Chapter Text
“It’s strange,” Benjen mused, walking beside her through the winding corridors, his sharp northern gaze sweeping over the courtiers bustling past them. He kept his eyes forward, hands clasped behind his back in an exaggerated imitation of some noble lord. “I see you now, and it’s not at all what I imagined.”
Lyanna arched a brow, glancing sideways at him. “Well, what exactly did you imagine?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, sounding genuinely perplexed. “I thought I’d find the same wild sister from years ago, you know, the one who never wore dresses, had a bird’s nest for hair, and was convinced she’d run away beyond the Wall one day to live among the Free Folk.” He sighed dramatically, shaking his head as in lamentation. “Instead, I come here and find you looking like—Old Gods help me—a lady.” He turned to her then, eyes widening in exaggerated disbelief. “You wear pretty gowns. You walk all proper. You even have your hair brushed!” He gasped as though the notion was an affront to his very soul. “What happened to you?”
Lyanna laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained, coming from within. Benjen’s expressions were priceless, and his exaggerated shock only made her amusement grow. “Well, sorry to disappoint you,” she teased. “You came looking for a wildling and found something else entirely. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m still not completely ‘proper.’”
Benjen hummed. “I suspected as much,” he said knowingly as they made their way toward the stables. “And now you’re getting married.” His tone turned contemplative, as if he were still wrapping his head around the idea. “That is… just mad.”
And just like that, her amusement faded at the mention of such a disgraceful affair.
Of course, it was bound to come up eventually. That was why Benjen was here, after all. Yet still, she found herself bristling at the very mention of it.
Benjen, ever perceptive despite his usual carefree demeanor, caught the shift immediately. His brows knitted together. “What is it?” he asked, curiosity flickering quickly in his grey eyes. “Are you not happy?”
“To be married? To Robert?” she repeated, as if the very question were absurd, offensive even. Then, with a scoff, she added, “Not in his wildest dreams.”
Benjen blinked at her, taken aback by the sharpness of her tone, but before he could comment, a pair of passing lords bowed to her, flashing broad, admiring smiles at her. She returned a polite nod, though she could already feel Benjen watching them with barely concealed amusement.
“You’re rather popular around here, aren’t you?” he remarked, glancing over his shoulder at the departing men.
Lyanna rolled her eyes. “You could say that…”
Benjen hummed, then, after a beat, said casually, “Why?”
Lyanna side eyed him. “Why what?”
“Why don’t you want to marry him?” he pressed.
“Ben…” she called, not even knowing where to begin “Tell me what you’ve heard of him…”
Benjen sighed, scratching the back of his head for a moment before finally relenting. “Well, I’ve heard he’s Ned’s closest friend—practically a brother. A fine warrior. A great drinking companion.” He hesitated again with some caution before adding, “And that he has a bastard.”
Lyanna’s steps faltered for the briefest moment. She turned to him, lips parted, though not in shock. She had known of Robert’s reputation, had seen the way he looked at women, the way he touched them. She knew well enough what kind of man he was, his short stay in King’s Landing had proven all the rumors to be true. But a bastard? Somehow, she had not yet heard that particular piece of gossip. Were they trying to keep it a secret so she wouldn’t get mad?
“Well,” she muttered after a moment, shaking her head with a dry chuckle. “Another stripe on the tiger, then. This tiger’s about to be completely black, though”
Benjen studied her carefully, but remained silent, as if analyzing wether to actually say something or remain quiet.
“Does Father know?” she asked, wondering if her father was actually worse than she imagined by betrothing her to a man who had already sired a bastard without even informing her of the fact.
“I think he does,” he said, though there was no certainty in his voice. “I mean if Ned knows…”
Benjen’s expression turned more serious, the easy humor from before fading slightly. “But hey,” he tried, his voice lighter now, as if attempting to soften the blow, “I’m sure he’s a good man. Everyone makes mistakes, Lya. Ned wouldn’t offer your hand in marriage to a bad man, you know that.”
