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Chapter Text

Chapter 1:  A new bride 

Arthur

The soft sound of a harp met his ears as he entered the dimly-lit solar. It didn’t surprise him when he found Prince Rhaegar seated next to the painted window.

It was the Prince’s favourite place and many songs were composed here.

Listening to the storm inspires me, he had told Arthur not long ago.

“You are two days late,” Jon Connington grumbled with his lean and sharp-featured face with a straight nose and blue eyes, ginger hair and a thin, close-cropped beard. “What took you so long?”

Arthur couldn’t help but to laugh. It felt more as if Jon was unhappy for his intrusion than his tardiness.

“The King was busy. Three burnings in a week and it seems we will soon have a new Hand of the King. The only thing Lord Owen Merryweather is good for is chuckling at the king's witticisms. It said he will resign from his position when the King discovers the state of the treasure and asks for his son's head …The King’s ill-mood kept me away.”

“Don’t fret about the vicious old man, Arthur,” Rhaegar quipped and put his harp away. It was a beautiful instrument made of dark wood and silver strings. “If the Gods are kind and my plan goes well, we will soon be rid of him.”

Arthur tried to smile but failed. His Prince will not be pleased when he hears about the King’s plans on his second marriage.

“How so?” Arthur asked and tried to prolong the inevitable.

“Lord Whent,” Jon Connington added and handed Arthur a cup of wine.” Will soon host a tourney. It seems our plans are finally taking form.”

“Indeed,” Arthur added and brought the cup to his lips. He savoured the taste and took a seat at the Painted Table. This was the room where Aegon the Conqueror planned his invasion. It was quite ironic that they came here to plan the downfall of King Aerys the Second. “I assume this means you agree and will soon take a new bride?”

“I suppose,” Rhaegar remarked and considered his question.” That is the case.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic?” Arthur asked, though he knew the reason. King Aerys sent Lord Steffon Baratheon to Essos to find Prince Rhaegar, a bride of Valyrian blood. Sadly, Steffon Baratheon was unable to find such a bride and only found an early grave, breaking the relationship between the two Greats Houses. The marriage to the Dornish Princess Elia Martell followed and resulted in the birth of Princess Rhaenys, but no living son, until barely a year ago. Princess Elia birthed a son who almost died a few days later and nearly killed the fragile woman. The King was so angered by this event that he forced the High Septon to annul the marriage between Princess Elia and his son Prince Rhaegar. This nearly led to an uprising of the Faith and Dorne, but such things didn’t matter to King Aerys. The madness was consuming his mind, no one could make him change his decisions. 

In the end it was Princess Elia’s reluctant agreement to accept the annulment, fearing for her children's life, that achieved peace, though the situation was still more than delicate, peace was fragile. Princess Elia returned to Dorne with her son Prince Aegon, but her daughter Princess Rhaenys remained a hostage in the hands of the King. Not even Prince Rhaegar was allowed access to his child as the King handed them to one of his most loyal supporters: Lucerys Velaryon, the Lords of the Tides, Master of Driftmark and the Master of ships sitting in the Small Council. He was above all the King’s loyal hound.

“I expect that my Lord Father will soon introduce me to another bride, if I don't choose one myself.” Prince Rhaegar said and shrugged his shoulders.

“I understand what you are trying to say, my Prince,” Jon Connington added gently. ”But that is why we should make use of your lack of betrothal. Maybe the King can be convinced to agree to it later… he seems very anxious for another grandson.”

“Yes…I suppose. One with purple eyes and silver hair this time he wants.” Rhaegar said and met Lord Connington’s gaze. The candlelight met his eyes and made them shine like two velvet gemstones. They swam with sadness and anger. Arthur believed he knew why. Prince Aegon may have the hair of his father but not his eyes, same for the Princess Rhaenys who was the splitting image of his mother. The King wasn’t pleased at all with the lack of valyrian features of his granddaughter and grandson. 

But it was not the most alarming for the Crown Prince. His mother’s safety was compromised, the King returned to Queen Rhaella’s bed and nobody could protect a Queen from her own husband, not a kingsguard or even a Prince. The Queen, Rhaella Targaryen endured years of emotional and physical abuse at her brother’s hands, including multiple miscarriages and stillbirths. Despite these challenges, the Prince’s mother remained loyal to her husband and did her best to fulfil her duties as a Queen and a Targaryen. She was strong. 

“And I have already considered several brides, but choosing is harder than expected when I don’t know any of them.”

“What about Cersei Lannister?” Jon Connington offered.” Lord Tywin hates the King. He would support you.”

“True.” Rhaegar confirmed, but the expression on his face told Arthur that he didn’t agree with Jon’s assessment. ”But doing so would be like writing treason on my forehead. And I doubt my father’s wish for a grandson with Valyrian’s look is enough to forget his grudge against Lord Tywin.”

“What about the Tully girls ?” Arthur suggested and placed his empty cup on the table.

“The older one is already betrothed to the Stark heir and the younger one is below our Prince.”

Arthur sighed deeply. Nobody was ever good enough for Jon. His obsession for the Prince was far too obvious for him.

“What about the Stark girl?” Arthur offered instead.” I heard she is quite pretty, still young but she does have a lot of wolf’s blood according to rumours.”

“Youth doesn’t matter…only if she is healthy enough to bear sons. But a savage from the North will not be a good idea.” Jon countered.” Besides, I heard of an impending betrothal to Robert Baratheon, though that shouldn’t matter. I doubt Rickard Stark would refuse a match with the Crown Prince.”

“He would refuse,” countered Arthur. “If the betrothed is official. He wouldn’t get back on his word. The Stark’s honour is not just a legend, Lord Conningtonn.” 

“I heard you.” Rhaegar replied and his gaze flickered to the painted window. Three dragons curled their heads around each other and threw yellow spiralling flames into the air. ” And I will look out for these girls at the tourney, we will speak about that later, but I cannot do anything without my Lord Father’s approval. And you are right, about the Stark’s honour, Ser Arthur.”

“Speaking about your Lord Father, the King,” Arthur added and pulled out the letter he was meant to deliver.” He calls you to King’s Landing.”

Rhaegar frowned and picked the letter from his hand, opening the seal. Quietly, he read, and Arthur braced himself for the Prince’s reaction. Here it comes.

“Damn him!” Rhaegar snapped angrily and slammed the letter on the table. ” Curse Varys! How did he find out about our ploy?”

Jon gave Rhaegar a concerned look. “My Prince …?”

Rhaegar huffed and brushed his hands over his pale face. He remained like this for a brief moment, before he lifted his head and gave both Jon and Arthur a weary smile.

“The King intends to attend the tourney.”

…

Rhaegar

“Took you long enough !” he heard the grumbling voice of the Mad King. That thing was his father .” Were you trying to hide away on Dragonstone, son?”

Rhaegar balled his fists and brushed away the feelings of anger stirring in his gut. There was no word to describe the hatred his father’s presence woke inside him.

He didn’t even look human anymore. His body was thin like a skeleton, his hair a tangle of white framing his gaunt face. His fingernails were sharp like the fangs of a dragon and his silken robes were tattered as if someone cut them apart with a sharp blade.

The smell was even worse. There was always a hint of smoke lingering around him.

“My bannermen kept me occupied, father.” He replied and feigned politeness. He kept his gaze intentionally low, though he instinctively searched for his Lady Mother, standing in the shadows of the Iron Throne.

She appeared impassive as ever. Her fragile body was covered in a dress of flowing velvet and a pale pink shawl was wound around her slender throat. Yet even these garments were unable to hide the bruises spiralling around her neck and arms.

“Lies !” his father sneered angrily.” I know that you are planning something, boy. The only reason you are alive is Viserys’s youth.”

Rhaegar swallowed hard.

“I would never dare,” he replied and averted his gaze. “You have my full loyalty, your Grace.”

“Another lie !” his father snapped and bared his yellow teeth. ”But I intend to be merciful, because you are still of use to me. I am giving you one last chance to prove yourself worthy. Thank your mother for that.”

Rhaegar trembled and lifted his head.

His mother looked at him, her purple eyes wide in fear. He balled his fists again and brushed away a wave of rage threatening to overwhelm him. ” I thank you, dear mother. How can I prove myself worthy, Lord Father?”

“By producing an heir.” his Lord father explained. 

“I have an heir father. Your grandson Prince Aegon.”

“Enough, I’m the King, son. The Dornish whore’s brat is not a dragon. He will never sit the throne. Choose any bride you like…as long as it isn’t Tywin’s whelp or maybe take her and destroy her… I am sick and tired of these failures.”

Rhaegar lowered his head in acceptance. But his rage was at its highest.

“I will do my best, father.” I will do my best to get rid of you. I swear this on Fire and Blood. He made this vow to himself; he would save his family and House Targaryen at any cost even if he had to become a kinslayer... 

“You should Rhaegar! “ The skeletics hands of the King were white from gripping the Throne until he hurt himself on the melted swords. As if someone will take and flee with his Iron Throne. “For once in your life make your King and father proud of you and be worthy of our blood !” 

“I should, Your grace.” Rhaegar lowered his head to his father in acceptance again. “I will make up for my past mistakes, I swear.” 

The King grunt in acceptance. “I have some duty to attend, son. You will attend the small council in my stead.” He rode from the throne with difficulty and started to leave the room. Before leaving the Throne’s room, he turned around, searching for something, something only his madness let him see. Rhaegar was close enough to see the madness and his fire eyes, she was burning, destroying everything of the great man he was in his youth, making the King see things, hearing things in the shadow, feeding his paranoiac mind and developing his fascination for the fire and the burning of people. “The alchemists have brought me some works it seems…. Burn them all…Burn them all!” His statement crashed against the walls of the Red Keep without any response, but all the servants, Kingsgards and the two other members of the Royal Family understood very well what the King meant. The King will enjoy himself and people will burn today. 

Rhaegar remembered his youth when his heroes were The Conqueror or The Conciliator and all of the greats Targaryen who made their House, the greatest of all. Among all these great people, for the young child he was, his father was among them. Twenty years ago, he was a great man, destined to greatness, a King who could be as great or even more great than King Jaehaerys the First of His name. At the beginning, Aerys appeared to be generous, ambitious, and wise. The beginning of his reign was peaceful and prosperous. Aerys was loved and respected by both lords and commoners.Nowadays, he was anything but a man whose legacy could rival that of Jaehaerys, but rather that of Aegon the Second and the Fourth. 

He loved to watch people burn, the way their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones was the only thing who could move his black and disgusting heart. He wanted to burn Lords he didn't like, to burn anyone who disobeyed him or was against him. Before long, half the country was against him. The King saw traitors everywhere, and yet did not see that his Seven Kingdoms were torn apart under his reign. Letting his son and heir, the hard task to not let them fall in a war who would destroy House Targaryen. The three headed red dragon’s flag will never be seen again on the Red Keep if the Last Dragon fails. That truth was slowly breaking him down.

It is often said that when a Targaryen is born the Gods flip a coin and the whole Realm holds its breath to see how it will land, on madness, or greatness? The coin of the Mad King no doubt, it was madness although at the start greatness was seen in him and that was the greatest fear of Rhaegar, a bone-chilling fear, a fear that woke him up at night, sweating and panting leaving him alone in the darkness of his room with his demons as his only companions. Will he fall in this deep madness like his father before him or will he be spared but his children no…

This fear, the weight of his responsibilities, his duty, the wellbeing of his family and the Targaryen’s legacy was slowly swallowing the Prince. The Last Dragon was not called for nothing, every thought he had, every action he made, every dream he had, everything in him, every part in his body, his heart, his whole soul and the fire burning in him, they were only directed in one goal:  Restored the greatness of the almighty House of the Dragon, and saved the Seven Kingdoms. He was the Prince That Was Promised, born in the ashes of Summerhall and as his ancestor Aegon the Conqueror dreamed for their future with the Song of Ice and Fire . He will make this dream true in Fire and Blood as the Dragon he is. A Targaryen King must sit the Iron Throne but not any Targaryen, a true Dragon. The Dragons may be long extinct but the blood of the Dragon runs to his veins and Dragons were always meant to fly upon any other beast, whatever these beasts are lions, wolves, kraken, or stags.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2:  That’s my father’s man

Lyanna

The sun made the God’s Eye glitter like a mirror of silver. Lyanna always thought that the North was the most beautiful place in the world, but there was something breath-taking about Harrenhal. The sheer amount of people attending this tourney fascinated her even more. From an elevated spot on a hill, she was able to watch the great wave of people heading through the blackened gates. She saw ladies garbed in the finest of silks, great knights mounted on marvellous steed and young squires carrying the colourful banners of their houses.

Even the air smelled different. There was the smell of horse mixing with the flowery smell of perfume but mostly you could smell the excitation of the people. 

“Can you see the mist?” Benjen asked her and pointed in the distance. There was an island shrouded in thick mist. ”That is the Island of Faces. I heard they have weirwood trees there.”

“Really ?” she asked, full of wonderment. She always thought that Winterfell and the North were the only place with real weirwood trees.

“Really,” her brother replied proudly. He was two years younger, but already half a head taller than her. Garbed in a black silken cloak he looked every bit like a young lord ought to be.

It made her wonder what Brandon and Ned will look like. She hadn’t seen them in nearly a year.

“Father ! Lya ! Ned and Bran are coming our way !” Benjen’s shrill voice snapped her out of her reverie. He pulled on her arm and pointed at the broad dusty road sloping below the hill, where she spotted a column of riders.

High above the mounted men fluttered the banners of House Stark and Baratheon.

Father would be pleased, she thought and felt a hint of resentment washing over her. Nothing was official yet, but she knew the only reason she had been allowed to come here was to see her future betrothed, Robert Baratheon, again. She had met him before, during a visit to Riverrun with Brandon, but that now felt like a lifetime ago. A wave of disgust washed over her as she recalled those past events.

"You are to wed Robert Baratheon,” her Lord Father had informed her in the very evening upon their departure from Harenhall. “You shall be Lady of Storm’s End.”

