Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

278 AC

Lyanna poked absently at her food with the prongs of her fork, her elbow resting on the table despite knowing her father would scold her for it if he noticed. A yawn threatened to escape her, and she bit it back, lowering her gaze to the trencher before her. She half-listened to her father’s voice as he spoke to her brothers about horses, bannermen, and matters that she, at only one-and-ten, could hardly understand.

The long oaken table was cluttered with platters, roasted venison, goblets, and the sound of the voices of her kin. And yet for all its noise and abundance, something was missing. Something had been missing for years.

No lady had come to take her place, and none ever would, Lyanna was sure of it. Her father did not speak of such things, ever… But even she, despite her short age, knew. And for that, she was grateful. As grateful as she could possibly be. She could not bear the thought of another woman sitting there, wearing her mother’s furs, smiling the way Lyarra once had. The idea alone felt like a betrayal of the already fading memory of her mother.

Things had been different when she was alive. The halls had been warmer, the cold gentler, the place filled with laughter. Her father had always been stern. He had always been more quiet, more controlled. But her mother… She had always been the light of Winterfell.

That light had gone out two winters ago, and no fire since had managed to fill the void she’d left behind.

“Maester Malin says your riding improves with each passing moon,” her father’s voice broke through her thoughts. He sat tall at the head of the table, his dark grey eyes fixed on her eldest brother. “You ride like a true Stark, boy. You’ll make a fine lord of Winterfell one day.”

Brandon smiled at the praise, that easy, confident smile that often came so naturally to him.

Lyanna pressed her lips together, hiding her frown in the rim of her cup. Her father’s pride always came easily when it came to Brandon. It was different with her.

She had always been her mother’s daughter, at least, that much everyone said. Her wildness, her stubborn streak, her laughter that echoed down the halls even when it shouldn’t. Her mother had called it “spirit.” Her father called it “trouble.”

And so, as she listened to him praise Brandon’s riding, she thought, with some bitterness, that she too could ride like a true Stark. Better, even. She had spent hours on horseback, wind whipping at her face, her wildly waved hair loose behind her. She could outrun any boy her age. Even her brothers, she was sure. She could nock an arrow faster than half the guards in the yard. And she’d held a sword too, though she wasn’t supposed to. The thought that if danger ever came, she would not cower behind a man, made her smile a little.

But none of that truly mattered to her father. If she embroidered neatly or poured wine without spilling, he would barely nod. And if she bested a boy in something she ought not to be doing at all, he’d scowl, as though she’d wounded his pride. So there was no winning, not for her. The realization brought a small, weary sigh as she pushed a piece of venison around her plate.

Her father’s gaze shifted down the table. “And you, Ned,” he said, turning his attention to the middle son. “You’ve been diligent with your letters, I trust? A lord’s brother must be learned as well as brave.”

Ned, seated quietly opposite her, straightened a little as though caught in the act of existing too quietly. “Yes, Father,” he replied. “Maester Malin says I’ve improved.”

Lyanna hid her grin behind her cup this time. Of course he had. Ned never did anything less than properly. He never climbed where he shouldn’t, never spoke out of turn, never did anything remotely fun. Yet, her father always seemed pleased with him, as though restraint alone were a virtue. And perhaps, it was. But she could not help her nature. Not really.

Her eyes drifted again toward the empty chair at her mother’s side. The only person who’d ever looked at her and smiled without finding fault was gone, and no amount of good riding or sword practice would bring her back.

Her father’s voice carried on, now turning to matters of land, bannermen, harvests. She half-listened, half-dreamed. About the woods beyond the walls, the wolf’s wood, wild and endless and full of things worth seeing. About riding until her hair froze in the wind. About adventure.

Across the table, Benjen caught her drifting look. He grinned, mischief gleaming in his eyes. Then, quick as a cat and just as quietly, he tore off a piece of bread and tossed it at her.

It hit her squarely on the sleeve, some crumbles attached to her hair.

“You’re daydreaming again,” he whispered, trying, and failing, not to laugh.

Lyanna shot him a glare, though her lips curved despite herself. “Better than listening to this,” she muttered back, and flicked the piece of bread straight into his cup.

Benjen sputtered a laugh, then froze when their father’s gaze darted toward them. Lyanna ducked her head, feigning sudden interest in her food.

Rickard cleared his throat, the sound sharp as breaking ice. “Benjen,” he said without looking up from his plate. “Mind yourself.”

“Yes, Father,” came the small, guilty voice.

Satisfied, Lord Stark returned to his conversation with Brandon about management of the holdfast and the bannermen’s training schedules, things that sounded to Lyanna like the slow death of excitement.

The hall fell into its usual rhythm again, the scrape of knives, the murmur of conversation. But Lyanna’s thoughts wandered far from it all. She imagined the wind through the godswood, the snow gathering on the heart tree’s pale branches, the stillness that came before a new adventure.

Her mother had always said she was born restless, that her blood was half wolf and half storm. Sitting here, Lyanna could almost believe it.

Later that night, the castle lay quiet under the cover of the deep darkness that enveloped her home every night. The fierce northern wind howled outside, sweeping over the walls of Winterfell with its usual ghostly whistle. But Lyanna wasn’t asleep in her chambers like she was supposed to be. She wandered through the dark corridors, her woolen cloak wrapped tight around her as she padded as silently as she possibly could down the hall.

She often did this, when the castle slumbered and no one was there. No governess to scold her, no rules to follow. Just her and the quiet halls, all to herself, to do as she wanted.

“Lyanna?” Benjen’s sleepy voice startled her, and she turned to see him standing at the corner, his face half-lit by the torchlight. He was bundled in his cloak, but his hair was a mess, and he looked like he had just woken up. “What are you doing out here?” he whispered, looking around as if concerned at being discovered.

“What does it look like?” she shot back playfully, though there was no malice in her tone. “Wandering.” Her reply came as if this was the most natural thing in the world for her.

“Wandering where?” he frowned in questioning.

She smirked. “Into the forest.”

Benjen’s eyes widened, his mouth hanging slightly open in disbelief. “At this hour? You’ll get in trouble.”

She shrugged, stepping closer to her little brother. “I know a secret way. Through the old passage in the east wall.”

Benjen hesitated, glancing around the empty corridor as if scared someone might just show up out of thin air and catch them there. “That’s... not a good idea, Lyanna.”

Lyanna leaned in, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper, ignoring the warning in Benjen's voice. “You scared? I thought you wanted to be like the Old Kings of Winter, brave and fearless.”

“I am!” Benjen retorted, puffing out his chest slightly. “But… it’s late. And the Wolfswood is dangerous at night.”

Lyanna crossed her arms then. What danger could there be? She had done this a thousand times, and never got caught, always returned before dawn, and most importantly: in one piece. It was not dangerous. It was exciting. However, she'd never lose the opportunity to tease Benjen. “What’s dangerous are the Others. And the ice spiders.” She raised her brows dramatically, drawing on the stories Old Nan would tell them by the fire. “They’ll come creeping, with their cold dead eyes and—”

“Stop it!” Benjen interrupted, though his voice wavered, betraying his nerves.

Lyanna simply chuckled in amusement. “You don’t have to come, Ben. You can stay here, safe and warm, like a little babe. I’ll be back before dawn.”

Benjen narrowed his eyes, his stubborn Stark streak showing. “No. I’m coming.”

“Good,” she grinned. “I could use the company.”

Once they were out, the night air was crisp, the sky above them a deep black dotted with a thousand twinkling stars. Lyanna led the way through the hidden passage, squeezing through the old stone wall that bordered the forest, until they were on the other side, standing at the edge of the Wolfswood. The towering trees loomed before them as if they were ancient sentinels watching their every move, their branches swaying in the breeze. Benjen’s eyes were wide and fearful, and yet, he kept going. Lyanna had been the same the first time she had done that. 

“I don’t see any Others,” Benjen whispered, half-joking but still uneasy.

“Maybe they’re hiding,” Lyanna teased, nudging him with her elbow. “Waiting for the right moment to strike.”

Benjen rolled his eyes, but still stayed close to her side as they ventured deeper and deeper into the woods. As they walked, they talked quietly, their soft voices blending with the rustling leaves. Benjen brought up Old Nan’s tales again, recounting the story of the Night King, while Lyanna pretended to listen, her focus more on the way the moonlight filtered through the trees.

“And when he comes, with his army of dead…”

Suddenly, a low growl echoed from the shadows.

Both Lyanna and Benjen froze at that very instant, their eyes locked for a moment.

“What was that?” Benjen whispered, wide-eyed and even paler than he usually was.

Lyanna felt her heart leap into her throat, the sound so sudden and wrong that it made her froze. The forest was still, too still. No rustle of wind through the pines, no hoot of an owl, no whisper of the leaves, nothing at all. Only the cold, dangerous silence, and her little brother’s shallow breathing beside her.

“Probably just the wind,” she said, forcing her voice to come out as steady as it was possible. It cracked anyway. Benjen’s wide eyes met hers, searching for reassurance she could not give. Still, she tried her best.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry when she spoke again. “See? The trees are just… creaking. It happens when it’s cold.”

But even as she said it, she didn’t quite believe herself. The sound that had come... it hadn’t been the wind. Wind didn’t growl like that. Wind didn’t make the hairs on her neck rise or send that strange, crawling shiver down her back.

Benjen pressed closer to her, clutching the sleeve of her cloak. “Lya… what if it’s a bear?”

“It’s not,” she said quickly. “Bears sleep through the cold.” She tried to remember if that was true; she thought it was. “And even if it isn’t, I’ve got a stick, don’t I?”

She picked up the nearest branch she could find, though it was brittle and half rotten. Benjen didn’t look convinced. And neither was she.

Then the sound came again, louder this time. Closer.

A low, rumbling growl that seemed to rise from the belly of some unknown beast.

They turned as one, slow as statues, eyes wide and searching the shadows between the trees. The moonlight was spilling through the branches and pooling in thin silver patches across the snow. Between those patches, something moved, something massive, soundless.

And then it stepped into the light.

The creature was enormous, its coat thick and grey as winter mist. Its eyes gleamed gold in the moonlight, and its breath smoked like a dragon’s. It was beautiful and terrible all at once.

“A direwolf…” Benjen whispered, awe and terror mingling in his small voice as Lyanna's heart stopped in her chest.

Lyanna had heard tales of them... spirits of the old gods, protectors of the North, or omens of death depending on who was telling the story. But stories could never have prepared her for this.

The wolf’s lips curled back, revealing sharp white teeth. Its growl deepened, and that shook her bones.

Lyanna stood frozen, her feet refusing to move. She had always thought herself brave. She had climbed the tallest tree in the godswood. She had dared to ride her horse across the icy stream in winter. But this... this was different. This was not a game. This was real, raw danger in front of her and Benjen. 

Then the wolf lunged.

Benjen cried out as the creature’s massive body slammed into him, knocking him into the snow. His scream pierced the silence as the direwolf’s jaws clamped around his leg, the sharp teeth sinking deep into flesh.

“Benjen!”

Lyanna’s body moved before her mind could. She rushed forward, her heart pounding so loud and so fast it drowned out every other sound. She grabbed the branch and swung it with all the strength she had. The stick cracked against the wolf’s shoulder, useless as a straw. Still, she struck again and again, screaming, sobbing, her arms trembling.

“Let him go! Leave him!”

The direwolf turned its head toward her, teeth glinting with her brother’s crimson blood. Its eyes met hers, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to stop. She felt as though the forest itself was holding its breath.

Then it came for her.

She barely had time to lift the branch before it hit her, knocking her off her feet. The air rushed from her lungs as her back slammed into the frozen ground. The wolf was on her in an instant, its massive weight pressing down, its hot, fetid breath filling her nose. Its jaws snapped inches from her face, spraying blood flecked spittle across her cheek.

Lyanna shoved the branch beneath its throat, pushing with every ounce of strength in her small arms. The wood groaned and bent as the beast snarled and thrashed, its claws digging into the dirt beside her. Her palms burned. Her arms shook violently under the impossible strain.

“Benjen!” she gasped, her voice breaking from the effort. “Run!”

But Benjen couldn’t move. He lay curled on the ground, crying softly, clutching his ruined leg.

Lyanna’s strength was slipping. Her arms trembled uncontrollably, her muscles screaming for release. The direwolf’s growl rattled through her bones. She could feel its heartbeat against her chest, steady, powerful and absolutely unstoppable.

I’m not strong enough.

The thought sliced through her like a blade. Her grip faltered for a second, just a second, and the wolf pressed harder, snapping its jaws closer to her face. She felt droplets of blood hit her skin, warm and slick. The branch bowed under the pressure. Her arms ached so badly she thought they might snap like the wood she held.

This is it, she thought dimly. This is how I die.

She thought of her father, stern and distant and unforgiving in his judgement. Of Brandon, always confident. Of her mother’s soft hands brushing her hair before bed. She thought of Winterfell’s towers disappearing beneath a blanket of snow. 

The wolf lunged again, and when it did, a sharp whistle split the air.

Then, a sound like thunder. The wolf howled, the cry twisting into something shrill and terrible. It stumbled sideways, collapsing onto her legs. Lyanna blinked, dazed, as the creature thrashed once, twice, before falling still.

It wasn’t until she saw the arrow buried deep in its side that she realized what had happened. Another arrow struck an instant later, straight through the skull. The beast went silent.

Lyanna lay there, chest heaving, staring up at the sky. The world was still spinning, her body numb, her fingers sticky with Benjen's blood. She wanted to move but couldn’t. All she could hear was her own ragged breathing and Benjen's cries, and then the faint sound of voices, men shouting her name.

“Lyanna!”

Her father’s voice, loud, commanding and absolutely terrified.

She turned her head, her vision swimming. Men were running through the trees, their torches cutting through the heavy darkness. Her father reached Benjen first, scooping him up with gentleness. Benjen whimpered, small and pale in his arms.

Their father's eyes darted to her next. “Lyanna,” he said, his voice rough, urgent. “Are you hurt?”

She wanted to answer, to say she was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. The branch was still in her trembling hands, splintered and useless. Just like her.

One of the guards knelt beside her, lifting her from the ground. She didn’t resist, her limbs felt too heavy, her thoughts too slow. Her head fell against his shoulder as he carried her back through the woods with hurried steps.

Behind them, the direwolf’s body lay still in the snow, the moonlight glinting off its silver fur. Its blood, dark, almost black, stained the ground.

Lyanna didn’t look back.

Her heart felt hollow, her body trembling with exhaustion. Benjen’s cries echoed faintly ahead, and guilt twisted inside her like a knife.

This was her fault. She had brought him here. She had wanted adventure, a bit of fun beyond the castle walls. And now her brother was hurt, because of her.

She closed her eyes, salty tears burning at the corners. The night was quiet again, except for the crunch of boots in snow, the creak of leather, and her father’s low voice giving orders.

Lyanna didn’t feel brave anymore.

She felt small, and cold, and terribly, terribly ashamed.

Chapter Text

That night, no one slept.

As soon as they reached the castle, Maester Walys was summoned to tend to Lyanna and Benjen. The maester, his hands as steady as ever, quickly assessed Lyanna’s injuries, mere scratches and bruises, nothing more. But Benjen…

The moment Maester Walys peeled away the blood-soaked trousers from her little brother’s leg, Lyanna's world seemed to tilt. The air felt suddenly thin, and her stomach churned violently as she beheld the terrible wound the direwolf had inflicted upon him. Blood had drenched his leg, and the flesh beneath was torn ragged, the skin sliced deeply, revealing a raw, gaping wound that pulsed with life. It was grotesque, and the sight of it brought the taste of bile to her throat.

Benjen’s cries of agony filled the room, sharp and heart-wrenching, each scream tearing at her insides. His boyish face, once so full of mischievous energy, was now twisted in a mask of unbearable pain. Lyanna stood rooted to the spot, her body trembling, tears blurring her vision. How had it come to this? How had she allowed this to happen? Fear and guilt crashed like waves in a relentless storm, each moment of Benjen’s suffering weighing heavier on her conscience.

“Lady Lyanna,” came Maester Walys’s gentle but firm voice, “you must leave now.” His eyes held a mix of sorrow and urgency, and before she could protest, her father’s hand rested heavily on her shoulder, guiding her out with little patience. She barely registered the door closing behind her, but even then, Benjen’s anguished screams pierced the thick walls, haunting her.

Outside the chamber, Old Nan appeared like a shadow, her weathered hands as tender as her gaze was stern. She led Lyanna through the now dim corridors, her grip firm but not unkind. The silence between them felt heavy, broken only by the muffled sobs that escaped Lyanna’s lips involuntarily, and Old Nan’s occasional murmurs of comfort. When they reached Lyanna’s chamber, the old woman carefully sat her down and began to tend to the minor wounds on her arms, dabbing at the dried blood with gentle strokes, but no matter how delicate her touch, Lyanna’s tears did not cease.

It was all her fault.

“You mustn’t cry so, child,” Old Nan whispered, her voice lined with an ancient wisdom only years could have granted her. “Tears will do no good now. Save them for a time when they’re truly needed.”

“I cannot help it,” Lyanna choked out, her voice trembling with grief for Benjen. “Benjen… what have I done? He could have died… he might still… I-I could not bear it. What if he can never walk again?” The image of Benjen’s leg, torn and bloody, flashed before her eyes once more, and her hands balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms as a fresh wave of tears threatened to overwhelm her.

Old Nan shook her head, her wrinkled face drawn tight with disapproval. “Aye, it was reckless what you did,” she said, her voice low but stern. “You should’ve listened to your father, girl. Youth may bring fire to the blood, but age… age brings sense, if you’re wise enough to heed it.” She paused, her eyes narrowing as she met Lyanna’s tearful gaze. “Wandering off into the woods at night like a wildling! What possessed you? One of these days, your recklessness will catch up to you, mark my words. And it will not just be you that pays the price.”

Lyanna flinched at Old Nan’s words, the weight of her guilt pressing down on her chest like a stone. She could only hope that it would not be Benjen the one to pay for her recklessness this time. It should have been her there, with the grotesque wound and the blood and the pain. Not him. “I never meant for any of this to happen,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and broken. “I just… what will happen to Benjen?”

Old Nan sighed deeply, her expression softening ever so slightly. She took Lyanna’s face in her hands, her palms cool against Lyanna’s almost fevered skin. “The maester will do what he can, but it’s in the hands of the Old Gods now. That wound… it’s a deep one, an ugly one. You must pray, child. Pray that the gods are kind to your brother.”

Lyanna’s throat tightened. She had never felt so powerless, so utterly at the mercy of forces beyond her control. Nodding weakly, she swallowed the lump in her throat as Old Nan finished tucking her into bed. The old woman gave her one last searching look, then quietly withdrew, leaving Lyanna alone.

But sleep would not come. It's all my fault. It should've been me.

Lyanna lay motionless beneath the heavy blankets, her eyes wide open, staring up at the darkened ceiling. Her thoughts raced, turbulent and unforgiving, each one sharper than the last. She could still hear Benjen’s cries in her ears, even though the castle had long since fallen silent. She clutched the blankets tightly, her knuckles white with the strain, her breath shallow as she tried to steady herself. The night stretched on, long and torturous, her heart heavy with guilt and dread.

And so she did the only thing she could.

She prayed.

She prayed to the Old Gods, the nameless, faceless deities that watched over the North. She prayed with every fiber of her being, her voice a hoarse whisper as she begged for Benjen’s life, begged for the gods to show mercy to her brother. I’ll be good, I promise, I will never behave like this again, I will listen and I will be a proper lady and everything that is expected of me. Just please don't let my brother suffer. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she mouthed the prayers, her words trembling in the stillness of the room.

It was not until the first light of dawn began to creep through the window that her eyes finally closed, her body too exhausted to fight any longer. But even as she drifted into a restless sleep, her thoughts remained fixed on Benjen, and the faint hope that somewhere, the Old Gods had heard her desperate pleas.

Brandon and Ned were waiting for her at the break of dawn. The silence between them as she approached was unnerving, heavy like the chill in the winter air. Brandon's face said it all, as he wore an expression of disapproval so sharp it cut through her with a single glance. He stood tall, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes smoky and cold, his lips twisted into a grimace that told her more than words ever could. This morning would not be like any other.

Ned, standing beside him, was quieter, but no less judgmental. His calm demeanor betrayed none of the storm she knew was brewing beneath. Always the gentler of the two, he did not need to say anything for her to feel the weight of his disappointment.

“What is wrong with you, Lyanna?” Brandon’s voice broke the silence first, his tone harsh, accusatory, and filled with a frustration that had long passed the point of patience. His words struck her like stones, hard and unforgiving. He shook his head in disgust, his mouth curling into a sneer he rarely directed at her.

Were it any other time, any other mischief of hers, she would fight Brandon off, she would tell him to shut up because he was just as much trouble as she was when he was her age, and even now. But none of it came to her, for Benjen was wounded because of her, and that was something Brandon had never achieved with his own follies. 

“I didn’t mean to—” she stammered, her voice weak, trembling under the weight of her own guilt. But Brandon, quick as ever, cut her off before she could say more.

“You never do,” he snapped, his voice rising. “You never mean to, but somehow, you always find a way to make a mess of things, to bring trouble crashing down upon yourself—and the rest of us with it. That’s the thing with you, Lyanna. Your recklessness. Your thoughtlessness.”

The scorn in his words left no room for defense, and Lyanna shrunk under his gaze, biting her lip to keep from saying anything more. She felt the sting of his judgment like a cut deep in her skin, her heart sinking lower with every word. She knew he was right. She knew she was a handful. She knew it was her fault. 

Ned finally spoke, his voice softer but no less grave. “Father is waiting for you in his solar,” he said, though there was no comfort in his tone. “Best not keep him waiting.”

Her stomach churned at the thought. The blood drained from her face as her feet moved of their own accord, carrying her toward the inevitable confrontation. Each step felt heavier than the last, her legs trembling beneath the weight of her dread. She did not feel brave, she did not feel bold, as she usually would. If anything, she felt small. Small and like a complete fool. A fool who had managed to bring disgrace upon her little brother, when it should have been her.

By the time she reached her father’s solar, her heart was racing, her breath shallow. The door loomed before her like the gates to a dungeon, and as she pushed it open, the air inside was colder than the winds outside.

Her father stood by the window, his broad back turned to her, his posture rigid as steel.

He did not turn to face her at first, his silence was more terrifying than any words could be. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and cold.

“I do not know what drives you to act as you do, Lyanna. What madness rules your mind…” he began, his tone as icy as the Northern winds that howled outside the walls of Winterfell. “What foolishness drives you to act as you do… every time… without thought or care for the consequences.”

His words were like a lash across her back, and she stood rooted to the spot, her nails digging into her palms, desperate to keep herself from trembling.

“Every time,” he continued, his voice growing colder, “someone ends up hurt because of you. Every time you act selfishly… recklessly… someone else pays the price. And now… now it is your brother who suffers for your foolishness.”

Her father turned then, his dark, grey eyes were hard as stone upon her, his expression devoid of any warmth or mercy. He gazed at her as though she were a stranger, an undesired one, not his own blood.

“Why have the Old Gods cursed me with such a child?” he spat bitterly, more to himself than to her. “I do not know…”

“Father…” Lyanna’s voice cracked as she tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat, swallowed by the overwhelming guilt that choked her and his unforgiving gaze. She clutched her hands together, her nails pressing deeper into her skin, her body trembling under his cold eyes. “I… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t… I’ll change. I’ll be better. I swear it—”

“Better?” Her father’s laugh was a bitter, joyless thing. “You? Better?” His eyes narrowed, his voice rising with anger. “You are selfish, reckless, and headstrong. You care for nothing but your own whims, and it will be the ruin of this house. Do you understand that? You will bring disgrace upon the name Stark, I have no doubt.” 

“Please,” she begged, fighting back the tears that burned behind her eyes. “I never meant for Benjen to be hurt… I didn’t—” 

“Is it not enough what you did to your mother? Must you ruin your brothers as well?”

Lyanna’s heart nearly stopped. Her mother? What could he mean? Her mind raced, but all it conjured were vague memories of a time long past, of her mother’s soft smile, her gentle hands guiding her as a child. What had she done to her? Surely, climbing trees and coming home with scraped knees and torn dresses couldn’t have caused more than a few fleeting worries. Could it?

She opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. What was he accusing her of? She didn’t know, but the bitterness in his tone was unmistakable.

“Your brother may be crippled because of you, and now you stand here with that same reckless defiance in your eyes. I see it. You will burn this house to the ground!” his voice was loud now, making her feel frozen in her place “Do you even understand what you’ve done, girl? Your brother may never walk again. Do you grasp that? He may be crippled for the rest of his life because of you!” 

The words struck her like a blow to the chest, knocking the air from her lungs. She felt her knees buckle beneath her, but she remained standing, held upright only by the force of her shame. 

“And that’s not all,” he continued, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “Benjen, loyal as ever, even tried to cover for you. He lied to me, tried to protect you from the consequences of your own folly. You, his older sister—the one who should be looking out for him.”

Her heart shattered at the thought of Benjen, of the pain he must have been in, of how he had still tried to protect her despite it all. It was too much. The guilt, the shame, the overwhelming sorrow. It broke her. The tears she had fought so hard to hold back finally came flooding out, spilling down her cheeks in hot, silent streams.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible through her sobs. “I’m so, so sorry…”

But her father’s face remained unmoved, as cold and unforgiving as ever. 

“You will be,” he said coldly. “Oh, you will be. I will not have your recklessness poison this household any longer. You will not remain under this roof.”

Lyanna’s heart stopped. What was he saying? Where would she go? She had nowhere else to go. Winterfell was her home, her brothers were there, the crypts, her mother…

“I should have you flogged for this,” he growled, his eyes flashing with fury. “Were it not for the memory of your mother, I might have already done so. But I will not tolerate this any longer. Get out of my sight.”

Her world crumbled around her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All she could do was stand there, her father’s words echoing in her ears.

Benjen lay still, his eyes closed as if lost to the world. The milk of the poppy had dragged him into a deep and dreamless sleep, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. The room held the scent of herbs and the faint, metallic tang of blood. The bandages wrapped around his leg were tight, the stitching beneath them visible at the edges as a cruel reminder of the injury that nearly took him.

Lyanna stood beside the bed, her eyes fixed on the wound that marred her little brother’s leg, a grotesque latticework of threads holding together flesh that should never have been torn. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest, a wave of guilt crashing over her with the force of a storm. She felt like she might drown in it. Every stitch, every bandage, was a testament to her failure, a reminder of her recklessness. This was her fault. All of it.

It should've been me.

Ned stood on the other side of the bed, his brow furrowed in concern as he gazed down at their sleeping brother. His usual calm had given way to something more fragile, more vulnerable. He, too, was suffering under the weight of their father’s disappointment, though he bore it in silence, as was his way.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, until Lyanna finally broke it, her voice quiet, almost a whisper. "Do you know where Father intends to send me?" Her gaze remained on Benjen.

Ned sighed deeply, shifting where he stood, his discomfort evident in his features. "I do not," he admitted, though his voice sounded tired. "I believe he is to send letters, to seek out where. Perhaps Riverrun, or one of the houses farther south." He paused, a heavy exhale escaping his lips. "Gods, Lyanna…"

She bit her lip, resisting the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Crying would accomplish nothing, and her father had always hated it when she showed weakness.

And suddenly, she felt it in her chest. A small spark of rage, a tiny little thing that would start a fire. If her father wanted her gone, so be it. She could bear it. After all, he had always treated her with the cold indifference he reserved for strangers, why should it matter now that he would send her away? She could endure his scorn.

But her brothers… her home. The North was in her blood, the mountains and rivers, the forests and snow. Winterfell was her soul. How could she leave it behind? And more than that, when would she see her brothers again?

Why did he hate her so? She had defied him, yes, she had been reckless, but hadn’t she always been this way? It was nothing new. Her father’s disdain for her had always been there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. She understood that she had been careless, that her actions had consequences, and she carried the full weight of those consequences on her shoulders. She could not deny that Benjen’s state was her fault. But still… still, something at the back of her mind kept making noise.

It was his words. Those words he had hurled at her with such venom, such loathing: “Is it not enough what you did to your mother? Must you ruin your brothers as well?”

At the time, she had been too stunned, too overwhelmed by guilt and fear to fully grasp their meaning. But now, in the quiet of this room, the weight of those words pressed down on her like an invisible hand around her throat. What had he meant? What had she ever done to her mother?

"Ned..." she murmured, her voice trembling as she finally tore her gaze away from Benjen and looked to her older brother. There was a heaviness in her chest that made it difficult to speak. "Father said something to me today…"

Ned turned his head slowly, his expression concerned as he met her gaze. "What did he say?" he asked, his tone careful, as if he were already bracing himself for whatever she might reveal.

"He told me…" Lyanna’s voice faltered for a moment as she recalled the bitter words. "He told me, ‘Is it not enough what you did to your mother? Must you ruin your brothers as well?’" The words tasted foul as they left her mouth, like ash. Her eyes searched Ned’s face, desperate for an answer. "What did he mean by that, Ned? What did I ever do to our mother?"

Ned’s reaction was swift, a flash of surprise, followed by something that made his usually composed features tighten with discomfort. His jaw was clenched, and for a brief moment, his eyes flickered with something she couldn’t quite place. Fear? Anger? She could not tell. Whatever it was, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the same stoic mask he always wore.

"Father was angry," he said, his voice steady but distant, as though he were trying to distance himself from the conversation. "He says things in anger sometimes, things he doesn’t mean. You know how he is, Lyanna. I’m sure he didn’t intend—"

"But what did he mean?" she pressed, her voice rising with frustration. Ned’s evasion only fueled her suspicions. There was something he wasn’t telling her. She could see it in his eyes, the way they avoided hers, the tension in his posture. "Ned, if you know something—"

Before she could finish, a faint movement from the bed caught her attention, and her heart skipped a beat.

Benjen was stirring. His face scrunched up in discomfort, his eyes fluttering open, the remnants of the milk of the poppy still clouding his gaze. He blinked several times, trying to focus, his expression dazed and confused.

"Ben…" Lyanna whispered, her heart aching as she watched her little brother come back to consciousness. She moved closer to the bed, her hand reaching out to gently touch his arm.

Benjen blinked again, his eyes settling on her face. He gave her a faint smile, weary but warm. "Lyanna…" he murmured, his voice hoarse and weak. "We did it, Lya. We survived."

His words hit her like an arrow to the chest, and the tears she had been holding back finally escaped, sliding down her cheeks in silence. She wiped them away quickly, not wanting him to see her cry.

"I thought you didn’t cry" Benjen teased softly, his smile growing a little stronger despite his exhaustion.

"I do, you fool," she whispered, choking on the words as she laughed through her tears. "You just never see it."

Benjen chuckled weakly, the sound making his chest rise and fall in a way that made Lyanna’s heart ache even more. He looked to Ned, who had remained silent, watching them both with a mixture of relief and sorrow.

"How are you feeling, Ben?" Ned asked, his voice soft but filled with concern.

"Better," Benjen replied, though the tightness in his voice betrayed the pain he still felt. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again, focusing on Lyanna. His smile returned, soft and fragile, as if he were trying to comfort her despite his own suffering. "Don’t worry, Lya. Once I’m healed, we’ll go riding again. Just like before."

Lyanna’s heart twisted painfully at his words. She forced a smile, though it felt hollow. "Aye," she whispered, her voice low. "Just like before."

But Ned’s face darkened, and she saw the same sadness reflected in his eyes. Benjen didn’t know. He didn’t know that their father had no intention of letting her stay. That soon she would be gone, sent away to some distant place, far from the North, far from her brothers.

Benjen’s smile faded as he sensed the shift in the room. "What is it?" he asked, his voice laced with sudden concern. His gaze darted between his siblings. "What’s wrong?"

Lyanna swallowed hard, unable to speak. Maybe because she herself was having such a hard time believing that the decision to send her away was inevitable, written in stone. It was Ned who answered his question, his voice, despite trying to sound calm, was laced with sorrow. "Father is sending Lyanna away."

Benjen’s eyes widened in shock. "Away? Where?"

"I don’t know," Lyanna whispered, her voice barely audible then. "I don’t know."

Benjen’s face crumpled, and the pain in his eyes was worse than any wound. "But… why? Why would he send you away? We just got through this—"

"Because I’ve caused enough trouble," she interrupted, her voice resigned. "I’ve brought enough pain to this family. Father doesn’t want me here anymore." She said.

Not for her father's sake. But for Benjen's. It would be easier for him to accept the decision if she gave him reasons to understand, reasons to make him see that the punishment was fitting of the crime. It would save him from confronting their father, from getting him into more trouble than she already had. 

Benjen shook his head, his expression one of absolute disbelief, denial written all over his face. "No, Lya. You can’t go. You can’t leave us."

Lyanna bit her lip, trying to hold back more of those annoying tears. "I’m sorry, Ben," she whispered. "I’m so sorry."

Chapter Text

Days passed, and with each sunrise, Lyanna felt the weight of her departure bearing down on her. The cold, familiar winds of Winterfell no longer brought comfort but reminded her of all she would soon leave behind. Her father’s silence was like a wall between them, cold and unyielding and sometimes she could not comprehend how her own father seemed to reject her so much, but tried not to think much about it. Brandon had softened somewhat, his rage no longer hot but simmering, reduced to quiet grumbles and occasional terse remarks. And Ned, ever the stoic, tried to mask his concern, though it was written clearly in the furrow of his brow and the quiet sighs he thought no one heard. But Benjen... Benjen suffered most of all.

How could he not? They had always been inseparable, sharing a bond so close that it often felt as though they were born of the same moment, as if they were twins. Soon, she would leave him behind, and the thought of their parting weighed heavily on her heart.

“I still don’t understand why she has to leave,” Benjen muttered, frustration seeping into his voice as he shifted uncomfortably in the wheelchair that had been his prison for days. The early morning frost still clung to the stone walls, and the scent of snow was thick in the air. Eddard, standing nearby with arms crossed, exchanged a glance with Benjen, his expression solemn yet knowing.

“I don’t want to leave, Ben.” Lyanna’s voice was soft, her fingers tracing the worn wood of the bow in her lap. She stared down at it, recalling how their father had caught her trying to pack it in secret. His words echoed in her mind: ‘You will not be acting like a wild child. You can forget about taking that bow with you.’ The memory left a bitter taste on her tongue. Her father was determined to take everything she held dear away from her. Her brothers, Winterfell, her passions…

“Father cannot do this,” Benjen said, his voice rising in protest. His hand clenched the armrest of his wheelchair, the tightness in his grip betraying his frustration. “If mother were here—”

“But she’s not,” Lyanna interrupted, her voice sharper than intended. Her mother’s absence was a wound that had never truly healed, and her father’s cruel words about her were still fresh in Lyanna’s mind: ‘Is it not enough what you did to your mother? Must you ruin your brothers as well?’ She pressed her lips together, fighting the sting of tears. She would not cry. She had caused enough pain.

Benjen opened his mouth to argue, but Ned stepped forward, placing a hand on Benjen’s shoulder. “Benjen, it’s done. Father has made his decision, and there’s no changing it now. You both have always been reckless, always testing the limits. This was the last straw, and now Lyanna must bear the consequences of her own actions.” His tone was calm, measured, but there was an undercurrent of sadness in his words. He hated this as much as they did, but there was no escaping their father’s will.

“You speak as though this is fair,” Benjen shot back, his voice tight with anger. “It is not. She does not deserve this.”

Lyanna remained silent, staring down at the bow in her lap. She wanted to protest, to tell them both that this punishment was unjust, that she should be allowed to stay, that she would be better. But every time the words rose in her throat, they were choked back by the sight of Benjen’s bandaged leg. His injury weighed heavier on her conscience than anything else. The maester’s words haunted her: ‘We shall see if he will ever walk again, and if so, how much he will be crippled.’

She swallowed hard, guilt twisting like a knife in her chest. It was her fault. All of it.

“Say something!” Benjen’s voice cut through her thoughts, his frustration bubbling over as he poked her arm, demanding her attention. “Tell Father you’ll behave! Tell him you don’t want to go!”

Lyanna’s throat tightened. She shook her head slowly, avoiding his gaze. “Ben... it won’t make any difference,” she said quietly, her voice hollow. “I leave for King’s Landing today. Father has made arrangements with the Queen herself. The decision has been made, and nothing we say will change it.”

“The Queen,” Benjen muttered, his voice bitter, almost resentful “What does she want with you? Why would she take you in?”

“I do not know,” Lyanna admitted, her voice growing more pained. “Perhaps she’s heard of me and thinks I need the refinement, that I am too wild, too undisciplined. Perhaps father made some kind of arrangement with the crown, who knows. But it matters little now. The decision has been made, and I must go.”

Benjen stared at her, his face contorted with frustration and pain. His eyes drifted down to his leg, the ever-present reminder of what they had lost, of what she had cost him. “I don’t want you to go,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t— I can’t imagine Winterfell without you.”

Lyanna’s heart clenched at his words, but there was no comfort she could offer. “I don’t want to go either, Ben,” she said softly, struggling not to let her sorrow make her voice tremble. “But I have no choice. I can’t stay.”

Benjen’s face hardened, the hurt giving way to anger. “It wasn’t your fault,” he growled, his fists clenched. “It was a mistake. We’ve always made mistakes—why should this be any different? Why should you be punished for it?”

“Because this time it was different,” Ned interjected quietly, his voice heavy with the weight of truth. “Because this time, someone got hurt.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken pain. Lyanna glanced at Benjen’s leg once more, guilt gnawing at her insides. She had tried to protect him, tried to shield him from the worst of it, but in the end, she had failed.

“I’ll write to you,” she said after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll send letters, and I’ll tell you everything. I won’t let you forget me.”

Benjen looked away, his jaw tight. “Father won’t let us send letters,” he muttered bitterly. “He’s already forbade us from writing to you. He’ll punish us if we try.”

Lyanna’s chest tightened. She had suspected as much, but hearing it aloud only made it worse. “Then I’ll find a way,” she insisted. “I’ll find a way to stay in touch.”

Ned sighed, stepping forward to place a hand on Lyanna’s shoulder. “It’s not forever, Lyanna. King’s Landing may seem far now, but in time, Father may relent. If you behave—if you learn what they wish to teach you—perhaps you’ll return sooner than you think.”

Lyanna knew his words to be well intentioned, however, even at her young age, she knew it would be naive to believe in them. “And if I don’t?”

Ned’s expression was unreadable as he met her gaze. “Then you’ll make the best of it,” he said softly. “You’ve always been strong, Lyanna. You’ll endure this, as you have endured everything.”

Benjen’s voice broke through the silence again, softer this time, filled with a mixture of pain and love that Lyanna quickly recognized. “I’ll miss you every day,” he whispered, his voice small. “Every single day.”

Lyanna’s heart broke at his words. She leaned over and kissed his brow gently, her lips lingering as if she could somehow stave off the inevitable by staying close to him a moment longer. "And I, you," she whispered.

The pale morning sky, the grey clouds swirling above Winterfell’s high walls, it was all part of a sight she did not want to forget, and so, she tried to memorize every little detail about it.  There was a silence that made every sound louder, the soft rustle of a cloak, the distant clatter of horses being readied. Lyanna stood at the gates, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her cloak, her eyes fixed on the stones beneath her feet. She could feel the weight of it all pressing down on her chest, the goodbyes she didn’t want to say, the home she wasn’t ready to leave.

Benjen was the first to approach her, his face a mixture of frustration and sadness. His limp was pronounced as he stood up from his wheelchair and hobbled forward, eyes wet but determined to hold back tears. His arms wrapped around her fiercely, pulling her into a tight embrace. For a moment, neither spoke, simply holding onto one another as if that could stop the inevitable.

"You can’t go," Benjen finally muttered against her shoulder, his voice breaking. “This isn’t right. You belong here.”

“I have to,” Lyanna whispered, her voice barely holding steady. She pulled back slightly, looking into his tear-brimmed eyes. “You know it’s not what I want.”

Benjen frowned, his lips trembling, as if he wanted to protest but knew it wouldn’t change anything. "I'll miss you" he said, and it wasn’t just sadness, but a hint of guilt in his voice.

“I’ll miss you too,” she replied, her throat tightening. “Take care of yourself, Ben…”

A sharp breath escaped Benjen as he stepped back, his eyes flicking briefly to the ground, unable to meet hers anymore.

Next came Ned. He was quieter, his face harder to read, though there was a tension in his posture that belied the calm front he was trying to maintain. His hand came up to rest on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Stay strong,” he said softly, his eyes searching hers. “This is a hard road, but you’ll walk it as you’ve done before. And if… if ever you need anything, you send word. I’ll come. I promise.”

Lyanna gave him a weak smile, feeling the warmth of his support even though neither of them could bring themselves to speak of the heaviness that hung in the air. “I’ll hold you to that, Ned.” she whispered, forcing a bit of humor into her tone, though it quickly faded.

He nodded, his hand lingering on her shoulder a moment longer before he stepped back, looking as though he wanted to say something more but couldn't find the words. 

Then came Brandon.

Brandon, her eldest brother, looked every bit the Stark heir: tall, strong, and stern. But his eyes were different now, softer, reflecting something she rarely saw from him. His jaw was set, and yet there was a flicker of vulnerability that showed in the way his gaze fell upon her. Did he just now realized that his little sister was leaving them? Had his fury vanished?

“Well,” he began, his voice low and rough, “I suppose this day had to come, didn’t it?”

Lyanna tried to smile, but it felt weak, fragile. “I suppose it did.”

Brandon took a step closer and kneeled in front of her, his large hands coming up to cup her face, tilting it gently so their eyes met. “You’ll be alright, little wolf. You always are.” His voice wavered, ever so slightly. “The South may be a strange place, but you’ll learn. You’ve always been a quick learner.”

For a moment, they stood like that, Brandon’s eyes searching hers as if trying to memorize every detail of her face. Then, slowly, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll see each other again,” he promised, though there was a hollowness in his tone. “One way or another.”

Lyanna swallowed hard, nodding as she tried to hold back the tears that burned at the corners of her eyes. “I’ll hold you to that too, Brandon.”

He gave her a final, almost imperceptible nod before stepping away.

And then, there was her father.

Her father approached, his expression was just as unforgiving as the cold winds that swept through the courtyard. His footsteps echoed as he stopped before her, his gaze stern and detached, his mouth a hard line. He had said little to her these past weeks, and now, as the moment of her departure arrived, there was no warmth, no affection. Only duty. Duty, and severity. 

He stood silently for a long moment, his eyes scanning her as if appraising something other than his daughter. "You are to do as you are told when you reach King’s Landing," he finally said, his tone brisk and impersonal. As if he were talking to a servant rather than his own blood. "The Queen expects a dutiful ward, not a wilful wild girl from the North."

Lyanna clenched her jaw, nodding stiffly, but her heart ached at his coldness. This was her last moment with her father, and there was nothing but command in his voice, no goodbye, no care. But why? There were things she did not understand, and she wondered if she ever would. Maybe when she was older, when she was wiser, smarter… 

Why?

"You’ll learn the ways of the South. You’ll behave. And you will not bring further disgrace to this family.” Rickard continued, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“I understand, Father.” Lyanna said quietly, though she wished she could say more, wished she could tell him how much she wished for even a sliver of approval, affection, anything to validate her. She would often deny it, even to herself. But the truth was, the distance, the rejection... It hurt her. But all the questions in her head, all of them were useless. He had already turned away, his cloak billowing behind him as he walked back towards the keep without so much as a backward glance.

For a moment, the ache in her chest was unbearable, but she forced herself to stand tall, her eyes dry despite the storm of emotions inside her. Her father’s rejection was nothing new, yet somehow, in this moment, it stung more than ever before. But she'd be fine. She was strong, she had always been.

As the carriage was brought to her, Lyanna felt Ned and Benjen’s eyes on her, felt the quiet sadness that radiated from both of them even if they could not speak it out loud. She looked back at the towering walls of Winterfell, the home she had always known, and wondered if she would ever truly return.

As she entered the carriage, she took one last glance at her brothers. Benjen’s pleading eyes, Ned’s quiet strength, Brandon’s unsaid promises... and she felt the sharp sting of parting all the more deeply. Being separated from everything she knew and everything she loved... It was a scary notion. 

With a final nod, the carriage she hated so much moved forward pulled by the strong horses she wished she could ride, the gates of Winterfell creaking open before her for one last time. The cold painting that was Winterfell seemed to weep her departure with the dark clouds above and the grim light, but she didn’t look back. She couldn’t.

Not now. Not yet.

Chapter Text

The journey from Winterfell to King's Landing had been long, unforgivingly so. Each day stretched into the next, marked by endless roads, foreign landscapes, and a growing unease in Lyanna's chest. As they ventured farther south, the air changed. It grew warmer, heavier, clinging to her skin like a damp cloak. The sun, though not unwelcome, felt relentless compared to the cool, brisk winds of the North. Sweat trickled down her back, making her shift uncomfortably. She had never been this far from home before, and with each passing mile, Winterfell felt more distant, almost like a dream.

The capital, when they finally arrived, overwhelmed her senses. The narrow streets teemed with life, there were vendors calling out their wares, children running barefoot through the alleys, and the distinct hum of a bustling city that never seemed to quiet. People were dressed in strange, colorful fabrics, their clothes flowing like water, so unlike the sturdy mix of wool and leather she was accustomed to. She felt out of place, like a lone wolf in a sea of unfamiliar faces.

The Red Keep loomed ahead. It was an imposing fortress of red stone that dominated the skyline. It looked both magnificent and menacing, its tall , pointy towers casting long shadows over the noisy streets below. Lyanna’s heart raced as they passed through the giant gates, her eyes wide with wonder and unease. Everything about this place was foreign, larger than life, and as she gazed up at the battlements, she knew in her bones that she was far from home.

"Come, child," an older woman’s voice called out. Lyanna turned to see a stern-looking woman dressed in plain, muted colors with a headscarf wrapped tightly around her head. "I am Septa Maegwyn," she said without a hint of warmth, her tone just as dry as the southern heat. "Follow me."

The septa led her through winding corridors, where the walls seemed to close in on her, and the cool stone beneath her feet did little to ease her nerves. Servants hurried past them, barely sparing a glance at the girl from the North in the dull colored garments. Lyanna’s luggage was carted behind her by more attendants, though she felt an acute sense of loss as they moved farther into the depths of the keep.

The chamber she was brought to was large but -thankfully- cold, despite the heat outside. It was sparsely furnished, save for a grand bed draped in silks and a tall window that overlooked the city below. The view was impressive, but it did little to comfort her. She could still hear the distant hum of life below, a stark reminder that she was now part of this strange and foreign world.

Septa Maegwyn turned to her with a tired sigh and dispassionate eyes. "You will bathe and change. The queen will expect you shortly, child."

Without waiting for a reply, the septa left, leaving Lyanna standing in the middle of the room, feeling small and out of place. The handmaidens arrived soon after, guiding her toward a tub filled with warm, fragrant water. Lyanna had never seen so much attention paid to something as simple as a bath before, and the perfumed oils they poured into the water made her wrinkle her nose in distaste. She wasn’t used to such extravagance. As they scrubbed her skin and washed her hair, she found herself longing for the familiar cold streams of the North, where she could bathe without fuss or ceremony.

After the bath, the handmaidens presented her with a gown, a delicate thing made of light, flowing, light blue fabric that seemed to float as they held it up. It was far too fine for her tastes, far too delicate for someone used to riding and sparring with her brothers in the mud. But the heat had made her Northern garb unbearable, and she had no choice but to accept the garment.

Her old gowns, rough and heavy, lay discarded in the corner of the room like relics of another life. As the maidens dressed her, they pulled and twisted her hair into a complex style, something intricate and refined that made her scalp tingle with discomfort. She wanted to push them away, tell them to leave her be, but she bit her tongue. She was no longer in Winterfell. She had to play their game, at least for now. She didn't know what the Queen was like, or if she would be patient enough with her. But she only knew she would surely not adopt such intricate hairstyles in the long term, at least of that she was sure. 

In the mirror, Lyanna barely recognized herself. Her once wild hair was tamed into a neat style, making her look more like a proper little lady than the wild child who had run through the woods of Winterfell. The dress, soft and airy, clung loosely to her small frame. It was refined, yes, but it made her feel vulnerable. She couldn’t help but think how impractical it was, how it would tear the moment she tried to ride or climb. She hated it.

The maidens guided her through the keep, taking her through what they explained to her was 'Maegor’s Holdfast' until they reached a set of towering wooden doors. Two knights in gleaming armor, their white cloaks billowing slightly in the breeze, stood at attention. Lyanna’s heart skipped a beat as she recognized them as Kingsguard. Their imposing figures were straight out of the stories Old Nan used to tell her, and for a moment, she forgot where she was and why she was there and all she wished was that Benjen could see them too.

The doors swung open, revealing a grand room filled by the golden light of the bright afternoon sun. The air inside was cooler, more comfortable, and the scent of freshly baked pastries wafted toward her. At a small table near the balcony, sat Queen Rhaella Targaryen, her presence was as regal and striking as the stories had told. She was beautiful, ethereal even, with silver-blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight like diamonds and eyes that seemed to pierce straight through Lyanna the moment they landed on her.

"Come, little wolf," the queen’s voice was soft, melodic, and full of unexpected warmth. "Sit with me."

Lyanna hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to act. She had spent so much time with her brothers, climbing trees and sneaking into the woods, that she felt simply unadequate in the presence of such grace. Slowly, she approached and sat across from the queen, feeling small, not refined enough and out of place.

"You’ve traveled a long way," Queen Rhaella said, pouring tea into a small, delicate cup. "You must be tired."

Lyanna nodded, though she wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or nerves that had her feeling so weary. "Yes, Your Grace," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The queen smiled gently, before giving Lyanna an unexpected piece of information. "You remind me of your mother. You are such a pretty little thing.”

Lyanna’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of her mother. Could it be? "You… knew my mother?"

"Yes," Queen Rhaella nodded, her beautiful lavender eyes softening at the memory. "Lyarra was a dear friend to me once, long ago. We were both young, like you, when we first met. She was kind and brave, much like you surely are."

Lyanna’s breath caught in her throat. A thousand questions surged in her mind, questions she had never been able to voice, questions she hadn't even known she carried. Her memories of her mother, once vivid and bright, had begun to dull with time, like a fading tapestry. Sometimes she questioned if those memories were even real or if she had conjured them from stories and dreams.

Her voice wavered as she spoke, her fingers fidgeting nervously in her lap. "What was she like? Truly, I mean? I remember her… but it's all so blurry now. I wish I could remember more, I wish she could’ve stayed longer… lived longer…”

Rhaella's smile softened, and for a moment, her gaze drifted far away, as though she was peering into another time, another place. The light from the windows caught in her lavender eyes, making them glisten like jewels. "She was strong, in ways that many could not comprehend. There was a quiet depth to her, a way of seeing the world that was both profoundly simple and deeply wise. She loved fiercely, without hesitation, and her kindness left a mark on everyone she met. She was brave…"

Lyanna blinked, surprised by the queen's words. Her mother had always been a mystery, a figure cloaked in silence at Winterfell. Her father rarely spoke of her, and when he did, it was with a sadness so deep that Lyanna had learned to stop asking. But here, in this grand, sunlit room, her mother was alive again, brought back to life by the queen’s gentle words. A small smile graced her lips. 

"Did she… did she ever speak to you... of me?" Lyanna asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

The queen’s expression softened further, and she reached across the table, her cool hand resting gently on Lyanna’s trembling fingers. "Oh, she spoke of you often, little one. In her letters, her words were filled with pride and love. You were her greatest joy, her most cherished treasure. Even when our letters became less frequent in her final years, I never doubted the depth of her love for you. She held you so close to her heart, always."

Lyanna swallowed, her throat feeling tight with emotion. The warmth of the queen’s hand, the kindness in her voice, it all made the strange new world of the South feel a little less foreign, a little less daunting. For a moment, the weight of her loss, the aching gap her mother had left behind, seemed to ease.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Lyanna whispered, her voice now filled with gratitude. “Is that why… why you invited me here?”

Queen Rhaella’s smile widened, her eyes glimmering with understanding. “Yes, dear one. When I heard your father was seeking a family to foster you, I made him the offer without hesitation. Your mother was dear to me, and I could not bear the thought of you being sent elsewhere. Lyarra was there for me in my darkest times. She was warmth and light when I needed it most. How could I not offer her beloved daughter a place in my home?”

‘Her beloved daughter.’ The words resonated within Lyanna, striking a chord she hadn’t expected. To hear someone speak of her mother with such fondness, such affection, it made her heart swell with something she hadn’t felt in a long time. A sense of belonging, of being connected to something beyond the cold walls of Winterfell.

A genuine smile spread across her face, not the polite, guarded one she had forced before, but a real smile, full of curiosity and hope. "Can you tell me more about her? About the time she spent here?"

Rhaella’s eyes sparkled as she leaned in, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial tone, as if sharing a secret with her. “Ah, I remember your mother’s early days at court. It didn’t take long for her to leave her mark, though I doubt she ever intended to. There was a lady in King’s Landing at the time—Lady Rhaenys Velaryon, daughter of the Sea Snake’s house. A formidable woman, known for her sharp tongue and even sharper temper. She fancied herself the queen of courtly manners, and it was said that if Rhaenys did not approve of you, you would find it difficult to navigate the court of King’s Landing.”

Lyanna leaned forward, intrigued. She had heard of the Velaryons. Powerful, respected, and always close to the throne. But her mother facing one of their sharp-tongued ladies?

The queen smiled knowingly at Lyanna’s curiosity. “On one of your mother’s first days here, there was a luncheon in the gardens, a small gathering of the court’s ladies. Lyarra, as you can imagine, was a curiosity—this young, northern girl, so far from home, with her quiet grace and wolf’s blood. Lady Rhaenys saw her as fresh prey, I think. She always loved testing newcomers.”

Lyanna raised an eyebrow, her interest now piqued. “What did she do?”

“Oh, nothing outwardly cruel. Lady Rhaenys was much too clever for that. She had a way of twisting words, of making you feel small without ever raising her voice. At the luncheon, she remarked loudly to the other ladies about how different the North must be. She said, with that unmistakably mocking tone of hers ‘It must be so strange for you here, Lady Stark. I imagine you’ve never even seen a lemon tree before.’”

Lyanna smirked, already sensing where the story was going. “What did my mother say?”

Rhaella chuckled softly, a sound like music in the quiet room. “Your mother, without missing a beat, looked right at Lady Rhaenys, smiled sweetly, and said, ‘Indeed, my lady. And I imagine you’ve never seen a wolf before. But I assure you, they’re quite adept at finding their way, even in unfamiliar forests.’”

Lyanna’s eyes widened, and she couldn’t help but smile widely. “She said that?”

“Oh, she did,” Rhaella confirmed with a grin. “There was a stunned silence around the table. For a moment, Lady Rhaenys just stared at her, clearly not expecting a northern girl to respond so cleverly. But then she laughed, a genuine, full laugh, and from that moment on, the court began to see your mother in a new light. She had earned their respect, and even Lady Rhaenys herself couldn’t help but admire her.”

Lyanna shook her head, a sense of pride blooming in her chest. She had never heard these stories before. She had never even imagined her mother outside of Winterfell, what her life had been like before. “She must’ve been something.”

“She was,” Rhaella agreed warmly. “And the court—ladies like Rhaenys—quickly learned that while your mother may have come from the North, she was no one to underestimate.”

Lyanna’s smile grew, her heart swelling with a new kind of connection to the woman she barely remembered. Her mother had been strong, clever, and unshakable, even in the face of southern intrigue. "She sounds… amazing," Lyanna murmured, her heart full of childish wonder. "I wish I could’ve known her better. Everyone at home is so quiet about her."

The queen’s eyes softened with sympathy. "Grief affects us all differently, child. Your father… he loved her deeply, and sometimes that kind of love makes it hard to speak of those we’ve lost. But know this—your mother’s strength lives on in you. I see it already. The same fire, the same unyielding spirit."

Lyanna’s cheeks flushed, but this time it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was from something warm and powerful. 

“Are there more stories about her time here?” Lyanna asked, eager to hear more.

"Oh, yes," Rhaella said with a fond smile. "She had many stories. She loved the gardens here—said they were nothing like the ones in the North, with their delicate southern flowers and fountains. She would often spend hours there, reading or simply enjoying the quiet. I remember once, we were walking through the gardens, and she stopped to admire a cluster of roses. ‘They bloom so easily here,’ she said, ‘but in the North, the flowers have to fight for every inch. They have to be strong to survive the cold.’ That was how she saw the world—always finding meaning in the simplest things.”

Lyanna’s heart ached with longing for a mother she barely remembered, but she also felt a strange kind of peace. She was learning about her mother in a way she never had before, through stories filled with warmth and love, not the heavy, sad silences that hung over Winterfell whenever the subject was brought.

The conversation flowed easily between them after that, as Rhaella shared more stories, small moments of laughter, of strength, of kindness, that painted a picture of her mother not as a distant memory, but as a living, breathing woman.

Lyanna’s first day at court had been... well, different. Maybe it was because Queen Rhaella had taken her under her wing so quickly, shielding her from the overwhelming whirlwind of introductions that awaited her at the Red Keep. Instead, the queen decided to show her around the castle, a much kinder and more gradual initiation to court life. As they walked, Lyanna found a little piece of home nestled within the foreign stone walls of King’s Landing. A small Godswood.

It wasn’t quite like the one she knew in Winterfell, though. There were no carved faces in the trees here, no weeping weirwoods with ancient eyes watching over her. Instead, there stood a large weirwood tree at the center, its broad, pale branches twisting skyward. No face, no northern old magic, just a quiet, towering presence. Still, it was a place of peace. And that was enough.

By the second night, however, the novelty of the Keep had worn off and the restless heat of the southern summer had set in. She also missed her brothers, and her old chambers, however, she resisted the urge to let the tears roll down her face. She was a wolf, not a helpless girl, she kept telling herself. It helped her contain her sorrow, somehow. In her bed, Lyanna tossed and turned, her blanket now an enemy that only added to her discomfort. She’d thought briefly about sleeping on the cold stone floor, which surely had to be cooler than her soft, stifling bed, but it would’ve been admitting defeat.

Naturally, her restless nature wouldn’t let her stay put.

Sneaking from her chambers, she clutched the small wooden sword she had smuggled all the way from Winterfell. It was nothing more than a toy, but in her young hands, it felt like something far more dangerous. And besides, wasn’t the Keep buzzing today because Prince Rhaegar was arriving at dawn after some trip to old Targaryen ruins? The queen had told her a few stories of those ruins, old places, full of dragons and fire and ancient Targaryen legends. She wondered what Prince Rhaegar was like, this prince she had yet to meet, who was seven-and-ten and probably full of tales of his adventures. Would he be like Brandon? Or would he be like the southron lords northerners often made fun of, with refined manners and pompous? She hadn’t met the King just yet, so she could not imagine what his son would be like.

Still, that was a thought for another time. Right now, she was more focused on escaping without a single soul noticing.

The halls were quiet, the shadows long and deep as she crept toward the Godswood, feet padding softly over stone. The night air was a relief as it hit her flushed cheeks, and the familiar scent of trees and earth began to calm her nerves. Even if this Godswood wasn’t exactly like Winterfell’s, it was enough to make her feel a little less like a stranger.

The bone colored weirwood tree stood tall and majestic under the moonlight. The breeze rustled the leaves gently, and Lyanna let herself relax, wandering slowly through the space. It was peaceful here, almost as if the Godswood was welcoming her presence, acknowledging her as one who prayed to the Old Gods.

But just as she was about to settle beneath the weirwood's sprawling branches, she heard a noise. A faint rustling in the bushes, followed by a low murmur. Her heart leapt into her throat. She was alone, at night, in the Godswood of the Red Keep. Spinning on her heels, she raised her wooden sword, clutching the hilt tightly as she narrowed her eyes at the approaching figure.

A cloaked shape emerged from the shadows, very tall and mysterious. For a split second, she was frozen with fear. Who wandered the Godswood at this hour? An assassin? A ghost? Or worse, a southerner?

“Stay back!” she barked, her voice fierce and her northern accent thick, though her hands trembled slightly. She brandished her wooden sword with as much menace as she could muster against this giant stranger. “Come any closer, and I’ll... I’ll run you through!”

Surprisingly enough, the figure stopped, silent for a moment before lifting their hands in what looked like mock surrender. Then, with a soft, rich chuckle, the figure reached up to pull back the hood, revealing a young man, barely older than Brandon, but much taller, with silvery blonde hair that shimmered in the moonlight. His eyes, pretty eyes, were a shade similar to Rhaella's. And they were sharp, amused, and just a little too knowing.

She stared at him, her pulse quickening as her mind raced. There was something oddly familiar about him, though she couldn’t quite place it. The silvery blonde hair was striking enough, but it was his manner, his easy confidence, the way he moved, like someone who was already accustomed to command. She narrowed her eyes, studying him more closely even in the dark. His high cheekbones, the set of his jaw, even the way he was dressed under that cloak, all spoke of someone important. Someone royal, perhaps?

Then it hit her, like a cold bucket of water poured over her head.

This was no ordinary young boy sneaking through the Godswood. He was a Targaryen.

The realization made her stomach drop. She had just threatened a member of the royal family of Westeros... with a wooden sword. On her second night. 

But how could she not when he surprised her like that? And no one had introduced her to him, so it was not her fault, right?

Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced herself to keep her composure. It wasn’t as if she could simply run away now, especially since he was looking at her with such open amusement and an annoying lopsided smile. She swallowed, trying to figure out what to do next, but her mind was a whirl of panic.

The young man, a Targaryen, she reminded herself, raised a brow, as though waiting for her to make the next move. When she didn’t speak, he took a step closer, his lips still holding that same lopsided smile. “Well, this is a surprise,” he said, his voice smooth and rich with amusement. “I didn’t expect to be accosted by a fierce northern warrior in the dead of night.”

Lyanna glared at him, feeling her face heat at his words. So he did recognize her accent. Was it so evident? “I wasn’t accosting you! You were sneaking around in the dark like some thief!”

The young man tilted his head, a few strands of his pretty hair falling across his face. “A thief, am I? And you, my lady, are the brave protector of the Godswood, is that it?” His gaze fell to the wooden sword in her hand, and his grin widened. “With that fearsome blade, no less.”

Lyanna’s grip on the sword tightened, even as her embarrassment deepened. “It’s better than nothing…” she muttered, wishing she could disappear into the ground when she realized how ridiculous she must look.

The young man chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the situation. “I don’t doubt it.” He paused, his pretty eyes studying her for a moment, and then he frowned slightly. “But who are you, exactly? I don’t recall seeing any northern warriors before. Not here, of all places.”

Lyanna blinked, caught off guard. He didn’t know who she was? She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or insulted. But then again, she didn't know who he was either, so... She straightened her spine, trying to salvage what little pride she had left. “I’m Lyanna Stark of Winterfell,” she declared, lifting her chin. “And you are…?”

“Rhaegar Targaryen” He said in his haughty southron accent, his brow arched again, his lips twitching as if he were trying not to laugh. The crown prince. Lyanna had just threatened the crown prince with a wooden sword. If her father heard of this, she would surely be sent beyond the wall and be lost forever. Would she ever learn to avoid trouble? Lyanna swallowed hard as she heard him speak once again. “Ah, the wolf pup of the North. Well met, Lady Lyanna.” He gave a small bow, his hair glinting in the soft light. “Though I must say, I never expected to meet you under such... combative circumstances.”

Lyanna scowled, her wolf’s blood taking over her once again that night. “You shouldn’t have been sneaking up on me! I thought you were some kind of… intruder.”

“An intruder in my own castle?” Rhaegar asked, his tone so dry it almost made her laugh. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to be more cautious in the future, lest I find myself skewered by a Stark.”

Despite her frustration, Lyanna couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. He did not seem bothered by her ridiculous threat, and he certainly did not look angry either, so she lowered her guard a little, and allowed herself a sigh of relief. Perhaps, she would not be sent beyond the wall after all. “Next time, bring a real sword,” she shot back. “You’ll need it.”

The prince grinned, the amusement never leaving his enigmatic eyes. “I shall keep that in mind.” He took a step back, glancing around the Godswood, then back at her. “But truly, my lady, wandering about at this hour isn’t the safest. The Red Keep has its share of... unsavory types.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lyanna said quickly, not wanting to seem like a child who needed protecting. “I can take care of myself.”

Rhaegar smiled again, this time softer, no mockery. “I don’t doubt that for a moment.” He glanced once more at her wooden sword, his eyes twinkling as his expression softened. “But next time, perhaps something with a sharper edge.”

She looked down at her wooden sword, shaking her head with a wry smile. What an introduction to court life. A prince, a wooden sword, and the Godswood at midnight.

“If you allow me,” Rhaegar spoke again, his tone softer but more serious now, “I will escort you back to your chambers. You should not wander alone at night around here. I mean it.”

There was no roughness in his manner, no command either. Just some kind of quiet certainty, as though he knew too well the risks of prowling these halls alone at night. His expression was almost... understanding, as if he had done this before.

Lyanna hesitated. Part of her bristled at the idea of being escorted like some helpless lady, but she knew better than to argue with him. Maybe it was the wiser choice to accept. After all, she had been lucky so far, and declining a prince's offer seemed foolish. Still, there was a flicker of unease creeping up her spine.

“Fine.” she muttered, feeling a touch of defeat as she lowered her wooden sword. She glanced sideways at him, wondering what other girls might think of such an offer. Being escorted back to her chambers by the prince of the realm. To her, it felt more like being caught misbehaving. Yet another thought gnawed at her, deeper, more concerning.

What if he told his mother? Queen Rhaella had been so kind, so welcoming, and now Lyanna had gone and done something reckless that might ruin that warmth. Gods, what if the Queen is furious with me? Could it be possible for her to ruin things in less than two days? Where would she be sent? 

Swallowing her pride, she turned to him, looking up, her voice quieter, tinged with embarrassment. “Could I... ask a favor of you?”

Rhaegar raised a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small, curious smile. “You may ask anything, Lady Stark.”

Her cheeks burned as she blurted it out, quickly and breathlessly. “Could we keep this a secret? I don’t want the Queen to be angry with me.”

Rhaegar’s smile deepened, not mocking but warm, as if he found her request both amusing and endearing. “I give you my word,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. “I will not tell a soul. But on one condition—” He paused, his eyes meeting hers with a glimmer of teasing mischief as he went down on one knee to match her height. “You must promise me that you will not wander alone again.”

Lyanna bit her lip, feeling a tug of resistance deep within. But she knew he was right, and more than that, she knew this was the price to pay for his silence. She couldn’t afford to ruin her newfound relationship with the Queen. So, with a reluctant sigh, she nodded, her voice soft but firm. “I promise.”

Rhaegar nodded in return, a deal sealed between the two of them, satisfaction clear in his eyes. “Then your secret is safe with me, Lady Stark. Now let's go.”

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed.

At first, it had been difficult. King’s Landing was nothing like Winterfell. The air here was thick with the smells of the city, the sounds of horses, and the ever-present murmur of the court. There was no clear sky or crisp Northern breeze to greet her in the mornings, only the faintly salty tang of the Blackwater Rush and the distant buzz of the Red Keep’s bustling life. And worst of all, her brothers weren’t there. Winterfell had felt alive, always filled with the laughter and quarrels of her siblings, her father’s stern but reassuring presence, and the occasional howl of the direwolves. King’s Landing, though grand, felt foreign. Cold.

She cried, often, especially in those early days. Not openly, of course. A Stark of Winterfell did not shed tears in public. But alone in her chambers, when the heavy weight of the stone walls pressed down upon her, Lyanna wept. She cried for Benjen, for what she had done, and for her father’s unforgiving judgment. Each tear a reflection of her guilt, her anger, and the profound sense of loss that had settled deep inside her. But always in secret. Always hidden.

Yet, somehow, things had improved, even if only a little.

Queen Rhaella was everything she had imagined a mother would be. Intuitive and kind, with eyes that saw right through her veils of forced composure. No matter how well Lyanna thought she had hidden her tears the night before, Rhaella always seemed to know. She never pried, never asked directly, but she would braid Lyanna’s hair with gentle hands the next morning, offering soft words of comfort. It was strange—stranger still because the Queen was teaching her things she had never imagined learning. How to weave silk, how to dance with grace, how to wield influence through words rather than strength. They weren’t the skills Lyanna had longed for, but there was a gentleness in Rhaella’s teaching that soothed something deep inside her.

Lyanna often wondered if this was what it felt like to have a mother.

The King, however, was a distant figure. The first time she had seen him was at supper, a towering man with an air of quiet authority, though not one to instill fear. King Aerys seemed composed, thoughtful even, though his eccentricities were clear. He indulged his whims, and though he loved his wife dearly, he showed little interest in Lyanna. Not that he was impolite or rude, he treated her well enough, he just wasn’t as marveled with her as Queen Rhaella. That didn’t bother her. She hadn’t expected a fatherly bond from him or from anyone else, to be honest. He was always busy with the affairs of the realm, and though imposing, he seemed…responsible. If nothing else, she could respect that.

But Queen Rhaella…she was different. She was a mother to her, in every sense but blood. She taught Lyanna with patience and love, asking only that in return, Lyanna would try to learn the ways of a lady. The King indulged her whims, allowing her to bend the rules of courtly life when needed.

Of course, it was very different from the boyish things she had done in Winterfell. She had to wear the gowns Queen Rhaella gave her—delicate, soft, and finely embroidered. Not that she minded them much, to be fair. They were pretty, and she liked the way the skirts swayed when she walked. But what she truly loved was when Rhaella noticed her growing boredom during the endless hours of embroidery and sewing lessons.

It had happened one afternoon, after an especially tedious session with the ladies of the court. Lyanna had been fidgeting, trying her best not to appear impolite, but her face must have betrayed her. The Queen had smiled knowingly and asked what she liked to do.

“I like to ride,” she had replied, eager to escape the needlework.

Since that day, she had been allowed to ride the horses and wear breeches—freedom, at last. Rhaella had only asked in return that she continue to learn the more delicate arts of womanhood, a negotiation Lyanna had gladly accepted.

And so, on that particular day, Lyanna decided that her little free time would be spent in the godswood. Dressed in breeches and with a brand-new bow in hand—the one she had received after her conversation with the Queen—she headed to the heart of the Red Keep’s secluded sanctuary.

The godswood was unlike anything else in King’s Landing. Here, the hustle and bustle of the castle melted away. The tall, red-leaved weirwoods reminded her of home. Of Winterfell. She fancied herself a Northern girl once more, alone and free in the woods.

She strung her bow, testing the weight of the new wood, running her fingers over its smooth surface. Her breath was steady as she prepared to loose an arrow, but just as she took aim, a soft, distant melody floated through the trees.

It was the sound of a harp.

She paused, the arrow hanging loose between her fingers, curiosity stirring within her. The tune was delicate, hauntingly beautiful, and yet full of something she couldn’t quite place—a kind of longing, perhaps? Drawn by the music, she moved quietly, almost on instinct, each step bringing her closer to the source.

Through the trees, she saw him.

Prince Rhaegar sat on the grass, the harp cradled gently in his hands, his amethyst eyes cast down, focused intently on the strings. His expression was one of serene concentration, the soft curve of his lips relaxed as he plucked each note with precision. He was a figure of boyish beauty, more relaxed here in the godswood than she had ever seen him before. The prince of ballads, the warrior who sang songs—yet here, in this moment, he was something simpler. Just a boy with his harp.

Lyanna hesitated. She had only seen him a few times since arriving at the capital. Since that night in the Godswood. He was always busy with his princely duties. Some said he was a prodigy, for the prince always excelled at everything he put his mind into. He was said to be outstandingly smart, a good musician, a skilled warrior, fluent in valyrian and other tongues, and many other things. They hadn’t spoken much—truthfully, even if he kept her secret from the night she met him, something she was deeply grateful for. And there he was, sitting alone in the godswood, unaware—or so she thought—of her presence.

He played on, oblivious to the world around him.

“Did you enjoy the song?” His voice, soft and steady, broke the silence as he plucked the last notes from the instrument, his eyes still fixed on the strings.

Lyanna flinched. How had he known she was there?

His gaze slowly lifted from the harp, and he looked directly at the tree she had been hiding behind. She stepped out into the open, her cheeks feeling warm as she realized she had been caught prying. What an embarrassing moment.

The prince smiled, not with annoyance but with a kind of warm amusement, as if he had expected her all along. “Lady Lyanna,” he said, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. “You’re quite the observer.”

Lyanna felt her cheeks warm once again, though she was determined not to let it show. She nodded, taking a few tentative steps toward him, her bow still clutched in her hand. “I did enjoy the song, Your Grace. It was beautiful.” Her voice, despite her best efforts, came out softer than she intended, betraying the shyness she felt. 

