woman will be hounded with people all night, no doubt. We shall use our connections to our advantage and find ourselves a more private time.”

“That sounds good,” Elia responds softly. She wondered if she could simply come out and say it; she was positive that Ashara had already inferred, but perhaps a hint would be enough. She clears her throat. “Of course, I should really like to--”

A knock comes at the door. The two women look to it, brows raised inquisitively. Ashara rises from the bed, glancing back at Elia as she walked to the door. Slowly, she opens it, revealing behind it a woman tall and proud, with hair like spun gold.

“Lady Cersei,” Elia greets, recalling quickly the girl she had met years ago in Casterly Rock. She was still much the same; beautiful golden hair, sparkling green eyes, and a cruel, lovely mouth. Only now she filled out her gown in a most flattering fashion, and every line of her was elegant and fair. “My goodness, it has been a age.”

“So it has,” the woman responded in a voice like honey. Elia did not miss the way her eyes darted to her son; that, and a good memory, reminded her to be cautious of the Lannister woman. “I do hope I have given you time to rest; I had only heard that you had arrived, and I decided I must see you. I even ran into Prince Oberyn on the way-- I daresay, he’d changed so much!”

Elia nodded, smiling kindly. She looks to Ashara, who stood still holding the door with a miffed looked on her face. Elia motions for her to come to her side, which she does. “This is Lady Ashara Dayne, a good friend of mine,” Elia introduced. Her friend offers a smile that she knew was false, but only because she knew her so well; luckily, Ashara was an apt mummer.

“Pleased to meet you, my lady of Lannister,” Ashara says in a voice more sickly sweet than Cersei’s.

The golden woman nods noncommittally. “The pleasure is mine. It seems the three of us have in common that we all have a relation on the Kingsguard; isn’t that a pleasant coincidence?” she returned with a smile so small it may have been a smirk. "Now I must say, I had come here to ask if you had any intention of becoming a lady-in-waiting to the queen, but it appears that you have greater matters to attend to. Tell me, who is this?" She smiles down at Lewyn, who blinks at her curiously. Elia wondered if he too could sense the insincerity in her voice as she did. She swallowed her ire and wished away the thought.

"This is my son, Lewyn Sand," Elia says, not afraid to use his bastard surname. She had been careful in choosing his first name, shying away from the names of dead boys, of dead brothers. Lewyn was wonderful: strong, brave, worthy of awe.

"My, he's a handsome boy," she croons sweetly, reaching out to brush her fingertips to the soft tuft of hair on his head. Elia could not help but stiffen at the touch, recalling all too well the cruelty the woman had practiced with her dwarf brother when he was but a babe. "Such lovely eyes. An unusual color, they are."

Elia is stunned into a momentary silence, one that Ashara swiftly fills in. "Yes, we wonder if it is her Valyrian blood that gave him such eyes. You recall the marriage between Moran Martell and Daenerys Targaryen many years back? 'Tis is a distant connection, yet it is the only likely explanation." Her friend speaks coolly and gracefully, and to most ears convincingly as well.

"That is a distant connection, but you are right. Anything is possible," Cersei responds, her smile still frozen on her face. "I shall leave you to your rest for now. Tomorrow I intend to share the queen's company; I would be most pleased if you joined us." Elia nods, simply eager to see her go. The woman has her back turned and her hand on the door before she looks back once more. "Our mothers were once close friends, Princess Elia. I should like to continue that friendship between us."

Elia nods again, forcing a tight smile. When the woman had disappeared once more, she drops to the bed, sighing loudly.

"Distasteful woman," Ashara mumbles, joining her at her side. Her cool hand cups her face and pushes back a few strands of hair. "You are tired, Elia. Give me Lewyn and I shall find his wetnurse. You ought to rest."

Elia sets Lewyn down on the bed, then lays down beside him. She looks upon his face as he gurgles and kicks, eyes wide and questioning. She manages a smile as she rubs his belly, yawning. "Leave him here for as long as he remains quiet," Elia mumbles. "If he becomes hungry, take him then. But for now..." She curled her body around her son's, sleep heavy on her tongue and eyes. But before she could give in, she adds, "When you see Arthur, send him by. I should like to speak with him."

She sees Ashara nod out of the corner of her eye, leaving Elia to wonder if she already understood her meaning. It was fine if she did; Ashara would never tell. No, that job fell to herself and only herself. He deserved to hear it from her, and none other.

As she stroked her son’s cheek, the babe silently accepting the tender moment between them, Elia thought of simpler matters. Greeting the queen, for example, getting to see with her own eyes had stolen her betrothed away. She thought of meeting the prince that Rhaegar fled Dorne for, the little boy who might have been her own in a different time. She even thought of meeting Rhaegar, of greeting him like an old friend, remembering the intimacy between them as nothing more than something brief and pleasant for the two of them. These were easy discussions, effortless matters. She was prepared to speak to the king and queen and the whole court if need be.

Speaking to Arthur too should be simple; she wanted nothing out of him but peace of mind. She wanted to tell him the truth in few words and return home unburdened. It was selfish, she knew, to tell him. He held his honor close, and with these words she would tarnish it once more. But it was a life they had created together; a chubby little boy with her hair and his eyes and with many challenges, many joys ahead.

“Soon, it will all make sense,” she whispered to Lewyn, who pursed his lips. “And we will return home happy.”

He made no move to imply that he understood, and why would he? Still, it was joyous to see him blink his eyes and kick his legs, and pretend like he did. As long as they were together, it would always be joyous.

Chapter Text

The city smelled like shit and piss-- more so than it did the last time he came here. But unlike last time, Brandon was much more pleased to be here. His sister getting crowned was all well and good but to get away from Winterfell; that was much better.