She had been so shell-shocked and heart-broken that she had left her Lord Father and brother standing there and had fled to the godswood.

Ever since, she had remained here, seeking refuge among the old gods. She hadn’t wept. Tears were for babies like Benjen, but she wished that she had taken one of Ser Roderik’s practice blades with her to ease her burning anger at a nearby tree.

She had always known that she would be wed, but Robert Baratheon was the last person that came to her mind. Since she met she had been more than confused by her brother’s admiration for the Lord of the Stormlands.

Robert Baratheon had little in common with Ned. He was brash, foolish, and too convinced about his own self-importance. The way he had ogled her breasts whenever she lowered her head had reminded her of her brother Brandon, who was known to chase every skirt that came his way. Barbrey Ryswell had been his first and Lyanna was sure that many more would follow into her footsteps. She truly pitied his bride, Lady Catelyn Tully.

And while she was sure that Robert Baratheon must have some good qualities that Ned admired him so much, it was a completely different matter to spend the rest of her life with him in the far away Stormlands. That Robert Baratheon, not unlike her brother Brandon, had a reputation to fuck every kitchen maid or his bannerets’s daughters that came his way only helped to increase her fears.

Lyanna knew that he had fathered a bastard girl in the Vale and a boy in the Stormlands and while she held no dislike for the babes, it only increased her greatest fear. To be just another forgotten noble girl, like so many in Westeros…

I must make the best of it, she told herself and threw her silken shawl over her shoulder. She preferred her riding garb, but she promised her Lord Father to make the best impression on her future betrothed. Thus, she chose a fine white silk dress and a pale blue shawl. Even her usually wild curls were delicately braided and arranged on top of her head. Her handmaid Jorelle advised her to choose a fine hairnet of pearls, but Lyanna picked the blue winter roses her late mother favoured.

“Lya !” Benjen shrieked again and waved his hand before her eyes.”Lya !”

She grabbed his hand and pulled hard.

“Stop your stupid waving ! ” she snapped and grinned. “ I heard you, Ben. Bran and Ned are coming our way…”

He frowned and freed his hand, before hopping to his feet. Lya feared he might burst from the excitement as he ran down the hill, towards the approaching riders.

“Ben !” she heard Bran’s bark of a laugh, echoing over the crowd of people. By the time Lyanna had reached them Benjen found himself in Bran’s arms, his feet no longer touching the ground. Her brother Brandon or Bran was a mighty man and it seemed he had grown even more over the last year.

“Put me down, Bran !” Ben complained and Brandon nearly dropped their brother as his grey eyes darted to her.

Ned was also there, a soft smile playing on his lips. Lyanna returned it but wondered where he left Robert Baratheon. Those two usually stuck together like a newlywed pair.

“Ned,” she greeted him and threw her arms around his shoulders.” Oh, how I have missed you !”

“And I you !” Ned assured her and kissed her brow. Then he turned to Bran, who was still annoying their brother Benjen.

“Don’t you want to greet our sister?”

Brandon frowned at her and started to stroke his beard.

“Are you sure she is our sister?” he asked and grinned.” This one looks almost like a girl…”

Lyanna didn’t hesitate and kicked his shin.

“And you look almost like a fool !” she snapped back, before hopping into his arms. He twirled her around and made her giggle like a little girl.

“I apologise, but I couldn’t help it,” he added gently and placed a  kiss on her cheek.” But it is hard to believe that you are all grown-up, sweet sister.”

“Says the least grown-up person among us,” Ned remarked calmly, earning himself a pat on the shoulder from their brother.

Benjen chuckled and started to pull on Ned’s arm.

“Was that a joke? I can scarcely believe it.”

“The Eyrie changed you.” Lyanna remarked with a smile 

“Benjen. Lyanna,” their father’s voice cut through the laughter—not harsh, but unmistakably commanding, like a gust of cold wind threading through summer air. “Mind yourselves. This isn’t Winterfell.” he said, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth softened the words.

Lord Rickard Stark stood a few paces behind them, tall and composed, hands clasped behind his back. His grey eyes swept over his children with quiet gravity, but there was no mistaking the flicker of pride beneath the stillness.

Lyanna had assumed he’d stayed at the top of the slope with the horses, but clearly, he’d followed in silence, choosing to let them reunite before stepping in. Typical of him. Always watching, always waiting for the right moment to speak.

His gaze landed briefly on her, and something unreadable passed through his eyes. Not disapproval. Not coldness. Just... calculation. As if measuring what had changed in her since their last conversation. Perhaps she looked too Northern for the South.

“Brandon. Ned,” he added, giving each of his older sons a brief greeting . “It’s good to see you both again.”

Brandon grinned. “And you, Father. You look well, though no doubt bored already. We know how much you love a tourney. ”

That earned the faintest lift of Rickard’s brow, which from him was practically a smirk.

Ned offered a quiet, “We’ve missed you, Father.”

Rickard inclined his head once. “There’ll be time to speak later, son. For now, stay together, and stay sharp. This is not Winterfell.”

His voice dropped slightly on the last words, and Lyanna saw Ned straighten his back, ever the dutiful son, this one.

Then, her father’s gaze drifted toward the commotion at the far end of the yard, and so did hers. A familiar banner came into view, black and gold flapping above the crowd. She noticed the approaching banner of House Baratheon. It fluttered above the head of a massive man, garbed in polished armour and a horned helmet.

His barking laughter made her ears bleed, but his presence brought a smile to Ned’s lips.

A moment later, the man slung his massive arm around Ned’s shoulders, a bright grin spreading over his bearded face.

“Lord Stark, a pleasure as always,” he said, extending his hand to her father. Rickard met it firmly, inclining his head as he returned the greeting. “Lord Baratheon.”

Robert Baratheon was a good-looking man. Nobody could deny that. His muscular body was every maiden’s dream, and his blue eyes were reminiscent of summer sky.

It wasn’t hard to understand why Ned liked him so much. He was the kind of man who enjoyed his life to the fullest and smiled easily. He was everything Ned wanted to be, though her quiet brother would have never admitted it openly.

Robert Baratheon’s smile only intensified when he found her standing there next to Bran.

“My Lady Lyanna,” he greeted and dropped his head, his blue eyes taking an almost dreamy expression. ” It is a pleasure to see you again.”

She forced a polite smile over her lips and dropped a curtsy.

“The pleasure is mine,” she said, receiving a kiss on the hand. He loomed over her like a giant, his clear blue eyes studying her. “Was your journey pleasant ?”

He grinned and squeezed her hand.

“Your brother got horrible drunk and thus our departure was delayed for a day.”

“You mean both of you got horrible drunk !” Ned added and crossed his arms. He sounded like a mother then, but his chiding words only earned him another round of laughter from Brandon and Robert Baratheon.

Lyanna made use of that moment and freed her hand from his tight grip.

Yet the Lord of the Stormlands proved much quicker and pulled her backwards. She nearly stumbled and her shawl slipped from her shoulders.

“We’ve barely spoken, and you’re already trying to slip away, my Lady.” he jested, finally releasing her hand.

Lyanna ignored him and picked up the shawl. Then she quickly pulled the garment around her shoulders to hide her cleavage. She has yet to get comfortable with these low-cut dresses so common in the south.

“I apologise for my clumsiness.” she replied and tried to overplay her discomfort.

“No apology needed,” Robert remarked and graced her with another disarming smile. ” But there is something I wanted to ask.”

He sounded even a little flustered.

“Then ask, my Lord.” she prodded and met his gaze.

“I intend to partake in the melee,” he declared proudly.” And I would be honoured to receive your favour.”

Any normal maid would have faint or felt a swarm of butterflies fluttering through her stomach. Yet Lyanna felt nothing.

She didn’t even dislike Ned’s friend, but there was something about his personality that kept such at bay.

“I fear I cannot,” she explained calmly and met Ned’s gaze.” Brandon has my favour. I hope you understand, my Lord.”

She expected disappointment, but the Lord of the Stormlands howled with laughter.

“I see,” he added once he had regained his composure and padded Brandon’s shoulder.  ”And I agree with you, my Lady. Brandon is in dire need of such a lucky charm.”

“And you call yourself my friend.” Bran remarked in good humour.

Robert Baratheon only laughed.

It was then that Lyanna realised why she didn’t sigh when Lord Baratheon flashed her one of his brilliant smiles or why she wasn’t pleased by his act. Robert Baratheon was a drunkard cunt, who only saw her for her looks and her womb. She changed her mind quickly. At first, she thought it was only their upcoming betrothal she despised  but no, it was him too, the cunt.

Rhaegar

Once he had readied his saddle, Rhaegar pulled his cloak over his braided hair and led his horse out of the stables.

It was a beautiful day. The treetops gleamed a brilliant green, and the sun was warm against his skin. The ruins of Harrenhall were massive, much bigger than Summerhall had ever been, but Rhaegar felt not the same melancholy he felt whenever he was visiting his birthplace, Summerhall.

Harrenhall was different. It was a place that showed the power of House Targaryen. Fire and Blood, as the saying went, though there was little left of House Targaryen’s past might. Rhaegar had realised this the first time he had laid eyes on the ruins of the Dragonpit. Once the Dragonpit had been filled with countless dragons, but all of this had been destroyed through the Dance of Dragons. It was a pity and never failed to fill his heart with sadness to think of the fate of the dragons.

Mayhaps house Targaryen will soon find the same fate, he thought as he led his horse along the colourful barracks and tents that lined the inner courtyards of Harrenhal. Lords and Ladies from all over Westeros had travelled here to partake in the tourney. Even his father had suddenly decided to leave the Red Keep and had destroyed his plans.

He was convinced it was the Spider’s work, but he could voice such thoughts only in the company of his friends. Just thinking about it filled him with anger, but there was nothing he could do. This battle was lost, but many more awaited him in the future.

The rumour that Rickard Stark intended to betroth his only daughter to his cousin Robert the “whoremonger” Baratheon like he loved to call him had only helped to increase his worries. The first match between his oldest son Brandon Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully could have been called a mere coincidence, but not the match between Robert Baratheon and Lyanna Stark. This was the forming of an alliance that would bind the North, the Stormlands and the Riverlands by blood. And if that were not enough, Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale, was known to harbor almost fatherly affection for Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, which only deepened his concerns.

Sadly, his Lord Father seemed completely unaware of these brewing plots, another courtesy by the bloody Spider.

“May I ask where we are riding, your Grace ?” Arthur’s worried voice filled his ears. He didn’t like that Rhaegar had asked him to remove his white cloak and that they were riding around without guards, but Rhaegar needed time to breathe and to think. He had a new bride to choose. Truly, marrying and bedding Elia had been easy. She was kind and beautiful, a gentle soul,  but he had never loved the Princess of Dorne. She was a dear friend, yes, but not a lover. Still, the realm needed an heir. If Rhaegar were to fall in battle or from sickness, he had to leave the Seven Kingdoms to someone worthy. His father was mad, Viserys was slowly becoming his father's creature, and his own son, Aegon for now, was still a weak and fragile boy…

As they passed another tent, sudden shouting caught their attention.

“Did you hear that?” Rhaegar asked his friend, turning his head toward the sound.

He halted abruptly, angling his head to better catch the voices. It didn’t take long to locate the source.

He counted six figures, but it was difficult to tell what had happened between them. One boy was cowering on the ground, while two others were running to help, desperately trying to fend off three larger boys wielding wooden practice swords. Even from a distance, Rhaegar could hear the boy's cries and whimpers.

“What’s going on there?” Arthur asked.

“A fight,” Rhaegar replied, an amused smile playing on his lips. “We should ask if they need help.”

“Do you think that’s wise, Your Grace?”

“No,” Rhaegar admitted, “but one of them seems hurt.”

Without waiting for further argument, he nudged his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode toward the commotion.

Behind him, he could hear Arthur’s half-hearted protests, but Rhaegar’s focus had already shifted, not to the fight, but to the girl among them.

At first, he had assumed she was just another squire. But then he noticed the dress: fine white silk, flowing and delicate. Her dark brown curls were carefully braided in the northern style, and her presence stood out like starlight among the dirt and sweat of the squabble.

A beauty, he caught himself thinking. A true northern beauty had captured the attention of the Last Dragon.

Then she spoke, her voice was laced with ice-cold fury.

“Let go of him!” she shouted, snatching one of the practice blades stuck in the ground. It felt almost as if fate had placed it there for her. She raised the blade in a threatening gesture and advanced calmly, unwavering.

Rhaegar took a moment to look at the wounded man sprawled on the ground. He was rather small, his clean-shaven face mottled with deep blue bruises. His lips were cracked, and blood trickled from his mouth and nose in a thin stream of crimson. But it was the green lizard embroidered on his jerkin that marked him unmistakably as one of the crannogmen.

“A lord of the North. House Reed, it seems,” Rhaegar murmured.

“Yes, and I think that one,” Arthur answered, nodding toward a dark-haired boy with a long face and grey eyes, “is one of the Stark sons. The youngest, I believe.”

Rhaegar gave a brief nod of acknowledgment.

The northern girl must have come to the same conclusion about the wounded man, for she seemed to abandon all restraint and charged the boys in a sudden burst of fury.

“That’s my father’s man you’re kicking !” she howled, striking the first boy on the nose. The portly boy let out a high-pitched yelp, hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

The second boy, thin as a spindle, received a sharp blow to the head. But it was the third, a broad and burly lad, who proved the most dangerous. He seized her arm and twisted it, trying to wrest the blade from her grip.

She wasn’t about to give in. With a swift kick to his shin, she grabbed his arm and sank her teeth into his pale flesh.

He screamed in pain and shoved her backward.

The Lady gasped in pain when she hit the ground but ignored it and quickly pushed herself back to her feet. The big boy tried to get to her, but she quickly rolled to the side and grabbed a fistful of dirt.

He saw her hurling the dirt in the huge boy’s face.

He huffed and puffed, but his assailant showed him no mercy. She brought up her knee and kicked him right between the legs. Rhaeger could swear he heard something broke.. 

“That one must have hurt…” he heard Arthur say, trying not to laugh.