Rhaegar’s eyes flicked down to the bow in her hands, his brow lifting with interest. “Archery, is it?”

She glanced down at her bow, still embarrassed and feeling caught. “I… I like archery.”

“Are you any good?” he asked, his tone teasing but kind as he grabbed a decanter filled with water and drank.

Lyanna, listening to the question and knowing the answer, straightened, her chest puffing out with pride. “I’m very good,” she said confidently, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Are you now?” His lips curved into a smile, the kind she hadn’t expected from him. “How did you come by such a skill?”

She smiled back at him, feeling a little more at ease now. He certainly did not seem annoyed with her intrusive presence, but rather curious. “Back in Winterfell. My brother trained in the courtyard every day, and I would watch him. I wanted to be as good as him, so I begged him to teach me. And he did. I’ve been shooting ever since.”

Rhaegar chuckled softly, leaning back on one hand as he surveyed her with renewed interest. “It’s not often you hear of a lady with such an affinity for the bow. Most prefer their needlework.”

“Well,” Lyanna said with a smile, “I’ve never been one for pretty stitches.”

He laughed lightly at that, a sound that caught her off guard.

“You’ll have to show me your skills someday,” Rhaegar said with a small smile as he rose to his feet, setting his harp aside with care. “I’ve never had the pleasure of watching a true Northern archer in action. The Godswood seems like the perfect place for practice—peaceful, secluded. I often come here to practice myself.” He nodded toward the harp.

Lyanna bit her lip, a flicker of memory surfacing—the first time they had met here. He had kept his word, after all. She had been afraid he would not keep his promise, and spent that night awake. But the next morning, none of her fears materialized. No one had found out. 

“Thank you,” she said softly, catching his eye. His brow raised slightly in curiosity. “For keeping my secret. You know… The last time we met here.”

Rhaegar gave a casual shrug, his expression calm yet thoughtful. “I’m good at keeping secrets, Lady Lyanna. Besides, it seems we share a fondness for this place.”

“I do have a fondness for the Godswood,” Lyanna admitted, her voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. “It reminds me of home.”

Rhaegar's gaze softened, the sharpness of his princely demeanor fading into something more thoughtful. “Winterfell,” he said, almost musing aloud. “You miss it, don’t you?”

“I do,” she replied quietly, her eyes falling to the ground, the weight of her words sinking deep inside her.

He hesitated for a moment, then asked gently, “And when do you return? Surely, your stay here is only temporary.”

“I… I don’t know,” Lyanna murmured, feeling a pang of sadness creep into her voice as she acknowledged her situation. “My father sent me here as punishment…”

Rhaegar’s brow furrowed, concern shadowing his face. In that moment, in the Godswood, with the sun shining through the red leaves of the trees, the prince looked different from the night she met him. He looked so much like Queen Rhaella, Lyanna realized. “Punishment? For what?”

Lyanna hesitated, chewing on her lower lip as if weighing whether to tell him. But something about his presence, the quiet way he listened without judgment or impatience, made her want to speak. Maybe it was the fact that, from the moment she had stepped out from behind that tree, he had treated her with a gentle understanding that few others did. “I suppose I’ve always been… difficult,” she began, the words coming out slowly. She didn’t want him to think ill of her, after all. “My father says I have wolf’s blood—too wild, too reckless. He thinks it’s a curse, that I’ll always run where I shouldn’t.”

Rhaegar’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze deepened, as though he were seeing more than just the little girl standing before him. Encouraged, Lyanna took a breath and pushed forward. “The last time, I decided to sneak out one night. I wanted to see if there was any adventure left in the woods around Winterfell. But… my little brother Benjen, he followed me.” Her voice faltered at the memory. “He always looks up to me, you see. Always tries to keep up, even when it’s dangerous. I didn’t realize we would be in danger until it was too late.”

Rhaegar tilted his head, listening with that same steady patience, giving her room to continue. His eyes never left her face.

“We went deeper into the forest,” Lyanna murmured, staring down at her boots. “And… there was a direwolf. It attacked us. And Benjen… It bit him… badly. He—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, looking up at the prince with wide, troubled eyes. “They don’t know if he’ll ever walk properly again. They say he might be… crippled.” She clenched her hands around the bow she was holding, knuckles turning white. “And it’s all my fault.”

For a long moment, Rhaegar was silent, his expression thoughtful. But there was no condemnation there, no disdain—only a quiet sympathy. She half-expected him to scold her, to tell her how foolish she had been. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice gentle. “That must have been frightening… and painful, for both of you. But you didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”

“No,” Lyanna whispered, shaking her head slowly. “I didn’t. But that doesn’t matter. I should have been more careful. I should have—”

“Sometimes,” he interrupted softly, “our boldness leads us into places we never intended to go. But that doesn’t make you evil, or cursed. You’re not a monster, Lady Lyanna, you’re just a child. You made a mistake. And it’s a mistake that any of us could have made.”

“But Benjen—he’ll never be the same!” she burst out, as if by raising her voice, she could make him understand how deeply it hurt her.

Rhaegar nodded, his eyes earnest. “And that’s a hard burden to bear. But it’s not all on your shoulders.” He paused, considering her for a moment before continuing. “You were looking for adventure, not harm. Sometimes, our greatest faults come from our greatest strengths—bravery, curiosity, wanting to see more of the world. I don’t think those are bad things… as long as we learn from them.” He tilted his head slightly, a small, sympathetic smile on his lips. “Did you learn from it, my lady?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice small. “I did. I’ll never—never do anything like that again.”

“Good.” His tone softened even further. “But don’t let it make you forget who you are, either. Wolves are meant to run. You just need to choose your paths more wisely.”

Lyanna blinked up at him, caught between confusion and gratitude. No one had ever spoken to her like this before—seeing both her flaws and her strengths, and treating them both with equal respect. “But… how do you know?” she asked finally, her voice curious and a little hesitant. “You’re… you’re a prince. You’ve probably never done anything so foolish.”

At that, he chuckled, a low, rich sound that was strangely comforting. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” he said with a playful glint in his eyes, as if he were remembering something. “I may seem perfectly polished now, but I wasn’t always so. There was a time when I did my own share of sneaking out and getting into trouble.”

“You?” Lyanna’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Me,” he affirmed, leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree. “But unlike you, I was always caught. My mother used to say I had too much dragon in me—too eager to soar where others walked. So, I understand what it means to have a father who doesn’t always know what to do with you.”

Lyanna stared at him, trying to reconcile this picture of a young, reckless prince with the composed, princely figure she saw before her now. It made her feel… lighter, somehow, to know that even he had once been wild and unsteady.

“So… you got into trouble?” she asked, a tentative smile tugging at her lips.

“More times than I can count,” Rhaegar replied with a mock sigh. “But I grew out of it, mostly.” He smiled, and Lyanna found herself smiling back. “You will, too. And until then… well, you can count on me as your ally”

“I do,” she said softly, a smile blooming on her face. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Hmmm… You can call me Rhaegar,” he insisted, his expression calmed. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Lyanna’s smile widened, her heart lifting just a little. “Yes… Rhaegar.”

In the quiet, sun-dappled gardens of the Red Keep, the Queen sat beneath a large flowering tree, her hands idly smoothing the fabric of her gown as she watched the blooms sway gently in the breeze.

Rhaegar approached silently, his long silvery blonde hair catching the afternoon ligh. As he neared her, Rhaella looked up and smiled warmly.

"Rhaegar," she greeted him softly, a note of affection in her voice. "Come, sit with me. It’s been too long since you and I had a moment to talk."

He smiled faintly, taking a seat beside her on the stone bench. "I missed this—being here with you," he admitted, his gaze briefly wandering over the vibrant flowers and the soft shimmer of the garden’s fountain. "The gardens always seem so far removed from the chaos of the court."

"They do," she agreed, her voice wistful as she followed his gaze. "That’s why I spend so much time here. It’s the one place where the world can’t intrude."

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant trickling of the fountain. But Rhaegar’s thoughts were elsewhere, lingering on a conversation he’d had just that morning.

"I ran into Lyanna Stark earlier," he said at last, turning toward his mother. "In the godswood. I was practicing my harp, and she appeared out of nowhere."

Rhaella looked at him with interest, her expression softening at the mention of Lyanna. "Oh? She does love the godswood. I think it reminds her of the North, of Winterfell. Poor child… she must be terribly homesick."

Rhaegar nodded slowly. "She is. She spoke of Winterfell with such longing. I think it pains her to be here."

Rhaella sighed, her gaze falling to the roses blooming at her feet. "I’ve tried to make her feel at home, but King’s Landing is so different from what she’s used to. It must be hard for her—living in a place so far from her family and the life she knew."

"It is," Rhaegar agreed. "She told me her father sent her here as punishment. Apparently, she disobeyed him—ran off into the woods with her brother, and he was hurt in an accident. Lord Stark sent her here for that.” As he spoke, the memory of the little Lady Stark drifted to the forefront of his mind. He could still picture her standing there in the godswood. Her small, almost fragile frame had seemed swallowed by the vastness of the ancient trees. Her wild, dark hair was loosely braided, strands rebelliously escaping and framing her face. Her grey eyes—those sad, stormy eyes—had looked up at him, weighed down with a sorrow he had not expected to find in someone so young.

A shadow of sadness passed over his mother’s face. She was a compassionate woman, and Rhaegar could not imagine her sending him away to some foreign place for a simple mistake any child could make. "Punished for a mistake… as if she were some unruly child. But she’s more than that. She has such spirit, such fire. I’ve seen it in her eyes. She reminds me of her mother.”

Rhaegar pressed his lips into a small smile, remembering the girl’s courage the night he met her. He wanted to let out a soft laughter, however, he kept his amusement to himself and instead talked about her. "She’s wild, yes. But there’s more to her than that. She’s brave, and funny in her own way. But she’s also burdened by a sadness that she tries so hard to hide. And it’s so rare to see in a child.”

His mother looked at him thoughtfully, sensing the depth of feeling behind his words. "You’ve come to care for her, haven’t you?" she asked gently. "I can see it in the way you speak of her."

Rhaegar hesitated for a moment before answering. "I do care for her. It’s difficult not to, when you see the world from her eyes. She’s not like the other noble girls we’ve seen at court. There’s something… raw about her. She’s more real. And I pity her, Mother, because she doesn’t deserve the punishment. She’s clearly suffering away from her home.”

His mother reached out, gently placing a hand on her son’s arm. "She doesn’t deserve it, no. But little Lyanna is stronger than you think. She has a resilience that will serve her well in time, even if she doesn’t see it now."

Rhaegar’s expression softened as he looked at his mother. She was surely bold and of a strong character, that much he learned. "I hope you’re right. But I fear King’s Landing will only make her more unhappy. She belongs in the North.”

Rhaella smiled faintly then. Rhaegar could not understand how a father could send away his daughter, who was only one-and-ten, so far away from her home. Lord Stark. He wondered what kind of man he was. "Perhaps. But perhaps this time here will shape her in ways we cannot yet see. People change when they’re tested, Rhaegar. Besides, she’s not alone. I will take care of her as if she were my own daughter.”

Rhaegar considered his mother’s words for a long moment, the frown deepening slightly at the corners of his mouth. "I suppose you’re right," he murmured, though his voice carried a trace of reluctance. "But still… I can’t help but pity her. She’s not some reckless, wayward child. She’s curious, adventurous—just as I was at her age."

Rhaella’s gaze softened, filled with a quiet understanding. "You’ve always had a rare gift, Rhaegar, for seeing people as they truly are, beyond the roles they’ve been given. It’s a gift few possess." She paused, her tone gentle but firm. "But you must give her time to adjust. She was torn from her home and thrust into this world. It will take more than a few kind words to help her find her footing."

Her sympathy was palpable, radiating through her every word. "You have a kind heart, my son. But remember, sometimes we must allow others to face their own battles, even when it pains us to see them struggle. We can't shield her from everything."

Rhaegar nodded slowly, though the weight of his thoughts was still heavy upon him. His gaze drifted, his mind swirling with pity for the little Lady Lyanna. Poor girl. Thrown into a nest of vipers by her own father, expected to thrive in a world she doesn’t yet understand. Hopefully, she would make it. "I know, Mother," he said, his voice quieter now, reflective. "I just hope she’ll fare well here… under your watchful eye."

Rhaella’s hand reached out, squeezing his arm gently in a motherly gesture. "She has my protection, yes," she said softly, then her eyes twinkled with a touch of knowing warmth. "And I daresay, she has yours as well now. We’ll help her find her way, but in the end, her path is her own to walk."

Rhaegar remained silent for a moment, absorbing her words. His mind turned over thoughts of that little girl with brave, steely, grey eyes again—her fiery spirit, her unflinching bravery in a world so different from her northern home. He wanted to believe she would find her way, that the Red Keep wouldn’t stifle her.

Rhaella smiled, her pride in her son shining through her soft features. "You’ve always been such a good boy, Rhaegar," she whispered with tenderness. "Never forget that."

He finally allowed a genuine smile to touch his lips when he looked at her. "Thank you, Mother," he replied, his voice lightened by her reassurance. But as he spoke, his expression shifted, the weight of other thoughts pressing on his mind. "I actually came to speak to you about other matters as well…”

He shook off the lingering thoughts of Lyanna Stark and refocused. "I’ve spoken with Maester Marwyn from the Citadel and Ser Gerion, the finest combat trainer in the capital. From what they've said… it seems the best place to study swordplay, strategy, and—well, everything concerning the art of war—may lie across the Narrow Sea. In Essos."

Chapter Text

280 AC

Time was a curious thing. It had a way of softening even the deepest of wounds, quietly transforming them into something else, something bearable. It moved with a speed that often escaped notice, especially in the heart of King’s Landing, where life surged endlessly like the tide.

For Lyanna, the first two years in the capital had passed quicker than she could have anticipated. Yet, looking back, she could hardly believe how much had changed. The first year had been the hardest, an overwhelming adjustment to the suffocating heat, the strange customs, and the endless sea of unfamiliar faces. King’s Landing was not Winterfell, and it never would be. Worse still, there had been no communication from home. Not a single letter, not even a whisper of news from the North.

That silence had been deafening. But it didn’t last forever. Eventually, her brothers had written to her. It was Benjen who told her that after much persistence, their father had finally relented, allowing them to send and receive letters. Yet, even then, there were none from Lord Stark himself. Her father remained a silent figure, distant and unyielding, a shadow she could not reach.

Benjen's words had been a balm, though. He told her his wounds had healed, and he was walking again, though not quite the same as before. He had confessed that his mobility wasn’t fully restored, but he was working hard with the maester to regain his strength. He was determined, as stubborn as any Stark. That knowledge had eased some of the weight on Lyanna’s heart. She thanked the gods every night for that small mercy.

Ned, her quiet, thoughtful brother, had been sent to the Vale to foster with Lord Jon Arryn. His letters had been more frequent, filled with news of his growing friendship with a boy named Robert Baratheon. Robert, Ned wrote, was everything Ned was not: boisterous, loud, and absolutely wild. But they had become fast friends nonetheless. Lyanna couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Boys, she mused, had an odd way of bonding despite their differences. Simple creatures, really.

As for Brandon, his correspondence had been sparse, just as she had expected. Her eldest brother was a man of action, not words. His letters were short, his news brief, but still, she cherished them. Any link to her family was a comfort, no matter how small.

And then, there was her own life. She had grown taller, only by a few centimeters, but it was noticeable. At thirteen, she was still thin and scrawny, her limbs all angles and sharpness and maybe even awkward. But it didn’t bother her. In fact, she rather liked it. Being slight kept the stares at bay. She had little interest in drawing attention to herself, as did other ladies her age.

Her manners had improved significantly, or so Rhaella often told her. The queen was a kind, gentle soul who had taken Lyanna under her wing from the very beginning, treating her as if she were her own daughter. Rhaella’s patience had been endless, her guidance always tender. She encouraged Lyanna to excel in the areas she loathed by offering rewards in the ones she loved, like her archery and horse riding. It was a clever system, one that worked wonders for the young Lyanna and kept her motivated. Even King Aerys, who had initially paid little mind to her, seemed surprised by her progress. He had grown fond of her in his own way, treating her with more warmth as time went on, as if she were his niece.

Sometimes, Lyanna barely recognized herself. In those rare moments when she found herself in court, she no longer felt like the rough, boyish girl from the North, out of place among the pompous southern nobility. She had learned how to blend in, how to hold herself with grace and dignity. But she hadn’t lost her wolf’s blood. Rhaella had turned her into a proper young lady, though Lyanna still held fast to her love of archery and riding. Some things would never change.

Rhaegar and Ser Arthur had helped her with those skills, often inviting her along on their adventures. The two young men were close, best friends, and they treated her like a little sister, allowing her to join them on outings they deemed "appropriate" for her. Rhaegar, in particular, had become the dreamy prince of the Red Keep, adored by nobles and smallfolk alike. His charm, his intelligence, and his growing reputation as a skilled warrior and musician had only increased his popularity. The maids, Lyanna noted with distaste, fawned over him as if he were the only man left in Westeros. It was revolting, the way they followed him around like a flock of mindless hens. She couldn’t imagine ever becoming one of them, so desperate for a pretty boy's attention. What a boring notion marriage was to her. The very thought made her shudder. Why think of marriage when there was so much world to see and explore?

A world Rhaegar would soon venture into. With Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan by his side, he would travel across the Narrow Sea to Essos, embarking on a journey of knowledge and skill. He had convinced the king that it was necessary for his growth, a way to learn more about the world and his family’s own roots before taking on the mantle of king. And the king, after some thought, had agreed. It was a grand adventure, one that Lyanna envied.

But there was one condition... Upon his return, Rhaegar would need to choose a bride and settle down. If he didn’t, the king would choose one for him.

Lyanna sighed as she gazed out over the deep, blue waters of Blackwater Bay. The sun was high, and its heat was intense. Tomorrow, Rhaegar would be gone, and with him, Ser Arthur, the two people who had made her time in King’s Landing so memorable with countless adventures. She would miss them both terribly.

“Ah, there you are, Lyanna,” came a soft voice from behind her.

Lyanna turned quickly, startled to see Queen Rhaella standing just a few paces away, her gown of pale lavender billowing gently in the warm breeze of the day.

“Aunt Rhaella,” Lyanna greeted her warmly, using the title the queen had insisted upon. It had felt strange at first, but now, after two years, it seemed perfectly natural. Rhaella had become more than a queen to her; she was a mother in all but name.

The queen smiled, her amethyst eyes soft with affection when they landed on her. “Is something wrong, child?”

Lyanna blinked in surprise. Was she so easy to read?

“I was just thinking,” she confessed, turning fully to face her. The scent of roses and jasmine filled the air, mingling with the warmth of the sun on her skin. “Rhaegar leaves tomorrow.”

Rhaella’s expression softened, and mimicked Lyanna’s at the same time. “Yes… I will miss him too. It is hard for me to think of him so far away, across the Narrow Sea, facing gods know what dangers. But he is not a boy anymore. He is a man, and I cannot keep him here forever.”

Lyanna nodded, understanding the worry in her voice. Of course, as a mother, Rhaella must have been beside herself with anxiety.

“I hope he returns soon,” Lyanna said quietly, her eyes drifting back to the horizon. “Or perhaps we’ll just have to go join him on his adventures.”

Rhaella chuckled, a soft, musical sound that broke the tension in the air. “Oh, Lyanna, you and your wild ideas. I’m sure Rhaegar would be more than thrilled to have you as his squire.”

Lyanna grinned, her grey eyes twinkling. “I’d make a terrible squire. Too many rules.”

The queen shook her head, laughter still dancing in her eyes. “Come, child. We must get ready for tonight. There’s a feast to be had, and we can’t have Rhaegar leaving without a proper send-off.”

Lyanna nodded, smiling as she fell into step beside Rhaella.

The feast for Rhaegar’s departure was everything she had expected, and more. The halls of the Red Keep were completely soaked in golden candlelight. The Crown’s closest allies filled the room, their laughter and conversation ringing out like flowing music. Despite the limited guest list, the gathering was no small affair. Nobles dressed in their pretty silks and velvets mingled, while a few younger ladies stole glances toward Rhaegar, hoping for a moment of his attention.

Lyanna had spent the early part of the evening in good company. Rhaegar and Ser Arthur Dayne. But it wasn’t long before Rhaegar was swept up by eager lords and swooning ladies, all vying for his attention. As the Crown Prince, his mere presence attracted a flock of admirers. Ser Arthur, too, had been pulled away by fellow knights, leaving Lyanna to navigate the feast alone.

It wasn’t something she minded. She had grown accustomed to the subtleties of King’s Landing. She scanned the room, recognizing many familiar faces and even more unfamiliar ones. But none stood out more than the Lannisters, she noticed.

Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, had arrived with his twin children. They were difficult to miss, with their striking golden hair and vibrant green eyes, dressed in the finest fabrics House Lannister’s wealth could afford. They drew attention wherever they moved, as if the air itself had to bent to accommodate their presence.

Jaime Lannister, the boy, seemed youthful yet held an unmistakable arrogance that was hard to ignore. He had the excitement of someone eager to prove himself, his eyes darting around the room in awe, particularly at the legendary knights in attendance. He looked like someone who had yet to face the world, though he carried himself like he already owned it at his short age.

His sister, however, was another matter entirely. Lady Cersei Lannister was the very image of youthful beauty, just like her twin. Her golden hair cascading in soft waves down her back, her face painted with the court’s fashionable cosmetics, and a dress that clung elegantly to her form. She had a presence that demanded attention, though her smile was thin and her emerald gaze sharper than any blade. At her short age, only a year older than Lyanna, Cersei was already a beauty in her own right, though she did not yet posses the womanly figure of Lady Ashara Dayne yet.

Lyanna, in contrast, was still lean and far less developed. Her figure had yet to blossom into the expectations of southern court, but she liked it that way, and if she had to be honest, she did not feel any kind of eagerness to become a 'woman' just yet. Truth was: she liked being a child. She enjoyed it tremendously. Why would she want to trade childhood mischief for the burdens of womanhood? She'd never understand those who seemed so eager to embrace it even earlier than they should. 

“Admiring the general splendor?” Rhaegar’s familiar, teasing voice broke through her thoughts. Lyanna glanced up to find him standing beside her, his silvery blonde hair falling like silk upon his shoulders. He had that lopsided grin on his face, the one that always made him seem more like a mischievous boy than the future king of Westeros.

"You look bored, Stark."

“That’s because I am,” Lyanna shot back, folding her arms as she tilted her head at him. “I thought this was your feast. If anyone’s failing to entertain me, it’s you.”

He chuckled, leaning in just a little closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Entertain you? I’d have thought the prospect of meeting the Lannisters would keep you on your toes. You know, they’re supposed to be quite fascinating among your peers.”

Lyanna smirked, glancing across the room where the pretty Cersei Lannister was busy trying to look as regal as possible, her eyes fixed on Rhaegar as if he were a prize to be claimed. “Fascinating, yes. If you enjoy being spoken to like a commoner while they practice their future king-and-queen act."

Rhaegar laughed at that, a warm sound that made Lyanna’s lips twitch upward too. “Ah, yes. Cersei Lannister. She does seem… ambitious, doesn’t she?” He gave a mock shudder, and Lyanna giggled.

“She’s been staring at you all night. I think she’s planning to trap you in some elaborate scheme. Watch your back. She might just crown herself Princess of Westeros before the night is out.”

“Good thing I have you to warn me,” he teased, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “Or I might have ended up accidentally betrothed by dessert.”

Lyanna laughed, shaking her head. "I’ll have to charge for my services next time. I’m not in the habit of saving princes for free, you know."

He grinned down at her. "How very Northern of you... Always thinking about your next meal or your next coin."

"And how very Southern of you... Always thinking someone wants to marry you," she shot back, her tone light but her eyes rolled. "You’re not that special, Rhaegar."

He raised a brow, feigning offense. "Not that special? Lyanna Stark, I am Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Of course I’m special."

"Specially insufferable.” she muttered under her breath as she wrinkled her nose, though a smile tugged at her lips.

He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Insufferable, perhaps, but I’ve managed to keep your attention all this time, haven’t I? Are you still bored?”

“Only because I’m stuck here. It’s not like I have many options for conversation when you scare off all the other young lords and ladies with your brooding.”

“Oh, I don’t brood,” he said, a smirk plastered on his face. “I am merely… thoughtful.”

“Brooding,” she repeated, rolling her eyes dramatically. “You’re as broody as a winter storm.”

Rhaegar’s eyes sparkled with amusement, but then his grin softened slightly as he glanced around the room. "It’s going to be different without you, Lyanna. Quiet. Too quiet."

She raised an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone. He was no longer jesting. "You’re leaving for Essos, Rhaegar, not the Wall. I’m sure you’ll survive without me making fun of you for a few months.”

"Months?" He leaned in, his voice low and suddenly serious, though his eyes still danced with mirth. “It could be longer, you know. There’s no telling when I’ll be back. What will you do without me here?”

She looked up at him, a smile curved her lips again, though it was somehow softer now. "I suppose I’ll have to find some other prince to torment."

Rhaegar laughed, though it was a little quieter now, more reflective. “And I’ll miss your torment, little Stark, believe it or not.”

Lyanna's smile faltered for a second before she caught herself, straightening up. She could not allow herself to suffer for his absence when he was still there. "You’re not allowed to miss me. It’s against the rules. You’re supposed to go off on your grand adventure, conquer the world, write songs about Essos, and return with tales of glory. No time for missing people."

He studied her for a moment, his smile fading just slightly. “Fine, fine. And what about you, Lyanna? What will you do while I’m gone?"

She shrugged, though her tone was lighter, trying to keep the conversation playful. "Oh, I’ll be fine. I’ll probably… Improve my needlework?” they both laughed at the notion, knowing how bad Lyanna was at needlework, and how she dreaded it.

Her teasing smile faltered then, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to feel the weight of his words. "I’ll miss you too, Rhaegar," she admitted quietly, "Who else am I going to make fun of?"

He chuckled, though the warmth in his eyes didn’t fade. "Promise me something?"

She raised an eyebrow. "What?"

“Don’t change too much while I’m gone,” he said, his tone still light but with an undercurrent of sincerity. “Don’t let the south change you too much, little Stark.”

Lyanna smiled, and he gave her a small smile back. "Only if you promise not to brood too much while you’re away."

Rhaegar laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

The Queen’s pregnancy had taken everyone by surprise, most of all, the Queen herself. A few days after Rhaegar left, it was announced. Now, five moons into her term, Queen Rhaella’s body had changed with the weight of the babe she carried. Her once lithe frame had softened, her face often flushed with exhaustion from both the pregnancy and the relentless heat wave that had been terrorizing King’s Landing for a few weeks. The warm southern air seemed more stifling than ever, clinging to her skin despite the gentle breezes that occasionally stirred through the palace. And yet, through it all, she remained in good spirits, her demeanor as kind and serene as ever.

Lyanna found herself often in Rhaella’s soothing company. The Queen had a calming presence, and they spent their days together in the shade of her chambers, surrounded by tea and pastries. The Queen would recline on a plush chaise, shaded by the billowing curtains of the balcony, while Lyanna sat nearby, either reading to her or entertaining her with some of her often silly stories.

Today, the sun was beginning to dip beyond the horizon. Lyanna was seated by the window, working on her poor attempt at needlework with great concentration. Her hands were nimble, but even so, the small horse she was attempting to embroider looked rather crooked and strange looking. She eyed it critically, then let out a small laugh at the sight. The Queen, watching her from the chaise, smiled at her amusement, as if she already knew why she was laughing.

“Rhaegar wrote,” Lyanna said, her lips curling into a smile as she adjusted her stitching.

The Queen’s eyes lit up at the mention of her son, and she propped herself up slightly. “Oh, did he? And what news does he bring this time? Come, tell me everything, child.”

Lyanna set aside her needlework, grateful for the distraction from her less-than-perfect embroidery, and sat up straighter. “He’s still in Norvos,” she began, her voice warm with affection for her absent friend. “He says he’s been training with the warriors there. He claims they’ve taught him new techniques, and he’s eager to put them to use.” She laughed softly, imagining him and Arthur practicing as they used to. “He also mentions the local customs... How the Norvosi revere their bearded priests and how the riverlands remind him of the Rhoyne.”

The Queen chuckled, shaking her head lightly. “That boy... He’s always been so eager to learn, to see new places. But I do worry about him, traveling so far, throwing himself into dangerous pursuits. I’ll have to write to him, remind him to be cautious.” Her hand drifted to her swollen belly, her expression turning thoughtful for a small moment. “He’s going to be the death of me yet, with all his gallivanting.”

Lyanna’s lips twitched in a playful smirk. He didn't know how to stay still, how to stay in one single place. He had been wandering across Essos, much to Lyanna's entertainment and to Rhaella's concern. “I wouldn’t worry so much. He’s not alone, after all. There’s a small army of knights and men-at-arms with him. And besides, Rhaegar knows how to take care of himself.”

Rhaella smiled, though the worry didn’t leave her eyes. “Perhaps. But when you’re a mother yourself, Lyanna, you’ll understand. It’s impossible not to worry. One day, when you marry and have children of your own, you’ll see.”

Lyanna felt her face grow warm at the suggestion, her cheeks flushing a deep red at Rhaella's suggestion. “Me? A mother? I don’t even think about such things,” she stammered, fumbling for words clumsily. “Marriage... children... I’m not ready for any of that. I don’t want to be ready for any of that. Ever.” 

The Queen’s soft laughter filled the air, warm and knowing after her clumsy blabbering, in a way that made Lyanna think that perhaps she had already heard those words before in her life. “You say that now, child. But one day, you may feel differently. When you’re older, when you’ve met the right person, you’ll see. You might even find joy in it.”

Lyanna shifted uncomfortably, looking down at her hands. The thought of marriage, of children, seemed so far removed from her desires. She wanted freedom, to ride across the plains, to see new lands, to live without the constraints of duty and expectation, to be an eternal child sounded to her like a dream, in all honesty. However, she knew that was not how the world worked, no matter how much she wished it. “I don’t know, Aunt Rhaella... I don’t think marriage is for me. I can't see myself as... A wife. Not yet, at least.”

The Queen’s gaze softened. “It’s not something to fear, Lyanna. With the right match, marriage can be a partnership. And perhaps, when the time comes, your father will choose well for you.”

Lyanna’s expression hardened at the mention of her estranged father. How could she possibly leave her fate in the hands of that man, and be content with whatever he chose for her? Did he even remember her, know anything about her? 

“He doesn’t know me well enough to choose anything for me,” she muttered, her voice tight with growing frustration as she felt her brow furrow instantly in disagreement. “How could he? He’s never been a part of my life. It’s not fair that he should be the one to decide my fate.”

Rhaella’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of sympathy warm enough to make her feel understood. “I’m sorry, sweet child. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Lyanna said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s just... I wish I could make my own choices.”

Rhaella reached out and gently placed a hand on Lyanna’s arm, her touch as soothing as it was warm. “I understand, Lyanna. Truly, I do. But we women... we often have little control over our own destinies. It’s unfair, yes, but that’s the way of things in this world we live in. However, I promise you this: someday, when the time comes, I will do everything in my power to ensure that you’re happy with your match.”

Lyanna looked up at her, suddenly feeling an unexpected swell of gratitude in her chest. To think of her fate in her father’s hands was something that brought dread to her. He would not care for her wishes, Seven Hells, he didn't even care about her. Why would he take her into account? The Queen, her beloved Aunt Rhaella, however, did care for her and would respect her wishes. She knew she would. She had been so wonderful to Lyanna during her time in King's Landing, that sometimes, she wondered if this was what her mother would've been like if she was still alive. It was a small thought, one that resurfaced every now and then. “Thank you, Aunt Rhaella. That means more to me than you know.”

Before either of them could say more, a soft knock sounded at the door. The wooden door swung open to reveal the silver King Aerys. He entered with a gentle smile, his once pale golden hair now streaked with silver, but his face still held the noble bearing of a king.

Lyanna smiled. It was not a rare thing for the King to come to the Queen these days, often carrying gifts, flowers and sweets for her. Every day, he would turn up at her door with a different gift in hand, showering her with affection and devotion Lyanna had rarely seen in men here at court. It was nice, she always thought. 

“Good evening, my love,” Aerys greeted warmly, crossing the room to Rhaella’s side. He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead before turning to Lyanna, offering her a light hug. “And you as well, dear Lyanna. How are my two favorite ladies faring?”

“We are well, Your Grace,” Rhaella answered, her smile growing at the sight of her silver husband. “Your child is restless, though.” She placed a hand on her belly, her expression fond.

Aerys chuckled, taking her hand in his. “Impatient already, I see. We’ll have to teach him or her some patience when they arrive.” He turned to Lyanna, his eyes bright when he spoke again. “And how are you, Lyanna?”

“Very well, Your Grace,” Lyanna replied. “I’ve been enjoying the Queen’s company.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Aerys said, then gestured to the two small boxes he carried under his arm. “I’ve brought gifts for both of you. Rhaella, for you, something to help with the unforgiving heat we've been having.” He handed the first box to Rhaella, who opened it to reveal an intricately carved wooden fan, delicate and ornate, with beautiful silver inlays.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” Rhaella breathed, fanning herself lightly. “Thank you, my dear. It will certainly be put to good use in this heat.”

“And for you, Lyanna,” Aerys continued, presenting her with the second box. When Lyanna opened it, she discovered that inside was a finely made silver hairpin in the shape of a wolf, with small blue sapphires for eyes. “A little reminder of home.”

Lyanna’s eyes widened at the sight, smiling with gratitude at the King. It was a beautiful, delicate thing. Far too fine and beautiful for her, she thought for a small moment as her thin fingers caressed the lines of it. She smiled sweetly once again, bowing slightly. “It’s beautiful, Your Grace. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Aerys said with a smile. Then, he turned his attention back to Rhaella. “Have you thought any more about names for the babe?”

Rhaella’s eyes glimmered with delight. Lyanna knew the Queen had been turning over names for days, whispering them to herself as if tasting them in her lips. They had even spoken of it once, in one of those gentle afternoons when time seemed to move slower in the Red Keep. Lyanna already knew the names the Queen had chosen for the child who would soon join the world.

“I was thinking of Viserys, if it’s a boy,” Rhaella said, her voice soft but certain. “Or perhaps Visenya, if it’s a girl. What do you think?”

Aerys said nothing at first. His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he were rolling the names across his mind, tasting their weight and sound. “Viserys... Yes,” he murmured after a pause. “That would be a fine name for a son. Strong, regal. And Visenya...” He allowed himself a small, reflective smile. “That name carries great history. It would be fitting for a daughter.”

Lyanna listened quietly as the King and Queen spoke, their voices spilling in the room. There was something deeply intimate about the moment, something tender and warm and loving. This, she noticed, was one of those times. One of those times she felt like the court around her didn’t seem like a stage of masks and duties and pleasantries. It felt like a family.

She watched the way Aerys looked at Rhaella, how his tone softened when he addressed her, the faint trace of affection beneath the formality. It surprised her, that gentleness. There was love there, and respect... A quiet, enduring bond that had weathered more than she could probably imagine.

For a fleeting moment, Lyanna wondered what it might feel like to have something like that herself. To belong so wholly, to be surrounded by warmth and laughter instead of silence and disapproval. And to think Rhaegar was raised like that all his life. Maybe, if her mother had lived… if her father had been a little less stern, a little more willing to smile… maybe that could have been her life.

As their conversation went on, the Queen speaking dreamily of the bright future ahead, Lyanna’s fingers brushed the silver hairpin, still resting in the velvety inside of the wooden box. 

That night, Lyanna decided to seek solace on the balcony overlooking the gardens. The Red Keep, with its stifling grandeur, often felt oppressive, but the gardens at night offered something similar to a sanctuary. At least in her head. A quiet, moonlit escape that soothed her restless mind. One of her favorite places after the Godswood. Those gardens at night were a hidden gem, peaceful and rarely crowded. The soft fragrance of jasmine lingered in the air, weaving through the night breeze. It smelled sweet.

She leaned against the cool stone of the railing, gazing down at the sea. The gentle lap of the waves echoed faintly in the distance. Above her, the stars twinkled like scattered, tiny diamonds against the black of the night sky.

For a moment, she imagined the wind of the North brushing her cheeks, the crisp bite of Winterfell’s air, sharp and clean and rough, carrying the scent of pine and snow. A homesickness stirred in her chest. She wondered: What were her brothers doing now? Was Benjen riding along the white fields, sneaking out past the gates as he often did now that he was starting to recover more of his mobility? Was Brandon in some tavern, laughing too loudly, boasting of his latest feat? And Ned... had he improved his swordplay enough to finally best Robert Baratheon in one of their sparring matches?

She smiled faintly at the thought. Tomorrow, she decided, she would write to them all. She’d tell them about the sea and the stars and everything else.

Her thoughts drifted for a moment, carried away by the peaceful quietness. Were Rhaegar and Ser Arthur perhaps beneath this same sky now? Somewhere far off, deep in the wilderness of Essos, or sailing along coasts she could only dream of? The idea warmed her. She had always wanted to see the Free Cities, to walk beneath Braavos’s Titan, to glimpse the red temples of Volantis, to see the palaces of Pentos gleam under the sun. Would she ever be allowed to? The question lingered like a wistful ache.

Then, from somewhere behind her, the hush of the night shifted, a murmur of soft voices in the air. Lyanna’s brow furrowed. At this hour, the castle was usually swallowed in quiet. She turned her head, alert, listening.

The whispers grew clearer, delicate but insistent, carried on the breeze. Moving lightly, she pressed herself along the shadows, her steps near soundless upon the stone floor. She found them soon enough. Cersei Lannister and her ever present shadow, Melara Hetherspoon, tucked away beyond the alcove. 

Lyanna’s lips curved in mischief. Whatever secrets those two were sharing, they were bound to be worth hearing. She slipped deeper into the shadows, her heart quick with amusement.

For a moment, she thought of how this must look, hiding in corners, listening in on others’ words, and nearly laughed aloud at herself. Perhaps the South was rubbing off on her after all. How Rhaegar and Arthur would tease her if they saw her now, crouched like a thief in the dark, chasing after silly gossip.

Still, she stayed where she was, smiling to herself, intent on the game.

“I can’t believe that Dornish scum dared…” Cersei’s voice, dripping with venom, made Lyanna want to laugh aloud. Was there a soul in the Seven Kingdoms this girl didn’t despise? She found Cersei so venomous, she was certain if the girl bit her own tongue, she might die of her own poison. Cersei’s laughter followed, cold and cruel, like the snap of a brittle twig. “Do they truly think they can place their ‘princess’ on the throne? As if that dull looking, dornish girl, Elia Martell, could ever compare to me.”

“She is a princess, though” came Melara’s timid reply. Her voice always held that quivering uncertainty, as though she feared to speak her mind in Cersei’s presence.

“Princess of what, exactly?” Cersei scoffed, her disdain almost palpable. “Dorne? That miserable desert, full of snakes and sand? And Elia Martell, plain as a maidservant. To think they offered her hand to Prince Rhaegar.” Her voice dripped with unkind amusement, the kind that stung like nettles. “As if he’d ever lower himself to look at her twice. Father crushed that foolish notion before it even left the cradle. Rhaegar would never wed a creature so... insignificant.”

Lyanna’s eyes narrowed. The sheer arrogance in Cersei’s tone was suffocating, like the Lannister gold weighed on her every word.

“Will you wed the prince then, Cersei?” Melara asked innocently, her voice a little too hopeful. The thought of Rhaegar, bound to someone like Cersei, made Lyanna’s stomach turn. How insufferable would that fate be?

She rolled her eyes.

Rhaegar, wed to Cersei? The idea was laughable. Cersei was many things, but a fitting match for someone like Rhaegar? Not in a thousand years.

Cersei’s smile was audible in her reply. “Of course I will. Who else could possibly be fit for him? I am the only one worthy. The only one who truly deserves him.” Her tone was rich with self-satisfaction. “We’ll be the most beautiful pair in all of Westeros.” She paused, her voice lowering to a poisonous whisper. “As for Elia Martell, Dornish scum like her ought to know their place.”

Lyanna bit her lip to keep from groaning aloud. The arrogance was simply suffocating, infuriating even. She had met Cersei and Jaime Lannister shortly after arriving in King's Landing, and the impression had been less than favorable. Jaime, she had found, was smug, proud of his swordsmanship, and altogether too self-assured for a boy his age. He wore his confidence like it was armor, parading it for all to see, but there had been no real malice behind his arrogance. He seemed more like a young boy eager to prove himself, a talented boy, proud, but harmless.

Cersei, on the other hand, was something else entirely. She was venomous, her arrogance was woven into every word, every smile, subtle yet sharp as a dagger. She carried herself as if she believed she was above everyone else, her courtesies fake, her sweetness as cloying as it was poisonous. Cersei didn’t care for anyone but herself, and it showed in every interaction, every dismissive glance.

What would Rhaegar do with such a girl by his side? Lyanna couldn't fathom it. Rhaegar could be arrogant sometimes, yes, but his came from intelligence, from depth, and she was often there to make fun of him in such moments. Cersei’s was born from entitlement, from the mistaken belief that she was destined for greatness simply because of her birth. Her beauty, while undeniable, was her only redeeming quality, and Lyanna had long since learned that beauty alone was enough for many in the South. Surely Rhaegar would not be as simple minded as to fall for something as empty as beauty alone.

“I’ll be queen, Melara.” Cersei’s voice softened with that dreamy, saccharine lilt Lyanna had come to dislike so much. “Everyone knows it. Father promised it to me. Once Prince Rhaegar returns from his journeys, the king will announce our betrothal. We are made for each other. Father and the king are old friends, after all. He’ll listen to Father.”

From the shadows, Lyanna stifled a gag. How could someone be so delusional? Cersei had barely exchanged more than a few pleasantries with Rhaegar. Yes, he had danced with her a few times at feasts, but how could that possibly translate into love or fate or anything of the sort? Cersei didn't know him, not truly, yet here she was, weaving fantasies as if her future were already set in stone. It was absurd. 

“And what a handsome husband you’ll have,” Melara sighed, her voice filled with longing. 

Cersei’s laugh was sharp and hollow. “Of course. I’ll have a beautiful husband, a throne, and all of Westeros at my feet. It’s already decided. I will be queen, and we will have the most perfect children.”

“I only hope I can be half as lucky as you, Cersei…” Melara’s voice was soft, almost wistful even.

“What do you mean, Melara?” Cersei’s tone was tinged with unmistakable irritation, the sweetness evaporating instantly.

“Well… if you wed Prince Rhaegar, perhaps I could marry Jaime?” Melara said with a shy smile.

There was a long, tense pause. Lyanna almost pitied the poor girl. Almost. She watched, fascinated, as Cersei’s face twisted from delight to cold malice in a heartbeat. Her eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a sneer.

“Jaime?” Cersei’s voice dripped with venom, as though the very idea was an affront to her. “You? Marry Jaime?” She let out a short, cruel laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Melara. Jaime wouldn’t waste his time on someone like you.”

Lyanna’s brows shot up. There it was. The true Cersei. Not even her supposed best friend could escape the bite of her cruelty. What a vile creature she was.

The thought of Cersei Lannister, standing by Rhaegar’s side, twisted something in Lyanna’s chest. No, Rhaegar deserved better.

Chapter Text

281 AC

When Ned came to visit, Lyanna’s heart felt as if it might burst from the joy. The months leading up to this day had been strange and heavy, and her brother's arrival brought a much needed lightness to her heart.

Prince Viserys had been born a few weeks earlier, a cause for celebration within the Red Keep. Lyanna had witnessed the aftermath of the birth firsthand, as Queen Rhaella, weakened by the ordeal, had taken to her bed for weeks. Every day, without fail, Lyanna visited her. She would sit at the Queen’s bedside, watching over the fragile woman as she cradled the newborn prince to her chest.

The baby was delicate, with silvery-blond Targaryen hair, the same as Rhaella’s, and those unmistakable violet eyes, as vivid as the King’s. He was tiny, smaller than Lyanna had imagined a newborn to be, and quiet, too quiet, she sometimes thought. The King had been ecstatic at his son’s birth, nearly giddy with pride, and despite her frailty, Queen Rhaella smiled softly at her child. But Lyanna could see the exhaustion in her eyes. The Queen's health had faltered after the birth, and for a time, a cloud of concern hung over the castle.

But then Rhaella began to recover, slowly but surely. The color returned to her cheeks, and her strength improved. By the time Lyanna’s name day came, the queen was well enough to see her in person, offering her warm congratulations, though she still appeared frail beneath her heavy robes. Lyanna was touched by the gesture and grateful for the thoughtfulness, though she couldn’t have anticipated the true surprise that awaited her later that day.

Among the many gifts she received, jewels, silks, finely embroidered dresses, there was one that made her heart leap in a way nothing else could.

A visit from her brother, Ned.

It had been years since they had last seen one another. Letters had flown back and forth between Winterfell, King’s Landing, and the Eyrie, but no words on parchment could truly replace the presence of family, of her brother. Lyanna knew this gift had been arranged by the Queen and King, perhaps as a gesture of goodwill, or as a way to keep her spirits up in the unfamiliar and often stifling environment of the royal court. Either way, it was a gift beyond measure.

Ned had arrived after several days of travel, looking older than she remembered. Taller, broader in the shoulders, and with a hint of a beard beginning to form, nothing more than a few scruffy hairs, but enough to make him look different, older. He still had that same solemn expression, though, with those familiar storm grey eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. Yet now, when he smiled, there was a quiet confidence there that hadn't been present before.

Beside him, his companion, Robert Baratheon had also arrived. Robert was nothing like Ned. Where Ned was quiet and introspective, Robert was a loud whirlwind of noise and laughter. Very tall, with a barrel chest and the beginnings of the powerful frame that would later define him, Robert had deep blue eyes, wild dark hair, and a bright grin that could charm a room full of lords. The moment he set foot inside the Red Keep, Robert slapped his hand on his thigh and announced, “Seven hells! I swear that ride was so long, I thought I’d have to sit my arse on a cushion for the rest of my days!"

Lyanna couldn’t help but laugh at the loud mouthed Baratheon’s antics. It seemed impossible to feel somber when Robert was nearby, no matter how tense the atmosphere in the castle had been of late. Even the sour faces of the guards softened at his humor. 

But even if Baratheon was entertaining enough, her attention quickly returned to Ned.

The moment they arrived, she barely waited for him to get off his horse before running to him, throwing her arms around him in a fierce hug.

“Ned! It’s been so long!” Her voice was breathless with excitement.

He stood there, for a moment too stunned to respond, before wrapping his arms around her in return, his grip tight and warm. When they finally pulled apart, he looked at her with such astonishment that Lyanna couldn’t help but laugh at the surprise splashed across his face. 

“Lya… You’ve grown so much,” he murmured, his eyes wide. He was still taking her in, as though he were looking at someone entirely new. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You…”

“I look like a girl now, and I wear dresses. Yes, I know.” Lyanna rolled her eyes playfully. “You don’t need to look so shocked. I still ride better than you.”

Ned chuckled, shaking his head. “I never doubted that.” He looked down at her, his expression softening. “I’ve missed you, Lya. More than you know.”

“And I’ve missed you, Ned. So much.”

They stood there for a moment longer, basking in each other’s presence, before Lyanna tugged at his sleeve. “Come on. We can’t talk here, not with all these people about.” She glanced over at Robert, who was loudly boasting to one of the guards about his swordsmanship, already drawing attention to himself. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

Ned nodded in agreement, and the two of them slipped away from the bustling courtyard, leaving Robert to entertain the onlookers. Lyanna led her brother through the corridors of the Red Keep, eventually finding her way to the Godswood, a place she knew well and had grown to love in her time here. The towering trees, the soft rustling of leaves, and the familiar scent of pine and earth made it feel like a piece of Winterfell had followed her here.

They settled beneath the weirwood, its red leaves dancing gracefully in the wind, a uniform pattern of dappled light over them as they sat. For a long while, neither of them spoke, content simply to be in each other’s company again.

“You’ve changed,” Ned said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, almost reluctant, as though he wasn’t sure how to put his thoughts into words. 

“So have you,” Lyanna replied, glancing up at him. “You’re taller than I remember. And quieter too, if that’s even possible. But you also look wiser, I think.”

He smiled faintly, looking down at his hands. “Jon Arryn has seen to that. There’s a lot to learn at the Eyrie, more than I expected. But I miss home. I miss father, Brandon and Benjen... and you.”

“Home,” Lyanna echoed, her voice growing wistful at the mention of Winterfell. “I miss it too. But it’s different now, being here.” She glanced around the Godswood. “I miss the North. I miss the cold. But… This is not so bad either.” she admitted.

Ned studied her for a moment, his brow furrowing. “How is it here? I thought… I thought you might grow to like it. But I wasn't sure.”

“There are parts I enjoy,” she admitted. “But it’s different here. And the people…” She trailed off, thinking of the courtiers, the false smiles, the endless intrigue. “They’re not like us, Ned. They play games here.”

He was quiet for a moment, digesting her words. “And what of the Queen? Has she been kind to you?”

Lyanna nodded, her expression softening at the mention of Rhaella. “Yes, Queen Rhaella has been kind. She has been like a mother to me, Ned…”

Ned’s gaze softened, his expression one of relief when he heard her say those words. “I’m glad to hear that. I worried…”

“There’s no need to worry,” Lyanna assured him, smiling softly at him. “I’m managing. I’ve grown up a lot since we last saw each other.”

He smiled, though there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “I can see that.”

Ned’s smile lingered, but Lyanna could sense the unease behind his eyes. The Godswood was quiet around them, the soft rustling of leaves blending with the wind. Yet the air between them seemed thick, weighed down by the years of separation and the things left unsaid.

“Tell me about Winterfell, Ned,” Lyanna broke the silence. She had learned in her time at court that waiting in silence for answers rarely brought them. “How are things at home? Benjen? Brandon?”

Ned shifted, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Winterfell is as it always was,” he said after a pause. “Cold. Stark. Familiar in its way.” He hesitated before adding, “Benjen’s grown, nearly a man now. He’s been restless lately, eager to prove himself. And Brandon, well… You know him. He hasn't changed at all, to be honest.”

Lyanna smiled at the thought of her brothers, always full of energy and wild ideas. “That sounds fantastic.” Her smile faded slightly then, her voice lowering. For a moment, she remained quiet, as if she was doubting wether to ask the question or not… “And Father? Has he ever mentioned me? Or is does he still hate me?”

Ned’s expression tightened slightly, and he looked at her carefully. “Father is well,” he said, but there was a hint of reluctance in his voice. “But he… he doesn’t speak of you much. When he does, it’s always with that same hard look in his eyes.”

Lyanna clenched her jaw. It never failed to strike her, how deep her father’s disdain seemed to run, even after all those years of silence. She had made a mistake, yes, one grave enough to cost Benjen dearly. That guilt was her constant shadow, and she had carried it without complaint because she always thought she deserved to carry that weight with her for the rest of her days. But no matter how many times she told herself she deserved her father’s coldness, it still stung like frostbite.

How much could a father despise his daughter?

She wondered then: Would the King, if faced with the same, cast away his own son in such a manner? Would he send Rhaegar to some distant post to punish him? Somehow, she couldn’t imagine it. Her lips twisted faintly. “Of course he doesn’t,” she muttered. “Don’t worry, Ned. I wasn’t expecting a different answer.”

“Lya…” Ned began softly, his voice careful, as if soothing a frightened horse. But she cut him off, the tightness in her chest giving way to a surge of anger she could no longer hold back, not even if she tried.

“Don’t defend him, Ned,” she said sharply. “I know what Father is. He’s stubborn, unbending, unforgiving.” Her voice wavered, curse it, and she hated that it did. She forced herself to steady it, to sound composed, older than she felt. “I was simply asking,” she added, quieter now, though the heat had not left her eyes.

Ned’s gaze softened with something that only made her feel worse: pity. Not anger, not disagreement, just quiet sorrow. “Father is… difficult,” he said at last. “He thought it was for the best. For you, Lyanna.”

Her laugh came sharp and humorless. “The best for him, I reckon.” She turned away, her silver eyes finding the ancient weirwood beyond the courtyard. The sigh that escaped her carried more exhaustion than bitterness, though she wouldn’t have admitted it.

The silence that followed stretched, filled with the ghosts of things that had happened so long ago, and yet, there they were. 

King’s Landing had become her cage and her refuge both. In time, its foreign clamor, the markets, the salty sea breeze, the noise, it all had become something she could bear. Even like, if she was being honest with herself. She could not deny she did enjoy King's Landing. It was not Winterfell, no. But it felt hers, in some small way.

And yet, beneath all that she had learned to love here, something remained static. The bitterness had not faded; it had merely changed shape. Perhaps that was what kept her moving forward, what made her try, to build something better than what she had left behind, to make this place her home and to stop looking back. 

Ned shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond. “I can’t say I agree with everything Father does,” he said slowly, “but I do know that he worries. Even if he doesn’t show it.”

Lyanna gave a soft, bitter scoff. “Worries? He has a strange way of showing them,” she said, the corner of her mouth twisting faintly at the thought of her father's choices. Then, after a pause, her voice gentled. “But… I’ve made my peace with it, in a sense. This place... it’s not as dreadful as I once thought. Different, yes. Nothing like the North. But I’ve grown used to it. Sometimes, I even find myself… liking it here.”

Her gaze drifted, lost somewhere in the distance. “It’s strange,” she murmured, half to herself. “When I first arrived, I could hardly breathe for how stifling it all felt. But now…”

She thought of Queen Rhaella, kind in the way of a mother. Of Rhaegar, who would walk beside her through the Godswood, speaking of history and adventure until the stars came out, of his quiet laugh when she bested Arthur at cyvasse once; of Arthur himself, endlessly patient when teaching her some moves, his swordsmanship just as precise as his words. She thought of the King, who would leave her small, unexpected gifts, a rare book from the library, a brooch shaped like a direwolf, small gestures that spoke of affection. And little Viserys, who had come into the world not long ago, whose small fingers wrapped around hers as though she were someone he could trust.

It wasn’t Winterfell, but in its own strange, gentle way, King’s Landing had become something close to a home. No, it did not hold her mother’s memories, Brandon's laughter or Old Nan’s tales, nor the sound of Benjen’s feet chasing through the snow, but it had received her with warmth. And that, she had not expected.

Ned studied her quietly before speaking. “You’ve changed, Lya,” he said at last, a hint of wonder in his voice. “I remember when you couldn’t bear the thought of being here, and now you say you like it. How things do change.”

She looked up at him then. Yes, things changed. “I hated it at first,” she admitted softly. “Everything was so strange. The heat, the smells, the noise. I felt… lost. But the Queen... she’s been nothing but kind to me. She treats me like a daughter, Ned. That’s more than I ever hoped for.” Her voice grew quieter still. “The King has been generous, too. And Viserys… gods, he’s so small, but when I hold him, I feel—” she hesitated, searching for the right word, “—needed. Like I belong somewhere again.”

Ned’s mouth curved into a small, faint smile, one that carried both pride and sorrow. “I’m glad,” he said simply. “Truly, I am. You deserve that, Lya.”

She returned his smile with one of her own. “But I still miss Winterfell,” she confessed. “I miss the snow, and the quiet. I miss Benjen’s mischief, Brandon’s noise… and you, Ned.” Her voice trembled just a little. “You’ve no idea how much.”

He reached out then, hesitant, and laid a hand over hers. “I think I do,” he said softly.

Ned’s expression softened as he reached over and took her hand. “I’ve missed you too, Lya,” he said quietly. “It’s been… difficult, being so far from home. The Eyrie is beautiful, but it’s not home. And Robert—” his lips curved faintly, half amused, half weary, “—well, Robert has his own way of keeping life interesting. Some nights I’d give anything for the quiet of the North again.”

Lyanna laughed softly, shaking her head. Memories came flooding her mind, some of them she could simply never forget. “ I remember you used to be so quiet when we were children. You were always deep in thought Ned. And you were lways running after me, complaining about how I was always getting into trouble and getting you and Benjen into trouble too.”

Ned chuckled, his grip on her hand tightening. “How I miss those times. I suppose I’ve changed too.” He paused, his expression growing more serious. “I miss home sometimes. But it’s not just Winterfell that I miss. It’s you. Brandon, Benjen. We grew up together, and now it feels like we’re worlds apart.”

Lyanna’s smile faltered, her throat tightening at the truth in his words. “I know,” she whispered after a moment. “I feel it too.”

For a time, neither of them spoke. The Godswood seemed to breathe around them, the heart tree looming like a silent witness. 

“Do you ever think of what might have been?” Ned asked softly, his voice barely rising above the wind. “If things had turned out differently... if you’d never been sent here?”

Lyanna lowered her gaze to the grass, her fingers plucking a small blade of grass. “I used to,” she said, her tone wistful. “I used to imagine it all the time. Us riding through the Wolfswood, Benjen at our heels, the snow biting at our faces. It seemed so simple then, didn’t it? But life isn’t something we can always choose. Sometimes we follow where it leads us, whether we like the path or not.”

Ned nodded slowly, his jaw tightening with the ache of resignation. “No, we don’t always get to choose. But still, I wish—” he hesitated, his voice lowering, “—I wish you hadn’t been taken from us.”

Lyanna’s head lifted at that, her eyes flashing. “I wasn’t taken, Ned,” she said, her voice sharp now. “I was sent away. There’s a difference.”

Her tone had apparently startled him, and he blinked, taken aback. “I… I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammered. “Only that—” he exhaled, the words falling away— “I wish things were different.”

Lyanna’s shoulders eased, the fire fading as swiftly as it came. “So do I,” she said softly. “But wishing won’t change what’s been done. We can only move forward.”

For a long moment, Ned simply looked at her. There was sorrow in his eyes, but also brotherly pride, she instantly recognized. “Whatever comes,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll always be here for you, Lya. You know that.”

She smiled faintly, a small, genuine gesture that reached her eyes. “I know,” she murmured, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “And that means more to me than you could ever guess.”

The next morning, Lyanna took it upon herself to guide Ned and Robert through what she fondly called a “tour” of the Red Keep. She led them through courtyards and halls, to the royal stables where sleek horses stamped impatiently, and out into the sweeping gardens that crowned the hill. She showed them the grander corners too, the gleaming halls, the marble staircases, the chambers gilded with Dornish glass and gold filigree, though she suspected her companions cared little for such splendor. No, she thought, they would love what she loved best: the smell of hay and steel, the sound of practice swords striking, the open air that didn’t feel quite so refined.

“So, this is where the fancy knights strut around, eh?” Robert's voice boomed as they crossed the training yard. He glanced around with absolute confidence before grinning at Ned. “I bet they’re not half as good with a blade as us. Maybe I’ll show them what real swordplay looks like, if they’re lucky.”

Ned chuckled, shaking his head. “You could try, Robert, but don’t get too cocky. They have some of the best swordsmen in the realm here.”

“Bah! Swordsmen or peacocks, all the same to me.” Robert waved a dismissive hand, his dark hair gleaming in the sun. “I’ll give ‘em a few knocks to remind them what real men look like.”

Lyanna, walking just ahead, tried to stifle a laugh. She was slowly getting used to Robert’s larger than life manner, and though she didn’t find him particularly subtle, he had a way of making her smile, whether she liked it or not.

“And what about you, Lady Lyanna?” Robert called out, grinning as he caught up to her. “Do you spend your days reading fancy books or knocking men off their feet with a sword? I’ll bet you could give those courtly lords a run for their money.”

Lyanna raised an eyebrow, her lips curving slightly as she glanced at him. “I do know how to use a sword, my lord. But I’m afraid I don’t spend my days brawling in the yard like you.”

“That’s a shame,” Robert said with a wink, his blue eyes gleaming. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you knock a few heads together.”

Ned smirked from behind, clearly enjoying the exchange. “You might regret challenging her, Robert. Lya’s fiercer than she looks.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it! So I’ve heard,” Robert boomed with laughter. “I’d sooner face a direwolf than cross your sister in a fight.” He eyed her with open admiration, his voice lowering, though not enough to be subtle. “A fierce beauty, now there’s a rare thing. Most women at court are as dull as old armor, but you... you’re different.”

Lyanna felt warmth creep into her cheeks at the compliment, though she kept her expression carefully composed. She had noticed Robert’s attentions all morning, the lingering glances, the teasing remarks, the way he always managed to stand a little too near. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. He was loud and brash, a storm of laughter and noise, yet there was a certain rough charm beneath all that bluster. He meant no harm, in truth, there was something almost boyishly endearing about him. Still, whatever interest he harbored was not one she could return.

She brushed it aside, unwilling to feed his antics. “Come,” she said lightly, gesturing ahead. “I’ll show you the stables. They keep the finest horses in the realm.”

Robert exchanged a quick look with Ned, one of those wordless glances that made Lyanna’s brow tighten. What was that supposed to mean? Had they spoken of her before? Whatever the case, Robert seemed newly encouraged, his spirits soaring in spite of her indifference. As they walked, his chatter filled the air, loud and easy as ever.

“You know, Lady Lyanna,” he began with a grin, “when Ned and I return to the Eyrie, I’ll be sure to tell Lord Arryn that you’ve grown into the fiercest beauty in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lyanna couldn’t help a small laugh, shaking her head at his audacity. The sound was light, but something in her chest felt uneasy, as if she already knew the path his words were taking and where it could all lead. “You jest too much, Lord Robert,” 

“I only jest about things that don’t matter,” Robert said, his charming grin softening into something much more sincere. “You, though? You’re no jest.”

Lyanna’s smile wavered, uncertain how to answer. His words, for all their charm, struck her off balance. Thankfully, Ned intervened, his tone dry but good natured. “Spare my sister your flattery, Robert. She’s not one of those ladies who swoon at a well placed compliment.”

Robert laughed, unabashed. “Aye, I know that well enough. That’s half the reason I like her. She’s got fire, your sister, more than all those perfumed court maidens put together.”

They stepped into the stables, the air cooler beneath the vaulted roof. The shift in atmosphere brought Lyanna quiet relief. She turned slightly toward her brother, her awkwardness beginning to ebb as the soft sounds of snorting horses and clattering hooves filled the space.

A faint smile touched her lips, though she could still feel Robert’s gaze lingering. She didn’t dislike him. Not truly. He was loud and a little too sure of himself, yes, but there was warmth behind his swagger, a generosity that felt genuine. He was also handsome, there was no denying. Still, his attentions left her uncertain, unsure of what to say or how to meet the weight of his intent without encouraging it.

Yet, as the three of them stood there, Ned beside her, Robert grinning like a great bear behind them, Lyanna felt a fleeting, wistful peace. For a heartbeat, it was as if the world had stilled; as if they were simply children again. 

“We should all ride to Winterfell one day,” Robert said suddenly, his voice full of unguarded cheer. “The three of us. You’ll show me your northern lands, won’t you, Ned?”

Lyanna glanced at him, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Perhaps one day, my lord. You might see Winterfell for yourself... if Ned ever takes you.”

Robert’s answering grin was boyish and bold and endearing. “Aye, I’ll see it... and maybe I’ll come back to take you from here, Lady Lyanna.”

She laughed, arching a brow, unaware of how close his jest struck to reality. “You’ve no shame, Lord Baratheon.”

He winked at her, utterly unrepentant. “None at all.”

Chapter Text

The days spent with Lyanna in King's Landing had been warm and familiar. 

He often accompanied her throughout her daily activities, albeit the ones she was permitted to do in the capital. At least, the so-called "boyish" ones: riding or taking archery lessons. Ned had expressed his surprise on two fronts. First, that his sister, wild as she was, was allowed to indulge in such 'unladylike' pursuits under the King and Queen’s protection. Second, despite her tomboyish inclinations, she carried herself with a grace that left him quietly astonished. Lyanna, at four-and-ten, was no longer the unrefined, wild girl he'd known. Her womanhood had begun to bloom slowly, and her transformation had not gone unnoticed. Not by Robert, certainly, who had jested more than once about becoming Ned's brother in truth.

"She's still a girl," Ned had told him, sensing Robert's thinly veiled interest in his sister. "Let her be, Robert. She's too young, and you would be wise to wait."

But even Ned could not deny that his sister had grown. She was no longer the unruly child, wild-haired and reckless. There was a newfound refinement in her, a softness balanced by her fiery spirit. Her hair was tamed, her manners more polished. There was a beauty emerging in her, like a flower opening after the frost. He found himself proud of her. Proud of how she had grown, despite everything. If only their father could see her now, admit perhaps that his stubborn pride had driven her away unnecessarily.

But their father was rigid in his ways, unforgiving as the northern winds once he had given his verdict on matters, and there were things, old things, that would certainly not change.

That morning was to be Ned’s last in King’s Landing, and he was determined not to sour it with troubled thoughts of what might have been if his father's choices had been different.

"I can’t believe it’s been a moon’s turn already," Lyanna mused, glancing at him with a small smile. She was sad to see him go, he knew that. And how he wished he couls stay longer, but he had to return to the Eyrie.

"Aye, time has passed swiftly," Ned agreed, returning her gaze with a fondness he rarely showed. "But my place is in the Eyrie, I have to go back. Lord Arryn awaits me."

Lyanna laughed softly, a light sound that warmed his heart. “At least you’re taking Robert with you. That will save me from his endless pestering.”

Ned couldn’t help but chuckle at that, though he knew Robert’s advances, even if good intentioned, had made his sister uncomfortable on more than one occasion. “Don’t be cruel, Lyanna. Robert is rather taken with you. He is… Fond of you.”

Her playful smile dimmed, and she rolled her eyes in evident disagreement. One thing Ned noticed in the last weeks: his sister did not like to be courted. "Fond? That’s one word for it. But don’t even think about encouraging him, Ned," she warned, her voice sharp, her eyes stormy as she made it extremely clear she was dead serious. "I’ve no desire to be ‘taken away,’ not now. Not when I’ve just found some semblance of peace. I want to enjoy the time I have left and extend it as much as possible before I'm... Sold as a wife to some lord."

Ned looked at her, his grey eyes softening. Aye, there would come the time for Lya to become someone's wife. And he knew she was still recovering from the wound their father had inflicted, sending her away as he had. It would be unfair to pluck her from this place after she finally made something resembling a home out it. He felt a pang of guilt on behalf of their family. Aye, it would be for the best to wait until she was older. "Don’t worry, Lyanna. I wouldn’t push you into anything. Robert will have to wait. The time will come, perhaps, but now isn’t right.”

Lyanna's shoulders seemed to relax at his words. She gave him a small, grateful nod. "Thank you. Look, I know what’s expected of me. I understand that marriage is my duty, and that most women have little say in who they wed or when they wed. But I’m not ready, Ned. I’m not prepared to become… Someone’s wife yet.”

“I’ll speak with Robert,” Ned said gently, his hand settling on her arm in a quiet, brotherly gesture. “For all his roaring, he’s a patient man, more than he lets the world believe.”

Lyanna offered him a soft smile, one that struck Ned more deeply than any of her jests or spirited retorts ever had. There was grace in that smile now, a steadiness that had not been there when she left Winterfell.

It eased him, unexpectedly enough.

To see her like this, calm, seemingly at peace, felt like watching the thaw after a brutal winter. She had weathered storms, more than any girl her age should have, and yet… time had not broken her. It had shaped her. Refined her. He could still glimpse the wild wolf in her eyes, but now it was tempered with something learned rather than inherited: poise. A touch of courtly elegance she wore as naturally as a cloak.

Against all odds, Ned thought, perhaps King’s Landing had been kinder to his sister than he ever dared hope.

He knew who to thank for that.

“I’ve seen the way the queen looks at you,” Ned said quietly. “As if you were her own child. She’s taken you under her wing.”

Lyanna’s expression softened. She didn’t speak, but she didn’t need to; the truth lay plainly between them.

“And that,” Ned added, “gives me more comfort than I can say. Whatever Father may think, you have a family here. One that cares for you.”

“I wish Benjen could be here with us,” Lyanna murmured at last, her smile dimming. “Do you think he might ever be allowed to visit?”

Ned’s mouth tightened at the sound of Benjen’s name. Their father had never allowed him to come to the capital, and it wasn’t for lack of asking. Ned had seen it himself: Benjen trying one way or another to persuade him, searching for any excuse that might bring him south to see Lyanna. Each time, the answer had been the same, and each time Benjen’s disappointment had been harder to ignore.

In the end, he’d had to content himself with the letters they traded.

Sometimes, Ned wished he could lie, just once, to spare her the sting of truth.

But Lyanna had never been a girl who needed soft lies.

His gaze fell to the packed earth beneath their feet. “I fear not,” he said quietly. “Father has not softened,” Ned continued, his tone low. “Not on this matter. Not on… anything, where you are concerned.”

The truth was, their father had never shaken off the shadow of that night—that night—when Lyanna slipped beyond the castle walls with Benjen at her heels, and the direwolf found them. Benjen had survived, but not unscarred, and their father’s trust, already fragile, had shattered clean through. Whatever faith he’d once held in the judgment of his two youngest had withered after that.

“He has not forgotten what happened,” Ned went on. “And Benjen… well, Father sees too much of you in him. Too much of your shared mischief. He fears the two of you together would only stir old trouble. In his eyes, it is safer to keep you parted for now.”

The words tasted bitter.

Benjen had paid far too high a price for a childhood mistake. Seven hells, he was still paying it.

Lyanna lowered her gaze, lashes trembling. “It was years ago,” she whispered, not pleading, not angry, only weary. “We were children.”

“Aye,” Ned said. “But Father is a hard man. His memory is longer than most.”

Silence settled between them.

Then something shifted in her. Something subtle at first, like the pull of a tide. Her shoulders stiffened, her brows drew together, and the faint tremor of hurt hardened into a spark of anger. Ned recognized it instantly. Lyanna had always been like dry kindling: one stray spark, and a flame followed.

“Tell me, Ned. What does he say of me? What does Father truly think? Is he still angry, after all these years? Is that what it is?”

“Lyanna…” Ned’s voice tightened, the single word carrying more strain than he intended.

Ned’s throat constricted. He tried to form an answer, any answer, but every possible explanation felt feeble on his tongue. She would see through them all. She always had. It was not only that Ned lacked the talent for deceit, it was that Lyanna knew him too well, read every flicker of hesitation, every shift of breath. She had always been the most perceptive of them, after all.

“I have the right to know,” Lyanna pressed. “Do not hide things from me. I know there is something you haven’t said. I’ve always known. I remember every word he spoke to me that day.”

Ned closed his eyes and exhaled, a long, weary breath that seemed to drag old guilt from the depths of his memory. He had not planned to tell her. He had hoped that he might leave King’s Landing without reopening this wound, that the moment might pass unanswered. But Lyanna had pinned him with her truth seeing gaze, and now that she’d forced the matter into the open, there was no evasion left to him. She would chase the truth until she cornered it.

And if she sought it somewhere else?

He knew their father, knew the hardness of his nature, the brittleness of his temper. If Lyanna were to write to him, demanding answers, demanding a deserving truth, their father would not soften. He would not cushion his words. He would strike with all the blunt, merciless honesty that life had carved into him. A man who had lost so much, who believed softness a weakness and sentiment a danger, such a man did not temper his truth.

What choice, then, did Ned have?

He opened his eyes. The heavy weight of responsibility settled on him like a cloak he hadn’t asked to wear. She deserved to know. She deserved the truth from someone who loved her and would at the very least try not to hurt her with the truth.

“Lyanna,” he began again, slower this time, tasting the difficulty of every word, “it is not an easy thing to say.”

“Say it,” she commanded, her voice resolute. “All of it, Ned. I want the truth.”

His mouth was dry, his heart pounding in his chest as he finally spoke. "Father… He still remembers mother. How she died. And... Your part in it."

Ned watched color drain from her face, leaving her as pale as milk. A flicker of confusion rippled across her pretty features. Of course she did not remember, not truly. She had been far too young.

“What?” Her voice was hardly a sound. “What does Mother have to do with this?”

Ned hesitated only a heartbeat, then pressed on, knowing hesitation would wound her further. “When we were children, you wandered into the Wolfswood. You were but six, Lyanna. You disappeared for two days. Two nights. No one could find you.” He paused, the memory filling his mind with old dread. “Mother was ill then, very ill. Maester Luwin begged her to stay abed, father forbade her to rise at all. But she would not listen. She left her sickbed to go after you herself, weak as she was. She just… went.”

Shock widened her eyes further, as though the world had drifted out of focus. Ned could see her lips part slightly, her breath coming shallow. She remembered none of this, how could she? Only the fear of being lost, perhaps, or nothing at all.

“When they found you,” Ned continued softly, “you were frightened and shivering, but alive. Mother… was not. The cold worsened her fever. The exertion, her lungs, her heart…” He let out a slow breath. “It was too much. She never recovered.”

Silence stretched. He could hear her swallow, see the way her fingers curled into her skirts as if she needed something to hold her upright. Lyanna, who had always burned bright with fire and defiance, seemed suddenly small, vulnerable.