Ned had opted to stay behind and look after his wife, a thing that baffled him and landed him in trouble with his own wife. Barbrey had been bloating up like a cow and screaming at him that he ought to stay just like his brother was; but Brandon had enough of her, enough of pretending like he enjoyed living there, and desperately wanted to leave, even if it meant his wife would have yet another chip on her shoulder. The sad truth of it all was that he didn’t care-- a sentiment that may sound cruel to some, but those people didn’t know him.

He would have made the trip alone and enjoyed the trek through the south with a small group of men had Benjen not insisted on coming along. His brother was the most stubborn he’d ever seen him in his life, repeating over and over that he hadn’t seen Lya since even before she got married, that he was owed a trip and all that nonsense. Lucky for the both of them that Benjen wasn’t the chatty sort, or Brandon might have thrown himself off his horse to end his miserable life. Better to die on some green on the Kingsroad than in his bed at Winterfell.

The trip was long and beautiful, with the endless grass and heavy sun illuminating every mile. It made for quite a difference when one left the gorgeous fields to enter the muck and grime of King’s Landing and having to stave off beggars from atop his horse all while avoiding trampling them. He had ill memories of this place; but landing on the threshold of the Red Keep, Brandon also found himself being treated with more respect than he did the last time.

Their horses were seen to, their chambers already drawn up complete with a bath, and lords and ladies were at their elbows, introducing themselves with false eagerness. Benjen seemed to take diplomacy in stride, shaking and kissing hands like a little lord, but Brandon would do little more than tolerate them. He saw them all as they were, as slimy vipers who jumped at the opportunity to rise up among their corrupted ranks. He wondered briefly how his sister could stand this; or more importantly, how she could survive this.

“My lords of Stark,” a voice calls out, interrupting some lord’s overblown introduction. Brandon looks up in the direction of the voice to find none other than Ser Barristan the Bold at the front of the crowd. “The queen requests your presence in her chambers.”

The group of people parts with whispers, letting them through.

“Did you ever imagine this?” Benjen whispered his way, his eyes as wide as a child’s. “Having Barristan the Bold escorting us?”

“Perks of being the queen’s brothers,” he mumbles to Benjen, more disgruntled than he ought to be. “I saw you back there; don’t get too excited. Every one of them are more than willing to use you to get to Lya,” he snaps, visually dashing away some of Benjen’s excitement.

“I know that,” he grumbled, looking cross. “I’m not a child.”

“No, you’re not. So don’t act like one.”

Benjen was very far from a child; it seemed to him that every time he saw his younger brother he shot up an inch. Another half a foot and his height would rival his own, though Brandon doubted it. If Ned could hardly break six foot, then Benjen would likely stop there too. Even so, he’d mostly grown into his long limbs, though he was still decidedly rather lanky. Not very handsome either, but perhaps that would come with age. Most likely not, though.

Still, a Stark was a Stark, and there would always be a girl to want him.

They’re led through that castle within a castle where the royal family stayed-- the holdfast of some dead Targaryen king or another, with fortifications that would put most castles in the north to shame. Brandon recalled carrying his sister, drunk and half-asleep in his arms, through these halls to deposit her in her wedding chambers with a prayer that her husband would keep his hands off her for one night. Such a thought only soured his mood further, and he dashed it away.

The knight leads them to what he presumed was the doors to her chambers, where yet another Kingsguard knight stood; Ser Oswell, by Brandon’s guess, though he was more than certain that Benjen knew who he was, judging by the excited look in his eye.

Brandon opens the door to a spacious antechamber, where his sister sat at a table in a white wire chair. She wore a gown of light blue that was tight in the bodice and flowy in the skirt. Her brown curls were pulled back from her rosy face with a ribbon of white lace, and when she smiled she glowed like the dawn after a long night.

Like a child she runs up to him, throwing her arms around his neck. And Brandon, unable to help himself from feeling anything but affection for his sister, picks her up off her feet and spins her around once. She giggled in his ear. When he set her back down, she reached up with her slim hand to cup his cheek and smile.

“You missed me,” she said not as a question, but as a fact. Brandon gives her a sheepish smile and moves aside for Benjen, who was practically rocking on his heels. He watches their reunion briefly before his eyes scanned the room he was in.

It was heavily decorated in the southron fashion, with florals and lace and myrish rugs. The couches around the room were large and plump, looking as if they’d swallow a small child if one sat in them. The table Lyanna had been sitting at was set with an opulent teapot, matching tea cups, and plates of cakes.

“Hello? Is that all?” His sister's voice comes swimming back to his senses, and he watches her as she stands gripping Benjen’s shoulder and smiling broadly. “Two years and all I get is a hello?”

“And a present,” Benjen return, thin face lighting up with a grin. “But that’s packed away somewhere in the trunks.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” she dismissed, pulling him to the table she had set. “The presence of my family is enough of a gift.”

Brandon eyes his sister as he lowers himself in the seat, pushing the sword on his hip off the side so it didn’t get stuck somewhere in it. Lyanna had risen to pour them cups of tea, looking more and more like a prim and proper southron lady like the ones he saw outside.

“Look at our southron queen, brother,” Brandon teased, picking up his teacup with mocking daintiness. “Tea and cakes and white lace in her hair.” He grinned as Benjen chuckled; Lyanna huffed, a hand reaching for the white lace ribbon in her hair.

“I’m no southron,” she insists as quick as a whip and with twice the bite. So there was some wolf left in her. “But even with winter coming it is warmer here than it is up north; there’s no need for spirits and leg of lamb to warm us up. Besides, it’s not even midday yet. It’s too early to drink.”

"That doesn't explain the lace," he returns with all cheek. Lyanna throws him a dirty look as Benjen leans forward to cut a path between them, clearing his throat.

"Ignore him," he offered with a smile. "How are you? Are you happy here?"

Brandon resists the urge to roll his eyes at his brother's attempt at peacemaker. His sister seems happy for the diversion however, choosing to fold her hands in her lap as she spoke.

"I am happy," she answered, offering a wan smile. "The court takes getting used to, and I fear I still haven't learned it all, but things are better than they were before. There are some good people here, if you’ll believe it."