Lyanna scoffed. “I don’t care, Ben. I don’t want him.” She exhaled, already feeling exhausted by the conversation, a conversation she felt she already had like a thousand times with a the same people: Ned, and her father. And now Benjen. “But Ned insisted. And Father, well… he only cares that his ‘broodmare’ secures the best possible match for House Stark.” Her voice dripped with bitterness. “And so here I am, promised to that whoring oaf.”
Benjen grimaced. “I’m sorry, Lya,” he said, and for once, there was no jest in his voice, only quiet sincerity.
Lyanna glanced at him, at her little brother who had always been full of mischief and laughter, and sighed. “It is what it is,” she muttered. Then, shaking off the somber mood, she nudged him playfully. “But I will say, it’s nice to have you here.”
As they walked, nearing the stables, Lyanna’s gaze caught on a familiar figure moving along the stone path ahead.
Rhaegar strode through the castle grounds with his usual grace, dressed in black, the deep hue making his pale Valyrian features all the more striking. His silver hair was pulled back into a half-ponytail, leaving his high cheekbones and sharp jawline unobscured. In one hand, he carried a rolled parchment, while Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Gerold Hightower flanked him in their pristine white cloaks.
For a moment, his expression was serious, reserved, the weight of duty evident in the furrow of his brow. But then, the moment his violet eyes found hers, the shift was instant. The tension smoothed from his face, and a smile—brilliant, warm, and private—lit his features.
Lyanna felt it in her chest.
The night before flashed through her mind: his lips on hers, the way his hands had traced her skin, how her breath had caught when his mouth traveled lower… A warmth bloomed at the memory, something deep and dizzying, and she forced herself to push it aside before it showed too plainly on her face.
Rhaegar approached them with sure, confident strides. He stopped before them and dipped into a formal bow.
“Lady Lyanna,” he greeted, his voice smooth as river stones. His hand reached for hers, and when he lifted it to his lips, his touch was feather-light.
Lyanna smiled, though she was acutely aware of Benjen’s eyes darting between them.
The prince turned to her brother then, offering a courteous nod. “And this must be your brother?”
“Yes,” she said, glancing at Benjen, whose normally sharp tongue seemed momentarily absent. “Prince Rhaegar, this is my brother, Benjen Stark.”
Benjen snapped out of his brief daze and bowed, though his movements were just a touch stiff, betraying his awe. Lyanna bit back a knowing smile, but she thought she was perhaps not doing such a good job at the moment.
“It is an honor, Your Grace,” Benjen said, his voice steadier now.
“The honor is mine,” Rhaegar replied with easy politeness.
Before Benjen could recover fully, Lyanna gestured toward the knights beside the prince. “And these are Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Gerold Hightower.”
Benjen’s eyes widened just a fraction, though he tried to mask it with a slow nod.
“Ser Arthur,” he said, barely containing his enthusiasm as he looked at the Sword of the Morning. “I have heard much of you.”
Arthur offered a friendly, if reserved, smile. “I can only hope some of it was good.”
Benjen grinned. “Only the best. Ned, my brother, he speaks highly of you.”
“Your brother is a fine warrior,” Arthur said. “It is easy to praise a man of such discipline.”
Benjen puffed his chest slightly, clearly pleased to be associated with Ned’s reputation, but he composed himself quickly. “I would very much like to see for myself, should the opportunity arise.”
“You may get your chance,” Lyanna chimed in. “I was just telling Benjen that he should train with all of you while he’s here.”
Rhaegar arched an amused brow as he looked at her. “A fine idea.” He turned to Benjen. “Do you handle a blade well?”
Benjen shrugged, affecting an air of nonchalance. “Well enough.”
Lyanna scoffed. “He means he’s been dreaming of this moment since he learned to hold a sword.”
Benjen shot her a glare, but Arthur only chuckled. “Then we shall see if your skill matches your enthusiasm.”