“And… he never forgave me for it,” she said. “All this time…”

Ned felt his own eyes sting. Seven hells, he hated this, hated the truth and the telling of it. He wanted to pull her into his arms, shield her from every unkind memory. But she was no longer the little sister he could scoop up after a fall.

“Lyanna…” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “He's still grieving. He's in pain. I never wanted you to bear this knowledge. I would have spared you if I could.”

She shook her head faintly. “I didn’t mean for her to—”

“I know,” he said quickly, gently, before the guilt could hollow her voice any further. “Gods, Lya, of course you didn’t. You were a child, frightened, alone. You did nothing wrong.” His voice grew firmer, as if with it he could convince her of it. “If there is fault, it lies with fate, not with you. Mother went because she loved you. She chose it, as any mother would.”

Her eyes lifted to his, shining now, though she fought the tears fiercely.

Ned exhaled, the sound weighted with years of his own silent frustration over the matter. “Father’s grief twisted him. He was shattered after she died, truly shattered. The man he was before… I scarcely remember him myself. He loved her more fiercely than he ever spoke aloud. When she was gone, something inside him hardened. Turned bitter.” He shook his head. “His pride, his sorrow, they’ve ruled him ever since. And in that torment, he found someone to shoulder blame, even if that blame had no sense to it.”

Lyanna’s breath shuddered.

Ned went on, quieter. “He never forgave the world for taking her. And he never forgave himself for failing her. I fear he carries those wounds with him at all times. And sometimes… sometimes he cannot see past them. Not even to you.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. Her face was caught between fury and grief, a storm Ned recognized all too well. But beneath it was something else. A breaking, soft and painful.

He wished he could undo it. He wished he could carry this burden for her as he had once carried her home with scraped knees and tangled hair. But life had grown far darker, far more complicated than those simple days.

Still, he reached for her hand, and this time she did not pull away.

“You are not to blame,” he murmured. “Not today. Not then. Not ever.”

But Lyanna did not lift her eyes to meet his. She stared instead at some fixed point on the ground, as if the truth might be written on the stone beneath her feet. “How can I not blame myself, Ned?” she whispered, barely more than breath. “It’s always me. Always.” Her voice trembled, breaking like thin ice. “If it hadn’t been for me… she might have lived longer. Might have had a few more years. She went into the woods for me…”

The devastation of her words struck him harder than any shouted grief. Ned tightened his grip on her hands, as though the sheer steadiness might anchor her to the truth he wanted her to believe. His own throat constricted with guilt he had carried for years, guilt that was never his to bear, yet he held it all the same. How much heavier must it be for her?

“She went because she loved you, Lyanna,” he said softly, fiercely. “You were her daughter. Her heart.” His voice wavered, but he forced it into steadiness with an effort that cost him. “Do not forget that. She would never, never, want you to carry this burden. She would grieve to see you do so.”

Her lips parted, quivering, but no sound escaped. She looked fragile then, fragile in a way he had not seen since she was a child shivering in the cold, wrapped in a cloak far too large for her. Ned felt something inside him twist painfully.

All he could do was stand beside her, hands warm around hers, offering what little comfort remained to offer. Yet everything he gave felt pitifully insufficient. Too little. Far too late.

A deep, aching sorrow settled in his chest. This was not how he imagined spending his last day in King’s Landing with her. He had pictured laughter, teasing, a brief return to something resembling the warmth of home. Not this, never this unearthing wounds buried for years, dragging their mother’s ghost into the daylight.

He cursed himself silently. Cursed his softness, his damned honesty, his inability to lie, specially when a lie would have spared her pain. If he had been half the actor Robert was, or possessed even a shred of Brandon's cold resolve, perhaps he could have circumvented this wretched truth. But no. He had faltered.

Ned’s anger flared, anger at his father, at the hardness that grief had forged in the man, but also at himself. He had failed her today. His duty as a brother, always, had been to protect her, to shield her from cruelties, whether they came with swords or with words. And yet here she stood, shoulders bowed beneath a weight that was never hers to carry.

But even through his self-reproach, he saw something else in her. 

Lyanna was no fragile blossom to be crushed by the first frost. She was stormborn in her own right: fierce, wild, braver than anyone. He had seen her ride at full gallop across the snows of Winterfell when she was just a child, her hair flying behind her like a banner of absolute defiance. He had witnessed her spirit rally against every injustice life thrust upon her.

And though this pain cut deep, a wound reopened, tender and raw, he knew, with a quiet certainty, that it would not break her. It would shape her. Temper her. 

It was a cruel truth he had given her, but Ned believed, prayed, that Lyanna would rise from it stronger than before. She always had. She always would.

Rhaella's gaze shifted toward Lyanna, lingering on the young girl who had already endured far more than anyone her age should. There she stood, bidding farewell to her quiet, gentle brother. Eddard Stark. He seemed a boy of decency, kindness, and wisdom that far exceeded his years. She had seen the way he looked at Lyanna, with concern and warmth, and it was clear he loved her deeply.

And yet, Rhaella couldn’t help but wonder how a man like Lord Stark, who had raised such remarkable children, could also be so cold, so unforgiving. His hardness, his unforgiving nature, it was something she could never fully comprehend. How could such a father exile his own daughter as though she were nothing more than a burden, a pest to be rid of?

It always pained her to see the sadness that flickered behind Lyanna’s eyes, masked by that brave little smile whenever her family was mentioned. A smile that spoke of wounds too deep to heal easily. The North had cast her out, her own father treating her like some unwanted thing, and for what? Rhaella could never fathom such cruelty. But she knew better than to ask those questions aloud. It wasn’t her place. Instead, from the moment Lyanna had arrived, Rhaella had resolved to care for her, to provide the warmth and protection the girl had so cruelly been denied.

And Lyanna had surprised her. When she first arrived, she was just a child, delicate and uncertain, with an innocent beauty that reminded Rhaella of her own youth. But now, that innocence had begun to harden into something else. The girl was becoming a young woman, and a striking one at that. There was strength behind her eyes now, resilience.

As Eddard Stark’s figure grew smaller on the horizon, disappearing into the distance, Rhaella noticed the way Lyanna’s posture shifted, the brave front she had kept during the farewell beginning to crumble. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and Rhaella's heart ached to hold the girl, to shield her from the pain she carried.

“Are you well?” Rhaella asked softly, stepping closer to Lyanna and offering a gentle smile.

Lyanna swallowed, blinking rapidly as if trying to hold her tears at bay. Her voice was small when she finally nodded. "Yes... I am fine."

But Rhaella knew better. That look in Lyanna's eyes was not merely the grief of parting. There was something else there. Rhaella’s brow furrowed with concern as she gently placed a hand on the girl's shoulder.

"What is it, dear?" she asked, her tone as tender as the embrace she longed to give. She wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders, hoping to coax her into releasing whatever burden she carried.

For a moment, Lyanna said nothing, her lips pressed tightly together as if holding back an avalanche of emotions. Rhaella led her toward her chambers, her arm still around her as she quietly guided the girl away from the world outside, away from prying eyes.

Once inside the private sanctuary of her chambers, the silence between them broke. Lyanna’s composure shattered. She crumpled into herself, her shoulders shaking as the tears finally came, unstoppable now. She sobbed with such force that Rhaella could only sit beside her, gathering the girl in her arms, letting her cry until the words began to spill out.

"It’s Father," Lyanna choked out between sobs. "He... he blames me..."

Rhaella’s heart constricted. "For what, sweet girl?"

"For Mother," Lyanna whispered, her voice thick with anguish. "He thinks... he thinks it’s my fault that she died. That if it hadn’t been for me… Her illness worsened because of me, it killed her because she went looking for me in the cold when I was a child and…”

Her words tumbled out in a rush, sharp with desperation. She was crying now, truly crying, and Rhaella felt a tightness in her chest at the sight. She wasn’t entirely sure she understood what Lyanna meant when she said Rickard Stark blamed her for her mother’s death… but surely she was mistaken. It couldn’t be as cruel as she feared. How could any father lay such a burden on a child?

The sheer absurdity of it took Rhaella’s breath away. "Your fault?" she echoed, struggling to make sense of it. How could any father place such a burden on a child, to blame her for something so out of her control, so senseless? 

Lyanna nodded, her tears falling freely now. "He’s never forgiven me... and I..."

Rhaella’s arms tightened around her, her hand gently stroking the girl's hair. "Oh, my dear, that is not something you should ever have to live with. What your father says... it is not true. You were a child. You are not to blame."

But Lyanna shook her head. "He hates me. He always has since the day she died. I saw it in his eyes every time he looked at me. I just never understood why."

"Your father... he is grieving, Lyanna. Grief can twist a person’s mind, make them lash out in ways they never would if they were whole. But his pain does not make his words true. And it does not define who you are."

Lyanna was silent, her tears slowing as she rested against Rhaella, exhausted by her own emotions. Rhaella continued to hold her, wishing she could do more, wishing she could somehow erase the years of hurt that had been inflicted on this brave, beautiful girl.

"You are strong," Rhaella whispered, hoping Lyanna could listen to her, truly listen, and see the truth in her words. "Stronger than you know. And whatever your father thinks, whatever pain he has caused, it is not a reflection of you. It is his burden, not yours to carry."

Lyanna sniffed, wiping her eyes. "I don’t feel strong."

Rhaella smiled gently. "That’s because you’re still standing in the storm. But I see it in you, Lya. The strength to survive it. To come out the other side. You are not defined by the shadows others cast on you."

Chapter Text

283 AC

The warm, sultry wind of Pentos caressed Rhaegar’s skin, carrying with it the scent of salt, spices, and more. He stood at the ship’s railing, his gaze sweeping across the city behind him, a kaleidoscope of sun washed colors and vibrant shapes. Every narrow street, every golden dome, every shaded alleyway held memories, like whispers of the three long years he had spent wandering the Free Cities of Essos. Now it was all over, a chapter closing. He had come seeking adventure, knowledge, and perhaps something more intangible, and what he found had forever altered him.

These lands had offered him much. They had shaped him in ways Westeros never could. He had grown, not just as a warrior, but as a man. The Free Cities had introduced him to fierce warriors and deadly assassins, men and women whose craft was honed in shadows and blood. He had fought beside them, learned their deadly techniques, and earned their respect. His sword arm was quicker now, deadlier, his reflexes sharpened by the constant edge of survival.

But it wasn’t just battle he had mastered. His knowledge of Valyrian history and culture had deepened immeasurably. He had studied the language of his ancestors until he could speak it as fluidly as the traders in Volantis, and he had learned the ancient lore, the forgotten rites that even most Targaryens had let slip into oblivion. He had read scrolls in the Citadel of Lys, spoken with scholars in Qohor, and visited the ruins of old Valyria itself.

Valyria. His blood called to that cursed land. He could still feel the ominous presence of the Smoking Sea, the stench of sulfur clinging to his skin, the oppressive heat that seemed to suffocate the very air around them. It had been a place of nightmares and legends, with jagged black rocks rising from steaming waters, ash falling from the sky like the breath of dying dragons. He had ventured there, if only peripherally, into the heart of his ancestors' doom. The scars that marred his chest and back were a constant reminder of that ill-fated journey he never mentioned in his letters. They burned sometimes, phantom pains as though the land itself had tried to claim him.

But he had survived. The luckiest expedition on earth, coming back from such a doomed land. But not all had been so fortunate. The men who had dared accompany him, who willingly ventured there with him, brave souls, all of them, had paid the ultimate price. A few had been lost, claimed by the toxic air or the stone men who roamed the ruined shores like wraiths. Barristan had nearly fallen to one such creature, an infected half-dead man with skin hard as stone. He had fought valiantly and won, but not without cost. Arthur had taken his own wounds, deep gashes across his arm, and Rhaegar bore his own marks from that forsaken land.

Yet, despite the blood and death, the expedition had been worth the cost. For they had returned with an unimaginable treasure. Rhaegar’s gaze flicked to the heavy wooden chest before him, its surface worn but sturdy, an unassuming exterior that belied the wealth it contained.

Three dragon eggs.

Cold as stone now, their time hardened shells dull but still imbued with a faint glimmer of life, they were a reminder of a lost age, of a time when dragons ruled the skies. His ancestors had carried such eggs from the fires of Valyria to Westeros, and now, so would he. They were his legacy, his prize, and perhaps the key to something greater if he was lucky enough to see it happen someday.

“We are almost ready,” came Arthur’s voice, pulling him from his thoughts. Arthur stood at his side, his gleaming white cloak billowing in the breeze. The intense sunlight reflected off his silver armor.

Rhaegar turned to him with a quiet smile, his eyes alight with what could only be the satisfaction to have lived through all those experiences. “So, this is where it ends, my friend. Three years of wandering, battles fought, secrets uncovered. Quite an adventure, wouldn’t you say?”

Arthur chuckled, his gaze drifting toward the city they were about to leave behind. The ship rocked gently beneath their feet as the soft waves lapped against its hull. “Aye, an adventure indeed. And if the gods are kind, we’ll live to tell it for years to come.”

Rhaegar's lips curled into a playful, satisfied grin then. “What is life without a little danger, right, Dayne? Would you have preferred we stayed in the safety of court, bored to death by the politics of men who cannot lift a sword? No, this... this was worth every risk.”

Arthur’s eyes found the wooden chest. “Aye,” he agreed quietly. “This is something the world has not seen in centuries. Who knows... Dragons may yet live again.”

Rhaegar’s confident smile grew. “Perhaps... or perhaps they are meant to stay as relics of the past. Either way, we hold a piece of that history in our hands. These eggs... they are more than just stones. They are a legacy.”

Arthur looked at him then. The question was written in his eyes, and Rhaegar knew what was next. “Do you really believe dragons could hatch?”

Rhaegar shrugged lightly, but there was a gleam of confidence in his violet eyes. He didn’t know what would happen with those eggs, but he did know that he found them for a reason, a reason beyond his knowledge at the time being. “I believe in possibilities. And I believe the gods have plans for us, for our house. Perhaps these eggs are a part of that plan. It’s too early to say…”

Arthur's gaze held a quiet hope. He hadn’t forgotten the perilous journey they had endured to claim those eggs. The treacherous paths, the haunting mist of Valyria, and the close brushes with death that had nearly taken them both. They had risked everything, and Arthur knew, perhaps better than anyone, what that meant. The scars on their bodies and the memories of lost comrades were constant reminders of the price they had paid. But before Arthur could respond, a soft yet familiar voice interrupted them.

“My prince,” a lilting, melodic tone called out, and both men turned to see the figure approaching.

A beautiful Lyseni woman he knew far too well, her silvery hair glistening beautifully under the dying sun, and eyes as deep and blue as the Summer Sea. She moved with the grace of a dancer, her every step a silent symphony of elegance. Rhaegar smiled at her arrival, already knowing what she had come for.

“Ah, Lyessa,” he said, his tone soft as velvet, yet hard as iron. “Come to say your farewells, have you?”

She approached slowly, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her lips. There was something alluring about her, something that had captivated him during his time in Essos. Lyessa, daughter of a wealthy Lyseni merchant, had been a constant presence during his travels. Beautiful, intelligent, and more than a little bold, she had become his companion in more ways than one. All with her father’s blessing, an ambitious man who, despite knowing better, still held the hope that his beautiful daughter could actually capture the Westerosi Prince’s heart. 

“I have,” she murmured as she came close, her hand gently brushing against his arm before she leaned in to place a soft kiss on his cheek. It was a far cry from the passionate kisses they had shared the night before, but there was something bittersweet in the gesture. “I could not let you leave without a proper farewell.”

Rhaegar chuckled softly. “How fortunate I am then, to receive such a farewell from such a lovely woman.”

Lyessa’s smile deepened, and she looked up at him through her long lashes. “You are far too charming for your own good, my prince.”

“And you are far too bold to be left in Lys. I half expected you to stow away on my ship.”

She laughed then, a light, melodic sound that carried on the wind. “And miss the chance to see your face when you realize I’ve followed you back to Westeros? Now that would be something, wouldn’t it?”

“It would, indeed. They don’t know what chaos you could bring.” Rhaegar grinned.

“Chaos?” she teased, her fingers grazing his cheek with a playful touch. “Or perhaps I’d bring much needed life to that dreary place you call home.”

Rhaegar’s lips curved into a smirk. He might have complained about Westeros a few times while in her company. But apparently, she had taken it too seriously. “You’d do more than that... you’d turn it on its head.”

She laughed softly, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “Maybe one day I shall,” she replied, her thumb tracing a slow, tender line across his skin before stepping back.

Rhaegar's smirk softened, his gaze lingering on her. She had been more than just a companion, or a mistress. She had been a friend during those strange and thrilling times in Essos. Good company. Sharp minded and bold. "Thank you, Lyessa," he said, his voice lower now. "For everything."

Her eyes gleamed with a small flicker of emotion, deeper than her usual amusement. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured, her voice soft, her smile laced with a quiet resignation. “For the good times. But... all things must end, don’t they?”

“Aye,” Rhaegar echoed, a soft smile upon his lips, his tone distant, his thoughts drifting beyond her and the moment, carried across the seas toward Westeros. 

Chapter Text

“Could you stop that?” Lyanna swatted playfully at Ashara Dayne’s hand as she fussed with her hair.

Ashara chuckled, undeterred, her mood just as light as always. "You’re right, you don’t need me fixing your hair," she teased with that tone Lyanna knew too well. "You’re already one of the jewels of the Seven Kingdoms, the fairest lady of King’s Landing…"

"Gods, stop it!" Lyanna made a disgusted face, but the corner of her lips betrayed the start of a smile. Ashara, ever amused, raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve never met a girl who didn’t enjoy being told she’s beautiful,” Ashara declared, “Yet I pay you a compliment and you recoil as though I’ve accused a sailor of wearing ribbons in his beard. Truly, Lya, you are the strangest creature the gods ever crafted.”

Lyanna groaned, tugging half-heartedly at the strand of hair Ashara was trying to tame. “Well, keep your flattery. I don’t need it.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s strange. And awkward. And silly.”

“Oh, it’s not silly,” Ashara countered, entirely unbothered, “You could accept a compliment now and then without behaving as if someone dumped a bucket of slop on your boots. And besides, here in King’s Landing, where tongues are sharper than daggers, anyone who calls you beautiful does so because they must, not because they want to.”

Lyanna snorted. “That is meant to help?”

“Yes,” Ashara said brightly with a satisfied smile on her lovely face. “Because it means you can’t blame me if half the court swoons over you. They’re obliged by custom, you see. A dreadful burden for them.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes skyward in what could only be considered as dramatic despair. As if she would ever want such a title. The notion of being “the most beautiful maiden in the kingdoms” made her want to crawl under a horse. It wasn’t that she disliked being pretty, not at all. She liked mirrors well enough, liked seeing the sharp angles softening into something much more graceful as she grew. But beauty drew attention, and attention drew trouble… trouble as in betrothals she had spent half her life trying to avoid. Seven hells.

“It would be easier,” Ashara went on, her tone turning playful, “if you simply accepted that you are, in fact, one of the loveliest ladies in Westeros. Some even say you’ve surpassed Lady Cersei Lannister herself.” She lifted her index finger to her ear. “Listen closely. I believe I can hear her weeping from Casterly Rock.”

Lyanna’s laugh burst out of her before she could stop it. Ashara preened, victorious.

“I’ve not seen Cersei Lannister in an age,” Lyanna admitted, still grinning, “but I remember well enough the way she used to look at me... As if I were something tracked in from the stables. A roach, or perhaps a particularly large flea.”

They both dissolved into laughter at the memory.

It was odd, truly odd, to consider how the awkward, colt limbed girl she’d once been had somehow grown into a young woman whispered about in the same breath as the golden Cersei Lannister. She certainly had not expected it. For most of her youth she’d assumed she would mature into… well, something with roughly the grace of a stable boy and the temper to match. Yet there she was now, staring into mirrors and finding a face so fair she sometimes felt the faint, guilty thrill of vanity. Even she, cynical as an old man at times, could not deny what she saw staring back.

But beauty, like most things, came with consequences. Primarily: attention.

Robert Baratheon, for instance. Seven hells. He had heard the rumors, and had immediately begun sending ravens to Winterfell stuffed with declarations so bold she wondered if the man banged his head on the table before writing. If one read them aloud, they sounded less like courtship and more like a war cry. And poor Ned, her sweet, exasperated Ned, was being pestered nearly as much as her father, pressed to act as intermediary in Robert’s campaign of hopeless devotion. A burden indeed.

It was not that she disliked Robert. Truly, how could she? She barely knew the man. He was handsome, unfairly so, tall, broad, brash, full of the kind of loud life that filled a room whether invited or not. She could admit that much, she had eyes after all. But the notion that he had seen her once, once, years ago, when she had been all awkwardness and uncertainty, and had immediately fallen “madly, irrevocably in love,” as rumors claimed… well. That was concerning. Deeply concerning.

How did one fall in love with a stranger, she wondered? A stranger who, at the time, had still been caught between girlhood and whatever came next? What, precisely, was wrong with him? And should she be worried?

She exhaled sharply, shaking off the thoughts like dust from a cloak.

Not today. Today, she decided, would be different.

Ashara, however, completely unaware of her troublesome thoughts, interrupted her with a grin, and Lyanna went back to reality. "I wonder if he’s still as handsome."

Lyanna arched a brow, catching the mischievous lilting note in Ashara’s voice. Robert? No. Ashara could not possibly know what had been stirring in her thoughts. She didn’t read minds… even if, at times, it felt as though she damn well could.

"Who?" she asked warily.

“Prince Rhaegar, of course.”

Lyanna let out a soft laugh at the mention of her old friend. “Rhaegar? Oh, please. I remember he had an entire flock of silly hens trailing after him every hour of the day before he left for Essos. But I don’t think I ever gave his looks a second thought when I was younger.”

Ashara only smiled and shook her head, unconvinced. “Naturally. You’re only eager to see him for his stories. That’s all. And the worst part is, I might believe it coming from you. But truly, he was always painfully handsome. I do wonder if time has only made him worse.”

Lyanna gave a short, musical laugh at the thought. “I am only interested in his stories! His letters were so few while he was gone, I’m dying to hear what adventures he’s had. I’m jealous he got to see so much.”

She paused, adjusting the fall of her gown, excitement bubbling under her ribs.

“Besides… Rhaegar was my first friend in King’s Landing. I’ve never been able to see him any other way. It would feel strange... wrong. He and Arthur used to drag me along on all their so called 'noble quests'. Gods, it feels like another life entirely,” she said, a wistful note threading through her voice.

“Indeed it does,” Ashara murmured, her tone softening as they passed beneath the vaulted arches of the Maidenvault. “I remember you chasing after the both of them in the courtyard, breathless and stubborn. And how they’d let you train with them, indulging you without question. There you were, the little Stark wolf, boasting all the boyish swagger of a squire.”

Ashara laughed at the memory.

Lyanna couldn’t help laughing too, warmth blooming in her chest. It would be good to see them again, truly.

This was the day, after three long years, that Rhaegar and Arthur would finally return to King’s Landing from their journey through Essos. They had traveled so far, seen lands she could scarcely imagine, and yet, despite the distance, their presence had never entirely faded. Rhaegar's letters had become fewer, their arrival more spaced with each passing season, yet he had always found a way to reach them, even from so far away. Today, however, would be different. Today, the royal family, and she with them, would venture to the harbor to greet the long missed prince, returned at last from his travels. She could well imagine the joy filling Queen Rhaella’s heart, for no mother should bear so long a separation from her child. It was a day long awaited, and even now, the thought of seeing him once more filled her with a strange and restless anticipation.

As she and Ashara neared the harbour, the sight of the Queen’s silhouette came into view. Rhaella stood tall and graceful, her pale, golden hair pinned up in an elegant hairstyle that enhanced her regal features. At her side, little Viserys clutched her hand, his face lighting up at the sight of Lyanna in the way it always did.

“Lya!” Viserys called out in a clumsy tone, his small legs kicking in excitement, though his mother’s gentle grip held him in place.

“Ah, Lyanna, dear. Lady Ashara.” Queen Rhaella greeted them with a warm smile. “You’ve come just in time.”

“Aunt Rhaella,” Lyanna returned the smile, curtseying. Ashara followed suit, offering a graceful nod.

"The ship is almost here," King Aerys said, his voice surprisingly calm, his eyes fixed on the horizon. There, against the blue waters, a grand ship bearing the Targaryen sigil glided toward the dock.

Lyanna’s heart quickened at the sight. The Targaryen sails flapped proudly in the wind, and the ship cut through the water with imposing grace. It was magnificent, larger than she remembered, and its black and red colors seemed to blaze against the blue sky.

When the ship finally docked, and a flurry of activity followed. Crews scrambled to secure the vessel, and the ramp was lowered. The first to descend was Rhaegar.

Lyanna’s breath caught in her throat.

He was still Rhaegar, but the years had changed him. Gone was the boy she remembered from her childhood, replaced by a tall, handsome man who had been shaped by time and the adventures beyond Westeros. His black leather doublet clung to a lean, well sculpted frame, a warrior’s frame. His skin carried that sun warm shade only possible for someone who had spent years being slowly roasted under Essos’ skies. And his hair was longer, straighter, arranged in some elaborate Targaryen style.

His features were always pretty. But now, they had sharpened into something more striking. All Valyrian symmetry and unfairly perfect bone structure. He was handsome. Truly handsome. More so than she remembered… or had allowed herself to remember. Ashara was probably having fun right now.

Had he always been this good looking? she wondered, suspicious. 

Thank the old gods Ashara couldn’t read minds. She would never let Lyanna live this down.

Rhaegar’s parents were the first to greet him. King Aerys embraced him with a broad smile, pride evident in his eyes. Then, Rhaella stepped forward, her face bright with joy as she wrapped her arms around her son. Last was little Viserys, half hiding behind her skirts, peering up as if trying to decide whether this tall, sun burnished stranger could possibly be related to him.

The resemblance was undeniable. It was almost sweet, like a before and after sketch come to life.

Rhaegar crouched gracefully to Viserys’s height, his smile pearly and white and pretty. “And who is this little dragon?” he asked, his voice carrying that familiar iron undertone Lyanna remembered from years ago. At least that had not changed. 

Viserys puffed out his chest a little, though he was still clutching Rhaella’s gown, and managed a shy, “I’m Viserys.”

Rhaegar chuckled and rose, ruffling the boy’s pale hair with a fondness that made Lyanna smile fondly. “You’ll be taller than me before I know it.”

Unlikely, Lyanna thought dryly. 

Just then, his gaze landed on her, and for the briefest heartbeat, Rhaegar stilled, as if the world had slowed, as if he were trying to read a familiar page that had been turned upside down. Recognition flickered, a spark in his amethyst eyes, and then, like sunlight breaking through clouds, a wide, incredulous grin spread across his face.

“Lyanna?” His voice called her name, a note of disbelief threading through it. “It really is you?”

She stepped closer, the wind teasing loose strands of her dark hair around her face, and allowed herself a teasing smirk. “It is,” she said, her tone light, laced with fake reproach. “Have you already forgotten me, or is that all just Essosi sun and wind playing tricks on your head?”

Rhaegar’s laugh rumbled, rich and warm, the sound wrapping around her like a familiar melody. Closing the space between them, they embraced. Her head found the familiar spot against his chest, the height difference both startling and reassuring. For a heartbeat, the court, the city, the years, all of it, simply faded. She was one and ten again, climbing into a tree with him as her co-conspirator in mischief, planning adventures that seemed far less dangerous with Rhaegar at her side. 

“You’ve grown,” he said, pulling back just enough to study her, his hand lingering against her arm, his gaze sweeping over her face with a mixture of awe and disbelief. The faintest quirk of a lopsided smile tugged at his lips, as if the world itself had grown brighter for the sight of her.

Lyanna rolled her eyes, the faint warmth of what she recognized as vanity fluttering in her chest. Did he really notice that I've changed too? she thought. A mischievous smile danced across her lips. “And here I thought you might have mistaken me for a stranger,” she teased. 

Lyanna rolled her eyes playfully, a small part of her felt that stupid satisfaction only vanity could bring. Did he see how much she changed? a smirk danced on her lips. "I did. You almost looked at me like I'm a stranger!"

Rhaegar chuckled, shaking his head, the disbelief lingering in his expression. “Well maybe it’s because I almost didn’t recognize you because you look so grown and beautiful right now."

“Oh, stop that,” she said, waving a hand in protest, though a soft, embarrassing blush crept over her cheeks. Her smile lingered, as did the warmth in her eyes. “What I want to hear are your stories... What adventures have you had? You've been away for three years. Surely, you’ve seen wonders beyond anything I can imagine.”

Rhaegar’s eyes sparkled with a familiar amusement, though a certain gravity lingered beneath the humor, as if his tales held secrets woven with darker threads. “Oh, I have stories enough to fill a hundred nights,” he said with a faint smirk, “though I fear some may seem too fantastical to believe.”

“Try me,” she challenged, her grin widening as she slipped her arm through his. They began to walk toward the castle with an easy, natural rhythm, as though they had taken this path together a thousand times. She looked up at him with a smile that bordered on foolish delight, unable to contain the excitement of having him there.

That night, in his chambers, Rhaegar sighed deeply, his gaze sweeping across the familiar room that had remained untouched in his absence. The grand space felt both distant and comforting. The air inside was warm and it carried the aroma of the sea from the open balcony. Outside, the sky was a deep black, dotted with stars that seemed to shimmer above the Red Keep, and far below, the rhythmic crash of waves against the rocks at the fortress’s base filled the silence with a calming hum.

Everything was exactly as he remembered it. Yet, something was different. Or perhaps it was he who had changed.

He leaned against the cool stone of the balcony's railing, closing his eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds of King's Landing: the faint chatter from below, the city alive even at night. Essos had been full of wonders, with its vast cities and cultures so different from Westeros, and a part of him would miss it. The freedom, the adventure, the mystery and the danger. But this… this was home.

Three years had passed since he last walked these halls, and in that time, much had remained the same, yet some things, some people, had changed. His mother, for one, had not aged much. In all the letters they exchanged, he could sense her worry for him across the sea, though he had been careful not to divulge all the details of his ventures. She would have been beside herself with worry if she knew. His father, though stricter, had known more but had shown his disapproval in predictable ways. Their relationship was a little rougher sometimes but manageable. Rhaegar had learned to navigate it over the years.

And then there was Viserys. His little brother. A tiny, silver-haired babe, with the same lilac eyes as their mother, born after his departure. It was strange to think of him, this infant with whom he shared blood but barely any connection yet. The age gap between them felt like an abyss, yet Rhaegar was determined to be a presence in his life, even if it meant starting from afar.

But the most unexpected change was Lyanna. The girl he remembered as a wild, fierce little thing from the North was now completely different. She had transformed, no longer the scrawny, untamed girl he had first met, but a strikingly beautiful young woman. Her large, silver eyes, always filled with mischief, were now framed by thick, dark lashes. Her once childish face had softened into something much more refined, with delicate freckles dusting her little nose and full lips that unintentionally had drew his gaze for longer than he intended. Her wild hair still cascaded around her shoulders, though there was a certain grace in the way she moved now, a femininity that had bloomed in his absence. It was strange.

But her spirit, that soft wilderness he had always admired, remained intact. Despite the years and the influence of King’s Landing, Lyanna had not been tamed, apparently. And for that, Rhaegar was grateful.

He shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips as he thought of her. She had grown, yes, but so had he. Time had shaped them both, and he was curious to see how much they had changed, and how much they had remained the same.

With a deep breath, he stepped away from the balcony and turned toward the large chest that rested at the foot of his bed. Inside were the dragon eggs, a treasure he had uncovered during his travels in Essos. Tonight, he would present them to his family. To his house. A symbol of their ancient lineage and the magic that once coursed through their veins. He called for two servants, who quickly arrived to assist him in carrying the chest.

As he made his way through the halls of his home, memories flooded him. He passed familiar faces, guards, servants, who bowed as he walked by, murmuring greetings of "Prince Rhaegar." His steps were steady, though his mind wandered. He remembered running through these halls as a boy, playing games of chase with his cousins, dreaming of the days when he would be king. And now, here he was, a man who had seen much more of the world than his younger self could have ever imagined.

At last, he reached the dining hall, where his family awaited him. His mother, the graceful Queen, sat at one end of the long table, her eyes lighting up as he entered. His father smiled broadly, his mood seemingly pleasant that night because of his arrival. And beside them, Lyanna. She was seated near his mother, her silver-grey eyes catching the light of the candles, watching him and then the chest with evident curiosity.

"Ah, you join us at last" his father said, his voice carrying a note of amusement.

Rhaegar inclined his head. "I apologize for the delay, father. I bring something with me."

"And what might that be, dear?" his mother asked, her gaze moving toward the two servants struggling under the weight of the chest.

Rhaegar smiled, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. "A gift. For our house. For all of us." His gaze flicked to Lyanna, who was watching him with that same curious intensity. Her lips parted slightly, a question unspoken in her eyes.

His father leaned forward, intrigued. "A gift, you say? Show us, then."

With a nod, Rhaegar signaled for the servants to set the chest down before the table. He bent down and slowly opened the heavy lid. The dim light of the hall glimmered off the smooth, stone like surface of the eggs nestled within the chest. They were large, each one a different shade. One dark green, another a deep red, and the last a shimmering gold.

Gasps of awe filled the room as soon as the content of the chest was revealed.

His mother covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Are those…?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Dragon eggs," Rhaegar confirmed, his voice steady, though there was an unmistakable tone of satisfaction in his tone. "From the farthest corners of Essos.”

His father rose from his seat, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of wonder and ambition that he had seen only a few times in his life in him. "Dragon eggs. By the gods, Rhaegar, you have brought us a treasure, indeed.” His voice was filled with pride.

Lyanna’s gaze remained fixed on the eggs, her rosy lips slightly parted as she stared, mesmerized. She reached out, hesitating for a moment, before looking at Rhaegar. "May I?"

"Of course," he said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched her. “Please, go ahead. You are family.”

She gave him a sideways glance, her eyes twinkling with something that made his heart skip a beat. "A family of dragons, it seems."

Rhaegar chuckled, his voice low and smooth. "Perhaps one day, those dragons will soar again.”

The chamber was only dimly lit, the silence in the stance heavy for a few seconds for they were all watching the eggs in awe. Rhaegar stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back as he observed the chest before him. Inside lay the dragon eggs, smooth and ancient.

His father’s voice broke the silence.

“But where did you get these eggs, Rhaegar? Do you know how rare it is to find them, in these times?” His father’s words were heavy with disbelief as he stepped closer, his eyes wide in awe. His fingers hovered above the eggs, hesitant, as though afraid to break the delicate shells with the slightest touch.

Rhaegar’s gaze flicked to his father, watching as the older man’s fingers finally brushed against the eggs with a featherlight caress.

He felt the weight of their eyes upon him, his father’s curiosity mingled with reverence, his mother’s quiet awe, and Lyanna’s sharp, excited gaze that seemed to pierce straight into his soul. 

He inhaled deeply, eyes briefly closing.

“I got them from Valyria,” he finally said, his voice neutral though the memory of that treacherous journey gripped his heart. He could still feel the heat of that forsaken land, the sulfurous air that clung to his skin, the echo of the ghosts that whispered among the ruins.

And the reaction was swift.

His mother’s face paled, her hand flying to her mouth in horror. His father’s expression transformed, the awe on his face quickly turning into raging fury. “Are you insane, boy?” his father spat, his voice laced with shock and anger. “Valyria? Have you lost your senses?”

The accusation hung heavy in the room, the tension thickening the air. Lyanna remained silent, her eyes fixed on him, wide with surprise and something akin to concern. She leaned forward, her lips parted, as though about to speak but holding back.

Rhaegar’s mother, her voice soft but almost trembling, broke the silence. “Rhaegar, my son… why would you expose yourself to such danger? Valyria is cursed, doomed. No one returns alive from that place. Have you forgotten the stories? Aerea Targaryen... and the others? Their fates were sealed when they crossed into that land. What made you think you would survive?”

Rhaegar squared his shoulders, meeting his father’s fierce gaze. “I knew the risks. I knew them well. But I also knew what could be gained. The rumors of dragon eggs in Valyria, the treasures of our house, lost for centuries. I didn’t go to the heart of it, only skirted the edges of the ruins.”

“You are an irresponsible fool!” Aerys roared, his fist slamming against the table hard enough to rattle the cups upon it. The sound cracked through the chamber. “You could have lost your life, lost your men, for this madness! Tell me, boy, were these stones worth that risk? Are they worth your life?”

Rhaegar stood still under the storm of his father’s fury. He did not bow his head, he did not apologize, not yet. His scars, still tender beneath his black leather, throbbed with the memory of it: flaming earth, sulfurous winds, skies split with the dying breath of a cursed empire. He had faced Valyria, had stepped where wiser men had fled, and he had returned with treasure the world had not seen in centuries. The gods alone knew the cost.

But here, in the Red Keep, in his own home, all of that was reduced to his father’s temper.

“They are not stones, Father,” he answered at last, his voice steady and his face unimpressed in the face of his father’s wrath. “And madness would have been returning empty handed, don't you think?”

Aerys let out a furious hiss, though some flicker of surprise flashed across his face. Rhaegar had never feared matching him word for word. The king denied with his head, running a hand through the silver hair at his temples.

“What is done is done,” Aerys spat after a moment, though his voice had cooled by a degree. “The gods clearly had mercy upon you, though I cannot fathom why. You should thank them you came back with your head still on your shoulders, and with these… marvels.” His gaze slid to the eggs as if they were both wonder and threat. “But do not mistake this for my approval. You shall never return to that cursed place again. Not while I live.”

Rhaegar inclined his head, not quite obedience, but something close enough to pass. “I knew your reaction before I ever set foot in this room,” he said gently. “Which is why I waited to show you the eggs only after ensuring I still had all my limbs in place.”

Aerys glared daggers, but Rhaegar continued, soft and completely reasonable: “What matters, Father, is that I did return. I took the risk, I bore the cost, and the gods, whatever their reasons, spared us.”

For a long breath, silence held. Aerys stared at his son as though he were weighing pride against fury, and fear against wonder. At last, slowly, with clear reluctance clawing at him from the inside, the king gave a single, stiff nod.

As the tension slowly ebbed from the room, his mother moved toward the chest, her eyes wide with wonder as she gazed at the eggs. “They are beautiful,” she whispered, her fingers trailing along the smooth, iridescent surfaces. “The stuff of legend.”

Rhaegar felt an unexpected flicker of pride at his mother's  words. Yet even that warmth did not distract him from the sight of Lyanna's face. She had been silent throughout his exchange with the king, standing just off to the side like a well trained court lady… though the subtle widening of her eyes had betrayed her entirely. Shock had melted into fascination, and now curiosity was written plainly in her silver gaze.

She looked as though she wanted to bombard him with a dozen questions and was restraining herself only because the King was in the room. And furious. A rare act of self-preservation, he thought, amused. When Lyanna Stark held her tongue, the world was either about to end or had just begun. He allowed himself a small, knowing smile. There were small glimpses of the Lyanna he knew there.

“Tell me,” she said at last, her voice soft and sly, leaning in only enough to ensure no one else would hear. A teasing glint lit her eyes, her mischief restrained, but unmistakably alive. “What was it like? Truly. Valyria. Did you find monsters in the shadows, just as the tales claim? Or will you be embellishing later, to impress us all?”

Rhaegar’s mouth curved. “Monsters?” he echoed, lowering his tone into something low. “No beasts. Only death itself, and an empire rotting.” A hint of dark humor threaded through his words. “But if you’re asking whether I faced danger…” He leaned a touch closer, matching her playful secrecy. “I assure you, I have.”

Lyanna arched a brow, the corner of her mouth lifting in what could only be read as challenge. “Have you now?” Her lips curved further, intrigued despite herself. “You will enlighten me later. I want everything. Every detail. Even the parts you’ll pretend weren’t frightening.”

Rhaegar’s smirk sharpened. “After supper, then,” he murmured. “In the gardens.”

Something bright flickered in her eyes: anticipation. Delight, perhaps. The same spark she’d had as a girl when they planned mischief in the Godswood. For a moment, a fleeting moment, he was carried back to those early years: Lyanna daring him to climb trees in the dark, Lyanna racing him across dew damp grass, Lyanna laughing with her hair tangled and messy.

The memory warmed him, and sobered him. Walking with her at night in the Godswood had been innocent once. To do the same now? A crown prince and a noble lady wandering under moonlit boughs? It would set half the court whispering, the other half shrieking. Better not to tempt fate, even if his intentions were good and based on friendship. 

The royal gardens, though still hardly proper, offered a gentler compromise. Soft lamps. Marble paths. Enough shadows to speak freely, but few enough to avoid disaster.

Before Rhaegar could so much as answer, a clearing of the throat sliced through the room. “We shall dine now,” the king declared, his voice the kind that invited no debate and tolerated even less delay.

Servants swept in at once, a well trained tide of motion. Platters were exchanged, goblets filled, cushions fluffed, all with smooth precision. Rhaegar rose and offered Lyanna his arm, and she accepted, the touch light as a feather. The warmth of it lingered even after they sat.

The three dragon eggs, displayed as if they were the crown jewels brought back from a myth ridden fable, were there. Candlelight plucked iridescent colors from their scales: greens, purples, reds. Beautiful, indeed.

“I wonder if they could…?” his mother breathed at some point after a some time studying the eggs, barely louder than the hush of silk sleeves. Her gaze clung to the eggs with a mixture of hope and wonder.

Rhaegar caught her eye. Then he offered her a small smile. “Perhaps, Mother. Or perhaps they are nothing more than relics now. Beautiful, hollow memories of an age long gone.” 

Chapter Text

The familiar royal gardens were adorned with the most soft golden hue, the warm light from nearby lamps warming the ivy clad walls and lush hedges. The jasmine blooms his mother liked so much perfumed the night air, and the gentle rustle of leaves was the only sound that accompanied their quiet steps. Lyanna’s movements were graceful and effortless, her slim figure moving silently under the moonlight as the silver embroidery on her gown shimmered with each step she took. 

“Hurry up!” she called back, casting him a glance over her shoulder, her smile catching the light and gleaming.

He raised a brow, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

With a laugh, she took his hand, her touch was light but full of that same energy he never failed to recognize in her back in the day, pulling him along as they made their way further into the heart of the garden. They arrived at a secluded nook where a fountain murmured softly, surrounded by an alcove of white roses and jasmine climbing an archway. This little spot was shielded from prying eyes, secluded even. 

Lyanna sank down onto the edge of the fountain with a delighted smile, her silky hair spilling down her shoulders in chestnut brown, perfectly placed waves that caught the light. Rhaegar sat beside her, easing back against the cool stone. As he relaxed in that familiar spot, he felt her gaze upon him, an intensity in her eyes as though she were looking at him for the first time all over again.

“I still cannot believe you’ve returned, after all this time,” she said, her voice soft tinged with wonder. “Three years, and here you are, finally back. You’ve traveled so far—seen places I can only imagine.” Her smile was warm when she spoke. Her eyes were bright with curiosity and wonder, and she looked again like the young little wolf-girl he met all those years ago, always more than willing to go after mischief.

Definitely, there were still traces of the young northern girl he had met years ago. “Three years, yes. It feels as though I’ve lived a lifetime within them,” he replied, a hint of reminiscence in his tone as his mind went back to Essos and to the countless experiences he got to live. “But you know... Now that I’m here… I see the kingdom, the people I knew... It all changed just as much as I have.”

“So, you’ve become a man of mystery then.” At that, he chuckled. “Is it true you went to Valyria?” she asked, her voice a mixture of awe and disbelief. “I mean, I know what I've heard back there. But... Tell me… what was it like?” She lowered her voice, as though to savor the mystery of it all. “And how in the Seven did you get those eggs? Are you mad?” She laughed softly.

When he replied next, he had not meant to speak so much, but with her eyes on him, so wide, so bright, and so eager, words loosened as though she were unspooling them from him with invisible fingers. “When I first heard the tales,” he began, allowing his tone to rest somewhere between confession and jest, “they sounded like the sort of nonsense sailors invent when they’ve had too much sun and far too much wine. Letters passed from dying men to the next fool who’d listen, mutterings about dragon eggs hidden in the ash of Valyria. No one ever found them because” he lifted a brow “no one has ever been quite stupid enough to seek them out.”

"That's where you came in" she laughed softly.

A small laugh escaped him, warm and low. “I suppose." then, he continued "When I listened… well, I could not resist. Which does in fact raise certain questions about my intellect.”

Her answering smile tugged at something inside him. It was a rare thing: she made it far too easy to be honest.

“Valyria,” he continued, and the word itself seemed to dim the gardens. He felt it again: the heat, the silence, the heaviness of the place. “It was unlike anything I had imagined. A land where beauty and horror are so tightly woven one cannot tell where one ends and the other begins. The ruins still gleam in places, as if the fire never left them, but everything is cloaked in shadow and steam. The earth felt alive beneath my feet, you know... Angry, almost as if whispering. I had the distinct impression that if I set one foot wrong, the ground would open and swallow me, and I doubt even my bones would care to remain.”

Lyanna leaned closer, her breath catching slightly. She listened as though he were describing some legend pulled from a forgotten bard’s song, yet it had been his reality, not some dream.

“And were there… creatures?” she asked softly. “I’ve heard so many tales. I still can’t believe you returned alive. And unscathed.”

“Not entirely unscathed,” he murmured, allowing the corner of his mouth to curve as he brushed his fingertips absently over the hidden scars along his chest and ribs. “Valyria leaves its marks. On flesh, on memory. On everything.”

Her eyes followed the motion, and heat curled through him.

“As for creatures,” he continued, steadying his voice, “yes. The men of stone. And other... things twisted by fire and magic and time. They lurk in the ruins, always just beyond sight. You feel them more than you see them. A scrape of movement, a breath that isn’t yours… the sense that the shadows themselves are watching.”

A shiver touched his spine, the familiar ghost of the fear he felt back then. Aerea Targaryen and her tragic tale flashed across his mind: her doomed flight, her monstrous end. Balerion returning wounded, terrified. Some memories travel down bloodlines like curses.

“Men of stone?” Lyanna repeated, breathless. Not in fear, but in awe. Only she could hear such things and look fascinated rather than horrified. “Tell me more.”

“They’re real,” he said simply. “Some believe they were once men, sorcerers, perhaps, or slaves, who reached too close to the dragons’ secrets and were changed by what they found. Now they wander the ruins.”

He paused, watching the way her expression flickered between wonder and dread, yet urging him to keep going. For a moment, he felt something pull at him again, and he couldn't help the small smile that formed on his lips. He could not help but to feel the desire to keep speaking if only to hold her attention, since she seemed to utterly entertained by what he was telling her. 

“They watched us from afar,” he added quietly. “I am grateful they kept their distance. Though I think,” and this he offered with a wry smile, “they found us amusing. Intruders with no business there.”

Lyanna swallowed, still caught between fear and fascination.

Her gaze, a particularly pale shade of grey, almost silver if you looked carefully, held fast to him, drinking in every syllable as though she meant to stitch his memories into her own. Had her eyes always been that color? Like mist touched by moonlight. Wide, earnest… and, well, disarmingly lovely.

He found himself smiling before he meant to.

And for the briefest, startling heartbeat, he wondered if anything in the doomlands had ever unsettled him half so thoroughly as the way she was looking at him now.

Then she spoke again, her tone edged with the faintest, most endearing concern. “So… you fought them?”

“I survived them, that is all,” he replied, an indulgent huff of laughter undercutting the grimness of his words. “But to answer your question, and to satisfy what I know that curious mind of yours is truly asking… yes. We fought them. And not without cost.”

His fingers brushed idly over his ribs, the gesture almost ghostly and careless, though the scars beneath were anything but.

Lyanna’s expression softened, a fleeting warmth blooming across her features. “You survived them,” she repeated gently. “That’s victory enough, isn’t it?”

He tilted his head, considering her like a scholar puzzling over a verse. A faint, crooked smile tugged at his lips.

“I suppose. Perhaps. Still sounds terribly mediocre when you put it like that.”

He chuckled, low and quiet, and she matched him with a small shiver, though the thrill in her eyes betrayed excitement rather than dread.

“Gods,” she murmured, leaning closer, the candlelight catching in her silver starlit eyes. “What else did you see? I have the distinct impression tonight won’t be enough for you to tell me even half of it. What of the other cities? Pentos? Braavos? Surely a prince as worldly as you found time for at least a few… amusements amidst all the peril.”
Her lovely grin turned sly. “I doubt it was all monsters and creatures and fright. There must have been… amusements.”

Rhaegar let a slow smile unfold, one that was lazy, knowing, wicked at the edges, and shook his head.

“Amusements, you say? If only the journey had been so simple.”

He allowed the memories to stir, though he sifted carefully through them. Some tales were not for a lady’s ears. Even hers.

“Pentos, Braavos, Lys… each brimming with their own grandeur and vices. And yes, I may have found myself entangled in a few… situations.”

He paused, letting the ambiguity linger like perfume in the air.

“But Pentos... ah, now there is a city enchanted by its own excess. The air itself is thick with spice. The streets never sleep. And the magisters… let us say they know how to turn feasting into an art. You’d love it.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Lyanna quipped, nudging him lightly with her elbow. Her pretty eyes gleamed with amusement.

“And tell me, Your Grace… did you sample all the delights Pentos had to offer? Any fair maidens? Perhaps an exotic beauty or two who caught your eye?” Her laugh was airy, and absolutely mischievous. Like a challenge or a dare.

Rhaegar raised a brow, amused despite himself.

Seven hells. She had always been startlingly curious.

“What sort of rogue do you take me for, my lady?” he teased. “I fear certain stories might not be suitable for such delicate ears.”

“How chivalrous of you,” she said dryly, rolling her eyes. “And how dreadfully boring. King’s Landing is changing me, apparently, I wanted the gossip.” She laughed, bright and musical. “You’ve scarcely returned, and half the maidens of Westeros are sighing after you. I doubt Pentos was any different.”

“Well… if you insist on prying.”

He allowed himself one brief indulgence. Lyessa with her lilac eyes, sharp tongue, sharper mind. Beautiful enough to be trouble, clever enough to enjoy being so. And a great companion.

“There was a certain magister’s daughter,” he admitted, remembering warmly. “She had a fondness for calling me a ‘spoiled prince.’”

“I wonder if her opinion ever improved,” Lyanna chuckled. “I’m certainly not impressed.”

His grin widened, warm and unrepentant.

“Oh, it improved. By the end, she was calling me something else entirely, but decorum forbids me from sharing it.”

Lyanna laughed, shaking her head as though he were some hopeless scoundrel. “You’re impossible. Utterly shameless.”

“And you,” he countered lightly, “are far too curious for your own good. But had I known you would take such interest in my travels, I might have been more diligent in my storytelling. Or,” he added with a playful glimmer, “at least more selective in my misadventures.”

Lyanna’s gaze lingered on him, long enough for the laughter to soften on her mouth. “Your stories are better than any bard’s tale,” she said, her soft voice lower now, stripped of all pretense. “Though I still think you’ve left out the best parts.”

Her words stirred a faint pull at the corner of his lips. “Perhaps I’m saving those for another night,” he replied, quieter than before, as if the stillness around them demanded a gentler tone. Only then did he realize how late it had become, the night had folded itself around them while they weren’t looking.

It had always been too easy to linger in her company. Now, impossibly, it was easier still.

“But now you’re home,” she murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly. “To stay? No more adventures?”

He exhaled, a quiet concession. “The King has made it clear. I’ve been gone long enough. He’s right, I can’t wander the world forever.” Essos had been the one selfish thing he’d allowed himself before the crown, like a final taste of freedom before the long shadow of hi impending duty hardened around him. “And it seems,” he added, with a wry curl of his mouth, “that I am to marry as well.”

Her smile faltered, just a small shift, but he saw it. She disguised her surprise quickly, wrapping her voice in airy curiosity. “Marry? So soon? You’ve barely been back a day. Who’s the unfortunate bride?”

“Who else?” he said, almost absently. “Lord Tywin has been persistent for years. Cersei Lannister. The arrangements are… apparently in motion.”

His mind wandered momentarily to the terse conversation with his father upon his return. Aerys, always pragmatic and direct, had wasted no time in reminding him of his prolonged absence and the repeated offers from Lord Tywin. A match with Cersei was, in his father’s words, a boon, politically advantageous, practically flawless. Rhaegar had received enough letters in Essos to know it was inevitable.

Not that he minded. Duty had always been his compass, and if that duty came in the form of a woman praised as one of the most beautiful in the Seven Kingdoms, so be it. If Lady Cersei were even half as captivating as the tales said, he would consider himself fortunate.

“The Lannister girl?” she repeated, her pretty, little nose wrinkling. “Do you truly mean to go through with it?”

He lifted a brow, intrigued by her vehemence and the evident distaste in her delicate features. “Would you disapprove?”

In lieu of words, she made another small face of unfiltered distaste.

Rhaegar’s laughter slipped out before he could stop it, amused and unexpectedly delighted. “Go on, then. Speak plainly. What do you think of her?”

“If you insist,” she sighed, though she hardly needed the invitation, he noticed. “Yes, she’s beautiful, everyone knows that. But she’s also mean. Insufferably so. A snob through and through, convinced the sun rises only to illuminate her reflection. And she has the sharpest tongue I’ve ever heard… and not in a good way.”

“A beautiful snake, then?” he teased, though truthfully, he found her candor far more compelling than any rumor of Cersei’s charms.

Lyanna lifted her brows, her grey eyes bright with conviction. “Precisely that. She may be worthy of some prince… but not of you.”

Her certainty hit him with a surprising warmth, strange and disarming. 

When she realized what she had let slip, her eyes widened ever so slightly. She lowered her gaze at once, as though the words had betrayed her faster than she could catch them. A faint blush warmed her cheeks, soft and delicate.

“Not that my opinion matters,” she added quickly, the previous bravado gone from her voice. Shyer. And inexplicably endearing.

“On the contrary,” he said, his tone gentling in a way he seldom allowed with anyone else. “Your opinion matters more than you know. You are my friend, Lyanna. You are important to me.”

The honesty seemed to catch her unprepared. She looked away, long, dark lashes lowering, as though unsure what to do with his sincerity. Yet the lingering pink on her cheeks remained, making her appear almost bashful. But he knew better. Shyness did not belong comfortably on a wolf.

She exhaled then, a small sound, shaking her head as if dismissing her own moment of softness. “I suppose not even you, my adventurous prince, can escape fate and duty now, can you?”

Something in her tone, like soft resignation wrapped in jest, made him study her more closely. She often hid things behind humor the way knights hid behind steel. She had always been like that. He frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing as if he might read her better in the shadows.

“What is it that troubles you, Lyanna?” he asked, his voice dropping to a gentler register, not commanding but more coaxing. “You could have your pick of suitors. Men would cross kingdoms for a chance to win your favor.”

She laughed then, but the sound was absolutely wrong. Not the bright, wild laughter that fit her perfectly. This one was brittle at the edges, sharp where it should have been sweet. It sliced through the night air, too heavy for someone who moved through the world with the lightness of a sweet breeze.

The contradiction unsettled him, and called him.

“Well, that’s the problem,” she said dryly, each word carrying its weight as if it was armor she had grown completely tired of wearing. “Men think they can claim me as if I’m a prize to be won. I’m tired of being stared at, spoken of, measured like cattle at auction. My brother has already begun negotiating on Robert Baratheon’s behalf.”

“Robert?” Rhaegar repeated. A name he had not spoken in years, though tied to him through blood and childhood and faint, half remembered summers. “He’s my cousin. Do you… dislike him?”

He searched his memory for something that might give him a clue of whatever was what was bothering her so much: Robert was confident, he had some effortless charm and bright blue eyes, people said, his temper was a little restless, yes. A likeable man, according to people.

And still, Lyanna’s expression soured instantly at the mention of his name. Irritation flickered in her silver grey eyes, sharp and bright as steel.

“How could I know? I barely know him,” she said, biting off the words. “He saw me once. Once! And in that single visit decided he was in love. One man’s whim, and suddenly I’m meant to become his wife. As if that’s all it takes.” Her voice dipped, colder. “And Ned supports him, of course.”

The bitterness hung between them, unsoftened by courtesy or pretense. Rhaegar felt something stir within him at the rawness of it. Pity, yes, but also anger on her behalf. And admiration too. Fierce, uninvited. She was a creature meant for open fields and wild winds, not the narrow corridors of duty and arrangement she did not wish.

“Well… if it’s any consolation,” Rhaegar said, a rueful smile touching his lips, “As you said before... I’m a prince, and even I don’t get to choose. I suppose this is what comes with a privileged life.”

Her lips lifted then, unexpectedly, into a small crooked smile that was clearly half amusement, half reluctant fondness. It was almost as if she had found something to laugh about in that moment.

“Oh yes, poor you,” she said, with a knowing smirk. “Forced to marry one of the fairest women in Westeros. Truly, your burden is staggering. I’m sure you can hardly sleep at night, what with men being such sentimental creatures, utterly indifferent to beauty, always pining after a lady’s mind.”

A very undignified sound escaped him, somewhere between a snort and a scoff. Seven hells. Had she just called him shallow?

Her tone glimmered with the disrespectful mischief that could only come with years of friendship, but her pretty eyes sparkled even brighter, and it caught him wholly off guard. He felt a laugh break from him, unguarded, honest, warmer than he had intended. It was rare for anyone to speak so boldly to him. Rarer still that he enjoyed it.

Yes, he had admired beauty before, he wasn’t blind, but still… .

“Is she truly that beautiful?” Rhaegar asked at last, curiosity threading through his voice, a curiosity he knew would only bring him more teasing. But the idea that Lyanna assumed he’d be enchanted simply because a woman was fair, it needled at him, amused and intrigued him both. “I suppose I’ll judge for myself when she comes to court. I remember her, vaguely, though it’s been many years.”

Lyanna’s expression shifted then, just a small flicker, but he caught it anyway. “Is she?” she murmured. “Well… in that case, perhaps I should start praying for Lord Baratheon to hurry and sweep me away from all this.”

He huffed a laugh, low and rich. “Ah, then my cousin will be a fortunate man indeed.”

Her laugh joined his, light, warm, and completely unrestrained. He hadn’t realized he was waiting for it until it came, and gods, it pleased him more than he’d ever admit. 

Silence settled between them then, but it wasn’t empty. It was soft, imbued with the kind of quiet only shared by people who had grown too comfortable in one another’s presence. For a moment, they simply looked at one another. And there was nothing hurried about it.

Then Lyanna shifted, the quiet moment breaking like a soap bubble. She looked away, smile tilting, dimming just slightly. “It’s getting late,” she murmured, fingers fiddling with the silk of her skirts. “We should go before we get caught out here. I’ll be branded as an even more unlikely lady than I already am.” Her soft laugh tinged the words with feigned nonchalance.

Only then did he notice how low the lamps had burned, their light thinning to embers. Time had slipped past them so quickly.

“Aye,” he said quietly, reluctant to concede the night to its end. “It is late.” 

He rose, the movement fluid, and extended his hand toward her by instinct, his manners natural as breath. 

Something in her gaze glimmered at that, surprise, warmth maybe. It didn't matter.

She placed her hand in his all the same.

Chapter Text

Ironically, when Cersei Lannister arrived at court, the skies turned a sullen gray, heavy with unshed rain.

How fitting, Lyanna thought with a wry twist of her lips as she watched the lioness of Casterly Rock descend gracefully from her gilded carriage. Draped in silks of Lannister crimson, the vibrant color stood in stark contrast to the dull skies, as if defying nature itself. Cersei was a vision, her beauty undeniable. Even more striking than Lyanna remembered. Her golden locks gleamed like sunlight, cascading over her shoulders in perfect waves, and her emerald eyes glimmered with sharpness. Her expression, however, was unchanged, a smugness etched so deeply into her features it seemed as intrinsic as her beauty.

Jaime Lannister, her twin, followed close behind, stepping down with a similar air of refined elegance. He had grown since Lyanna last saw him, taller and broader, his golden hair cut shorter but still shining. Where Cersei’s beauty was sharp and calculating, Jaime’s was softer, though no less arresting. The two moved in unison, as if tethered by some unseen thread. Their twinship was almost unnerving in its synchronicity, each gesture and glance mirrored, yet they struck Lyanna as two halves of a mismatched whole. Jaime embodying a certain roguish charm, while Cersei radiated the polished malice of a coiled viper.

“Lady Lyanna,” Jaime greeted warmly, his green eyes were alight with a boyish glint as he approached her with confidence. His bow was fluid, more gallant than necessary, and the smirk that followed was undeniably smug, and handsome. A Lannister trait, undoubtedly. “What a pleasure to find you here. The many tales of your beauty do not do you justice.” His words were delivered smoothly, like pouring honeyed wine into a cup.

Lyanna inclined her head with practiced composure. “You’re too kind, Ser Jaime,” she replied, her voice measured but polite when she spoke.

Beside him, Cersei’s gaze flicked toward her twin with something akin to disdain. The compliment seemed to rankle her, though she masked it quickly, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Lady Lyanna,” Cersei interjected, her tone warm and sweet, though there was a razor’s edge hidden within. “How lovely to see you again. It’s good to know the crown has taken such good care of you. They do seem so adept at nurturing those in need.” Her words were wrapped in sweetness, her smile almost condescending, but the underlying barb was unmistakable to Lyanna’s ears. 

Lyanna’s fingers tightened imperceptibly, her nails pressing lightly into her palm before she offered a smile so poised and polished it could rival Cersei’s own. “Indeed, Lady Cersei. The crown’s generosity truly knows no bounds,” she said, her tone smooth and even, though her words carried a faint undercurrent of sharpness, detectable only to those who knew where to look.

Cersei’s smug smile faltered for the briefest of moments. But before any retort could form on her lips, her attention shifted. Her face softened, the sharpness in her gaze dissolving into an expression of genuine brightness.

Rhaegar was approaching them. The black doublet he wore, embroidered subtly with the sigil of House Targaryen, accentuated his tall, lean frame. Behind him, his royal guards followed in disciplined formation, their crimson cloaks swaying with each measured step.

Rhaegar’s eyes found Lyanna first, and his expression softened as a gentle, tiny smile curved his lips. The look lingered for just a moment before he turned his attention to Cersei and Jaime, his posture regal yet approachable.

“Ah, my ladies, Ser Jaime,” he greeted. “You’ve arrived earlier than expected.”

Before Lyanna could say anything, Cersei stepped forward eagerly, her tone as sweet as sugar and deferential. “Your Grace,” she said, her wide green eyes fixed on him with an almost reverent intensity as she dipped into a perfectly measured curtsy.

Jaime followed his sister’s lead, his bow elegant yet casual. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice smooth.

Lyanna, standing a pace behind them, offered Rhaegar a smile. Not the polite, demure kind she’d just given Cersei, but one she only reserved for those she held dear.

Rhaegar’s gaze flicked to her, his lips curling into a faint grin that mirrored hers. “It seems you’ve already had the pleasure of welcoming them,” he said, his tone light but edged with a subtle knowingness that made Lyanna’s own smile deepen.

To an outside observer, her expression would seem merely pleasant. But Rhaegar surely knew better. After all, only two nights prior, she’d called Cersei a snake with such fervor that he could surely still hear her exasperated voice in his mind. And Lyanna, in turn, could read him just as easily. His barely restrained amusement, his attempt to maintain a princely composure... it was all right there.

“She has,” Cersei interjected sweetly, her voice dripping with the kind of charm that came so naturally to her. “We had the good fortune of finding Lady Lyanna as we arrived. She was most gracious in welcoming us.”

“I’m sure she was” Rhaegar replied, his charming smile unwavering as he turned his attention briefly back to Lyanna.

Cersei’s gaze darted between the two of them, her lips tightening slightly before her smile reasserted itself. “I imagine my lord father is surely with his hands full right now, Your Grace. But I would like to see him, if only to greet him. Do you happen to know where I can find him?” she asked, as if she hadn’t been a thousand times before in King’s Landing and as if she didn’t know where the Tower of the Hand was, Lyanna thought as she repressed the urge to roll her eyes.

“Indeed, I was on my way to meet him,” Rhaegar replied smoothly. “I’d be glad to escort you both. I’m sure your father will be pleased to see you so soon after your arrival.”

He extended his arm to indicate the way, and Cersei was quick to step forward, slipping her hand through the crook of his arm with an ease that bordered on presumptive. She looked up at him, her green eyes wide with a mixture of awe and satisfaction, as though she’d just claimed some coveted prize.

“Do you want to come with us, my lady?” he directed his words at Lyanna this time, and she simply denied with her head.

“Thank you, my prince. But I have to go see your mother now. If you’ll excuse me” she smiled at the three of them, and watched as they took off.

Jaime followed Cersei and Rhaegar, his strides leisurely, though his sharp gaze flicked toward his twin with a faint smirk.

Lyanna lingered for a moment, watching as the trio began to walk down the corridor. Cersei’s golden head tilted toward Rhaegar as she spoke animatedly, her voice soft and lilting, though Lyanna couldn’t make out the words. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, a gesture that seemed almost childish in its possessiveness.

I suppose this is what the female version of Robert Baratheon's obsession looks like. Lyanna thought with a surge of irritation. Cersei and Rhaegar, they’ve spoken a handful of times in the span of years, and yet she fancies herself in love? It struck her as a sentiment not unlike Robert’s: bold, immediate, and entirely self serving. She could understand, of course. Rhaegar was captivating in many ways, the striking good looks, the quiet confidence, the innate charisma, how clever he was... But still, she found it shameless, the way Cersei practically clung to him.

She could definitely not see herself acting in such a way towards Robert, no matter how accomplished or handsome the Stormlord could be.

As the trio turned a corner and disappeared from view, Lyanna sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. But her mind, against her own wishes, wandered to Robert, and to the inevitable day he would arrive in King’s Landing to lay his claim. 

The servants filed out of the chamber in a quiet procession, their footsteps fading into the stillness that followed. Lyanna exhaled softly, the absence of prying eyes and ears bringing a much needed sense of relief. Across from her, Queen Rhaella cradled a delicate porcelain teacup in her hands, her movements slow and delicate. The faint clinking of the silver spoon as she stirred her tea punctuated the silence. Her lavender eyes, soft and perceptive, rested on Lyanna with quiet curiosity.

Viserys slept soundly in his gilded crib near the window, his small form bathed in a small pool of sunlight. He looked serene, angelic even, a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts brewing in Lyanna’s mind.

“So,” Rhaella began, her voice warm and inviting, “tell me, have you seen Rhaegar today?”

Lyanna’s fingers brushed over the rim of her untouched teacup as she nodded. “I have,” she replied, the image of Cersei Lannister flashing unbidden in her mind, her golden curls gleaming in the light, her wide doe like eyes fixed on Rhaegar with unmistakable admiration. “He was escorting Lady Cersei to her father.”

Rhaella’s lips curved into a gentle smile, and she took a measured sip of her tea, her gaze never leaving Lyanna. Her amusement was subtle but still there. “Ah,” she murmured knowingly, her voice laced with a quiet humor. “I see.”

Lyanna shifted in her seat, her posture rigid despite the informality of the moment. Was she truly that transparent? Her expression must have betrayed more than she intended.

“You still dislike Cersei Lannister, I see” Rhaella observed, her tone neither chastising nor reproachful. Setting her cup down, she took the small silver spoon and stirred her tea with delicate precision, the movement unhurried, as though she had all the time in the world.

Lyanna hesitated but then sighed, emboldened by the queen’s steady, nonjudgmental gaze. It was just the two of them, after all, no attendants, no curious onlookers, only the queen’s soft spoken wisdom and Viserys’s rhythmic breathing in the background. “What’s to like about her?” Lyanna said at last, her voice edged with a mixture of mild frustration and candor. “If I were a man, perhaps, but I’m not. So I can see past her pretty face.”

Rhaella chuckled, a sound as soft as a breeze, her amusement genuine. “Oh, Lyanna,” she said, shaking her head slightly, her silvery hair catching the light. “Why is that? Don’t you think that, just as you have, Lady Cersei might have matured and grown with time?”

Lyanna paused, her fingers tightening momentarily around the handle of her teacup. It was a possibility she had not fully considered, though she knew it was a reasonable one. Still, something within her, instinct or perhaps the famed Stark stubbornness, whispered otherwise. “Maybe,” she said at last, though her tone was reluctant. Her gaze dropped to the tea swirling gently in her cup. “But there’s something about her… something I can’t quite trust.”

Rhaella regarded her thoughtfully, leaning back slightly in her chair. “Well,” she began, “I knew her mother. Joanna was a beautiful woman, inside and out. Kind, warm-hearted, and full of grace. But after her death…” She sighed softly, her spoon pausing mid stir. “I cannot say how Cersei was raised. Lord Tywin is not known for his tenderness.”

Lyanna arched a brow, her lips curving into a faint frown. “If she’s anything like her father, then Rhaegar should run,” she said with a hint of annoyance.

Rhaella smiled faintly, though her expression turned thoughtful. “If she is, Rhaegar will know soon enough. He’s not a man to leap blindly into anything.”

The words did little to soothe Lyanna.

“I still cannot believe he is to marry her,” Lyanna murmured, the words slipping out with more unease than she intended. There it was again, that small twist in her chest whenever the topic resurfaced. She pictured them side by side: Cersei Lannister, all golden sheen and perfect poise, and Rhaegar, handsome and self possessed in a way only he could. Together they looked like something out of a painter’s fevered dream: radiant, regal and maddeningly perfect to anyone willing to look.

And yet…

The image made her stomach coil, as though perfection itself was somehow a warning.

It was simply in her nature, she told herself. She had always been overprotective. Of her brothers, of the stable boys who followed her around the keep, of Arthur when he pushed himself too hard. And now, of course, of Rhaegar. She knew Cersei, if only a little, but enough to have an instinctive mistrust. The girl had a talent for cruelty that sparkled almost as brightly as her beauty, quick to sneer, delighted by the missteps of others, always peering down her perfect little nose.

Rhaegar deserved better than a venomous rose, no matter how golden the petals.

Rhaella’s gaze softened, the Queen studying her with quiet, perceptive gentleness as if she were reading one of her dearest books. “Rhaegar has his duty, Lyanna. And Lady Cersei is… adequate for the role. Lovely, accomplished, and of outstanding position.”

“Adequate.” Lyanna repeated the word with a sigh, tasting its blandness. Was adequacy really the pinnacle everyone was striving for? A throne, a crown, an heir… and all to rest on something merely adequate? “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But he should keep an eye on her. I would not trust her. Not for a moment.”

Rhaella let out a soft laugh, not mocking, but merely touched with fondness. “Oh, Lyanna.” Her eyes lingered on the girl’s face, as though she were reading something beneath the indignation. “I understand your concern,” she said after a moment. “Truly. I have no objection to this match, and I have told Aerys as much. But…”

She paused.

“I’ve asked him to wait before announcing anything formally. And to delay any wedding preparations. Let them spend time together, truly know one another. If it is a good match, it will prove so with patience, not haste.”

Lyanna blinked, surprised, and oddly grateful. “And what does Lord Tywin think of the delay?” she asked, imagining the Hand pacing like a caged lion at the very suggestion. Tywin Lannister did not strike her as a man who took kindly to waiting.

A serene, knowing smile touched Rhaella’s mouth. “I imagine he is counting the hours until the announcement. He has planned this for years. If all proceeds without issue, we shall have a royal wedding in a few moons, precisely as he intends.”

A royal wedding. The words sat heavy in Lyanna’s mind.

It felt absurd, surreal, like waking from a dream only to find that years had passed without her noticing. Just yesterday she had been racing through the Red Keep’s godswood with Rhaegar and Arthur, daring the branches to catch them, laughing at shadows, inventing mischief where none existed. Yesterday she was a girl with leaves in her hair and clumsy manners.

Now she was being spoken of as a bride for Robert Baratheon.

And Rhaegar was to wed Cersei Lannister.

Time, she decided, was a wicked thing.

And gods… she hated the thought of him marrying that girl.

Perhaps it was jealousy, she told herself. One of those protective pangs she felt whenever someone unworthy hovered too close to a person she cared for. The sort of sharp, instinctive spark she might feel if she saw Ned being courted by some simpering fool.

Or perhaps... Perhaps it was something wordless and instinctive. Something in her bones recoiling from Cersei Lannister like a wolf bristling at a scent it didn’t trust.

Whatever it was, she could not shake it. Not even when she tried.

Chapter Text

Lord Tywin Lannister stood tall, his already thin golden mane glinting in the fading light as he bowed slightly to King Aerys. At his side, Lady Cersei curtsied gracefully, her delicate hands clutching the skirts of her beautiful red gown. The gems adorning her throat and hair sparkled like embers, her beauty was undeniable. A perfect vision in crimson.