Brandon’s eye wanders to the door of her bedchambers. “Is your husband among them?” He asks as he brought the teacup to his lips. His sister meets his gaze with a glare.

“He is,” she insists firmly. “He had been nothing less but kind and gentle with me.” He could see her hands grip a handful of her skirts on her lap. Good.

“And Jon is well?” Benjen pipes up, once again trying to reclaim the more amiable attitude of the conversation. It wasn’t that Brandon was being cruel, or difficult. He didn’t like what he had seen of the capital and he didn’t like to see his sister be so dependent on strangers-- that was all.

Lyanna nods. "I've asked one of my ladies to bring him by in a little bit. He's napping now." She sighs. "He's such a sweet and gentle boy. He looks like you, Brandon."

This comment takes him by surprise, silencing all three of them for a while. A little boy that looked like him? That suddenly makes his chest feel tight.

"Gods be good, I have missed you both," his sister exhales, putting an end to the silence. Her eyes were glassy with tears as she spoke. "Two years is too long a time; no, we must arrange more visits somehow... And I shan't allow another excuse from Ned. You two pass that along to him."

Benjen chuckles. "Ned has other things to do," he reminded her gently. "Otherwise he would have come."

"Of course," she says, rolling her eyes. "Just as well; I will take two out of three brothers over none at all."

"Barbrey's with child, but that didn't stop me," Brandon piped up, grinning like a boy. Thanks the gods he left when he did. "Ned has no excuse."

Lyanna lifted a brow. "Barbrey is? You never mentioned that," she mused, frowning. "If you wanted to stay, Brandon, you could have. Hopefully she is not too far along that you'll miss the birth?"

He shrugged. "What does she need me there for? You women don't a man's help in birthing." He already despising the turn this conversation had taken. Gods be good, if he wanted to be chided at, he’d have stayed in Winterfell and locked himself in a room with his wife.

She visibly bristles at this. "That may be true, but it is nice to know that a husband awaits his child outside the door,” she returns, all high and mighty. Brandon frowns.

"Tell that to your husband then; didn't he leave you alone?"

"He had business in Dorne. He would have liked to have been here given the chance,” she snaps, a fire blazing behind her eyes. His sister’s voice is filled with ire as she spoke, the wolf inside her finally rising on its haunches. Brandon knows a challenge when he sees one.

"Oh, I'm sure." He retorted sardonically. “And where is he now, instead of greeting his goodbrothers? What’s so important that he couldn’t spare an appearance for your family?”

"Why must you be like this? He is busy." She returns, gritting her teeth. "And just because you're unhappy in your marriage doesn't mean all of us must be. You’re the one who chose a different bride than your intended. You made that choice and damned the rest of your family!"

Brandon snorts. "Choice? Some choice I had! Sister, did no one tell you the story?" Lyanna furrows her brows, seeming confused.

"Story? What story?" She asked in a small voice. "You ran away with her. You chose that."

"Lya--" Benjen begins to say, looking embarrassed, before Brandon cut him off.

"She was carrying my child," he told her without any pomp. "And when father promised to wed her to Ned instead, I ran off with her. And that's the story of how I lost Winterfell and Catelyn Tully: I fucked the wrong woman one too many times."

His sister stares at him, dumbfounded, and immediately he feels like a horse’s ass. It was true that they tried to keep the story a secret to save face; but he hadn't considered that Lyanna didn't know. Somehow, he always expected that she believed the worst about him.

"We have to be careful writing you here, Lya," Benjen spoke up, his hand resting on her arm. "You have to understand."

"I defended you," she finally said, looking at Brandon and making him feel like as if he was the only one in the room. "I called the mad king a liar because of you."

This seemed to humble him some; or at least, he had no snarky response to that. He looked away from her for a moment, feeling the heat of her gaze, before mumbling, "Lya--"

"I should have known," she shot back coldly. Her gaze fell to her lap as she fell silent. Benjen looked to him and grimaced, upset that she was upset. He expected as much; the two of them were twins in nearly every respect.

Brandon sighed and leaned back into his chair, the metal of it digging into his back. Gods, he hadn't meant to upset her, and now he couldn't say anything without feeling worse.

A woman enters the room, and it seemed that Lyanna didn't take notice. She was tall and thin and wore her brown hair in a high bun. In her arms was a little boy who looked unmistakably like a Stark.

"Good afternoon my lords, your grace," she says in a high voice.

"Afternoon," Brandon returns, eyeing the lad as he landed in Lyanna's lap. His sister kisses the top of his curly head as he peered around curiously. In his mother's lap, his fair skin by her own and his dark curls mixed with hers, he might as well have been a mirror image of her at that age.

"Jon, say hello to your uncles," Lyanna said with some cheer. "There is Uncle Bran," she said as she pointed the boy's little finger at Brandon. "And that is Uncle Ben."

The boy stares with questioning grey eyes as he silently accepts Benjen playfully shaking his hand.

"He looks like Ned," Benjen comments. "Look at that frown!"

"Ned wasn't as pretty as that when he was a babe," Brandon finds himself saying, eyes still locked on the little boy. "He looks like you, Lya."

Then much to his surprise, his little sister burst into tears.
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It was difficult to separate from his family after their reunion, yet Brandon did not leave Winterfell only to be stuck in another castle. Once he found his opportunity to leave, he took it, promising his sister that he’d break his fast with her the next morning, and in turn she promised that her husband would be present.

He had noticed that the grounds around the castle were in a better state than the city; green, and open, and new, the adventurous lord had a hankering to discover each inch of that green ground. He even wished to see the torrential Blackwater Bay, find out if it truly did have the power to suck a man in just by gazing at it. It was fortunate he knew how to swim.