“You might regret that, Ser Arthur,” Lyanna jested, sharing a complicity look with Arthur now.
“I would expect nothing less,” Arthur said, his tone warm but measured.
Rhaegar, watching the exchange with quiet amusement, finally sighed. “As much as I’d like to see that, we must take our leave.” He turned to Lyanna, regret flickering in his gaze. “Father is waiting. You know how he gets.”
Lyanna smiled at him, her eyes finding his quickly. “Oh, I know.”
Rhaegar’s expression softened before he inclined his head. “Until later.”
And then, with a last lingering glance, he departed, Arthur and Gerold falling into step beside him.
Lyanna watched him go, her heart still racing from the simple exchange. Gods, she wanted him. Wanted to be with him again the way they had been the night before, to feel the heat of his mouth on her skin, the way his hands had gripped her as if he could never let her go—
Stop it.
She shook the thought from her head and forced herself to keep walking as if nothing had happened.
Beside her, Benjen let out a long breath, shaking his head in wonder. “Wow.”
Lyanna turned to him, rising an eyebrow. “Wow?”
“I just met them,” Benjen said, still marveling. “Prince Rhaegar. Ser Arthur. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. All in one day. I swear, this is the most exciting day of my life.”
Lyanna laughed. “They’re just men, Ben.”
“Oh, sure,” Benjen said dryly. “Just men. As if you weren’t practically glowing when the prince looked at you.” he said while wrinkling his nose.
Lyanna rolled her eyes at him and laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Benjen grinned, his expression suddenly turning mischievous. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve fallen under his spell, like every other girl in the realm? I never thought I’d see the day—Lyanna Stark, reduced to sighing after the famous dragon prince.”
She gave him a pointed look, but it did nothing to quell the amusement in his eyes. He could truly be annoying. She had forgotten. “You really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He grinned wider. “Don’t I?”
“Shut up, Benjen…” Lyanna merely shook her head, smiling to herself. If only he knew.
That morning, Rhaella awoke with a familiar sickness roiling in her stomach, a wretched discomfort that had plagued her for the past moon turns. The babe within her made her ill most days, but this... this was something else entirely.
She had been seated in her solar, picking absently at her breakfast, when the news arrived. The moment she heard it, a dreadful nausea overtook her, far worse than anything her pregnancy had inflicted. The bread in her hand turned to ash on her tongue, and her stomach twisted violently, threatening to force up what little she had eaten.
She could not bring herself to see the body. She simply couldn’t.
The words had been spoken to her in hushed, uneasy tones. Septa Margelle, Viserys’ governess, had been found dead at the base of the cliffs below Maegor’s Holdfast. She had fallen from the outer walkway that lined the Red Keep’s walls, plummeting to the jagged rocks and the restless sea below.
How had she fallen? Why had she even been there?
The guards had no answers. A section of the parapet had long been in need of repair, and it was assumed that was where the septa had met her end. A slip, a misstep—gods, the poor woman.
A handmaiden quietly set down a tray before her, the fragrant steam of calming tea curling into the cool morning air. Rhaella took the cup with trembling fingers, exhaling softly as she willed her nerves to settle.
She had liked Septa Margelle. The woman had been kind, patient—endlessly so. Viserys could be willful, prone to petulance and tantrums, yet the septa had always met his outbursts with understanding rather than frustration. And now she was gone, her body broken upon the rocks.
A sorrowful sigh escaped Rhaella just as the doors to her chambers opened.
“Rhaella.”
Aerys.
His voice was unusually gentle, his face lined with concern as he stepped inside. The king rushed to her side, a flicker of worry in his violet gaze.
“What has happened?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he took in her pale, shaken countenance. “Are you unwell?”
She forced a weak smile, resting a hand upon her belly. “It is only the shock of the news, my love.”
Aerys’ expression darkened as he lowered himself into the chair beside her. “I heard of it. The septa. What in the Seven Hells was she doing up there?”