“It has been an honor, Your Grace,” Tywin said, dipping his head with reverence. His voice was low and well oiled, a sound that carried self assurance. “And a privilege to formally introduce my daughter to Prince Rhaegar. I trust His Highness found her agreeable.”

Cersei’s gaze flicked to Rhaegar in that precise, well timed moment, as if her father’s sentence had been her cue. Wide eyed, luminous, hopeful. She offered a smile demure enough to appear modest, yet perfectly angled to display her best features. She truly had been trained with meticulous care.

“Lady Cersei is most charming,” Rhaegar replied, allowing a polite smile to curve his lips, one that was just as perfectly measured as the ones the lioness might use.

Her eyes, however, lingered on him with a subtle hunger beneath all that silk wrapped poise. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice a soft velvety purr, “it was an honor to share this time with you. I pray we may have many more opportunities to converse.”

“You shall,” Aerys cut in, tone final, dismissing both father and daughter with a single effortless stroke. “Now, you and your father are dismissed for tonight. Go rest. The hour grows late. Thank you, Tywin.”

Tywin bowed once more, satisfaction showing faintly beneath his cool composure. He placed a hand at Cersei’s elbow, guiding her from the room as though she were already a crowned queen and he the quiet architect behind her ascension.

The great oak doors shut behind them with a deep, decisive thud.

Rhaegar’s gaze drifted, not after them, but toward the darkening bay beyond the arched windows. The sun, sinking behind the distant horizon, was slowly hiding away. A curious peace washed over him, oddly misplaced, given the circumstances, yet he let his thoughts wander there for a heartbeat longer.

“She is a lovely thing,” His father mused, reclining slowly in his carved chair, his fingers tapping once against the gilded armrest. “Beautiful, well schooled in decorum, and of a noble line. Tywin has fashioned her for this purpose since the day she drew breath. She will suit you well enough.”

Rhaegar clasped his hands behind his back with an almost lazy elegance, his posture relaxed, gaze still half lost in the horizon. “She is adequate,” he said, the word falling with the calm indifference of a man describing the weather.

Aerys arched a brow. “Adequate? Only that?” he echoed, faint amusement threading beneath the reprimand. “She is a jewel among women, or so the entire court insists. Are you truly so unimpressed and indifferent after your sojourn in Essos?”

“She is pleasing enough,” Rhaegar conceded, finally turning his head, a single silver strand falling across his temple. “Her beauty is obvious, her manners impeccable. She moves with grace, speaks with sweetness, and smiles with perfect timing. But…”

He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting, not in amusement, but something more thoughtful, more amused at the world than at her.

“…but one can feel the calculation. She is eager to impress. Every gesture rehearsed. Every breath with precision. As though she were following a carefully memorized script.”

He remembered the subtle tells others would overlook: the quick, assessing flicker of her gaze across the room; the half second pauses before she spoke, choosing her words the way a general selected his troops, the way her smile brightened or dimmed based on the reaction she wished to elicit.

Alluring, gods, yes she was. She could have undone lesser men with a single tilt of her head. Seductive, even when she tried not to be. Regal and intoxicating in equal measure. Yet that was precisely the reason he watched her so carefully from the very beginning.

For beneath the velvety sweetness, beneath the impeccable manners and the artful innocence, there lurked a glint, quick and sharp as the edge of a well hidden dagger.

She wielded beauty like a blade, and charm like a shield. And she did so with instinctive skill. Such a skill was an art, truly. And she was definitely an artist. 

She was not unlikable. Not unworthy. But never unguarded.

And Rhaegar, who had spent years in the courts of Essos, surrounded by merchants, sellswords, princes, charlatans and poets alike, was not a man easily fooled. No matter how pretty and alluring the face.

“She is sweet as honey,” he murmured, almost to himself, recalling her soft words and faultless curtsies. His lips curved slightly with faint amusement. “But honey can hide many things.”

Aerys gave a low chuckle at that, tapping a finger against the armrest once more. “Ever the poet,” he said. “But poetry or no, understand this: she is a perfect match, boy. She will make a good queen by your side.”

“I do not doubt she will,” he said quietly, coolly. 

Still, he wondered. What lies beneath all that beauty? 

Beneath those lovely lashes and sweet smiles, there was something. He was sure of it. Wether it was good or bad, it was too early to tell. 

Aerys chuckled, the sound edged with amusement and mild exasperation. “Do not trouble yourself with overthinking,” he said, waving one ring laden hand. “I have designed a perfect match for you.”

“It does not trouble me,” he replied, his tone airy, almost nonchalant. “It merely… is.”

Aerys regarded him, his eyes narrowing in that way they did when he suspected there was far more left unsaid. “Your mother,” he said at last, his voice softer, “has asked that we delay announcing the betrothal. She insists you should have more time to acquaint yourselves.” A pause. “She is cautious, as always. Do you agree after seeing Lady Cersei?”

Rhaegar nodded absently, his posture relaxed, hands folded behind him effortlessly. His gaze drifted once more toward the bay. “A wise suggestion,” he murmured, the words spoken so softly they seemed meant for the tides rather than the king.

Yes.

Let him watch Cersei Lannister when she was not arranging herself to be adored. Let him see who she was when no one was measuring her worth as a future queen.

Aerys’s frown deepened, irritation pinching his mouth. “Rhaegar,” he said sharply, “this is more than a mere formality. You understand what is at stake. Take this seriously, boy.

“I do,” Rhaegar replied, turning at last. He met his father’s stare evenly, serenity layered over something far sharper beneath. “I will do my duty, Father. As I always have.”

And indeed he would. Duty was the constant axis around which his life turned, unforgiving, immovable. His father needn’t doubt him. He knew what his duties were.

Aerys studied him for a moment longer, then gave a curt nod, accepting the answer, though not necessarily satisfied by it. “Good. Tywin Lannister has been of great help to us all these years. You have no bride, no sister to barter, and the man has pressed for this union for half your life. And it is long past time you were wed.”

Rhaegar inclined his head, a quiet acknowledgment. “I am aware,” he said evenly. “You need not remind me of the lion’s service. Lord Tywin’s loyalty has always been… thorough.”

Aerys snorted at that, whether in amusement or something else, it was hard to tell. “Very well. And since you acknowledge this... Then I will give you this: you will do well to watch her, my son. You are right in that matter.” He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “She is beautiful, yes, but beauty is never harmless. Keep your wits about you. I trust your judgement. When the time comes, I’ll make the announcement. Fine?”

Rhaegar inclined his head. Silent agreement, but agreement nonetheless. At least his father acknowledged the validity of his caution.

Duty, the ever present companion of his life, sat heavily on his shoulders, but not uncomfortably so. Rhaegar had made peace with it long ago.

Aerys exhaled, shifting the topic with a rustle of silks and impatience. “Good. Now, more pressing matters. The Riverlands simmer again. Petty lords quarrelling over old slights. And in the North, there are whispers of wildling movements beyond the Wall.”

Rhaegar listened, or seemed to. But his gaze slid, once again, toward the window. His mind drifted where it often drifted, to the spaces between certainties.

Adequate, he had called her.

He should be content with adequate.

Lyanna kicked a pebble out of her path with the heel of her boot, her braid swinging lightly down her back as she walked. Beside her, Ashara glided like a painted lady from some Essosi tale, yellow skirts floating, steps dainty, every inch the ideal noble maiden. The contrast between them was almost comical.

“So,” Ashara began, voice smooth as almond milk, “when do you reckon your brother will come?”

Lyanna smirked. “Hard to say. Ned’s been sending ravens here and there... every letter full of Robert’s enthusiasm and Father’s political… creativity.” She hooked her thumbs into her belt as she walked. “If I know Father, he’s already sharpening quills and making lists of which unsuspecting lord will be cursed with the honor of marrying me.”

Ashara’s graceful walk faltered for half a heartbeat as she skirted a pile of horse dung. Her nose wrinkled with delicate horror.

Lyanna bit back a laugh. “Careful. Step around that. I wouldn’t want one of the court’s loveliest lady ruined by a pile of manure.”

“I was this close to disgracing House Dayne,” Ashara said with a sigh, lifting her skirts. “Death by horse droppings. Ew.”

“I’d make sure the whole realm remembered you by your glorious final misstep.”

Ashara chuckled, but her expression dimmed when she spoke next. “Lyanna… your father. Are you certain he wouldn’t come himself? Just to see you? It seems…” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “Cold.”

Pity. Lyanna hated pity.

“He won’t,” Lyanna said simply. “And that’s fine. A miserable reunion will change nothing. The past bit me once, I see no reason to offer it my hand again.”

Ashara opened her mouth to object, but Lyanna shot her a look, a sharp, steady thing that said drop it. And Ashara wisely obeyed.

A sharp clatter echoed through the courtyard. The ring of steel on steel, clean and rhythmic, caught both their attention.

“Ah,” Ashara said, shading her eyes. “There’s my brother.”

Ser Arthur Dayne moved across the yard with deadly grace, his blade a silver streak. Opposite him sparred Rhaegar, shirt half undone, hair damp and clinging to his temples and framing his chiseled features like something out of a bard’s song, moving like a shadow that had learned the steps of a dance. He looked every inch the warrior. A beautiful warrior. 

Ashara let out a low sigh then. “Gods. The prince. He’s so handsome I think my vision improves whenever he’s in view.”

Lyanna hummed noncommittally. In truth, her gaze lingered a moment too long. Of course he was handsome, tall, lean, quick, sunlight kissing his light golden skin. A beautiful warrior indeed, her mind whispered traitorously. Ridiculous, she told herself. Absolutely ridiculous. She was simply… observing. Anyone with eyes would notice.

But before she could bury that thought, a flash of crimson entered her peripheral vision.

Cersei Lannister stood at the edge of the yard like she was posing for some grand painter, golden curls coiffed to perfection, her gown shimmering like firelit embers, her posture so stiffly flawless it practically sang admire me. And her eyes... Lyanna could see the adoration burning from half a courtyard away.

“Well,” Ashara murmured with a smirk, “there’s Lady Cersei.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes. “Alone. I suppose her little pet friend Melara finally grew tired of applauding every breath she takes.”

Ashara stopped dead, catching Lyanna by the wrist. Her eyes widened. “You—haven’t heard?”

Lyanna blinked. “Heard what?”

Ashara lowered her voice, glancing around as though sharing a royal secret. “Melara is dead.”

Lyanna’s brows arched, elegant and sharp. Her lips parted in genuine surprise. She had meant only to jest, to nudge at court gossip the way one nudges a sleeping dog, not expecting it to rise up and bite.

“Dead? Seven hells, Ashara... what happened?”

Ashara cast a quick glance over her shoulder, making certain no sharp eared courtier lurked nearby, then leaned in, her voice dropping into a low murmur.

“They say she drowned. Fell into a well after dark.” A pause, pointed, meaningful. “Or so they claim. But there are whispers. Some swear it was no accident.”

Lyanna’s gaze slid to where Cersei Lannister stood at the far end of the yard, motionless, serene, her eyes fixed on the sparring prince with the unblinking intensity of a hunting hawk.

“Whispers?” Lyanna echoed, her tone laced with polite skepticism. In her experience, King’s Landing bred rumors like damp cloth bred mold. And courtiers adored nothing more than embroidering tragedy until it suited their taste for drama.

Yet Ashara’s expression remained solemn, way too solemn to be entirely idle speculation.

“You know how this court is,” Ashara said softly. “Some call it misfortune. Others say the girl… grew too close to Cersei. Said something she oughtn’t. It’s all hearsay, of course, but—”

“But you don’t dismiss it,” Lyanna finished for her.

Ashara said nothing, which was answer enough.

A stable boy approached then, leading Lyanna’s mare. The animal nickered softly at the sight of her, and Lyanna’s expression gentled without effort. She accepted the reins with a murmured thanks, stroking the mare’s warm neck.

“Well,” Lyanna said lightly, “it wouldn’t surprise me. If you’d heard the way she spoke to poor Melara when she was... well, alive, you’d understand. I once saw Cersei scold her over a ribbon as if she were chastising a servant, not a friend.”

She shook her head, almost pitying. “Though Melara never seemed to realize she was neither.”

Lyanna placed her boot in the stirrup and swung gracefully into the saddle, every movement smooth, unhurried, effortlessly sure. The mare shifted, Ashara stepping back just in time to save her hem from the dust.

“Isn’t that a bit harsh?” Ashara asked, tilting her head. “You don’t like her, true... but perhaps this tale has grown in the retelling. What reason would Lady Cersei have for such wickedness?”

Lyanna settled her seat, nonchalant as she adjusted the reins. “None that I know. Which is why it’s likely nothing more than the court entertaining itself.” A small shrug. “Still… For Rhaegar’s sake, though, I hope it’s nothing more than petty gossip.”

Ashara’s lips curled into a smile. “You’re protective of him,” she observed. “Should I start calling you his sworn shield?”

Lyanna let out an amused breath. “Call me what you like, Ash. Just don’t expect me to stand here indulging your nonsense while the day grows hotter.”

Ashara laughed, stepping aside. “Go on then. But ride safely. And perhaps try smiling at people for once... you’re beginning to frighten the pages.”

Lyanna smirked, a flash of wolfish charmand urged her mare forward.

As she started to move, dust lifted in soft clouds beneath the mare’s hooves as Lyanna approached the practice ring.

Her eyes found Rhaegar instantly.

Even amidst the flurry of strikes and parries, he moved with an almost otherworldly grace. Ser Arthur was a formidable opponent, the best of the best, his strikes precise and relentless, but Rhaegar held his own with equal skill.

As though sensing her, he turned. Their gazes locked. His lips curved, not fully into a smile, but close enough that only she would notice.

He faltered for a heartbeat, just one, and Ser Arthur seized the moment with a swift strike. Rhaegar recovered just as quickly.

Then her attention drifted, unwillingly, to the edge of the yard.

Cersei stood there, radiant in crimson, the sun catching in her golden hair. She watched the prince as though the world had narrowed to the span of his sword.

For one fleeting instant, her eyes flicked toward Lyanna.

The two young women regarded each other, silently, coolly.

Then Cersei dismissed her with the barest turn of her chin, her attention snapping back to Rhaegar as if Lyanna were nothing more than a passing shadow.

Lyanna’s fingers tightened on the reins. 

She clicked her tongue, guiding the mare onward.

Perhaps her doubts were no more than the restless suspicions this treacherous city bred in everyone. Perhaps Cersei was harmless.

But Lyanna doubted it.

And part of her feared her doubts were far closer to the truth than anyone wished to admit.

Chapter Text

The sound of clashing steel echoed through the Eyrie’s training yard, mingling with the sharp cries of men calling out commands and the earthy tang of sweat and leather. The mountain air was crisp and thin, cutting against the warmth of the sun as Ned stood beside his childhood friend, Robert. The latter, as usual, was far from silent.

“Start the damn fight before I piss myself!” Robert roared, his voice booming over the yard like a thunderclap. A group of men paused, momentarily startled by his outburst, before laughing and returning to their sparring.

Ned turned to his friend, his face a portrait of stoic disapproval. He could be a handful sometimes. “Must you always shout, Robert?”

Robert merely grinned, unapologetic, and slapped a hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Bah!”

The yard was alive with activity: swords clashing, boots scuffing against stone, and the occasional grunt of pain or triumph. From their vantage point, Ned and Robert could see it all. The young squires eager to prove themselves, the already seasoned knights showing off their grand skill, and the green recruits struggling to hold their stances under the weight of their shields.

Robert, however, had little interest in the training before them. Ned knew his thoughts were elsewhere, and it didn’t take long for him to steer the conversation to the subject that had been on his mind for weeks.

“So, have you spoken to your father yet, Ned? What did he say?” Robert asked, his bright blue eyes practically shining with thinly veiled excitement.

Ned sighed inwardly, knowing exactly where this was headed. The “object of interest” Robert spoke of was none other than Lyanna, Ned’s spirited younger sister.

Ever since Robert had first laid eyes on Lyanna in King’s Landing years ago, he had been utterly smitten. His infatuation had grown like wildfire, fed by rumor and gossip of her striking beauty until it consumed him. It wasn’t merely her beauty, though that was undeniable, especially now that Lyanna had grown into a woman of striking confidence and grace. She had left behind the awkwardness of her youth and, by all accounts, stood as one of the fairest maidens in the Seven Kingdoms, rivaling even the famed beauty of Cersei Lannister. Or at least, that was what Ned had last heard. 

But it wasn’t just her looks that captivated Robert. Lyanna had a fire in her that few could match, a boldness that even Ned had to admit was impressive. She was fiercely independent, and that self assuredness had always had a way of drawing people in. Even in the capital, his sister was well known and well loved by most, perhaps thanks to her confident character. And Robert, a southern man of loud laughter and louder proclamations, was no exception.

And yet, Robert’s adoration had an edge of possessiveness that Ned found troubling at times. His friend’s jealousy, over a girl that was not promised to him yet,  had been sparked by whispers from courtiers and rumors of southern lords vying for Lyanna’s favor. It was this very jealousy that had prompted Robert to press Ned to speak to their father about arranging a betrothal as soon as possible.

“I have spoken to him,” Ned replied, keeping his tone even despite Robert’s growing grin. “We’ll go to King’s Landing soon. My sister needs to hear it from me, and you both should see each other before any formal arrangement is made. It’s only proper.”

Robert’s face lit up like a child’s at the prospect of a new toy. “Fantastic! I can’t wait to see her again, Ned. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I've ever dreamed of, your sister. But those cock sucking southern lords—”

Ned gave him a look. “Robert.”

“Fine, fine,” Robert said, waving a hand dismissively. “But you’ve heard the tales! They’re all after her, Ned. Every last one of those perfumed, silk wearing, wine sipping, cock sucking dandies.” His lip curled in disdain as he practically spat the words.

Ned shook his head, suppressing a sigh. “For the love of the gods, Robert, I hope your manners improve before we reach King’s Landing. Or do you plan to declare your undying love for my sister while insulting half the court?”

At that, Robert threw back his head and laughed, a great, booming sound that drew the attention of the men in the yard and that to Ned, it was simply too familiar. “Manners?” he repeated, grinning. “What need have I for manners? Can you see me in the capital, Ned? Sitting prim and proper, drinking with those... those lace wearing pansies? Bah!”

Ned couldn’t help but smirk, despite himself. Even if he did not want to admit it sometimes, Robert could be funny enough. “Perhaps you’d fit in better than you think. After all, the southern lords do enjoy their wine, and you’ve never been one to turn down a drink.”

Robert slapped his knee, still chuckling. “Aye, and I’ll drink them all under the table! But mark my words, Ned, when I take Lyanna as my wife, those cowards won’t dare look at her again.”

Ned’s smile faded at Robert’s possessive tone, but he said nothing. He had always known his friend to be brash and bold, but he wondered if Lyanna’s fiery, independent spirit would clash with Robert’s larger-than-life personality.

For now, though, he let the matter rest. The journey to King’s Landing would answer many questions, both for Robert and for Lyanna. And for himself too.

As they walked along the high battlements overlooking the sea, Lady Cersei clung lightly to Rhaegar’s arm, her touch felt warm and light. The air carried the briny tang of the sea, mingled with the faint perfume she wore, a scent of roses and something headier beneath that he could not quite place.

Rhaegar’s thoughts, however, wandered elsewhere. On that particular afternoon, his mind was on the mystery of the dragon eggs he had brought back from Valyria, nestled securely in the vaults below the Red Keep. Could they still be hatched? He wondered.

His mother had gently suggested this walk with his betrothed. “You must show her courtesy,” she’d said that morning, her tone brooking no argument. “A future king cannot afford to seem distant, especially to his queen-to-be.”

And so, though he had intended to spend the morning buried in books, seeking answers in faded Valyrian tomes, he now found himself playing the dutiful prince, escorting the beautiful Lady Cersei. She was golden haired and lovely, her green eyes alight with undying admiration each time they flicked toward him. She was eager, charming even, but Rhaegar could not summon the enthusiasm expected of him for the time being.

“Your Grace is so very attentive,” she said, her voice lilting with sweetness. “Thank you for this. It is refreshing, especially when my father is always preoccupied with matters of state, and my brother spends every waking hour in the training yard.”

“It is only natural, my lady,” he said, offering her the polite smile expected of a prince. It had the desired effect, her own smile warmed instantly. “Our houses are to be joined. It is only right that I ensure you feel… at ease.”

Not an invitation, merely the appropriate courtesy. He counted on her hearing it that way.

But Cersei Lannister, clever in her own right, seemed determined to get more out of him. She tilted her head just so, letting a shaft of sunlight slip through her golden curls. “You’re modest, Your Grace. It isn’t only duty... it is kindness. And I should like to know you better, if you will allow it.”

She was earnest. Or perhaps, practiced. In truth, he hadn’t known her long enough to tell the difference. But he was about to find out.

Rhaegar inclined his head, light and graceful. “You flatter me with your attention, Lady Cersei.”

Her eyes, bright and interested, searched his face. “Is it true?” she ventured. “That you returned from Essos with dragon eggs? Forgive me, but… well, the court talks.”

Aye, the court talks.

“It is true,” he said. “Though I suspect I owe the discovery less to luck and more to stubbornness.”

Cersei’s hand still rested on his arm, a warm, insistent weight, as they stopped at the open stretch of battlements where the world fell away into sunset. She looked simply breathtaking there, softened, almost gentle, the kind of beauty that knew it was being watched.

“You were brave to travel so far,” she said quietly, running her fingers in little, slow circles against his sleeve. She must have known exactly what she was doing. He held back the urge to smirk. “It must have been lonely. Did you not long to come home?”

Rhaegar’s gaze remained fixed on the dying sun. “At times,” he admitted. “There were days when I missed the familiar, the Keep, my books, the quiet of my chambers.” A breath. “But the world is wide, and I did not journey idly. There was much to see… and more to understand.”

He felt her studying him rather than the scenery. She wasn’t a poor listener, not at all... Only too intent on him, rather than what he said. 

“And what did you learn?” she asked, stepping a little closer, as though his answer mattered dearly.

“That Westeros is smaller than it imagines itself,” he replied. “And that even the proudest houses are but a single thread in this very ancient tapestry.”

Her eyes glimmered with utmost admiration. “You have a poet’s tongue, Your Grace.”

He almost laughed. Instead, he finally turned fully toward her. It struck him then, not for the first time, how little he truly knew of the woman who would soon share his life.

She had spent the entire walk peeling back layers of him. His journeys, his thoughts, his interests, one question after another, as though she sought to map every corner of his mind before sunset. Yet for all her curiosity, she had revealed remarkably little of herself.

Every answer of hers had been pleasant, polite, perfect in delivery. He could not recall a single moment where she had spoken without calculation.

What did she enjoy?

What stirred her temper?

What frightened her?

Was there something beneath the gold, the flawless hair, the careful smiles, or was that all there was?

A mask worn so long it had become her entire face?

He could not yet tell. And the uncertainty intrigued him more than he wished to admit.

“And you, Lady Cersei?” he asked at last, “What occupies you? What did you leave behind at Casterly Rock?”

She laughed softly, a light, melodic sound that was pleasant to the ears. “Not so much as you imagine. My father kept me well schooled. He said I had the bearing of a queen.” Her chin lifted slightly at that, as if she had always known such a thing to be true. “I enjoy music, reading… and riding. I find freedom in it. A kind that sets the blood alight.”

“Freedom?” he echoed, brows rising. Of all words he expected from her, that one actually surprised him.

Freedom, at least the raw definition of it, belonged to women like... Well, like Lyanna. She was the first image that rose in his mind whenever the word surfaced. Fierce, untamed, stubborn. A girl who did not defy expectations for the thrill of rebellion, but because she simply could not contort herself into anything untrue. She was what she was, and the court could no more tame her than cage the sea. But this golden lady, with perfect manners and sweet, yet practiced smiles... A lady who moved through court not with reluctance but with joy, as though its rules had been written for her benefit. She seemed to take pleasure in her position, in her role, in the dance of power and admiration.

So when she spoke of freedom, he found himself pausing.

What did she mean by it?

Not Lyanna’s wind in her hair, mud on her boots sort of freedom. Not the kind that came from refusing the world’s expectations. No. Cersei’s version of the word must have been something else entirely.

And he wondered, quietly and curiously, what “freedom” meant to her.

Of course, freedom wore different faces for different souls. He reminded himself of that. Perhaps he had been too hasty in assuming he knew hers.

She caught his interest and seemed endlessly pleased for it. “On horseback there are no rules, no walls, only wind and open sky. That is freedom to me. You understand it, surely?”

Rhaegar met her gaze and allowed the quiet to stretch between them, studying her with renewed curiosity. “I do,” he said at last. “Forgive my surprise… I simply had not imagined you as one to seek such abandon.” He paused, his tone softening into something almost inviting. “Perhaps, one day, we might ride together.”

Her smile, this one, felt natural, and all the most lovely for it. “I should like that, Your Grace. Truly.”

She looked back out to the ocean, her voice gentler now. “Most of my adventures were found in books. Heroes, battles, ancient houses… though the Targaryens were always my favorite. Your history feels… destined.”

He felt the compliment land as intentionally as a stone one might throw in a pond. She was trying, intensely so, to be liked by him. A younger, more egocentric version of himself might have been swept along by her beauty and seduction long ago, no doubt. Now, he only observed it.

“You speak generously of my house,” he said. “The Lannisters possess their own greatness. Hardly a modest lineage.”

Her pride flared beautifully. “We have always been proud. Some say gold is our true power, but I have always believed our strength lies in our name. The Rock stands eternal.” She paused, her green eyes gleaming as she met his. “Yet lions rule the land…”

She stepped a half pace closer.

“…and dragons,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a hushed, dangerous softness, “dragons rule the sky... and everything beneath it.”

A bold line. Too bold to be spontaneous, perhaps... He could almost hear the echo of its rehearsals. But credit where it was due: she delivered it well. Well enough that he let a small smirk slip, the kind that revealed nothing yet acknowledged everything.

He regarded her more thoughtfully then. Beneath the gold and grace lay relentless ambition. She would not simply wear a crown, she would wield it.

She would indeed make a formidable queen.

He inclined his head. “You have a way with words, my lady.”

She looked pleased. “I try only to make my father proud. He values ambition. Strength. Jaime says I took his lessons to heart more fiercely than he.”

“You speak fondly of your brother,” Rhaegar noted. “Are you close?”

A softer smile touched her lips. “Closer than most,” she said. “He is my other half.”

Her tone made him wonder, but he did not press.

Not yet.

“Jaime and I are twins,” Cersei said with a light shrug, tucking a golden strand of hair behind her ear. Her tone was airy, almost nonchalant, though her words carried a quiet pride. “There’s an understanding between us that needs no words. He has always been my fiercest protector. Though, I assure you, Your Grace, I can defend myself when the need arises.”

Rhaegar raised a brow, finding it hard to picture Lady Cersei wielding anything other than a cutting remark or a calculating glance. “And how would you defend yourself, my lady? With a sword?”

Her laughter rang out, unguarded for a moment, warm and genuine, as though she had momentarily forgotten to maintain her perfect composure. “Oh no, Your Grace,” she replied with a wry smile, her voice dripping with playful mockery. “Swords are for men like you and my brother. A lady’s weapons are far more subtle. Wit, charm, and the ability to see three moves ahead in any game, that is where true power lies.”

Rhaegar’s lips twitched in mild amusement. She spoke like a true denizen of King’s Landing. “A cunning lioness indeed,” he said lightly. “And do you find yourself entangled in these games often, my lady?”

“Not often enough to grow tedious, but frequently enough to stay sharp,” she replied, her gaze sharpening, assessing him. “And what of you, Your Grace? Surely you navigate your share of such games being who you are, though I imagine your harp is a more agreeable companion than most courtiers.”

A faint smile crossed Rhaegar’s lips as he considered her words. He tried not to play those games. Even if sometimes it was expected of him. “Indeed,” he said, his voice softening. “Music asks for nothing but honesty. It does not flatter, nor does it deceive. A melody cannot lie.”

Cersei tilted her head, her expression softening with what seemed like that genuine admiration she often showed him once again. “How refreshing,” she murmured, her voice low. “I’ve always thought that true art is the purest reflection of the soul. When you play, Your Grace, do you think of something, or someone, in particular?”

Rhaegar’s gaze drifted momentarily, considering her question. “Sometimes,” he finally admitted as he thought of the many melodies he had composed and the inspiration behind them. “But often, it is the melody itself that guides me. In those moments, it becomes all consuming, leaving no room for the burdens of the day.”

Her eyes lingered on him in that careful way she had, meant to flatter without seeming so. The corners of her rose colored lips curved into a reverent little smile. “I hope you might play for me someday, Your Grace,” she murmured,  “I imagine it must be… beautiful. As though each note fashions something eternal.”

A bold compliment, one meant to please him, and perhaps to draw him nearer.

“You are generous with your praise, my lady,” Rhaegar replied, though his gaze drifted past her toward the glittering line of the sea. He felt her attempt more keenly than she likely intended him to. A small, private smile tugged at his mouth, not quite pleased, not quite dismissive, simply aware.

Cersei’s smile faltered. The break lasted no longer than a heartbeat, but he saw it: a tiny fracture in her carefully assembled poise. She recovered with grace, as she always did, but the moment remained between them like a faint crack in painted porcelain.

It was a good thing he had never been easily steered.

She was a certainly fitting choice for a future queen. A beautiful one. A clever one. Yet beauty had never had a hold on him, nor charm, nor the practiced flutter of lashes. He admired such things the way one admired a precious artifact: appreciating the craftsmanship without desiring ownership.

Her lips parted again, and when she spoke, her tone had regained its silky tone. “It is only the truth, Your Grace.” But her green eyes flickered with calculation, perhaps, or the faintest curiosity at why her usual enchantments had not worked as she wished.

Rhaegar let a subtle smirk touch his lips, barely there, the ghost of an expression. Enough to shift the balance between them. Enough to make her blink.

For an instant, confusion crossed her gaze. A quick flash, gone as soon as it surfaced, before her confidence slid smoothly back into place.

The lioness was toying with him. Testing how deep her claws might sink.

And while another man might have been flattered, Rhaegar found himself almost amused by it. He could respect ambition when it was well crafted, Cersei’s was nothing if not artful.

A soft laugh escaped him, light, pleasant, but not entirely decipherable. It drew her eyes sharply back to him.

For the first time, a crease of uncertainty troubled her perfect composure. Small, fleeting, but raw and real.

He met her gaze calmly, offering nothing of the reason for his amusement.

When she joined his laughter a breath later, hers rang sweet and melodic, though the edge of uncertainty still clung to it. The harmony she attempted to create with him was lovely, but just slightly out of tune.

She did not understand the joke.

And he did not explain it.

Chapter Text

As Lyanna positioned the arrow between her fingers, her eyes locked onto the target. Her entire body was completely taut, every muscle poised like the string of her bow, as the forest around her fell silent save for the faint rustle of red leaves overhead. With a controlled exhale, she released the arrow. It soared through the air, straight and true, striking the bullseye with a satisfying thud.

Her lips curled into a small, triumphant smile as she let out the breath she had been holding, her shoulders relaxing instantly.

“My lady has a remarkable aim,” came the unmistakable voice of Rhaegar, smooth and lilting, from behind her.

Startled but composed, Lyanna turned, her gaze settling on him as he emerged tall and handsome from the shade of the trees, his harp in hand. 

“Are you spying on me now?” she quipped, leaning her bow against the trunk of the nearest tree, her long, messy braid falling over her left shoulder.

Rhaegar smirked. “You wish” he retorted, stepping closer with that quiet confidence that always seemed to unnerve and intrigue her in equal measure.

She arched a brow, matching his energy. “Then what brings you to my forest? Shouldn’t you be parading Lady Cersei around as if she were the most coveted rose in all the Seven Kingdoms?” Her tone was light and laced with playful mockery.

His lips twitched, dimples forming at the corners of his mouth. “So the whispers have reached even this corner of the forest. Gossip travels faster than ravens in the Red Keep.”

“And yet, you haven’t denied it” she countered, her smile sly.

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “And since when, might I ask, my lady, is this your forest?” he asked, easing himself onto the horizontal tree trunk they had often claimed as their meeting spot in years past.

Lyanna joined him, though she left enough space between them to maintain a semblance of propriety, or so she told herself. “They say you’re already half in love with her. Is it true, my prince?” 

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained with the subject of their conversation. “Would it trouble you if it were?”

“You wish” she echoed, her grin widening as she mirrored his earlier words.

He laughed softly, shaking his head as his hands moved to the harp. His fingers hovered over the strings, but his gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary. Long enough to remind her how incredibly striking those amethyst eyes could be.

“You might be surprised,” he said at last, his tone deceptively casual. “But I believe you and Lady Cersei share at least one thing in common.”

Lyanna jerked back as though he had accused her of treason, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “I beg your pardon?”

The evident horror on her face brought another genuine laugh from Rhaegar, one that lit up his features in a way that made him seem boyish. Lyanna smiled.

“What,” she pressed, hands planting at her hips, “could I possibly have in common with her?” The bite in her voice was unmistakable, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.

Rhaegar only tilted his head, as though pondering the question with great seriousness, before his smile grew sly.

“She told me she enjoys riding.”

Lyanna arched a skeptical brow so slowly it bordered on theatrical. “Ride what? Her carriage? Perhaps a wheelbarrow?” She scoffed outright. “Lady Cersei, a horse rider? Yes, and next we’ll hear she’s a dragon slayer. Seven hells.”

Rhaegar’s laughter rang warm. “She said so herself,” he replied casually, his tone light but his eyes fixed on her, clearly enjoying every spark of indignation igniting across her very expressive face.

“She’s just telling you what you want to hear.” Lyanna replied with a dismissive shrug.

Lyanna waved a hand dismissively. “She’s only telling you what she thinks you wish to hear.”

“And why,” he asked, one silver brow lifting, “would I wish to hear that?”

“How should I know?” she shot back, her eyes narrowing with mirth. “Perhaps you’ve a fondness for women who embellish their truths. But let me assure you, Lady Cersei does not so much ride horses as she rides her family name into every conversation.”

His laughter returned, a quiet, melodic sound that seemed to echo softly through the trees. Shaking his head, Rhaegar picked up the harp again, his long fingers gliding over the strings in a way that made the notes hum delicately in the air.

Lyanna watched him for a quiet moment, Lady Cersei and all her ridiculous claims fading harmlessly into the back of her mind. As he plucked a few testing notes from the harp, she found herself transfixed by the ease of it, how his fingers moved.

She remembered, with a sudden flush of mortification, the single afternoon he’d tried to teach her, years ago, back when she was still more coltish girl than woman. The sounds she’d produced then had been nothing short of offensive. She hadn’t tried since, certain that even a lifetime of practice would never make her hands move as his did: certain, graceful and unhurried.

“Would you object if I made use of your forest, my lady?” he asked suddenly, his voice low and velvety as he coaxed a gentle melody from the strings. He did not look at her while he said it, his amethyst eyes were cast downward, fixed on the harp. Yet somehow she felt seen.

Only then did it strike her: she had been staring.

She tore her gaze away at once, leaning back as if the tree behind her might absorb her embarrassment. She reached for a bright red apple from the small kitchen bag she’d brought, biting into it with ease. “Be my guest,” she said casually, though the warmth in her tone betrayed her fondness for these stolen moments. “It’s been a while.”

“It has…” he murmured, and the cadence of it, low, velvety, almost intimate, sent a flutter through her chest.

Then the melody unfurled, slow at first, then steady, blooming like sunlight through leaves. The harp seemed to breathe under his touch, each note soft enough to hush the forest around them. Lyanna propped her chin on her palm, her usually sharp tongue rendered briefly useless as the world quieted to nothing but him and the music.

Gods. It was beautiful. 

And she let herself sink into it.

Rhaegar looked like something carved by a master’s hand, like marble brought to life as he played. Lyanna watched him from the corner of her eye, trying to appear uninterested and failing miserably. He seemed to command not only the harp, but the everything else around him. Even the forest quieted, as though listening.

When the final note dissolved into the rustling leaves, she exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Well,” she said, attempting nonchalance, “you’re not terrible.”

It was a poor disguise for the truth: that his playing was extraordinary.

Rhaegar’s smile tilted into that lazy, almost roguish curve she had secretly started to liked far too much. “A harsh critic,” he murmured.

“Or,” she countered, “perhaps you’ve grown spoiled by flocks of silly hens clucking over how marvelous you are.”

His laughter burst forth, warm and unguarded. In that moment, he looked heartbreakingly young, the weight of crowns nowhere near him.

“I’d forgotten how sharp your tongue is,” he said.

“You missed me. Just say it.”

His expression softened unexpectedly. The smile that followed was small, but real.

“I did,” he said quietly.

The words struck harder than she expected. Heat crept up her neck before she could smother it, warmth blooming across her face like some foolish maiden’s flush. Gods, she wanted to sink into the earth. Blushing. Blushing, over such a simple thing?

What in the seven hells was wrong with her.

“You’ve gone quiet,” he observed, amused. Wether he had noticed her coloring or not, she could not tell. “That’s unlike you.”

“Just thinking,” she replied too quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers betrayed her, fumbling. She cursed herself inwardly.

“About how unfairly you’ve treated me all these years?” he said gravely.

Lyanna barked a laugh. “Oh, your poor, fragile ego.”

“Terribly wounded,” he sighed. His grin afterward was all smug satisfaction, and she had to bite her lip to keep her own smile from breaking loose. At least the awful blush had faded.

Then he looked at her, really looked. His eyes softened, his half smile lingering. Something in her chest tightened.

“Maybe you deserve it,” she said, grasping for control of the moment.

“Do I?”

He leaned forward slightly, playful, but with a curiosity in his gaze that made her pulse skitter.

To her absolute horror, she felt the blush return with a vengeance. Without thinking, she jabbed a finger at his side, a desperate attempt to break the tension. “Yes,” she declared, hoping the gesture distracted from the embarrassing pink blooming across her cheeks.

Rhaegar’s brows lifted, amusement flickering like torchlight in his violet eyes. “Did you just… poke me?”

“What of it?” she challenged, lifting her chin defiantly. The faint flush on her cheeks began to fade once again, replaced by a steady composure as she successfully redirected the focus, steering it away from her moment of embarrassment.

Her blush had mercifully begun to fade, her confidence returning now that the spotlight had shifted. She looked entirely self assured again... That was until she saw the expression forming on his face.

A slow, confident half smirk spread across his lips. 

“That,” he murmured, voice dropping into something low and wickedly warm, “was unwise.”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes. She held her ground, the challenge in her stare as clear as steel.

Go on, then.

His answer was subtle but absolutely smug. He moved closer, a fraction of a step, just enough to let her feel the shift in the air, and reached out. His fingers closed gently around the end of her braid, giving it a tug.

“Hey!” she yelped, more startled than pained.

Rhaegar only gave her that infuriatingly lazy smile, the kind that made him look both princely and entirely unruly at once.

She refused to let him get away with it. Before he could bask in his triumph, she jabbed him again, harder this time.

He laughed, catching her wrist effortlessly. His long fingers were warm against her skin, his grip confident without being tight. “Oh?” he said, eyes gleaming. “So it’s war you want.”

Before she could form a retort, he retaliated, swift and merciless, tickling her side. Lyanna shrieked, collapsing into helpless laughter as she flailed to escape.

“Stop—!” she gasped between giggles, swatting wildly at his hands.

“You started this,” Rhaegar reminded her, laughing in a way so unguarded, so unprincely, she nearly forgot how to breathe.

“I’ll finish it too!” she shot back, twisting away and launching her own counterattack. Her fingers found his ribs, and to her astonishment and delight, really, he broke into another rare, unfiltered laugh.

She froze for the barest instant, stunned by the sound of it. Gods, she liked the sound of it so much.

Their playful battle continued, pushes, jabs, laughter, limbs tangling, until Lyanna made one poorly timed twist to escape him.

Her foot slipped.

She grabbed for balance.

She caught him.

And dragged the Prince of Dragonstone down with her.

The two of them tumbled into the grass in an ungraceful heap. Rhaegar landed half on his side, half over her, one arm braced beside her head, the other caught awkwardly beneath them both.

Lyanna lay breathless beneath the solid weight of him, her hands splayed against the warm fabric of his tunic. Rhaegar’s hair, usually neat, princely, fell into his eyes, the tips brushing the skin of her face.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, neither of them moved.

The laughter faded.

The forest stilled.

The space between them tightened into something fragile and electric.

His breath brushed her cheek.

Her pulse hammered in her throat.

And just like that, the world collapsed to a single, breathless point: the thin, dangerous sliver of space between his lips and hers.

Her mind scattered into chaos. She dared a glance upward, first at his eyes, those enigmatic amethyst pools that revealed nothing and implied everything, then down at his mouth, so close she could feel the warmth of his minty breath.

Her heart lurched violently against her ribs, wild and completely ungovernable, beating in a rhythm she did not recognize, let alone understand.

He seemed just as frozen as she was, his expression taut with concentration as his eyes traced her face in a silence that felt far too intimate. Seven hells… he was handsome. Painfully so. She realized it with a jolt of horror as her heart thudded wildly against her ribs, loud enough, surely, for him to feel where his body hovered over hers.

The forest dimmed around them, its sounds fading to nothing but the shared rhythm of their breath. Lyanna’s stomach fluttered uncontrollably, treacherously, and she felt heat rush up her neck to her cheeks once more. She cursed the warmth, the trembling, the way her breath caught in her throat.

Something stirred in her chest, something reckless and unfamiliar and frightening. Something that urged her forward instead of away.

Her breath hitched.

No.

“We should… probably head back,” she managed at last, though her voice emerged softer than she intended, barely more than a breath. Damn it. Her heart was still galloping in her chest like some wild, unbroken stallion.

Rhaegar blinked once. Twice. Then, with a composure that felt almost cruel in contrast to her embarrassing internal chaos, he gave her a small, soft lazy smile.

“Yes,” he said, his tone smooth as riverstone. “It’s getting late.”

As though they hadn’t nearly melted into each other moments before.

He looked around with casual ease, straightened himself, and rose. Then he extended his hand. She hesitated, just a heartbeat, just long enough to curse herself, before placing her fingers in his. His grip was firm and warm and her entire hand fit into his, and he lifted her to her feet as though she weighed nothing at all. For a moment, she felt the world tilt, her breath catching as the contact sent a strange thrill up her arm.

They brushed stray grass from their clothes in a silence that felt nothing like before. The playful sparring was gone. Something quieter had taken its place. 

As they walked back toward the castle, side by side but carefully not touching, Lyanna’s thoughts spun like a storm caught between branches. What in the seven hells had just happened? Why was her pulse still racing? Why did her skin still hum where his hand had held hers?

She dared a sideways glance at him.

The sharp, perfect Valyrian angles of his face.

The quiet confidence in his gait.

The elegance, the strength, the impossible beauty of him.

Gods. He was simply gorgeous.

Was this… the spell he cast on the court ladies? Was this what they felt when they looked at him? Half dazed and ridiculous, their wits falling out of their pretty heads?

Was she, Lyanna Stark, of all stubborn, sensible women, now at risk of becoming one of those clucking hens?

Absolutely not.

Impossible.

She was not like that.

And this was Rhaegar, her friend. Her friend.

Her stomach dropped.

Seven hells. Had she lost her mind? Was she becoming—Seven forbid—stupid?

Cersei had always known she was destined to be queen. It was not merely a hope or a dream, it was a certainty. Her mother had told her so, her father had reinforced it, and even the servants whispered it behind closed doors. She had been raised with the singular purpose of one day ascending the throne, her every lesson, every word of praise, every admonishment woven around that eventuality. She was destined to marry Rhaegar Targaryen.

And why shouldn’t she?

She had been blessed by the gods themselves, or so it seemed. Striking beauty that drew every eye in the room, a refined poise that left no doubt of her breeding, a family name that commanded respect, and wealth beyond imagination. Cersei Lannister was born to rule, and there was no one who could contest her right to be queen.

The firelight danced across the walls of the chamber as she sipped her wine, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. It was a rare moment of peace, a chance to bask in the glow of her triumphs and the knowledge that her destiny was finally within reach.

“You look smug, dear sister.”

Jaime’s voice, rich and tinged with amusement, broke the peaceful silence. She turned her head lazily to see him leaning against the doorframe, his golden hair glinting like molten metal in the firelight, the same shade as her own. His catlike green eyes were sharp, dissecting her mood with ease, and his ever-present smirk curled at the corners of his mouth.

“What is it you’re thinking about that has you looking so very pleased with yourself?” he asked, sauntering toward her with his usual languid grace.

“That,” she replied coolly, taking another sip of her wine before turning her attention back to the flames, “is none of your concern.” Her smile deepened, faint but triumphant, as if daring him to probe further.

Jaime crouched beside her chair, his grin widening as he tilted his head to meet her gaze. “Ah, I see,” he teased. “You’re already practicing your airs, playing the crown princess with that lofty tone of yours.”

She chuckled, the sound light and melodic, though her eyes remained fixed on the fire. The wine was sweet on her tongue, almost as sweet as her victory, and the warmth of the room wrapped around her like a lover’s embrace. How could she not be happy? She was to marry the most beautiful man in the Seven Kingdoms, the prince who had filled her dreams since she was a girl. Her triumph was so close she could taste it.

Jaime straightened, moving behind her chair. His hands, strong yet familiar, brushed lightly against the nape of her neck before sliding lower, a touch that was both intimate and daring.

“Let go of me, Jaime,” she said sharply, her smile vanishing.

He hesitated for a moment before withdrawing, the air thick with unspoken tension. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Are you trying to get us killed?” she demanded, turning to glare at him, her green eyes alight with annoyance.

“I thought we could have a little fun tonight,” he said, his tone almost playful. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“As if I would risk my marriage to bed you,” she shot back with a derisive laugh, though the edge in her voice was unmistakable.

Jaime’s grin faltered, but his gaze remained fixed on her. He circled around to face her, his expression inscrutable. “Do you truly want to marry the prince?” he asked softly, his voice lacking its usual bravado.

Her brow furrowed. “Have you gone mad, Jaime? Of course I want to marry him. Rhaegar has always been my dream. He will be my husband,” she declared, her tone tinged with satisfaction as a triumphant smile curled her lips.

Jaime grimaced, his displeasure evident but unspoken. His silence was all the proof she needed. Even Jaime, who claimed to love her above all else, could not bring himself to speak ill of the man she was destined to marry. That knowledge filled her with a giddy sense of vindication.

“Well,” he said at last, sinking into the chair beside her, looking rather disappointed with her answer. “That’s too bad.”

He watched her with that same intensity, his eyes flicking over her. She knew what he wanted; she always knew. And though she wanted him too (because how could she not?), she had no intention of indulging him now, not when she was so close to achieving her ultimate goal. Jaime was a fire she could not afford to ignite, not when the crown was almost hers.

If a single person caught them, a single rumor about them, and her destiny would go to the seven hells. 

“Has he fallen for your charms yet?” Jaime asked, his tone deceptively casual as he turned his gaze to the fire.

“I believe he has,” she replied, a touch of pride coloring her voice. “Slowly but surely.” She thought of their time together, the careful games she had played. She knew what Rhaegar liked, how to present herself as the perfect match. She spoke of music and poetry, feigned an interest in books she had never opened, and even made a point of mentioning her skill at riding, though she loathed the activity, after noticing how his eyes lingered on the Stark girl when she rode, as if he were fascinated by her skill.

Ah, the Stark girl. The thought of Lyanna Stark made her blood boil. They called her beauty legendary, whispered comparisons in hushed tones, but Cersei dismissed them all. Nobody could rival her beauty, least of all some northern savage. Yet Rhaegar’s smiles and lingering glances at Lyanna were undeniable, and they gnawed at Cersei’s pride like a splinter.

“You don’t seem convinced,” Jaime observed with an irritating grin, his sharp eyes flicking back to her, noticing the subtle shift in her confident demeanor. “Come now, you can tell me.”

“It’s nothing,” she said dismissively, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet. It was nothing, she knew she was being silly for even thinking about it. But she could not help to be so observant, she had always been, and sometimes her mind wandered. “Nothing of consequence, anyway.” She hesitated, then added, “It does irk me that he spends so much time with that Stark creature, but I suppose it’s just his kindness. No doubt he feels pity for the graceless, unfortunate girl.”

“Unfortunate, perhaps,” Jaime replied, his grin widening, “but graceless? I think not. Not even you can deny her beauty, sister. Who knows? Perhaps your beloved prince has already sampled the delights of the fair Lyanna Stark. That might explain his fondness for her company.”

His words struck like a blade, sharp and cutting, and her nostrils flared as her piercing green eyes locked onto him, venom coursing through her glare. He looked amused enough.

“You jest with the grace of a stable boy and the taste of swill,” she snapped, her voice low but trembling with restrained fury. “And you reek of desperation, Jaime. Jealousy is a pitiful color on you.”

Jaime laughed, a short, mocking sound that grated against her composure. He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as his golden hair shimmered in the firelight, his smirk as infuriating as ever.

“Jealousy? Of what? Your scheming little games to win the heart of a man who can barely look past the strings of his harp? Don’t flatter yourself, sister.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, a venomous taunting. “I’ve had you a thousand times over. What could he possibly offer that I haven’t already given you?”

Her jaw clenched, and she felt the heat of the fire prickling at her skin, but it was nothing compared to the blaze igniting in her chest. She forced herself to take a breath, her fingers tightening around the stem of her goblet.

“You speak as though you’ve conquered me, Jaime,” she said coldly, lifting her chin in defiance. “But it’s you who crawls back to me, always. Like a dog chasing scraps.” She rose from her chair, her movements deliberate, the silk of her gown whispering against the stone floor as she turned her back to him.

“I crawl?” Jaime echoed, rising as well, his tone dripping with amusement. He stepped closer, his shadow stretching long against the walls. “I think you forget, dear sister, that you’ve never once denied me. Not truly. Not even now. What a sweet, innocent maiden the prince is going to marry.”

Cersei turned to face him, her goblet forgotten on the table as her hands clenched into fists. “You presume too much. Do you think I would jeopardize everything I’ve worked for, everything Father has promised, for a fleeting indulgence? You’re a fool, Jaime.”

“A fool who knows you better than anyone,” he countered smoothly, his smile unwavering. “I see through your pretty lies, Cersei. You may parade your ambitions for the throne, your love for the prince, but we both know the truth. You don’t love him, you don’t even know him. You love what he represents. The power. The crown. The illusion of control.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” she shot back, her voice rising. “Power is the only thing that matters in this world. Men like you, weak, self-serving men, are fleeting. Power endures. With Rhaegar I will have both, power and love”

His expression hardened for the first time, the playful glint in his eyes replaced with something colder, sharper. “And yet, you pine for his attention like a girl at her first tourney,” he said, his voice soft but scathing. “Tell me, does he even see you? Or is he too busy looking at the Stark girl to notice the golden lioness preening at his feet?”

The mention of Lyanna Stark was an intentional wound, and Jaime knew it. The hushed whispers of her beauty, and the ridiculous comparisons were already bad enough. But to even think that she could also be holding the attention of the one man she wanted the most… Cersei’s lips curled into a sneer, her fury bubbling to the surface. “You know nothing of him,” she hissed. “He is noble, kind, and everything you could never hope to be. He will see me for what I am and worship me.”

“Oh, I see you for what you are, Cersei,” Jaime interrupted, stepping closer, his voice a low growl. “I see every ugly truth you try to hide behind your beauty. Your vanity. Your desperation. You want to be queen so badly, you’d sell your soul for it. But tell me, will that crown be enough to keep you warm at night when he’s in someone else’s bed? Don’t fool yourself, dear sister. You may hold his gaze for a fleeting moment, but men like him, men with power, always look elsewhere. Your beauty, radiant as it is, only fascinates for so long. A handful of nights, perhaps. Maybe a dozen, if you’re lucky. After that, what will keep him? The sharpness of your tongue? The venom in your veins?”

Jaime straightened, his eyes blazing as he delivered the final blow with something akin to malice. “No, Cersei. You’ll be discarded, just like every other toy he’s ever played with. Because to love you, truly love you, one has to embrace the ugliness festering inside you. The kind that twists your beauty into something monstrous. And there’s only one person who has ever done that. Only one person who can.”

His gaze locked onto hers, a knowing smirk curving his lips. “Me.”

Her hand flew before she could stop herself, the crack of her palm against his cheek echoing in the chamber. Jaime staggered slightly, more from surprise than the force of the blow, and his grin returned, wicked and unrepentant.

“You’re trembling,” he noted, his tone maddeningly calm as he straightened. “Is it rage, or is it fear? Afraid he’ll choose another one over you after he’s had you? Afraid you’re not enough, even for a man you’ve set your sights on since you were a girl?”

“Get out,” she ordered, her voice low and trembling. Her hand hovered near her side, still balled into a fist.

Jaime held her gaze for a long moment, the tension between them thick. Then, with a mocking bow, he stepped back, his smirk never wavering, even if his cheek burned red. “As you wish, sweet sister,” he said, the title dripping with derision.

He turned and strode toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the silent room. As the heavy door closed behind him, Cersei sank back into her chair, her chest heaving with unspent rage.

The fire crackled, the only sound in the room now, and she stared into the flames, her mind racing. Jaime’s words clung to her, each one a barb she couldn’t shake. 

No. She wouldn’t entertain the idea. Rhaegar would be hers. Everything she’d been promised since she was a girl would come to pass. Jaime could sulk and seethe all he wanted; it changed nothing.

But as she raised her goblet to her lips once more, her hands were trembling, and for the first time, she hated herself for it.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep’s courtyard was alive that morning. The clang of horseshoes against stone echoed between the towering walls as banners rippled in the breeze. Baratheon gold and black stitched alongside Stark grey and white. How very telling. 

Lyanna stood at the far end of the yard, flanked by two maids as the procession arrived, her hands clasped tightly before her to keep them from fidgeting. When Robert Baratheon dismounted with all the vigor of a man who undoubtedly owned the very ground he tread upon, the corners of her mouth tugged slightly downward, though she smoothed it away quickly.

The man was larger than she remembered, broad shouldered and barrel chested, with a wild sort of charm that seemed ready to spill out of him at any moment. His sky blue eyes were sharp and alight as they settled upon her. They lingered, roaming her features, his admiration plain enough for the entire yard to see. Lyanna braced herself under his gaze, feeling as her cheeks almost turned pink from the intensity in his gaze. 

“Lyanna Stark,” Robert proclaimed, as if her name on his tongue was an absolute delight, a grin splitting his dark beard as he approached her with heavy strides. “Seven hells, they were right.” He stopped just short of her, taking her hand in his own calloused one, far too large, far too warm. “The songs do not sing half of your beauty, my lady. It's been a while.”

Lyanna managed a small smile, though the weight of his intensity made her shift her feet slightly. The songs exaggerate everything, she thought, but she kept that to herself. Instead, she inclined her head politely and acknowledged the compliment as she could. “You are too kind, Lord Robert.”

Robert ignored her formality entirely and raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. The act was intentional, slow, as if he savored the moment, and though there was nothing vulgar in it, Lyanna could not deny the heat of her discomfort. He released her hand only when he was ready, his blue eyes never leaving hers.

“You are exactly as I remembered, my lady” he said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, his smile the smile of a man who had just seen the most marvelous thing in the world and would never let it escape his sight again. “A beautiful winter rose.”

Her stomach tightened faintly at his words. A rose for the plucking, she thought, but her lips maintained their already practiced smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her brother Ned, who watched the exchange with gentle satisfaction, as though the arrangement already sat firmly in place. Ned, ever dutiful, ever kind. When their eyes met, his expression softened further, and he gave her the slightest nod of encouragement.

“Lyanna, sweet sister,” Ned said then, stepping forward to ease the tension. “It’s so good to see you. The journey from Storm’s End has been long. But we are finally here.”

“Not long enough to keep me from this meeting,” Robert replied jovially, his voice loud and warm as he threw an arm around Ned’s shoulder. He turned back to Lyanna as though no one else in the yard existed. “And no distance is too great for this.”

Lyanna dipped her chin slightly, her smile a mask, for the continued intensity of his declarations were already overwhelming. “You are very generous with your words, my lord.”

“Generous? Only truthful, sweet lady,” Robert declared, grin bright and completely unabashed. “A beauty such as yours could give the summer sun reason to sulk.”

And a poet, too, it seems. Lyanna kept the thought to herself once more, unwilling to wound his pride when he was so clearly trying to charm her. Yet his persistent praise set her increasingly on edge. He was not crude, nor unseemly, if anything he was simply trying to be sweet, but his intentions were as transparent as clear water. To be the focus of such unrelenting admiration made her feel… misplaced.

Sensing her discomfort, Ned stepped in with that calm tact of his. “I trust my sister has been well,” he said gently, redirecting the conversation with practiced grace. “The South seems to suit her.”

“It does indeed,” Robert agreed with a loud laugh, sweeping his arm toward her as though presenting her to the world. “Lady Lyanna could outshine any southern maiden there is. No one compares to her.”

Lyanna schooled her expression, keeping her smile level and polite. She resisted, truly resisted, the urge to glance upward.

Do not look.

Do not.

The urge won.

Her grey eyes flicked to the balcony above.

There he stood.

Rhaegar stood exactly where she had seen him moments before they arrived, on the balcony high above, where the sun kissed the red stone behind him. He looked as unmovable as the walls of the Keep, his silvery blonde hair catching the light. His expression remained unreadable, no curiosity, no disapproval, no hint of what he thought.

But his eyes…

His eyes were fixed on the scene below, and entirely attentive. He missed nothing. He saw everything. And she knew with certainty, that he would ask her about this later.

Beside him stood Arthur, speaking quietly to the prince, though Rhaegar did not look away from her, not even for a heartbeat.

Lyanna tore her gaze back to the courtyard at once, her pulse quickening despite her best efforts.

“Lyanna?”

Ned’s voice cut through her thoughts, scattering them like startled birds. In an instant she was dragged back from the memory that had ambushed her, the startling weight of Rhaegar’s toned body pressing her into the earth, the warm scent of crushed grass, the way his amethyst eyes had held darker, secret shades of violet when seen up close. Far too close.

She blinked hard, willing the Godswood to vanish.

“Robert asked if you’ve enjoyed the court here,” Ned prompted gently, clearly having noticed her drifting thoughts.

She blinked, gathering herself as the world went back into place. Robert Baratheon was watching her with that broad, bright grin of his, though this time there was something softer beneath it. Something one might even perceive as hopeful.

“My apologies,” she murmured, smoothing her expression as quickly as she could. “I have found the court… interesting.”

“That is the South for you,” Robert said with a hearty chuckle, hands resting confidently on his belt. “All silk and softness, pretty enough to look at, but none of it worth half a Northern wind. I wager, my lady, you must long for the snow.”

“Not quite,” Lyanna admitted, her smile quiet and honest. She still loved Winterfell fiercely, but longing for it felt like pressing her hand against an old bruise, tender and unwelcome. “I’ve grown used to the South. There is beauty here as well.”

“Aye, that there is,” Robert said, and it wasn’t a boast or some rehearsed line, just warm truth spoken with his typical Baratheon simplicity. He swept an arm wide in a gesture that was half jest, half reverence. “And proof of that stands right before us. We came to King’s Landing and found you here.”

The words caught her off guard. They ought to have sounded ridiculous, too large, too grand, but Robert had a way of speaking that stripped exaggeration of its artifice at times. He meant every syllable, and that sincerity she could appreciate.

If she had to look at the bright side, she could at least say that his confidence was immense, but never cruel. His admiration overwhelming, but never leering.

At the very least, Robert was not without his virtues, even if his enthusiasm sometimes arrived in overwhelming waves.

Had any other man said the same, she would have rolled her eyes. But Robert said it with the uncomplicated certainty of someone who saw beauty and spoke it aloud without shame. That was just who he was, she supposed.

“You flatter me too much, my lord,” she said lightly, offering him a graceful out, trying to tilt the conversation into sturdier terrain before he backed her into another compliment she couldn’t gracefully absorb.

Robert grinned broadly, as though her mild protest had been encouragement rather than caution. “It is not flattery if it’s true, my lady. You’ll see soon enough… you and I shall make a fine match, Lady Lyanna.”

His confidence rang out like a proclamation, loud, unshakable, delivered as though fate had whispered it into his ear. Lyanna parted her lips to reply, but nothing came. A strange, stifling sensation curled in her chest. For a heartbeat, she did not feel like a woman being courted, but like a fine mare being appraised at a market: admired, praised, and inevitably claimed.

Robert was no brute. He didn't seem to be. He was good natured, earnest in his blunt way, and his intentions seemed… well meant. But that did little to quiet the sudden, sinking feeling of inevitability pressing down upon her. Like a gate swinging shut behind her.

She could like him or not. It would change nothing, would it?

A cold truth settled over her.

She prayed, truly prayed, that Lord Baratheon might prove a man she could respect, that beneath the easy charm there lay substance, wisdom, restraint. She was no romantic fool, she had never indulged in tales of love matches or fate bound hearts. She knew herself too well for that. But surely the gods could grant her at least… compatibility.

Affection, perhaps.

Esteem, at the very least.

What other choices did she truly have?

Marry a man she could not stand?

Accept a life she would resent?

Or disgrace herself, disgrace her family, by running from the future that was being written for her?

Both paths felt equally extreme, one suffocating, the other ruinous.

And so she stood there, between duty and dread, hoping the gods would not be so cruel as to make her choose.

Ned, ever attuned to the slightest shift in her mood, stepped in with smoothness, as though he had plucked the thought straight from her mind. “Let us not overwhelm my sister, Robert. It has been a long day for us all.”

Robert blinked, then nodded, though his gaze lingered on her a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said, his voice dropping into something unexpectedly gentle as he inclined his head. “I’ll try to temper my enthusiasm. I know I can be… a bit much at times.”

Lyanna let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. At the very least, he knew himself well. “Thank you, Lord Robert.”

He turned to one of his retainers, already laughing again, already booming with his usual vigor, leaving Lyanna and Ned momentarily alone in the courtyard.

Ned stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Are you well, Lyanna?”

She hesitated. Her grey eyes flicked upward once more, toward the balcony. Empty. 

“I’m fine,” she said softly.

But the words tasted thin, insubstantial. A lie barely wrapped in civility.

Ned, perceptive as always, studied her face, the furrow in his brow deepening. He looked as though he might press her further, force the truth out of her the way only a brother could, but at last he chose gentleness instead.

“Good,” he murmured. “It will all work out, I promise you.”

Lyanna wished she could believe that as easily as he said it.

Lyanna said nothing, staring across the courtyard where banners waved like silent witnesses. It will work out, she repeated to herself. And yet, somewhere deep within her, a small voice whispered: But for whom?

The sea breeze drifted inside the room, cool and uninvited, stirring the heavy crimson drapes that framed the stone. Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, crowned heir of Westeros, and presently the picture of irritation, sat at his desk, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the wood. 

His attention wandered to the window for the tenth time in as many minutes, though what he sought there remained unclear. Arthur, the best knight Westeros had ever seen, and a man for whom titles had grown tiresome, leaned casually against the wall, arms folded, watching him like a hawk might watch a particularly ill tempered hare. 

“Rhaegar Frey,” Arthur spoke once again, his voice lilting into a mock falsetto as he dragged out the words with comedic flair. The name sounded equal parts derisive and absurd coming from his mouth. “Coward of the Crossing, terror of young girls. I hear the boy’s a great warrior... against maidens and serving girls.” 

It might have been amusing, to anyone but Rhaegar, at least. 

The prince did not so much as twitch. “Hilarious,” he replied flatly, his voice smooth and low, the kind of smooth that one could pour like oil over water. His gaze stayed fixed stubbornly on the window. 

Arthur, unfazed, leaned lazily against the edge of the desk, his knowing gaze fixed on the prince with infuriating ease. “But you are in a sour mood today,” he observed, his lips quirking as though the whole affair was mildly amusing.

“Or perhaps your jokes are simply not funny, Dayne” Rhaegar countered calmly, finally turning his head. His hair caught the light as he fixed Arthur with a dry, unamused look. His fingers continued their drumming, a steady sound, like distant raindrops on a roof.

Arthur’s grin only widened, unfettered. “My jokes are always funny, Rhaegar. It is your sense of humor that’s gone missing, along with your patience.” He tilted his head. “Shall we send the Kingsguard out to find it? Or is it somewhere with your manners?”

Rhaegar exhaled sharply through his nose, not quite a sigh but close enough. Irritation coiled in his chest like a restless dragon, but he had no one to blame for it, not Arthur, not even himself. Still, his temper smoldered, raw and ready to ignite. 

The prince shot him a look that could have frozen wildfire, but Arthur only chuckled softly in response. He was too much of a brother to be cowed by mere glares, and both men knew it.

Arthur seemed to know it, too. “Very well,” he said finally, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve had my fun. Now, what is it? You’ve been brooding like Aegon the Conqueror after losing a cyvasse match.”

“It’s nothing,” Rhaegar said flatly, though they both knew he was lying. The words fell out of his mouth too quickly, and Arthur latched onto them like a hound on a scent.

Yet the reason behind his sour mood troubled him far more than he cared to admit. And that, in itself, was the problem... why should he feel this way at all?

He did not want to think about it. Thinking would only lead to trouble, and trouble was the last thing he needed.

But why, in the name of the gods, did his cousin have to come?

It wasn’t just his cousin’s untimely arrival that gnawed at him, though. Lyanna had been acting strange these past days, distant, distracted, no longer the girl who laughed easily in his presence. Then again, so had he. If he were honest, he had been acting different, too. At times, it seemed as though she were avoiding him. At others, as though he were… chasing her. 

Chasing her, when he ought to be chasing someone else entirely: his almost-official betrothed, Cersei Lannister.

And yet, Rhaegar simply could not bring himself to pursue the golden lioness as duty suggested he should. The motivation wasn’t there. No spark, no interest. Nothing.

He suspected it had something to do with the constant stream of chatter, aimless, repetitive, circling the same topics as though she feared silence might expose her. Or perhaps it was the overeagerness, the way she seemed to lean forward with every word, hungry for approval.

He didn’t dislike her. He simply felt… nothing.

His attention drifted elsewhere before he could stop it.

Not toward Lyanna in any romantic sense, of course.

No. That would be absurd.

He just liked being around her. That was all.

He liked the sound of her laugh, unpretentious, sharp, alive. He liked listening to her stories, even the ridiculous ones. He liked watching her ride like she meant to outrun the wind itself, or draw her bow with a focus that could put trained soldiers to shame.

And when she smiled at him, it did something odd to the air in his chest. Loosened it. Lightened it.

He valued her. A familiar, solid affection. Perfectly reasonable.

Which is why her sudden avoidance bothered him more than it should have. The distance was wrong. Off. It scratched at him, insistent as a pebble in a boot. The more she pulled away, the more something inside him leaned forward instinctively, wanting to fix whatever had shifted.

Once he understood why she was acting strangely, his lack of interest in Cersei would solve itself. That was his logic, and it seemed sound enough.

He finally decided he would speak to Lyanna, clear the tension, put things back where they belonged. But the moment he approached her, the moment, Robert appeared. Smiling, inserting himself directly into the small window Rhaegar had needed.

A minor annoyance. Completely inconsequential.

And yet it grated on him with an immediate, unreasonable sharpness.

He knew he was being ridiculous.

He knew he was acting like a short tempered idiot.

But the Targaryen temper had a mind of its own, and sometimes it flared for reasons he could not, and would not, admit aloud.

Not even to himself.

“Nothing?” Arthur repeated bringing him back to reality, dragging the word out like he intended to mock it. His brow arched with all the subtlety of a drawbridge slamming open. “Interesting. You wear ‘nothing’ on your face the way Lannisters wear gold.”

“Gods, Dayne, you’re insufferable.” Rhaegar finally turned in his chair, leveling him with a flat look. “Where’s Barristan? Shouldn’t you two be rotating shifts? Maybe you can go bother someone else instead and give me some peace.”

Arthur shrugged, not even pretending to hide his grin. “You’re stuck with me today, Your Grace. Sadly, it doesn’t thrill me either, given your current... Disposition”

Rhaegar gave him a withering look, though Arthur merely took it as the compliment it wasn’t. For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the whisper of the sea breeze. It might have sufficed for anyone else, a pointed glare from a crown prince was enough to send most men scuttling away with their heads bowed. But Arthur Dayne was not “most men.” 

“Seriously, Rhaegar,” Arthur began again, softer now, though his tone remained laced with a hint of dry amusement. “If you’re brooding any harder, I’ll have to build a storm shelter. It’s unlike you to stew this much… though, to be fair, I think I’ve seen you in such a mood all of five times. Maybe six. What is it this time? A ballad refused you?” 

“Nothing,” Rhaegar said, and even he knew he sounded unconvincing. 

“Nothing,” Arthur repeated, expression perfectly flat. “Right. And I suppose ‘nothing’ is also what makes you look like you’re moments away from torching half the keep. Did someone misplace your harp again?”

Rhaegar shot him another one of those pointed, silent looks, sharp, irritated. Arthur received it as encouragement.

“Come now,” Arthur pressed, crossing his arms in that patient way of his. “I am your oldest friend. We’ve fought side by side, slept in the same miserable tents, bled in the same mud, choked on the same Dornish swill you insist on calling wine. You might as well tell me what’s soured your mood. Or” his mouth twitched “shall I guess?”

“Arthur…” Rhaegar warned, weariness creeping into his tone. It only amused the knight further.

Before Arthur could deliver another jab, a sharp knock sliced through the moment. Both men turned as the door swung open, Rhaegar almost thanked the gods aloud.

Cersei Lannister entered as though gliding, golden curls arranged with precision, her smile bright enough to blind and twice as artificial. Her eyes, sharp, green, locked instantly on Rhaegar.

“Your Grace,” she purred, dipping into a curtsy so perfectly calculated it bordered on choreography. “The gardens are particularly lovely this afternoon. I wondered if you might join me for a walk... Unless, of course, you’re engaged?”

Rhaegar rose, spine straight, face composed into his diplomat’s polite mask.

He swallowed the urge to sigh.

“Lady Cersei,” he said smoothly. “I would be delighted.”

Every bone in his body screamed otherwise.

Arthur, seeing a chance for entertainment, stepped aside with a dramatic flourish worthy of a tavern actor. “Off you go, Your Grace. Enjoy the roses. Mind the thorns.”

Rhaegar shot him a look that promised vengeance, preferably violent and immediate. Arthur only grinned broader, entirely unbothered.

Turning back to Cersei, Rhaegar offered her his arm with an elegance he no longer felt.

“Shall we?” he said, sounding for all the world like a man cheerfully marching toward his execution.

Chapter Text

In the garden, the birds chirped in the distance, their songs weaving through the laughter of the young prince and the soft rustle of the trees.

Viserys sat cross legged on the ground, a small yet determined furrow on his brow as he marched a little wooden knight across an imaginary battlefield in the grass. His pale blonde curls gleamed, catching the sunlight each time he moved his head, and his purple eyes, so light they bordered on lilac, were filled with intense focus.

Lyanna, seated nearby with her ankles primly crossed, watched him with a fond smile. “You look very fierce today, Your Grace. I hope those knights of yours know they’re under the command of a little dragon.”

Viserys glanced up at her, the frown fading instantly. “I am a big dragon,” he corrected matter-of-factly, pointing a chubby finger at her as if to underscore his authority.

“Oh, my mistake,” Lyanna replied with feigned seriousness, bowing her head in mock reverence. “I shall remember to address you as Viserys the Fearsome, Conqueror of Wooden Armies.”

The boy considered this, tapping his small lips with his finger as if she had given him a title worthy of a king. “Yes,” he declared, satisfied. Then, as though struck by sudden inspiration, he grinned. “And I want a cat for my name day.”

Lyanna blinked, unable to stifle a laugh, remembering that the little prince’s name day was coming. “A cat?”

“Yes. A big, fat, orange one,” he added, his tone filled with the stubborn resolve of a monarch who had spoken.

“And what would you do with such a cat, Fearsome Viserys?” she teased.

The little prince tilted his head, the sunlight playing off his childish features. “I will tell it to bite Septa Margelle” he said plainly.

Lyanna nearly choked on her laughter. “Bite your septa? Why ever would you want that?”

“Because she says I must be still,” he explained, his lips forming a small pout. “But I do not want to be still. And she always smells like cabbage.”

“Cabbage?” Lyanna echoed, stifling her laughter behind her hand. “That is hardly her fault, Vis.”

“Yes, it is. She likes cabbage.”

Lyanna snorted, earning an indignant glare from the little prince, who folded his arms in dramatic disapproval. But before she could craft a reply, the sharp sound of footsteps on gravel reached her ears.

“Seems like you two are having fun.”

Lyanna looked up sharply, her laughter dimming for reasons she could not completely understand as she spotted Rhaegar standing at the edge of the garden path. It was as though the world paused with her smile, before she swiftly smoothed her expression.