He navigates the halls of that castle-within-a-castle by recollection, having memorized it as easily he memorized a hunting trail. Stepping outside it, however, was not nearly as satisfying as emerging from a forest, for in this case he left one forest for another. The idea was clever enough, and he supposed it ought to bring him comfort knowing that an intruder would have a difficult time getting this far in, but for a visitor it was only frustrating.

As he walked through the Red Keep, he wondered briefly how Winterfell was doing without him. He could see it now in his mind's eye; his father would be in his solar, reading a book by candlelight with a pipe between his lips. Ned was likely tucked in a corner or a bed somewhere with his lady wife, the two holding hands or appearing disgustingly in love in one way or another. And Barbrey... Barbrey would be in bed trying to get Lyarra to sleep whilst cursing his name beneath her breath. He could feel the curses now, biting at his skin like mosquitos. Gods, that woman knew how to hate.

Lost in his thoughts, he had hardly noticed that he crashed into someone, sending the small person tumbling to the ground. A yelp demands his full attention, and Brandon looks down to see a woman sprawled on the floor before him. But not just any woman; her hair was long, and dark, and thick, and her body an hourglass crafted from milkglass. When she looked up at him to throw him a distasteful glare, deep violet eyes penetrated his very soul.

Never one to be daunted by a beautiful woman, Brandon offered an easy smile and his hand. "A hundred apologies, my lady. I did not see you there; a folly I'd imagine few men have done by you."

She lifts a brow at his brazen remark, but takes his hand regardless, allowing him to bring her to her feet. Gods! Where did she come from that silks so thin were the normal dress? They clung to her breasts and hips in a way he found most distracting; yet he still had to fool her into thinking he was a gentlemen, thus he forces his gaze to her lovely face.

"I accept the apology, but I shall do you the favor of ignoring your comment," she said in a voice as warm and sweet as honeyed wine. "Where are you headed that you take it upon yourself to knock over young women in your path?"

"I would tell you, but then I'd have to steal you away lest you share my secret," he retorts, still grinning. He hadn't flirted with a woman so fair in too long; he aimed to take every opportunity.

"Aren't you a bold one?" She crossed her arms over her ample chest. There was the ghost of a smile on her lips, along with a warmth in her eye that implied that his attentions were not entirely unwanted. "I shall refuse this information, then. You may keep your secrets, and I will keep my dignity."

"Perhaps if you knew who I was, you'd be tempted to come with me. I've friends in high places, you see."

"What a coincidence; so do I," she returned without skipping a beat.

"Is that right? And who might they be?" He asked, noting how she took a step closer. He leaned in a little more, placing a hand on the pommel of the sword at his hip to exercise a bit more power, take up a bit more space.

She paused a moment, perhaps considering the structure of her response. There was wit laden on her tongue, and Brandon would have liked to taste that and a little more. "I have Ser Arthur Dayne and the Princess of Dorne in my favor," she answered, the corner of her pink lips quirking into a smug smile.

Ser Arthur Dayne, she says. He knew he recognized those eyes from somewhere. He keeps his recognition hidden away, for now.

"You've valuable allies, I suppose. Yet mine trump yours," he told her, enjoying the way her brows lifted in surprise, and in a challenge. "I've Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell on my side... Oh, and the queen of course, which means I'm only a ways off from the king, am I not?"

"My, you've lofty friends indeed," she commented in a sultry breath. "Tell me, by what accident of fate did Lord Stark and the queen come to be familiar with a man who knocks over women in hallways?"

Brandon gives a bark of laughter. "Call it an accident of birth, sweetling. Somehow, I came into the world as their kin."

"Mm, I see that," she said, two of her slim fingers reaching out to stroke the silver direwolf pin on his tight-laced leather jerkin.

"Now answer me; by what accident of fate did a goddess land in the laps of a celibate knight and a Dornish princess?" He asked in a low voice. The woman was close enough to smell the perfume in her hair; something floral with a hint of spice.

She chuckled warmly, looking up to meet her stunning eyes with his grey ones. "Well, don't you know? I am a star, and I fell. Now I'm doomed to spend my life among beasts like you."

"And does this star have a name that I may call her by?" He reached out to stroke a lock of her soft hair between his fingers.

"Perhaps," she answered, coyly pulling away from him. "If you dance with me the night of the coronation, I may be so kind as to tell you."

"I lay in waiting, then." He makes no move aside to allow her to walk past, enjoying how close her body was as she slinked by him, her silks brushing his roughspun. There was something else in this trip beyond an escape: a taste of the local fare.

He would wait on a trip to the brothel; if the other southron ladies were half as randy as she was, then Brandon would be able to save his coin.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar was the very picture of regality that morning in the throne room. He sat upon the Iron Throne as she watched the High Septon lay a coronet atop his brow. It was a thick band of gold inlaid with rubies-- Aegon the Conqueror's crown, as Rhaegar had explained to her.

When the High Septon's blessings had come to a close, their new king rose from his throne. Cheers erupted from the crowd gathered; even her brothers clapped behind her, but perhaps they were just being polite. When it all came to a hush again, Lyanna knew it was her turn.

She walked with forced grace and elegance that had never existed within her. It was the best she could do, and no doubt there were those watching who could name her every fault. But she walked regardless, trying to fill her head with hopeful thoughts, knowing that she bore less confidence in a walk down an aisle than atop a horse.

When she came to the foot of the throne, she kneeled, a pillow awaiting her knees. This had been the most difficult part in practices; trying to kneel without falling over in her luxurious dress, bowing her head at just the right angle, squaring her shoulders in a way that kept her back straight as well. She tried all this half a hundred times and never quite mastered it; she had no doubt that this was the same.

The moments it takes for him to make it to her feel like hours. She is wobbly upon her knees and she constantly resists the urge to slump. Her brothers were watching too, she had to remind herself. She knew they were standing tall; and even upon her knees she must be like them, be a Stark.