The mighty boy cried out in pain and fell to the ground, face forward. The Northern Lady made use of the moment and grabbed her blade, hitting him right on the back, over and over again.

“Apologisev!” he heard her demand angrily and made him whimper.” Apologise at once !”

“I will not, little runt ”, the boy growled and grabbed her by the ankles, throwing her to the ground. Then he raised his fist, ready to strike.

Seeing this, Rhaegar lost all sense of caution. He moved with a speed that surprised even himself and Arthur, and kicked the little shit square in the face, knocking him over. Startled by his own reaction, the Prince of Dragonstone stood frozen.

“Touch me again, and Lord Tully will have your head ! My brother Brandon is betrothed to his daughter. ” she shouted from the ground, her voice sharp with fury.

One of the boys stared at her with wide eyes, his face pale as fresh snow.

“Are you… are you… Gods be good.” he muttered, eyes bulging.

He scrambled to his feet, kicked the portly boy beside him for hesitating, and yanked the other by the arm. “We need to go. Now.”

Rhaegar, regaining control of himself, turned toward the three Northerners to offer his help. But the girl spoke first.

“Beware, strangers. This man is under my father’s protection, Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, and Warden of the North.” she declared as she raised her practice blade with all the solemnity a seasoned knight could have.

She couldn’t have been older than six-or seven-and-ten, but the gravity in her expression made her look beyond her years. Her beauty, however, remained undimmed.

"It was a strange kind of beauty, cold and wild. Her features were sharp and unyielding, much like the glowering look she was giving him.

And yet he couldn’t help but to be amused by the girl’s bravery. It took a lot of guts to threaten a stranger and it took even more guts to threaten a Prince, though she didn’t know that.

The fact that she was his cousin’s future betrothed only deepened his interest.

“Have no fear, Lady Lyanna,” he assured her and raised his hand in a sign of peace. “We saw your peril and merely wanted to inquire whether you or your friends were in need of help.”

The mention of her name only deepened her frown.

“How do you know my name?” she asked mistrustfully.

Rhaegar couldn’t help but to smile.

“You mentioned that Lord Rickard Stark is your father. Even in the South we know the name of Lord Rickard Stark’s only daughter.”

“It seems you are famous, sister ! ” one of Lady Lyanna’s companions added. It was the boy, who shared her grey eyes and her brown hair. The youngest, Benjen Stark like Arthur said early though Rhaegar.

“Oh, shut your bloody mouth, Benjen !” she snapped angrily and stepped closer, her wolf eyes eying him from head to toe.

“Who are you?” she asked, trying to glimpse under the hood of his cloak.

“Ser Duncan ,” Rhaegar lied and pointed at Arthur. “And this is Ser Dan. We serve the Prince of Dragonstone.”

Then he shifted his attention to the young man, garbed all in green. Blood was dripping from his mouth and his face was littered with bruises.

“I already know that you are Lord Benjen Stark and Lady Lyanna Stark, but your friend has yet to introduce himself. He also looks in dire need of a Maester if I may say so.”

Yet Lady Lyanna remained mistrustful as ever.

“Why should I trust you, Ser?”

“Why not?”

“Because you are a bloody stranger.”

“Bloody here and bloody there,” Rhaegar teased her. The scowl cast on her face only helped to enhance the girl’s wild beauty. “You really have a sharp tongue for a Lady.”

“Do not call me A Lady !” she snapped, but her brother pulled on her arm and silenced her.

“Please forgive her, Ser,” Benjen apologised and helped the wounded man to his feet. “We brought no Maester with us, but as you can see our friend, Lord Howland Reed, is in dire need of help.”

Rhaegar dipped his head in understanding.

“The Prince of Dragonstone has a Maester in his employ,” Rhaegar explained. “I am sure he has a moment to spare for Lord Reed.”

“Why would the Prince of Dragonstone care about us ?”

Rhaegar smiled.

“The Prince of Dragonstone won’t mind. This I can promise you, my Lady,” he assured her and waved his hand at Ser Arthur. “Ser Dan will lead you to Maester Gaerion.”

The man gave Benjen a wavering smile and wiped the blood from his mouth. He was indeed small, just as the rumors about his kin said, but there was something truly mysterious about him, something Rhaegar couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Arthur gave him a stunned look.

“Is that so?”

“That is so, Ser Dan. We shall also need your horse. A wounded man shouldn’t be forced to walk.”

“I understand,” Arthur replied and soon they were helping Lord Reed on Ser Arthur’s horse.

“I thank you, my friends,” the man thanked them once he was seated in the saddle. “I shall not forget your kindness, And I owe you two a great debt.”

“No need, Lord Reed,” Lyanna Stark assured him and walked next to the horse led by Arthur. Rhaegar had long climbed back into his saddle but was leading his horse at a slow pace. “These squires got what they deserved. Next time I will drag them before my father and brother to face justice. You must tell us if they try harming you again, my Lord.”

“I shall,” Lord Reed confirmed, but seemed hesitant. He swayed in his saddle but smiled at Rhaegar and Ser Arthur.

“I have to thank you as well, good Ser,” Lord Reed replied kindly and dipped his head. “Your kindness shall not be forgotten. I owe you two a great debt as well.”

Rhaegar nodded his head “It’s alright, my Lord do not worry. Just follow us to the Maester.”, and soon they were making their way to his household camp.

Rhaegar kept his head lowered, lest someone recognized him, but his worries were unfounded. They were able to enter the camp without problems.

Not long after, Rhaegar excused himself and pretended that he had to take care of the horses while Arthur led the Starks and Lord Reed to Maester Gaerion.

Thus, the Prince of Dragonstone spent the evening in company of stable boys and squires alike. At first, they were confused by his presence, but soon they readily helped him take care of the horses. Once they were finished, they sat down and offered him a cup of wine, telling him japes and tales they had heard about the Lords and Ladies attending the tourney. But all day his head was full of thoughts about a certain daughter of Lord Paramount.

Arthur returned hours later, his face weary from the long day.

“It seems you enjoyed yourself, Your Grace,” he remarked as they left the stables behind. The fresh air was welcome, but his mood darkened at the thought of the coming feast. He would have to face his father, a man he had been trying to avoid for the past year.

“Did Maester Gaerion attend to Lord Reed ?” Rhaegar asked, as they made their way through the crowd of people. “Did he sell me out ?”

“No,” Arthur assured him, “He was quite surprised but said nothing, my Prince.” 

“Good.” 

“It’s time for the feast now.” but Rhaegar had barely heard him. His mind was darting back to the Stark girl and her cute angry face, again…

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 : A feast, a song, an announcement

Lyanna

The long hall with the hundred hearths was filled to the brim. Bright chandeliers stood on every table and gave the long hall an odd glimmer.

The Stark table was not far from the dancefloor, where several minstrels played their lively songs. Nobles both young and old danced and soon, much to her displeasure, so did Lyanna.

Lyanna never showed a liking for dancing thus she only shared a brief dance with each of her brothers and at last with Robert Baratheon. It turned out that he was an even worse dancer than her and ended in a tirade of grumbling and barking laughter.

Lyanna felt no enjoyment. She only felt misery, garbed as she was in this tight dress made of Myrish silk. It was a very beautiful dress her father had commissioned for her to impress Robert, but he had hardly taken notice of it, he was too occupied to get drunk and Lyanna was very thankful to the Old Gods, for granting her a night without him and his blabbering about or Stormends will suited her or what strong warrior their futures boys will be. 

Lyanna soon returned to her seat next to Benjen. As expected, he was conversing with their guest of honour: Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watch.

Benjen had yet to stop bombarding him with questions about his home. Lyanna was also curious, but she at least allowed Lord Reed to take a breath. He was hurt after all badly, though he smiled happily when he made the acquaintance of her brothers.

They all welcomed him with great enthusiasm and soon he was dragged into their silly drinking games. Well, Brandon’s and Robert Baratheon’s silly drinking games. Benjen and Lyanna were not allowed to participate, and Ned watched them like a hawk.

Ned can be worse than father , she thought and listened to Brandon’s tales of Riverrun.

As usual his story was delivered in the most dramatic manner possible.

“And then this little shit asks me to fight for Cat’s hand,” he recounted and held his hand below his shoulders to indicate the size of this “little shit”. Lyanna had listened only half-heartedly, but she already heard the story from Ben, who had been keeping constant correspondence with Brandon throughout the year.

Ben shared Brandon's amusement, but Lyanna didn't. The said “little shit” was named Petyr Baelish and Lord Hoster Tully’s ward. He was supposedly in love with her future good-sister and wanted to prevent the marriage between Catelyn and Brandon.

Small and weak as he was, he stood no chance against her older brother. All he received in return was a beating. And he only survived because Lady Catelyn pleaded for his life.

Brandon was very proud of himself, but Lyanna couldn't help but to roll her eyes.

What was there to be proud about ? The “little shit” might have been a fool to challenge her brother, but one should respect him for simply daring to fight against a stronger enemy.

Ned seemed to share her thoughts because he remained silent like her.

“And how did it end ?” Robert asked in an amused voice. “Did you kill him ?”

Brandon laughed.

“No… couldn’t bring myself to do it in front of those weeping ladies. Cat would’ve never forgiven me. Well, the little shit will have a hard time walking now.”

That made Robert burst into laughter, soon joined by Brandon.

Drunk as he was, the Storm Lord couldn’t help but call for a toast to Petyr Baelish.

“A drink for the limping one, Ned, Brandon !”

“I think you two should lower our voices…” Ned said and jerked his head towards the large table elevated above the other tables. It was the King’s table, but they have yet to see him in person.

Lyanna could scarcely believe it when word first reached her that the King himself would be attending.No one has seen the Mad King in years Brandon had told her earlier. He is too afraid to get out of his Red Keep.

As of now, the King’s table was still empty, but she noticed that Ned was staring at the table every few minutes as if he expected the King to appear any moment.

“I doubt he is coming,” Brandon stated and returned to his seat. Then he grabbed the flagon of wine and re-filled his cup. ”I haven’t even seen a glimpse of the Prince.”

“I heard there is bad blood between Prince Rhaegar and the King.” Benjen added in a whispering voice and earned himself a sharp look from Ned and her Father. 

“Not here !” Ned muttered.”The King could take your head for such words. I have never met him, but I heard nasty things about him.”

“Oh...I,” Ben stuttered fearfully and covered his mouth. ”I didn’t mean…,” he continued, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of a trumpet.

The sound of the instrument worked like a spell, silence fell in the hall. Again, the trumpet sounded and a herald appeared at the table to announce the King’s arrival.

The word stood still. The minstrels stopped their play. The Lords and Ladies returned to their seats and the page boys stopped in their tracks.

Lyanna tightened her hands around the tablecloth in anticipation, but the King proved to be a sore disappointment.

She had always imagined him as some sort of half-human creature, with scales and black wings. Yet this supposed Mad King was nothing more than an ugly man with tattered clothes and untidy hair. She couldn’t deny that there was something mad in the way he eyed the people around him, but he didn’t look particularly threatening.

Nobody would be afraid of him if he didn't have the Kingsguard to do his bidding.

Queen Rhaella was far more intriguing than her husband. Her long silver hair and bright violet eyes fascinated Lyanna, though there was something undeniably fragile and sorrowful about her. Just looking at her stirred a strange melancholy in Lyanna’s chest. Despite that, the Queen was beautiful, extremely beautiful.

At last came Prince Rhaegar.

He had little of his father. There was something gallant and graceful about him, though his toned body told her that he knew how to use a blade. Rhaegar was known far and wide for his beauty and even Lyanna had to agree that there was something otherworldly about his silver hair. It looked like a waterfall of moonlight or silver and though she could not make out the details of all his features she was sure that his face was just as pleasant to behold.

The expression on Prince Rhaegar’s face was unreadable, but he sat tense like a bowstring, his dark purple eyes fixed at the other side of the hall. It seemed Ben was right when he said the King and the Prince hold no love for each other.

When the King started to speak, she could understand why.

“It pleases me to be here,” he declared in a cracking voice. ”Lord Whent chose a fitting place to stage this tourney. It was here that Aegon the Conqueror won a great victory. It was here that his enemies beheld the might of House Targaryen…” he continued to mumble and stopped abruptly.

Deadly silence reigned for a moment as the King looked left and right as if he expected some sort of reaction. To Lyanna he looked like a mummer who forgot his lines.

Prince Rhaegar grimaced and leaned closer to whisper in his father's ear. Lyanna couldn’t help but notice the way the Prince wrinkled his nose, as if his father's very presence made him uneasy.

“Ah, I forgot,” the King grumbled and lifted his head. He did this in such a sudden manner that his crown nearly dropped from his head. ”My son Prince Rhaegar will open the first night of the tourney with a song. You may feel honoured.”

Lyanna didn’t believe her ears when the guests started to clap enthusiastically.

Their King was a madman, but they were honouring as if he was King Jaehaerys the First. The guests continued to clap until Prince Rhaegar took his seat in the middle of the room. A moment later a young boy appeared and handed him a beautiful harp made of darkwood and silver strings.

The Prince’s talent with the harp was known far and wide, but she remained sceptical. Lyanna had heard many minstrels, but none could ever compare to her late mother, Lady Lyarra. She still remembered how, as a child, she would crawl under the furs in the nursery and listen to her mother’s soft voice humming an old Northern lullaby, one about snow, the stars, and a lone she-wolf guarding her pups.

“Sleep now, my little one, the wind won’t bite,

The white wolf watches through the night.

Stars above and frost below,

Dream where only the brave may go.

The woods are deep, the moon rides high,

But hush, don’t fear the silent sky.

Your breath is warm, your heart is strong,

The night is short, though dreams are long.

Snow may fall and shadows creep,

But I shall guard you while you sleep.

So close your eyes, don’t make a sound

No harm shall come while I’m around.”

No harp, no matter how finely played, could ever replace that comfort.

By the time Prince Rhaegar had taken his seat, the hall was eerily silent. Safe for Brandon and Robert of course, who promptly opened their bloody mouths.

“There you have the might of House Targaryen,” Robert snickered. “A minstrel.”