Viserys, however, reacted with none of her restraint. His silver blond head snapped up almost instantly, his eyes going wide with pure delight. Abandoning his wooden knight entirely, he sprang to his feet and sprinted toward his brother with all the reckless devotion of a child.

“Rhaegar!”

The crown prince sank down into a kneel with effortless grace, opening an arm just in time to catch the small missile of a boy. “You will knock me flat one of these days,” he chuckled, the sound warm and low, and to Lyanna’s mild consternation, her lips twitched into a smile at the sound of it.

“You’re spying on us!” Viserys declared, though the accusation was softened by the grin tugging at his mouth.

“Indeed,” Lyanna interjected swiftly, brushing her skirts as she rose to her feet. “Spying is unbecoming of a prince, don’t you think, Your Grace?”

Rhaegar lifted his head, his gaze locking with hers. Instead he held her gaze, calm, unreadable, offering her a small smile that seemed to carry far more than its modest curve suggested. “Perhaps not,” he allowed, voice light as a warm breeze, “but I come bearing gifts. Surely that excuses me?”

“Gifts?” Viserys repeated, breathless with anticipation, his mouth falling open as though Rhaegar had promised him the moon and the stars.

Rhaegar produced a carved wooden dragon from behind his back, painted in vibrant reds and golds.

Viserys gasped so loudly Lyanna nearly laughed.

“A dragon! A real dragon!” the boy cried, reaching for it with both hands as though afraid it would vanish.

“Not quite real,” Rhaegar murmured, watching him with amused fondness. “But close enough for today.” 

Viserys scampered back to the grass, already narrating some grand conquest under his breath, dragons roaring, knights fleeing, kings kneeling. The sight pulled a soft smile from Lyanna, it was unexpectedly tender, the sort of simple, uncomplicated joy she had not felt in days.

But her smile wavered when she noticed Rhaegar moving toward her.

He wasn’t following Viserys. He was walking straight to her.

In his hands, he held a small, elegant box, one of polished wood, the clasp golden and elegant.

“I have something for you as well,” he said quietly, stopping before her. His voice was low, almost hesitant even, and the nearness of him, his height, his presence, felt suddenly a little overwhelming.

“Oh?” Lyanna arched a brow, trying to mask the sudden stir in her chest. “And what, may I ask, have I done to earn such generosity?”

Rhaegar said nothing at first.

He simply stood there, close enough that his shadow fell over her. Half his hair was pulled back in that Targaryen style that laid bare the full sharpness of his face, high cheekbones, jawline, those impossible amethyst eyes. Up close, he smelled of something clean and crisp, expensive in a way that wasn’t ostentatious, just… him.

He opened the box.

Inside lay a necklace so fine it seemed spun from the sun itself. A single ruby hung from a chain of delicate gold, catching the bright sunlight in a flash of living crimson. It was exquisite, refined, understated, crafted with the kind of precision only master goldsmiths could manage. Not a vulgar display, but a promise of taste.

Lyanna’s breath hitched. It was so beautiful.

She looked from the jewel to Rhaegar, she felt her eyes wide with surprise and some confusion.

“Let me,” he murmured, stepping closer.

She swallowed, then instinctively turned, gathering her thick chestnut waves to one side. 

The faint brush of his calloused fingers at her nape made her shiver. He fastened the clasp with care, and the ruby settled cool and heavy against her skin, its chill at odds with the warmth steadily creeping up her neck.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Finally, in an attempt to break the tension she might have been imagining was curling between them, she managed, softly, more breath than voice: “Shouldn’t you be giving such gifts to your bride-to-be?”

It was meant to be teasing. It came out pathetically vulnerable. At least to her. Hopefully, he would not notice. What is wrong with me?

“She has more than enough.” His tone, despite the growing awkwardness she was feeling because of her newly found self-consciousness, was smooth, an effortless cadence that came from someone sidestepping a thorned remark. “This ruby I brought from Essos. One for you, and another necklace with a different stone for my mother.”

Mother. The word softened on his tongue. 

Was he justifying the gift? Explaining himself, as though ensuring she understood this was a thoughtful gesture, not some pointed display of affection. A gift meant for two women: one who had raised him, and one who…

Well, one who had been a loyal friend all those years.

After her clumsy attempt at teasing him, of course he would want to prevent any misunderstanding. The very idea that he might have misconstrued her comment, that he might think she expected something, made heat crawl up her neck again.

Stop it, she scolded herself fiercely.

Do not make this awkward. Do not be a fool.

What a hopeless, clumsy goose she could be at times. 

“You shouldn’t have,” she murmured, her fingertips brushing the ruby as it lay cool and perfect against her skin. She looked down at it, then back up at him, uncertain and far too aware of the sudden closeness between them.

“I think I should,” he replied, quiet and almost careless, but not quite.

His gaze lingered on her, as if assessing. For a moment, she thought he might reach for the necklace and touch it too. Then a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, subtle but unmistakably pleased, as though he took a private satisfaction in how the gem rested against her collarbone.

“It suits you,” he said softly. “I chose well.”

The words rolled over her like a slow, warm tide.

Her fingers drifted over the ruby once more, a light, nervous touch, and she found, frustratingly, that for some ridiculous reason, she could not bring herself to meet his eyes.

However, before she could scold herself again, or bury the mortifying heat rising to her cheeks, Rhaegar spoke a simple sentence that struck like an arrow loosed straight at her chest.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” It was not a question. It was a verdict.

Lyanna stiffened. “I have not,” she blurted. Far too fast. Far too defensive. Gods, she might as well have confessed on the spot.

Rhaegar’s low chuckle followed, warm and infuriatingly knowing. “We know each other too well for lies,” he said lightly. “And you’re not very good at them.”

“I’ve been busy,” she insisted, shrugging in a manner that felt painfully forced, already putting distance between them as she took a few steps back. The words sounded dull, hollow, stupid, even, hanging in the air like flimsy excuses. 

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Viserys sprinting in circles with his new wooden dragon, shouting imaginary battle cries. For one desperate heartbeat, she wished the child would crash straight into them and rescue her from this conversation with all the subtlety of some raging boar.

He didn’t.

“Busy?” Rhaegar echoed, amusement curling faintly in his voice. Then came the smile, a small, lopsided one, far too confident for Lyanna's taste. “Ah, yes. I imagine my cousin’s company keeps you very… occupied these days.”

Lyanna froze.

Her lips parted in sheer surprise, outrage, embarrassment... she couldn’t tell which emotion surged first, if she had to be honest with herself. “Robert?” she managed, turning toward him sharply.

He was watching her with that same half smile, smug, knowing, entirely too pleased with himself.

She wanted to shove him into the nearest fountain.

“Is that so terrible?” Lyanna snapped before she could stop herself. “Robert is a good man.”

The defensiveness in her voice startled even her. Gods, what was wrong with her? One moment she felt like some flustered, ridiculous girl, blushing over every breath he took, and the next she wanted to bite his head clean off. She could practically feel the frustration bubbling beneath her ribs.

And why in all seven hells was he smirking?

Did he find her amusing?

She hated him. Truly. Utterly.

(For the next ten seconds, at least.)

Rhaegar’s violet eyes slid toward her, steady, calm, and absolutely composed. “You seem rather on edge today,” he said, voice smooth as polished marble. “Easy.”

Easy.

Easy?

Did he think she was a mare needing to be soothed?

Her frown sharpened instantly.

And to her irritation, he added, lightly: “Robert’s temper may be rubbing off on you.”

Her eyes narrowed into slits. “Have you objections against your cousin? What exactly do you mean by that?”

“I never said that,” he replied, the smirk fading, his tone turning quiet, cautious even. “Why are you so defensive?”

“I’m not defensive,” she lied, with all the conviction of wet parchment. “I’m merely asking if you have thoughts about your cousin that I ought to know.”

She drew a breath, one that was deep, steady, and absolutely necessary. She had to calm herself. Whatever this strange instability was, it had her emotions spinning in every direction like a damn whirlwind.

She forced her voice into something calmer, steadier. “Rhaegar… don’t you think it’s fair that I know the truth of the man I’m meant to marry? If you know something, anything, say it.”

Her heartbeat thudded, sharp and restless, as she held his gaze.

“I have nothing to say against Robert,” Rhaegar replied at last. His tone held no mirth now, no teasing edge, no smug curve of the mouth, only leveled neutrality. “We have not shared much beyond formal company. I cannot claim to know him well. Only what others know. He is well liked, though.”

“Oh.” The sound slipped from her before she could shape it into something more dignified. A small and unmistakable disappointment stirred in her chest.

Rhaegar’s brow lifted. “That was not the reaction I expected.” He studied her face quietly. “You seem… disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed.” She tore her gaze away, fixing it on Viserys, who was now standing triumphantly on a hedge, roaring like a miniature conqueror with his wooden dragon raised to the heavens. “I’m relieved, I suppose.”

“Lying to me again?” Rhaegar asked. No amusement. No teasing softness. Just a cool expression that bordered on aloofness.

Lyanna didn’t answer immediately. She looked at him instead, searching his face. But trying to read Rhaegar was like trying to decipher a foreign, ancient script: familiar shapes, but impossible meaning. 

At last, with a quiet, resigned breath, she said: “What would you have me say?” Her voice had gone low, stripped of pretense. “That I dream of the day I wed Lord Baratheon? That my greatest wish in life is to become his wife?”

Rhaegar regarded her for a long moment, his expression just as before: calm, composed, serene. She wished she possessed even a fraction of that calm herself.

“So you will accept him?” he asked quietly.

“It’s not as if I have any other choice.” Her gaze drifted back to Viserys, now attempting to “fly” his dragon off the hedge, before she exhaled softly.

“Choice is seldom granted,” Rhaegar mused. His tone had shifted... Less aloof, more human, as though he were glimpsing his own reflection in her predicament. And just like that, the mask slipped. The aloof prince vanished, replaced by the Rhaegar she actually knew, the human one, with gentle humor and warm smiles.

“Though,” he added, lips curling into a subtle, wicked tease, “there is always Essos. Should you decide to take a ship at midnight. I’m sure we could arrange it.”

Lyanna snorted before she could stop herself. “Oh, do not give me ideas…”

Despite herself, she laughed. And for a heartbeat, the crushing weight of duty, expectation, and looming marriage felt a little lighter.

“But truly,” he said, and this time the teasing left him entirely. His violet eyes fixed on her with what she could only interpret as interest. “Do you… like him?”

Her smile faltered.

Lyanna looked down at her feet, her slender fingers curling into the folds of her skirts as if to ground herself. “I think I will,” she said at last.

She tried, really tried, to summon Robert in her mind. His broad grin. His loud laugh. The way warmth radiated off him like a hearthfire. He was tall, strong, handsome, well-born, and well-loved. There was nothing objectionable about him. Nothing distasteful. Nothing hateful.

But if she searched for something to like, truly like, she found herself staring into a blank space.

A void where affection should sit.

“Perhaps if I simply focus on his virtues,” she said aloud, as though speaking the words might make them truer. Gods, what was wrong with her? Robert Baratheon was more than most women could hope for in a betrothal. She could have been handed off to some lecherous old lord with three dead wives, or to a petty little man with a temper like sour milk.

And yet…

Rhaegar was looking at her in that way, his pretty mouth parting slightly, about to offer some inconvenient truth, no doubt.

She cut him off before he could speak. “And do you like Cersei Lannister?”

Whether he realized she was deflecting or not, she couldn’t tell. Knowing Rhaegar, he had recognized the tactic immediately, and was sparing her by pretending not to.

“What’s there not to like?” he replied, his tone so casual it bordered on careless. He might as well have been discussing a fine blade or a new cloak. Not the woman he was meant to wed. Not the life he was meant to share with her.

Lyanna stared at him, stunned. Had he truly looked at Cersei once and decided her beauty was sufficient? Was Rhaegar Targaryen, in the end, like most men? Content with a pretty face and a warm bed, and nothing more?

“What’s there not to like?” she echoed, incredulous. “Truly, you are a simpleton.”

Rhaegar’s brow lifted, almost as if unimpressed. He did not deserve the insult, she knew it, but her impulsiveness had outrun her sense. Again.

“A simpleton?” he repeated. “How exactly am I a simpleton? If you care to elaborate. Many would disagree with your assessment.”

“Many have poor judgment,” she shot back, unable to stop the grin tugging at her lips.

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, an unwilling smile threatening to break through.

For a moment, Rhaegar’s attention drifted to Viserys, who had flung himself into the grass with all the grace of a toppled sack of flour and was now enthusiastically dismembering his wooden dragon. Wings off. Tail gone. Head wobbling. Lyanna followed his gaze, unable to help the warm smile softening her features.

A small chuckle escaped her when Viserys threw back his head and released a roar so loud and dramatic it sent a flock of nearby sparrows fleeing.

“He’ll frighten the entire garden at this rate,” she said fondly.

“You’re fond of him,” Rhaegar observed softly, nodding toward the boy. The subject shift was gentle.

“Of course I am,” Lyanna replied, watching Viserys continue his heroic carnage. “He reminds me of my brother. Benjen, when he was little. Full of noise and mischief and absolutely no sense.”

“He likes you,” Rhaegar said, sounding strangely amused, as though Viserys’s approval were an unexpected phenomenon worth studying.

Before she could stop herself, Lyanna muttered, “I suppose all Targaryens like me.”

She regretted it the instant the words left her tongue. It was a jest, nothing more, of course... But still... 

Rhaegar turned back to her then, and the shift in his expression, a shift that was barely there, sent her pulse stumbling. “What’s there not to like?”

The words were the same he had used earlier, but this time they carried a different tone. And the way he was looking and smiling at her... Oh. 

Her heart lurched. Heat surged beneath her skin, climbing her neck in a humiliating wave.

Gods, he surely noticed saw it. He always saw everything.

Seven hells. That is what you get, she scolded herself, for jesting with this shameless flirt.

“Ugh... You know what? I should be going,” she blurted, far too quickly, far too evasive. “It’s getting late and I… I have something to attend to.”

A slow, self satisfied smile curved his lips, irresistibly smug, dimples and all. His eyebrow arched in lazy triumph, and she suddenly wished for a bow so she could shoot him.

“Have I made you nervous?” he asked, voice smooth and maddeningly calm, but beneath the calm, there was something else hiding. Something that made her narrow her eyes in irritation: amusement. “Is that the reason you’ve been avoiding me?”

Insolent man.

And yet the worst part, the absolute, gut wrenching worst was that his question sent her heart into a furious gallop. Because the little bastard was in fact right. She had been avoiding him. And for some stupid, unexplainable reason, he did make her nervous.

Her eyes snapped to his, stormy and defiant, though her treacherous and undesirable blush deepened at the calm, knowing timbre of his voice. Seven hells, she would punch him. Gladly. Enthusiastically.

“Avoiding you would imply you are worth the effort,” she said coolly. “Do not flatter yourself.”

Rhaegar’s grin widened, slow and insufferably pleased. “Ah, indifference. That explains why your face currently matches Viserys’ dragon.”

Lyanna’s gaze darted to the toy. Bright, blazing red.

She would kill him. She truly would. This smug, unbearably self-satisfied version of him that had returned from Essos, arrogant, lazy smiled, overconfident... She despised him. Yes. Absolutely. Entirely.

Lyanna narrowed her eyes, reinvigorated by pure spite. She refused to let him win.

“Believe what you wish,” she said crisply. “I’m leaving because I have far more important engagements than entertaining your endless quips.”

“Important engagements?” he echoed, one brow lifting in feigned innocence.

“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin, summoning all the icy Stark dignity she possessed. Then, with a perfectly timed pause that would’ve made even Lady Cersei Lannister proud, she added, casually, “I am to dine with Lord Baratheon this evening. And my brother. And your family.”

That wiped the lazy amusement clean off his face.

And for a heartbeat, Lyanna almost let herself get carried away by satisfaction. She almost smiled.

It was brief, the kind of blink-and-you-miss-it brief, but it was there: a tiny fracture in his insufferable confidence. His expression faltered, just for a heartbeat, like a man who’d mis-stepped on the last stair. Whatever that could mean, she didn't want to think about it. 

But then he recovered. Too quickly. Far too quickly.

“Dinner with Robert, is it?” he said at last. “I trust the meal will be hearty, if nothing else.”

Lyanna smiled sweetly, savoring the subtle shift in his demeanor. Hard to notice if one didn’t know him, but she did. “I’m sure it will be,” she replied brightly. “Robert has such an appetite, after all. For everything.”

“I bet he does,” he muttered, this time, dry as Dornish sand.

“Come, Vis,” she called, turning with exaggerated nonchalance. Viserys scrambled up at once and rushed to her, his little hand slipping eagerly into hers. Lyanna felt her heart soften. “Let’s take you to your mother,” she said warmly. “I can’t be late for dinner.”

She smiled then, not a polite, courtly smile, but a triumphant, wicked little curve of her lips as she glanced back over her shoulder.

He was still standing exactly where she’d left him, arms loosely crossed, brows drawn just so, his entire expression a carefully elaborated mask that utterly failed to hide his irritation. (Why exactly would he be irritated by such a thing, she could not say. And perhaps, it was better that way.)

Lyanna turned before she could laugh outright. Behind her, she heard it: A soft huff, as if he couldn't quite decide whether to scold her or chase after her. The sound only widened her smile.

“Are you coming or not?” she called teasingly without looking back.

He didn’t answer.

But when she dared one final glance, he was still rooted to the spot, watching her walk away with those enigmatic, beautiful eyes that held no lazy smirk this time, only a faint, unsettled beginning of a frown.

For once, it was Lyanna who left him speechless.

It felt marvelous.

That night, Ned and Robert dined with the King, the Queen, Prince Rhaegar, and Lyanna. The feast was held not in the vast throne room, but in one of the smaller halls, warm and intimate. King Aerys himself had offered it for their gathering, a gesture that spoke more loudly than any proclamation. So fond were the royal family of Lyanna, it seemed, that they wished to honor her presence with gentler splendor.

Lyanna sat beside the Queen, a place of quiet distinction. She wore a gown of deep crimson that spilled like wine, and Ned saw Robert stare more than once, staring with the open, boyish awe Robert never tried to hide. Lyanna, however, seemed oblivious, or perhaps intentionally so.

What struck Ned most were the easy exchanges between his sister and the Queen. They spoke as if they were mother and daughter, soft smiles, low laughter, small confidences shared between courses. Lyanna moved with a grace she had not possessed when she left Winterfell, she had been spirited and sharp then, full of wild impulses and mud stained boots. But here, she was composed, refined, almost ethereal. A perfect lady.

No doubt, this was the Queen’s doing.

A pang of pride, surprise, and perhaps even unease twisted in Ned’s chest. What would Father say if he saw her now? Rickard Stark rarely spoke of Lyanna, and when he did, his words were restricted and cold, as if still punishing her in his mind for whatever had driven him to send her south. Yet, whatever his intentions, the arrangement had shaped her well. Better than any of them could have predicted.

Even King Aerys, seated at the head of the table in all his regal splendor, seemed charmed by her. At one point, Lyanna made a clever remark, Ned could not even recall what it was, something about a jest the King himself had begun, and King Aerys laughed, loud and amused, his jeweled goblet flashing in the firelight.

“A sharp tongue, this one,” the King declared with rare warmth, tipping his cup toward her. “It’s a wonder she is not seated on the council already.”

Lyanna laughed softly, and the Queen smiled at her with fondness.

And Ned, watching them all, felt the strange sensation of seeing his sister as the rest of the world saw her: not as the girl who raced destriers through the Wolfswood, but as a young woman who somehow, belonged here.

Yet it was not Lyanna alone who held Ned’s attention. The crown prince had a way of unsettling the air around him.

Rhaegar Targaryen was everything the realm whispered of and perhaps more: imposingly tall, beautiful in that haunting Valyrian way, his violet eyes cool and reserved. There was a stillness to him, a quiet gravity that seemed to pull the room toward him even when he said nothing. He listened more than he spoke that night, and yet men shaped their conversations around him as if he were the sun. People claimed he would one day outshine even his father’s reign. Ned could believe it.

And still, there was something about the man that put him on edge. Perhaps it was the prince’s inscrutable calm, or the silence behind his eyes. Whatever it was, Ned found himself watching him more closely than he had intended.

As Robert regaled the King with tales of wild boars and near death hunts, his voice loud, his hands carving through the air like swords, Ned’s gaze kept straying down the table. He observed the small things, the quiet ones others missed. The way Prince Rhaegar’s attention drifted, not rudely, but inevitably… toward Lyanna. The way Lyanna, who rarely softened for anyone, almost smiled whenever Rhaegar offered a comment or a quiet remark.

It was nothing overt. Nothing improper. A lesser man might have dismissed it entirely. But Ned had always been a watcher of details, and a keeper of silences.

He noticed because he was built to notice. And once he noticed, he could not unsee it.

It was during one unremarkable moment, Lyanna reaching across the table for the wine, that the truth of his unease crystallized. Her hand brushed the prince’s arm. So lightly it might have been accidental. So briefly it might have meant nothing.

But Rhaegar turned his head immediately, as if her touch had spoken louder than any word. Lyanna’s gaze met his.

One heartbeat.

Two.

No words exchanged. No smiles offered for show.

Yet there was something there. Something that passed between them in the breath of a second. Something quiet and unspoken.

Like a warmth that should not have existed at all, that had no place between them.

Ned looked away first, unsure why the sight unnerved him.

Ned swallowed thickly.

When the meal ended and the company rose to exchange polite farewells, Ned found himself gravitating toward his sister and the prince.They stood near the archway, half veiled behind a carved pillar, speaking in low tones that suggested the sort of conversation meant for two sets of ears only. Robert, meanwhile, remained engrossed in regaling the King with some exaggerated hunt, his booming laughter echoing through the hall.

“I’ve been told I ought to sing more often,” Rhaegar was saying as Ned approached, his voice easy and lilting, humorous, like he had not imagined the prince to be. “The court grows restless if I go too long without subjecting them to my laments.”

Lyanna, of course, met his jest with fire. “You don’t sing for the court,” she countered boldly, her tone dancing on the line between teasing and insolence. “You sing for yourself. You enjoy the sound of your own voice far too much, Your Grace.” the title she mentioned with mockery.

Ned nearly stumbled. Gods. Did she speak like that to everyone now, or was this a privilege reserved for the crown prince?

Rhaegar’s brow lifted, subtle, but amused. “Does my lady think me so vain?”

“I do, actually. And you know that.” The two exchanged a smile, brief and bright, like a secret. Their laughter followed, soft, unforced, entirely too comfortable.

And Ned felt a prickle of unease.

He cleared his throat, and they turned toward him at once. Lyanna with open warmth, Rhaegar with that composed attentiveness that made Ned feel both seen and measured.

“Your Grace,” Ned said, offering the prince a respectful inclination of the head before addressing his sister. “Lya.” His voice was steady, though he could sense the weight of Rhaegar’s gaze lingering, quietly assessing. “Would you like me to escort you to your chambers? We can speak on the way.”

Lyanna’s brows lifted slightly in surprise, but her smile was gentle. Rhaegar merely watched, still and almost unreadable, giving nothing away.

And Ned, for reasons he did not yet dare name, felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise.

Lyanna tilted her head slightly, her curiosity plain and disarmingly innocent when she asked: “What is it, Ned?”

“I only thought we might have a word. That’s all,” he replied, offering the most neutral smile he could muster.

For a moment, she regarded him with that evaluating look she had inherited from their mother, as though she were trying to determine whether he meant to scold her or simply bore her with some brotherly reminder. Then her expression softened, her lips quirking into a warm, familiar smile.

“Very well,” she said, slipping her arm through his with easy affection. “Lead on, my ever dutiful brother.”

She turned back toward Rhaegar, her eyes bright with mischief. “See you on the morrow, my prince.”

Her tone was teasing, almost wickedly so. Ned expected offense, or at least a stiffening of regal pride. Instead, Prince Rhaegar’s eyes warmed and he returned a subtle, almost private smile. 

It unsettled Ned more than any open impropriety could have.

As they walked away, Ned couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder. Prince Rhaegar still stood exactly where they had left him, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His gaze remained fixed on Lyanna’s retreating figure, not lasciviously, nor inappropriately, but intently. Thoughtfully. Long enough that Ned was certain the prince had forgotten himself for a heartbeat.

Then, as though sensing he should not linger, he turned and disappeared into the corridor.

Whatever strange bond had sparked between them, whatever quiet complicity existed, it was subtle. Subtle enough that no one else seemed to notice. Certainly not Robert, who saw only what he wished to see, and whose infatuation was too singular and too loud to make space for suspicion. And perhaps Ned’s anxiety was foolish. Perhaps it was nothing at all.

Yet his gut tightened all the same. A Stark’s instincts were honed by long winters, after all.

“What did you want to talk about, Ned?” Lyanna asked lightly as they walked, her tone careless, unaffected… simply unconcerned.

Ned hesitated, piecing his words with the same care he used when handling steel. The last thing he wanted was to alarm her or provoke that wildfire temper she sometimes adopted when she sensed condescension.

“I was only wondering…” he began carefully. Her brow arched, amused and patient. “You seem to spend quite a bit of time in the prince’s company. Are you two… close?”

He tried to make it sound offhand, casual, innocent in its curiosity.

Lyanna frowned, just a fleeting knit of her brow, before answering with the effortless simplicity of honesty, “We are friends.” There was nothing defensive in her tone, no hesitation. “We grew up together here. He was my very first friend in King’s Landing.” She tilted her head ever so slightly, studying her brother now with open curiosity. “Why do you ask, Ned?”

Ned shifted his weight, suddenly aware of how closely she was looking at him, as though she could see right through whatever careful neutrality he was trying to maintain. “It’s nothing,” he said too quickly, and knew she heard it. “Only that… you seem to get along well.”

“We do.” A smile tugged lightly at her lips. And then, because Lyanna had always been sharper than she pretended and was given credit for, she added, “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s nonsense.” She nudged him playfully with her shoulder, though her eyes remained steady. “He is my friend, nothing more. And in case you’ve forgotten, he is to marry Cersei Lannister.”

She paused, letting that sink in before continuing with a soft, almost chiding sweetness. “Do not chase ghosts where there are none, dear brother.”

Ned wanted to believe her. She sounded sincere.

“So I’ve heard,” he replied, keeping his tone even. “And you are to marry Robert.” His eyes flicked to her, searching her face. “Has your regard for him grown these past days?”

At this, Lyanna’s smile faded, not entirely, but enough to betray the truth beneath. Her steps slowed, and her tone was steady but carried a quiet question of its own. “Does that… matter?” she asked. “Would it change anything at all if it had?”

She cast him a sidelong glance, half-smile curling at the corner of her mouth, as if she already knew the answer to the question, and this was simply a trap for him.

Ned frowned, unsure whether she was mocking him gently or simply stating what they both knew. “No,” he admitted. “It would not.”

“I presumed as much,” she murmured. Light words, delivered casually.

“Lya…” Ned tried again, this time with the tenderness of an older brother who could only offer what little reassurance the world allowed. “You should give Robert a chance. You may find, in time, that he has his virtues too. He is a good man too… and he’ll cherish you as a husband ought.”

He spoke the words sincerely, yet even as he said them, he could sense the tension beside him, the quiet way Lyanna’s breath shifted, the way her gaze slid ahead to some distant corner of the hall as though trying to imagine the life waiting for her.

Lyanna halted mid step, turning to face him. The smile she’d worn before slipped away like a silky veil in the wind. In its place was something far more honest: a weary defiance.

“He is a good man too, you said.” She repeated his previous words. “As though you are holding him against someone else. As though there is some… competition I am meant to judge. Truly, brother... what are you trying to say?”

Ned swallowed. He hadn’t intended to irritate her, only to reassure her, though clearly he’d done neither. Still, he pressed on. “I’m only saying Robert would be a good match for any woman. You should feel fortunate. He’s well liked, strong, commands respect... he’ll care for you. That much I’m sure of.”

“For the old gods’ sake, Ned,” Lyanna burst out, flinging her hands up. “Are you certain you’re not the one infatuated with Robert? You praise him more devotedly than any septa praises the Seven. I swear, sometimes you sound like his bard. You give him far more credit than he deserves.”

Ned stiffened despite himself. The jab struck deeper than he cared to admit. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, a shade too sharp now. “And perhaps you give him less credit than he deserves.”

Lyanna exhaled, shoulders easing just a fraction. The fight left her voice as quickly as it had come. “I know. Forgive me. I understand what you’re trying to say, I do.”

“Robert is everything a noblewoman ought to want. Handsome. Charming. Generous. A great house behind him. And I am not blind to that.”

Ned felt a flicker of relief, until she spoke again.

“Then why do you resist?” he asked, frustration creeping into his voice like a rising tide. He tried to understand her. Tried to make sense of her contradictions, her stubbornness. “Why can’t you just be thankful for what you’ve been given?”

Lyanna’s head snapped toward him, her pale, grey eyes narrowing, flints sharp.

“Thankful?” she echoed, incredulous. “Truly, Ned? Is that what you think?”

“I am well aware of my blessings,” she continued, her voice now irritated. “I know I have been granted a match most ladies dream of. But let us not pretend this is some great boon I should fall to my knees in gratitude for.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice.

“Tell me something, brother. Would you feel grateful, thankful, if you were handed over to a stranger you barely knew? Because it was deemed proper? Because it was convenient? Because someone else decided it should be so?”

Ned opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He had no answer. Not one he could speak aloud, anyway.

“Of course not,” Lyanna said before he could try. “And you wouldn’t understand.” Her voice held a bright edge now, irritation sharpened into honesty. “You’re a man, Ned. And a second son besides.” She lifted a hand, as though weighing something small between her fingers. “That alone buys you freedoms you don’t even think about.”

She continued walking, though her voice didn’t soften.

“You will choose your own wife one day. Court her. Speak vows to a woman you know, a woman you desire.” She cast him a look over her shoulder, weary and cutting all at once. “My fate is far simpler. I am as valuable as an expensive brood mare, sold to whichever man suits the moment’s convenience. And I am expected to receive this and smile,” she added bitterly, “and call it a blessing.”

Her words struck him like a slap, not because they were cruel, but because they were true. 

Lyanna exhaled, this time a soft, tired sigh, and resumed their slow walk. “I do not mean to sound ungrateful,” she murmured, her voice lowering. “I know Robert is a good man. You’ve said it enough for me to believe it, and I trust you. But please…” She shook her head, more tired than angry now. “Spare me the lectures. I know my duty. And I will do it. You need not worry.”

They continued in silence, the tension ebbing like a tide. Ned searched for the right words... He was better at keeping oaths than making speeches. And finally managed, quietly: “I only want what’s best for you, Lya.”

And he meant it. He loved his sister fiercely. He could not imagine a better man for her than Robert, who loved her openly, almost foolishly, who had sung her praises in every hall from Storm’s End to King’s Landing. Robert, who swore he would make her a queen fit for song, who dreamed only of her. A man Ned trusted as he trusted few in the world.

He believed, truly, that Robert would cherish Lyanna as no one else ever could.

Lyanna stopped once more and faced him. This time her smile was soft, small and real and tinged with a sadness she didn’t bother to hide.

“I know, Ned,” she said gently. “And that is why I forgive you.”

Chapter Text

The day his betrothal to Cersei Lannister was announced, the Red Keep buzzed with whispers of satisfaction. It was a match most lords would envy, a union between the might of the Targaryens and the wealth of House Lannister. That day, at noon, Rhaegar met with his father and Lord Tywin in the solar. The conversation was brief but decisive, every word measured like pieces in a game. The betrothal was sealed with little ceremony, save for the solemn nods of agreement exchanged between the men. The King was pleased, and so was Lord Lannister.

Lord Tywin was satisfied, his calculated smirk suggesting the realization of ambitions long nurtured. His father seemed content as well with such advantageous match. The golden lioness of Casterly Rock, Lady Cersei herself, was radiant when the news was delivered to her. 

As the sun dipped into the horizon, a feast was held in honor of the betrothal, a grand affair hosted by Tywin Lannister and the Crown. The hall was awash with golden light from a thousand torches and chandeliers, their glow reflecting off Cersei's emerald green gown, chosen, no doubt, to complement her striking eyes. She looked luminous, more beautiful than ever, every inch the queen she aspired to be.

“I have never wanted anything so much in my life,” she confessed softly to Rhaegar as they dined. Her voice was low, just for his ears, the shyness in her tone an affectation that didn’t escape his notice.

“You honor me with your words, Lady Cersei,” he replied, his voice smooth and controlled, perhaps too controlled, for it held none of the fervent enthusiasm she so clearly wished to draw from him.

Still, she glowed beside him like a maiden sculpted for display. Her golden curls spilled artfully over her shoulders, her smile fixed with an almost blinding brilliance. Cersei Lannister excelled at this, at charm, at poise. She laughed softly at compliments, her lashes fluttering at precisely the right moments. She presented herself as the very image of the future queen Westeros had always imagined.

And he could hardly deny her beauty. If aesthetics alone made a marriage, then yes, he was fortunate indeed.

Yet as goblets clinked and musicians played and well wishers approached their table, Rhaegar felt the already far too familiar veil of distance slide over him. Beneath the roar of the celebration, he felt like an onlooker at his own life, a man watching himself perform from far across the hall.

He had lived his whole life on a stage, but tonight, the role chafed more than usual. He was bored... dangerously bored. Bored of smiling, bored of nodding, bored of repeating vows of gratitude he did not feel. All he wanted was escape, to a quiet chamber, a song, solitude. Anything that did not require him to sparkle for the sake of other people’s joy.

Cersei’s hand brushed his, drawing him back. A gentle touch at first, then more intentional as her fingers curled around his.

“I’d like to tell you something, my prince,” she murmured, her voice dipped low and silk smooth, crafted to be intimate. “I promise” her green eyes shimmered with adoration “I will be the most perfect wife you could ever want.”

Rhaegar regarded her, blinking once. She truly meant it, or believed she did, which was nearly the same thing in courtly life. He offered her a smile, small and polite.

“I’ve no doubt of it, Lady Cersei,” he said quietly. “And I shall endeavor to be a husband worthy of such perfection.”

Her face lit with delight, genuine delight. Her fingers tightened around his, her smile brightened, and she angled herself closer with all the grace she could muster. He noticed, with automatic, primal male appreciation, how striking she looked when she smiled at him like that. Yes… undeniably pleasing to the eye.

A faint smirk tugged at his own lips as an unbidden thought crossed his mind: Lyanna calling him a simpleton some days prior, her mockery sharp as a blade. If she could hear his current musings about Cersei’s beauty, she would surely confirm her diagnosis. Likely with a lecture. And perhaps a thrown apple.

He exhaled through his nose, a breath that was nearly a laugh.

Yes, he supposed he was content with the match. Content enough.

Yet as his thoughts drifted, wandering far from the hall, Lady Cersei tilted her head toward him.

“You are quiet tonight, my prince,” she said gently. “Forgive me… I would not wish to bore you with my girlish chatter of romance and promises. If you wish to change the subject, say so, and I shall oblige. I would never impose dull conversation upon you.”

That stung more than it should have... and not at her fault. If she had begun to apologize for his boredom, then he must truly look as lifeless as he felt.

For a moment, he pitied her.

She had done nothing wrong. Nothing at all. She had been perfectly pleasant, perfectly composed, perfectly willing to admire him. She did not know the other side of him, the quiet detachment, the wandering introspection, the stretches of silence that swallowed his attention whole at times.

Would her disillusion begin here?

Would this be the first night she learned the truth of him, that the dragon she wished to charm often retreated into cold thought, leaving little warmth for others?

Her eyes, wide, bright and far too hopeful, watched him as though every breath rested on whatever he would say next. Gods, she was trying. So hard. And he, in turn, could not summon even half the effort she offered him.

Before he could form a reply, something polite, something reassuring perhaps, his mother’s presence drew his attention. He saw her approach through the corner of his eye, serene and elegant, her footsteps soft among the din.

“Rhaegar,” Queen Rhaella murmured as she reached them, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “May I steal you for a moment?”

“Of course, Mother.”

He rose at once, secretly grateful for the interruption. Turning to Cersei, he inclined his head with the courtesy expected of a crown prince. “If you will excuse me, Lady Cersei. I shall return shortly and answer your question. Please, wait for me.”

For the briefest flicker of an instant, her smile faltered, just a tiny crack in her façade, before she recovered, regal once more.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she replied.

Perfect, as always. Perfect enough for any king.

Even one who could not seem to feel present beside her.

His mother guided him toward a quieter corner of the hall, quieter being a generous term, as the music and laughter still pulsed through the air like a heartbeat impossible to escape. Rhaella studied him for a moment, then glanced back toward Cersei, then returned her gaze to her son.

It was the look she always had when connecting threads, weaving conclusions from silence.

“She is very beautiful,” she said at last, a faint smile warming her features. Yet beneath it lingered an inquisitive look, as though she were testing the air for a scent only mothers could detect.

“She is,” Rhaegar answered, lightly, almost dismissively, and he knew full well she would hear the subtleties. His mother had always been too perceptive for his comfort.

Rhaella’s brows rose, delicately. “And yet…” Her voice softened into that knowing tone he’d never managed to argue with. “You do not seem nearly as enchanted as she is with you.” She folded her hands, the movement elegant and calm. “Your father may have arranged this match without consulting anyone, not unusual... But tell me, Rhaegar…”

Her eyes held his. “Are you content with the bride he has chosen for you? Or is your disquiet… unrelated to her?”

He sighed, quietly. Not out of frustration, but out of the bone deep fatigue of being known too well.

“Nothing is wrong,” he said, though the words felt thin even to him. “And yes… it is a good match. Politically, it is impeccable. Father believes it the most advantageous union for the crown, and in that, I cannot disagree.”

He didn’t add the rest. That politics and perfect beauty did little to occupy his mind, which drifted incessantly to other matters. Other people. Other conversations. Other smiles.

That Cersei’s infatuation felt like some garment he was expected to wear. That he’d rather be in the library, or even sparring with Arthur, anything but this repetitive performance.

Rhaella exhaled softly, her expression dimming with resignation. “Politics and love rarely walk hand in hand,” she murmured, brushing her fingers against his cheek the way she used to when he was a boy. “Your father has made his decision, and Lord Tywin…” She hesitated, a shadow crossing her features. “Lord Tywin has secured what he wanted. I do not wish to sow doubts in your mind unless they already exist.”

Her thumb brushed his jaw, a gesture both tender and apologetic. “I ask because you are my son. And because I care.”

He leaned subtly into her touch, it was the closest he had felt to comfort all evening.

“Do not worry, Mother,” he said softly, offering her a small, reassuring smile he did not feel. “I understand.”

When she released him, he slipped back into the flow of the hall, weaving through clusters of merrymakers and courtiers until his steps instinctively sought the path back to his golden betrothed. Yet before he reached her, movement at the corner of his eye caught him off guard.

Lyanna.

She was laughing at something, he couldn’t hear the sound from where he stood, but he didn’t need to. He knew her laugh well enough to imagine it: warm, bright, a little wild when something truly amused her. She stood with Robert and her brother, the picture of northern beauty in an elegant gown of pale blue that caught the light whenever she shifted. The color suited her startlingly well, soft enough to be ladylike, yet cold enough to hint at the storm beneath.

His gaze drifted down the lines of her gown, the way the fabric draped over her body with deceptive modesty, revealing just enough to suggest the strong, slender figure beneath. Lyanna’s beauty demanded nothing and yet claimed everything... it never pleaded for admiration, it simply existed, and the world took notice.

He wondered if she realized the effect she had when she laughed like that, when she stared with her pale grey eyes or wrinkled her little freckle-dusted nose in amusement.

Surely not.

Knowing her, she was likely unaware of half the gazes drawn to her.

The thought made him smirk lightly, nearly amused.

Robert leaned closer to her then, beaming like a lad granted his first sword. Whatever he said drew a bright flush to Lyanna’s cheeks and an unrestrained laugh bursting from her lips. Robert barked his own thunderous laugh in answer, clearly delighted with himself. For a fleeting moment, he looked as though the gods themselves had delivered him the choicest treasure in all the Seven Kingdoms.

And Lyanna laughed again, utterly, gloriously alive.

Rhaegar felt something unpleasant twist faintly within him.

It wasn’t jealousy. No, he wasn’t foolish enough to name it that.

But the sight… displeased him.

What could Robert Baratheon possibly say that merits that kind of laughter?

The man had all the subtlety and the wit of a warhammer. And she had the audacity to call him a simpleton.

Somewhere between one step and the next, he found himself standing once more beside his beautiful betrothed. Cersei welcomed him with a dazzling smile, one she had likely rehearsed since girlhood. Yet his eyes kept flickering back toward the table where Lyanna stood, shining with life, flushed with laughter, impossibly radiant among the crowd.

Bright as the morning star.

His wandering thoughts were interrupted by the soft whisper of footsteps. A sweep of green silk entered the edge of his vision, gliding with all effortless certainty. Cersei. The crowd seemed to part instinctively for her, as if unwilling to disrupt so perfect a picture of maidenly grace. Her golden curls shimmered each time she moved, catching torchlight.

“My prince,”  she called. Her lips curved into a smile crafted with care. Her emerald eyes lingered on his face with open admiration, but not before flicking, for the briefest, sharpest moment, toward the direction in which his gaze had been wandering earlier. He felt the subtle shift in her attention, and he looked away before it became a question.

“Yes, my lady,” Rhaegar said, offering her a polite smile. Already, curious gazes were settling on them, on the freshly forged union that so many had waited years to see. The prince and the lioness.

But Cersei Lannister was not a woman to be deterred by a courteous smile, apparently.

“You seemed distracted,” she observed lightly, her fingertips brushing his sleeve in a touch so intentional it might as well have been some kind of declaration. “Surely the evening has not tired you already?”

He almost smiled at that. Almost.

“I was merely observing,” he replied, his tone mild, though threaded with dry amusement. “The hall is rather lively tonight.”

“Oh, it is,” she agreed. “Everyone is here to celebrate us.” She let that last word linger. “As I said before... I would hate to think my company has driven you to boredom this early in the night.”

Boredom. He hoped it was not written that plainly upon his face. But it was not her fault.

Then he recalled her earlier question, left unanswered when his mother swept him away.

“Lady Cersei…” he began, “to return to what you asked before. No. You do not bore me. In truth, I am grateful for your kindness. I fear I do not deserve such praise, but you have it in generous measure. I only ask your indulgence if my mind wanders. It is… a habit of mine. One few understand.”

Her lips parted in surprise, genuine, he suspected. Perhaps she had expected formality, some practiced lines, something colder. Not candor. Not this gentle explanation of a nature she had yet to learn.

Her smile blossomed anew, warmer this time, a glimmer of triumph beneath the sweetness.

“I understand more than you may think, my prince,” she said, voice low and now almost intimate. “And if your thoughts wander, I hope one day they wander toward me. I should very much enjoy being the object of your… attentions.” She dipped her lashes. “If I may be allowed such boldness.”

A ghost of dry amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. Yes, boldness was something Cersei Lannister possessed in abundance.

“Now,” she continued, stepping just a hair closer, enough for him to catch the subtle perfume of lemons and rare myrish amber, “I believe I understand your nature tonight… The hall is too crowded. Too loud. Too warm. Perhaps” her fingers brushed his arm again “a moment of air would do you good, my prince.”

“Shall we?” she smiled.

He hesitated for a moment. A brief pause, barely a blink, but enough to betray an internal debate he doubted Lady Cersei could miss. And yet, she looked so very sure of herself, of him, that he simply nodded and allowed her to lead him outside.

With a smile bright enough to illuminate half of Lannisport, she slipped her arm through his. Satisfaction radiated off her beautifully. She guided him toward the terrace with that confidence of hers, as though the world itself ought to part for their passage.

The night air washed over them the moment they stepped outside, cool, clean, and blessedly free of the clamor inside. Stars pierced the heavens like cold pinpricks of light, distant and beautifully indifferent. The terrace stretched wide and open before them.

A perfect setting for seduction, he supposed. Or for suffocating in polite small talk. Depending on whom one asked. He ought to have felt relaxed out here. He did not.

And Cersei, perceptive in her own way, seemed poised to pounce on the first sign of vulnerability.

She turned to him with big, emerald eyes that looked at him as if he were the sun. Her fingers brushed the back of his hand, feather light but heavy in the intimacy of the touch at the same time.

“You’ve been so tense tonight, my prince,” she said, her voice soft enough as if she were concerned, yet wrapped in sweetness like a sugared fig. “Allow me to ease your burdens.”

There was something in the way she said burdens... as if she imagined herself capable of lifting them, or perhaps replacing them with burdens of her own. She took his hand between both of hers, her thumbs stroking slow, deliberate circles. The gesture was intimate in a manner that left no doubt of her intention.

She continued with her small motions, as though the boredom she confused for anxiety could be pressed out like dough under a baker’s palm. Her touch was warm and slow. Lady Cersei was clearly enjoying the effect she believed she had on him, it gleamed in her eyes, smug and hopeful. And he let her. Mostly out of politeness. And perhaps a bit out of curiosity too. How far would she take this? How much of it was performance? And how much was genuine desire? 

“My mother used to do this whenever she saw me anxious,” she whispered, stepping closer. Her breath ghosted across his skin, scented with jasmine, honey, and the sweetness of one who knew her beauty was a weapon. “I am here to make you feel good.”

Feel good. Gods, was she auditioning for the role of queen or for something else entirely?

He admired her beauty. Anyone with functioning eyes would. But moments like this, this forced, manufactured intimacy she pressed upon him left him feeling more repelled than drawn in. It was all too performed, too transparent, as though she truly believed he might be simple enough (as Lyanna had accused him) to fall to his knees merely because a beautiful woman leaned close and whispered sweet nothings. 

If anything, the irony amused him.

He suspected he might have been far more susceptible to her charms had she exercised even a hint of subtlety. A quieter touch, a glance that wasn’t so practiced, a smile that wasn't so insistent on trying to be noticed by him. As it was, her seduction felt like being hit over the head by a velvet cushion, ostensibly soft, but still very much a blow. Subtlety, not spectacle.

And as he looked at her, she leaned in, slow enough to give him time to anticipate it. Her tender lips brushed his in a kiss soft and teasing, a gentle test of boundaries she clearly intended to break entirely, eventually.

It wasn’t unpleasant at all. Merely hollow, like hearing a song performed with flawless technique but no passion.

Eventually, his body responded on instinct. Mechanical, polite, and certainly lacking any real enthusiasm. And gods, by any reasonable measure, he should have been pleased: a stunning woman throwing herself at him was hardly a tragedy. But he felt… nothing of consequence.

Still, habit guided him. His hand found her waist with a familiarity born not of passion but of repetition, a choreography he had enacted too many times before. The light touch made Lady Cersei smile against his mouth, he felt the triumphant curve of it, pleased simply because she had elicited the appearance of a reaction.

Cersei leaned in, deepening the kiss, her hands sliding up to the back of his neck. She grew bolder by the second. Her touch was warm and eager, too eager. The kind of eagerness that didn’t come from feeling so much as from wanting to desire.

And then, the kiss broke.

She drew back with a radiant smile, her expression shimmering with triumph, as though she had accomplished something meaningful. Her fingers brushed along his cheek with controlled delicacy, her green eyes softened by unmistakable desire.

Lyanna sat at the long trestle table, her goblet untouched, the din of the hall pressing against her ears like a distant roar. Though her dress was a light blue that shimmered faintly even in the faintest trace of torchlight, a compliment to her striking gray eyes, her mood was anything but radiant. The news had not surprised her, yet it had managed to unsettle her all the same.

Ashara had jested earlier, mimicking Cersei Lannister’s likely reaction with wicked accuracy. It should have been amusing. It wasn’t. Not to Lyanna. It grated at her that Lady Cersei would once again get precisely what she wanted. She always did. And Rhaegar... well, Rhaegar was hardly some prize to be snatched up. He deserved better than being another gleaming prize on Cersei Lannister’s mantle. He was just too good for her. Couldn't he see it? 

Ashara had noticed her shift in mood and, mercifully, had let the subject die.

Determined, if only in stubborn pride, not to grant Cersei Lannister victory over her thoughts, Lyanna turned her attention across the table. Ashara now sat beside Ned, who, for all his northern composure, looked perilously close to unraveling under her teasing. His shy half smiles, his stilted answers, it was endearing enough to tug a small smirk from Lyanna. The sight soothed her, briefly. But only briefly.

For then another presence claimed her attention entirely.

Robert.

“You look splendid tonight, my lady,” he declared, his voice cutting through the soft hum of conversation around them. His broad grin was nearly boyish despite the sheer size of him, and with bright confidence, he set his tankard down before her and dropped into the seat Ashara had just vacated.

Lyanna mustered a small, polite smile. It functioned less as warmth and more as armor. She inclined her head, granting him leave to stay. He was, after all, meant to be her husband.

“A lucky man, my cousin, aye?” Robert went on, gesturing with his tankard toward the high table where Rhaegar sat beside Cersei. Cersei had draped a poised hand over the prince’s, her laughter soft and perfectly pleased. Lyanna felt her smile wilt despite herself.

“He took the second most beautiful woman in the realm,” Robert said with a chuckle loud enough to draw glances. “Could’ve done worse, don’t you think?”

Then he winked at her... bold, earnest, utterly without guile.

“Of course, you’re the first, my lady. The fairest of them all.”

Lyanna chuckled softly. Even with her mood soured and her thoughts tangled, Robert Baratheon and his very unsubtle charm had a way of drawing a reluctant smile from her. It was something she’d begun to notice in recent days, an odd talent of his, disarming her when she least expected it.

“You’re too kind, my lord,” she replied, her tone steady, almost formal. “And yes… your cousin is a lucky man. I suppose.”

The words were dutiful, the sort expected of her, yet they sat on her tongue like grit. She swallowed them all the same.

If Robert noticed the strain in her voice, he gave no sign. Or perhaps he noticed and simply bulldozed through it, as was his nature. He leaned in closer, not subtly at all, lowering his voice in a way that still managed to carry halfway down the table. “No luckier than me,” he said, his grin widening. “For here I am, speaking to the most beautiful woman in the room.”

His grin was infectious, his dark beard framing his face handsomely. There was a certain charm to Robert, an earthiness that contrasted sharply with the polished airs of King’s Landing’s nobility. And that, Lyanna reminded herself, was a good thing. She wanted to like Robert, truly, she did. She reminded herself again of her resolve, how often she had told herself to see his merits, to praise his virtues instead of allowing her thoughts to stray.

“I hope I’m not boring you with my sweet talk, my lady,” Robert said, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Though I wager you’d not mistake me for one of those peacocks from the capital, strutting about in their tight breeches, softer than the petals embroidered on their doublets.” He inclined his head toward Lord Jon Connington, who had just entered the hall wearing a particularly fine crimson and gold ensemble.

Lyanna’s lips curved into a laugh, unexpected but genuine. Few at court possessed Robert’s blunt candor, and even fewer wielded it with such boisterous good humor. “You’re incorrigible, Robert,” she said, shaking her head, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Me? Incorrigible?” he echoed, his voice rising in mock outrage. “Nay, my lady, I am a delight! Ask anyone in the Stormlands, and they’ll tell you so!” He seized his tankard, taking a hearty draught of ale before slamming it back onto the table with a satisfying thud. “Why, just the other day, I told a tale so grand it made Stannis crack a smile. Stannis, mind you! The man smiles as often as the Wall thaws.”

Lyanna chuckled, leaning forward slightly. “I don’t believe you.”

Robert slapped the table with a roar of laughter, clearly delighted. “You wound me, my lady! But if you think that’s a tall tale, wait until I tell you about the time I faced down a goat with horns the size of your brother Ned!”

Her laughter bubbled over again. “A goat, you say? What’s this... have you traded your infamous boars for livestock now?”

“It was no ordinary goat,” Robert declared, wagging a finger in mock solemnity. “The beast had eyes like wildfire and a temper to match. Charged me while I was busy charming a farmer’s daughter. Nearly lost my pride and my britches all in one go! Of course,” he added with a wink, “that was years ago, long before I met you.”

Lyanna pressed a hand to her mouth, trying and failing to stifle her mirth. “I’m beginning to think you make up these stories as you go, my lord.”

“And I’m beginning to think you’re too clever for me, my lady,” he countered, his grin softening as he leaned back in his chair. “But enough of this ‘my lord’ nonsense. Call me Robert. The gods know we’ve no need for all these stiff titles.”

For a moment, Lyanna could only laugh at him, her amusement mingled with a growing understanding. She began to see why her reserved, contemplative brother Ned was so drawn to Robert’s company. There was an ease to him, a genuine mirth that could lighten the heaviest of hearts. But as her gaze drifted, it alighted on the high table, and her laughter faltered.

Rhaegar sat there, his Valyrian features sharp and graceful, every inch the prince of songs. His enigmatic eyes rested on his betrothed, the golden haired Cersei Lannister, and his lips curved faintly at something she had said. 

What’s there not to like? she recalled him saying when she had asked about Cersei Lannister in the gardens. His tone had been nonchalant, detached even, but now he appeared content enough. And yet, a pang of disappointment stirred within her... A foolish feeling, for he was nothing more than her friend. She should be happy for him, should she not? He was her friend. Robert, noticing her sudden quiet, followed her gaze.

Whether he had noticed something or not, Lyanna couldn’t say. She tore her gaze away quickly, summoning the most convincing smile in her repertoire: a practiced expression that smoothed over any flicker of doubt Robert might harbor about her lingering glances. “I’m sorry, my lord... I mean, Robert,” she corrected herself, her voice soft but steady. At the sound of his name, his face brightened, his grin warm and eager.

“I’m feeling slightly unwell, that’s all,” she added, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Perhaps it’s the heat. It’s been unbearable all day. Wolves aren’t made for such weather.” 

Robert leaned closer, his blue eyes searching her face with a mixture of concern and jovial charm. “You think too much, Lyanna,” he said with an easy smile. “It’s a feast—smile, drink, laugh. Leave the brooding to Ned. He’s got it down to an art.”

She studied him for a moment, laughing at his latest comment, his features open and unguarded, his entire demeanor brimming with a simple, disarming warmth. Against her will, her lips curved into a small smile. “You’re right, Robert. For once.”

He laughed, his voice rich and booming, and raised his tankard as if to toast her newfound levity. “That’s the spirit!”

Lyanna managed to laugh with him, her voice light and fleeting, but still, her thoughts lingered elsewhere. They hovered on the edges of her mind like shadows, insistent and unyielding.

However, Robert, she realized, had a gift for making her laugh. A skill she hadn’t expected to find so valuable. He was good looking in a rugged, earthy way, and his devotion to her was unmistakable. She could see it in the way his eyes rarely left her, in the way his smile widened with each of her words. There was pride in knowing that the Lord of Storm’s End seemed wholly and completely enamored with her, and she tried to hold onto that small spark of satisfaction.

Throughout the night, she laughed often, finding brief moments of joy in Robert’s company, as well as that of her brother Ned and Ashara. She worked to see the good in Robert, searching for the qualities she might someday grow to love. And for a while, it was enough.

But her fragile contentment shattered the moment her eyes strayed, almost against her will, to where Rhaegar and Cersei Lannister were. Rhaegar, handsome and regal, and beside him, Cersei Lannister. She stood excruciatingly close to him, her every gesture laced with suggestion. Then, as if to drive the dagger deeper, they left the feast together, their departure as seamless as a whisper.

The sight struck Lyanna like a punch to the stomach. She told herself it didn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, but the image of them together remained, an unrelenting thorn lodged in her chest. Despite her best efforts, it soured the rest of her night. She hid it well, though, behind practiced smiles and clever remarks, deflecting any suspicion with ease.

That night, as the noise of the feast faded into silence, she lay alone in her chambers, unable to sleep. She turned restlessly, her thoughts a relentless tide she couldn’t stem. The coolness of the night air did little to soothe her. When she turned her face into the pillow, she felt the telltale dampness of tears, persistent and unbidden. She could not explain why they came, nor could she will them to stop.

Chapter Text

Lyanna’s lips were pressed into a tight line, her brow furrowed in deep concentration as the stiff bristles of the brush glided over Midnight’s sleek, dark coat. The mare stood obediently under her hand, save for the occasional flick of her tail, until Ashara approached. At the sound of her steps, Midnight snorted and stamped a hoof, her movement sudden and sharp enough to make Ashara jump back with a startled gasp.

“For the Seven’s sake!” Ashara exclaimed, placing a hand over her chest as though to steady her racing heart. “I’m not sure who’s in a fouler mood, your beast or you.” She wrinkled her nose, taking another cautious step away from the mare.

Lyanna’s eyes rolled skyward, her loose braid slipping over her shoulder as she kept brushing. “Midnight has better manners than most people, Ashara. Though, judging by your reaction, perhaps she was right to be wary.”

Ashara raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. “Well, she’s certainly as prickly as her mistress. And you,” she said, narrowing her gaze, “are in no ordinary temper. Is it the news of your father’s arrival? Or is there some other mystery behind that storm cloud of a face?”

The mention of her father sent an involuntary ripple of tension through Lyanna, though she hid it behind another stroke of the brush. Ned had delivered the message the day after Rhaegar’s betrothal, solemn as ever: their father was traveling to King’s Landing to seal the deal with Robert Baratheon.

Why couldn’t he just send a raven with his blessing? Did he have to come in person, to make a show of his supposed concern for his only daughter? No doubt he wished to project an image of civility, to prove to the southerners that the Starks weren’t the frozen savages they were so often accused of being. It was infuriating, truly.

But if Lyanna was being honest with herself, she knew, deep down, that her father’s visit wasn’t the sole reason her mood had soured so much. And that only made matters worse, she thought with frustration.

“Ashara,” she warned, her tone clipped. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk about the fact that you’re brooding over something and refusing to admit it? Oh, never mind. I think I already know what’s got you all out of sorts.” Ashara flounced onto a nearby bench, smoothing her skirts with an air of exaggerated nonchalance.

Lyanna arched an eyebrow, her hands never pausing in their rhythm over Midnight’s coat. “Do you? Pray, enlighten me, Lady Dayne. What wisdom have you divined?”

Ashara leaned forward, her voice dropping to a rare, serious whisper. “I would, but I fear my answer might ruffle your feathers even more than they already are.”

Lyanna snorted, the sound half a laugh, half exasperation. “Since when has Ashara Dayne ever refrained from speaking her mind? Go on, out with it.”

Ashara’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Oh, very well. The reason for your mood,” she murmured, nodding subtly toward the stable door, “has just walked in.”

Lyanna stiffened, the brush pausing mid stroke. Slowly, she moved her head to see him.

Rhaegar.

He strode into the stables with that unhurried confidence that always seemed to precede him. His gaze swept the space, and before Lyanna could blink, a stable boy darted forward, stumbling over himself to greet the crown prince. They exchanged a few quiet words she could not catch, the boy nodding feverishly before hurrying off toward Rhaegar’s magnificent stallion.

But Rhaegar’s eyes did not follow the boy.

They moved elsewhere, as if searching, assessing maybe, and then they found her.

Lyanna’s stomach lurched as if she had swallowed river mud. Her skin went cold and hot all at once, her face draining of color only to betray her with a faint blush she was secretly trying to control. She turned sharply to Midnight’s glossy flank, pretending to busy herself with nothing in particular. But she could feel Ashara’s eyes on her, the kind of delighted scrutiny only a friend armed with too much insight could possess.

Gods, she hated this. Whatever this was.

“Stop it,” she hissed under her breath, barely moving her lips, as though Ashara might pounce on her embarrassment if given the slightest invitation.

Ashara’s knowing grin widened, infuriatingly serene. “Stop what? I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are,” Lyanna muttered, glaring at a nonexistent knot in Midnight’s mane.

Before Ashara could reply, his voice cut through the stable’s warm hush, deep and rich and carrying her name with a kind of quiet claim that made her spine jolt.

“Lyanna.”

She didn’t have to turn to know he was walking toward them. She could sense it. His black attire made his light golden skin seem warmer, and his presence was simply… unreasonably distracting. Her cheeks flared again. Her braid slipped off her shoulder, swinging like it, too, was mocking her.

Gods. What had gotten into her?

She pinched the bridge of her nose, willing herself back into herself. Enough. She needed to stop behaving like some milk brained girl seeing a handsome man for the first time. She knew Rhaegar, grew up with him, he was her friend, not—

“Lyanna?” he asked, his tone shaded with real concern as she kept her fingers pressed to her nose. “Are you well? I’ve not seen you since…” His voice trailed off, the unspoken words hanging between them like thick mist.

Since the night of his betrothal.

Gods. Of all the nights to reference.

Before Lyanna could force her thoughts into anything resembling composure, Rhaegar’s attention shifted. His gaze finally landed on Ashara, as though only just realizing she existed. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his handsome features before he masked it with politeness.

“Lady Ashara,” he said, inclining his head. “My apologies. I did not see you there.”

Ashara rose smoothly, though Lyanna knew full well she had been watching the entire exchange with secret amusement. “Think nothing of it, my prince,” she replied, her voice warm but her eyes traitorously sharp as they swept between Lyanna and Rhaegar. “I was just leaving. My brother is off duty, and I promised I would stop by.”

She moved closer, adjusting Lyanna’s shawl with exaggerated delicacy. “Do try to keep your temper,” she murmured under her breath. “You’re wearing it like armor, and he’ll notice. You always get defensive when you’re uncomfortable. You’re terribly transparent.”

Transparent.

Perfect. Just what she needed to hear.

Lyanna shot her a murderous look, but Ashara only smiled like a cat who’d successfully shoved her friend into the lion’s den. With one last purposeful glance at the both of them, she swept out of the stables, her exit so graceful it made Lyanna want to kick a hay bale.

The door thudded shut behind her.

Silence followed, thick, suffocating even.

Lyanna glared at the empty doorway as if she could fry Ashara where she stood. Her friend’s abandonment was far too neat to be accidental. Lyanna cursed her with all her might, silently, of course.

When she turned back, Rhaegar was already closing the distance.

He moved with a calm confidence that made Midnight’s massive presence seem inconsequential. Where Ashara had skirted politely around the mare, Rhaegar slipped under Midnight’s neck without hesitation, as though he’d been working in stables his entire life. It was infuriating, his ease, his competence, the way the horse instinctively trusted him and respected him.

And then he emerged on her side.

Far too close.

Lyanna stiffened instantly. The stable, once spacious, seemed to shrink around them. His scent filled the air, warm, clean, tinged with leather and something else she could not identify. Her pulse kicked at her ribs with embarrassing enthusiasm.

Why was he so close?

And why did he have to smell so gods-damned good?

Why couldn’t he smell like, say, a normal person? A little sweat, a little horse, maybe a hint of manure to even the odds?

But no. The gods had granted him a perfect face, imposing height, a voice like warm wine, and now a scent that made her brain misfire.

It was unfair.

And incredibly inconvenient.

“Hmm.” His voice cut through the quiet, low, steady, and threaded with just enough sarcasm to make her bristle. “I feel we’ve had this conversation before.”

His silver gold hair was tied back from his face, exposing every razor precise line of his Valyrian perfection. “Stop avoiding me, Lyanna. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I'm not avoiding you,” she said, injecting her voice with a light, teasing lilt she did not feel. “Truly, Rhaegar, must everything revolve around you? Has your ego grown so obscenely large that my absence can only mean I’m plotting my escape from you?” Her chin lifted now, daring him. “Perhaps I have my own matters to tend to. Shocking, I know.”

His eyes narrowed, not angrily, but with a quiet, probing intensity that always made her feel far too seen. “And what matters might those be?”

The calmness of his tone was an insult. And his curiosity was evident. And gods, she actually liked that he cared enough to be curious.

“How is that any of your concern?” she snapped, aiming for breezy indifference and hitting defensive instead. Ashara was right: she wore her emotions like a badly fitted cloak. The absurdity of him questioning her however, when he spent his evenings letting Cersei Lannister drape herself all over him, was enough to make her want to kick him. Or scream. Or all three. 

Rhaegar’s mouth curved into that infuriating, slow and small lazy smirk, the one that never failed to make her feel as if she were being studied and toyed with in equal measure. “I’ve always appreciated the way you speak to me,” he mused. “No fear. No hesitation. It’s refreshing.”

She resisted the urge to throw her grooming brush at him.

“But by all means,” he added softly, eyes gleaming with something that looked dangerously close to enjoyment, “indulge my curiosity. Tell me, what occupies you so completely?”

Her brow arched in defiance. Defensive, yes. Predictable, yes. Transparent, absolutely. She hated that she knew it, hated even more that he probably knew it too.

“If you must know,” she said coolly, “my brother has arrived in the capital. And he did not come alone. He brought the man I’m to marry—the man whose company I enjoy and intend to continue enjoying. Surely,” she added, letting the sarcasm drip, “you’re familiar with such customs. Betrothals. Obligations. Spending time with one’s intended.” Her lips tilted into a sweet, poisonous smile. “A concept you should understand intimately now, considering your own betrothed.”

If he’d been amused before, he wasn’t anymore.

Whatever spark had flickered in his eyes before vanished. His face settled into a stillness so controlled it bordered on indifference, no anger, no irritation, nothing at all. Just a clean mask.

The silence stretched.

“How devoted of you,” he said, “to take such joy in your betrothal.” 

Lyanna’s breath hitched. She hadn’t expected that tone, that quiet, subtle sarcasm that slid under her skin like a cold blade. “Why shouldn’t I?” she countered quickly. “Robert is charming, kind, handsome, a great lord… everything one could hope for in a match.”

All of it was true.

And yet none of it felt steady on her tongue. It felt as if she was trying to convince, rather than believing it herself.

“Curious,” he murmured. “You speak as though reciting from a book.”

The casual dismissal in his tone, however, lit a spark of irritation in her chest. Who did he believe he was to make such comments? 

“What exactly are you implying?” she demanded, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing at all,” he replied, shrugging one shoulder in that calm way men did when they didn’t want to argue but were thoroughly unimpressed nonetheless. “Only that your words sound like they lack conviction. But perhaps I’m mistaken.”

Lyanna bristled. “You are mistaken,” she snapped. “I like Robert. In fact, I’d say I’m growing to like him more and more every day.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. He simply regarded her, his penetrating gaze scanning her face as if he could read her thoughts by examining the tiniest twitch of her expression.

His stillness was unnerving.

His silence worse.

At last, he asked, quietly, and almost too calmly: “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, though the words felt foreign on her tongue. “He’s good to me. And I like him.”

He offered her only a tight, controlled smile. “I see. Then I imagine the prospect of marriage is quite thrilling for you.”

“It is,” she replied, matching his smile. “And why shouldn’t it be? As I said, Robert is an honorable man, and I’m fortunate to have such a good match.”

“Fortunate, indeed,” Rhaegar murmured. There was something in his gaze, something that flickered and vanished before she could name it. “Very well,” he said at last, his tone quieter. “My apologies. I didn’t realize such matters were of so much importance to you. I was simply… worried.”

Worried. He had said worried about her.

The word lodged in her chest with unexpected force. Of course he had noticed she’d been avoiding him, she had expected as much of him. She just hadn’t imagined he would actually care. She thought he would simply let it be, allow the distance to widen without question, continue living his perfectly arranged life beside his beautiful betrothed. That would have been easier. Simpler.

But no... He had come looking. Asking. Observing. And she had no idea what to do with that.

She didn’t want to feel this way. She didn’t want to feel anything at all. She didn’t want this senseless ache that kept twisting in her chest whenever she thought of him and Cersei. Gods, why did she feel as if he had wronged her? He hadn’t. He hadn’t done a single thing to deserve her wounded pride.

And yet she felt… Sad. Disappointed. Unsettled in ways she could not explain.

He owed her nothing.

He had made no promises.

He had committed no offense.

His only fault, and she could barely swallow the truth of it, was that she liked him. She liked him badly. Against reason, against good sense, against every rule she had ever been taught.

And that was not his fault. It was hers. Entirely hers.

The realization made her want to scream. It scraped at her insides like something wild and furious trying to break free. Now that she faced it, she could no longer hide from it. Her sour mood, her stubborn avoidance, her irritation whenever he came near, it had all stemmed from the same unbearable truth: She wanted him. And he belonged to someone else.

The offense was not his. How could it be? He couldn’t know what lived in her heart, she had barely understood it herself until this moment. The pain she felt was of her own making.

His “crime,” if it could even be called one, was simply this: another woman had been chosen for him. Or worse, he had chosen her in return.

And Lyanna could not decide which thought hurt more.

And yet, there they were, caught in a tangle of circumstance she had never asked for. She wondered, fleetingly, if he suspected any of this. A foolish part of her almost wished he would notice, wished he’d look at her and simply… know.

But the rational part, the part that still had some sense left, knew better. It would be kinder for him, and safer for her, and easier for everyone involved if this ridiculous, humiliating crush withered quickly and quietly. If she behaved as she ought, thought as she ought, and let each person play the role expected of them without unnecessary complications.

At present, however, she was struggling to even look at him.

His face was calm. Yet his eyes... His eyes seemed to drink her in, amethyst and unblinking, beautiful against the warm gold of his skin. Perhaps she truly did have an overactive imagination, because for one delirious heartbeat she let herself imagine that he was looking at her as though she were the one he wanted.

Were she a more romantic sort of girl, she might have believed it.

But she was not. And she refused to be made a fool of by her own thoughts.

The sudden clatter of hooves and the scrape of boots across the stable floor shattered the charged silence. Lyanna blinked, startled back into herself as a stable boy entered, guiding Rhaegar’s stallion toward them.

The creature was as striking as its master, coal black, powerful, its coat gleaming like obsidian even in the dim light. The boy had to wrestle with the reins, the animal tossing its head with the arrogance of a creature well aware of its worth.

“Your steed, Your Grace,” the boy said, bowing quickly as he offered the reins.

Rhaegar’s gaze lingered on her for a single, elongated heartbeat, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then, at last, he turned to take the horse.

Lyanna watched him despite herself, her breath catching. There was something almost unreal about him in moments like this. The ease with which he laid a hand on the stallion’s neck, the soft murmur meant only for the beast’s ears, the effortless grace with which he swung into the saddle…

His movements were smooth, unhurried, and so natural that they made her chest tighten. His long legs settled into the stirrups easily, his hands calm and expert on the reins. He looked every inch the prince he was supposed to be.

Every inch the man she could not allow herself to want.

And yet, just as he turned his stallion toward the stable doors, his eyes found hers again.

“Lyanna,” he said her name softly.

Only her name, nothing more, yet somehow it carried a weight that made her breath catch. 

“Your Grace,” she answered automatically, far too stiff, far too formal. Gods, what was she doing? She swallowed hard and corrected herself, voice much quieter this time. “Rhaegar.” She forced a smile. Forced calm. Forced every lie she needed to survive this moment. “I’m fine. Nothing is wrong. You do not have to worry. Everything is… perfectly alright.”

For a heartbeat, he simply watched her, studying her with that unsettling stillness of his, as though he might read every thought she was trying desperately to hide. And for the briefest moment, barely long enough to be certain, something subtly troubled passed over his face, disrupting his composure.

Perhaps she had imagined it. And then, it was gone, and replaced by a polite, small smile that did nothing to soothe the ache blooming in her chest.

He nodded once. “I’ll see you around then.”

And with that, he urged his stallion forward, until he vanished entirely.

Lyanna remained rooted in place long after he disappeared from sight, her hands tightening at her sides.

She was in trouble. She was in so much trouble.

Why him? When had this even begun? How had she managed to be so utterly blind to it until now?

Frustration surged within her, hot, confusing, and devastatingly humiliating. She took a deep, steadying breath and forced herself to believe, or to hope, that this was nothing more than some fleeting foolishness. A passing storm of emotions that would soon fade and leave no mark.

It had to be.

Cersei smiled sweetly at the little Targaryen in front of her, though her patience was already wearing thin. Her golden jewelry gleamed in the afternoon sunlight filtering through the high windows of the Red Keep's garden pavilion, where Viserys sat at a low table laden with delicate pastries and tea. He was scowling at the spread as if it had personally offended him.

As the future bride of Rhaegar, Cersei had assured Queen Rhaella that she would be delighted to spend time with the little prince. Rhaella had hesitated, her brow furrowed. “Viserys can be… spirited,” the Queen had warned, her tone polite but cautious when she spoke of her youngest. “He is not always the easiest to manage. Perhaps I should send his septa to accompany you.”

Cersei had dismissed the concern with a laugh that sparkled like sunlight on gold. “Your Grace, I assure you, I’m perfectly capable. How difficult could he be? A young boy is hardly a dragon,” she had replied with a practiced charm, thinking all the while of how she’d seen Lyanna Stark, of all people, coaxing laughter from Viserys.