"I crown you, Lyanna of House Stark," Rhaegar's voice boomed, making for a good reminder. "As Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the Andals, and the First Men." A crown was nestled atop her head, but Lyanna dared not move. It was only when Rhaegar's hand came into view did she budge, placing her slim hand in his large one, looking up at the man she would swear her allegiance to for the rest of her days. He helped her to her feet more gracefully than anything she had done that afternoon.

Then he smiled at her-- a private smile seen only by her, meant only for her --and suddenly she could not think of a single thing to worry about.
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By the time the feast had come around, everything seemed to have calmed. The procession through the city had been longer and more arduous than she had expected, leaving her largely tired and with a meager appetite.

For Jon, the day had been almost too much. He was nestled in his father's lap, eyelids heavy as he staved off sleep. The small gold circlet on his head was lopsided, threatening to fall off at any moment. Viserys beside her seemed a little less tired than his nephew, often tugging at her sleeve to point something out in the crowd. They had been seated at the high table where they had a good view of the bustling hall before them. All families were arranged as she and Rhaegar had planned; her brothers and their men sat closest to her with the Tullys and Tyrells beside them; across was the Lannisters, Arryns, Martells, and Baratheons. She felt relief surge through her when she saw not Robert, but his brother Stannis, a stern faced, homely young man who seemed removed from the conversation around him.

She made note of those who were most important: regal-looking Tywin and his stunning daughter Cersei, the elderly Jon Arryn, whose young Tully wife had stayed behind in the Vale, Benjen looking pleased to be among adult company, Brandon, who was half-drunk but amiable, and then the pair of Martell siblings, dark and mysterious. Oberyn seemed somewhere between cruel and easygoing, and his sister Elia was gaunt but beautiful-- a worthy match for Rhaegar if there was any. She shook the thought away, taking greater interest in the dark-haired babe in her arms. Another one of Oberyn's bastards? In truth, she hadn't a clue.

When the music kicked up, people flocked to the floor, good cheer permeating the room. Even Brandon was on his feet, already capturing a maid with long dark hair in his arms. Her ladies were finding her own men, and she noted that bold Emeline was tugging at a Tully knight’s hand. The man’s color could be seen from leagues away; Lyanna chuckles fondly. So immersed in watching the crowd, she hardly noticed when Rhaegar reached over to tuck a hair behind her ear. She turns her head quickly to meet his gaze.

"Is there anyone you're curious about?" He asked, perhaps the first words they'd exchanged since the coronation.

Lyanna shakes her head. "I think I have them all sorted out. I seated them, remember?" She offers a small smile, which he returns.

"Of course," he returns, shifting a notably sleepy-eyed Jon in his arms. "Soon enough they will line up to make themselves known. Then on the morrow I will share their company again for the Grand Council."

"And I shall have to entertain their wives and daughters," Lyanna returns, trying to seem excited but instead finds herself wrinkling her nose. She wasn't sure she was prepared for such a task.

I am queen now, and that is what a queen must do, she reminded herself. A queen had to do a great many things, she was slowly discovering. Diplomacy and entertainment aside, things were shifting in her private life as well. Even her brothers were more aware of her new position, and she sensed it from them despite their familiar warmth. Given the chance, she would shed the title in a heartbeat. But that was not an option; in truth, she had few options. Everyone was looking to her now, for good and for evil. The court, the visitors, her brothers, Rhaegar--

I have a duty to him too. Advice and companionship aside, Lyanna knew there was more that perhaps he was too gentle to ask from her. Just a fortnight ago, the wetnurse had already explained to her in clear terms that giving Jon suck from her breasts was putting the matter of heirs at risk. The woman forbade her from it with the threat that she would go straight to the Grand Maester with this complaint. Lyanna did not resist as much as she had expected herself to; strangely, she was slowly resigning herself to the matter of heirs, of making them… When she recalled the feel of Rhaegar’s hard thighs beneath her legs when he pulled her into his lap, of his strong chest against her back, his warm breath on her neck, Lyanna feels her color rising.

There was bustle among the main tables, and she sensed that soon they would be hounded. Taking advantage of the calm before the storm, Lyanna reaches out to graze her fingertips across the side of the coronet Rhaegar wore over his brow. The rubies sparkled at her touch. Her husband took notice, pulling her hand down to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

“Do you like it?” He asked simply.

Lyanna nods. “It’s much less elaborate than what I would expect out of Aegon the Conqueror’s crown,” she expresses thoughtfully. The first Targaryen king had such a simple thing, little more than a circlet.

“Aegon was a warrior; such a thing is easier to wear into battle than what you have,” he explained, nodding to her own diadem. Lyanna too thought it simple, not too heavy with all of the design in the front rather than all around. But even then it was not simpler than Rhaegar’s.

"Do you aim to ride into any battles, then?"

A small smile graces his lips. "Not if I can help it." He looks away from her and back down to Jon, who sat leaning on his father's arm, lips curled into a pout in his sleep. Lyanna smoothes his unblemished brow. "This one is done for the day, it seems," he notes fondly. "I'll have him sent to your chambers."

"No," Lyanna finds herself protesting. "I-- I'm trying to get him used to sleeping alone. The nursery will do." She nearly blushes in embarrassment; was this too heavy handed? Or was it not enough?

But Rhaegar doesn't react significantly; he nods his approval soundlessly. Lyanna motions over the wetnurse who stood by, watching as Rhaegar carefully transferred their sleeping son into her arms. Once she was off with Ser Oswell behind her, Lyanna looks back to her husband. His eyes were focused on Lord Tywin and his daughter, who were rising from their chairs, surely coming to greet them. Now was her best chance.

She reaches out to touch his arm, beckoning his attention again. "Come to my rooms after the feast. Please," she said quickly. "I-I... I want..." She cannot finish the sentiment; for all her boldness, this was one thing she had trouble expressing.