“He looks prettier than most wenches I have bedded.” Brandon agreed and laughed.

“Lower your voices. This is a feast, not a tavern.” Rickard chided them, but Robert and Brandon continued their exchange by whispering into each other’s ears.

Lyanna ignored them and continued to watch Prince Rhaegar, who started to speak, his voice a low and strangely familiar.

“This song is dedicated to Lord Whent, the host of this grand event.”

Then he started to play, his hands washing over the harp in quick and practised strokes. His voice changed to a softer tune as the words left his mouth. Jenny of Oldstones was a melancholic song, but it suited the Prince’s voice perfectly.

“High in the halls of the kings who are gone

Jenny would dance with her ghosts

The ones she had lost

and the ones she had found

and the ones who had loved her the most

The ones who'd been gone

For so very long

she couldn't remember their names

They spun her around on the damp old stones

Spun away all her sorrow and pain

and she never wanted to leave”

She didn’t know why, but the song stirred something deep within her, something long buried. It reminded her of the lullabies her mother used to sing to her and Benjen when they were small. It brought back echoes of Old Nan’s saddest tales, of doomed lovers and distant longing. It reminded her of the dreams she used to have of freedom, of adventure, and maybe of love.

Her Lady Mother perished when she was seven. She often had to stay in bed, but she never failed to take care of Lyanna. Often when her coughing got particularly bad, she would ask Lyanna to bring her high harp and then she would play for Lyanna and her siblings. In her last year she even tried to teach Lyanna, but she sadly didn't show much talent with the harp.

I was always too clumsy , she thought and brushed a tear away.

Yet it was already too late.

Ben saw all this and burst out laughing.

“I never knew you could shed maidenly tears…” he teased.

Lyanna’s sadness was promptly exchanged with another feeling. Embarrassment and anger.

“Shut your bloody mouth !” she hissed at Benjen, but he continued to laugh, holding his stomach.

It was too much.

Lyanna didn’t think much when she grabbed her cup and poured it over Benjen’s head. In the blink of an eye, he was drenched in sweet summer wine.

Yet she had accomplished her goal, at least momentarily.

A heartbeat later, Brandon and  Robert were rolling with laughter. Even the ever-solemn Ned and her father Rickard laughed.

Lyanna smiled as well, basking in her triumph, and enjoying Benjen’s dumb-founded expression.

She only regretted that she hadn’t heard the rest of the Prince’s performance, because he was already gone when she shifted her attention back to the high table.

Robert and Brandon were nearly falling from the table when Lyanna decided she needed fresh air and excused herself.

She breathed deeply as stepped out into the courtyard drenched in moonlight.  A full, heavy moon stood on the star-streaked sky, teasing her, like Benjen had done a minute ago.

Birds took flight as she passed black walls and bent towers. There was an odd beauty to this castle and it made her wonder how it had looked before Aegon the Conqueror had unleashed his dragon upon King Harren’s stronghold.

Walking over a patch of grass, lined with trees she felt the sudden urge to pull off her slippers and to put her toes in the fresh grass.

She watched left and right, to make sure that nobody saw her and then she quickly pulled off her slippers. She sighed at how soft the grass felt and walked to one of the trees. It was a large old tree, but lacked the beauty of a weirwood tree.

Yet the smell of wood and the whispering of the leaves gave her comfort and helped to settle her nerves.

It made her wonder if Storm’s End had a godswood, though she knew what a silly notion that was. No godswood could ever compare to the godswood of Winterfell.

“Have you lost your shoes, my Lady ?” a familiar voice startled her.

Lyanna’s head shot up and she was even more stunned when she found a familiar smile curling on his lips.

Lyanna blinked once, twice and a third time, but it was no mistake. The young man in front of her was unmistakably Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, but his features also resembled a man who had called himself Ser Duncan, a knight in the service of the Prince of Dragonstone.

Now that his silver hair was bare, she realised her folly.

“It is you…” she stuttered helplessly, and backed away, her feet still bare. “You are the Prince. You…you fooled me.”

“So, I did,” he confirmed with a playful tone, “But I had good intentions. My Lord Father would not appreciate it if we spoke to each other. He mistrusts everyone around him.”

Lyanna nodded her head and eyed him more closely. His appearance tonight was a far cry from what he had worn in the evening. He had donned a shining black doublet, silken breeches, and polished boots. Only his cloak was dyed red and held together by a ruby pin.

“Then the King's friends must be few.” she replied for lack of better words. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment when she thought back on how she had addressed him. Gods, he could take my head for this !

Surpassingly, Prince Rhaegar started to laugh. It was a deep and warm laugh, unlike his cold demeanour earlier at the feast.

“Aye, my father’s friends are few indeed,” the Prince remarked in good-humour and offered his arm to her. “We should take a walk, but I would advise you to put on your shoes.”

Lyanna was startled.

“Why ?” she asked mistrustfully.

“To speak about our common friend, Lord Howland Reed,” the Prince explained, a ghost of a smile tugging on his lips. “Why else ?”

“I see,” she replied and took his arm, though still mistrustful of his intentions. “What do you want to know ?”

“Is Lord Reed well ?”

“He is well,” she confirmed. “But he is still deeply ashamed about what happened. I wish there was a way to punish these squires.”

“I am sure you will find a way to help him.” Prince Rhaegar encouraged her gently.

Lyanna didn’t know what to make of his words. Was he serious or trying to tease he ?

And why was her bloody heart beating as if it wanted to run away.

“You hardly know me.”

“True,” Prince Rhaegar confirmed and graced her this time with a full smile. “But you managed to fight off three squires with a practice blade. Not any Ladies in Westeros would be able to do that, and you don’t give the impression of someone who gives up easily.”

“I see, thank you, your Grace.”

“You are pretty tongue tied tonight,” Prince Rhaegar japed and pulled her along, towards a grove. “Earlier, you were cursing me.”

“That was a mistake,” she admitted, trying to suppress the annoyance bubbling inside her. He was teasing her, and she couldn’t speak freely. “Forgive me, your Grace.”

“No need,” Prince Rhaegar told her and chuckled lightly. He had a pretty smile, but there was something sad about it. “I enjoyed being cursed by you, my Lady. Most people at court would never dare to be as blunt as you. It was a change of fresh air, just like when you poured that cup over your brother’s head.”

Lyanna’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, and she freed herself from his loose grip.

“You saw that ?”

“I did,” Prince Rhaegar confirmed and stepped closer, his warm breath brushing her cheek. “I also noticed that you were crying. A wonderful sight indeed.”

“I didn’t cry !” Lyanna lied, but his knowing smile told her that he didn’t believe her. “It must have been an illusion.”

"Yes, an illusion..." Prince Rhaegar said softly, his voice almost playful, as he lifted a hand to brush a loose curl from her face. Lyanna did not understand why she allowed him to do it. "I fear no one can know we spoke, my lady. Especially not my... passionate cousin. It could cause you trouble. He does not care for me much, sadly."

Lyanna nodded.

"We are to be betrothed," she said flatly, the bitterness barely concealed.

"So I have heard," the prince replied. "But you do not seem particularly elated about it. Why else would you be here, and not with him ?"

Lyanna did her best to remain calm. There was something both irritating and utterly perplexing about the entire conversation. She knew she should have disliked him. He was the Mad King’s son. But she did not.

"Lord Robert is enjoying himself with his bannermen and my brothers. He is also awfully drunk, which means I am free to speak with whomever I want, my Prince."

"I see," Rhaegar said. "But you still have not answered my question. Do you like my cousin ? Has he captured your heart ?"

She considered lying, but this was Rhaegar Targaryen, the bloody Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. For once in her life, she allowed herself the freedom to complain.

"Not my heart," Lyanna admitted plainly. "But he has captured my brother’s heart. My father does not care what he is like, as long as he can call the Lord of the Stormlands his son-in-law. It is all about duty and honour."

"Ah, I think I know what you mean, my Lady," the Prince replied with a small nod. "My mother used to give me the same speech."

Lyanna could not help but smile. It felt good to speak openly with someone.

"It is all horseshit if you ask me. This is not about duty and honour. It is about power."

"Yes and no," he answered with a sad smile and a flicker of melancholy in his eyes. "We are nobles. We have to do our duty, for the sake of our people."

"Maybe," she said, her voice growing colder, "but I do not think becoming the lady wife of a whoremongering stag will help the Realm in any way, my prince."

"Yes, I can only agree with you, my Lady," he said with a soft laugh, warm and low, a sound that did not belong to court or duty. Lyanna found herself smiling before she could stop it, surprised by how easily that laugh seemed to melt the edge of her thoughts.

"Can you do something about him ?" she asked, her tone light but laced with something sharper. "Send him to the Wall, perhaps, or better to the Silent Sisters ?"

Rhaegar let out a low laugh, smooth and edged with amusement. "Robert as a Silent Sister ? I fear the Seven themselves would revolt."

He leaned in slightly, just enough to shorten the space between them.

"I fear I hold no such power, my lady," he said, and as he spoke, he reached for her hand. His fingers closed gently around hers, and before she could react, he brought her hand to his lips and placed the lightest of kisses upon it. Barely a whisper of contact, yet it sent a shiver all the way up her spine.

"But I wish I could help," he said, his voice softer now. “To find a way to help you with your misery. There is nothing worse than a loveless marriage. My Lady Mother suffers under it every day.”

He let go of her hand, the warmth of his touch fading as his smile did. The sorrow returned to his face like a tide reclaiming the shore, and suddenly he seemed far older than he was.

"I should leave you now," Rhaegar said quietly, bowing his head with the grace of royalty. "We have been away for too long, and unfortunately, the feast is not yet over. I do hope we meet again, my Lady."

Then he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the trees, his silver hair catching the moonlight for a final moment before vanishing.

Lyanna remained where she stood, her breath shallow, her thoughts tangled, her heart pounding as if it meant to break free of her chest.

What in the bloody hell had just happened ?

As she stepped back into the feast, her thoughts tangled and furious.

That damn silver-haired, dumb, arrogant Crown Prince How dare he show up like that, speak a few charming words, kiss her hand of all things, and then vanish. Mad like his father, no doubt. Who does he think I am ? Some silly maiden to swoon at a few sweet words ?

But even as she seethed, the truth whispered in the back of her mind like an inconvenient wind through the trees. He was nothing like his father. He had been kind and thoughtful.

And that only made her more furious.

Her thoughts were abruptly cut short by the chill in her father’s voice.

"Where have you been, daughter ?"

"A walk, Father. I needed some fresh air," she answered quickly, the lie tumbling from her lips before she could think twice. The guilt settled in her chest like a stone. She shouldn’t have enjoyed that so-called walk.

"Hmph," he grunted, clearly unconvinced. "Sit down now, child. The King has something to say."

Rhaegar

It was at this very moment that his life would change , along with the future of the Realm. His throat was dry, his heart thundered in his chest, and the weight of anxiety pressed heavily upon him. Yet his face remained expressionless, cold as the Wall, as he walked to his father’s side before the assembled Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Then his father began to speak, striving for a tone both dignified and regal, but instead sounding like a paranoid madman.

“My Lords, my Ladies, I have an announcement to make,” capturing the attention of the room on him, with a honeyed voice he continued. “ Look around my dear people, here in this great castle gathered the strong and brave Lords of all Westeros with their promising heirs, without forgetting all of the beautiful and dignified Ladies of the Realm. Look, my Lords, strong is our country. Westeros is as powerful as its nobles.” 

Cheers filled the hall of Harrenhal. A madman, yes but a skilled politician, as he had always been, Rhaegar thought bitterly.

He looked out at the Lords gathered before him. They were eager, leaning forward with anticipation, their minds already racing. He could almost read their thoughts: A seat on the Small Council is about to open... The King intends to arrange a betrothal for Prince Viserys...

There was only one person in attendance who knew, Prince Oberyn, unlike the others, showed no curiosity, only disdain. His eyes were sharp, his jaw tense. He wasn’t eager to hear the announcement. He already knew.

But he was angry.

You’ve insulted and humiliated Dorne with this, Father, Rhaegar thought grimly. And they will never forget it.

“As you know, Prince Rhaegar has a son, now ” he cut the congratulations of the audience with a disdainful movement of the hand. “ There’s no need to congratulate my Lords, this Prince…”

“Aegon, your Grace, your grandchild, my heir.” said Rhaegar with a voice barely hiding his anger and humiliation.

"Yes, yes, if you want, son." Before resuming his announcement, he cast a look of disappointment at Rhaegar.

You force me to fight, father and not by your side , thinks Rhaegar, who loses all hope for his father, once again.

"This Prince Aegon is no dragon. He is Dornish seed, like his sister !" the King screamed in fury , his voice shrill and echoing against the stone walls of Harrenhal.

Rhaegar heard the silence that followed. Heavy and absolute. The entire hall was stunned by the King’s words. Shame welled up in him, bitter and sharp. Ashamed of his father, of what he had just said, of how deeply he had wounded those who stood with him.

There was nothing Rhaegar could say or do. He could only silently offer his apologies to Elia.

"HE IS NOT A TRUE DRAGON!" howled the King. "A true dragon has silver hair and purple eyes, like my sons, Prince Rhaegar and Prince Viserys, and of course, like me." 

He went on, proud of himself.

“People with non-valyrian looks have always been a bad presage for my house, we all remember Bittersteel, or worse, my uncle Duncan.” 

Rhaegar would almost laugh if he didn't feel such hatred for his father right now. Compare a newborn babe to one of the greatest threats that House Targaryen has ever faced. Aegor Rivers, a man who was part of two of the five Blackfyre Rebellions.

And for his father’s uncle, Prince Duncan, was a great warrior and a good man, his celebrity degust Aerys II. He always hated him and he never hesitated to say that all the tragedies that have befallen house Targaryen were his fault. Funny words, from a man who shamed House Targaryen as it has not been done since the reign of Aegon the Unworthy.  

“Are you saying my nephew is a Blackfire ?” Oberyn Martell hissed angrily as he sprang to his feet, cutting off the King’s words.