Lyanna Stark. Just the thought of her name set Cersei’s teeth on edge. There was something insufferably improper about that wolf of the North. The way she carried herself with that wild air, that confidence she held so annoyingly. And worse, the way Rhaegar’s eyes followed her whenever she entered the room, lingering too long, betraying an interest that made Cersei’s blood boil.

Cersei had seen it the night of her betrothal—the prince’s gaze slipping past her, past the assembled lords and ladies, to rest on Lyanna Stark. One look, one long, lingering look, had said more than all the empty courtesies he had offered Cersei that evening. It was intolerable.

That was why she had acted swiftly, pulling Rhaegar away to the gardens. She had kissed him there, pressing her body against his, letting her lips linger on his, whispering promises that made her own cheeks flush. Rhaegar had been stoic as ever, but she had felt the tension in him, the way his hands hesitated before gripping her waist. A wolf could not compete with a lion, she had assured herself. And if not for the rigid demands of courtly decorum, she would have ensured that Rhaegar thought only of her, of what only she could give him. She would’ve fucked him into oblivion.

Now, however, she was stuck with his insufferable younger brother.

“I’m bored,” Viserys declared, his little voice sharp and petulant. His little face was scrunched in displeasure as he prodded at a half-eaten cake with one finger. As if she were enjoying her time with him any more than he was. 

“Why don’t you take your tea?” Cersei suggested, her voice honeyed and coaxing.

“I don’t like tea,” he replied, wrinkling his nose as if she had suggested he drink poison.

“What do you like, then?” she asked, fighting to keep her irritation hidden beneath a mask of sweetness. If she could charm this little brat, he would sing her praises to his mother and brother. And how difficult could that be? She knew how to charm grown men, a little child would be nothing.

“Wine,” he said with an impish grin, clearly testing her.

Cersei raised a brow, her lips curving into a forced smile. “Wine is for grown men, my prince. Surely there must be something else you enjoy?”

“Dragon eggs,” Viserys said immediately, his eyes lighting up.

“Dragon eggs? And where might I find one of those?”

Viserys shrugged, his smile now smug. “You can’t. They’re mine.”

Cersei’s patience frayed further, but she laughed lightly as though indulging a charming child. “Then perhaps you’ll allow me to entertain you in another way. Have you ever played cyvasse?”

“No,” Viserys said flatly, reaching for another cake. “It sounds boring.”

Cersei’s smile tightened. “Then what would you like to do, my prince?”

Without answering, Viserys suddenly took one of the small cakes and hurled it at her, the sugary confection splattering against the sleeve of her fine gown.

Cersei froze, her mouth opening slightly in disbelief. The little monster laughed, his pale violet eyes gleaming with mischief.

“You—” she began, but she caught herself, drawing a deep breath and forcing a smile. “That’s not very princely behavior, Viserys.”

“It’s fun!” he declared, grabbing another cake and aiming it at her again.

“Stop this at once!” she snapped, her patience finally snapping as the second cake hit her cheek.

At that moment, the septa appeared, as if she had been lurking in the shadows all that time, her face a mask of horror as she surveyed the mess. “My prince! What have you done?” she exclaimed, rushing to his side.

“It was her fault,” Viserys said, pointing at Cersei with a wicked grin.

The septa turned to Cersei, who was standing rigid, her gown and cheek streaked with cream and icing. Before she could respond, a familiar laugh rang out behind her.

“Having fun, sister?” Jaime asked, stepping into the pavilion, his green eyes sparkling with true amusement as he took in the scene. “I always thought you had a talent for handling children.”

Cersei turned to him, her eyes blazing as she cleaned the icing from her face with a her hand. “Do not test me, Jaime.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jaime said, smirking as he leaned against the doorframe. “But I have to say, you do wear cake rather well.”

Viserys giggled, clearly delighted by the chaos he had caused, while Cersei glared at both of them. 

The septa quickly ushered Viserys away, the little dragon’s laughter ringing out like a bell in the crisp afternoon air. It echoed through the garden, light and carefree, but each note felt like a nail to Cersei’s pride. She clenched her jaw, a muscle twitching just beneath her porcelain skin, as she dabbed fruitlessly at the sticky remnants of cake smeared across her gown.

From behind her, a familiar voice pierced her indignation like a dagger wrapped in silk. “Seems charming Targaryens isn’t one of your many talents,” Jaime drawled, leaning lazily against the stone archway, his golden hair catching the dappled sunlight. His tone dripped with the most pure amusement, and the smirk that tugged at his lips only added salt to the wound.

Cersei spun to face him, her emerald eyes narrowing into slits of cold fire. “Perhaps not this Targaryen,” she snapped, her voice icy enough to freeze the air between them. “But the one I want is already mine.”

Jaime’s smirk deepened, his amusement undimmed. He crossed his arms over his chest, the movement as casual as it was calculated. “Are you so sure about that?” he asked, his tone light, but the barb landed with precision.

Cersei’s jaw tightened, her nails biting into the silk of her gown. “What exactly do you mean, Jaime?” she demanded, her voice low and sharp, like a blade drawn in warning.

“You seem to be trying so very hard,” he replied, his tone maddeningly nonchalant. “And he… so very little.”

Her nostrils flared, her lips pulling into a venomous sneer. “And you reek of jealousy,” she shot back, her voice laced with venom. “Seriously, Jaime. It’s pathetic. Sad, even. Now, if you’ve come here to fawn over me as you so often do, then stay. But if you’ve come only to mock me, I suggest you leave before you try my patience further.”

Jaime raised a brow, clearly unfazed. “Oh, I came to witness your little performance with the boy prince,” he said, his smirk taking on a sharper edge. “But it seems the curtain fell early.”

“That little brat—” she began, her voice low with fury.

“Careful,” Jaime interrupted smoothly, his tone now carrying a hint of warning. “He’s a prince of the realm, after all. Not some Hetherspoon girl.”

The name hit her like a slap, and she froze, her breath catching in her throat. For a fleeting moment, fear flickered in her eyes, buried beneath her mask of rage. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Shut up,” she hissed, the words trembling with anger.

Jaime tilted his head, his smirk turning wicked, as if her fury only delighted him further, as if the knowledge of the secret that could ruin her was amusing to him.

“No one can ever know,” she continued, her voice sharp and trembling. Melara’s fearful eyes came back to her, if only for a moment, and she suddenly felt the despair, the guilt. She felt scared. “Don’t you dare say it again. Don’t even think about it, Jaime!”

Unfazed, Jaime glanced around the empty garden, as though mocking her paranoia. Finding no prying eyes, he moved faster than she could react, grabbing her arm and pulling her into a shadowed alcove beneath the stone pavilion.

“What are you doing? Let go of me, Jaime!” she hissed, struggling against his grip, but he pressed her firmly against the cold stone wall. His body loomed over hers, his golden hair falling into his eyes as he stared at her with an intensity that made her stomach churn.

“Relax, sister,” he murmured, his voice low and mocking. “You’re always so tense. It’s unbecoming of a lioness.”

“Get off me!” she spat, her voice a mixture of fury and defiance, her hands pushing against his chest.

Jaime didn’t move. Instead, he leaned closer, his breath now warm against her ear. “You spend so much time chasing after him,” he whispered. “Rhaegar, the Targaryens, the crown. But then again, you reject me as if I’m nothing to you. As if you hadn’t pushed your best friend to her death out of jealousy.”

The air between them turned icy, despite the closeness of his body. Her emerald eyes widened for the briefest of moments before narrowing into slits of fire. 

“Poor Melara. She adored me, didn’t she? Always giggling, always trailing after us like some lovesick shadow. But she was never enough for you, was she? Even when you had no reason to feel threatened. Even when she called you her dearest friend.”

Before she could muster a retort, his lips were on hers—rough, insistent, and unrelenting. For a moment, she froze, her mind a storm of anger, fear, and something darker. Then her fury erupted, and her palm cracked across his cheek with a sharp, resounding slap.

Jaime pulled back, his head snapping to the side. For a heartbeat, silence hung between them. Then, slowly, he turned back to face her, his cheek reddened but his smirk unfazed.

“You’re mad,” she hissed, her voice shaking with both rage and the betrayal of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Jaime, her brother, had indeed gone mad—or so it seemed to her these days. Their relationship was strained. She was keenly aware of the tension, the sharp edges of their bond that now seemed ready to cut at the slightest provocation. Jaime had become possessive, his jealousy simmering just beneath the surface as he grappled with the reality that she was promised to another.

He was restless, his eyes burning with a desperation that both unnerved and infuriated her. He claimed to love her, to want her in a way that defied reason or duty. He whispered of escape, of abandoning the expectations of their family and the throne, of leaving it all behind to carve out a life together far from prying eyes and judgmental whispers.

But she could never do such a thing. It was madness, pure and simple. The mere thought of it filled her with equal parts disbelief and anger. She loved Jaime—of that, there was no doubt. But she loved Rhaegar more, she wanted him more than she ever did Jaime. And no matter how much Jaime’s love burned for her, it could never outshine the fire of her desire for Rhaegar

“Stay away from me, Jaime,” she growled, her words trembling with fury.

Jaime chuckled softly, stepping back with deliberate slowness. He raised his hands in mock surrender, the smirk never leaving his lips. “As you wish, sister. But you’ll come back to me,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he turned to leave. “When his cold indifference cuts deeper than your pride.”

Chapter Text

From his perch in the shadows of the dais, Rhaegar watched silently. His violet eyes, sharp and discerning, tracked the figure of his cousin, Robert Baratheon, as the man strode through the yard with all the swagger of a boar lording over its domain.

Beside him, Arthur leaned casually against a pillar, his white cloak falling gracefully over his armor. His tone, however, was far from gracious. “You seem to have fallen prey to Lord Baratheon’s charms,” Arthur drawled, his gaze idly following Rhaegar’s line of sight. “You look at him the way a hawk watches its next meal.”

“Would you—shut up?” Rhaegar snapped, his voice sharp but low, not wanting to draw attention.

Arthur raised a brow, unfazed. “My apologies, Your Grace. I didn’t realize your obsession was a matter of state secrecy.”

Rhaegar ignored the quip, his attention drawn back to the scene below.

There she was: Lyanna. 

Lyanna, who for some inexplicable, thoroughly inconvenient reason had managed to take up permanent residence in his thoughts these past days. It was becoming frankly insulting. He had important things to occupy his mind, affairs of state, trade agreements, council disputes, training sessions squeezed into impossible hours, and yet, beneath all that…

There she was.

And now he was hiding like an idiot beneath the dais, watching her laugh again. Pathetic. Truly pathetic. 

Robert had reached her now, saying something no doubt unseemly or crude, it was often hard to tell with him. Whatever it was, it made Lyanna laugh again, a sound that felt like a dagger twisting in Rhaegar’s side.

“You’re in trouble,” Arthur sighed, his voice tinged with reluctant amusement.

Rhaegar tore his gaze away from Lyanna and fixed it on the knight with a glare. “Do you intend to chatter incessantly, Dayne? Or are you capable of silence?”

Arthur smirked, undeterred. “I speak only to prevent you from embarrassing yourself further. Though I fear I’m too late.” He gestured subtly to their surroundings. “You’ve been standing here for some time now.”

The truth was, Arthur wasn’t entirely wrong. He had been lingering. It was pathetic, unbecoming of a prince. That morning, he’d been in his solar, diligently working through matters of state, preparing for the Small Council that was to be held. He had no reason to be here. Not a single one. Yet when he’d overheard two of the Kingsguard speaking of Robert’s antics on the training field, he’d found himself unable to resist. He told himself it was to ensure Lyanna’s safety, to gauge what kind of man Robert had become. He had to look out for Lyanna, she was family after all. And she had claimed to have fallen for Robert’s charms. 

Robert’s loud laughter pulled his attention back to the field. The man was gesturing animatedly, his broad frame towering over Lyanna. She looked up at him with an expression Rhaegar could only describe as… fond. And that thought made his stomach churn.

“For gods’ sake,” Arthur muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Rhaegar turned to him. “Will you continue to whine, or is there a point to your incessant commentary?”

Arthur straightened, his smirk widening. “Oh, there’s a point, Your Grace. It’s just rather tragic to witness the second most powerful man in the realm hiding behind a pillar to spy on his cousin.”

“I am not spying.” Rhaegar said in his most nonchalant tone he could find.

“Of course not,” Arthur replied smoothly. “You’re merely… observing. From the shadows.”

Rhaegar sent him a flat look. “Stop crafting nonsense in that flowery Dornish head of yours, Dayne. I’m simply looking out for her.”

Arthur’s expression grew more serious. “Looking out for her,” he echoed. “Is that what you call this? If you’re so taken with her, why in the seven hells did you agree to marry Lord Tywin’s daughter? Or is this your idea of safeguarding Lyanna? Lurking in corners while Baratheon sweeps her off her feet? You’re a Targaryen. You could have claimed her if you wanted to. But if you won’t, then what's the point in this?”

Rhaegar inhaled slowly, his irritation held on a taut leash. “That is very poetic, Arthur. I had no idea you were so invested in tales of romance. As I said, I am making sure she is well. My cousin’s reputation with women is not exactly a hymn to courtly honor. That is all.”

“That is all?” Arthur scoffed softly. “Then I fear you delude yourself more than I thought.”

Rhaegar didn’t rise to the bait. He refused to.

Yes, he cared for her. Yes, he worried for her. Anyone with sense would. Robert was a known whoremonger, led more by his appetites than his judgment. It was only natural for Rhaegar to want to ensure Lyanna would be treated with respect.

His gaze drifted back to the yard.

Lyanna stood very close to Robert now, their shoulders nearly touching. Her smile was soft and far too warm for Rhaegar’s peace of mind. She looked… content. More than content. Enjoying herself.

She often spoke of Robert, of how he made her laugh, how his blustering charm amused her, how easy it was to be in his company. And though she never said as much, Rhaegar could hear the truth beneath her words:

She liked him.

A strange, unwelcome twist settled in his chest. It was not pain... Pain would have been too dramatic, too earnest. No, this was something far smaller, far meaner, something he had not felt since boyhood: a sharp little sting of irritation. As if Robert Baratheon, of all men, had any right to make her laugh like that.

In the training yard, squires scrambled to retrieve discarded shields and helms, while knights exchanged laughs and slaps on the back. 

And Robert stood at the center of it all, a giant of a man, his chest rising and falling with the effort of exertion. His dark hair clung to his damp forehead, and his cheeks were flushed crimson from the strain. Yet, even in his disheveled state, his grin was irrepressible, as if he thrived on the chaos of the melee.

“So, Lyanna,” he began, wiping his brow with the back of his hand and looking up at her with those piercing blue eyes. “What did you think of the training today? Wasn’t that a sight to behold?”

Lyanna stood a few paces away, her arms crossed lightly over her chest. The breeze toyed with the loose strands of her dark hair as she observed him with an arched brow. She was dressed simply but elegantly, her riding boots dusted from a morning spent outdoors.

Robert was a force of nature, she mused. A tempest of brute strength and raw energy. He had fought like a champion, his strikes landing with an unrelenting ferocity that could unnerve even the most seasoned knight. But she had noticed, too, the lack of finesse in his movements, the way he relied on sheer power rather than calculated technique.

“I suppose I’ve seen worse,” she replied, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.

That day, she resolved to focus on Robert's virtues. She had reminded herself countless times that he was a good match. A strong, honorable man, handsome even. Yet, no matter how hard she tried, her mind kept betraying her. But what good did that do? What future lay in such foolish fantasies?

With a determined heart and silent prayers to the gods for guidance, she resolved to give Robert a true chance. Robert, who swore with unshakable conviction that he would die for her, whose sky blue eyes burned with an affection so deep and consuming it almost frightened her. Robert, who lacked the allure of Valyrian blood—no eyes that shimmered like liquid amethyst in the light—but instead bore the proud, dark mane of a Baratheon and the stormy beauty of a tempest made flesh.

He was mortal and flawed, and perhaps that was what she needed to remember: love, true love, could be forged through choice as much as destiny. Yet, even as she thought it, the shadow of another’s image lingered at the edges of her mind, and she felt the weight of a conflict she dared not name.

He barked out a laugh, throwing his head back. “Worse? That’s all you’ve got to say after I’ve flattened half the men here?”

“Would you prefer flattery?” she countered, her tone light but sharp. “Shall I sing songs of your strength and bravery to the heavens?”

“Aye, why not?” he said, his grin widening. “Or better yet, let me prove myself. Say the word, and I’ll break the bones of any southern knight here for your amusement.”

Lyanna laughed, decided to find the good in this man, a clear, bright sound that seemed to cut through the clamor of the yard. “And what would that prove, Robert? That you’re strong enough to fell unassuming knights who didn’t ask for a beating?”

“Bah,” he waved her off, his grin unrepentant. “It’d prove that I’d do anything to make my lady smile.”

“Your lady?” she echoed.

“Lyanna Stark,” he said then, leaning toward her with sheer intensity in his gaze. “You’ve already stolen my heart, whether you like it or not.”

She rolled her eyes, though her smile lingered despite his dramatic confessions. “And what use would I have for a heart so full of ale and bravado?”

“Ah, but it’s also full of love” Robert declared dramatically.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps and the sharp voice of an exasperated woman. Lyanna turned just in time to see Viserys darting through the yard, his silver hair gleaming in the sunlight as he ran for his life. Behind him, his septa pursued with a face redder than Robert’s from the melee.

“Viserys!” Lyanna called out, her tone firm but not unkind. The boy skidded to a halt, his violet eyes wide as he looked toward her.

Robert raised a brow, folding his arms. “What’s this? The little dragonling causing mischief?”

Ignoring him, Lyanna beckoned Viserys over. “Come here, little prince,” she said gently. “Your septa looks ready to breathe fire.”

Viserys hesitated for only a moment before running toward her, his small frame colliding with the folds of her gown. “I didn’t mean to make her so cross,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lyanna knelt slightly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. For a moment, her sight rested on the poor woman chasing the little dragon. She looked exhausted. She knew what Viserys was like, and she knew that septa Margelle did not have it easy. “I’m sure you didn’t, but we can’t have you running loose. Let me take you to your mother, hmm?”

“You’re going soft, Lyanna,” Robert teased, watching the scene with amusement. “Here I thought you had no patience for children.”

“Perhaps I’ve patience for some,” she shot back, rising to her full height, her attention now fully on the young dragon. “And I do find joy in helping the... helpless.”

“Helpless?” Robert repeated, feigning insult. “The boy’s a dragon! Aren’t you, lad?”

Viserys peeked up at him from behind Lyanna’s skirts, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I am” he said shyly.

“There you have it!” Robert said with a booming laugh. “Already fiercer than half the men in this yard.”

Lyanna shook her head, exasperated but not without fondness. “Come along, Viserys,” she said, taking his hand. “Let’s find your mother before your septa loses her wits entirely.”

As she led the boy away, she cast a final glance over her shoulder at Robert, who stood watching them with a crooked grin. “Try not to break anyone else’s bones while I’m gone,” she called out.

“No promises” he replied, bowing with exaggerated gallantry.

Lyanna rolled her eyes once more but couldn’t suppress the small smile creeping onto her lips. Viserys stood before her, his wide lilac eyes shimmering with mischief and his pale cheeks flushed from his frantic escape. His silvery hair was slightly disheveled, giving him the look of a rebellious dragonling caught mid-flight. Behind him, Septa Margelle appeared, her expression a mixture of exasperation and relief as she finally caught up with the runaway prince.

“Prince Viserys,” Margelle wheezed, clutching her side, “you cannot continue behaving like this. It’s unbecoming!”

Viserys glanced at her over his shoulder with a look that could only be described as imperious disdain. He tugged on Lyanna’s sleeve. “Don’t let her catch me!” he pleaded, his voice full of dramatic urgency, as though he were evading a knight intent on slaying him.

Lyanna shook her head with mock gravity. “I fear the chase is over, Viserys. The septa has caught up.”

Viserys pouted, crossing his tiny arms. “It wasn’t much of a chase. She’s so slow!”

Lyanna stifled a laugh and, with a knowing glance at Margelle, placed a guiding hand on Viserys’s shoulder. “Come, little dragon. Let’s take you to your mother before you incite another rebellion.”

As they walked through the corridors, Lyanna couldn’t help but observe the contrast between the little prince’s imperious demeanor and his childlike gait. He skipped along beside her, his tiny boots making a soft clatter against the stone floors. His small hands clutched at her sleeve, seeking both balance and a touch of reassurance. Lyanna’s mind wandered briefly to how charming and innocent he appeared now, a far cry from the troublemaker reputation he had so eagerly cultivated.

When they reached Queen Rhaella’s chambers, Lyanna curtseyed politely as the queen turned to greet them. Rhaella’s serene beauty was marred by the faint shadow of fatigue under her eyes, though her smile was warm as she addressed them.

“Viserys,” the queen sighed, her tone equal parts exasperation and affection, “what am I to do with you? You’ve become quite the troublemaker. First, your mischief with Lady Cersei, and now this daily torment of poor Septa Margelle.”

Lyanna, intrigued by the sudden mention of the Lannister lady, tilted her head. “What exactly happened with Lady Cersei, Aunt Rhaella?”

Rhaella hesitated, shaking her head lightly before relenting. “He started a food fight during supper and hurled cakes at her. Several of them, in fact.”

At this, Viserys erupted into laughter, his high, melodic giggles filling the room. But one stern glance from Rhaella silenced him, his mirth replaced by an exaggerated pout. Lyanna struggled to maintain her composure, biting her lip to suppress her own amusement. 

“And why,” Lyanna asked, crouching slightly to look Viserys in the eye, “did you decide to attack Lady Cersei with cakes, of all things?”

Viserys’s small face contorted into a scowl, his tiny brows knitting together. “I don’t like her,” he declared boldly. “She’s boring and…” He paused, searching for the right words, “…and she talks too much!”

Lyanna stifled another laugh, glancing up at Rhaella, who caught her amusement and raised an eyebrow in reproach. “Apologies, Aunt Rhaella,” Lyanna murmured, quickly schooling her expression into one of innocence.

Rhaella folded her arms, her stern gaze pinning Viserys in place. “She is to be your brother’s wife, Viserys. You must show her respect.”

The words hit harder than Lyanna expected. Her faint smile faltered at once, dissolving like mist beneath the sun’s first breath. Rhaegar’s wife. Spoken aloud, the phrase landed with the dull clang of a closing gate. A heavy weight settled on her chest, as though someone had draped a cloak of iron around her shoulders.

A slow ache crept through her, quiet but persistent, winding its way through her ribs. It was not jealousy, nor resentment, for she had no rightful claim. No, it was something far smaller, far sadder. A mourning for a notion that had never belonged to her, something fragile and fleeting that had existed only in the reckless corners of her mind. A ghost of a possibility that had fooled her into warmth before vanishing in daylight.

Viserys remained stubbornly unbothered by the queen’s tone. He crossed his arms, mimicking her posture with the uncanny accuracy of a child who spent far too much time studying his own mother. “Why does she have to marry Rhaegar?” he demanded, glare sharpening. “He doesn’t like her either.”

The bluntness of children, always so precise, so disastrously unfiltered. Lyanna winced inwardly. If only it were that simple, she wanted to say. If only feelings were as neat and tidy as Viserys believed them to be.

“He does,” Rhaella replied firmly, her voice leaving no room for debate. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. If anything, she sounded offended on Rhaegar’s behalf. “Now, you will behave yourself, or you’ll find yourself confined to your chambers for a very long time.”

Lyanna lowered her gaze for a brief moment, willing her heartbeat to steady. He does, the queen had said.

Viserys’s pout deepened, but his rebellious spark dimmed slightly under his mother’s severe gaze. As Rhaella gestured for the servants to prepare a bath for the little prince, Viserys sidled closer to Lyanna.

“I still don’t think she’s nice,” he confided in a stage whisper, tugging on Lyanna’s sleeve.

Lyanna crouched down again, tilting her head as her curiosity deepened. She had always found Cersei Lannister insufferable in her haughty airs and veiled barbs, but the little prince’s disdain intrigued her. “Why do you think that, Viserys?” she asked gently, her voice soft and coaxing as though she were teasing a secret from him.

Viserys puffed out his tiny chest, his silver hair shimmering in the light. “Because she’s mean,” he declared with all the indignation his three years could muster, crossing his arms tightly for emphasis.

Lyanna bit back a smile. “Mean?” she repeated, her tone lightly teasing. “And how exactly is she mean?”

Viserys scowled, his small face contorting in exaggerated frustration. “She looks at me like I’m a nuisance, and then she says I have to sit with her. And—and she told me I shouldn’t throw things!” His voice rose with righteous offense. “But I wanted to throw things!”

The corners of Lyanna’s lips tugged upward despite herself. She pressed her fingers lightly to her mouth, trying to hide her laughter. Even as her heart weighed heavy with the knowledge of Rhaegar’s impending marriage to Cersei, Viserys’ innocence worked like a balm, lightening the storm that churned in her chest. His grievances, simple and unfiltered, lifted if only for a few seconds, that hollow sadness that took over her. “Perhaps she was just trying to teach you proper manners,” she suggested with a smile. “Maybe you should give her another chance.”

The little prince’s head shook furiously, his silver locks bouncing with his conviction. “No,” he said firmly, his small arms crossing tighter. “She’s boring. And she’s not nice, even if she pretends to be.”

Lyanna’s smile softened, her amusement ebbing into something more tender. For all his fiery declarations and childish mischief, there was a purity in Viserys that spoke to her, a simplicity that momentarily washed away the weight she carried. “Not nice, you say?” she murmured, her tone thoughtful. “Still, maybe you’ll surprise yourself. Sometimes people aren’t as bad as we think they are.”

Viserys scowled again, his little brow furrowing. After a moment, he sighed theatrically. “I’ll think about it,” he relented, though his voice held a stubborn edge that made Lyanna suspect he wouldn’t.

She reached out, brushing a stray strand of silver hair from his forehead. “That’s all anyone can ask of you, little dragon,” she said warmly, the heaviness in her heart momentarily eased by his innocence.

Before Viserys could respond, Rhaella returned, her expression softened but still carrying an air of authority. “Viserys, it’s time for your bath. No more arguments,” she said, taking his hand.

Viserys groaned dramatically but allowed his mother to lead him away, casting a final, conspiratorial look over his shoulder at Lyanna. “If she’s mean to me again, I’ll tell you,” he whispered, earning a bemused shake of her head as he disappeared into the adjoining chamber.

As the door closed, Lyanna let out a soft sigh, her thoughts momentarily lingering on the prince's innocent mischief. Yet, beneath her amusement, she couldn’t shake the weight that had settled in her chest. 

Chapter Text

When she rounded the corner on her way to meet Ned that morning, Lyanna saw him. And she instantly decided it had to be fate. Cruel, unrelenting fate, mocking her.

He stood tall, parchment in hand, his black tunic trimmed with a subtle crimson thread. The color brought out the stormy depths of his violet eyes as they turned to meet hers. His Kingsguard lingered a few steps behind him, like a wall of white and steel.

“Lyanna,” he said, his voice warm, and the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. A smile that could unravel her completely.

She tried to suppress the ridiculous fluttering in her chest, the unwelcome warmth that threatened to bloom on her cheeks against her will. Instead, she matched his smile, though hers felt fragile, brittle. “Your Grace” she replied with a smile of her own. 

“Where are you headed this fine morning?” he asked, falling into step beside her with ease. He glanced down at her with those pretty eyes, eyes that half the ladies at court wrote poems about and the other half prayed to the Seven to dream of.

“To meet my brother,” she replied, keeping her voice even. “And you? Off to conquer the woes of the realm?”

A soft chuckle escaped him, rich and warm, and Lyanna instantly decided she liked it far too much. It curled in her chest like a secret she had no business keeping.
“To my solar,” he said, lifting the stack of parchment slightly. “A dull collection of reports awaits me. Treaties, trade accounts, a few minor disputes between lords who ought to know better. Nothing glorious.”

He paused, and she felt rather than saw the way his gaze lingered. “Since you seem to already be headed that way,” he said, “would you care to walk with me?”

Lyanna bit her lip before she could stop herself. What a ridiculous creature she had become. And how she missed the simplicity of childhood. When walking beside him did not make her heart beat against her ribs like a trapped thing. When his nearness felt as natural as breathing, when she thought only of her bow and her horse and not of his warm golden skin or the quiet depth of those amethyst eyes.

“I would be honored,” she managed, as though she were not drowning in memories of simpler times.

They began walking side by side, and she noticed that he slowed his naturally long stride to match hers without being asked. A thoughtful, princely gesture that made her feel something warm and humiliating twist inside her.

Behind them, she heard the heavy steps of the Kingsguard following at a respectful distance. The sound grounded her, reminded her where she was, who she was supposed to be, and precisely why she should not let her thoughts wander anywhere near the direction they were currently racing toward.

But it was far too late for that.

“You seem busy,” she said, gesturing to the parchment in his hands.

“I am,” he admitted with a small sigh. “Petitions about disputes in the Riverlands, trade routes from Dorne… it seems the realm’s troubles never rest. And yet here I am, avoiding them for a moment.” His gaze flicked to her then, and his lips curved into a small, pleased smile. “I find myself preferring this company.”

She glanced away, feigning sudden interest in the garden path ahead. “I imagine the realm would collapse if you spent too long indulging in distractions.”

“I would argue that the realm needs its future ruler to be reminded of… lighter things now and again,” he countered with a slightly playful tone. 

“How selfless of you, Rhaegar, to shirk your duties for the sake of such noble principles,” she quipped, unable to suppress a small grin. 

“And you?” he asked, the handsome smile still playing on his lips.

“I’m going riding. Ned insists on the fresh air,” she said, and then, quieter, “I am glad to see him. It has been too long.”

“I imagine his presence brings you comfort.”

“It does.” She hesitated, her smile dimming as an unwelcome thought crept into her mind. “Though I cannot say the same about my father’s impending arrival.”

Rhaegar’s steps slowed, just slightly, but enough for her to notice. His expression shifted. Mild surprise. “Lord Stark is expected soon?”

She nodded, feeling a familiar heaviness settle in her chest at the mention of her father. “A few weeks. Perhaps less. And I imagine he will arrive with… certain expectations.”

For the briefest moment, his composure slipped. A flicker of something troubled crossed his face, too quickly masked, but she saw it anyway. Of course he would understand. He always had. He knew what her father had been to her. And perhaps he had already deduced what his arrival meant: betrothal contracts, negotiations, signatures. Her future handed over like a parcel.

Did he care? The question hit her before she could brace for it.

“And his arrival troubles you,” he said at last, like some kind of quiet confirmation rather than a question.

Lyanna huffed a dry, humorless breath. “Troubles me? Trouble is far too mild a word.”

The thought of facing her father again stirred a simmering annoyance beneath her ribs. That the man who had dismissed her, misunderstood her, belittled her, now rode south to finalize her fate as though she were a comodity to be exchanged… it ignited something sour inside her. And the worst part, the part she hated admitting even to herself, was that his opinion, his presence, still had the power to unsettle her.

She had promised herself she would not see her union with Robert as a punishment. She had sworn she would find the good in him, his charm, his warmth, his easy laughter, and bury whatever foolish fluttering feelings she harbored for Rhaegar somewhere deep enough that they would die quietly. She repeated those vows to herself night after night.

Yet the bitterness came anyway, like a tide that refused to recede.

Her father’s audacity, his confidence that he still had the right to shape her future, dictate her happiness, trade her to the most advantageous suitor, was a sting she could not ignore. And if she were being honest, painfully honest, perhaps she might have seen Robert differently… if her father’s hand were not the one guiding the match.

If this choice had been hers alone.

“I know this isn’t easy for you,” he said at last, his voice low enough that only she could hear it. “If you ever need… anything, or if there is trouble—”

“You’ll send the Kingsguard to my aid?” she cut in quickly, aiming for lightness, for something to break the rising unease in her chest.

But instead of smirking or rolling his eyes as she half expected, he replied without missing a step, “I would come myself.”

She blinked at him, startled. Her instinct was to search for the joke, some flicker of amusement, the faintest curve of a smile, anything that would let her dismiss the words as harmless jesting. But there was nothing. Rhaegar, in all his frustrating stillness, meant every word.

He simply looked at her, calmly, openly, his amethyst eyes lingering on her a heartbeat too long before he turned his gaze forward again.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” she whispered, trying, and failing, to sound admonishing. Her voice betrayed her.

“Perhaps not,” he said. There was no apology in his tone, not even restraint. Only a cool honesty, spoken casually. “But I suppose I don’t particularly care.”

The simplicity of his words struck deeper than any elaborate promise could have. How he could be so unthinking, so certain, while she was tangled in knots she could not undo. It was reassuring too, in a way she should not allow herself to feel.

Gods, how tempting it was to lean into that steadiness. To let him share the burden of her dread, her father, her unwanted future. To let him be the person she could turn to.

But reality settled on her shoulders like a cold, wet cloak.

He was a prince betrothed to a beautiful Lannister lady who adored him. He belonged to another future. And she, Seven hells, she was behaving like a foolish girl with foolish dreams, as if childhood hadn’t fully loosened its grip on her after all.

She knew she should not encourage such thoughts. She knew she must bury them now, before they grew roots.

And yet… the effort to silence them felt harder with every step they took beside one another.

They resumed their path. Lyanna felt the small ache in her chest grow sharper with every step, knowing that this fleeting moment would soon end, and that they would return to their separate, dutiful paths. No matter how much she liked to toy with the idea of him, she knew none of it was real. It couldn't.

Lyanna smiled at Prince Rhaegar the way Barbrey Ryswell had once smiled at Brandon. Warmly, fondly, the sort of smile that carried a quiet confession beneath it. She smiled at him in a way she had never smiled at Robert as they walked side by side. Her eyes kept drifting toward the prince, quick glances she likely believed subtle, and every time, her expression softened into something that struck Ned. Fond. Too fond. Troublingly fond. For lack of a better word.

But perhaps he was imagining it. Perhaps he was seeing patterns where none existed. He wanted to believe that. Gods knew he wanted to, because no matter how well he knew his sister, he could not read her thoughts. Not anymore.

As for the prince, he was every inch the man the realm whispered about: smart, elegant, beautifully bred, intimidatingly tall. When he spoke to Lyanna, his tone was always perfectly proper, his manner courteous to a fault. Nothing amiss. Nothing to raise alarm.

And yet Ned saw things, small things. The way Prince Rhaegar seemed to orient himself toward her without meaning to. The faint shift in his posture when she laughed. The quiet attentiveness that slipped through the cracks of his princely mask. It was nothing overt, nothing improper… but something in the way he regarded her suggested a man who would, without hesitation, take an arrow before he let harm find her.

Ned felt it like a stone settling in his stomach.

He stiffened as he watched them. He had always been observant, quiet, steady, one who noticed what others overlooked. But now he found himself questioning his own senses. Had he grown paranoid? Overprotective? Was he mistaking shadows for substance simply because Lyanna no longer wore her heart where he could see it?

She had grown into a young woman in his absence, and the once transparent girl he’d known had become a book written in a language he was no longer fluent in.

As if keenly aware of his stare, Lyanna turned. Her laughter softened, but the warmth on her lips remained as she spoke a few parting words to the prince. Rhaegar inclined his head to her, not merely polite, but almost reverent, before taking his leave, Kingsguard in tow.

Lyanna approached Ned without the faintest knowledge of the storm her smile had stirred in him. Her boots crunched lightly over the gravel as she swung onto her horse with the effortless grace she had always possessed when it came to riding. “Sorry for making you wait, brother,” she called out, her grin bright enough to chase shadows. Almost.

Ned mounted his own horse, every movement controlled. “I see you were in good company,” he said, keeping his tone carefully neutral as he glanced in the direction Rhaegar had gone.

Lyanna’s grin didn’t falter, but something flickered in her eyes, a quick, darting brightness that betrayed more than her easy manner. “Rhaegar is very good company, indeed,” she said lightly, adjusting her reins with a casualness so intentional it might as well have been a performance.

“Good company,” Ned echoed, tasting the words. As if repeating them might somehow wring the truth from them. “That’s certainly one way to describe him.”

She arched a brow, amused and entirely too confident. “And how would you describe him, then? Go on, Ned, don’t be shy. I can see you’ve got opinions.”

“I’d describe him as a man who seems to take a particular interest in you,” he said, the words coming out more sharply than he intended. And yet, those were the exact words that would describe what he perceived.

“I’d describe him,” Ned said evenly, though sharper than intended, “as a man who seems to take a particular interest in you.”

Lyanna snorted. It was a short, careless sound meant to brush away the implication. If she was hiding something, she did it with great skill. “You’re imagining things. He’s a prince. He’s polite, kind, and attentive to everyone, not just me.”

“Hm.” Ned’s response was dry as winter bark. He, too, had been raised with courtly manners, and yet the only woman he’d ever looked at the way Rhaegar sometimes looked at Lyanna was Lady Ashara... and even thinking her name sent a quick jolt through his veins.

“It is comforting,” he added, forcing neutrality, “to know the prince distributes his attentions so generously.”

“You sound almost jealous, Ned. Should I be worried you mean to challenge him for my honor?”

Ned frowned, the tips of his ears reddening. “Don’t jest about such things. People can hear and they will talk.”

“Let them,” she said breezily, brushing a strand of hair from her delicate face. “They’ll talk no matter what I do, so why should I care?”

His brows drew together at her carelessness, and he urged his horse forward slightly so they were riding side by side. “You should care because Father will care. He’s coming to King’s Landing, Lyanna. You’d do well to keep that in mind.”

At the mention of their father, her playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a sharp edge and cold eyes. “Ah, yes. The great Lord Rickard Stark. Come to inspect his goods before he puts them on the market.”

“Lyanna,” Ned said warningly, his tone low at the disrespect she showed their father. 

“What?” she shot back, her voice rising slightly. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? He doesn’t see me as his daughter, Ned. He never has.”

“That’s not fair,” Ned said, his grip tightening on the reins. She was being unfair, Ned decided, when he thought of all the blessings Lyanna had in her life thanks to him. She was a highborn lady, she had an education, wealth, everything anyone could ever ask for. Even if her relationship with their father was strained, she should still be thankful for such blessings. “Father has always done what’s best for the family.”

Her laugh came sharper this time, edged with what he recognized as bitterness. “Best for the family? Is that what you tell yourself, Ned? That’s the story you’ve chosen to believe? He sent me here, threw me into this viper’s den without a second thought. Tell me, how is that what’s best for the family?”

Ned’s jaw tightened, the weight of her words striking a nerve. His tone grew steadier, firmer, as though bracing against the storm she stirred. “You know why he sent you here, Lyanna,” he said, his voice now clipped. “You were wild, reckless. He didn’t know how to handle you anymore. And look at you now. You don’t seem to be doing poorly here.”

Her horse shifted uneasily beneath her as she turned sharply toward him, the movement as fierce and sudden as her anger. “If I’m doing well here, Ned, it’s not because of anything he did,” she snapped, her eyes defiant. “It’s because the Queen Rhaella is kind, and so is the King. They cared for me when no one else did. I was a child. A child. And he didn’t care. He never cared. And now he wants to come here as if he owns me.”

“That’s not true,” he snapped then, his temper flaring, a sudden urge to defend his fathers’ honor sparked. “Benjen has a limp because of you. Do you ever think about that? About the risks you took, the trouble you caused? Father sent you here because he was trying to protect all of us, including you.”

Her expression twisted, hurt flickering across her face for a small moment before she masked it with anger. “Protect me?” she repeated, her voice now unforgiving. “He sent me away to get rid of me, Ned. Don’t pretend it was anything else. Why can’t he just disappear for good? Seven Hells!”

Before he could respond, she dug her heels into her horse’s sides, urging it into a wild gallop.

“Lyanna!” Ned shouted, spurring his own horse forward. The narrow path twisted sharply, uneven and treacherous, framed by low hanging branches and scattered loose stones. Each step his horse took felt precarious, the ground threatening to give way beneath him.

“Slow down!” he roared, his voice laced with both anger and dread. Branches clawed at his face and arms, and the sharp edge of fear lodged itself in his chest as he saw her figure ahead, fleeting and fast, like a shadow darting between trees. One his sister’s most known talents: riding. In the south, they often spoke of how the beautiful Lady Lyanna Stark rode better than any northman. 

However, she didn’t slow despite his shouts. Her horse thundered on, wild and unyielding, as though it shared her anger, her recklessness. Ned pushed harder, urging his mount to catch her, but the gap didn’t close.

Then it happened.

Her horse’s hoof struck a jagged stone hidden beneath the undergrowth, and the beast stumbled. Time seemed to slow as Lyanna’s body was thrown from the saddle, her dark hair streaming like a banner behind her. The horse fell heavily, its panicked whinny echoing in the forest.

“No!” Ned’s heart seized as he reined in his horse sharply, dismounting in one swift motion. The ground beneath his boots was uneven, the loose earth threatening to topple him as he ran.

She lay sprawled on the ground, her limbs unnaturally still, her face pale against the earth. Ned’s breath caught as he dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he reached for her shoulder.

“Lyanna!” he called again, his voice breaking. For a terrifying moment, she didn’t respond.

His gaze swept her form, searching for signs of life. Relief struck him like a hammer when he saw her chest rise and fall, faint but steady. But the relief was fleeting as his eyes landed on her face.

Blood.

A gash on her scalp spilled crimson across her pale skin, streaking her delicate features with horrifying vividness. The blood trickled down her temple, pooling in the hollow of her cheek and staining her hair.

Ned’s stomach churned, but he forced himself to act. His fingers brushed her face, gentle and cautious, afraid of causing her further pain. “Lyanna, wake up,” he urged, his voice low and pleading.

The forest seemed to close in around them, the rustling leaves and distant calls of birds a stark contrast to the stillness of his sister. He pressed his handkerchief against the wound on her head, trying to staunch the bleeding, but the crimson refused to abate.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. His hands hovered uncertainly, unsure where else she might be injured. The fear gnawed at him, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins made his movements shaky and imprecise.

He glanced back toward the path they had come from, the distant sounds of the castle too far to offer any comfort. Alone, in the dense forest, the enormity of her fragility crushed him.

Chapter Text

When the news reached him that day, Rhaegar felt fear. An unfamiliar, searing fear that gripped him with the ferocity of a wild animal. His throat went dry, his heartbeat thundered in his ears, and for the first time in his life, he struggled to steady himself against the onslaught of emotion.

He left his solar like a man possessed, his usual calm demeanor stripped away. Behind him, Lord Jon Connington, his old friend, called out, his voice laden with concern, but Rhaegar didn’t pause despite Connington’s questions. His steps echoed in the corridors, his boots striking the floor in hurried, uneven beats. Barristan Selmy and Jonothor Darry followed closely, their armored footfalls a grim accompaniment to his urgency.

The air in the hallway outside Lyanna’s chambers was thick with tension. Ashara Dayne stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, her lilac eyes shimmering with worry. Opposite her, Robert Baratheon paced like a caged lion, his face flushed, his fists clenched at his sides.

“What happened?” Rhaegar demanded, forgoing pleasantries as he strode toward Ashara. His voice was sharp, his composure frayed.

Ashara met his gaze, her expression one of concern. “She fell,” she said quietly. “Off her horse. She’s unconscious. Your mother and her brother are with her now. Maester Pycelle is attending to her.”

A few steps away from them, Robert’s frustration boiled over, and he cursed loudly, his deep voice reverberating in the hallway. “That old fool! Slow as a damned turtle! What in seven hells is he doing in there?”

Rhaegar barely acknowledged Robert’s outburst. “Thank you,” he murmured to Ashara.

The guards outside the chamber doors straightened as he approached, their expressions impassive but wary. Rhaegar hesitated for only a fraction of a second, glancing briefly at Robert. The look in his cousin’s eyes spoke of rage and helplessness, but Rhaegar pushed it aside and entered the room nonetheless. 

The atmosphere inside was stifling, a mix of worry and barely concealed frustration. Rhaella, his mother, turned at the sound of the door, her face etched with maternal concern. Ned Stark sat rigidly beside the bed, his shoulders hunched, his grey eyes stormy and fixed on his sister.

Maester Pycelle paused mid sentence, his surprise evident as he glanced at the prince. “Y-Your Grace,” the old man greeted, his voice as weary as his bones.

“My son,” Rhaella said softly, stepping toward him. Her hands briefly touched his arms, a gesture of comfort, though her own worry was palpable.

Rhaegar’s gaze shifted past her to the bed. There lay Lyanna, still and pale, her chestnut hair splayed against the pillows like spilled ink. Her lips, usually so full of life and quick wit, were parted slightly, her breaths shallow and uneven. A bandage was put near her forehead.

“How is she?” Rhaegar asked, his voice low but spilling urgency.

Rhaella shook her head. “She remains unconscious. Her fall was severe. The wound on her head required stitching, but Maester Pycelle says we must wait to see if there’s lasting harm.”

Rhaegar’s throat tightened. He stepped closer to the bed, his movements careful as if afraid to disturb her. She seemed so small, so vulnerable, and it struck him like a dagger to the heart. He longed to reach out, to brush a strand of hair from her face, to feel her warmth and reassure himself she was still with them, but he refrained, his hands clenching at his sides.

Ned Stark shifted in his chair, his face lined with guilt and exhaustion. He looked up at Rhaegar, meeting his violet gaze with weary eyes. 

“Are you well, Ser Eddard?” Rhaegar asked, his voice quieter now, tempered by an attempt at decorum. His presence in Lyanna’s chamber at such an hour would have raised more than one eyebrow, yet Ned Stark seemed far too shaken to notice... or care.

“I am,” Ned answered, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. His fingers curled tightly around the carved arm of the chair, as though steadiness might be forced into his body if only he gripped hard enough. “But this… this is my fault.” His jaw worked, the words scraping out of him like something torn loose. “I should have been watching her. I’m meant to protect her, not…” He swallowed, his voice rough with self reproach. “Not let this happen.”

Rhaegar felt a pang of sympathy towards the young wolf. He knew Lyanna, he knew she could be fiery as a horse rider, and there was no one who could ever stop her if she so wished. If she chose to ride as though the wind itself were chasing her, not even a dozen guards could have stopped her.

How, then, could this possibly be Ned Stark’s fault?

“You place too heavy a burden upon yourself,” Rhaegar said, his tone steady but not unkind. “Even the most vigilant brother cannot guard against every misstep. Accidents do not ask permission.”

Ned Stark remained unmoved, his expression still a tortured one, as though he truly believed he had guided Lyanna’s horse into the fall himself. He looked utterly stricken, haunted by a guilt that had no rightful place on his conscience.

Rhaegar turned to Maester Pycelle, who stood at the foot of the bed, clutching his chain of office as if it bore the weight of the world. “Maester,” Rhaegar began, his voice firmer now, “what is your assessment? When will she recover?”

Pycelle stroked his long white beard, his expression grave when he spoke again. “It is too early to say, Your Grace. The wound to her head is troubling. She may wake soon, in a matter of hours, or it may take days. All we can do is ensure she rests and watch for signs of improvement.”

“Surely there is more you can do.”

“I assure you, Your Grace, I am doing all that can be done,” Pycelle replied, his tone a defensive one. “The rest lies in the hands of the gods.”

His gaze returned to Lyanna. She looked so small, so terribly still, a version of her that did not belong to this world or any other he knew. The wild, bright girl he was accustomed to was nowhere in sight, only this fragile, silent figure breathing shallowly against her pillows. The sight unsettled him. It felt wrong.

'In the hands of the Gods,' Pycelle had said.

Rhaegar had never been certain how much of that he believed. Faith came easily to others; to him it arrived in fits and starts, inconsistent as shifting tides. And yet, standing there with dread coiled in his chest, he found himself doing something he had not done in years.

He prayed.

To the Old Gods he had never known, and to the Seven who had governed his life since birth. To any ear willing to listen.

Let her recover. Let her rise again. Let this not be the end of her fire.

Cersei sat rigid in the chair across from her father, her emerald eyes holding an impossible intensity. The air between them felt cold, heavy even. He was annoyed by her presence, she knew that. Her hands tightened around the arms of the chair as she studied her father once again, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

Her father sat at his desk, his quill scratching against parchment in deliberate strokes, each one precise, methodical, unhurried. His expression remained impassive, a mask of calm control that only heightened her irritation. To Tywin Lannister, ignoring his daughter seemed less an oversight and more a calculated act, a deliberate dismissal meant to unsettle her.

Cersei shifted in her seat, the rustle of her gown breaking the silence. A sigh, sharp and laden with impatience, escaped her lips.

Without lifting his gaze, Tywin finally spoke, his voice clipped and commanding. “If you have come to interrupt me, then speak and be done with it.”

The dismissal in his tone stung, but Cersei would not be cowed. Her emerald eyes narrowed, her pride refusing to yield. “I came to ensure that my marriage to Rhaegar is secure.” she said, each word carefully measured to mask the chaos roiling within her.

Tywin’s quill did not pause. He continued his writing, the faint scratch of pen on parchment grating against her nerves. “Were you not present at your own betrothal feast?” he replied dryly, his tone betraying neither irritation nor interest.

“Yes, Father,” Cersei said, her voice tight, “but I am troubled by the lack of preparations. The date is yet distant, and…” Her words faltered, but only for a moment. The single thought of what she was about to admit irked her to no end. “That Stark whore from the North seems to command his attention.”

At last, Tywin set down his quill. The sudden stillness of his hands was more commanding than any shout. He leaned back in his chair, his calculating gaze finally meeting hers. “You are here,” he said, his voice low and even, apparently unimpressed by her troubles “to torment me with petty grievances because you are jealous of Lyanna Stark?”

Cersei bristled, her pride suddenly wounded by his bluntness. She looked away, unwilling to grant him the satisfaction of a response.

“Do you think me a maid seeking idle gossip?” Tywin continued, his tone laced with disdain. His eyes, cold and unyielding, bore into her. “Do you believe I have the time or patience for such trivialities? Rhaegar Targaryen is betrothed to you, and you will marry. The king himself has decreed it. Whether his gaze strays to another or not is of no consequence, so long as the match is made and the alliance secured.”

“How can it be of no consequence?” Cersei snapped, her composure fracturing almost instantly. “How can it not matter that my betrothed fawns over another, that he—” She stopped herself, her voice trembling with fury. “She’s trying to steal him away.” She spat, frustration all over her beautiful features.

Rhaegar. Her Rhaegar. The image of him haunted her, impossibly handsome and tall. He was hers by right, hers to marry, to rule alongside. Yet all of King’s Landing whispered of Lyanna Stark. Lyanna, who had fallen from her horse and set the Red Keep ablaze with concern. Lyanna, whose supposed beauty and grace made even queens pale by comparison. 

When news of Lyanna’s accident had reached her, Cersei had sought Rhaegar, hoping to find him troubled, perhaps in need of comfort. Instead, she had known him to be in Lyanna’s chambers, his every thought consumed by the Stark girl. Cersei had stood outside because she was not allowed in, her fists clenched, rage clawing at her chest. Why could he not stay away from her? Why was he so drawn to that Northern wretch?

She could see it, though he would probably never admit it. Not that she planned on telling him anything anyway. The way Rhaegar looked at Lyanna, it was the same way Jaime looked at her... Intense, unwavering, and utterly consuming. The thought was a dagger to her pride, to her very sense of self.

“Stealing him away?” Tywin’s voice sliced through her thoughts like a blade. His lip curled in disdain. “If you cannot keep a man’s interest, that is your failing, not mine. This is no romantic tryst, Cersei; it is a political alliance. Rhaegar understands that, and you would do well to grasp it yourself.”

Cersei’s hands trembled as she gripped the chair’s arms, her knuckles white. “And what if he loves her?” she demanded, her voice a mix of anger and desperation. No, he could not possibly love that rejected whore from the North.

“Love?” Tywin’s tone was scornful, dismissive. “Love is not a concern of rulers. Kings and queens do not marry for love; they marry for power. Your feelings are irrelevant, as are his. The match will proceed as planned. Now go, before you waste any more of my time.”

His words were final, a decree that brooked no argument. Cersei rose from her chair, her pride bruised but her anger unspent. She stared at her father for a moment, searching his cold, unyielding face for any hint of softness, of understanding. She found none.

As she turned to leave, her thoughts churned with resentment. 

How dare Lyanna Stark steal what was hers by right? Cersei was a golden creature, alive and radiant, while Lyanna Stark lay bedridden, pale as death, her breaths shallow and weak. And yet, her intended, the crown prince of the realm, was drawn to her like a moth to a dying flame. He spent every free moment by her bedside, his devotion unwavering. The injustice of it burned in Cersei's chest, threatening to consume her.

The thought alone was maddening. Was her kiss not enough to captivate him? Did it not linger in his mind, commanding his thoughts as it should? What more could he possibly want? What more could she give? She had tricks that Jaime had never resisted, and her beauty could bring the most hardened knight to his knees. But to use them now, with a Prince, to stoop to seduction as though she were some common whore, was unthinkable. The mere idea made her blood boil.

He was hers: by decree, by destiny, by design. And yet, Lyanna Stark, fragile and near lifeless, had ensnared him. The insult of it was unbearable, the humiliation searing. She would not stand for this. She could not. 

Her father might see Rhaegar’s affections as inconsequential, but Cersei knew better. Affections could grow into obsessions, obsessions into betrayals. And Lyanna Stark would pay the price for daring to capture what was hers.

Chapter Text

Rhaella watched her son with a concealed frown, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Concern tugged at her heart, though she masked it well. Rhaegar had always possessed a mind sharper than Valyrian steel, keen, calculating, and often impossibly difficult to deceive. Yet, as a mother, she felt compelled to try.

Across the room, Rhaegar’s gaze was fixed on Maester Pycelle, cold and unforgiving. Pycelle, meanwhile, shifted uncomfortably under the prince’s stare, his hands trembling slightly as they clutched the edges of his robes.

“I will summon Maester Gerardys,” Rhaegar said finally, his tone sharp and final. “A second opinion is needed.”

The old maester’s face flushed with indignation, but he quickly smothered it, his lips twitching as he sought to protest. “B-but, Your Grace, I have already examined the Lady Lyanna thoroughly. I have administered the most effective treatments known to the Citadel—”

“I am aware of your efforts,” Rhaegar interrupted, his voice cutting through Pycelle’s words like a blade. “And yet, despite your assurances, there is no improvement. She remains unconscious, and you have offered little in the way of progress or hope.”

Rhaella watched the exchange carefully, noting the barely concealed outrage and concern in Pycelle’s expression. Her son’s bluntness was both his strength and his weakness.

“What the prince means to say,” Rhaella interjected smoothly, her tone a balm to the tension in the room, “is that we simply wish to explore every possible avenue to ensure Lady Lyanna’s recovery. Surely, Maester Pycelle, you can understand the desire to leave no stone unturned when it comes to the health of someone so dear to us.”

The old maester hesitated, his gaze flickering between mother and son. “Of course, Your Grace,” he mumbled, bowing his head.

“Then it is settled,” Rhaegar said firmly, his patience clearly at its limit. “You may leave us now, Maester Pycelle.”

The old man stammered his courtesies, his steps slow and faltering as he retreated from the solar.

As the door closed behind him, Rhaella turned to her son, her expression gentle but resolute. “You were harsh with him, Rhaegar. He may not be the most capable maester in the realm, but—”

“He is an incompetent fool,” Rhaegar sentenced harshly, his voice sounded low and calm. He was pacing the room like a caged lion. “He hides behind his decrepitude and Lord Tywin’s patronage, and yet Father insists on keeping him in service. It is maddening.”

Rhaella rose from her chair and approached her son, placing a calming hand on his arm. “Even the finest healers cannot work miracles, my son. Head injuries are delicate matters, and recovery often requires time and patience.”

Rhaegar stopped, his stormy gaze meeting hers for a second.

She glanced briefly at the servant girl stationed by the wine, then shifted her attention back to her son. Lowering her voice, she spoke in the liquid grace of High Valyrian. “Skorion henujagon iksā, ñuha tresy?”

(What is troubling you, my son?)

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed slightly, his reply as smooth as his swordplay. “Skoros gaomas iksan jēda?”

(What do you mean?)

“Nyke ȳdra daor, skoros issa se Lyanna iā jemā gūrogon tolī gevives? Nyke ūndegon ao, Rhaegar. Ao issi daor ao ābrar.”

(I mean, what is it about Lyanna that affects you so deeply? I have seen you, Rhaegar. You are not yourself.)

A bitter, small laugh escaped his lips, brief and hollow. He turned his back to her, walking to the window where the sky burned with the orange hue of a setting sun.

“Skorion ao gaomas raqagon, muña?” he asked, his tone edged with a glimpse of defiance. Or perhaps defensiveness. 

(What are you implying, Mother?)

“Only what I observe,” she replied then, stepping closer. "Ñuha tresy, ao… gaomagon mirre syt hae issa?"

(My son, do you… feel something for her?)

"Yn, nyke gaomagon hae syt hae issa. Iksā hae lentor issa."

(Of course I feel for her. She is like family to me.)

Rhaella studied him intently, her eyes sharp with maternal intuition. “You can lie to others, Rhaegar, but not to me,” she said softly. “You are conflicted, and that troubles me. Be careful.”

Rhaegar’s expression, though carefully composed, bore the faintest shadow of unease, an almost imperceptible crack in the armor of his restraint. Rhaella, with a mother’s intuition, caught it as surely as she felt the weight of her own heart. He remained silent. Pressuring him further would yield nothing; she had learned that long ago. Rhaegar was no open book, his thoughts shared sparingly, if ever, perhaps with Arthur Dayne.

She exhaled softly, smoothing the folds of her gown as if to brush away the tension lingering in the room. “Your father has asked after her,” she said, her tone gentle but measured. “He wanted an update on her condition. I will speak with him and keep him informed. He’s been worried.”

She paused, waiting for any flicker of response from him, but Rhaegar merely nodded, his face a mask of impassivity.

Rhaella lingered for a moment longer, her hand brushing lightly against the doorway as she turned to leave. She cast one final glance over her shoulder.

She knew Rhaegar like the lines etched into her own palm, even if he had perfected the art of keeping himself hidden. His masks were unyielding, an armor that shielded him from the prying eyes of the court. Yet she had raised him; she had watched him grow from a solemn boy into a man. Rhaegar was nothing if not dutiful. He had become a man of singular purpose, one molded by Aerys’s relentless vision: to rule.

It was a heavy fate, one that would have crushed a lesser soul. But Rhaegar was no ordinary man. She had no doubt he would surpass his father, not merely as a ruler but as a symbol, a beacon that could eclipse even the brightest of Westerosi kings. Still, the burden of the crown was a cruel thing, and she, better than anyone, understood its costs.

Lord Tywin Lannister loomed large in the game of power. The second most powerful man in the realm, his friendship with Aerys was a blade sharpened on both sides. Tywin was nothing if not meticulous, a man who calculated every move like a grandmaster at cyvasse. He had groomed his golden daughter, Cersei, for greatness. Perfect in beauty, poise, and pedigree. She was a lioness draped in silks, her claws hidden but always ready. Tywin had played his cards masterfully, positioning her as the ideal bride for Rhaegar.

The match made sense. Everyone said so. Cersei was a flawless choice: wealthy, elegant, educated. Aerys had seen the wisdom in it, and Rhaegar had not protested. He knew the value of such a union, how it would solidify alliances and bolster the crown. On the surface, it all seemed inevitable, convenient.

But Rhaella saw more. She had started noticing the cracks at Rhaegar’s betrothal feast, the subtle tells that only a watchful mother’s eyes could catch. She saw how his gaze strayed too often toward Lyanna Stark, how his laughter, rare and unrestrained, seemed to echo most genuinely when she was near. He softened around her in a way that felt unguarded, almost tender. Natural. 

And Lyanna… dear Lyanna, spirited and sharp-tongued, who had become like a daughter to Rhaella over the years. She saw how Lyanna’s attention lingered on Rhaegar as well, how her words carried a warmth reserved only for him.

Was it love her son felt for Lyanna? If so, it was the cruelest twist of fate. Because Rhaegar’s heart was not his to give. Not in the eyes of Aerys, not in the machinations of Tywin Lannister, and certainly not in the desires of Lady Cersei.

Aerys would never relent; his decisions, once made, were immovable as stone. Tywin’s ambitions were as unyielding as his sigil.

Rhaella’s chest tightened as she left the room, her thoughts a storm of anguish and helplessness. She had once believed love could conquer all, but the throne had taught her otherwise. Love was no match for the iron grip of politics, for the unrelenting force of ambition.

When Lyanna woke, it felt as though her head had been struck with a thousand hammers. A sharp, unrelenting pain throbbed at her temples, and her limbs felt as if they had been weighted down with iron. Slowly, her senses began to awaken. The scent of lavender and beeswax candles filled her nose, familiar and comforting. Her eyes, though blurry, adjusted to the soft light filtering through the heavy curtains that shrouded her chambers. She recognized the dark wooden bedposts, the worn tapestry hanging opposite her bed, and the faint outline of the hearth, now cold.

Her lips parted in confusion as fragments of memory drifted through her mind like scattered leaves. The last thing she could recall was riding furiously through the woods, her mare’s hooves pounding against the earth as she fled from Ned, from the suffocating anger she had felt during their argument. Now, she was here, in her chambers, though she couldn’t say how or why.

A movement by her bedside drew her attention. Through her foggy vision, she made out a figure sitting close, leaning forward with his hands clasped tightly together.

“Lyanna?”

The voice was steady, familiar, yet tinged with something rare: vulnerability. As her vision cleared further, she saw her brother Ned’s face, pale and drawn, his grey eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.

“You’re awake,” he said, the words heavy with relief, though his expression remained taut with worry.

Lyanna tried to speak, but her throat felt raw, and the effort sent a sharp pang through her head. She swallowed painfully before managing to rasp, “What... happened?”

Ned leaned closer, his voice soft but urgent. “You fell. From your mare. You’ve been unconscious for three days, Lyanna.”

“Three days?” she echoed weakly, her brows knitting together. The words seemed foreign, almost impossible. Her gaze flitted around the room, searching for some clue that might explain the lapse in time.

Ned nodded grimly. “You’ve had us all worried. But you’re awake now. That’s what matters.”

Before Lyanna could reply, there was a soft knock at the door. It opened to reveal Ashara Dayne, carrying a tray of tea, presumably for Ned. She moved with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to quiet rooms and whispered conversations. Her lilac eyes were suddenly brightened at the sight of Lyanna awake and alert.

“Thank the gods,” Ashara said, setting the tray down on a small table near her. “You’ve given everyone quite the fright.”

Lyanna glanced at Ned, whose posture had stiffened slightly. His protective instincts had always been strong, and she could see the guilt in his tightly pressed lips.

“You should let Maester Gerardys know she’s awake,” Ashara suggested gently, though her tone carried a quiet authority. “He’ll want to see her immediately.”

Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking between Lyanna and Ashara, but then he nodded. Rising from his chair, he squeezed Lyanna’s hand briefly. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised before striding from the room.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Ashara eased herself into the chair Ned had vacated. Her movements were graceful, yet there was an unguarded warmth in the way she leaned closer to Lyanna. Her usual poise softened, her expression gentler, more intimate.

“How are you feeling? Are you well? You certainly know how to make everyone fret,” she began with a lightness that belied the concern in her eyes. A smile, tender and sweet, graced her lips as she studied Lyanna’s face. “You’ve given quite the scare. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people so deeply troubled all at once. You must be dearly loved.”

Lyanna shifted against the pillows, wincing at the dull ache that spread through her body. Her face twisted slightly in discomfort. “My head feels like it’s about to explode…” she swallowed before continuing “Ned said three days,” she murmured, her voice raw and strained. Her grey eyes, though dulled by fatigue, searched Ashara’s face. “I’ve been unconscious for three days… Who—who was here? What happened? I fell off the horse, that I remember…”

Ashara’s lips curled into a knowing smile, as though recalling a private jest. “Quite the audience,” she said, her voice tinged with amusement. “Your brother hardly left your side. He’s been as unyielding as the walls of Winterfell, sitting watch by your bed as if daring anyone to question his place here. And Robert…” She trailed off, her tone turning wry. “Robert has been impossible. Pacing the halls like a storm barely contained, barking for updates every hour. Maester Pycelle was on the verge of giving him essence of nightshade just to buy a moment’s peace.”

Despite the heaviness in her body, Lyanna managed a weak laugh. It was a faint sound, but it softened the lines of her face. “That does sound like Robert,” she murmured, her lips quirking in a small, tired smile.

Ashara’s expression shifted then, the levity giving way to something more cautious. Her gaze flickered to the door as if ensuring no one was listening. “But,” she continued, her voice lowering slightly, “it wasn’t just them.”

Lyanna tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “Who else?”

Ashara hesitated, watching Lyanna carefully as if weighing how much to say. “Queen Rhaella,” she said at last, her tone softening with reverence. “She came herself, more than once, with the King too. They ensured you had every comfort and that the maester left nothing undone. She even stayed in your chambers through the night, more than once.”

Lyanna’s brows knitted together in surprise. “Aunt Rhaella?”

Ashara nodded, her smile returning, though it carried a hint of amusement. “Yes, and Prince Viserys as well. Though he was less… restrained in his concern. The young prince wanted to leap onto your bed to wake you up, swearing that his method was sure to work.” She chuckled softly. “The queen had to scold him and keep him from wreaking havoc. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so stern.”

Lyanna’s lips twitched with the ghost of a smile at the thought of Viserys’s impish antics, but before she could respond, Ashara’s expression grew more serious.

“There’s more,” Ashara said, her voice quieter now. She paused, choosing her words with care. “Rhaegar was here too.”

The name landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the air between them. Lyanna’s breath caught, her heartbeat quickening as she stared at Ashara, trying to process what she had just heard.

“Rhaegar?” she repeated, her voice barely more than a whisper.

The name hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.

“He came as soon as he heard what happened,” Ashara said, her voice lowering as if sharing a secret. “Burst into the hall like a storm, demanding to see you. I’ve never seen him look so... distraught.”

Lyanna’s lips parted, but no words came. She stared at Ashara.

Ashara leaned in slightly, her expression earnest. “He stayed, Lyanna. Longer than anyone expected—or thought proper. Queen Rhaella had to send him away more than once, reminding him that his presence here, with Robert and your brother nearby, could raise... questions. But even then, he returned. Again and again. He even sent for another maester from the Citadel.”

The words settled over Lyanna like a heavy cloak, each syllable weighing down on her chest, making it harder to draw a steady breath. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess.

“Ash, don’t even think it,” she began, her voice unsteady and strained, more a whisper than a denial. She only had to take one look at Ashara to know what she was thinking. “He cares for me… As he would a sister, nothing more—”

Ashara’s soft laughter interrupted her, not mocking but knowing, and she leaned in slightly, her gaze unwavering. “Like a sister, is it?” she asked, her tone light but her meaning sharp. “Targaryen customs, then?”

Lyanna’s eyes darted away. Had she been in a better state, she would have not made the mistake to make such a comparison to Ashara. Her fingers clenched around the sheets in her lap, twisting the fabric. “It’s not like that,” she muttered.

Ashara tilted her head, her smile fading into something softer, more understanding. “You don’t have to admit it, not even to me,” she said gently.

The ache in Lyanna’s head throbbed harder, a cruel rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart. She turned her face away, staring at the corner of the room where the shadows pooled.

Ashara’s hand found her arm, a touch meant to steady, to ground. “Enough of this for now,” Ashara said, her voice filled with warmth. “You’ve only just woken, and I’ve already managed to stir another storm in your head. Rest, Lyanna. There will be time enough later for questions and gossip.”

Lyanna didn’t respond at first, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She wanted to argue, to insist that Ashara was wrong, to demand answers to the questions she couldn’t even articulate. But the ache in her skull and the weight of exhaustion pulling at her limbs left her powerless.

“Fine,” she murmured at last, the word barely audible as she let her body sink back into the pillows. Her fingers loosened their grip on the sheets, her hands falling limply to her sides.

Ashara smiled faintly, brushing a stray strand of hair from Lyanna’s forehead before rising to her feet. “Good,” she said softly, the teasing note in her voice tempered by affection. “Get some rest, and I’ll be here when you’re ready to face the world again.”

Hours after her talk with Ashara, Lyanna woke again, only to face an endless parade of visitors.

The first to arrive were the King and Queen. King Aerys entered her chambers with an animated flourish. His sharp violet eyes twinkled with humor as he teased her.

“You know, Lyanna,” he began, standing by her bedside with an air of mock severity, “in all my years of ruling, I’ve never heard a tale of anyone fall off a horse quite as spectacularly as you. For a moment, I feared I’d have to proclaim a tourney in your honor… A Tourney of the Fallen.”

Lyanna couldn’t suppress her laughter. “Well, Your Grace,” she replied with a faint grin, “I suppose I’d have to ensure the prize was worth the embarrassment. Perhaps a new horse, one less determined to see me flat on my back.”

Aerys chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “You’ve spirit, my dear. A quality the realm sorely needs.”

Queen Rhaella, ever the embodiment of grace, followed her husband’s jest with a gentle touch to Lyanna’s cheek. “You’re stronger than you look, my dear,” she murmured, her smile as soft as moonlight. She fussed over the arrangements of Lyanna’s chambers, ensuring the pillows were plump, the fire blazing warmly, and the maesters attentive. When Pycelle began one of his long-winded medical theories, she silenced him with a single arched brow and instead directed questions to a quieter maester identified as Gerardys.

Meanwhile, Viserys toddled in with his treasured wooden dragon clutched tightly in his hands. “Here,” he declared, plopping the dragon onto Lyanna’s bed. “It will protect you.”

Lyanna ruffled his hair, her laughter ringing softly. “Thank you, brave prince. I’ll be up and chasing you around the keep by tomorrow, you’ll see.”

By the time they left, her chamber was filled with a sense of comfort she hadn’t expected.

Later, Ned arrived, predictably accompanied by his constant shadow, Robert Baratheon.

Ned stood quietly, his dark eyes clouded with guilt as he lingered by the door. He didn’t need to speak for Lyanna to know the weight he carried. She saw it in the tense set of his jaw, the downward tilt of his mouth. He was so transparent, and it was written all over his face. Yet she didn’t blame him, not for a moment. How could she tell him that, though, with Robert in the room, as loud and exuberant as ever?

Robert, in stark contrast, strode in with an energy that seemed to fill the room. He held a wild bouquet of flowers in his large hands, their colors a chaotic clash of reds, yellows, and purples. Lyanna arched a brow, more amused than surprised. It was Ned’s influence, surely; Robert wasn’t the sort to think of flowers unprompted, she was sure.

“I was dead with worry for you, Lyanna,” Robert declared, dropping into the chair beside her bed. His hand, rough and calloused, enveloped hers. “The thought of losing you… I can’t bear it.”

Lyanna simply smiled at him. “Oh, Robert. A mere tumble from a horse won’t do me in. You’ll find I’m far too stubborn for that.”

Robert’s booming laughter echoed in the room, and even Ned cracked a faint smile. “That’s my girl,” Robert said, his blue eyes soft with undying affection. For a fleeting moment, Lyanna felt a warm hope bloom within her—a fragile, tender thing. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a chance she might come to love this brash, loyal Stormlord. He was slowly but surely earning her affections, she thought with hope. 

When they finally left, agreeing she needed rest, the silence in her chambers felt oddly heavy.

Alone once more, her thoughts wandered, unbidden, to Rhaegar. Ashara’s earlier words echoed in her mind: he had stayed by her side for most of the time she was unconscious.

But why hadn’t he come to see her yet? Everyone else had. Except for him. 

She turned her gaze to the window, where the full moon bathed the world in its spectral glow. The stars above twinkled like tiny, distant flames. The beauty of the night sky was a balm, but it couldn’t quiet the questions swirling in her mind. She sighed heavily, aware then that even if she tried, she would not be able to sleep that night. 

A thousand thoughts crossed her mind. She thought about Ned, Ned who had defended their father with the ferocity of a true northern wolf. Wether their father deserved such defense, she could not say. But it all made her wonder: What if Benjen thought the same as Ned?

He had never told her anything of the sort in his letters, however… What if he did? Her mind was a mess, and she thought it was perhaps because of her injury.

A soft knock broke her reverie. She sat up, her movements slow and tentative as she adjusted the pillows behind her. The knock came again, faint yet persistent, and her heart skipped a beat. Who would call on her at this hour?

The door creaked open, and there he was.

In the dim glow of the firelight, Rhaegar’s silhouette was unmistakable. His black tunic fit snugly across his broad shoulders, and his silver-gold hair was arranged in an intricate style that spoke of his Targaryen heritage. He stepped into the room with quiet confidence when he saw her awake, the door clicking shut behind him.

“Rhaegar,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He crossed the room in a few strides, taking the chair Robert had vacated. His gaze, intense and unyielding, swept over her face. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice soft, almost velvety.