He does not embarrass her; he pats her hand kindly, nodding his understanding. "I'll be there," he assures her. Somehow, this does not put her at ease.
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She sits alone at her vanity, having already dismissed Jude who had brushed her hair with nearly half a hundred strokes. Looking into the mirror, Lyanna tries to make herself pretty, a practice she was enormously unfamiliar with. It was made even more difficult after tonight, as she recalled all the beautiful women in attendance. Elia Martell, Ashara Dayne, those pretty Tyrell girls-- and the fairest of them all, the golden Cersei Lannister. As if her extraordinary beauty wasn’t enough, the woman had even offered her services as a lady-in-waiting. Lyanna almost had a mind to refuse out of sheer jealousy; yet it was lucky that she was not so vain a person. At least I’m a better rider than she’ll ever be, she assured herself childishly. At least I’m queen. Examining her reflection, she arranged her hair around her face, pinched her cheeks to bring some color into them, fiddled with the laces on her shift trying to determine how open she dared make it.

As she does this, her hands tremble in anticipation. You want this, she reminded herself. You asked. Yet she knows she asked the last time too, and hated it. But this will be different.

The door to her chambers opens then closes unceremoniously. She looks over to see Rhaegar, splendid in his sumptuous attire, his gaze falling on her. Lyanna rises, then crosses to him. Once she reached him, she rises on her toes, hands on his chest to keep from falling over, and kissed him.

"Good evening," she said as she pulled away, smiling through her boldness.

"Good evening," he returns, his gaze hotter than the southron sun. It made her warm all over. "Did you enjoy the feast?"

She nods, though the memory of it was already far behind her. "It was lovely."

"It was." His hand met the curve of her hip with little more than a tentative touch. He surely knew why she called him here; he had to. Lyanna, unable to think of anything else to say, gets to work.

Wordlessly, her hands move to the top clasp of his silk doublet, undoing it with some difficulty. Her fingers move down, undoing the rest one by one, until it is open and baring the black shirt he wore underneath. She pulls the doublet down his shoulders, then moves to the laces at the top of his shirt.

Her movements are stilled by his hands closing around her wrists. Could he sense her uncertainty? Did he not want her? Mustering up her courage, she looks up at him.

"Do you want this?" He asked simply. Lyanna's first instinct is to nod.

"Yes, I do. Don't you want it too?" She asked in a small voice. Would he refuse her? She does not think she could bear the embarrassment.

"I do," he answered in a low voice, but he did not free his grip from her wrists.

"I know there is pleasure to be found in the marriage bed," she explains swiftly, beating back the blush that threatened to mar her cheeks. "And I know that this won't be like before. I trust you. Even so, even if I do not like it... We owe Jon a brother or sister, at least."

He examines her for a moment longer, those deep violet eyes raking over her face. “I want you to like it,” he said simply. The blush now had broken through and had surely turned her fair skin red and pink and every color in between. He released her hands, then cupped the side of her face. Leaning down, he presses his lips to hers in a kiss that was decidedly less chaste than what Lyanna had given him before. His lips were warm and ravenous, pressing to hers with a fervor that she returns. He tasted sweet, like the wine he had at the feast, with the barest hint of mint.

Her hands moved unconsciously as they undid the laces of his shirt, helping him to pull it over his head. As she kisses him, her hands feel the smoothness of his chest, fingertips tracing muscle and scars and the thin trail of hair that led south. In turn, her husband cupped a breast through her shift, making her gasp into his mouth. His touch was warm through the fabric, the pad of his thumb rough as it scraped over her nipple.

He pulls his mouth from hers, looking down at her with a fire behind his eyes. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, voice low and husky.

Never stop, she thinks as he undos the laces of the shift, fingers trailing down her bare shoulders as he pushed it off, letting the fabric fall and pool around her feet. When she rises for another kiss, he denies her, gently securing her shoulders so he may study her bare body. She hoped he liked what he saw; she knew she was too thin and hard, her breasts small, her legs muscled like a colt's. Small scars marred her otherwise flat stomach, a sorry side effect of birthing. Looking up at his face, she cannot tell if her body pleased him.

Suddenly, fingertips brushed her knee, moving up and inward until they reached the junction of her thighs. His hand slipped there, fingers tentatively stroking her through her smallclothes. The reaction is immediate; a rush of warmth coursed through her body as she let out an involuntary moan. A strong arm wraps around her waist, keeping her from falling, pulling her close. They are skin to skin, his methodic fingers teasing, urging a wetness to pool between her thighs till she feels her smallclothes soaked through. She is almost lightheaded in his arms, moaning and mewling with her hands twisting in his hair as he dipped to kiss her again. He was hungrier this time, tongue pushing past her teeth. When he moved his fingers away to rid her of her wet smallclothes, a whine escapes her lips at the loss of his touch. She thinks she feels him smile against her mouth until those graceful fingers meet warm, bare skin, dashing away all conscious thought.

"Rhaegar," she moans, her legs shaking beneath her. Strong arms sweep her off her feet, her husband carrying her like a new bride on her wedding night. Once on the bed, he rolls atop her, crushing her breasts against his broad chest, a feeling that is comforting in its own rough way. It does not stay, as he soon moves down her body, his mouth leaving behind a fiery trail. Wet kisses are peppered down her neck, on her shoulder, before his mouth wrapped around the tip of one breast. Her back arches off the bed, her hips only held down by his hands’ grip, as he gently sucks at her until the nipple is hard around his tongue. He moves to the other breast, lips never separating from her skin, pausing inches before the tip of it. Warm breaths moisten it, eliciting from her an expected mewl. Then his hand cups her cheek, urging her to look down at him.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

“I want to scream,” she gasps, finally finding words.

He moves back up, lips hovering over hers, hands cradling her hips. He says nothing in response; he only moves, suddenly shifting so she sat straddled atop him, legs on either side of him. The front of his trousers were persistent bulge against her sex; when she shifted her hips, friction built up in a delicious way. She could telling she was tormenting him, with how he bucked against her in anticipation. His lips, however, are inviting; she leans down to kiss him, pushing the hair out of his eyes. Strong hands rock her hips, grinding her against him, sending shivers down her spine. She moans against his mouth, then leans up. Her hands fly to the laces of his trousers, undoing them and unsheathing him.