He was tall and lean, moving with the lithe grace of a desert predator. His bronzed skin was smooth, kissed by the harsh Dornish sun. Thin eyebrows framed eyes as black and sharp as vipers. His nose was sharp and defined, and his lustrous black hair fell in smooth waves around his shoulders, draped in his customary orange robes.

“Father, I'm sure, it wasn't what you meant, wasn't it ?” Rhaegar said with a forced smile on his lips.

“Yes, son. I only meant Westeros needs a Valyrian Prince.” 

“Your grandson is a Valyrian Prince ” answers the Red Viper furiously.

“A Prince with valyrian looks IS NEEDED, my dear people,” says the Mad King ignoring the Dornish Prince. “My son’s wife, the Martel’s girl, failed two times to bear a Prince with all the valyrian looks, she barely survived the birth of the Dornish brat.”

It was too much for Rhaegar. He may have felt no love for Elia, but she was the mother of his children, and a father has a duty to protect what is his. He was about to speak, to act, to put an end to the humiliation, when his mother caught his gaze. It was the kind of look only a mother could give, quiet and firm. He understood her unspoken plea: not now, my child, not here, it would only make everything worse.

So he said nothing. Once again, he let his father’s insults pass without consequence. The shame of it settled heavily on his shoulders, and guilt burned in his chest like wildfire. He could do nothing. He could say nothing.

What a sight… the Last Dragon, unable to defend his own blood.

That thought echoed in his mind as he stepped aside, bitter, angry, and humiliated.

“The Citadel and its maesters have spoken. Elia Martell is barren. She will bear no more children,” the King declared to the assembled Realm.

A wave of whispers swept through the great hall of Harrenhal. Lords and Ladies exchanged uneasy glances, taken aback by the bluntness of the announcement. Slowly, the cleverer among them began to understand what the King was truly saying and what was to come next.

“The Citadel and the Conclave have agreed with me that the Seven Kingdoms and the Crown need another Prince. So, I hereby announce that the marriage between my son, Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne and Princess Elia of House Martell have been annulled.”

Harrenhal earlier ago was silent as the siege of the Silent Sisters. Now it roared with noise, a storm of whispers and murmurs rolling through the assembled nobility. 

Rhaegar could see the hunger etched into the faces of many Lords and Ladies, ambition sharpening their features. Cersei Lannister’s gaze in particular clung to him with unsettling intensity. She looked at him as a prize to claim for her and her family.

Across the hall, his cousin was laughing, clearly amused by his misfortunes, always being a cunt this one.

Near the Lord of the Stormlands was the Lord of Winterfell, he was looking at the great table with a cold and stern face, if he was shocked by his father’s announcement nothing on his face showed it. Eddard Stark and Lady Lyanna made the same face as their father. Yet in Lyanna’s eyes, Rhaegar caught something the others lacked. A flicker of compassion.

His eyes continued to scan the crowd until he felt a gentle pressure at his side. His mother, the Queen, had taken his hand. Her touch was steady and reassuring, a silent reminder that he was not alone. In that moment, it gave him the strength to keep standing.

"My son will choose his future wife as he desires." declared the King. His voice was sharp with the familiar edge of paranoia.

Rhaegar barely had time to absorb the meaning of those words for the noble houses before he felt it. Every pair of eyes in the hall had turned to him, silent and watchful. The weight of their stares pressed down on his chest. In Westeros for the first time in years, the three-headed dragon was no longer the hunter; he had become the prey.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 : A bloody tree fighter

Rhaegar

He never was a fighter, he always has been a man of books, songs and cultures. He took the sword only because he was destined to be King, and a King needs to bore the sword like the Blackfire said. 

Although he was highly skilled and more than capable of holding his own in a duel, Rhaegar had never taken any joy in fighting or in spilling blood. He fought out of duty, never desire, fulfilling his role as a prince of House Targaryen.

Yet at this moment, never in his life had he been so glad to have a sword in his hand. In a clearing deep within the woods behind Harrenhal’s castle, he was swinging his blade at a massive, ancient tree. There was no technique, no form, only rage guided his strikes. He hacked, slashed, and thrust like a madman, driven by the fury boiling inside him. The sound of his sword against bark echoed through the forest like a song of grief, a requiem for his despair.

Why me ? Why must I endure this ? The lords of this kingdom care more about their blood sitting on the throne than about the lives of their people. Power, titles, influence in the Realm, that is all that matters to them. Not justice. Not peace. Not the smallfolk who suffer while they feast. They are all repulsive. And my father... he is the worst of them all. A madman who believes himself chosen by the gods. A dragon in human flesh who thinks he has the right to burn those he dislikes. He is a monster. One who wounds his own kin, his own people, and drags the legacy of House Targaryen through the ashes. What a farce this kingdom has become. What a joke Westeros is.

Rhaegar stood before the tree, though it no longer looked like one. Its bark was shredded, scarred by countless strikes, each wound a silent witness to his fury. The tree would bear those marks until the end of its days.

He was soaked in sweat. Every muscle in his body ached. His hands, arms, and shoulders burned with pain, screaming from the punishment he had unleashed upon them.

But none of it mattered.

What he felt was far deeper than pain. Rage boiled beneath his skin. Grief pulsed in his chest. And shame clung to him like a shadow, heavy and unrelenting. He had never felt so helpless. So hollow. So unworthy of the legacy that ran in his blood.

The sound of a snapping branch broke the stillness of the glade, pulling Rhaegar from his trance. He turned sharply, eyes scanning the shadows for the source. That was when he saw her.

She stood leaning against an old, weathered tree, half-veiled by the darkness, half-bathed in moonlight. The silver glow filtering through the leaves gave her an almost otherworldly presence, like a spirit born of the forest. Had he not known who she was, he might have mistaken her for a goddess.

Lyanna Stark’s grey eyes met his, and she looked as though she had been caught in the middle of something, though even she might not have known what. Rhaegar had no doubt why she had come. There could only be one reason: him, and the question of the Crown Princess’s position.

Disappointment surged in him, sharp and bitter. His voice, when he spoke, was cold and laced with acid.

Even she was like the others.

"What do you want, Lady Stark? As you can see, I am quite occupied." he snapped, the fury in his voice barely restrained.

Lyanna’s eyes flashed. She did not flinch. Her glare was steady and cutting. Her furrowed brows and the defiant tilt of her chin might have been charming under different circumstances. Now, they only sharpened the anger in her expression.

"Of course, Your Grace," she said with a tight smile, casting a pointed glance at the battered tree. "Next time, try picking someone who can actually fight back. Or is it simply too difficult when your opponent moves ?"

How dare she, a mere daughter of a Lord Paramount, speak to him, a Prince and the future King, in such a manner?

The dragon in his blood stirred, rising fast, filling him with a seething rage that clawed its way to the surface. Rhaegar was known for his composure, for his quiet introspection and melancholic air. Yet people often forget that the blood of dragons did not run cold. There was fire in him, and Lyanna Stark had just set it alight.

He was on the verge of erupting, struggling to hold back the sharp reply taking shape in his mind, when she cut him off.

"I am not here for you, Prince," she said coolly, pointing past him, "but for this."

He turned around and was immediately struck by the sight of a magnificent weirwood tree, pure white like snow, with a face intricately carved into its trunk. The expression etched into the wood seemed to stare straight into him, as if it could read every thought and emotion he had tried to bury. In his anger, he had failed to notice it upon his arrival.

The soft rustle of leaves underfoot pulled him from his trance. The Stark girl walked past him without a word and leaned back against the ancient tree, her movements calm, almost reverent. That did not stop her, however, from delivering one final remark as she brushed past him.

"I'm here for my gods, not for a bloody tree fighter !"

"I'm sorry, my lady… Today was hard… I was thinking…"

She cut him off sharply.

"Yes, yes, you thought I came here to seduce you, bed you, marry you, and become Queen ?"

"My Lady…"

"Of course. And after that, I would do everything in my power to place my children on the Iron Throne. Is that it, Your Grace ?"

He said nothing. Silent. Ashamed. For the first time in what felt like years, he was at a loss for words.

Rhaegar Targaryen, a man of books and culture, trained in diplomacy and politics from his earliest days, taught by some of the finest minds of Westeros. He even had studied under his great-uncle, Maester Aemon of the Night’s Watch, the wisest man he had ever known.

And yet here he stood, tongue-tied, unable to offer a single word of apology to the fierce young woman who faced him without fear.

"Sorry, my Lady. I shouldn't have assumed that about you. My apologies."

"It's alright, my Prince, I suppose. I understand your predicament. I've met some of the southern Ladies myself. I would rather be fed to a direwolf than be in your place."

"They’re not all that bad. Not all of them crave power. Most simply follow the choices made for them by their fathers, their brothers, or their husbands."

"Yes. I can testify to that..."

"Robert. My cousin ?" he asked cautiously.

He saw something shift in her. The wild, untamed light in her eyes dimmed at the mention of his name. Her gaze dropped to the ground. She let out a quiet sigh before answering, her voice carrying a mixture of exhaustion, bitterness, and something closer to despair.

"Yes. Your cousin."

He didn’t know how or why, but he found himself alongside the She-Wolf, leaning against the weirwood tree. Feeling her presence near him, Rhaegar felt less alone, perhaps because of the similarity between their situations.

“"It seems our future marriages are not bringing us much joy. We have our fathers to thank for that."

"Yes, yes... I'm sorry for your wife and children, by the way. It must be hard, for both of you."

"Hmm. Haven't you heard the story of my marriage ?"

She shook her head.

"I see. So it's true. The North really doesn't care much for the South."

She laughed, and Rhaegar had to admit it was quite a sound. Light, effortless,beautiful. Lyanna looked at him with playful mischief, her smile lighting up her face.

"Maybe it's just me who doesn't care at all about the Last Dragon."

Gods, how he hated that nickname.So Embarrassing.

"Please don't call me that, my lady. It's more embarrassing than you think."

"Hmm. I’ll think about it."

"You must, Lady Stark."

"My apologies, Your Highness. All-mighty Lord of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne." she replied with a grin that made it impossible to take offense.

Rhaegar laughed. A real, unguarded laugh. Something he had not done in years.

Lyanna Stark was… different. Unpredictable. A feeling he hadn’t known in a long time, not at his father’s court, and certainly not in King’s Landing.

“So your Grace, what about your marriage ?” 

"As you have surely heard, according to the tradition of my house, I must marry a woman of Valyrian blood," Rhaegar said quietly, his voice calm but edged with something colder beneath. "Unfortunately, or so I suppose, there was no one in Westeros who matched the king’s expectations. So my father sent his nephew, Robert’s father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, across the Narrow Sea to Essos, in search of a bride with the proper lineage."

He paused for a moment, as if weighed down by the memory.

"Sadly, he never returned."

"That's why Robert hates…is angry with you." she said, correcting herself awkwardly.

Rhaegar gave a faint nod, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

"That is why there has been bad blood between House Baratheon and House Targaryen ever since. The loss was personal, but my father has never been the kind to express grief with gentleness."

He shifted slightly, glancing toward the weirwood as if it might judge the story he was about to share.

"After that, my father was left with two names. The daughter of Lord Tywin Lannister, the wealthiest man in the Realm, or a princess of House Martell. They say he humiliated the Old Lion by refusing his offer, and perhaps he did. But in truth, I think he made the wiser choice."

He looked at her now, more directly.

"Anyone would be a better match than a Lannister, if you ask me."

Lyanna Stark studied Rhaegar Targaryen with curiosity in her gaze.

"The wiser choice ? I’ve heard the Crown Princess has a good heart. So, you must have been lucky, my Prince ?"

Rhaegar let out a quiet sigh, the kind that seemed to carry years of silence and expectation.

"Yes... and no, my Lady." he said softly, his eyes drifting toward the darkened sky as if searching for the right words. There were truths he had only ever entrusted to his mother, and to Arthur, the truest friend a man could have.

"Elia is a gracious and kind woman. We are... friends, I suppose." He hesitated, not from shame but from the weight of honesty.

"She gave me the greatest joys in my life. My daughter, Rhaenys. She never stops asking questions, always chasing after her cat, the one she named Balerion, thinking he is as fierce as the old dragon himself. And Aegon... my son." His voice faltered for a second. "He was born with a frail constitution. I’ve spent many nights fearing I would lose him, but the worst seems to have passed."

He turned to Lyanna then, his voice quieter.

"She is the mother of my children. And my children are my light, my hope. For that, I have been fortunate. But love ?" He sighed. "No. I do not love her. I did my duty, as did she. What we have is respect, companionship... and what happiness duty allows."

Lyanna said nothing at first. Her expression had softened, and without thinking, she placed a gentle hand on his arm.

"It must have been hard. For both of you." she said, her voice low with understanding.

Rhaegar offered her a tired smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"It has been. But we all serve something greater than ourselves. And sometimes, even without love, one can find peace... if not joy."

"The Princess is a good person," Lyanna said, her voice softer than before. "As are you. But I can't say the same about the man I’m meant to marry."

Rhaegar said nothing, though his silence spoke volumes.

"He’s your cousin, isn’t he? Do you truly believe he’ll ever respect me the way you respecte your wife ?"

Rhaegar hesitated before replying. "He seems rather taken with you. Perhaps he might change."

"Love is sweet," she said with a bitter smile, "but it cannot change a man's nature." Her laugh that followed was short, sharp, and tinged with frustration.

"His feelings aren’t for me, not really. He’s in love with an idea. A perfect, docile lady who dreams only of children, embroidery, and waiting for him in his castle. But what does he actually know about me ? Only what my brother told him, and I haven’t seen that brother in years."

She crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering. "I hate embroidery. I hate gossip. I hate tea parties and all the nonsense ladies are expected to endure just to be seen as proper. Seven hells, I’m not made for that life, and I never will be."

Her hands were clenched into fists, and she dug her knuckles into the ground as she spoke, her voice cold as ice.