Rhaella shook her head. “I do not know. She was on the outer walkway of the Keep, near the broken parapet, and… she fell.” She swallowed thickly, pressing the warm cup against her lips but not drinking. “The guards found her at first light.”
Aerys let out a sharp breath, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. “Seven save us… Thank the gods Viserys was not with her.” His voice was grave, almost distant, and something in it sent a shiver down Rhaella’s spine.
The thought made her blood run cold.
“She never took him beyond the Holdfast,” she murmured, but the assurance felt hollow. What if he had followed her? What if he had been standing beside her when she fell?
Aerys exhaled, rubbing a hand over his mouth before glancing at her again. “Has the boy been told?”
“Not yet,” Rhaella admitted. Her voice was quiet, uncertain. “He is still sleeping.”
And she dreaded waking him. Viserys was a child, but he was not ignorant of death. She did not know how he would take the loss of the woman who had been his constant guardian for so long.
Aerys leaned back, his eyes flicking toward the window, out toward the cliffs beyond the Red Keep.
“Odd,” he muttered under his breath. “Very odd indeed.”
Rhaella did not answer. She simply clutched her tea and prayed—for the septa’s soul, for her son’s heart, and for the uneasy feeling curling deep within her to be nothing more than a mother’s passing fear.
“Have you lost your mind?!” Jaime hissed, his voice a low, sharp whisper as he paced the chamber, his golden hair disheveled from restless fingers running through it.
Cersei stood before him, as still and poised as a statue, her face a mask of cool detachment. There was not a flicker of remorse in her emerald eyes, no tremor in her delicate hands. It unnerved him—how calm she was, how utterly composed, as though what she had done hours ago was of no more consequence than plucking a withered rose from a vine.
Jaime felt a weight settle in his chest, a knot of unease that coiled tighter with every passing moment. His mind reeled back to the night before, to the look of terror in that woman’s eyes, to the feel of her frail arm beneath his grasp. He had frightened her, had thought fear alone would be enough to solve this mess, to drive her into some far-off exile where she could do no harm. He had never imagined—
Gods, he had never imagined it would come to this.
And yet, here Cersei stood, unburdened, her expression bordering on something disturbingly close to satisfaction.
“I did what had to be done,” she said, her voice as smooth as silk, laced with an almost cruel amusement. “You were weak. I was not.” She lifted her chin, eyes gleaming. “I did what you could not bring yourself to do last night.”
Jaime turned on her, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “How did you even—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. No, he did not need to ask. He already knew the answer.
A warm breeze drifted through the open window, making the gauzy curtains billow like specters in the morning light. Cersei moved toward him, the fabric of her lilac gown whispering against the stone floor, her golden curls catching in the sunlight like threads of fire. There was something razor-sharp about her beauty in that moment—something that could wound if one were foolish enough to get too close. Jaime had always known it. And yet, he had always been willing to bleed for her.
“I did not sleep,” she continued, her voice soft, almost coaxing. “How could I? Knowing what was at stake?” She stepped closer, her scent—jasmine and something faintly metallic—wrapping around him. “I went to Pycelle.”
Jaime’s breath hitched. “You went to that lecherous old fool?”
“He is loyal to our father,” she said simply. “Like a dog, panting for his approval. I told him what was needed, and he found someone to see it done.” She smiled, a small, cruel thing. “Gold is a powerful thing, brother. Even the most devout can be made to stray for the right price.”
Jaime felt sick. “Cersei…” He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Gods, had he ever truly known her? He had always believed that if there was anything pure in the world, anything untouchable, it was the bond they shared. And yet—
She had always been like this, hadn’t she? He had simply chosen not to see it.
“How could you?” he murmured, his voice hoarse as Melara Heatherspoon’s face came to his mind for a second.
Cersei’s patience thinned in an instant. “This is not some foolish game, Jaime!” she snapped, her eyes flashing like green lightning. “This is my life. Our life. If I fall, so do you. Do you think this is about whispers and scandals? No—this is about survival. This is about my crown.”