This was the part she feared most. Perhaps sensing her doubt, Rhaegar sits up, a strong arm wrapping around her waist, while his other hand rested on her hip. It moves around to hold her rump, pushing her hips up. "Slowly," he whispered in the shell of her ear as he helped her guide him inside her. "There-- Good."

He kisses down the line of her jaw, pausing to suckle high on her neck, where her quick pulse beat against his lips. She concentrates on this, on the feeling of him filling her up, of her wrapped around him, of the immeasurable warmth. She rests one hand high up on his back, and another on his chest before she rocks her hips, riding him as she would ride a horse: hard and quick. They are close, so close, skin sticking to each other and hips crashing as gentle as waves on a shore. His hands, so large and graceful, branded her skin with their heat, his lips doing much the same.

It was not beautiful-- it was base pleasure, it was her nails leaving half moon imprints on his chest, it was their bodies being covered with a thin sheen of sweat, it was him panting into her shoulder, it was her moaning without shame.

Then it came-- a wave of heat and pleasure washing over her, locking up the joints in her body, forcing her thighs to clench around his hips. Her voice is taken from her then, but her body trembles, buzzing with ecstasy until it leaves her exhausted and languid, head falling against his shoulder as she gasped to regain her breath. Rhaegar’s hands move up and down her back, the touches like pinpricks against her warm skin.

“Rhaegar… oh...” she manages to exhale, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. They were dark and dangerous and hungry, but his kiss was sweet, slow, tender. Her hands snake up his back to meet at the nape of his neck. It took mere moments for him to spend himself thereafter; she senses it in the way his muscles tightened, in that quiet little grunt he gave, and then in the new heat that filled her. When they came apart, falling side-by-side onto the bed, she feels a stickiness between her thighs, trickling down.

They both search for breath, Rhaegar still quieter in this task than she. Lyanna presses her knees together, giving a little hum at the new ache she felt between her legs. The throbbing was not painful, but rather sweet, comforting even. Once largely composed, she peeks at him from behind her arm, surprised to see him sitting up. She joins him, rising up on her hand, searching his face for some sign of emotion. A little frown quirks her lips.

“Were you not pleased?” She asked in a small voice. She was new at this, to be sure, and if their past times told her anything, it was that just because a man spends himself does not mean he took his pleasure.

He smiles warmly, wrapping an arm about her shoulders, drawing her to his chest. He stroked her cheek with his thumb as he kissed the tip of her nose.

“I was immensely pleased,” he answered. “Were you?”

Lyanna nods. “I didn’t know it could be so wonderful.” She felt strangely sleepy now, however, and she moves to rest her head upon his chest, one arm thrown across his stomach.

“I would have it always be thus,” he said, rubbing her arm gently. “You are my wife and my queen; I want to please you.”

“I want to please you too,” she admitted, smiling to herself. “I wish things had been different… That this was how it was from the start.”

“You were young,” he returned softly.

“I was scared.” She pressed her cheek to his chest, hearing the thump-thump-thump of his heart. A living man was he, and she his living wife.

He is so warm, she notes sleepily. Like a true dragon.

“Is it true that men need time before they can do this again?” She asked, closing her eyes.

She did not see her husband’s face to gauge his reaction, but he does pause before answering. “It is.”

“If I am asleep by the time you are able…” She chews her lip, a little embarassed to make this request. “Then wake me.”

Chapter Text

Ned wraps his cloak tighter about his shoulders when the breeze picked up, the force of it sending the red leaves of the heart tree rustling and the grass at his feet swaying. Little snow flakes fell in tandem with the leaves, white and red both falling to the earth. He blinked, surprised at the snowfall. He removes a hand from his cloak, opening it up so that the small flakes would fall and melt in the center of his palm.

Snow, he mused. How cruel and fitting that the gods would send him such a sign after he had finished praying for the health of his family, for such a sign meant only one thing.

The walk back to Winterfell was as solitary was the walk to the godswood. The forest gave him such peace that extended beyond the meditation of prayer. Kneeling before the weirwood, even without asking from the gods, meant time alone with his thoughts, with the hope that all worries would be scrubbed clean. But Ned was a naturally worrisome man, and thus time spent in the godswood was precious time well spent.

The courtyard was at a hush; no clash of steel rang out among the training warriors. All that were present had their swords sheathed and their attentions turned skyward. They see the snows too. Excited murmurs could be heard among the folk. Everyone would be speaking about it by the end of the day.

Ned passes by them, making his way up the wooden steps to the rookery, where he expected to find Maester Luwin. The wood creaked below his feet, as if they were quietly threatening to break. They would never break, Ned knew. If anything could be said about Winterfell, it was that the castle was as strong as it was old. Nothing short of dragons could bring it to rubble, and even then it was questionable. There was magic laden in every stone in the castle, more so than any other. Magic of the children. Magic of the old gods. Dragons were legend, yes, but not magic. Only magic could truly defeat magic. Or so Old Nan says.

The maester is in the rookery, as Ned has predicted, surrounded by his many black ravens. The birds cawed at Ned's presence, screaming curiously at his intrusion as some even noisily flapped their wings. Luwin turns at the sudden cacophony, resting his sage smile on Ned.

"My lord, what timing you have," the master said. "Come, look what has flown in from the Citadel."

Ned steps closer, but he has only crossed half the distance to the maester before he sees it. It's a bird-- a raven to be sure --larger than any other in the rookery. But its size was not what was truly impressive; its feathers were as white as freshly fallen snow, practically glowing in the dim light of the rookery. Its black, beady eyes studied him curiously.

“You know what this is, surely?” Luwin asks kindly, using two fingers to stroke the raven between its eyes. “Maester Walys might have shown you the white raven before; you’ve been through many winters, and there is not a child I know of that had not been intrigued by the bird.”