"He already has two known bastards, and who knows how many others he's sired ? When we're married, he'll bed me, and at first, he'll enjoy it, as long as I'm young and beautiful. But then he'll grow tired of me. He'll take maids, commoners, whores, and vassals' daughters with reckless abandon. And I’ll just be a decoration at his side. A powerless wife. The mother of his heir. The stepmother to a parade of bastards. No one will remember who I truly am. I won’t be the She-Wolf of Winterfell anymore, just the Forgotten Wolf of the Stormlands..."

As she spoke, Rhaegar was struck by Lyanna’s courage. She wasn’t afraid of being mocked before the entire Realm. She wasn’t afraid of Robert’s dishonour. What she feared was losing herself. She wanted only to be free. To remain who she truly was. The Prince saw the tears of rage in her eyes and the strength burning behind them.

"I know. I have a duty, like any Lady in Westeros, to my family and my House. But with him, I will have to forget myself just to fulfill that duty. I have to marry, that is how our world works. It doesn’t have to be for love. Nobles don’t marry for love. But I had at least hoped it would be with someone who respects me and understands who I truly am."

He recognized her strength, perhaps even greater than his own, but in that moment, she appeared so vulnerable and isolated, leaning against a weirwood tree and shedding tears of rage. Instinctively, he reached for her hand and intertwined their fingers, trying to hide the warmth rising in his cheeks and pretending it was nothing more than a casual gesture. Yet the sensation of her skin against his lingered in his mind, and he knew he would never forget it.

He felt Lyanna’s inquisitive gaze on their hands, as if waiting for a reaction or a sign, but none came. When he finally looked at her, she had turned her head away, though he could have sworn he saw a hint of pink on her cheeks. He said nothing.

They remained like that, drawing quiet comfort from the simple act of holding each other’s hand.

Rhaegar had always been a man of few words, even with his closest friend, Ser Arthur Dayne. But with Lyanna Stark, it was different. There was something about her that tore down the walls he had spent years building around his heart. Whether those walls had been forged by his duties as a Prince of the Realm or by the scars left by his father’s madness, they were crumbling now. And for the first time in years, he found himself speaking freely, unguarded.

"I cannot remember how many times I have thought about running away from my responsibilities as a Prince and simply being Rhaegar." he said, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He felt Lyanna’s eyes on him, not filled with pity or idle curiosity, but with something far more rare. Genuine concern. A different kind of Lady, he thought to himself.

When his eyes met hers, so fiercely grey and alive, he felt something stir. He wanted to understand her, this Northern girl who challenged everything he thought he knew.

"Do you ever think about running away too?" he asked, his voice softer now.

Lyanna met his gaze, her grey eyes locking with his violet ones for a long moment. Then she looked down at their still-entwined hands and smiled faintly, the corners of her lips curling with bittersweet warmth.

"Yes, Your Grace… I do. But I cannot shame my family or the North.”

He nodded. Most people thought the North was full of savages, fools, and the uneducated. But the Prince knew the truth, in this world, no words held more value than the words of a Stark, and no Lord had more loyalty from his bannermen and his people than a Stark. The North was as vast as all the other kingdoms combined. They rarely involved themselves in southern politics, but there was no doubt about their strength.

And yet, Rhaegar could not help but wonder whether such honour still extended to Lord Rickard himself. For a man so renowned for his integrity, the alliances he now prepared seemed strangely calculating. Betrothing Lyanna to Robert Baratheon, tightening ties to the Stormlands and the Riverlands… was it coincidence or ambition ?

"So, apart from your envy for running away, what about the Crown Prince that the Seven Kingdoms ignore, Your Grace ?" Lyanna asked, curious.

"Are you trying to gather information on him, my Lady ?" Rhaegar replied, amused.

"Yes, I don't know if you've heard, but he's now the most wanted unmarried man in all of Westeros."

Rhaegar chuckled. “And do you think you stand a chance with His Grace, my Lady ?”

Lyanna laughed, tossing her head back. “Oh no, I’m far too worried he might mistake me for a tree and attack me with his sword.”

The two of them laughed together, enjoying the light moment.

"You're cruel, my Lady." Rhaegar said, still laughing.

Lyanna quipped back, "Say that to the trees, my Prince !" Then she started laughing even more.

Rhaegar flashed a smile at Lyanna before remarking, "To get any information from me, you'll need to compose yourself first."

"Okay, I'm listening, My Prince." Lyanna replied, ready to hear him out.

“I’m skilled with a sword, I suppose. I enjoy sparring, I enjoy training... but I despise real fighting. Taking lives has never brought me any pride. I prefer the joust to the sword, though what I truly love, more than anything, are books. I suppose that’s not very princely, is it ?”

Lyanna looked at him with surprise in her wide-open eyes. "How could you say that ? I love fighting. There’s something deeply satisfying in proving someone wrong when they think they're better than you. I think I’d love jousting too. But what I love the most is riding through the forests of the North. There's nothing quite like it. The wind in your face, the crunch of snow under your horse's hooves, the trees stretching endlessly in all directions. It makes you feel... alive."

As she spoke, her voice filled with the thrill of memory, and Rhaegar found himself watching her more than listening. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her grey eyes shone like polished steel, and her smile was radiant.In that moment, Rhaegar could think of nothing else but how utterly adorable Lyanna was.

"Your Grace, do I have something on my face? You’ve been staring at it for quite a while now."

Rhaegar blinked, caught red-handed. Heat surged to his cheeks, and in a moment of pure panic, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Sparring. Riding."

Lyanna raised an eyebrow, clearly baffled. "What ?"

Trying to recover with a grin, Rhaegar clarified, "A friend of mine could spar with you tomorrow if you'd like. Or, if you prefer, we could go for a ride tomorrow night."

The distraction worked. She completely forgot he had been staring. Instead, her face lit up with delight, and for a second, Rhaegar wondered if she'd start dancing in the grass.

"Is this a joke?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"I'm not joking, Lady Stark. I always keep my word." he replied calmly, though the way she looked at him made his pulse quicken.

She leaned in and rested her hand on his arm. The gesture was casual but the sudden closeness between them was enchanting, and Rhaegar realised that he had no control when it came to her.

Lyanna hesitated, clearly torn. "I can't choose between the two. Your Grace, would it be too bold to ask for both ?"

Of course, my lady. Whatever you wish." he said with a soft smile.

Lyanna’s face lit up with pure joy. She bounced on her feet, light as air, like it was her last taste of freedom before her upcoming marriage. Rhaegar barely had time to process the sight before she threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly as if he had just saved her life.

"Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you so much."

For a heartbeat, Rhaegar froze, stunned by the warmth of her body against his and the soft scent of winter roses that clung to her. In that moment, he knew there would never be a better place than the arms of Lyanna Stark. Slowly, hesitantly and weakly, he returned her embrace.

A silence settled between them, tender but charged. Rhaegar was the first to break it.

"Do not worry, Lady Stark. Thanks to you, my day isn't completely lame. I had a good time thanks to you, and my mind is much more liberated from my sombre thoughts. So, as I say, do not worry."

His words seemed to bring her back to herself. Lyanna stepped away, cheeks flushed, her gaze fixed on the ground.

"I’m sorry, my prince..." she murmured.

"There’s nothing to apologise for, my lady," Rhaegar replied gently, his voice lowering into something teasing. "In fact, I rather enjoyed it."

She turned an even deeper shade of red, much to his quiet delight.

Noticing how red her cheeks had become, Rhaegar decided to stop teasing her. He casually shifted the topic, as if nothing had happened.

"So, my lady, I’ll send my friend Ser Arthur Dayne to you tomorrow after the meal. And I believe I can make time for our ride in the evening."

Lyanna looked at him as if he were the biggest fool in all of Westeros.

"You... you’re sending Arthur Dayne ? The Sword of the Morning ? The best knight in Westeros, just to teach a Lady ?"

"He's my most trusted friend. I don’t think he’ll say anything about it." Rhaegar replied smoothly, already imagining Arthur’s angry reaction when he’d hear the news.

Lyanna seemed to fully understand what he meant, and a wide, genuine smile lit up her face. For Rhaegar, it was a sight worth remembering.

"The bloody hell ! This might be the best day of my life, Your Grace. Do you even realise ? It’s the Sword of the Morning."

"Yes, yes, the best swordsman in the world." he muttered, slightly irritated that all her excitement was directed at the sparring and not the evening ride he had also promised.

"It's said that he could even best Ser Barristan, the one who ended the Blackfyre while slaying Maelys Blackfyre the Monstrous. Amazing, isn't it, your Grace ?" Lady Stark continued, still in awe of Ser Arthur Dayne's reputation.

"Yes, I know my friend is quite the man. But did you know, my Lady, that people say my skills are as great as his ?" Rhaegar added, feeling the need to defend his own reputation. Arthur was his best friend, his most trusted ally, he was a brother to him. Only today he was angry at him, even if he didn’t know the reason why.

"Are they now, Your Grace ?" Lady Stark asked with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "Or do they only say that because you're the future King ?"

Rhaegar couldn't help but chuckle at her response. "Perhaps, my Lady. But after our ride tomorrow, would you do me the honour of testing my skills ?" he added playfully. "With a sword, of course."

"With pleasure, Your Grace," Lady Stark replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. "But do you have any other skills aside from swordplay and singing ?"

"Oh, you have no idea, my Lady." Rhaegar replied, stepping closer to her. "No idea at all."

Lady Stark supported his gaze, her own eyes bright with curiosity. "Then I will look forward to discovering them after our ride, my Prince. But are you sure we can ride together ?"

"Yes, of course. Why ? Would you prefer not to ?" he said with a hint of disappointment.

"No, no, no! It’s... You’re the Crown Prince, you must be occupied;" she hastened to add, blushing.

"It’s as you say, I’m the Crown Prince. I can take time for one of my subjects, especially if it’s you."

Lady Stark didn't immediately reply, instead studying him with a soft gaze. "It will be an honour, my Prince, and I'm glad to meet you again tomorrow."

"As am I, Lady Stark, as am I." Rhaegar replied with a small smile.

Rhaegar was intoxicated by her presence, her scent, her smile, and her words. He felt like a green boy, not a grown man on his own. His heart was pounding, echoing in his chest like the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor. His gaze lingered on her grey eyes, then slipped to her lips, soft and inviting. He knew it was a dangerous game, one he knew he shouldn't play.

Without another word, he stood abruptly, as if to flee the temptation before it consumed him.

"I can manage on my own, I'm not a helpless southern lady." she replied.

"I understand, Lady Stark. However, my Lady Mother will kill me if she hears I let a young Lady return on her own."

He offered his arm to her, and she accepted it.

"Very well, I accept your offer, but please refrain from addressing me as "my Lady" or "Lady Stark" all the time. It's suffocating. You do know my name, don't you, Your Grace ?" she added with a tone that brooked no argument.

She was bold and unafraid to challenge the Crown Prince, which he found both charming and challenging.

"As you wish… my Lady." he teased, as she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. With a huff of mock irritation, she stepped slightly ahead to lead the way, still holding onto him. The movement brought her closer than she had intended, and as she turned to glance back at him, their chests brushed lightly.

In that instant, time seemed to pause. Their gazes met, purple eyes locking with grey, as if they were truly seeing each other for the first time.

Rhaegar leaned in, slowly, instinctively drawn to her. Whether fortunately or unfortunately, no one could say, but Lyanna abruptly turned her head, regaining her composure and shifting just enough to create space between them.

"You're right, it's getting late. We should return." she said as she walked away into the shadows of the forest. Rhaegar was left standing there, still in shock at what had almost happened between them.

I nearly kissed Lyanna Stark… What a foolish mistake…

"My Lady ?" Rhaegar called out to Lyanna, but there was no response, only silence. He tried once more, "My Lady ?" but still, no reply. In a state of uncertainty, he called out again, "Lyanna ?"

"Yes, Your Grace ?" she answered cheerfully.

Rhaegar was taken aback by her boldness and couldn't help but smile at her audacity.

"I will escort you disguised as a knight," Rhaegar said. "We don't want any rumours about the two of us being seen together at nightfall."

Lyanna nodded in agreement. "Yes, that would be better. Ser Duncan, isn't it?" she said, referring to the name Rhaegar had given himself as a disguise.

Rhaegar was surprised she remembered. "Ah, I see you recall. Then, Lady Stark, let this humble knight escort you back."

Lyanna smiled mischievously. "Ser Duncan, you're nothing but a mere knight, and I am Lyanna Stark, daughter of Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. We're nothing alike, all right ? So would you please shut your bloody mouth ?" 

He couldn't believe what was going on. No one had ever, in his entire life, had the guts to talk to him like that. But not her. This fierce little Lady, whom he had just met yesterday, was now laughing freely after committing what could easily be seen as an act of disrespect toward the royal family, an act that might even be called treason against the Crown. And there she was, completely unbothered, proud of herself. So refreshing, it was like to have finally found a breath of fresh air after years spent underwater, suffocating alone.

""My family and friends say that to me all the time, Your Grace." Lyanna said with a small shrug.

"Then they’re lucky to have someone like you in their lives." Rhaegar replied, his voice soft.

"You could be one of them… if you wanted to." she added, her tone almost hesitant.

"Be one of what ?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Friends." she said simply, meeting his gaze.

"Friends ?" Rhaegar echoed, the word foreign and yet… welcome.

"We could be, if you want, Your Grace."

"My friends call me Rhaegar." he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"And mine call me Lyanna." she answered gently.

And just like that, under a quiet sky littered with stars, something was forged between Ice and Fire, wolf and dragon. And their song began.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 : Four Brides, One Crown

Lyanna

Lyanna couldn't help but think how different Prince Rhaegar was from what she had heard about him. He didn't seem to have an arrogant bone in his body. He was kind and decent, a little melancholic perhaps, but undoubtedly a good man. She was certain of it.

As they rode through the woods, she found herself glancing at him more often than she would admit. Brandon had been right, surprisingly so. Rhaegar was more striking than any of the girls her brother had courted. His silver hair flowed with the breeze, falling around his angular features like strands of silver. His eyes, deep and dark like polished amethysts, held a quiet sadness that tugged at her heart. He was tall and lean, his posture noble and poised in a way that reminded her he was born to rule.