For the first time that day, Lyanna felt self-conscious. She must look a fright, her hair a mess and her face pale. She attempted to smooth her hair with her fingers, but her efforts felt futile. “I’m fine,” she replied, offering a small smile despite her sudden discomfort. Then she looked at him more closely and frowned. “But you—Rhaegar, you look exhausted. Have you even slept?”

He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that sent warmth flooding through her. “You’ve been unconscious for three days, and yet here you are worrying about me?” He shook his head, amusement dancing in his violet eyes.

“Well, you do look terrible,” she lied, her smile turning playful. He could never look terrible. But he did look tired. “Which is surprising, considering you’re supposed to be the fairest of them all.”

His laughter came again, low and genuine. “I’ll take that as a compliment, though I’m not sure how to feel about being outshone by someone bedridden.”

She smiled at him, thankful for the dim light in her chambers. The fire had burned low, the embers casting a few faint shadows across the stone walls. Had the room been brighter, there would have been no hiding the flush rising to her cheeks. “You finally came,” she said, her voice softer than she intended, laced with a vulnerability she despised and couldn’t mask.

Rhaegar leaned back in the chair, his posture at ease, though his eyes betrayed something else. “Perhaps I wanted to see you without an audience,” he admitted, his gaze dropping briefly to his hands, long fingers tracing idle patterns on his knee. “It’s selfish and improper, I know. But earlier…” He paused, a faint, rueful grin pulling at his lips. “It felt too crowded.”

But the smile didn’t linger. His expression dimmed, as though the weight of awareness pressed heavily upon him. “But I should leave soon,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “It’s not proper for me to be here at this hour. I just wanted to see you.”

Her heart thudded loudly in her chest. Selfish and improper. Aye, it was both, but she found that she didn’t care. “Stay,” she said, the word escaping her too quickly, almost pleading. She felt the heat rise to her face again and tried to temper it with a more measured tone. “I mean… if you want. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

For a moment, Rhaegar’s expression wavered. His brows drew together, troubled. But then his features softened, and a faint smile touched his lips. “How could I forget?” he murmured, his voice gentle, almost wistful. “We always found each other in the quiet hours, didn’t we?”

The memories stirred unbidden in her mind: those stolen moments in the forest, when she was little more than a wild-eyed child and he simply Rhaegar, the Crown Prince who decided to be her friend. Back then, the world had felt so much simpler. Her feelings for him had been simpler too: admiration, friendship, an uncomplicated fondness for him. Somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred, and the boy she had once known had become something far more dangerous. A man who unsettled her peace of mind with just a glance.

She knew she shouldn’t ask him to stay. It wasn’t proper, and if anyone found out, it would be her name that suffered. The whispers would be cruel, the judgment unrelenting. However...

“You always knew how to slip back without anyone noticing,” she said, a small smile curving her lips. “An expert in mischief, right? Stay a while longer. Save me from the dreadful fate of dying of boredom.”

Her smile deepened as she remembered how he, just like her in Winterfell, had mastered every secret path, every hidden corner of his home. He could vanish and reappear at will, like a shadow no one noticed until it was gone. “Nobody will find out,” she added, her tone teasing, as if daring him to match her boldness. It was wrong, she knew. But just for tonight… 

Rhaegar raised a brow, his gaze sharpening as it fixed on hers. There was something almost dangerous in the way his lips quirked into a half-smile. “Is that your idea of persuasion? A tragic plea for rescue from boredom? I thought you were cleverer than that.”

She feigned offense, her hand flying to her chest in mock indignation.

“And yet here you are, trying to tempt me with childish flattery,” he retorted, his voice low, almost a purr. “If I stay, it won’t be because I’m convinced. It’ll be because you’ve made me curious.”

She arched a brow at him, unable to suppress her grin. “Curious? About what exactly?”

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as the distance between them diminished. The firelight played tricks on his face, casting his features in shadows that made him look equal parts princely and rogue. “About how long you’ll keep pretending this isn’t entirely improper.”

Her breath hitched, but she refused to let him win so easily. Instead, she matched his gaze with her own. “Improper? Oh, don’t be dramatic. No one’s going to write a song about this.” Or at least, so she hoped.

When his laughter came, it was soft, warm, and altogether disarming. “You underestimate the court.”

He was right, of course. She knew the risks. She shouldn’t have asked him to stay, and yet the words had slipped out as easily as breathing. She couldn’t explain it—why she craved his company when it would only make things more complicated, why she willingly invited this precarious dance with disaster.

But she shrugged, her boldness refusing to be snuffed out.

His expression sobered then, his gaze searching hers as if weighing her words. “You know what it would cost you, don’t you?”

“I do,” she replied softly, her voice steady. "That's why you'll have to be careful"

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of hesitation colliding with a deeper, unguarded intensity. “And here I thought I was the reckless one,” he murmured, his voice like a whisper that carried far more weight than the words themselves.

She smiled, a little sad and a little triumphant. “You’re still deciding whether to stay, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps,” he said, his grin returning, though more subdued. “But you make a strong case for recklessness.”

Chapter Text

Weeks had slipped by since her recovery began, marked by the gradual fading of the ache in her head and the near disappearance of the stitching. The discomfort was gone, leaving only faint traces of the accident, but not soon enough to spare her from Ned’s constant hovering. His worrisome eyes followed her everywhere, his hands always poised to steady her, as if she were made of spun glass. He should have known better. She was no fragile thing, and his incessant concern was beginning to fray her patience.

In those weeks, much had transpired.

Ned, ever dutiful and remorseful, had apologized more times than she could count, each one wearing her down further. But she finally put an end to it one quiet afternoon, sitting him down with a directness he couldn’t ignore. "Enough, Ned," she told him firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. "I don’t need your apologies. It was an accident, and if anyone is to blame, it’s me for being foolish enough to ride where I shouldn’t have." 

He still fussed over her in ways that bordered on overbearing, but at least the endless apologies ceased.

As for Rhaegar… well, he was a far more complicated matter.

After that night—the night when she asked him to stay—he had remained at her side until she finally succumbed to sleep. It had been reckless, of course, for him to linger so long. If anyone had discovered him in her chambers at such an hour, the consequences would have been unimaginable for them both. But Rhaegar had always been careful, and they were not caught. 

And then, the next morning, he was gone.

He left quietly, taking Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower with him, slipping away to Summerhall with little more than a word to the king and queen. His decision seemed rushed, out of nowhere. No one else had known of his departure—not even Lady Cersei, whose surprise had almost mirrored Lyanna’s when the news reached them.

His flight to Summerhall was no shock to her; she knew it to be his sanctuary, the place he always retreated to when the weight of the world became too much or when he simply needed to think. But what irked her, what gnawed at the edges of her composure, was that he hadn’t told her. Not a word, not a whisper. He didn’t owe her anything, of course. She was nothing to him, and of that fact she was well aware. He faded, like a ghost, and nobody knew for how long he’d be gone. And if she was being completely honest, she would’ve liked to know. 

Still, despite the helpless disappointment she felt, his absence brought a measure of peace. Without him, there was no need to endure the sight of Cersei Lannister draped over his arm, her every movement calculated to showcase her beauty and her claim on him. She looked rather sour those days, and preferred to remain hidden in the Tower of the Hand. 

In his absence, she also resolved to set aside her foolish comparisons. She turned her thoughts to Robert, who was, after all, the man she was to marry.

Robert, who swept her into rides with an easy laugh. Robert, who showered her with gifts, trinkets, and tokens of his affection, each one a declaration of his devotion. Robert, whose booming voice carried his love for her to anyone within earshot.

She was unaccustomed to such attentions, unsure of how to navigate the relentless adoration of a man like Robert Baratheon. For all her boldness in the saddle, her recklessness on the battlefield of life, she was timid when it came to matters of the heart. Yet she tried, if only because she knew she must. He would be her husband, and it was only right that she give him a chance.

And so, she let herself see him in a kinder light.

Robert was not without his charms. He made her laugh, a great, booming laugh that seemed to shake the world around him. He was easygoing, never balking at her wild streak or her penchant for rebellion. If anything, he encouraged it, urging her to be as free as she wished, to ride hard and fast if she wished, to challenge the conventions that sought to confine her.

For that, she could appreciate him. For that, she could even begin to like him. And that was good, she supposed. Without Rhaegar’s presence, it was easier to actually see Robert -to notice him- she told herself.

It was all good, things were improving. 

But then, the day her father arrived in King’s Landing dawned colder than usual, as if the winds of the North had followed him to the capital.

That day, Ned and Robert were waiting eagerly to greet him, standing in the courtyard as if they bore the weight of Winterfell’s pride on their shoulders. Lyanna, however, had no such inclination. She had every intention of remaining in her chambers, far removed from the man she had no wish to see.

It was Rhaella who persuaded her otherwise.

“You should at least make the effort, Lyanna,” the queen had urged gently, her beautiful amethyst eyes filled with the kind of hope that felt misplaced, a hope born of kindness but untouched by knowledge of the man in question. “Family is important, even when we do not always see eye to eye.”

Lyanna had bitten back the retort on her tongue, for what did aunt Rhaella know of her father? Of his stern, unyielding ways? Of his cold demeanor that could chill the air in a room even on the warmest day? Still, the queen’s plea carried a weight that Lyanna could not ignore. And so, for Rhaella’s sake, she readied herself, though her heart remained unwilling.

When her father, Lord Rickard Stark arrived, Lyanna found herself watching from the balcony of the great hall. His grey eyes, as sharp and unyielding as the Wolfswood in winter, scanned the gathering with some kind of quiet authority, as if he ruled there too. His hair, streaked with silver, hung past his shoulders, and his face, deeply lined, bore the weariness of a man accustomed to bearing burdens heavier than most. He had aged, Lyanna noticed, years had not been kind to him, for he looked tired. 

He wore the garments of the North, but without the furs that would have shielded him from Winterfell’s biting cold. His posture was straight, commanding as ever, yet there was a hint of stoop in his shoulders, as if the weight of duty pressed him ever downward. He looked smaller than she remembered, though not in stature. It was the weight of age.

Lyanna descended to meet him, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. She kept her expression neutral, her face betraying neither eagerness nor dread that day. But when their eyes met, she saw a flicker of something. For a moment, surprise flickered across his face. His gaze swept over her as though assessing a stranger, pausing at the rich blue silk of her gown, the silver embroidery at the cuffs and neckline, the southern refinement in her stance. There was no warmth in his expression, only a faint widening of his eyes she recognized as surprise. 

Rickard’s gaze swept over her, his brow furrowing slightly before he spoke. “You have grown, Lyanna” he said at last, his voice low and rough, tinged with the northern drawl she remembered so well. His tone held neither warmth nor reproach, merely observation, plain and simple. He had always been a man of few words. 

Ned, standing nearby, shifted nervously, his eyes darting between them as if bracing for an unspoken storm.

Lyanna inclined her head in respect, a gesture that felt more courtly than familial. “It has been many years, my lord.”

Rickard’s eyes narrowed slightly, but whatever thoughts passed through his mind remained unsaid. He turned to Rhaella, his expression softening marginally as he spoke to the beautiful Targaryen queen. “I trust she has not been any trouble to you, Your Grace.”

Her beloved aunt Rhaella, ever gracious, rested a soft hand lightly on Lyanna’s shoulder. “Trouble?” she echoed, her melodic voice laced with a gentle warmth that could melt even the iciest disposition. “Lord Stark, your daughter has been nothing short of a blessing. Not a soul in the court has escaped her charm. I daresay you’ll find she has become the brightest star of the South.”

Lyanna felt her cheeks burn, her heart swelling at the queen’s words even as her father’s reaction drew her back into the cold reality of his presence. Rickard’s lips pressed into a thin line, his nod to Rhaella polite but distant, it was almost as if he was reluctant to believe such a thing.

“You have my gratitude, Your Grace, for the care you have shown her,” he said, his tone measured and polite when directed at her. “It is clear she has thrived under your guidance.”

Lyanna’s hands curled into fists at her sides. He spoke as though she were a horse that had been sent south to be broken, not a daughter whose life he had uprooted without a second thought. The urge to speak out, to throw his indifference back in his face, burned in her chest, but she bit her tongue. She would not give him the satisfaction.

Lyanna’s jaw tightened, her nails digging into her palms as she held her tongue. Grateful? He ought to be grateful, aye, but he should also remain far from King’s Landing—far from her. There was no warmth in her father’s words, no acknowledgment of the girl she had been or the woman she was becoming.

Instead, there was only duty. Always duty.

As Rickard turned to speak with Ned and Robert, Lyanna caught Rhaella’s gaze. The queen’s hand lingered briefly on her shoulder, a silent gesture of reassurance. In that moment, Lyanna wondered if Rhaella could see the cracks beneath the surface, the fissures that years of cold indifference had carved into her heart and into their almost non-existent bond. 

But she said nothing. For now, silence would have to suffice.

Later that day, Robert had arranged a meeting with her father, insisting it take place without delay. The urgency in his tone during the midday meal had been impossible to miss, and though Lyanna hadn’t asked for details, she needed no confirmation of its purpose.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, gilding the Red Keep in intense hues of orange and gold, the outcome was written plainly across Robert’s face. He entered the hall with a swagger in his step, his grin so wide it threatened to split his handsome face. His eyes sparkled with triumph, as though he had just claimed a kingdom instead of sealing a betrothal.

That night, as they gathered for supper, the weight of his declaration hung heavy in the air. “It’s done!” Robert boomed, raising his goblet in toast. “She’s mine, and I’ll make her the happiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.”

The room erupted in cheers. And Lyanna forced a smile. 

Ned, seated beside her, was practically beaming. His smile was soft, genuine, and—though she hated to admit it—infectiously warm. “I’ve gained a brother,” he said quietly, as though speaking only to her. “This is good, Lya. You’ll see.”

Her father, ever stoic, inclined his head in solemn approval at Ned’s words. “And I, a son,” he declared, his voice steady and devoid of hesitation. The sentiment hung in the air, heavy with irony, a cruel twist of fate that did not escape Lyanna’s notice.

The man who had sent her away so easily now spoke with more warmth for Robert Baratheon, a man he had known for mere days, than he ever had for his own daughter. The thought clawed at her insides, sharp and unrelenting. She wanted to laugh—bitterly, harshly—at the absurdity of it all, but the sound stayed trapped in her throat.

Instead, she bit down on the inside of her cheek, the sharp sting grounding her as she forced the bitter laugh to die before it could betray her. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet, and with a deliberate, almost defiant motion, she took a deep sip of her wine. The warmth of it spread down her throat, but it did nothing to dull the ache or the quiet fury simmering beneath her skin.

The words echoed in her ears, hollow and distant, as though they belonged to someone else’s story. She watched the way her father clasped Robert’s arm, his grip firm, his expression one of satisfaction. This was what he wanted, she realized. Not just for her, but for the North. For alliances, for power, for strategy. She was a simple piece in his game. And he was making use of his piece.

She should have been happy with the match, that's what everyone kept telling her, over and over, repeating how lucky she was to have been betrothed to such a handsome man, such a young lord, such a powerful Great House. 

But all she could feel was the strange, suffocating emptiness that filled her chest, expanding with every breath. It should have been a moment to celebrate, and yet it felt like… mourning. Even if she did not dislike Robert, she disliked the fact that her absent father was the one who made the choice for her. 

Lyanna forced a smile as the others laughed and drank, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the untouched plate before her. Robert, ever the boisterous victor, was already regaling the hall with stories of how he would win her heart. Ned, oblivious to the storm in her eyes, leaned closer to speak of shared childhood memories, as if trying to remind her that this was right.

And yet, she felt nothing. A void where excitement or joy should have been.

She excused herself early that night, retreating to the quiet solitude of her chambers. There, beneath the soft flicker of candlelight, she finally let the mask slip. She pressed a hand to her chest as if trying to fill the emptiness with something—anything—but all she felt was the cold weight of inevitability.

The next morning, her father summoned her. The message was short and formal, delivered by one of the Red Keep’s servants, but its meaning was clear: her presence was required. She sighed, staring out of her chamber’s window at the distant rooftops of King’s Landing. She had no desire to see him, no interest in hearing the predictable sermon of duty and propriety he was surely prepared to deliver. She wanted him to take his bargain with House Baratheon, feel smugly satisfied with the arrangement, and leave her to the life she had carved out for herself here.

But Rickard Stark was not a man to be ignored, and Lyanna understood the futility of resistance.

When she entered the solar he had been granted within the Red Keep, she immediately noticed Ned seated beside him. He looked up as she entered, his expression an odd mixture of wariness and encouragement, as though silently pleading for her patience. Her father sat at the head of the table, his back straight, his presence commanding even in the understated Northern garb he wore.

Lyanna walked in slowly, her steps measured, her gaze unwavering. She inclined her head slightly, a gesture just respectful enough to avoid reproach, before taking the chair opposite her father. The wooden seat was uncomfortable, its angles too sharp, but she didn’t adjust. She met her father’s eyes with a calm she didn’t feel, the weight of unspoken words pressing heavily between them.

“Lyanna,” her father began, his voice as unyielding as the man himself, “I am pleased, to no extent, by what I have seen here in King’s Landing. I left the North uncertain, and I return with pride in my heart. My daughter has grown into something far beyond what I might have imagined—a credit to her name and her house.”

Every word felt like a needle, sharp and precise, pricking at her patience. His tone was measured, but there was a faint edge to it, a lingering judgment she could not ignore. He said he was proud, but she wondered: Why exactly was he proud? He did nothing, he did not educate her, he did not guide her, what could he possibly be proud of?

“I have seen enough to know,” he continued, folding his hands on the table before him, “that you are ready. Ready for the responsibilities your station demands. I have arranged for you to be wed to Lord Robert Baratheon, a match that will benefit both our houses. This, I trust, you already understand.”

Lyanna glanced at Ned, who offered her a small, encouraging smile, as if that might ease the sting of her father’s words. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course Ned was happy about this; Robert was his dearest friend, and their father's approval meant the world to him. 

Rickard pressed on, his tone growing firmer. “I expect you to conduct yourself properly, as befits a lady of your station. Your wilder tendencies, I trust, have been tempered by the Queen’s influence. It was imperative I see with my own eyes that you are fit to fulfill your role.”

Her grip on the armrest tightened, her nails biting into the wood. So that was why he had come—not to ensure Robert was a good match, not to check that her future husband would care for her, but to assess whether she was suitable to be given away.

Lyanna raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint, sardonic smile. “And here I thought your journey was to ensure Lord Robert was a worthy addition to your family,” she said lightly, her tone laced with a subtle defiance.

Rickard’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing at her impertinence. “The wolf’s blood runs strong in you,” he remarked, his voice a low warning. “It seems there is still some untamed defiance left. That will not serve you well, Lyanna.”

“I am no child,” she replied, her tone calm but unyielding. “And as for Lord Robert, I trust he will count himself fortunate. At the very least, he is not bound to some hen-brained fool who will cluck and simper at his every word.”

Ned’s eyes widened slightly, and his lips twitched as though suppressing a smile. Her father, however, was less amused.

“Lyanna,” Rickard said sharply, but she interrupted him, her voice steady and clear.

“Worry not, Father,” she said, tilting her head slightly, her expression becoming unreadable. “The Queen has seen to it that I am precisely what my household requires. I assure you, my behavior will not bring shame upon our name.”

Rickard studied her for a moment, his gaze heavy with scrutiny, but she held it without flinching. A tense silence settled over the room, broken only when Ned cleared his throat softly, attempting to ease the atmosphere.

“Lyanna has grown into a fine lady,” he said, his voice warm and earnest. “Robert will be lucky to have her.”

“Indeed,” Rickard said finally, his tone grudging. “See that you remember your duty, Lyanna. That is all I ask.”

She inclined her head, the picture of dutiful submission, though her eyes sparkled with a rebellious glint. “Of course, Father,” she replied smoothly. “Your satisfaction is, as always, my highest priority.”

Her father’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he rose from his seat, signaling the end of the conversation. Lyanna stood as well, her movements graceful and deliberate, before turning to leave. She caught Ned’s gaze as she exited, his expression a mixture of pride and quiet concern.

Once outside the solar, she exhaled slowly, her composure slipping for just a moment. The encounter had drained her, but she felt no regret for the words she had spoken.

The ruins of Summerhall were as familiar to Rhaegar as the Red Keep itself. He had visited these crumbled halls countless times over the years, drawn by the echoes of history that lingered in the air. To anyone else, the place might have seemed desolate, haunted even, but to him, it was always a refuge.

It had been three days since their arrival. The fire pit they’d built in the central courtyard was ringed with smooth stones collected from a nearby stream, and their makeshift camp had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Arthur sat sharpening his blade, Dawn, the soft rasp of steel against stone blending with the rustle of wind through broken walls. Gerold Hightower, ever practical, hefted an empty sack over his shoulder.

“I’m going to gather wood for the fire,” Gerold announced, his tone gruff as he glanced at the dwindling pile. “And maybe catch something worth eating. Unless you’re content with more bread and dried meat.”

Arthur smirked, never taking his gaze off of Dawn. “Don’t let the rabbits outsmart you, Gerold. They’ve bested many a lesser man.”

Gerold snorted but didn’t deign to reply, disappearing into the trees with his usual efficient stride.

Arthur turned his attention to Rhaegar, who sat on a fallen column. He was plucking absently at his harp, the notes soft, as if the ruins themselves mourned the songs that had once filled these halls.

“You’ve been silent today,” Arthur said, leaning back against a moss-covered wall. “Though, I suppose that is your natural state.”

Rhaegar didn’t look up from his harp. “It’s called reflection, Arthur. You might try it sometime.”

“Reflection? Is that what you call staring into the distance like a forlorn lover?” Arthur grinned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you left your heart in King’s Landing.”

Rhaegar’s fingers faltered on the strings, a faint discordant note breaking the melody. He shot Arthur a sharp look, he could be a pain in the ass when he set his mind to it. “I came here for peace. Not your incessant commentary.”

“Peace, is it? Or avoidance?” Arthur’s grin widened, unbothered by the glare he received in return. Rhaegar knew Arthur all too well to know his friend would not be intimidated by such gestures. “You know, sooner or later, the things you’re running from will find you.”

Rhaegar’s tone was dry, laced with sarcasm. “Thank you, Arthur. Your wisdom is as profound as it is unsolicited.”

Arthur laughed, the sound breaking the quiet of the ruins like a pebble skipping across still water. “You’ve been scowling at those stones for days now, Your Grace. Careful, or they’ll start scowling back.”

Rhaegar cast him a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable. “If they do, perhaps they’ll have something worthwhile to say.”

Arthur smirked but didn’t press further, letting the moment hang in the brittle air of Summerhall. It had been days since they’d arrived, and the ruins, once a place of memories for Rhaegar, had offered no new clarity. He had sought distance, an escape from the pull of King’s Landing and its endless demands. But more importantly, from her.

But the distance had done nothing to quiet the storm within him. He had come here to remind himself of duty, to harden his resolve, and yet…

Yet, there was the memory of her: Lyanna, her voice soft as a whisper, drawing him in like the sea pulling a ship closer to shore. He had lingered in her chambers far too long that last night he saw her, well past reason. He hadn’t even known why he stayed—only that she’d asked, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

It had been reckless. Stupid. He prided himself on being deliberate, on mastering his impulses and making clever choices. But around her, every instinct he had unraveled, leaving him unmoored and reckless. She made him forget what he was meant to be, what he was meant to do.

Rhaegar sighed, a heavy exhale that seemed to drag the weight of his thoughts with it.

Arthur leaned against a broken pillar, folding his arms. His easy grin faded into something sharper. “That bad, is it?”

Rhaegar didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Do you ever wonder,” he said finally, his voice low, “if a man can be two things at once? Both what he’s meant to be and what he truly is?”

Arthur tilted his head, his grin returning in full force, though his eyes glinted with understanding. “All the time, my friend. The trick is deciding which one’s worth keeping—and which one’s just going to get you killed.”

The words hit harder than Rhaegar cared to admit. He looked away, unwilling to meet Arthur’s gaze.

By the time Gerold returned with an armful of wood and a modest catch of fish, the fire was already crackling, its golden light flickering against the stone remnants of Summerhall. The air had grown cooler, and the scent of charred wood mingled with the faint dampness of the evening.

Arthur, lounging near the fire with an easy grin, raised an eyebrow at Gerold. “That all you caught? I’ve seen minnows with more meat.”

Gerold snorted, dropping the wood unceremoniously to the ground. “You can do the fishing next time, Arthur. Let’s see if your sword hand’s as good at wrangling trout as it is at parrying blows.”

Rhaegar chuckled softly, shaking his head. “If Arthur’s fishing skills match his singing, we’ll all be starving by tomorrow.”

Arthur feigned offense. “Now, that’s unkind. My singing is—”

“—something to be endured,” Gerold cut in, smirking.

The three of them laughed, the sound filling the ruins with a warmth that rivaled the fire. As they prepared the fish, the conversation turned to old stories, as it often did on such nights.

“Remember the tavern in Lannisport?” Arthur began, grinning mischievously.

Gerold groaned. “Oh, not this again.”

Rhaegar arched an eyebrow.

Arthur leaned forward, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “Gerold here thought it’d be a good idea to challenge a rather large and rather drunk dockhand to a game of knives. Let’s just say the dockhand had a better sense of humor than skill.”

Gerold rolled his eyes. “He was terrible at the game. I was trying to let him win.”

“By nearly cutting off your own thumb?” Arthur quipped, and the group erupted into laughter once more.

The moment felt timeless. That was what their nights in Summerhall had been like the last days, and that’s when Rhaegar reminded himself that the trip had not been a complete waste of time. Maybe the trip did not do what it was meant to do: clarify his thoughts miraculously, as it usually did before when he was just a boy of six-and-ten. But it certainly had served to lift his spirits, and to make him forget about the mess in his head at times. 

But then, as if the night itself grew aware of their mirth, the sound of steps could be heard, and a hush settled over them. The laughter died away, replaced by an uneasy stillness.

Rhaegar was the first to notice it—a shift in the air, a faint whisper of movement just beyond the circle of firelight. He sat straighter, his gaze narrowing.

From the edge of the shadows, a figure appeared—or at least, the impression of one. Slender and graceful, with flowers woven into her hair, the figure moved with a grace that seemed unearthly. The firelight caught on her form for the briefest of moments before she vanished into the trees as if carried away by the wind.

Arthur broke the silence, his voice low and sharp. “Did you see that?”

Rhaegar nodded, his throat suddenly dry. “Someone was there” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the spot where the figure had suddenly disappeared.

Gerold, ever practical, rose to his feet, his expression a mix of skepticism and unease as he rushed to the spot. “I’ll have a look.”

The others watched as he ventured beyond the firelight, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He moved cautiously, scanning the shadows with the practiced eye of a seasoned knight. Moments passed, the fire crackling softly in their ears, before he returned, shaking his head. “Nothing. No tracks, no one.”

But just as the tension began to ease, and Rhaegar was starting to believe they all fell victim of a collective hallucination because of fish in bad state, a new sound reached their ears—soft, deliberate steps circling the fire, though no figure could be seen.

Arthur tensed, his hand drifting toward his blade. “Do you hear that?” He murmured, and both Gerold and Rhaegar nodded slightly. 

Before anyone could answer, a soft humming broke through the night—a woman’s voice, lilting and melancholic, weaving an ancient tune that felt as if it belonged to another time, another world. It lingered, haunting and fragile, brushing against their ears before vanishing into the vast silence, leaving the air unnaturally still.

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his breath heavy as it escaped him. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a stark reminder of the strangeness they had just witnessed.

He had never been a man given to believing in ghost stories or fanciful tales of spirits. Such things belonged to songs and fireside fables, not the reality he knew. And yet, his senses now betrayed him—his skin prickling, the hairs on his arms rising, every nerve sharp with an inexplicable caution. That had been no trick of the mind, no shared delusion. It was real. It was something beyond the grasp of their mortal understanding.

Gerold broke the silence, his voice low and gruff, but tinged with a rare uneasiness. “We should sleep. Whatever… that was, it’s gone now. Best we don’t test our luck by lingering too long.”

Arthur nodded first, his usual glibness replaced by caution. “For once, I’ll agree with Gerold. Let’s not offend whatever—or whoever—calls this place home.”

The tension in the air remained unbroken as they retreated to their bedrolls, each step weighed down by the oppressive stillness that now gripped the ruins. Summerhall, once a place of familiar echoes and memories, now felt foreign, an ancient shadow pressing upon them, unseen yet undeniable.

As Rhaegar lay beneath the fractured canopy of stars, the tune replayed itself in his mind, soft and persistent, as though the humming had embedded itself into his very being. It stirred something deep within him, a question he could not articulate, an unease that refused to settle. And though his eyes remained closed, sleep evaded him, the melody haunting the silence of his thoughts.

That night, his sleep was restless, his dreams vivid and strange. He stood in a cavern, the walls alive with molten rock that shimmered. At its heart was a pedestal, and on it rested three dragon eggs. The eggs he had rescued from Valyria. 

As he stepped closer, the eggs began to crack, the sound sharp and resonant in the heated air. From within, three dragons emerged, each more magnificent and otherworldly than the last. The first was as black as obsidian, streaked with blood-red veins, its eyes smoldering with an ancient and unyielding intelligence. The second dragon unfurled its pale golden wings, frost crystallizing in the air with every exhalation, its breath freezing the molten stone beneath it. The third was a vibrant green, its scales catching the light like emeralds, its piercing gaze fixed on Rhaegar, as though it could see through his flesh to the core of his very soul.

Before he could take another breath, the vision shifted. The cavern dissolved into an icy expanse, vast and desolate. Standing before him were two figures: a boy with dark hair and storm-grey eyes, his expression resolute, and a girl with silver hair and violet eyes, her stance defiant and strong. They stood together at the base of a colossal wall of ice that seemed to scrape the heavens, its surface shimmering with an unnatural cold.

Beyond the wall, shadows stirred, towering, skeletal figures with burning coal-like eyes, their presence radiating malevolence. The boy and girl turned toward Rhaegar, their faces inscrutable. They seemed to wait for something—for him—though what, he could not say.

The vision shattered like glass, plunging him into darkness.

Rhaegar woke with a start, his chest heaving as if he had been running. The ruins around him were cloaked in stillness, the fire reduced to a dim glow of embers. He pressed a hand to his forehead, his thoughts racing with the vivid images that lingered like the taste of bitter wine.

And then he saw her.

At the edge of the firelight stood the figure from before—a woman with flowers woven into her hair. Her form was ethereal, her eyes brimming with sadness and something else... something knowing. Jenny of Oldstones, the name surfaced unbidden in his mind.

He froze, unable to move or speak, and in the space of a breath, she was gone. Only the faintest trace of her presence lingered—a delicate floral scent, soft and fleeting, like a memory slipping away.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar arrived at King’s Landing just in time for the grand festivities planned for his younger brother’s name dayday. Viserys was to turn four in a few days, and in true Targaryen fashion, his father had declared a week of celebrations, complete with feasts that would stretch the kitchens to their limits and a grand tournament promising a golden prize large enough to tempt the greatest knights of the realm. King’s Landing hummed with excitement, the streets were alive with color, music, and the loud buzz of great expectations.

The Red Keep was no different. Its halls thrummed with life, the people dressed in their finest garments, and the air was heavy with laughter, and the clinking of goblets filled with Arbor gold. Among the festivities, one constant presence had attached itself to Rhaegar the moment he set foot in the keep: Lady Cersei Lannister.

The golden lioness of Casterly Rock was every bit the picture of youthful beauty, and she was decided to make him notice. Her hair, in her usual fashion, fell in elegant waves down her back, and her blood-red gown hugged her figure with precision, the color chosen to draw every eye in the room. And it had certainly succeeded. Heads turned as she moved with her usual grace, her emerald eyes bright with determination the moment she saw him. Cersei wanted to be noticed, and Rhaegar understood, perhaps too well, that she wanted to be noticed by him most of all.

That night, however, he found his gaze wandering, despite the lioness’ best efforts and the knowledge that he should in fact praise his beautiful bride-to-be. Across the hall, amidst a group of Northmen and Stormlords, stood Lyanna. She was vibrant, radiant in an emerald-green gown that seemed crafted to mimic the deep greens of the forest, its delicate embroidery tracing the patterns of leaves and vines. The fabric flowed like water when she moved, the neckline modest but elegant, exposing the pale curve of her shoulders. Her dark hair had been loosely pinned, allowing soft tendrils to frame her face, and her silver-grey eyes sparkled as she smiled up at Robert Baratheon.

Rhaegar hid a grimace. The news of her betrothal to Robert had reached him the moment he arrived. A union loudly celebrated and declared by his father. The thought of it made his stomach churn, though his outward composure remained as unshakable as Valyrian steel. 

Lady Cersei’s soft voice broke through his thoughts, and he turned his attention back to her with an apologetic smile.

“I trust your trip to Summerhall was everything you hoped for, Your Grace,” Cersei said, her voice smooth as velvet, her fingers lingering insistently on his sleeve.

Rhaegar offered a polite smile that seemed to satisfy her. “It was... enlightening, my lady. Though, as with most things, the anticipation was greater than the reality. Summerhall holds more ghosts than the peace I was in search of these days.” His words trailed off slightly, and his gaze flickered momentarily to the distance, his thoughts veering to the strange, chilling encounter they had on their final night there.

Some truths, he decided, were better left unspoken. Yet, in the quiet of his mind, the haunting image of Jenny of Oldstones lingered. A pair of mournful, spectral eyes staring into his soul, their weight heavy and disquieting.

“A shame,” Cersei replied, her lips curving into a lovely smile. “Perhaps it’s the company that makes all the difference. With the right companion, even a place of ruins can become... enchanting.”

Rhaegar chuckled softly, his eyes meeting hers with a faint glimmer of amusement at the thought of her in such a place. Lady Cersei did not look like the kind of maiden to enjoy such wilderness. “An intriguing notion, Lady Cersei. Yet I would not wish to subject you to the wilderness of Summerhall. The discomforts of sleeping on a bedroll beneath its crumbling stones are not easily endured.”

Cersei laughed softly, the sound delicate, like the faint chime of glass in a summer breeze. Her gaze, however, was sharper than her tone implied, her words brimming with veiled suggestion. “I hardly think that would trouble me, Your Grace, if it meant sharing your company.”

Despite the polish of her manners and the striking beauty she wore as naturally as silk, Rhaegar was not blind to Cersei Lannister’s attentions. They were subtle, carefully measured, precisely placed, but unmistakable all the same. Spoken by a woman like Cersei, he knew how easily such words could take root in a man’s imagination, how easily manipulated men often were by beauty.

But Rhaegar was no stranger to such overtures. Court life had long since taught him to recognize the difference between courtesy and invitation, between admiration freely given and desire wielded as a tool. Whatever spell her beauty might have cast on others, it found no purchase in him. He received her flirtation as he did all such things, with calm courtesy, unruffled restraint, and a distance that neither encouraged nor offended.

If Cersei noticed the lack of response, she did not show it. And if she intended her attentions as a test, he had already passed it, without ever meaning to play.

“Would you truly brave the wilds, my lady?” he replied with a mock-serious expression, the corners of his lips tugging into an amused smile. “Such adventures are not for the faint of heart.”

Cersei leaned in closer, her voice was soft yet edged with purpose when she spoke again. “I assure you, Your Grace, I am sincere in my intentions. I’m not as fragile as I may appear.”

Her words hung in the air like a challenge, but Rhaegar’s attention began to waver, his focus slipping away despite her attempts to hold it. Across the hall, a flash of green caught his eye once again.

There, near the dais, stood Lyanna. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, framing a face that seemed more alive than anything else in the room.

And she was looking at him.

For a brief, treacherous moment, it seemed as though she sensed him. She turned her head, and her silver eyes met his with a suddenness that stole the air from his lungs. She was beautiful, gods, she was. And captivating in a way that defied reason. He wondered, fleetingly, whether she knew the effect she had simply by existing.

But the moment did not linger.

Almost at once, the spell broke. Lyanna turned away again, her attention returning to whatever Robert Baratheon—that oaf—was saying, his voice carrying on with unearned confidence. The noise of the feast rushed back in, and Rhaegar was left with the small certainty that something had passed between them.

Cersei’s voice, sharp and sudden, cut through the haze of his thoughts. “Your Grace?”

He turned back to her, his expression flawlessly composed, though his mind remained elsewhere. “My apologies,” he said smoothly, his tone unruffled despite the turmoil within. “You were saying?”

But before she could answer, he saw Robert Baratheon moving toward them, already reaching for Lyanna’s hand. The man must have caught the direction of her gaze, for he approached with unmistakable eagerness, tugging her forward as though she were a trophy to be displayed. The stag’s stride was confident, almost celebratory, his broad grin flashing beneath the torchlight with the unshakable assurance of someone convinced he had already claimed the greatest prize of his life.

Rhaegar’s eyes dropped at once to Robert’s hand.

He noted the careless certainty with which thick fingers closed around Lyanna’s slender wrist. Not as a guiding touch, but as a claiming one. The sight stirred something sharp and unwelcome within him, a flicker of irritation that rose too quickly, too fiercely, to be entirely rational.

He gave it no quarter.

Years of discipline asserted themselves at once. His features remained composed, his posture unchanged, every inch the prince at ease. Yet the ease did not reach his eyes. He could not summon even the faintest semblance of a smile, the customary grace of his manner replaced by a cool, restrained stillness. Beneath it, discontent coiled in silence, contained, unacknowledged, and all the more dangerous for it.

“Ah, cousin! Lady Cersei!” Robert Baratheon’s strong voice carried across the hall as he approached, his steps confident. He was still holding Lyanna, holding her close with a confidence that did not escape Rhaegar. “You’ve finally returned from your crumbling ruins! I was beginning to think you’d taken up residence among the ghosts.”

Rhaegar turned to face them and, by some effort of will, summoned a polite smile, one that felt as though it might splinter his jaw to hold.

“Robert. Lady Lyanna,” he said smoothly. “I see King’s Landing has not suffered in my absence. And congratulations are in order, I hear.”

Robert Baratheon’s face split into a broad, unabashed grin, the kind worn only by men utterly convinced of their own good fortune. He lifted Lyanna’s hand high, displaying her with the careless pride of ownership, as though Rhaegar required reminding she stood there at all. As though he had not noticed her long before Robert ever dared claim her. The oaf.

“Aye, you’ve heard right!” Robert boomed, his voice carrying easily over the low murmur of the hall. “Betrothed to this fierce, wild beauty of the North.” His chest swelled as he spoke, his grip tightening around her fingers. “I’m a fortunate man, wouldn’t you say?”

Rhaegar’s gaze drifted to Lyanna then. Her silver-grey eyes met his for the briefest instant, clear, steady, and absolutely unreadable. Her lips were curved into a polite smile, carefully arranged, as though she were holding herself together by sheer discipline. It was the sort of expression worn at court when truth must be concealed. And yet, despite her composure, a faint flush had risen along her cheekbones where Robert held her hand so openly.

The sight unsettled him more than it had any right to.

Did she welcome this? Did she truly find pleasure in Robert’s loud certainty, his heavy grasp, his unthinking claim? The notion was irrational, uncharitable, and still it lodged itself in his thoughts, unwelcome and persistent.

Rhaegar reined himself in at once. This was folly. He knew it. Whatever flicker of unease stirred within him had no place here, no justification. Yet knowing that did little to ease it.

What, precisely, did he think he stood to gain from this moment?

The question echoed, unanswered, as he held his composure and let the mask remain firmly in place.

“Congratulations,” Rhaegar said, inclining his head just enough to appear gracious. His tone was smooth and effortless, even as irritation prickled beneath his skin. “May your union bring prosperity and harmony to both our houses.”

Beside him, Cersei’s voice cut through the exchange, her tone honeyed but with a hint of curiosity that was unmistakable. “I imagine your father must be delighted, Lady Lyanna? A match such as this must bring great pride to House Stark.”

Lyanna’s cool, steady gaze shifted to Cersei. She answered with the poise of a winter gale, calm and biting. “He is, my lady. The match is indeed a great honor.” 

As if Lyanna cared what her father wanted. As if pleasing that man had ever mattered to her. From what he had observed, she’d barely spent a moment in her father’s company all night, a fleeting exchange at best.

Robert laughed then, an unrestrained sound that rolled through the hall and drew more attention than Rhaegar thought the man deserved. His arm slid around Lyanna’s slender waist with proprietary ease, settling there as though it belonged, as though the gesture itself were proof enough of his claim. The man seemed to possess an excess of hands, each one determined to announce ownership.

“Aye,” Robert declared, still grinning, “and I won’t keep her waiting long. A short betrothal, I say!” He glanced down at her with unabashed confidence. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

Lyanna’s smile did not reach her eyes. It was faint, composed, and the flush along her cheeks had deepened, whether from the heat of the hall or from something else entirely, Rhaegar could not tell. Her voice, however, remained even, betraying nothing of what she might be thinking.

“If you say so, Robert.”

She spoke his name plainly, without title or ornament, and the intimacy of it, small, careless, unearned... cut more sharply than Rhaegar expected. It was nothing of consequence. And yet it stung all the same, like salt pressed into a wound.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Lyanna continued, her tone gentle but unmistakably firm as she tugged at Robert’s arm. “We could use some fresh air, couldn’t we?”

She looked at the Stormlord then, the request quiet but undeniable.

Robert, grinning like the idiot he was, allowed himself to be led away without protest. He laughed as they moved through the crowd toward the gardens, tossing back a half-hearted farewell before disappearing altogether, utterly bewitched, and entirely unaware of the silence he left behind.

Rhaegar’s gaze followed them. Never before had he felt this strange urge to go after someone.

Cersei’s voice cut through his thoughts, honeyed and sharp as a dagger’s edge as soon as they were almost out of sight. “They make quite the pair, don’t they?” she mused, her curious gaze lingering on the retreating couple.

“Indeed,” Rhaegar replied, his tone distant and clipped. He wanted to say more, something dismissive or cutting, but found himself unable to muster the words. The simmering anger within him was absurd, he told himself, yet it refused to be quelled. 

“Your Grace?” A new voice interrupted, and Rhaegar turned to see Lord Tyrell approaching, in a figure of polished diplomacy, his fine silks embroidered with golden roses that seemed to glow in the torchlight. “Might I steal a moment of your time?”

Rhaegar seized the opportunity like a drowning man grasping at driftwood, offering Cersei a barely polite smile that allowed him to escape her attentions, her startled expression did not go past him, and yet, he simply could not bring himself to care. “Of course, Lord Tyrell. If you’ll excuse me, Lady Cersei.”

But instead of joining Lord Tyrell when he said he would, Rhaegar slipped through the crowd, his departure swift and deliberate. He moved with a hunter’s precision, navigating the throng of revelers until he emerged into the cool embrace of the night, where he knew they would surely be. The gardens stretched before him, bathed in moonlight, a beautiful scenery he could not appreciate at the moment. 

He walked silently, his footsteps muffled against the stone paths, though inside, his thoughts were anything but quiet. He felt like a thief in his own castle, skulking in the shadows to witness something he had no right to see. 

His thoughts were cut short by the sight before him.

Beneath an arch heavy with cascading flowers, he found them. Robert Baratheon, that fool, had leaned down, first brushing a kiss against Lyanna’s cheek, casual and confident. Then, to Rhaegar’s mounting horror, his mouth found hers.

She did not pull away.

The question struck him at once, sharp and unforgiving. Why did she not pull away? As the moment unfolded before him, unhurried and unchallenged, a cold wave of something deeply unpleasing washed through his chest.

The image burned itself into him. Something fierce and ugly stirred, clawing upward with sudden violence, an ire so sharp it bordered on pain. He remained where he was, half-hidden by shadow and foliage, while his thoughts raged unchecked, dark, uncharitable, and shockingly vivid. For a breathless instant, he imagined tearing Robert Baratheon apart with his own hands, imagined the man reduced to blood and ruin, his triumph ended decisively and publicly. The fantasy was brutal, unrepentant, and, to his dismay, disturbingly satisfying.

For one reckless heartbeat, he considered stepping forward.

He imagined himself breaking the moment, pulling Lyanna away from that grasping, careless idiot, demanding answers she did not owe him and could not give. The urge surged hot and irrational, driven by nothing but instinct and wounded pride.

Then reason, bitter and unyielding, asserted itself.

What would such a display achieve? Nothing but folly. Nothing but scandal. Worse still, she had not resisted the kiss. How could he justify intervening when she herself appeared to accept Robert’s affection? The thought settled like lead in his chest, heavy and immovable.

With a final, piercing glance at the scene beneath the flowers, Rhaegar turned away.

He slipped back into the crowd without a sound, his steps measured, his expression carefully schooled, leaving behind the laughter, the blossoms, and the first true understanding that whatever this was, it had already moved beyond his control.

A servant passed, and Rhaegar fixed him with a cold, withering glare.

“Wine.” he barked, stripped bare of courtesy, edged with something hard. 

The servant blanched beneath his gaze, eyes widening as though he had been singled out by fate itself. He bowed hastily and fled at once, eager to escape whatever storm he had unwittingly crossed. Rhaegar did not spare him another glance. His attention had already turned inward, where darker thoughts held sway.

In his mind, Robert Baratheon died a thousand deaths.

Some were swift. Most were not. Each imagined end unfolded with ruthless clarity, and in every one of them, Rhaegar remained composed, distant, untouched by blood or consequence. The visions were savage, unworthy, and entirely private.

Outwardly, he stood as he always did: the prince unshaken.

Inwardly, he found a grim, unsettling satisfaction in every carefully imagined ruin.

That night, Robert kissed her.

It was the first time she had ever been kissed, and it felt... strange. Not unpleasant, but peculiar, like wearing a garment tailored for someone else. “I promise you, Lyanna,” Robert said afterward, his deep voice tinged with the warmth of ale and excitement. “I will make you happy. You’ll have all the freedom you want.” His words were fervent, his dark blue eyes shining with sincerity as if he truly believed he could give her the world.

“Just give me the chance to prove it to you,” he pressed, his face nearing hers. He was handsome, undeniably so, with his broad shoulders and easy smile, and she found herself nodding slightly, uncertain but willing to see where this path might lead.

When his lips met hers, the touch was soft, tentative at first, but quickly grew more insistent. Lyanna, unsure of herself, responded clumsily, her movements awkward and mechanical.

She closed her eyes because Ashara had once told her that was what one did. That it made things easier. That it felt right.

It did not.

There were no wild flutters in her chest, no sweeping passion. Just the unfamiliar press of a mouth that did not fit, the faintly unpleasant awareness of dampness and breath, and the unsettling realization that she had no idea what she was meant to feel, or why she felt nothing at all. It was just... Wet, and clumsy, and she felt completely lost because she didn’t know what she was supposed to do. There was no instinct to guide her, no inner pull telling her what came next.

Robert, at least, seemed satisfied.

He pulled back with a broad grin, pleased and untroubled, leaving her standing beneath the flowers with her thoughts knotted and unresolved, uncertain whether the fault lay with her, or with the stories she had been taught to believe.

And after many promises of happiness from Robert and quiet acceptance on her part, they returned to the feast. Robert, brimming with newly found energy, quickly found his way back to the ale, laughing and clapping shoulders with the lords gathered at the long tables. Lyanna, however, lingered on the edges, her mind replaying the moment. Her first kiss... So much fuss had been made about it, and yet, it felt strangely hollow.

She glanced toward Ashara, who was seated nearby, sending flirtatious smiles in Ned’s direction. Her brother, predictably, was red-faced and rigid, shifting uncomfortably under her friend’s relentless teasing. A sight Lyanna would find amusing to no end were it not for what had transpired moments ago with Robert in the gardens.

“Stop tormenting my poor brother,” Lyanna said, nudging Ashara with a grin. Poor Ned. 

“I’m not tormenting, I’m flirting,” Ashara replied with a playful smirk that Lyanna knew all too well, for she had seen it many times before. Ashara knew how to handle men, how to toy with them with a single look. It was impressive to watch, actually. “And he’s absolutely adorable when he blushes.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes but laughed softly. Her poor brother, he had always been shy and modest. 

She considered confiding in Ashara about the kiss. Surely her friend, so much more worldly, so much more at ease with matters of the heart, would have some wisdom to offer. Yet the thought of speaking it aloud made her hesitate. Ashara’s attention seemed wholly captured by her own careful game with Ned, and Lyanna was not even certain how to shape her confusion into words. What would she say, exactly? That she felt nothing? That she had expected more? The thoughts tangled before they ever reached her tongue.

Another time, she told herself. When the feeling had settled. When she could speak of it without dissolving into uncertainty and half-formed doubts.

Her gaze drifted across the hall then, and she caught sight of Lady Cersei. The golden-haired Lannister stood locked in what appeared to be a hushed but intense exchange with her twin brother. Jaime’s hand was wrapped firmly around her arm, his jaw set, while Cersei’s expression flickered with sharp displeasure barely contained. Even from a distance, the tension between them was unmistakable, something tight and unsettling, coiled just beneath the surface. Lyanna felt a brief spark of curiosity, but whatever storm brewed there was not hers to untangle. She turned her attention away.

It was Ser Arthur she noticed next.

He stood not far off, his polished silver armor catching the torchlight so that it gleamed softly against the darker hues of the hall. His gaze moved steadily across the crowd, alert without being severe. When his eyes found hers, recognition warmed his expression at once. He smiled and crossed the space between them with the easy familiarity of an old friend.

“Congratulations on your betrothal, Lyanna,” he said, his voice as kind and steady as she remembered.

“Thank you, Arthur,” she replied, managing a small, genuine smile.

He was a good man, she thought. A good knight. And, more than that, a good friend.

“It is not every day one is betrothed, aye? To the Stormlord, of all men” he remarked lightly, though there was an odd look in his lilac eyes, as if he could sense her unease. It wouldn’t surprise her if he did, for Arthur had always been a perceptive man, always one step ahead of everyone else when it came to noticing small details about others. 

Lyanna hesitated, then replied, “No, it is not. Though I imagine he and I are rather different storms.” She threw a quick glance at Robert then, he was enjoying himself, laughing and drinking with other men. 

Arthur chuckled softly at that, his gaze following hers for a small moment to where Robert was. “Perhaps, but storms have a way of finding harmony, given time.”

Lyanna nodded, and smiled at him warmly. Arthur always seemed to know the right thing to say, and his calm presence was a comfort, always.

And as the night wore on, she found herself growing weary. Robert, thoroughly drunk by now and unable to read between the lines, kept insisting she join him at her father’s table, but Lyanna wasn’t interested. Thankfully, Ned intervened, gently convincing Robert to let her retire for the evening. 

“Do you want me to come with you?” Ashara asked as Lyanna rose to leave.

Lyanna shook her head. “No, enjoy yourself. And try not to embarrass Ned too much,” she added with a teasing smile.

Ashara laughed then. “No promises.”

With that, Lyanna slipped out of the feast, her steps echoing softly as she made her way through the dimly lit halls. The air was cooler here, a welcome reprieve from the stifling warmth of the crowded hall. 

As she turned a quiet corner, she caught sight of a lone figure seated upon the balustrade of a narrow balcony. Even in the dim spill of torchlight, she knew him at once.

Rhaegar.

He leaned back against a stone pillar with careless disregard, one knee bent, a goblet hanging loosely from his fingers. Beside him rested a nearly empty jug of wine, its presence an unspoken confession. Moonlight caught in his silver hair, lending him an almost unreal beauty, as though he had stepped out of song, but the illusion ended there. His posture was slack, unguarded, stripped of the usual elegance she had come to associate with him.

“Rhaegar?” she called softly, moving closer.

Her footsteps echoed faintly against the stone, too loud in the stillness. The torches cast him in molten gold, but the shadows carved his features into something harder, colder. There was something unsettling in the way he lingered there, too still, too loose, as if he had set himself deliberately outside the order of the night.

He turned his head slowly.

His violet eyes met hers without warmth, sharp and distant, cutting rather than welcoming. Whatever gentleness she had known in them was absent now, replaced by something guarded and unyielding.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The words were clipped, stripped of courtesy, so unlike him that for a heartbeat she wondered whether the wine had changed him, or merely revealed something she had not yet seen.

The tone unsettled her more than the words themselves. “Why are you here?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “Everyone else is celebrating. Aren’t you meant to be with them?”

A low, bitter laugh escaped him, not loud enough to carry, but edged enough to wound. “And why aren’t you?” he returned coolly. “Playing the part expected of you.”

His gaze dropped to her then, measured, and something in it felt like rejection, disdain even, carefully chosen, painfully intentional. “I imagine my cousin, the great Stormlord, has already noticed your absence. Or perhaps he is too busy with his cups to mind.” His mouth curved, humorless, almost cruel. “Robert has always been more devoted to his ale than to subtlety. And certainly more skilled at courting one than the other.”

The words landed with precision, sharp enough to sting, but beneath them, Lyanna sensed something else entirely.

Lyanna stiffened. What had gotten into him?  

The barb aimed at Robert had not been wholly undeserved, yet the bitterness beneath it cut deeper than she expected. She studied him for a moment, then said quietly, “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re meddlesome,” he shot back, he lifted his goblet in a mock salute, the gesture lazy, and took a slow sip. “Is there anything else you’d like to announce? Or are you here to revel in my flaws while conveniently ignoring your own?”

Her brows drew together. She stepped closer, her gaze dropping to the nearly empty jug at his side. She had seen him drink before, wine at feasts, measured and controlled, but never like this. Never with such careless abandon. “Do you think drowning yourself in wine will solve whatever has you sulking out here like some spoiled child?" Her voice hardened. “It’s unbecoming. And frankly, it’s pathetic.”

Annoyance flickered across his face, brief but unmistakable. He exhaled sharply, then said, “Would you just… leave?”

The words struck her like a slap.

Heat rushed to her face, her chest tightening as anger flared, swift and untempered. “You are insufferable, Rhaegar,” she snapped. “You’re embarrassing yourself—and your house. Is this what Targaryen dignity looks like? If so, it is a poor showing indeed.”

She did not soften the last word. “You’re a fool.”

“And you’re easy,” he cut in, smoothly enough that the insult almost sounded calculated rather than drunk. His voice was cold as a northern wind and just as unforgiving, steady despite the wine, despite the chaos roiling beneath it. His mouth curved, not into a smile, but into something thinner and far crueler, a smirk shaped to wound. When her eyes widened, he pressed on, merciless. “Kissing your betrothed in the dark like some tavern girl.”

He tilted his head, studying her as though she were an object rather than a person standing before him. “How very poetic,” he added softly. “Or is it desperation? Are you truly so hungry for some kind of affection?”

The words fell with calculated precision, each one chosen not to argue... But to bruise.

The words struck low and hard.

For a breathless instant, she could not move. Her heart slammed against her ribs, her thoughts scattering as that cruel, knowing curve of his mouth burned itself into her mind. Then instinct overtook reason. Her hand came up before she had time to think, her palm connecting with his cheek in a sharp, echoing crack that rang down the corridor like a verdict.

Her hand burned where she had struck him.

Rhaegar staggered, his head turning with the force of it. He touched his cheek slowly, almost absently, fingers brushing the spot where a faint red mark was already blooming. His violet eyes were wide, not with pain, but with shock. The cruelty in them dimmed, though it did not disappear entirely.

“How dare you,” Lyanna hissed, her voice shaking despite her effort to steady it. Fury and heartbreak warred in her chest, tightening her throat. Her eyes shone, bright with unshed tears she refused to give him. “You have no right. None at all.” Her voice dropped, raw and cutting. “You’re a bastard.”

For a long moment, he said nothing.

His mouth pressed into a thin line, the space between them taut with everything unsaid, wine, pride, and the sudden, irrevocable knowledge that he had gone too far.

The weight of it crashed into her all at once.

Rage flared first, hot and blinding, followed swiftly by humiliation. But beneath both lay something sharper still: betrayal. Of all people, she had trusted him to treat her with dignity. Rhaegar had always been careful with her, attentive, unfailingly courteous. He had spoken to her as an equal, listened as though her words mattered, guarded her space without ever claiming it. That man had felt real. This one, slouched, venomous, and unkind, felt like a stranger wearing his pretty face.

Was it the wine that had twisted him so? Had it loosened his tongue, stripped away restraint, and allowed something ugly to surface? Or had this bitterness always been there, waiting for the right wound to expose it?

What right did he have to judge her? What right did he have to turn her own insecurities into weapons? Fears that had been planted by her father, nurtured by years of doubt and expectation, and she had shared them with Rhaegar only under the fragile shelter of trust, the kind reserved for those she believed to be true friends.

The insult had not been careless. It was far too exact for that. Calculated. And that was what cut deepest. Coming from Rhaegar, who missed nothing, who observed everything with that quiet, incisive mind of his, the cruelty could not be dismissed as thoughtless drunkenness. He had known precisely where to strike.

And he had chosen to do so anyway.

And what did it matter to him that she had kissed Robert Baratheon? He himself was betrothed, to Cersei Lannister, no less, bound by duty just as firmly as she was, and he did not seem to resent it overmuch. And Rhaegar, for all his polished restraint, was no innocent. He was a man who had spent years in Essos, living a life of pleasures she could only imagine, indulging freedoms she had never been afforded. How dare he stand before her now, cruel and sanctimonious, condemning her for a single, hollow moment?

The hypocrisy burned.

And yet, beneath the anger, beneath the outrage, something deeper twisted painfully in her chest. A hurt she had not invited and could not master, sharp enough to steal her breath.

The tears she had fought so fiercely finally spilled as she turned on her heel and stormed down the corridor. She told herself they were tears of fury, and perhaps they were, but they fell all the same, hot and unrelenting. Her steps echoed unevenly in the stillness as she fled, refusing to look back.

She could not.

When her footsteps faded into the shadows, Rhaegar sagged back against the pillar, his hand still resting against his cheek where she had struck him.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Rhaegar woke with a pounding headache that felt like a smith's forge had taken residence in his skull. The light streaming through the curtains was a cruel, searing blade that stabbed at his eyes, and his mouth was so parched it felt as if he had swallowed a desert. He groaned, half-buried in a tangle of pillows and sheets, his naked torso sticky from a restless sleep. The room spun slightly as he lifted his head, the motion a punishment in itself.

He glanced around, disoriented, and it took a moment for his surroundings to come into focus. His chamber’s familiar finery offered no comfort. He vaguely recalled Arthur finding him, wandering the halls like some drunken specter, but the rest of the night remained a haze. Then, with a clarity that cut sharper than any blade, the memories came rushing back: Lyanna. Her voice. Her slap. His words.

His breath was hitched, and shame coiled in his chest like a constrictor. Gods, what had he done? He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to sit up despite the pain that hammered at his temples. Every ache, every discomfort, was a deserved penance. He had behaved like an utter fool. A drunkard spouting bile, driven by jealousy and a childish desire to wound.

Her eyes. The way they had filled with hurt. The image haunted him now, more vividly than any memory of his own humiliation. He raked a hand through his silver hair, his fingers trembling slightly. Never in his life had he acted so disgracefully. Never had he been so utterly consumed by pettiness. What sort of man lashes out at a woman because of his own insecurities?

He sighed, a long, shaky exhalation that carried with it the weight of his regret. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself, the word bitter on his tongue. “You absolute idiot.”

She had every right to hate him. He had insulted her in the cruelest way imaginable, called her something so far beneath her it made him wince now to even think of it. Lyanna, brave, intelligent, captivating Lyanna, had been reduced by his drunken jealousy to a common insult. He had wanted to hurt her because her kiss with Robert had wounded him, but the fault was his, not hers. She owed him nothing, and yet, in his idiocy, he had lashed out like a petulant child.

With a sudden surge of anger at himself, he slammed his fist against the wooden table near his bed. The sharp pain was almost a relief, a physical manifestation of the chaos within. He had to make this right. Somehow, he had to find her, to apologize, to grovel if necessary. She needed to know that he didn’t think any of those vile words he had spoken. He would let her yell at him, strike him again over and over if she wished. He deserved all of it.

Summoning what little dignity he had left, Rhaegar called for the servants, his voice hoarse. They scurried to prepare his bath, clearly aware of his foul mood. He rose unsteadily, his limbs heavy, and made his way to the bathing chamber. The steaming water was ready, the scent of herbs wafting up to meet him as he sank into the pool. The heat enveloped him, soothing his aching muscles and washing away the stink of wine and shame. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the cool marble edge, letting the silence settle around him, only the distant sound of the sea enveloping him.

But even the calming water couldn’t silence his thoughts. What would she say when she saw him? Would she even look at him? Gods, had he ruined everything between them in a single night of drunken stupidity?

The sound of the door opening startled him from his thoughts. Arthur strolled in, his expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Ah, I see the mighty dragon has finally emerged from his lair. It’s past midday, your grace,” he said, his tone dripping with the mockery he was already familiar with. “And here I thought I’d find you passed out in a fountain.”

Rhaegar groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Must you be so loud, Dayne?”

Arthur snorted, crossing his arms. “Must you behave like a drunkard at a Dornish wedding? What in the Seven Hells were you thinking? The last time I saw you like this, you were five-and-ten and trying to impress a tavern wench with your lute.”

Rhaegar winced, the memory of that long-ago humiliation now joined by a fresh one.

“I’m an idiot,” Rhaegar admitted finally, his voice heavy with regret, each word feeling like a stone dragged from the depths of his chest. He sat on the pool, water still dripping from his damp silver hair, his eyes distant as if he were staring at some unseen specter of his own folly. “I said things I shouldn’t have. Hurt someone I…” He hesitated. He did not even want to name Lyanna. Not like this. “...someone who didn’t deserve it.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, the faint amusement that had accompanied him earlier giving way to a sharper curiosity. “Someone?” he repeated, leaning casually against a post, though his eyes betrayed his genuine concern. “Seven above, what did you do?”

Rhaegar exhaled a long breath, his head falling forward for a moment as if he could hide from the weight of his confession. “It doesn’t matter what I said,” he replied, his tone clipped, though it lacked conviction. “What matters is that I fix it.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed, the humor gone entirely from his face. “And how, pray, do you plan to fix something if you can’t even admit what it is you broke?” His voice was steady, probing but not unkind.

For a moment, Rhaegar was silent, his hand rising to press against his temple as though trying to physically force the memories away. But the words came regardless, low and hoarse. “I said things to Lyanna,” he admitted. The name tasted bitter on his tongue in the context of his guilt. “Things no man should ever say to any woman, let alone her.”

Arthur’s expression softened, his gaze leveling with his friend’s, though a flicker of humor threatened at the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he said slowly, “I’d wager she didn’t take that lightly. Lyanna is hardly the sort to suffer insults in silence.”

Rhaegar’s lips twitched, though the attempt at a smile faltered. “She didn’t,” he confessed. “She struck me.”

Arthur’s laughter erupted, bright and full of genuine mirth, echoing around the chamber. “By the gods, Rhaegar,” he said, shaking his head as if he could scarcely believe it. “You truly do have a talent for inspiring dramatic reactions in women. I can’t say I blame her, though. What exactly did you say to provoke such a response?”

Rhaegar looked at him sharply, his violet eyes flashing. “Do not ask me that,” he said firmly. “I will not repeat it.”

Arthur tilted his head, studying him for a moment. His voice softened, his usual levity tempered by an undertone of seriousness. “Fair enough. I can see it pains you to even think of it. But you’ll have to face her sooner or later. What’s your plan, hmm? Flowers? A song? Or are you banking on those melancholy eyes of yours to earn you some pity?”

The jab was enough to earn Arthur a glare, but Rhaegar said nothing. He pushed himself out of the water, reaching for the robe a servant had left for him. The steam clung to his skin as he tied it around his waist, his movements brisk and tense. “This isn’t a jest, Arthur,” he said quietly, his voice firm. “I was cruel. She deserves more than an apology.”

Arthur folded his arms across his chest, his expression growing more serious. “You’re right. She does. And knowing you, you’ll find a way to make amends. But be careful, Rhaegar. Lyanna isn’t like the rest. She doesn’t suffer fools, and she certainly doesn’t seem the type to forgive easily. You’ll need to show her more than regret. You’ll need to show her that you mean it.”

“I will,” Rhaegar said firmly, slipping a clean white tunic over his head and putting a pair of breeches on. The fabric fell neatly over his lean, muscular frame, its simple design belying the quality of the material. He fastened the ties at his wrists with methodical precision. “I was an idiot,” he admitted. “A drunken, jealous idiot. But I will not let her think that’s who I am. She deserves better than that.”

Arthur watched him for a moment, the faintest hint of a knowing smile returning to his lips.“Jealous, were you?”

Rhaegar shot him a sharp look, but there was no anger in it, only a hint of self-reproach. “Say nothing of it,” he warned, though the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, betraying the tension within.

Arthur chuckled softly. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he said, stepping aside as Rhaegar strode past him, his damp hair glinting in the sunlight streaming through the windows. “But for what it’s worth, I think you’re right to make this right. Just… try not to get slapped again, will you?”

Rhaegar paused for a moment, turning his head just enough to glance back. “I’ll do what I must,” he said simply, his voice steady, though a flicker of emotion passed across his face. Aye, he would go to the Seven Hells and back if it meant he would earn Lyanna’s forgiveness. 

As Rhaella rested her head against the cool linen of the pillow, the telltale wave of nausea swept over her. It wasn’t unfamiliar, this ache deep in her body, this turning of her stomach. She had felt it before, enough times to know its meaning. It was the sickness of life stirring within her, the herald of yet another Targaryen child.

She pressed a hand against her abdomen, her fingers trembling slightly. The memories of her many pregnancies flickered through her mind, some joyous, some tragic. Viserys had been difficult, but not as arduous as Rhaegar. And now, this babe—it felt different, yet familiar. It reminded her of those long, grueling months when she had carried her firstborn, the dragon prince who had brought so much pride.

“Another Targaryen in this world,” Aerys declared, his voice brimming with a rare enthusiasm. He sat at the edge of the bed, his posture regal yet relaxed, a rare softness in his demeanor. “You must rest, Rhaella. I’ll have no unnecessary exertion from you. Do you hear me?” He turned sharply, his command directed at the gathered maesters and servants. They nodded in unison.

Rhaella observed him quietly. The King was in good spirits, his joy evident in the way his lips curved, in the gleam of his eyes that had so often been shadowed by the heavy burdens of the crown he wore.

“I wonder what this one will be,” she murmured, her voice soft, tinged with the remnants of her queasiness.

“It matters not,” Aerys replied, his smile broadening as he met her gaze. “As long as it is healthy. We already have an heir to the throne… and speaking of which…”

Rhaella’s thoughts turned to Rhaegar, her son, her firstborn.

The previous night, during Viserys’ name day feast, she had seen him. Clad in rich black, his usual color, he had looked every inch the prince he was meant to be: tall, commanding, and impossibly regal. And yet, there had been something amiss. His face, so often composed, had borne a bitterness she could not ignore.

She had watched him from across the hall, her mother’s was heart heavy with concern. The goblet in his hand was never empty, and the poor servant assigned to refill it had become his reluctant companion until Rhaegar had snarled at the boy to leave the entire jar. He had seemed distant, disengaged from the festivities around him.

“Where is he?” Aerys asked suddenly, breaking into her thoughts. “I’ll send for him. He must hear the news. Besides, I’ve matters to discuss with him. He was meant to meet me in the solar today, but no doubt he indulged too much last night. That boy…” His tone grew sharper, disapproving. “I wonder if sending him to Essos was wise. The excesses of those cities…”

Essos has naught to do with this, Rhaella thought, though she did not voice it aloud. She knew her son. Rhaegar was dutiful, impeccable, and burdened with a sense of responsibility far beyond his years. If something troubled him, it was not wine or the temptations of distant lands, it was something deeper.

“Let him be, Aerys,” she said gently. “He is as devoted a son as he ever was. He’s been consumed with duties for as long as I can remember. Let him act his age now and then.”

Aerys’ expression softened, as if he needed to be reminded of their son's youth every now and then, his sternness dissolving into a rare chuckle. “What an indulgent mother you are.”

And then, Rhaella saw her opening. Perhaps now was the time to broach the matter of Rhaegar’s betrothal. The thought had lingered in her mind for weeks, and though she had hesitated, tonight felt ripe with opportunity. Aerys, though often preoccupied with the immense burden of kingship, appeared momentarily at ease. He sat close, his face softened, a rare respite from the sharp lines that duty had etched into his features.

It was not easy to rule seven kingdoms. Aerys had carried the weight of the realm with tenacity. While lesser kings might have leaned heavily on their council, indulging themselves in wine and luxury, Aerys had always prided himself on being a hands-on ruler, a man who understood the burdens of his station. But it was not without cost. His tired eyes and the weariness in his gait spoke of years spent guarding the realm’s stability.

Rhaella hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the door to ensure they were alone. The maesters had departed, the servants dismissed. It was just the two of them, the quiet punctuated only by the crackle of the hearth and the faint rustle of the sheets as she shifted to face him.

“Aerys,” she began, her voice soft but deliberate. “There’s something I wish to discuss about Rhaegar.”

He turned to her, his brow lifting in faint curiosity. “What is it?” he asked, his tone quiet yet tinged with interest.

She took a measured breath, steadying herself before speaking. “It’s about the Lannisters,” she said. “And this betrothal… I wonder if it is truly the right choice.”

Aerys frowned, his posture stiffening at the mention of the betrothal. “Why wouldn’t it be the right choice?” he asked, his tone sharpening, but not unkind. “The girl is everything one could want in a match. Well educated, beautiful, and from a house of unparalleled influence. Do you see a flaw I do not?”

“It’s not the girl herself,” Rhaella replied carefully, choosing her words as if navigating a Cyvasse game. “Cersei is undoubtedly all you say she is. But do you not think Rhaegar might… not feel the same? That perhaps he does not find himself attracted to the idea of her?”

Aerys stared at her, his expression caught between disbelief and frustration. “Not attracted to the idea her?” he repeated, incredulous. “Half the realm would sell their birthrights to marry Tywin’s daughter. She is Tywin Lannister’s daughter, Rhaella. There is no better match. This is nonsense.”

She held his gaze, unyielding but gentle. “I only mean to say,” she continued, “that our son carries much already. Should we not ensure that his union is one that brings him peace as well as duty? He has shown little interest in her of late. I've seen it.”

Aerys scoffed, leaning back against the chair as if her words were an indulgence he could scarcely entertain. “Peace? Duty comes before peace, as you well know. This is not a matter of affection, Rhaella. It is a matter of legacy. He knows that, as should you. He agreed to marry her, I did not force him.”

The unspoken truth lingered in the air between them, heavy with the weight of memory. Rhaella thought of their own marriage, born of politics rather than love. Everyone at court knew that Aerys had not chosen her with his heart. His heart had belonged to Joanna Lannister, a woman whose beauty had captivated even the stars, or so the songs claimed. Cersei was said to be the very image of her mother. Rhaella wondered, just for a moment, if Aerys saw in the young Lannister girl a mirror of his own lost past and was projecting it upon their son.

“I know, my love,” she said quietly, her tone tinged with a sadness she could not quite hide. “But—”

“But nothing,” Aerys interrupted, his voice firm but not harsh. “Do not speak to Rhaegar about this. Do not plant seeds of doubt in him. The arrangement is made, and we gave our word to Tywin. Would you have us break it? What kind of king or prince breaks his word?”

Rhaella’s gaze dropped, her fingers tracing the embroidered hem of her gown. “No, of course not,” she murmured.

Aerys softened slightly, though his resolve remained unyielding. “Rhaegar knows that this match is what is best for him. And for the realm.”

Rhaella wondered silently if time could truly mend such things. She had grown to love Aerys, in her own way, but it had taken years, and the journey had not been without pain. She hoped, prayed, that her son would find his own path too, whether it was with Cersei Lannister or another.

Rhaella resigned herself. She could not sway him, not tonight. But still, the mother in her ached for the son who bore so much.

That morning, Lyanna woke with swollen eyes, her lids heavy and tender as if the weight of her sorrow had pressed into her face during the night. She hated crying. It made her feel exposed, vulnerable, weak in a way she could hardly bear. It wasn’t that she thought tears were shameful. No, she had seen others cry and never thought less of them. But for herself? Crying felt like surrendering a part of the strength she clung to so fiercely, the strength that had always defined her. Yet here she was.

She swung her legs off the bed, the cold stone floor biting at her feet as she sat there for a moment, staring at the empty chamber before her. The events of the previous night replayed unbidden in her mind: Rhaegar’s words, sharp as the edge of a blade, cutting through the image she had so carefully built of him. She had placed him on a pedestal, seen him as different, as better. A man of honor and depth, unlike the countless others. But last night had shattered that image. He was just another man, swathed in fine clothes and blessed with a pretty face, but beneath it all? A pig.

Her sadness simmered into anger, and that was something she could use. Anger she understood. Anger didn’t weigh her down or leave her feeling hollow. It burned in her chest, giving her the strength to stand, to brush the tears away, to face the day without the burden of despair dragging at her heels.