Ned nods. Maester Walys had indeed shown him and all his siblings every white raven that had flown in from the Citadel, from the earliest winter Ned could remember. Brandon hadn’t found the bird terribly interesting in itself, Lyanna would look at it with queer reverence, and Benjen always had a hundred questions for the maester to answer regarding the bird, the Citadel, winter, and whatever else was on his mind. Ned, however, feared it. Not the bird itself perhaps, but the omens it brought with it.

“We shall have to spread this information soon, so everyone may prepare,” Luwin continues, jumping slightly when the bird began to flap its enormous wings. “And we must pray, of course, that this winter shall be short and mild.”

Ned nods again, unsure of what to say. Just as always, he was discomforted by the news. Starks may be best at enduring the season, but it would be foolishness not to fear it too. “Shall you tell my lord father, or shall I?” He asks, shifting from foot to foot. The ravens around them were cawing and growing restless again. Damn those birds.

“I shall. I have other news to bring to him as well,” Luwin returns with a sage nod. He looks back to the raven, then mumbles, “I hope the weather does not worsen when it is time for your brothers to return.”

“They’ll be fine,” Ned insists with a shrug. Brandon would lunge at the opportunity to be away from Winterfell for a longer time; he wouldn’t be surprised if he spends the entire winter, as long as it might be, in King’s Landing.

“I hope that’s true,” the maester replies cryptically. “Enjoy the rest of your day, my lord. Do not let this news dampen your spirits.”

The walk back down the steps of the rookery feels longer than the walk up, with the wooden steps appearing to creak louder than before. Upon stepping outside again, he finds the snow was already clinging to the ground in a thin white sheet. The flakes were delicate and thin at best; they would melt before another layer may form atop it.

He cannot help but think of past winters. He’d spent a few entirely in the Eyrie, where atop the Vale the cold was frigid and entirely unforgiving. Even during milder winters, it was painful to be outside as it felt like his entire face threatened to freeze over and fall off. Winters in Winterfell, however, held pleasant memories for him. The walls were always warm, the hot springs below undaunted even in the face of freezing cold. Then in the thick of winter, there would be thick snow, able to be packed into balls and thrown.

Standing in the middle of the courtyard, one such memory comes to mind. Lyanna, no more than five, running around giggling as she packed snow between her hands, squealing when Brandon landed a snowball on her. Benjen was still a baby then, toddling on uncertain legs, but wanted to be with his siblings, despite how red his nose was turning. The snowflakes would cling to their cloaks and hair, but none minded as they melted on them. Such a sweet memory, though it felt so far away now. He could almost hear their breathless laughter echoing throughout the courtyard…

He shook his head. If he lingered much longer staring as blankly as he was, people around him would begin to wonder. As he steps inside the castle, he tracks in water from the snow that had melted below his feet.

He walks through the castle, boots squeaking on the stone floors, to find his own growing family. He comes upon Robb first, who had been on the floor setting up blocks with his cousin. Lyarra's mother was not to be found here, however. She was likely resting, as her pregnant condition demanded. Ned felt a twinge of pity for his dark-haired niece and her mother; with Brandon away it likely felt no different than usual.

Catelyn is huddled in an overstuffed chair, holding a book in her lap. She smiles as he enters the room; the sight of it is enough to make his heart skip a beat.

"You are grim-faced, husband-- more so than usual, that is," she commented cheerily after accepting the brief kiss he gave her.

"Perhaps I have reason to be," he said, hand coming to rest on the back of her neck. Robb had began his frantic crawl toward him, arms reaching skyward as he whined softly. Lyarra stayed behind where she was, eyes focused on the blocks set before her. Ned picks up his son, who giggles happily at the ascent.

At nearly a year old, Robb was all chubby limbs, curly auburn hair, and bright blue eyes; not a soul in the castle could resist his wiles. He presses a kiss to his smooth forehead, smiling discreetly as Robb giggled happily.

"How is that?" Catelyn asked, still curious after his cryptic remark.

"A white raven has flown in from the Citadel." Robb stayed in her arms only a moment longer before he demanded to be let go. He wriggled and whined until his father lowered him back onto the floor, where he quickly rejoined his cousin with their blocks.

"Oh," Catelyn returned. "I must pray soon. No-- now." She sets her book down and rises gracefully. Her thick auburn hair had been twisted in a long plait that hung across her breast.

"There is no hurry," he offered uselessly as his wife straightened and found her balance.

"The gods won't wait, Ned, you know that," she told him kindly, kissing his cheek fondly. "Do keep watch over them." She nods her head toward the babes on the floor.

"Wait," he said before reaching to pull his cloak off. He fastens the furs about her shoulders. "It's snowing outside."

"Snow!" She exclaimed softly, surprised. "See, the gods really don't wait." She slips into her shoes and scurries out, the plait bouncing on her shoulder as she did.

Ned smiles after her, shaking his head once she was out of sight. Plopping into her chair, he eyed the two children that played on the floor. To his amusement, they eye him right back. Robb crawls over to him swiftly, and Lyarra is right behind him, toddling on unsure legs. His son makes a grab at his knees, pairing the effort with a grunt, watching his father with expectant blue eyes. Ned hoists him onto his lap. Lyarra, in turn, looks at her uncle, hesitant.

Ned pats his knee, urging the little girl to join him. She does so with his help, smiling a rare grin as she settles in her uncle's lap. It warmed him to see her smiling; she was usually such a melancholy child.

"You sense it too, don't you?" Ned asks of the two little ones, pushing back the hair from Lyarra's face and glancing into Robb's big blue eyes. "You're both Starks; the same blood runs through both your veins. The blood of Brandon the Builder, the blood of kings, and heroes." Their attention to him was uncannily sharp. He rubs both their arms in comfort. "You know our words, but you sense them too," he continued gravely. They both burrowed in the crooks of his arms.

"Winter is coming."