She stepped closer, her breath warm against his cheek as she spoke through gritted teeth. “If this gets out, our father will see me ruined. He will marry me off to some witless lordling in the Westerlands, ship me away like chattel. Do you think I would let that happen? Do you think I would let everything I have worked for be taken from me?” Her lips curled in disdain. “I will not lose my destiny to a sniveling septa.”
She straightened, smoothing the silk of her gown as though composing herself. “And what of you, Jaime?” she asked, her voice deceptively soft. “Do you think you will be spared? Do you think you will still be his golden son when he learns of this?”
Jaime exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. She was right about one thing—Tywin Lannister did not tolerate failure. If their secret ever came to light, there would be no mercy.
Still, the thought of it, the sheer cold-blooded calculation of what she had done, left him feeling hollow.
Cersei watched him, her gaze unyielding, assessing. She took a step back, tilting her head. “You always knew what I was, Jaime,” she said, almost sweetly. “Perhaps you are only just realizing it.”
Jaime let out a breath, heavy and bitter. His chest ached.
He did not answer. Because he kept wondering… How? How could he possibly love her so much? He knew what she was. He knew her better than anyone in this world. And yet…
Cersei turned away, moving toward the window where the light poured in, illuminating her like a queen. She did not look back at him as she spoke again, her voice cool and certain.
“Well,” she said lightly. “I just did what had to be done. For my future. And yours.”
In the gardens that afternoon, the delicate white petals of the flowers swayed with each passing whisper of wind, and amidst it all, she stood: a vision, as though conjured from some old and poetic tale. His beautiful Lyanna.
Rhaegar paused at the edge of the garden, watching her for a lingering moment. The way the light played upon her hair, turning its dark strands almost auburn, the slight tilt of her chin as she gazed at the sky, lost in thought. She was utterly mesmerizing.
He stepped forward, deliberately letting his footfall press against the gravel path, making just enough noise to stir her from her thoughts.
She turned with a slight start, her skirts swishing against the stone as her eyes found his. And then, something remarkable happened. Her beautiful face transformed, her expression shifting from startled surprise to something radiant. It was the look she always gave him when she was truly happy to see him, and the sight of it sent warmth curling through his chest.
He saw the impulse in her, the fleeting instinct to step forward, to close the space between them, to touch him, to press her lips to his. He felt it too—the deep, almost unbearable yearning to hold her, to tuck her against his chest where no prying eyes could see them. But they both knew better. The ever-watchful eyes of court that lingered on them at all times, waiting for a misstep, an indiscretion.
“My prince,” Lyanna greeted at last, her voice a blend of warmth and silent mockery, as if she found amusement in the formality of it.
“Lyanna,” Rhaegar replied, allowing himself the indulgence of a small, knowing smile. He took a step closer, careful not to cross the invisible boundary of propriety, though every fiber of his being longed to do so. “Enjoying the gardens?”
She exhaled, soft and slow, as if humor lingered on her lips. He recognized the look in her eyes—a glimmer of silent reproach for the empty pleasantries between them.
“I find them peaceful,” she admitted at last, though there was a contemplative note in her tone. “But I think I much prefer the Godswood. These flowers—” she gestured lightly to the ivory blossoms around her “—are beautiful, yes, but they are cultivated, arranged just so, tended by careful hands to appear perfect. I have always preferred things that are… free.”
Rhaegar studied her in that moment—not merely her beauty, though she was radiant in the gorgeous, golden glow of the afternoon, with her dark waves cascading over her shoulder. The way she met his gaze so unflinchingly.
“I should have known,” he murmured. “It suits you, this love of freedom. So few recognize it for the marvel that it is.”
Lyanna’s lips twitched into a smile. “How was your day, Your Highness?”
He hesitated—just for a breath of a moment—but she caught it. Of course, she did. He exhaled, glancing briefly toward the distant stone walls of the Keep before his expression darkened, unease flickering across his features.