As he spoke, his voice was smooth and melodic, and she found herself drawn to him. She couldn't help but remember when he had held her in his arms, the lingering warmth of his body still vivid in her memory.

But she quickly pushed those thoughts aside, reminding herself of her duty and the reality that she was soon to be married. She couldn't afford to let her heart drift, especially not toward a Targaryen prince.

Still, she couldn’t ignore the elegance of his features, nor stop her eyes from returning to him whenever he wasn’t looking. Despite her inner warnings, there was something about him that pulled at her, subtle yet undeniable.

She cleared her throat gently, hoping to break the silence between them. "Your Grace," she began, "may I ask you a question ?"

"Of course, Lady Lyanna." he replied, turning his gaze to meet hers.

"Why did you choose the harp ?" she asked, recalling the haunting melody he had played the night before.

Rhaegar’s expression softened, his eyes momentarily distant. "I suppose because the harp lets me speak without speaking. Through it, I can express emotions words would only cheapen. When I play, I feel as though I am not alone, as if even the Gods are listening.”

Lyanna nodded, understanding his words.

"I wish I had a talent like that." she said wistfully.

She glanced away for a moment, her voice softer as memories stirred.

"My mother used to play the harp when I was a child. Even when she was ill and had to stay in bed, she would ask for it. Her fingers were delicate, the sound she created always calmed us. In her final year, she tried to teach me… but I didn’t have her gift."

"I'm sure you have many talents, Lady Lyanna," he replied kindly. "It’s only a matter of discovering them."

They rode in silence for a while longer, enjoying the peacefulness of the woods. Lyanna felt herself relaxing in the Prince’s company, something she had not expected. She had always been taught to be wary of the Targaryens, but Rhaegar was different. He was nothing like the stories she had heard. He was his own person, with his own dreams and desires.

As they neared their destination, Lyanna found herself reluctant for the evening to end. To her own surprise, she was already looking forward to spending more time with the Prince. Perhaps this was the start of a true friendship… or something she dared not name. Only time would tell.

"Thank you for tonight, Your Grace," she said, her voice soft. "I truly enjoyed it."

Rhaegar nodded, a faint smile curving his lips. "The pleasure was mine, Lady Stark."

"Until tomorrow evening, Rhaegar." she said, holding his gaze.

"Until tomorrow, Lyanna." he replied, his voice low and warm.

The next day, Lyanna was sitting at the meal table with her three brothers, Brandon, Ned, Benjen and their father, Lord Rickard Stark. They were all gathered in their tent for the tourney. The aroma of fresh bread and honey filled the air as they chatted and enjoyed their morning meal.

Their conversation was light, focused on the tourney and the knights who had already made an impression. Lyanna picked at her food absentmindedly, her thoughts still tangled in the memories of the previous evening.

Without warning, the tent flap opened in a rush and one of their men entered, his breathing quick.

 "My lord, Lady Ashara Dayne has arrived."

Lyanna's head snapped up at the name. She had heard of Ashara Dayne, the Dornish Lady known for her beauty and grace, once a lady-in-waiting to Princess Elia Martell. But she had never expected her to appear so suddenly.

Her brother's Brandon face lit up. "Well, we must welcome her, of course." he said, rising to his feet.

Lord Rickard lifted his gaze from his plate, his tone colder than the wind off the Wall.

"Ashara Dayne ? What brings her here ?"

"I do not know, my Lord," the man answered. "She did not say."

"Then we shall find out soon enough. Brandon, Ned, go meet her and bring her in. Benjen, see that another place is set, and bring fresh fruit."

As her two oldest brothers left the room, Lyanna couldn’t help but feel a flicker of curiosity. She had often heard of Ashara Dayne, but never expected to meet her. What could have brought her here, now, to their tent…

Lyanna couldn't help but feel a quiet admiration for House Dayne. Their ancestral sword, Dawn, said to be forged from a fallen star, was one of the most revered weapons in all of Westeros. Their name carried a sense of legend, whispered in songs and stories passed down through generations. She hoped she might find a chance to speak with Ashara about it.

Moments later, Brandon and Ned returned, and with them came Lady Ashara. Lyanna rose slightly from her seat as the Dornish noblewoman stepped into the tent. Her long, dark hair flowed over her shoulders in soft waves, and the pale blue-purple silk of her gown shimmered subtly with each graceful movement. Her rare violet eyes scanned the room with composed attentiveness, reflecting both confidence and elegance.

"Lord Stark, it is an honour to meet you. I apologise for coming unannounced." Ashara said as she bowed with effortless grace before Lyanna’s father.

Lord Rickard inclined his head, his expression as impenetrable as ever. "The honour is mine, Lady Ashara. You are welcome among us. Will you grant us the pleasure of joining our humble breakfast ?"

"It would be my pleasure, my Lord." she answered, her smile polite, her voice calm and poised.

As Lady Ashara took her place at the breakfast table, Lyanna couldn't help but feel a quiet admiration for her. She was everything Lyanna had imagined graceful, poised, and striking; a true Lady.

Lord Rickard Stark turned toward the Dornish lady, his expression thoughtful.

"May I ask, Lady Ashara, what brings you to us this morning ?" he said with measured politeness.

Ashara paused briefly, her posture as composed as her voice.

"My Lord, I have come to extend an invitation to Lady Lyanna. I was hoping to spend the day with her, to become better acquainted."

Lord Rickard raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback. "Spend the day with Lyanna ?" he repeated, the suggestion had caught him off guard.

"Yes, my Lord," Ashara replied with calm assurance,"I’ve heard much about your daughter and have long wished to meet her. It would be a pleasure to share her company today."

His features softened, and he turned his gaze to Lyanna.

"What do you think, my dear ? Would you care to spend the day with Lady Ashara ?"

Lyanna felt a flutter of excitement rise in her chest.

"I would be honoured, Father," she answered with a warm smile, glancing toward Ashara. "I’ve always admired the bravery and honour of House Dayne. I’d be glad to accept."

Ashara returned the smile,"Wonderful. I look forward to our time together, Lady Lyanna."

Lyanna felt her heart swell with anticipation. The idea of spending the day with Lady Ashara Dayne, learning more about her and the storied house she came from, filled her with excitement. Just as she was about to leave, her father’s voice called her back.

"Conduct yourself with dignity and honour our house, daughter."

Lyanna turned to face him. "I won’t disappoint you, Father."

Lord Rickard gave her a rare smile. "I know you won’t. You're a Stark.”

As they walked between the tents of the noble houses, an uneasy silence lingered between them. Lyanna, growing increasingly curious, felt the need to break it. Excitement and anticipation stirred within her, each step heightening her eagerness to understand where they were headed. She couldn’t help but wonder why Lady Ashara Dayne, once a lady-in-waiting and according to rumor, a very close friend to Princess Elia, had taken the time to see her today.

She turned to Ashara with a curious look and asked plainly.

“So, what do you have planned for us today ?”

Ashara’s gaze remained fixed ahead, her expression hardened slightly. “I’m simply carrying out the Prince’s instructions,” she said curtly. “He asked me to take you to a training session. My brother, Arthur, will be teaching, so don’t think about slacking off.”

Lyanna’s eyes lit up at the mention of Ser Arthur Dayne. She had heard the stories, of course. Who hadn’t ? The Sword of the Morning, famed throughout the Realm.

“That sounds interesting,” she said with genuine curiosity. “I’ve always wanted to see a Dayne fight.”

Ashara's expression remained unreadable, and Lyanna sensed a hint of distrust in her gaze.

"Is there something wrong ? " Lyanna asked, sensing the tension.

"I just hope that your interest in our house's martial prowess is genuine, and not just an attempt to gain favour with the Prince." Ashara replied icily.

Lyanna's face fell at the accusation. "No, of course not," she said quickly. "I truly admire House Dayne. I’d never use that to win favour with the Prince. And tell me, how could a sword impress a prince if it's a Lady who bears it ?"

Ashara didn’t answer right away. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she studied Lyanna in silence, as though weighing every word, every breath. There was no kindness in her gaze, only caution, a quiet warning that trust would not come easily.

Ashara turned to her, her gaze sharp and unreadable. "And why should I believe you ?"

Lyanna took a breath, forcing herself to stay calm. She knew Ashara didn’t owe her trust, but she wanted to earn it. 

"You don’t have to believe me," she said quietly, meeting her eyes. "But I mean what I say. I’m not here for the Prince. I’m here because your brother is the finest knight in the Realm, and I want to learn. Not to impress anyone. For me, to be stronger, to be free."

Ashara held her stare for a moment, then gave a small nod.

"Fine," she said. "I’ll take you to him. But Arthur doesn’t go easy on anyone. If you’re not serious, he’ll send you away before your first step."

Lyanna's eyes lit up.

"Then I’ll make sure I don’t waste it."

Ashara studied her for a moment longer, then finally offered a faint smile.

"Then let us not waste any more time," she said, picking up the pace. "We have a long walk ahead of us, and we must make haste if we are to reach the training grounds my brother chose before the hour."

They walked side by side, the earlier tension between them slowly fading. For a while, neither spoke, letting the quiet of the morning settle over them. Then, unexpectedly, Ashara glanced sideways at Lyanna.

"You speak your mind easily," she said, not unkindly. "Not many Nobles do that.”

Lyanna shrugged lightly, a smile tugging at her lips.

"I was raised in the North. We don’t believe in wasting words."

Ashara let out a soft chuckle.

"Maybe we should all take after the North then. It might spare us a few courtly headaches."

Lyanna returned the smile, and for the first time since they met, there was no sharpness between them. A quiet understanding had begun to form between the two young Ladies.

"I'm glad you came for me this morning." Lyanna said sincerely.

"And I'm glad you didn’t run off after my first remark," Ashara replied with a knowing look. "Most would have."

That drew a laugh from Lyanna.

"Most aren’t me."

“On that we agree.”

A small silence followed, this time comfortable. Then Ashara gave a short nod forward.

"Come. My brother won’t wait forever."

Ashara led her to the same clearing Lyanna had discovered the night before, during her encounter with Prince Rhaegar. At its center stood a silent figure, a stony Dornishman with black hair and striking violet eyes, so similar to his sister’s. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

Lyanna had heard countless tales about him: the Prince’s most trusted friend, a peerless swordsman, a man whose charm could steal the hearts of courtly ladies across the Seven Kingdoms. But as she looked at him now, she didn’t see a romantic figure. She saw a warrior. Deadly. Precise. The way his hand rested lightly on the pommel of Dawn, his legendary blade said to be forged from the heart of a fallen star, was enough to silence any illusion. It was a warning in itself. If you were foolish enough to strike, you would not understand what had happened until you saw your head rolling on the ground.

Lyanna approached Ser Arthur, her heart beating faster as she stood before him. "Ser Arthur," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "It's an honour to meet you. My name is Lyanna Stark, daughter of Lord Rickard Stark."

Ser Arthur turned to look at her, his expression serious. "I know who you are, Lady Lyanna," he replied, cold and precise as a drawn blade. "Ser Arthur Dayne, Kingsguard sworn to His Grace, King Aerys of House Targaryen."

Lyanna nodded, feeling a little intimidated by his demeanour. "Ser, for agreeing to train me, you have my deepest gratitude."

Ser Arthur’s expression softened, if only slightly.

"I am a knight, my Lady. I am doing my duty to my Lord. There is no need for gratitude."

“Perhaps. But, I’m from the North and the North remembers Ser Arthur. I, Lyanna of House Stark, will help you, if you ever need something from me.”

"Alright, my Lady. Then can I use this favour now ?" asked Ser Arthur, his voice tinged with impatience.

Lyanna blinked, caught off guard.

"Of course. What would you ask of me ?"

"Can we just stop this so-called training ? I'm a Kingsguard, not a mere master-at-arms." he said, his tone impatient.

Lyanna couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance at his arrogance. 

I see why he is the Prince's great friend, the same arrogance. 

"No, we may not.," she answered coolly, her voice as firm as ice.

"What a generous favour indeed, my Lady." he muttered, sarcasm dripping from every word. 

Lyanna met his gaze without flinching.

"You may refuse to train me, Ser. But that would mean breaking your Prince’s command, and worse, breaking your sacred vows. Is that something you’re prepared to do, dear Ser ?" Her tone was sweet, almost playful, but her words were sharp as steel.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance, then reached for a wooden sword and tossed it her way.

"Fine. Catch that, and show me what you’re made of."

“You’re dead again. I lost count, but I think we’re not far from a hundred deaths, aren’t we, my Lady ?” he said sarcastically as he pointed his wooden sword at her throat.

Lyanna couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at his skill with a sword. This man was a monster, obsessed with perfect movement. No wonder the young Jaime Lannister was good, with a teacher like this. Ser Arthur Dayne was made for the sword. The true steel was not Dawn, but him. He was the Sword of the Morning, a genius among geniuses. A great knight who deserved all the respect in the world. His name should be mentioned alongside the greatest knights who ever lived like Prince Aemon Targaryen the Dragonknight, Daemon Blackfyre the King Who Bore the Sword, the Rogue Prince of House Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen, even her own ancestor, Lord Gregan Stark, the Wolf of the North.

After two gruelling hours of training and sparring, Lyanna was drenched in sweat, but he remained unchanged, looking the same as two hours ago, just a little less annoyed and bored. It was hard to tell with that emotionless face of the Kingsguard.

"You're too good, Ser. Bloody Seven Hells ! I'm exhausted." she panted, trying to catch her breath.

"Thank you, my Lady. You weren't that bad yourself." he replied with a small smile.

"Horse shit. I know I was not good at all." she retorted.

"For a Lady..." he began, but Lyanna immediately cut him off.

"Yes, but I don't want to be good for a Lady. Moreover, I'm better at jousting. I'm sure I would have a chance against you." she said with a hint of defiance.

"For sure, if you ride a horse and I ride a pony, you might have a little chance," he joked before bursting into laughter. "I see now..."

"See what ?" Lyanna asked, confused.

"I see why our Prince has taken a liking to you." he said, still chuckling.