Ned had noticed her sour mood as soon as she entered the hall for breakfast. Of course, her brother always noticed when something was amiss, but like the dutiful fool he could be at times, he assumed it had to do with Robert.

“It was just one night, Lyanna,” he said, his voice edged with discomfort as he attempted to defend her betrothed's honor. “He drank too much, yes, but Robert’s not always like that.”

“I don’t care, Ned,” she said bluntly, her voice cold and indifferent enough to make him flinch.

But for whatever reason, her words seemed to convince him of the opposite. If anything, her dismissal only deepened his belief that she did in fact care, that she was hiding some fragile hurt over Robert’s behavior.

How could she even begin to explain to him that Robert Baratheon’s drunken antics meant nothing to her? She could not care less about his slurred boasts or his reeking breath. He could drink himself to oblivion for all she cared. The wound she carried had not been dealt by Robert but by another man entirely. But Ned, good-hearted as he was, would never understand. He didn’t need to know.

Only one person knew the truth. Ashara Dayne.

The two sat together now, in the shade of the garden where the air was charged with the sweet scent of roses and lavender. The Dornishwoman was reclined elegantly on the bench, her lilac eyes glinting with disbelief after hearing what had transpired the night before. “I still can’t believe he said that to you,” Ashara said, her usually pleasant voice laced with what one could only identify as burning indignation. “Rhaegar. Rhaegar of all people. Ugh!”

Lyanna didn’t answer. Her fingers played with the ends of her long, wavy hair, which she had loosely pulled over one shoulder. She twisted the strands absently, her mind far away.

“He’s an ass,” Ashara went on, leaning closer and lowering her voice as her eyes flicked briefly around the room, ensuring their solitude. “But make no mistake—he’s a jealous ass.”

“Jealous?” Lyanna’s head snapped up at once, disbelief flashing across her face. “Don’t be absurd. He’s just an ass. Full stop.”

Ashara’s mouth curved into a small, knowing smile, the sort she wore when she had already reached a conclusion and was waiting for Lyanna to catch up. But Lyanna did not pause long enough to notice. The words came spilling out, sharp and unchecked, as though drawn from a wound she had not meant to reopen.

“Stop it,” she said, her tone biting. “What would he even have to be jealous of? He doesn’t want me. He made that very clear. He has Cersei Lannister.” She faltered then, breath hitching just enough to betray her composure before she forced it back into place. “He’s just like the rest of them. One rule for men, another for women.”

Her jaw tightened, anger rising hot and familiar. “How many kisses has he stolen from Cersei Lannister?” she demanded. “Or from other women, for that matter?” The thought turned her stomach, bile rising as her blood simmered. “And yet he dares—”

She broke off abruptly, the rest of the sentence hanging between them, heavy with everything she did not yet know how to say as Ashara reached out, her hand covering Lyanna’s, her touch grounding.

“My brother,” Ashara began gently, choosing her words with care, “Arthur says Rhaegar is the most honorable, kind, and respectful man he has ever known. And Arthur does not offer praise lightly. He does not flatter fools, nor excuse cruelty.” She paused, searching Lyanna’s face. “Yes, he has had lovers. He is a man, Lyanna—young, handsome, and until now largely unbound. And more than that, he is a prince. That freedom has always been afforded to him.”

She drew a breath, lowering her voice. “But he has never been unkind. Never careless with a woman’s dignity. What you saw was not his nature—it was the wine. And the jealousy.” Her gaze sharpened, earnest and unwavering. “Make no mistake. That was the fault.”

Lyanna let out a short, humorless laugh and withdrew her hand, shaking her head. “Arthur does not know everything,” she said flatly. “And being out of character does not make something forgivable.”

Her silver-grey eyes lifted to meet Ashara’s, hard with resolve. “Stop trying to excuse him. I know what I heard. I know how it felt.” Her voice did not waver now. “In the end, he is no different from the rest of them—hypocritical enough to condemn a woman for doing far less than what men are permitted without question.” Her jaw tightened. “Including him.”

Ashara studied her for a long moment, her gaze intent but gentle. When she spoke, her voice was low, almost indulgent. “Men are idiots, Lyanna. Every last one of them. They lose all sense when they care for a woman... You know, like children tripping over feelings they were never taught to name. You, of all people, should know that by now.”

Lyanna snorted, sharper this time, the sound edged with disbelief rather than humor. The very idea settled poorly in her chest. It was absurd. He clearly did not care for her. Not in that way.

“What you’re saying is madness,” she replied flatly. “I am betrothed. So is he. And let us not pretend he did not choose Cersei Lannister. He wanted her. That was his decision, and he never hid it.” Her voice lowered then, the anger thinning into something quieter and more exposed. “He is not some foolish boy pining after a girl, Ash. Certainly not after me. He’s just an idiot.”

Ashara tilted her head, exhaling slowly as she reached for her teacup. She took a measured sip, unhurried, while the roses behind her stirred in the breeze, their petals vivid against the green, framing her like something painted rather than living.

“Well,” she said at last, setting the cup aside, “I’ve said what I think. I won’t chase you in circles trying to convince you of it.” A faint sigh escaped her, tinged with something almost wistful. “Do with it what you will.”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes at her friend, searching her face for something, certainty, perhaps, or contradiction, but said nothing. Instead, she turned her gaze toward the garden, watching sunlight scatter across leaves and stone alike. Her heart still felt heavy, her anger not quite extinguished, merely banked.

Yet there was comfort in the quiet beauty around her.

And in the steady, unyielding loyalty of the woman seated at her side.

Then, like a storm cloud drifting across a clear sky, she saw him.

Rhaegar was coming toward them along the garden path. His Kingsguard were nowhere in sight, an omission so rare it struck her at once, leaving him oddly exposed beneath the open sky. His attire was as immaculate as ever, rich fabrics cut with effortless precision. His hair, pale as moonlit gold, was half-bound in the traditional Targaryen fashion, the rest falling loose over his shoulders in silken strands. Yet it was not his appearance that caught her breath.

It was his face.

The familiar veil of cool detachment he often wore was gone. In its place lingered something else, something far more unsettled, a tension that seemed to pull at his features, as though he carried a weight he could not quite set down.

Lyanna’s pulse quickened, her throat tightening with an anger she struggled to contain. She told herself to look away, to fix her gaze anywhere else, but her body betrayed her resolve. She watched him all the same.

Beside her, Ashara noticed at once. She followed the subtle shift in Lyanna’s posture and turned just as Rhaegar reached them. A flicker of surprise crossed her face before her gaze slid back to Lyanna, searching, assessing.

“Lady Ashara. Lady Lyanna,” Rhaegar said, inclining his head in greeting.

His voice was low, musical as ever, but something was missing from it. The ease. The confidence. Lyanna heard the difference at once.

Ashara returned the bow with graceful politeness. Lyanna did not move. She met his gaze squarely, silver-grey eyes sharp and unyielding, daring him to take another step. A part of her wanted to hurt him, to strike that flawless face once again, to shatter the composure that had so often unsettled her with its calm superiority.

“May I have a word with you?” he asked.

The request was measured, but there was a plea beneath it. His eyes searched hers, as though hoping to find some weakness in her resolve, some opening she might grant him.

Ashara began to rise at once, movements smooth and deliberate. “I will take my leave—”

She paused only long enough to cast Lyanna a knowing glance, leaving the choice, and the confrontation, entirely in her hands.

“No,” Lyanna interrupted, her voice as cold and clean as a northern wind. Her gaze never left Rhaegar’s face. “We have nothing to discuss, Your Grace.”

The title landed like a blade.

Rhaegar flinched, barely, but enough that she noticed. Still, he did not retreat. He stood there in silence for a heartbeat, his expression blank, as though bracing himself against the force of her refusal.

Ashara hesitated, discomfort plain upon her features. Then she murmured softly, “I will leave you to it.” Gathering her skirts, she rose with deliberate grace, pausing just long enough to cast Lyanna a fleeting glance. An apology, perhaps, or a wordless acknowledgment. Ashara might not deny a prince, but Lyanna would. Had. And yet, in the end, Ashara withdrew, disappearing down the garden path and leaving Lyanna alone to weather the storm.

When they were alone, Rhaegar stepped closer, his hands clasped loosely before him, not in command, but almost in surrender.

“Please,” he said. His voice was softer now, touched with the warmth she had once known so well. It bore no resemblance to the cruel edge of the night before, to the man who had wielded bitter words like weapons. “If you will grant me this moment, I swear I will trouble you no further after. Just… let me speak.”

She studied him, fury still simmering beneath her skin. Granting him this audience felt like a concession she did not wish to make. But if it meant he would finally leave her be…

“Very well,” she said at last, clipped and cool. “Speak.”

He moved to sit across from her, careful, measured. His long fingers rested upon the table, close enough to her teacup that she noticed the faint bruise darkening the back of his hand. He exhaled deeply, as though steadying himself before a plunge.

“First,” he said quietly, “allow me to say that I have been a fool. A wretched, arrogant fool, unworthy even of your contempt.”

He met her gaze fully then, and the earnestness there was disarming in its nakedness. “Lyanna, I am sorry. I spoke in anger, and in doing so, I hurt you. I failed you. I failed myself. You deserved far better from me than what I gave.”

She remained silent, lips pressed tight, heart hammering in her chest.

“I spoke to you in a way unworthy of you,” he continued. “Unworthy of any man who dares call himself honorable.” His voice did not waver, but something in it had stripped itself bare. “I chose words meant to wound because I knew precisely how to wound. That failing comes too easily to me, and I am ashamed of it.”

He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the table’s edge, mere inches from hers. “I said what I did to hurt you. For that, I have no excuse. But you must know—I did not believe it. Not one word. It was anger speaking, not truth.”

“And yet you said it,” Lyanna replied, her voice steady and sharp as steel. “You called me something vile. You—who know me better than most.” Her eyes never left his. “You wanted to hurt me, and you succeeded. Do you truly think I will forget so easily?”

“I do not expect you to,” he said at once. His expression tightened, dignity warring with regret. “I ask only that you believe me when I say my words were born of anger, not conviction. I was furious with myself—and I had no right to turn that upon you.”

Her silver-grey eyes hardened. “Angry about what?”

The question cut cleanly through the air.

For a moment, he looked almost out of place, like a knight stripped of armor, exposed beneath a sky that offered no shelter. The sight stirred an unexpected flicker of satisfaction in her. It was rare to see him unsettled.

“I had… a difficult day,” he said at last, his voice tight, the words dragged reluctantly from him. He exhaled, brittle. “And then I saw you with Robert.”

The silence that followed was heavy, and irrevocable.

At this, Lyanna stiffened. He did not need to tell her what he had seen, for she already knew. Her heart skipped a beat, though whether it was from fury or unease, she could not say. He continued before she could interrupt, his voice low. “It stirred something… something unworthy in me. I was being protective, and I was enraged, though I had no right to be.”

Her cheeks flushed, the heat of indignation rushing to her skin. “You didn’t,” she snapped, her tone like a lash. The thought of him watching her, seeing her with Robert, kissing, felt like an intrusion. A breach of something private. Her skin prickled, as though the memory itself clung to her, raw and unwelcome.

“I didn’t,” he echoed, his voice hardening for a fleeting moment before softening again, like a wave receding after crashing against the shore. He looked at her for a moment, and grabbed her hand softly, though still cautiously, as if afraid of crossing some invisible line between them. “And that anger… it blinded me. It made me cruel. But you must know, Lyanna, I do not believe those things. I never did.”

He leaned forward a fraction more, his voice dropping until it was scarcely more than breath. “Let the gods take my life, my crown, my very name if I lie to you now. You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever known.” His jaw tightened. “And I loathe myself for ever making you feel otherwise—even for a moment.”

Her resolve faltered.

Pride warred fiercely with the sincerity in his gaze, with the nakedness of what he offered so plainly. She wanted to cling to her anger, to the righteous heat that had sustained her thus far. But his words settled against her like a salve, unwelcome and soothing all at once. Still, wounded pride held fast, refusing to yield so easily.

“And what am I meant to do with that?” she asked at last. Her voice was quieter now, but the steel beneath it remained. She pulled her hand from his grasp. “Your words—however earnest they sound—cannot erase what you said. They cut too deeply.” Her breath caught, just barely. “You’re right about one thing, Rhaegar. You know how to hurt.” Her eyes did not leave his. “And that frightens me.”

Something in his expression broke.

For a moment, he looked utterly undone. “I frighten myself,” he admitted softly. “But I swear this to you, Lyanna—I will never again turn that knowledge against you. You have my word.” His voice steadied. “And if my word is not enough, then I will earn your trust back. Patiently. Step by step.”

She hated how much she wanted to believe him.

Hated the way hope stirred despite herself, how desperately she longed for his promise to be true, for the world to revert to what it had been before, when looking at him had not hurt. The memory of that earlier tenderness haunted her now, a ghost she could neither embrace nor banish. This was her moment, she knew it. Her chance to sever the thread, to free herself from the tangle of feeling he had woven so carelessly around her heart.

And yet, it felt as though some unseen tether had wrapped itself around her ankle, holding her fast.

“Words are easy, Rhaegar,” she said finally. Her voice came softer than she intended, but it did not waver. She met his gaze squarely, daring him to falter. “Prove them.”

“I will,” he said at once.

There was iron beneath the calm now, a quiet certainty that cut clean through doubt. His eyes held hers without hesitation. “If it takes a lifetime,” he vowed, “I will prove them.”

The silence that followed stretched taut between them. Her anger had cooled, leaving behind a heavy sadness and a fragile, unwelcome flicker of hope she refused to name. He watched her still, his attention unwavering, and the intensity of it made her skin prickle.

Abruptly, she stood. The movement was sharp, almost violent, as though she might shake the turmoil loose through sheer force of will.

“Then start by leaving me be,” she said, though her voice betrayed her effort to sound resolute. “I need time.”

“As you wish,” Rhaegar replied.

The words were quiet, unyielding, not wounded, not resentful. He rose smoothly to his feet. “But you know where to find me,” he added gently. “If you need me.”

He inclined his head in a bow that felt intimate rather than formal, then turned and walked away. She did not look after him, but she heard each retreating step, the sound fading until it dissolved into the soft, living hush of the garden.

And then she was alone.

Alone with the storm still raging inside her, with the war between heart and reason that showed no sign of surrender. She pressed her fingers to her temples, breath coming shallow and uneven.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to strike him. She wanted—gods help her—to run after him and confess that perhaps, just perhaps... She did not wish to untangle the knot he had tied around her heart after all.

But she did not move.

Chapter Text

Cersei Lannister had never been kept waiting in her life. Not once. And yet, now, the Queen made her wait.

She sat in the solar of the royal apartments, her nails tapping a sharp, impatient rhythm against the armrest of her chair. The chamber was warm, perfumed with the faint scent of myrrh and dragon’s blood resin. Beyond the latticework of the windows, the Red Keep stretched, a city of stone and fire, a place that, if the gods were just, would one day be hers.

But at this rate, she would be an old crone before that happened.

Cersei scowled, resisting the urge to rise and pace. She had been summoned to discuss the preparations for her wedding, the grand event that should have already been well underway. And yet, the Queen, her supposed future good-mother, treated the matter with appalling indifference. If she could, she would take the arrangements into her own hands, but no. Rhaella Targaryen insisted on overseeing every detail, yet showed no urgency in doing so.

Even that Stark wench, that northern wretch, was already on the move. Lyanna’s betrothal to Robert Baratheon had been barely announced, and yet the Stormlord wasted no time. Word had it that he was already making arrangements for a grand ceremony in Storm’s End, eager to claim his little bride. If only Rhaegar displayed such enthusiasm.

A flash of bitter envy lanced through her. How cruel it was, that the boorish, drunken Stormlord showed the devotion Cersei so deserved. But then, at least the match meant that Lyanna Stark would soon be gone, spirited away to the Stormlands, far from the court, far from Rhaegar. Far from the attentions that should have been hers alone.

But still, it was not enough.

Her fingers curled into her skirts as she thought of what she had learned earlier that day from useless Pycelle, her father’s pawn. Queen Rhaella was with child again. It was the latest in a series of excuses, another convenient reason to delay what should have already been settled.

The minutes dragged, her irritation mounting. When at last the door opened, she rose swiftly, smoothing her expression into one of practiced ease, though her blood still simmered beneath her skin.

Queen Rhaella entered, her posture as elegant as ever, though there was a subtle tiredness to her movements, a quiet exhaustion in the shadows beneath her violet eyes. Beside her trotted that little lizard of a boy, Viserys, his silvery gold hair gleaming like a coin in the afternoon light.

“My apologies, Lady Cersei, for the delay,” Rhaella said smoothly, inclining her head with the courtesy of a queen. “I was not feeling well.”

Cersei’s smile was all sweetness when directed at her. “Oh, please, Your Grace, think nothing of it. I am certain I shall understand one day when I carry a Targaryen child of my own. I do hope, when the time comes, I may look to you for guidance.”

Rhaella’s lips curved into a polite, reserved smile, a beautiful one, Cersei observed, yet, one that did not quite reach her eyes.

Cersei had always been adept at sensing what went unsaid. It was a talent she prized, this ability to read beneath pleasantries, to feel the currents moving under carefully chosen words and polite smiles. And now, seated across from the Queen, she felt it unmistakably, deep in her bones.

Rhaella Targaryen was not pleased with her.

Why, Cersei could not yet say.

She was, by every reasonable measure, the perfect prospect for the Crown Prince. Beautiful beyond question. Highborn. A Lannister. Her lineage was unimpeachable, her position secure, her worth self-evident. What more could the Queen possibly desire? Cersei could not imagine it.

Unless—

Unless Rhaella was one of those Targaryens who still clung to the old, foolish belief that their blood ought to remain unsullied. The notion irritated her at once. There had been no sister for Rhaegar, no conveniently placed Valyrian princess raised for the purpose of marriage. That failing lay squarely with House Targaryen, with Queen Rhaella, to be more precise, not with her. One could hardly fault Cersei for circumstances beyond her control.

So what, then?

Did the Queen think her beneath them?

The thought was enough to make her blood simmer. The very idea that Rhaella Targaryen, a fading beauty, aging, and increasingly removed from the pulse of power, might look down upon a Lannister was absurd. Insulting. And yet, the possibility lingered, sharp and unwelcome.

Or perhaps… perhaps the Queen had someone else in mind.

The notion slid into Cersei’s thoughts uninvited, and her mind turned, immediately and instinctively, to the Stark girl. The one with the wild eyes and careless manners, who wore her defiance like a badge of honor. The one the Queen seemed to fawn over. A curl of distaste tightened her mouth before she mastered it.

She smoothed her expression at once, schooling her features back into her usual elegance.

Rhaella had always been oddly warm to Lyanna Stark, Cersei noticed in her time in the capital, always treating her with a kindness that was too familiar, offering her a place in court she did not deserve. She was practically treated as if she were a Targaryen. Was that the reason for her hesitation? Was it possible that she favored the wolf maid over her? The thought made Cersei’s blood boil once again, but she pushed it aside for now. She had more immediate concerns. And even if the Queen favored the rejected Lyanna Stark, there was nothing she could do. King Aerys had made his choice, the better choice. 

She folded her hands, keeping her tone light and pleasant despite her inner machinations. “Your Grace, I know you have much to occupy your time, but I cannot help but feel that preparations for the royal wedding have been... slow to begin.”

Rhaella lowered herself gracefully into a chair, smoothing the folds of her gown. “A royal wedding is not an affair to be rushed, Lady Cersei. The union of a prince and his bride must be a reflection of the realm itself, a thing of beauty, strength, and grandeur.”

“Yes, of course. I just feel like time has passed and nothing has been planned yet.” Cersei spoke. Only then she looked at Rhaella. She did look tired. Cersei had to force herself to smile, pressing her lips tightly together. Would her pregnancy be another obstacle, another reason to slow the preparations for her wedding even more? As if they needed another Targaryen. Rhaegar was more than enough. Viserys had already been an annoyance. She would birth Rhaegar all the sons Queen Rhaella had not been able to give House Targaryen. 

Rhaella gave a soft, knowing hum. “I understand your eagerness.”

Eagerness. As if she were some love-struck girl desperate for a betrothal, rather than the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei bit the inside of her cheek to keep her expression neutral.

In the background, Viserys was playing with a set of carved dragon figurines on the floor, making them clatter together as he mimicked the sound of battle. The noise grated against Cersei’s patience, but she forced herself to ignore it.

“I was hoping we might at least begin discussing the details,” she pressed. “The colors, the feasts, the guest list. The attire, of course, I had thoughts on the embroidery for my gown.”

Rhaella inclined her head. “We will see to all in time. Let’s do this, step by step.”

Cersei forced a smile, though inside she seethed.

Viserys, apparently dissatisfied with being ignored, decided to interject. “I want a dragon at the wedding,” he declared, setting down his figurines with a pout. “A real one.”

Rhaella turned to him with an indulgent smile. “There are no more dragons, sweetling.”

“Well, there should be,” he grumbled, kicking at the floor.

Cersei barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The boy was an irritation, a little gnat that hovered where he was not wanted. She was beginning to loathe the sound of his prattling. It soured her mood further, knowing that the Queen would rather humor a child’s foolish fancy than focus on matters of true importance.

She turned back to Rhaella, her voice gentle but insistent. “Your Grace, surely you understand. I have been promised to your son, and yet it seems as though my wedding is treated as an afterthought. I only wish to see it receive the attention it deserves.”

Rhaella met her gaze steadily, the softness of her features doing little to dull the authority behind them. “Do not mistake patience for neglect, Lady Cersei.”

The words were mild, but the steel beneath them was unmistakable. A flicker of unease twisted in Cersei’s stomach. Had she misstepped? She was speaking to a Queen, after all.

She dipped her head in carefully measured deference. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Rhaella’s smile was unreadable, a mask that revealed nothing of her true thoughts. Very much like Rhaegar, Cersei noticed. “Now, tell me, Lady Cersei, what are your desires for this wedding? I have been considering a grand celebration—”

“Oh, yes,” Cersei interrupted, her enthusiasm suddenly reignited, her earlier frustration momentarily forgotten. “A grand celebration, indeed. A spectacle such as the realm has never seen.” She exhaled, already envisioning it. “I would, of course, wish to be wed in the Great Sept, beneath the gaze of the Seven, with all of King’s Landing in attendance. The entire city should share in the joy of the day.”

Her eyes gleamed as she continued, the words tumbling out now, as though she could already see the day before her. “The feasts must be magnificent, seven days and seven nights of revelry, the tables filled with the finest dishes from every corner of the realm. The wines must flow freely, the entertainment must be without equal. Jugglers, singers, fire-eaters, masked dancers from Lys. I want the streets to be filled with music, the skies alight with lanterns.”

She leaned forward slightly. “And the guests… Every great house, from Dorne to the North, must be present. My father agrees, of course. It is to be the most splendid wedding in living memory. A true royal affair, to match the greatness of House Targaryen and House Lannister.”

Viserys, who had returned to his game, scoffed. “It won’t be as grand as mine.”

Cersei ignored him.

Rhaella listened without expression, her hands folded in her lap. When Cersei finally paused, the Queen gave a small, knowing smile. “You have given this much thought.”

Cersei lifted her chin. “Of course, Your Grace. A future princess must be mindful of her duty.”

Rhaella regarded her for a long moment before finally saying, “Very well. We shall begin making the necessary arrangements.”

Relief flooded Cersei’s chest, though she masked it well. At last. Finally, things were moving forward. Finally, she would have what was rightfully hers.

That morning, the sun rose over King’s Landing, spilling golden light across the red-tiled rooftops and crooked streets, softening the city's imperfections. From her window, Lyanna could see the morning mist rising from the Blackwater Rush, curling like tendrils of smoke before vanishing into the air. The city sang a song below, a symphony of merchants shouting their wares, wheels creaking against stone, and seagulls crying overhead.

Lyanna stretched, the cool morning air brushing her skin as she sat on the edge of her bed. She ran a hand through her unbound hair, letting out a soft sigh. The heaviness that had settled in her chest the day before felt lighter now, though not entirely gone. Rhaegar’s apology had lingered in her mind all night, replaying in fragmented whispers that refused to leave her be.

She wasn’t ready to forgive him, her pride wouldn’t allow it, but she couldn’t deny the iron conviction in his voice, the sincerity that had softened the sharp edges of her anger. He had moved her, though she was reluctant to admit it, even to herself. For the first time in days, she felt a semblance of relief.

Determined to shake off the restless energy that still clung to her, Lyanna rose and dressed for the day. She chose a simple, pale, blue dress, practical yet elegant, and tied her hair back into a loose braid. Her gaze lingered on the small chest where her jewelry was kept, and she hesitated. Slowly, she opened it, her fingers brushing against the tear-shaped ruby necklace Rhaegar had gifted her.

The memory of his expression when he had fastened it around her neck surfaced unbidden, and she quickly snapped the chest shut, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “Not today,” she muttered to herself.

Today was for fresh air and freedom, for walking without an agenda. And she had decided her brother Ned would join her.

The morning sun had already begun its slow ascent over the Red Keep, casting golden light upon the courtyard’s worn stone. The air carried the scent of warm earth and the distant brine of Blackwater Bay, a reminder that summer was stretching on with an unrelenting grip.

When Lyanna found Ned, he was already dressed for the day, standing rigid as a Stark guard handed him his sword. A faint flush dusted his cheeks—whether from the sun or mild irritation because of the heat, she could not tell, but she suspected it was both.

A grin curled at her lips as she strode toward him, her stride unhurried yet brimming with purpose. “Come, brother,” she called, her voice carrying a lilt of mischief. “We’re going out.”

Ned turned, his grey eyes settling upon her with wary amusement, though his brow arched in question. He opened his mouth, no doubt to inquire about her plans, but before he could speak, their father’s voice cut through the air like the keen edge of a blade.

“Out where?”

Lord Rickard Stark’s tone was even, but it carried the weight of authority Lyanna had never quite learned to bow to.

Her shoulders tensed, though she willed herself to keep her expression impassive. It was always like this. Every decision, every movement questioned, as if she were still a girl barely past childhood, as if she had not spent these past years learning the ways of court, playing the game with far more cunning than he gave her credit for. She had fought to carve a place for herself in this place, and yet, her father treated her as though she were still a wayward child, in need of stern correction.

“I am taking Ned to see the city,” she said at last, her tone light, casual, but beneath it lay the sharp edge of defiance. “He has been here for weeks, yet he has seen nothing beyond the walls of the Keep. It is long past time he knows more of the place.” Her lips twitched as she turned back to Ned. “Come, I shall even buy you a pie.”

She did not need to glance at her father to know that his expression had darkened. She could feel his disapproval, as palpable as the heat pressing down upon them.

“What manners are these, Lyanna?” His voice was cold, a reprimand wrapped in steel. “You will ask for my permission before gallivanting about the city.”

Her fingers curled into her palms. The words she wanted to say—sharp, unkind, true—rose to the tip of her tongue. Did he think himself a father now? After all these years? Now he presumed to dictate her steps?

It would have been foolish to voice such thoughts aloud, but oh, how tempting it was.

Before she could act upon the impulse, Ned, ever the peacekeeper, stepped forward. His voice was steady, practiced, unyielding in its reason. “Please, father. I asked Lyanna to take me on a walk a few days past.” A lie, smooth and swift. His gaze flickered toward her, a silent warning not to contradict him. “We will have guards. Lyanna never goes anywhere without Targaryen men at her back, and I will take some of our own as well.”

A tense silence stretched between them. Their father’s eyes, so like Ned’s, shifted between them, searching for deception or weakness. Finding none, he exhaled sharply through his nose and gave a curt nod.

“See that you do not disgrace yourself,” he said at last, his voice edged with something unreadable. “Or our family.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, his cloak billowing behind him.

Lyanna let out a breath she had not realized she was holding, turning to Ned with a smirk that did little to mask the lingering tension in her shoulders. “You are a terrible liar,” she teased.

Ned sighed, shaking his head. “And you are reckless.”

“Perhaps.” She linked her arm with his and started toward the gates, the heat of her father’s disapproval fading beneath the thrill of stepping beyond the Red Keep’s walls. “But at least today, we are free.”

The cobbled streets of King’s Landing stretched before them, uneven and bustling with chaotic life. Flanked by a handful of guards, Lyanna moved with restless energy.

She had, at least, convinced them to keep their distance. A small victory.

Their first stop was the Street of Flour, where the air was thick with the scent of fresh bread and honeyed pastries. The cries of merchants rose above the din of the crowd, each one trying to outshout the other, their stalls overflowing with golden loaves, fruit-filled tarts, and sweetrolls glistening with syrup.

Lyanna seized Ned’s wrist carelessly, dragging him through the throng with uncontained enthusiasm. Her eyes sparkled as she sampled bits of crusty bread and flaky buns, laughing as she pressed pieces into her brother’s reluctant hands before he could protest.

“Lyanna,” he sighed after the third stall, glancing at the half-eaten apple tart she had just forced upon him. “I am full.”

“You shouldn’t be.” She grinned, taking a satisfied bite of her own. “This is the best part of the city. Enjoy it.”

At one stall, a jovial baker presented them with a loaf shaped like a dragon, its doughy wings curved as if ready to take flight.

“Fine craftsmanship, my lady,” the baker said, puffing out his chest in pure pride when showing his creation. “The beast itself, tamed by flour and fire.”

Ned hesitated, clearly unsure how to refuse without offending the man, and before Lyanna could stop him, he had pressed a coin into the baker’s palm. She burst into laughter as Ned stared at the ridiculous loaf in his hands, shaking his head in mild exasperation.

“I had no choice,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

The moment was warm, familiar. It stirred something in her. A memory of another life, one where the streets had been of frozen stone, the vendors familiar faces, the scents of meat and pine rather than spiced apples and salt air. In Winterfell, she had never needed guards; she had been Lyanna Stark, daughter of the North, known to every man, woman, and child in their keep. Here, she was something else. Something watched.

The thought lingered, but she shoved it aside as they made their way toward Blackwater Bay.

By the time they reached the docks, the sun hung high in the sky, its heat tempered only by the sharp, briny breeze rolling in from the water. The port was a mix of voices, sailors shouting orders, merchants haggling over crates of goods from Essos, children weaving between fishmongers with delighted shrieks. The wooden planks creaked beneath their boots, the smell of salt and fish was heavy in the air.

Lyanna wrinkled her nose at the pungent scent but pressed on, slipping through the chaos with practiced ease. She ignored the ever-present cluster of guards trailing them, though she longed to disappear into the crowd, to lose herself in the city.

They passed a vendor selling trinkets and carved baubles, and Lyanna paused, running her fingers over the polished wood of a small flute. A mischievous glint flickered in her eyes.

“For Benjen,” she said, handing the merchant a coin. “If he is anything like he used to be, this will be my revenge upon father.”

Ned snorted. “You intend to let him torture the entire castle with that?”

She grinned. “Without question.”

Further along, she found a small wooden direwolf, its carved snarl so finely etched that it looked as though it might spring to life at any moment. She turned it over in her palm, a faint warmth settling in her chest.

“For Brandon,” she murmured, slipping it into her satchel.

For a moment, she allowed herself to savor the illusion of normalcy—the simple pleasure of moving through the world without title, without expectation. Just a sister, buying gifts for her brothers.

Their stroll carried them beyond the bustling heart of the docks, where the briny tang of the sea mingled with the faint scent of fish and tar. Here, away from the shouts of merchants and the creak of laden ships, the wooden planks were damp with sea spray, and the air was thick with the cries of gulls wheeling overhead.

And it was there, tucked beneath a stack of overturned crates, that Lyanna spotted it, a small, scruffy bundle of orange fur, crouched low against the wood. The kitten's ears twitched at the distant thud of boots on the dock, its green eyes, large, wary, and luminous in the light, fixated on the passing figures. It did not seem frightened, only watchful.

Lyanna slowed, tilting her head. “Look at him, Ned,” she whispered, crouching down.

Ned, who until then had been watching the waves roll against the shore, turned his attention to her with mild exasperation. “At what, exactly?”

She gestured toward the kitten, and for a moment, she simply studied the creature, noticing the way its whiskers quivered, the delicate, skeletal thinness of its frame. It was a beautiful, dirty little thing.

A memory surfaced then. Viserys, weeks ago, declaring with the utmost solemnity that for his next name day, he wished for a cat. A big, fat, orange cat. This one was not fat. Not yet. But he could be.

“He’s perfect,” Lyanna murmured, almost to herself.

“For what?” Ned asked, arching a skeptical brow in curiosity.

“For Viserys,” she said simply, reaching out. The kitten flinched but did not run as her fingers brushed over its matted fur. It was softer than she expected beneath the dirt. “His name day is coming, and he has been asking for a cat.”

Ned folded his arms, the disbelief plain on his face. “And you mean to present him with a stray from the docks?”

Lyanna shot him a look. Viserys would not care that the cat was a stray. “Oh, don’t be so high and mighty, Ned. Better than some pampered, useless thing from the palace.”

She scooped the kitten up before he could argue further. It gave a small, protesting mew, its thin body stiffening against her chest, but after a moment, it went still, as though resigned to its fate.

“Besides,” she added, scratching gently behind its ears, “look at him. He’s got spirit.”

“Or fleas,” Ned muttered.

Lyanna laughed, a bright, unguarded sound, as she cradled the kitten against her. The little creature nuzzled instinctively into the crook of her arm, its warmth seeping into her skin. Aye, he would be perfect. She wondered, briefly, if he had any siblings. If somewhere nearby, a matching set of green eyes watched from the shadows. She continued to look for a while, after all, she did not want to separate siblings. But when she looked, there was nothing. No rustling beneath the crates, no tiny movement in the gloom.

Alone, then.

Well, not anymore.

She would see to it that he was bathed and fed as soon as they returned to the Red Keep. And after that, Viserys would have his cat.

She knew him well enough to know, he would be overjoyed.

Chapter Text

When she placed the tiny orange kitten in Viserys’ arms, the boy’s delight was boundless. His smile was shining bright like the morning sun, his violet eyes alight with wonder as he cradled the fragile creature against his chest. His fingers, still chubby with childhood, stroked its orange, soft fur with reverence, as if he had been entrusted with a true dragon hatchling rather than a half-starved stray she had found by Blackwater Bay the day before.

“I shall name him…” he paused, the weight of his decision evident in his furrowed brow. Then, with the unshakable certainty of a prince making a royal decree, he declared, “Balerion.”

Lyanna bit back a laugh. Of course, he would name the creature something grand and worthy of legend. “A mighty name,” she said solemnly.

“A fearsome beast.” Viserys agreed, nodding sagely, even as the kitten yawned and curled into a ball in his hands.

Aunt Rhaella had witnessed the entire exchange, her laughter soft and melodic as she looked between Lyanna and the boy. “You have made him very happy,” she remarked, a touch of warmth in her voice that Lyanna often heard from the Targaryen queen when she was truly happy. Even the King himself seemed amused by the 'beast', though his interest in the matter was fleeting, for he had Seven Kingdoms to rule and hundreds of subjects to listen to, and was quickly dragged away from his family to attend to his royal duties. 

Rhaegar, however, had lingered. He had not spoken, not at first. He had merely observed, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips as he watched her with a gaze that felt impossibly gentle and it made her feel almost shy. Then, turning to his young brother, he ruffled Viserys’ hair and murmured something about tending to his ‘beast’ properly before being dragged away too by his princely duties and Lord Jon Connington. 

Later, as she walked beside Ned in the corridors of the Red Keep, she could not help but glance at him, triumphant. “I told you,” she muttered.

Her brother gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Aye, you did.” There was something approving in his tone, though he said nothing more of the matter. 

That evening, she prepared for yet another feast in honor of Viserys’ name day. A week of endless celebrations, of heavy food and music, of wine poured freely, and nobles feigning good humor as they vied for favor. And yet, she found herself in high spirits. She had done a kindness that day, not only to a lost creature but to a boy who still had innocence in his heart.

For the night’s revelry, she chose crimson. A bold color, not one she often wore, but something about it felt right. Ashara hovered behind her, deft fingers weaving Lyanna’s dark strands into an intricate southern style, twisting and pinning until every lock fell into place.

“Perfect,” Ashara murmured, satisfaction evident in her voice as she stepped back to admire her handiwork.

Lyanna studied her reflection in the looking glass. The deep red of the gown stood in striking contrast against her fair skin, the fabric flowing like liquid fire with every shift of her body. The way her hair framed her face, softer than her usual unruly waves, made her look almost—well, beautiful. The quick flash of the tear-shaped red ruby that hung delicately from her neck caught her attention, and she looked at it through the looking glass for a moment. 

“At least try to pretend to be impressed,” Ashara teased, oblivious to Lyanna's distraction. 

Lyanna, in exchange, huffed a laugh. “If I appear too impressed, your head might swell.”

Ashara grinned. “Too late.”

That night, when she entered the great hall, Ned at her side, the weight of silent attention pressed upon her. The glances, the poorly veiled murmured observations, they did not go unnoticed by her brother. She was used to it, to the attention that came with being Lyanna Stark from the North, fostered by the Targaryen family. He was not. His mouth pressed into a firm line, though he made no comment. Instead, he cleared his throat and changed the subject as if willing away the stares.

“I wonder where Robert is,” Ned muttered, scanning the crowd carefully. “I saw him with some knights this afternoon. I hope he hasn’t been drinking.”

Lyanna barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Sweet, innocent Ned. “That is as hopeful as wishing a fish would walk on land.”

Ned sighed, rubbing his temple, concern etched across his face that made him look like a man beyond his age.

She had spent enough time with Robert these past weeks to know him better—or rather, to see him for what he was. He was boisterous, unrestrained, wearing his emotions on his sleeve with the careless ease of a man who had never needed to second-guess himself. He was fun, aye, and he was so utterly taken with her that he never let a day pass without some grand declaration of devotion. At times, it amused her. At times, it even flattered her.

But there was another side to him.

The drinking.

Oh, she enjoyed wine well enough, and ale in good company was no crime. But Robert… Robert drank like a man drowning in it. At first, she had laughed it off. A cup too many here, a slurred endearment there. But it had quickly soured. The more he drank, the more passionate he became, the more unrestrained his affections. Louder, rougher, heedless of propriety. It was not charming. It was not amusing. It was tiresome. And if she were being honest, it unsettled her. She liked Robert, aye, but she did not like Robert when he drank.

It was something she needed to speak to Ned about. Their father would not care. Rickard Stark saw the match as a political necessity, and little else, her feelings on the matter would not be of importance to him. But Ned… Ned could make Robert listen. He had before. That was how this betrothal had come to be in the first place, and sometimes Lyanna wondered who Robert valued the most, her or Ned. There were times when Lyanna thought Robert would take an arrow to the heart for Ned. 

And as if summoned by her very thoughts, Robert finally made his appearance at some point of the night. And, as she had feared, he was deep in his cups.

His face was flushed with drink, his broad shoulders swaying slightly as he strode into the hall. His dark hair was disheveled, his usual careless charm now bordering on something unruly. He was still handsome, in a rugged, untamed way. A fine lord, as any would say.

A fine, drunken lord, accompanied by other men from the Stormlands, who seemed just equally drunk. 

Lyanna instinctively drifted toward the shadows of the hall, seeking refuge beside Ashara. With so many people between them, Robert would not find her easily. Not in his state. She had no desire to be the subject of his attentions tonight, not like this. She momentarily cursed her earlier decision to wear crimson that night, for the fabric of her dress draw too much attention to her earlier. 

However, her betrothed seemed all too comfortable in the company of the men to even try and look for her. It gave her some kind of relief. 

“This is embarrassing,” she muttered under her breath as she frowned at the sight of her betrothed. 

Ashara followed her gaze, her expression one of mild disgust. She did not need to say anything. Lyanna already knew she shared the sentiment.

“Men,” Ashara finally murmured, unimpressed by the young lord's demeanor. “They drink, they boast, and they chase women like hounds after a scent.” she said plainly when one of the men accompanying Robert threw a kiss in the air to a young servant girl. 

Lyanna snorted. “Charming.”

“It is the truth,” Ashara sighed. “Most of them care for little else.”

Most. But not all.

Her thoughts drifted before she could stop them.

She had seen Rhaegar earlier, watching the feast from afar before slipping away into the night, leaving behind a bored-looking Cersei Lannister. He had been giving her space, as she had asked. And yet, that distance had done something strange to her—it had made her ache to see him. He looked so handsome that night, so regal. 

Was that his intent all along? Was this some careful, deliberate game he played, knowing exactly how it would unravel her?

Lyanna set her jaw, forcing herself to look away from the empty space where he had once stood.

“Well,” she said, pushing the thought aside, “it is a dismal thing to consider. I have no wish to wed a drunk.”

Her voice was quiet, but there was steel in it.

She could tolerate Robert as he was, she could even like him. But Robert in his cups? That was another beast entirely, one she was not wiling to put up with.

And she did not wish to spend a lifetime chained to it.

“So, what are you going to do, Lyanna?” Ashara asked, arching a knowing brow as she studied Lyanna’s expression. “Do you mean to stay hidden in this corner all night like some frightened maiden?”

Lyanna exhaled sharply, arms crossed over her chest. “No. I’ll leave in a while. I’ve no desire to see him like this.” Her gaze flickered toward her brother, who stood some distance away, looking increasingly distressed as he listened to whatever nonsense Robert was spouting to a group of lords and ladies. “Even Ned isn’t dragging me over to him,” she remarked, watching as Robert stumbled slightly. She sighed. “That can only mean one thing—he’s utterly and completely drunk. If Ned doesn’t want me to see him in such a state, well, I certainly don’t either.”

Ashara hummed in agreement, eyes sweeping across the dimly lit hall. The feasting had gone on for hours, and as the night deepened, the candlelight seemed to burn lower, casting long shadows over the revelers. Servants moved about, refilling goblets and replenishing platters, while musicians played a lively tune, barely masking the drunken laughter and slurred conversations.

“Are you going to speak to Ned about this?” Ashara asked, voice quieter now.

“Yes,” Lyanna answered without hesitation. “Maybe he’ll talk some sense into Robert. He listens to him more than anyone.” She inhaled deeply, then exhaled, steadying herself. “Ashara, I will speak to Robert myself if I have to.” Her voice was firm, her decision final. “I do not care if my father sends me to the Silent Sisters for disobedience—I will not bind myself to a man who drinks himself into a stupor every night, and he will hear it from me.”

Ashara tilted her head, studying her carefully then. “We’ll see,” she said at last, pressing her lips together. “If I know men, it is hard for one to change his nature—especially a man like Robert Baratheon, coddled and adored all his life, given whatever he desires without question. And what he desires, he takes.” There was something in her voice that told Lyanna she did not have high hopes.

The truth of it irked, creeping under her skin like a slow chill. She could picture it now: Storm’s End, a great hall filled with drunken men roaring with laughter, Robert always at the center, sloshing ale over the rim of his cup, his arm slung heavily around her shoulders. She imagined the weight of his hands when he’d had too much to drink—the way his grip tightened, the way his laughter turned slurred and possessive. It unsettled her, sickened her. She was not even his wife yet, and already, he made her feel like something owned.

What would happen once she was wed to him if he continued this way?

A shiver ran down her spine.

Ashara’s sudden intake of breath snapped Lyanna from her thoughts. Her friend’s expression had shifted, her dark eyes wide with disbelief. Her lips parted slightly, as if on the verge of speaking, but no words came.

Lyanna turned to follow her gaze... And felt her blood boil.

There, in the middle of the hall, Robert Baratheon, her gallant betrothed, was openly mauling a young serving girl.

The poor girl had been caught unaware, a tankard in hand, when Robert had seized her by the waist and pulled her flush against him, the 'lords' around him roaring and cheering for him instantly as if he had just performed the most heroic of acts. He pressed a hot, drunken kiss to her lips, his hands bold and wandering, gripping at her skirts. The girl squirmed in his grasp, startled and struggling, but Robert held her fast, his grip firm even in his inebriation.

The scene lasted only seconds, with the men around him laughing and cheering, but it was enough.

A murmur rippled through the crowd—some laughing, some whispering behind their hands. Others, like Ned, were less amused.

Lyanna watched as her brother pushed through the gathering onlookers, his expression thunderous. Ned’s hand shot out, seizing Robert’s arm and yanking him away from the girl. The serving maid stumbled back, pale-faced and shaken, before fleeing through the crowd like a frightened mouse.

Robert staggered, blinking blearily, his mouth half-open as if struggling to comprehend why his fun had been interrupted. He swayed, swiping at his chin with the back of his hand, his mind probably too clouded with drink to realize what he had done.

Lyanna clenched her fists so tightly her nails bit into her palms.

The gall.

The utter, unthinkable gall.

How dare he?

How dare he stand before all of these lords and ladies, spouting his great love for her day after day, only to make a spectacle of himself like this? He had all but shouted his devotion from the highest towers, ensuring every soul in King’s Landing knew he would wed her, and now, in the same breath, he had humiliated her before them all. The court was a nest of vipers, and Robert had just given them fresh meat to feast upon.

She wanted to kill him.

Lyanna took a step forward, her body thrumming with rage, ready to march straight across the hall and strike him across his drunken face. Let him stagger. Let him fall. Let him feel what it was to be made a fool of.

But before she could move another inch, Ashara’s hand shot out, gripping her arm tightly.

“Don’t,” Ashara warned, voice low and urgent. “Do not make a spectacle of yourself, Lyanna.”

Lyanna’s jaw clenched, her breath short and sharp, and all she could see was red.

“As much as I’d love to see that fool’s head smashed against the wall,” Ashara continued, her grip unyielding, her tone low “you know better than to give these courtiers something to whisper about. If you storm over there now, if you make a scene, it will be your name on their tongues tomorrow, not his.”

Lyanna’s chest rose and fell with the force of her anger, but Ashara was right. She was always right.

Still, every fiber of her being screamed for vengeance.

She could see Ned now, steering Robert firmly toward the exit, dragging him away from the hall before he could do further damage. Lyanna watched them disappear through the doors, her brother’s expression stormy, Robert swaying in his grip.

She exhaled sharply.

“Are you all right?” Ashara asked, softer this time.

“No,” Lyanna said, her pride wounded. “But I will be.”

She turned her gaze back to the hall, to the lords and ladies who still whispered behind their hands, to the empty space where Robert had once stood.

Let them whisper.

Tomorrow, she would speak to Ned.

Tomorrow, she would make it clear. She would not marry Robert Baratheon.

Cersei could not help but laugh. A quiet chuckle at first, but soon, a full, delighted burst of amusement.

The mighty Robert Baratheon, great warrior, heir to Storm’s End, the man who had spent the last moons parading his affections for Lyanna Stark like some lovesick bard, now reduced to a drunken, stumbling mess, his hands forcing themselves upon a servant wench. It was almost too perfect. If only she had been close enough to see Lyanna’s face when it happened. The savage northern girl was nowhere to be found, but Cersei could imagine her: eyes flashing with that wild, untamed rage, lips twisting in that unladylike scowl she so often wore when in shooting her arrows.

How very fitting. How very deserved.

Ned Stark had acted quickly, of course, with his usual self-righteous glower and dull northern sense of honor, dragging his friend away before he could humiliate himself further.

Cersei turned to her companions, a smirk playing on her lips. “And that, my ladies, is the great love of Lyanna Stark’s life.” She let the words drip with scorn. “Tell me, does it not suit her perfectly?”

The ladies beside her, Lady Alerie Hightower and Lady Myrielle Lannister laughed softly, their amusement concealed behind the graceful flutter of silk fans.

“But surely Lyanna Stark cannot complain,” Cersei continued, eyes glinting with malice. “The North is a savage place, after all. Who is to say this sort of behavior isn’t commonplace among them? Perhaps up there, it is a great honor for a woman to be groped in a hall full of courtiers. Perhaps she is even flattered.”

Lady Alerie laughed delicately, feigning horror. “Oh, Lady Cersei, you are wicked.”

“Wicked?” Cersei echoed, tilting her head, eyes alight with mock innocence. “I only speak the truth. The Starks worship their Old Gods in the depths of their dark woods, do they not? And the Northmen... well, one can only imagine the sort of… gatherings they must partake in.” She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice a hushed, wicked whisper. “Tell me, do you think they share their wives as freely as they share their ale?”

Lady Myrielle gasped, hand covering her lips in faux shock before she dissolved into laughter. “You are dreadful,” she murmured carefully, watching as Ser Arthur Dayne, who was standing near them, passed right by them. 

Cersei laughed along with them, tossing her beautiful golden hair over her shoulder.

“They say Lord Robert is handsome,” Lady Alerie mused, tapping a delicate finger against her chin. “But even the most handsome of men grow ugly after too much wine.”

“And he will never belong to just one woman,” Lady Myrielle added, feigning sympathy. “It is well known. A different bed every night.”

Cersei took a sip from her goblet, reveling in the conversation. She rarely had the pleasure of enjoying such a spectacle, and the gods had seen fit to grant her this one. Lyanna Stark, humiliated before the entire court.

It was only what she deserved.

She had stolen Rhaegar’s attention. She had dared to stand before the prince as though she were worthy of his regard, had dared to share secret words with him, had dared to be noticed by him. It had been an insult to Cersei, one she would not forget.

But this? This was justice.

Lyanna would have her drunken stag, and Cersei would have her perfect prince. It was as it should be.

With an air of supreme satisfaction, she set her goblet down and straightened her shoulders. “Not everyone is as fortunate as I,” she said, as if bestowing a great truth upon them. “My prince would never disgrace me so.” She lifted her chin, confident in her words. Rhaegar would never humiliate her, disgrace her like that. He was a perfect prince. Her perfect prince. “Unlike some, I am not betrothed to a brute.”

A voice then interrupted her reverie.

“Enjoying yourself, are you?”

Cersei turned her head and found herself face to face with her twin.

Jaime stood before her, golden as the sun, his green eyes glinting with something between amusement and knowing. He knew her far too well to know what she was laughing at so heartedly. 

Lady Alerie and Lady Myrielle all but preened at the sight of him, their lashes fluttering, their smiles coy. Cersei narrowed her eyes at them, her own smile tightening.

“The night has proven most entertaining,” she said, allowing herself a small, satisfied smirk as she spoke to him.

Jaime let out a low chuckle. “Poor Lord Robert. I’d not want to be in his boots come the morrow.”

Cersei arched a brow. “Whatever do you mean?”

Jaime glanced out over the crowd, as though searching for something—or someone. “Lady Lyanna is no meek little maid,” he said idly. “She has a temper.”

Cersei scoffed. “A temper? You speak as though she were some great storm, Jaime.”

Jaime’s smirk deepened. “A storm is only dangerous if you find yourself caught in it. I don’t think Baratheon is coming out of this unharmed”

Cersei hummed, unconvinced. Let Lyanna Stark rage if she wished, like the savage she truly was, it would change nothing. Robert would still be hers, and she would still be humiliated.

And Cersei would still be victorious.

Chapter Text

Dawn had barely broken when Lyanna arrived, a storm wrapped in silk and fury.

Ned had expected this, though expecting a storm did little to stop it from shaking the walls when it arrived. His sister had never been the sort to suffer slights in silence, never one to let disrespect slide from her shoulders like a cloak shrugged off. No, Lyanna met things head-on, with all the force of her character behind her. And so, as the first light of morning painted King’s Landing in pale gold, she sought him out.

She entered with strength, her steps sharp, her jaw tight, her hands clenched at her sides. Her hair was not styled in the southron way that day, no fine silks that marked her as a lady of the court. Just a simple gown of dark crimson and a golden necklace with a ruby in it, the color doing little to soften the scowl set upon her face.

Ned could not blame her.

Robert. His friend. His brother in all but blood. The man he trusted above all others. And the fool had ruined everything in a single night.

Robert had loved Lyanna from the moment he laid eyes on her, years ago. He had spoken of her as if she were a dream made flesh, as if his happiness could never be complete unless she was his. And now, that dream was within his grasp, his betrothal to her secured, his future set. And yet, in the span of a single evening, he had shattered it like a drunkard dropping a goblet on stone.

Ned knew Robert well, knew the good in him, the loyalty, the courage, the boundless love he had for those he called his own. But he also knew Robert’s vices. And if there was one thing that would be the man’s undoing, it was his inability to control his desires, whether for drink or for women.

He had prayed, foolishly, that his betrothal to Lyanna would temper him, that the prospect of marriage would curb his reckless indulgences. But last night had proved him wrong.

And now, his sister stood before him, fire in her eyes, ready to make her fury known.

“You know why I’m here,” she said, her voice tight, nearly trembling with restrained anger.

Ned met her silver gaze, sharp as a knife, already feeling the weight of his own failure in this. “I do.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired face. “Lyanna, I am so sorry. Robert is sorry, too. He was—”

“Drunk,” she cut him off, her voice laced with disgust. “Aye, that much was clear, Ned. The problem is, we are not yet wed, and he already thinks he can do as he pleases. In my own home.” Her lips curled as she said the words, and Ned felt a pang of discomfort at hearing her call the Red Keep her home. “The rumors alone were enough to make me hesitate,” she continued, shaking her head. “But I gave him a chance, for I know better than to believe everything I hear. If I took rumors as truth, then I’d be a savage from the North who feasts on the flesh of men.” A sharp, humorless smile twisted her lips. “But last night was no rumor. Last night was the truth of who he is.”

“You’re wrong,” Ned said quickly, too quickly, he realized.

Lyanna scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest, her silver-grey eyes narrowing at him in warning.

“I mean,” he amended, choosing his words with more care before speaking again, “you are right. He made a mistake, a grievous one. And he should answer for it in whatever way you see fit. But, Lyanna, he is a good man. You know this. He is reckless, aye, and a fool besides, but his heart is true. He just needs to… grow.”

Lyanna arched an eyebrow, disbelief written all over her features. “Grow?” she repeated, as if the very word was a foreign concept. “Is he not a grown man, Ned?”

“Lyanna, you know what I mean.” he said in exasperation, trying to keep his tone down “And I believe you could help him do so.”

She laughed then, a dry, mirthless sound that he knew meant nothing good. “Oh, do you now?”

“He has been better since your betrothal was announced,” Ned pressed on, determined not to let her dismiss him outright. “He’d do anything for you. He would never knowingly hurt you, Lyanna.”

She let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. “You believe that? Truly?”

“I do.” Ned hesitated, feeling slightly naive under her knowing gaze, then added, “But I also believe he deserves whatever punishment you deem fit. I only ask that you listen to him first. Let him explain himself before you decide whether to cast him aside entirely.”

Lyanna’s expression did not soften. If anything, her mouth pressed into an even thinner line.

“And where is he now?” she asked, voice dripping with sarcasm as she looked around. “Surely sleeping off his drunken revelry. Who knows where or with whom.”

“He’s in his chambers,” Ned said quickly. “Alone. He will be here soon.”

“And you promise?” she asked, the sarcasm cutting sharp.

“Aye.” he replied nonetheless.

She let out a humorless laugh then, shaking her head. “Oh, Ned. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that head of yours.”

He remained silent, unwilling to give her another reason to cut him down. He knew there was no point in trying. The only way she would change her mind, would be if Robert himself spoke to her, if he made her understand that it was all a stupid, drunken mistake, and that it would never happen again. 

Gods, he was extremely angry at Robert as well. He could only imagine what his sister must have been feeling. And a part of him felt guilty, because it was him who listened to Robert, it was him who presented the idea to their father, it was all him. He felt ashamed, he felt guilty. And he only wished to fix it all. 

She exhaled, tilting her chin up, her mind already made. “Very well. I will speak with him. After I break my fast with Aunt Rhaella.”

Ned nodded, relieved. “Thank you, Lyanna.”

But she wasn’t finished.

“But do not let him believe this will be mend, Ned. Because it won’t.” she warned, her voice as sharp as the steel she rode with. “And you will tell our father that I wish to speak with him today. I will not be bound to a man who cannot keep his hands to himself.”

Ned’s stomach twisted at her words, at the finality of them. But he nodded all the same. He knew that the only one who could fix this, was Robert. The only one who should be begging for forgiveness, was him. He only hoped Lyanna could actually listen to him. And if not, she was in her right, that he knew. 

“I will.”

Lyanna gave him one last lingering look, then turned on her heel and strode away, her loose, chestnut waves swinging behind her.

Ned ran a hand over his face, already dreading what the day would bring.

Lyanna watched as Queen Rhaella poured tea into her cup, her delicate, pale hands moving with effortless grace. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way she did it. Unhurried, precise, as if even the simplest act of pouring tea was an art in itself. Lyanna had always marveled at how the Queen carried herself, at how she could embody both warmth and regality in the same breath.

Even now, as she was starting to feel the early symptoms of her pregnancy, Rhaella Targaryen was beautiful. The weariness of pregnancy was there, apparent in the slight pallor of her skin, the faint shadows beneath her violet eyes, but it did not lessen her grace. If anything, it gave her a quiet, vulnerable elegance, much like when she had carried Viserys. The weight of a dragon growing inside her did not diminish her; it softened her in a way that made her all the more striking.

Rhaella must have felt Lyanna’s eyes on her, for she looked up, her lips curving into a gentle, knowing smile.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” the Queen asked, her voice calm and measured, as gentle as the soft clink of porcelain as she set the teapot aside.

How was she feeling?

Humiliated. Utterly, profoundly so. As though she had been stripped bare before the eyes of the court and left standing without shield or dignity. The weight of such humiliation pressed heavily against her chest, suffocating in its insistence. Beneath it burned something hotter still: anger. The cruelty of it lay not only in the act itself, but in the knowledge that the man who had shamed her was one she had been trying to want. Trying, and failing. The realization left her feeling foolish, exposed, and unmoored.

“Humiliated,” she said at last.

The word itself seemed to warm her cheeks, but Rhaella did not rush to comfort her, nor did she soften the truth with empty reassurances. Instead, her lips pressed into a thin line, and a knowing light entered her eyes.

“Do not,” the Queen said quietly, setting the teapot down with care. “You have no cause to feel humiliation, child. That burden belongs to him.” She shook her head once, faintly. “He disgraced himself. He made a spectacle of his own lack of restraint, not you.” Her mouth curved, sharp with restrained disapproval. “A fool,” she added, handing Lyanna her cup.

Lyanna accepted it, staring into the amber liquid as steam curled lazily upward, buying herself a moment before she spoke again.

“I no longer wish to marry him,” she said finally.

Her voice was steady, resolute, though softer than she might have expected. Had she ever truly wished to marry Robert Baratheon? Or had she merely tried to convince herself that wanting could be learned?

“I will hear what he has to say today,” she continued. “But I will not marry him.” She lifted her gaze then, quiet determination set in her expression. “The only reason I grant him this meeting is so that neither my father nor Ned may say I acted rashly. Let no one claim I refused him the courtesy of an apology.”

Rhaella studied her for a long moment, then inclined her head ever so slightly.

Rhaella’s brows furrowed slightly in concern then. “Be careful, child,” she warned, her voice soft but steady as she spoke. “Speak to your father, but do so wisely. Do not provoke him into anger. Men do not take kindly to being contradicted, especially when it comes to matters of legacy and duty.” She sighed, a distant look passing through her eyes. “I am certain he does not enjoy Robert’s disgrace any more than you do. It was an insult to House Stark as much as it was to you.”

A pause. Then, more quietly, she added, “But you must act wisely. This marriage was not arranged on a whim. It was a political match, carefully considered by your brother and eagerly accepted by your father.”

Lyanna’s fingers tightened around her teacup.

She knew it was true. Too well. The arrangements her father had made with Robert Baratheon had not been born of affection or concern for her happiness, but of calculation. Precision. Convenience. Robert was useful to House Stark. That was all that mattered. Whether he was a good man, whether he treated her with respect, whether she wished for the match at all, none of it had weighed heavily enough to alter the decision.

Duty first. The house first. Always.

The realization burned hot in her chest, fury rising swift and unchecked. The idea that she should be bound for life by the will of a distant father who scarcely knew her, that her future should be decided by alliances and advantage rather than choice made her feel caged. She wanted to pull at her hair, to scream, to rage against a system that reduced her to a bargaining piece.

“The most infuriating part,” she muttered at last, bitterness bleeding into every word, “is that I must ask his permission to break the betrothal.”

Rhaella did not contradict her. Instead, she nodded once, slowly. “It is unfair,” she said, sympathy flickering briefly in her eyes. “But we are women, Lyanna. We do not fight our battles with steel.” Her voice was calm, but there was strength in it, unassailable. “We fight with wit.”

She leaned forward slightly. “That is why you must be clever. Choose your words carefully, child. Do not demand.” A pause. “Persuade.”

Lyanna drew a long breath, forcing the heat of her anger to settle. She knew the Queen was right. Marching into her father’s chambers in fury would win her nothing but resistance. If she wished to be free of Robert Baratheon, she would have to play the game.

She lifted her gaze to meet Rhaella’s, resolve beginning to harden where anger had been.

“Thank you,” she said, more steadily now. “For your counsel, Aunt Rhaella.”

The Queen smiled then, a sad, wistful smile. “I wish I could do more than offer words, my dear.”

“You have already given me more than I could have hoped for,” Lyanna said softly, meeting the Queen’s gaze. “Do not concern yourself over me. I am not so easily broken.”

No. She was not.

And if her father chose to deny her this wish, then she would find another path. She always had. If the stubborn Lord Stark would not listen to reason, then she would ensure he was given no choice at all.

If persuasion failed, she would turn to inevitability.

She would make Robert Baratheon wish to be free of her. Make him recoil from the very notion of binding his life to hers. She would become everything he did not want: inconvenient, impossible to tame.

That, at least, would not prove difficult.

To become Robert’s worst nightmare, should he continue to ignore her wishes, would require only that she remain entirely, unapologetically herself.

Rhaegar wiped a hand across his forehead, his fingers coming away slick with sweat. The morning sun hung high, unrelenting in its heat, beating down upon the Red Keep’s training yard like a hammer upon an anvil. His dark training tunic clung to him uncomfortably, damp with exertion, but the ache in his muscles was welcome. After a long morning spent buried in correspondence, reviewing endless trade agreements with the Free Cities, and enduring another long council meeting where men droned on about tariffs and shipping routes, he had needed the respite of the yard.

And yet, not even the clash of swords nor the rigor of combat could quell the simmering rage that had taken residence beneath his skin.

The moment he had stepped foot outside his chambers that morning, the whispers had reached him. People spoke in hushed tones, their amusement poorly concealed, their lips curved in knowing smirks as they recounted the scandal of the feast the night before. They were like crows feasting on a corpse. Always.

Robert Baratheon had humiliated Lyanna. Before the eyes of the entire court, he had proven himself a brute, a drunken fool with little regard for his betrothed’s dignity. It was nothing new in King’s Landing, of course. Whenever celebrations occurred, there was always someone willing to take it one step too far, to indulge too much, to make some kind of ridiculous spectacle. It was not that rare. 

However, what he had heard that morning made his blood boil.

But he had not reacted outwardly. He had simply continued walking, his steps steady, his expression composed. But beneath his stillness, beneath the years of disciplined restraint, something dark had flared in his chest.The thought of Lyanna, kind and beautiful, enduring the distaste of Robert’s lechery, enduring the stares because of his careless indulgence, had made his blood burn. How could his cousin, who so often declared his undying love for her to anyone willing to hear, treat her with such disregard? How could a man who claimed her as his greatest prize cast such dishonor upon her?

She did not deserve such cruelty. And he certainly did not deserve her. 

Lyanna was everything Robert did not deserve. Sharp of wit, fierce of spirit, yet kind and loyal to those she loved. She was no meek court lady, no simple girl who would suffer fools with a bowed head and silence. She had fire in her, and Rhaegar knew well that she would not bear this insult lightly.

A fool, Robert was. A reckless, drunken fool. And what angered Rhaegar most was the injustice of it all. How was it that a man like that—oafish and faithless—was blessed with the promise of her? The gods were cruel, indeed. But he did not want to go deeper into the matter, for he knew he would find himself longing for what could not be his, and that was troublesome. 

“Good fight, Your Grace.”

Arthur’s ‘voice pulled him from his thoughts, and Rhaegar turned, breathing heavily as he accepted the dry cloth his friend handed him. He dragged it over his face, wiping away the sweat that dripped down his brow.

Arthur stood beside him, his own tunic damp, his legendary sword, Dawn, still in hand. His expression was neutral, but there was something unreadable in his violet eyes as he cast a quick glance toward the dais.

Rhaegar followed his gaze.

Cersei stood there, watching him with a gaze as sharp as a blade, parading her beauty as she usually did whenever she went to see him in the training yard. She carried herself like a queen already, chin lifted high, her lips curled in a knowing smile. She had been watching him the entire time, as she always did. He was, however, deeply aware of how he sometimes seemed unaffected by his bride-to-be charms. 

Rhaegar offered her a quick, polite smile to her before turning back to Arthur.

His friend did not immediately speak, but years of familiarity allowed Rhaegar to read Arthur just as well as Arthur could read him. Like an open book. 

“What is it?” he asked, pulling the now damp cloth from his face. “Say what’s on your mind.”

Arthur hesitated. That alone was rare. He was often quick with a jest or a wry remark, but now he simply looked at Rhaegar, as though debating whether to speak at all.

“I’m not sure I should,” he admitted at last, his violet eyes almost troubled. 

Rhaegar sighed, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness in them. “You never hesitate to speak your mind, Arthur. Out with it.”

Arthur’s gaze flickered once more toward the dais before settling back on Rhaegar. His expression was still unreadable. “You should be careful with that one.”

Rhaegar frowned. “Lady Cersei?”

Arthur gave a slow nod. “I overheard her last night. Speaking about Lady Lyanna.”

Rhaegar’s breath stilled.

Arthur’s voice was even, but there was something about the way he spoke that made Rhaegar’s stomach tighten.

“She was amused by what happened at the feast,” Arthur continued. “More than amused, she delighted in it. She laughed at Lady Lyanna’s humiliation. Spoke vile things about the North, about their customs. She said…” Arthur exhaled sharply, as if the words disgusted him. “She said Lyanna was likely flattered by what Robert did.”

A cold, sharp anger sliced through Rhaegar.

For a moment, he did not move. He simply stared at Arthur, his grip tightening around the cloth in his hand until his knuckles went white.

Then, slowly, he turned his gaze back toward the dais.

Cersei was still watching him, still smiling that sweet smile at him. He did not return her gesture this time. 

Cersei had never given him reason to doubt her. She had been pleasant, agreeable, always composed, always flattering in her affections. But he had never fooled himself into believing she was kind and innocent. He could read between the lines, and he had known from a very early age that people around him were always nicer, always sweeter than they actually were. People would always show him their best side only, none of the bad. All because of his title. 

This, however, this was cruelty. Needless cruelty.

And it disgusted him.

It was no secret that the Lannister girl had ambition. She played her part well, always poised, always sweet-tongued and lovely. But there was something in her that unsettled him now, something ugly that lurked beneath all that beauty. 

He had always prided himself on being able to read people. He had known that Cersei Lannister was no meek, simpering maiden, but neither had he thought her cruel.

He felt anger, yes. But beyond that, there was disappointment. 

He turned back to Arthur, his voice quiet but edged with steel. “Tell me exactly what she said.”

Arthur hesitated only briefly before he spoke. “She called the Northerners savages. Said they likely share their women, that Lyanna was no different. That she was probably accustomed to such treatment.”

Rhaegar inhaled sharply, a sharp pang of something foreign and dangerous coiling in his chest.

It was rage. Pure, unfiltered rage. 

His fingers curled into a fist. Never in his life had he wanted to strike a woman, but in that moment, he understood how a man could be driven to it. To speak of Lyanna that way, to insult her dignity so carelessly in front of the vipers at court. It was repulsive.

She stood poised upon the dais, golden and gleaming, a vision of beauty and nobility. But now, he saw past the surface. She was no better than the crows that flocked to court, no better than the whispering vipers who fed on scandal and misfortune

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his voice deceptively calm when he finally spoke.

“Well,” he mused, his tone edged with something almost imperceptibly sharp. “It seems our lioness is more of a snake.”

Arthur said nothing, only offering a single, knowing nod.

Rhaegar’s gaze lingered on Cersei for a moment longer, studying her, assessing her with new eyes. How delicate she looked, how sweet. A perfect picture of grace and virtue. And yet, beneath the polished exterior, there lay something venomous, something rotten.

She had been pleasant to him, ever the dutiful betrothed, but how many masks had she worn before him? How many of her smiles had been true? He had always been adept at reading people, and yet, he had not seen this.

That would change.

From now on, he would watch her. Not as a prince indulging the affections of his betrothed, not as a man allowing himself to be flattered, but as a king weighing the worth of a crown’s future bearer. And if she was unfit, if she was as cruel and conniving as she now appeared, then Lord Tywin would find himself gravely disappointed.

Because Rhaegar would never take an unworthy woman to wife. He would not set a crown upon the head of a queen whose heart was filled with malice.

And as for Robert Baratheon…

Rhaegar’s fingers curled into a fist.

He would not stand idly by while Lyanna was wronged, not by Robert, not by Cersei, not by anyone.

And gods help the next man who dared try.

By the time the sun dipped low and the light began to thin, Lyanna knew it was time.

Notes had come to her throughout the day, each one delivered with increasing urgency, each bearing the same plea written in Robert Baratheon’s blunt hand: Please, my lady, let me speak with you. She had ignored them all. If she were to face him now, it would not be out of any desire to mend what had been broken, but to forestall the familiar accusations: rashness, stubbornness, unreasonableness. She would not give her father or Ned cause to say she had denied Robert the chance to apologize.

But her mind was settled.

She would hear him, yes.

She would not accept him.

The doors to the solar creaked open, firelight flickering as Robert entered with Ned at his side. Lyanna did not rise. She did not incline her head, nor offer even the semblance of courtesy. Instead, she remained seated, her storm-grey eyes fixing on Robert with an unflinching steadiness that made the room feel suddenly smaller.

Robert Baratheon, so often loud, expansive, a man who filled every space he occupied, looked diminished. His broad shoulders sagged, the easy swagger dulled by something unfamiliar and unbecoming: shame. He was built like a warrior carved for battle and excess, yet now he stood awkwardly upon the threshold, almost hesitant. The sight was strange enough to give her pause.

“My lady,” he began, stepping forward.

She did not move. The steel in her gaze alone was enough to halt him.

“Let us be clear, Robert,” she said, her voice calm and cold as northern iron. “I agreed to this meeting at the insistence of my brother and my father. Do not mistake my presence for eagerness to forgive, nor my silence for willingness to accept what has already been done.”

“I know,” he said quickly, the words tumbling over one another. “I know. I only— I needed to apologize. I was not myself last night. I swear it. I was drunk, I was—” He broke off, raking a hand through his unruly hair, looking at her as though force of will alone might bend her understanding. “You must believe me, Lyanna. You are my dream—my dream—and I would never have done such a thing in my right mind.”

Her expression did not soften. Only her fingers curled, almost imperceptibly, against the arm of the chair.

“And that,” she said coolly, “is meant to comfort me?” Her gaze sharpened. “That you require ale enough to dull your senses before you humiliate me? That you must be witless before your hands wander where they have no right to be?”

Robert flinched, color rising sharply in his face. “No—no, that is not what I meant—”

She did not let him finish.

“I have heard the rumors, Robert,” she continued, unwilling to allow him refuge in excuses. “Long before my father ever agreed to this betrothal. I heard the whispers of your wenches and your brothels, of cups that are never empty and vows that never last.” Her gaze did not leave him. “I chose to ignore them. I chose to believe that court delights in cruelty, that tongues sharpen themselves on men they envy.”

She leaned back slightly, her voice cool and unwavering. “You have done nothing but prove those whispers true.”

His face twisted, anguish plain upon it. “Lyanna, please,” he said hoarsely. “I will do anything. I’ve already spoken to your father—anything you ask of me, I’ll do it. Name it.”

Ned stood beside him in silence, arms crossed, jaw set. He had spoken little since they entered the chamber, watching instead as she dismantled the future laid before her with steady resolve.

Lyanna drew a slow breath, as though gathering herself against the urge to rise and strike him across the face. She looked at Robert, this man who had promised her the world, who had sung loudly of devotion, who had sworn himself hers before witnesses, and who had then betrayed her in the most public, careless manner imaginable.

“There is nothing you can do,” she said calmly. “You cannot change what you are.”

“I can,” he insisted, stepping closer, desperation lending weight to his stride. “Lyanna, I love you—”

“You love the idea of me,” she cut in sharply. “You love the notion of a wild thing to chase, something untamed to conquer.” Her eyes were cold now, incisive. “But you do not love me, Robert. You do not even know me.”

He opened his mouth, but she did not allow him space to protest.

“You love the hunt,” she continued, her voice gaining strength rather than volume. “The thrill of pursuit. And when the chase is finished—what then?” Her brow lifted faintly. “When there is nothing left to win, will you still look at me as you do now? Or will your attention wander, as it always has?”

“That is not—”