“Weighted,” he admitted. “Charged. My mother is anxious. Viserys has been crying.”
At the mention of the queen and his younger brother, Lyanna’s expression shifted, a faint crease forming between her brows. “Because of what happened to Septa Margelle?” she asked, her voice lower now, thoughtful.
Rhaegar exhaled, his gaze distant. His mother had been shaken by the news, and Viserys, poor boy, had sobbed inconsolably until exhaustion claimed him. The sight of his little brother, trembling and bewildered, had unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
“That poor woman…” he murmured, as if the words themselves could undo what had happened.
Lyanna’s fingers trailed lightly over the petals of a white blossom, her expression completely thoughtful. “It unsettled everyone,” she said at last. “People have fallen from those walls before—it has happened—but this feels… strange, does it not?”
“It does,” he admitted, quieter. “A woman who had no reason to be near those walls, and yet, she was. And now she is gone.”
Lyanna tilted her head. “You think it was not an accident?”
Rhaegar hesitated for a moment. However, he quickly dismissed the suspicion that came to his mind. He had so much in his mind at all times, that it was becoming a habit of his, to overthink everything at times. “Why would anyone wish to harm a septa?” he wondered. “Perhaps it was simply… misfortune.”
“Poor Viserys,” Lyanna murmured, her voice carrying the soft weight of sympathy. “I will go to him when he wakes. He must be so sad.”
The concern etched across her face, the tenderness in her gaze… She had a heart of gold, yes, but there was a gentleness to her too, one she rarely allowed others to see.
She was endearing in ways she did not realize, and Rhaegar found himself reluctant to let the somber air linger between them. He had not sought her out merely to dwell on sorrow. He had come for a purpose. For something he had done that day—something that needed to be done.
And he thought, perhaps, it would please her.
“Well,” he said at last. “I have some news for you, my lady.”
Lyanna arched a brow, her expression shifting, wary yet intrigued in that moment. “Oh?”
A slow, knowing smile curved his lips as he took a measured step closer, careful not to overstep. “I have requested an audience with your father.”
For a brief moment, all she did was blink, and then—“What?” The single word was a mixture of disbelief and suspicion, her brows knitting together as she searched his face.
“What about?”
He savored the moment, the way curiosity lit her eyes, the way she leaned in just slightly as if she couldn’t help herself. He could toy with this, make her wait, but he was already enjoying himself too much.
“The details,” he murmured, lowering his voice just enough to make her hang onto his every syllable, “I cannot tell you. Not now. Not here.”
Her frown deepened, but there was something else beneath it—a flicker of anticipation, a thrill at the unknown.
“Rhaegar,” she pressed, voice much quieter now in the secrecy of the moment, but no less firm.
He only smirked, reveling in how easily she took the bait. He leaned in just enough for the space between them to shrink, for his voice to drop into something more intimate.
“But I think,” he said, his tone laced with promise, “I might have found a solution to… our problems. Hopefully.”
Lyanna was still staring at him, as if trying to decipher some truth hidden behind his words. The confusion in her expression was evident, but so too was something else—something softer, warmer. Hope, perhaps. And curiosity.
“I don’t know what you are scheming…” she murmured, her voice an extremely low whisper, laced with both caution and a small amount of amusement. “But I think we should discuss this properly. In private.”
She was close enough that he could see the fine silver-blue flecks in her grey eyes, and the little beautiful freckles that dusted her pretty nose and cheeks. Close enough that he caught the faintest trace of her scent: wildflowers and the crispness of the open air, so different from the cloying perfumes of court.
Rhaegar chuckled then, a soft, velvety sound that made her eyes narrow in suspicion. He could tell she was impatient for answers, but he would make her wait just a little longer.
“Later...” he simply said, his voice rich with promise.
And when her lips parted—perhaps to argue, perhaps to press him further—he merely gave her a look, a look that said trust me, before he turned, disappearing into the gardens, leaving her standing there with nothing but the whisper of his words lingering in the air.