"What ? No, never ! He takes what ? This bloody fool, what did he say ?" Lyanna demanded, her voice rising in anger.

Ser Arthur just laughed harder. "I can't share the secrets of the royal family, my Lady."

"I hate you." Lyanna said through gritted teeth, but she couldn't help feeling a little amused by his teasing.

"I'll go find my sister. She'll escort you to her tent so you can take a bath and change." Ser Arthur informed her.

"Thank you, Ser Arthur. I've learned so much today. I won't forget your help." Lyanna expressed her gratitude.

"It was my pleasure, my Lady. I hope that next time we train, I'll have to use both hands." he said with a mocking smile before departing, leaving her with a mix of anger and amusement at the man's arrogance, who had managed to beat her every time using only one hand.

A few minutes later, Ashara Dayne appeared, a flicker of concern in her violet eyes. "Lady Lyanna, will you be able to walk ?" she asked gently.

Lyanna gave a reassuring smile. "Yes, don’t worry. And please, call me Lyanna. You’ve already done so much for me. Thank you."

Noticing the suspicious look Ashara gave her, she added with a teasing glint in her eye, "What, is it strange for a Northern lady to show gratitude in the South ? Must we pray to the Seven and wait for someone else to speak on our behalf ?"

Ashara’s lips curled into a faint smile. "No, I understand now why my brother reacted the way he did. It's refreshing to meet someone so direct. That kind of honesty is rare at court."

"Or maybe I just hide my scheming very well, and I really am the cunning little vixen you both took me for, Lady Dayne." Lyanna replied, feigning innocence.

The two women burst into laughter, and for the first time, the tension between them truly dissolved, the early bond of something that might become a real friendship.

"Call me Ashara." she said at last.

"Then Ashara, lead me to that bath," Lyanna said with a grin. "And afterwards, maybe we can sit and have tea together ?"

"With pleasure, Lyanna." Ashara answered warmly.

Rhaegar

"Your father, my Prince, the King, he despises the Lannisters," Ser Barristan replied in carefully measured words.. "I doubt he will be pleased, or even mildly accepting, of Lady Cersei becoming his good-daughter. But that said, no house in Westeros can rival theirs in terms of wealth and military strength. Only the royal family surpasses them in standing. That kind of power cannot be overlooked."

The old knight’s words were calm, but they struck a chord. Rhaegar remained silent for a long moment, lost in thought. Ser Barristan was right. His father would rage. He would shout, curse, maybe even strike him. The Mad King would call him a traitor to the Crown, question his loyalty, perhaps even his title as Prince of Dragonstone. But in the end, Aerys would relent, because he always did, when politics demanded it, especially if it meant he could humiliate and mistreat Tywin’s daughter.

With the strength of House Lannister and the full backing of the Westerlands, Rhaegar would all but secure his position. He could press forward and even remove his father from the throne. But such power came with a price. The future of his son might be in jeopardy when the time for his succession came, along with the peace of the Realm. All these things now hang in the balance.

"Their ambition is dangerous, but their support is essential," Rhaegar finally said. "If I keep Aegon as my heir and remove any threat of dispute, then the alliance with the Lannisters becomes the best possible choice."

He leaned back slowly, letting the weight of the decision settle across his shoulders. "It may not be the path I wished for, but it is the path the Realm might need."

“There must be another way. I can’t trust the Lannisters…” The room fell silent as the Prince let out a heavy sigh and declared firmly, “Someone suggest something else.” 

The gathered lords exchanged glances, nodding slowly, but before anyone could speak, the tent flap parted and the Sword of the Morning entered the room.

“I cannot help but agree with you, Your Highness. The Lannisters are not to be trusted.” Arthur said as he stepped forward.

Rhaegar turned to him with a curious look. “Arthur, did everything go well ?”

“It did, though there’s still much room for improvement. That said, I suspect you might find a different kind of sparring with my training partner... more to your taste.” he added with a slight smirk.

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. “Arthur ?”

“Your Grace ?”

“Shut your mouth.”

A stunned silence fell over the room. All eyes turned toward them, confused by the exchange. Lord Connington’s voice cut through the awkward silence, bitter and suspicious.

“My Prince ?”

Rhaegar didn’t look at him. “Nothing, Jon, nothing. Let’s return to the matter at hand.”

Jon gave a tight nod, masking his frustration as best he could, though his clenched jaw betrayed him.

"Yes, Your Highness, the Hightowers remain a viable option. Their house is the second richest after the Lannisters, and their influence over the Citadel is significant." replied his advisor.

Rhaegar leaned back, his tone calm but firm. "The Tyrells would hardly tolerate one of their vassals gaining more influence than themselves. And I believe my father will demand a bride from a Great House. Moreover, we’ve all seen what happens when a Targaryen takes an Hightower as a second wife. I will not make the same mistake as Viserys the First, who brought shame to our House for generations." Rhaegar said evenly.

"Even without marriage, we have Ser Gerold on our side. That alone might be enough to sway Oldtown. And the Tyrells haven’t forgotten who granted them the title of Warden of the Reach. They’re loyal to your house." added Ser Richard Lonbec, Rhaegar’s former squire.

"Then we have Dorne, and likely the Reach," Rhaegar concluded. "The Westerlands will follow whoever promises the most in return. What of the other regions ?"

"The Stormlands will never stand with us. The Stag despises the King and you even more. The Baratheons’ vassals are loyal to him and will follow wherever he leads. We cannot rely on their support." declared the Lord of Griffin's Roost who knew the Stormlands’ loyalties all too well, being himself a Lord of those lands."

Rhaegar inclined his head slightly. "Thank you, Jon. I agree. There is no doubt Robert would rather see me dead than King." His tone was calm, but his jaw tightened. "What of the Vale ?" he asked, shifting his gaze to Ser Whent.

"Lord Jon Arryn fostered both Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark," Ser Whent answered, his voice steady. "They are sons to him. He raised them, guided them. His loyalty lies with them. As for the prospect of a marriage alliance, I fear there is little to gain. The women of House Arryn belong to minor branches and bring no real claim, no power or influence. None are suitable to wed you, the King’s heir."

Ser Miles Mouton spoke up without waiting to be asked. "There are whispers from Riverrun. Lord Hoster Tully is said to be arranging a match between one of his younger daughters and Lord Arryn. If true, that would seal the bond between the Vale and the Riverlands."

Rhaegar’s hand came down hard against the table, the sound echoing through the room. His voice turned cold and measured. "Then it is settled. The Tullys, the Arryns, and the Baratheons may already be allied..."

"And the Starks as well, my Prince." Ser Darry added gravely.

"Lyanna..." Rhaegar murmured, barely audible.

"My Prince ?" Ser Darry asked.

"The daughter of House Stark, who is to be betrothed to my cousin." he clarified, his voice emotionless.

"That means the Starks will be bound by marriage to House Tully and House Baratheon, and aligned through loyalty with House Arryn." noted Ser Lonbec.

"Four of the Seven Kingdoms set against us. Two stand with us. And the strongest of them all will turn the moment we falter." Rhaegar said, his voice cold with calculation.

"Even if the Lannisters are prone to betrayal, marrying Lady Cersei would bring Lord Tywin to our side at least for now." Jon warned.

"Yes... perhaps. But in seeking to prevent one war today, I may well be setting the stage for another one that could erupt in twenty years, over who inherits the throne after me."

"The Lannisters are not our most pressing concern, my Prince." said Ser Dayne, his tone more somber than usual.

Rhaegar turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "Arthur ?"

"After you in the line of succession come Prince Aegon, then your brother Viserys, and finally your daughter, Princess Rhaenys. But you know as well as I do that most Lords would sooner see the realm reduced to ashes than accept a Queen upon the Iron Throne. History has made that very clear.

Jon Connington leaned forward, suspicion tightening his features. "Where are you going with this, Dayne ?"

Rhaegar did not wait for a reply. His voice dropped low, almost thoughtful. "If the Targaryen line were to fall, who would hold the next strongest claim ?"

Arthur hesitated, the weight of the answer not lost on him. The silence grew heavy until Jon Connington spoke instead, barely above a whisper. "Robert…Robert Baratheon."

The name dropped into the room like a stone into still water, sending invisible ripples through every man present.

Everything was coming together in Rhaegar’s mind. The engagement between Brandon Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully could have passed as mere politics, but the match between his cousins Robert and Lyanna was different. It was deliberate. It was strategic. This was not a coincidence, but the weaving of an alliance by blood North, Stormlands, and Riverlands, all tied together.

Only deepening his concerns was the fact that Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale, had fostered both Robert and Eddard Stark. He held them in his heart as sons, and his loyalty would follow theirs.

"Yes," Rhaegar said bitterly. "Through his grandmother, Princess Rhaelle, my great-aunt, Robert Baratheon has Targaryen blood. That will be enough for some to call him King."

A heavy silence settled over the room, dense and suffocating. No one moved, no one spoke. It was as if the very walls of the tent held their breath.

Then, in a whisper that seemed to slice through the quiet, Rhaegar gave voice to the thought they were all beginning to share.

"Rebellion…"

The revelation struck the room like thunder, but shock quickly gave way to anger. Every man present seemed to share the same unspoken thought: How dare they plot to betray House Targaryen and their Prince ?

Ser Barristan broke the silence with a calm, measured voice."I can't imagine House Stark being part of a rebellion without any casus belli . They're too honourable for that, and the North hasn't concerned itself with the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms for years, not since Cregan Stark, in truth."

"Too honourable ? Don't make me laugh, Ser Barristan," Jon scoffed, his voice sharp. "He married his heir to a Tully, sent his second son to be fostered in the Eyrie, and now offers his daughter to the Stag. Tell me, when was the last time the Starks cared this much for the South ? Rickard Stark is moving his pieces. Maybe it is not rebellion yet, but something is happening. Something dangerous."

No one spoke to disagree. Jon Connington had voiced what they were all beginning to suspect. Something was taking shape, quietly, beyond the eyes of the Crown. Neither the Prince nor the King had seen it clearly until now. The risks to House Targaryen were becoming undeniable.

"This must be stopped. The alliance is not yet sealed. Lady Lysa and Lady Lyanna are not yet officially betrothed. There is time to intervene," Jon continued, his tone cautious as he turned to the Prince, who gave him a silent nod to proceed. "If you were to propose to one of them yourself, they could not refuse. That would be enough to shatter the bond between these Houses and shift the balance in our favour."

The men around the table exchanged glances and nodded their agreement

"Go on, Jon. What exactly do you suggest I do ?" asked the Prince.

"Yes, my Prince," Jon said, drawing on every ounce of his political insight. "I recommend Lady Lysa Tully. 

A murmur stirred in the room, but he pressed on when Rhaegar nodded.

“Through this marriage, you would gain a direct connection to the North, as her elder sister, Lady Catelyn, is to become the Lady of Winterfell. Hoster Tully would remain loyal, knowing his daughter will be Queen. Meanwhile, Robert Baratheon will marry Lady Stark, and if the Starks and Tullys are united, the Stag will not raise arms against his in-laws’ allies. Lord Arryn will not act without them. With Lady Lysa as your bride, their alliance would fracture.”

"A good thing." intervened one of his advisors.

“Furthermore,” Jon Connington continued,” She will be more willing to marry a young man and a Prince than an older Lord Paramount. The Riverlands are central to Westeros, bordered by five of the Seven Kingdoms. We could construct a keep there under the pretext of securing a home for your spare heir, the firstborn of your second marriage. We could use this keep as the central point of all the trade between the Seven Kingdoms and create a large network of spies throughout the Realm. Stationing a loyal garrison would ensure the compliance of the local Lords. With such a hold, the Riverlands would remain under your House’s control for generations, Your Grace.”

“I believe it’s a very good idea, Lord Connington.” acknowledged Ser Barristan.

Rhaegar remained still, absorbing every argument in thoughtful silence. The proposal had merit. A marriage to Lady Lysa would offer a clear line to the Riverlands and, through Lady Catelyn, a link to the North. It presented an opportunity to weaken the growing alliance forming around Westeros , without directly provoking any of the Great Houses. 

Around the room, his advisors began nodding, some already weighing it against the earlier proposal of marrying Lady Cersei. The Lannister match promised immense wealth and military strength and an almost certain victory, but came with dangerous ambition. The Tully match, on the other hand, offered less power, perhaps, but fewer risks for the future. Still, Arthur had said nothing. Among them all, his words  mattered most. Rhaegar turned toward him. “Arthur, what are your thoughts on this matter ?” 

"What would you suggest, then, friend ?" Rhaegar asked calmly.

Rhaegar met his gaze and saw a quiet conviction before he started speaking.

"I believe another choice lies with House Velaryon, my Prince. The daughter of Lord Lucerys Velaryon."

His words caught the room off guard, and before the others could interrupt, the Dornish knight pressed on.

"I know he stands among the King’s most trusted men, but hear me out before saying no. His daughter, Daena, has just come of age. Her youth is no longer a barrier, as it was when your father first sought to arrange your first marriage. A union between House Targaryen and House Velaryon would not provoke protests across the Realm. On the contrary, it would be seen as a return to ancient tradition. You would not offend other noble houses, whether their bruised pride is real or imagined."

"Yes, I suppose that’s true," Jon Connington admitted, his voice low. "With the other match, certain Houses would feel passed over."

"They command one of the largest fleets in Westeros, second only to the Ironborn and the Redwynes. That is precisely what we lack. If war comes, ships will matter as much as swords."

Arthur held Rhaegar’s gaze with quiet intensity.

"The royal fleet is in poor condition, and none of our allies possess significant naval power. We must secure one of our own. House Velaryon can offer that."

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, tone measured. "The Redwynes are sworn to the Tyrells, Arthur. Their ships are already with us."

"Perhaps," Arthur replied, "but Lord Redwyne would never act against the King. He is far too cautious."

"You’re right. And your proposal, even you must know your proposal is not as sound as the others. So I assume this is about Rhaenys’s safety ?" Rhaegar’s voice grew colder.

"Yes, my Prince. This alliance could bring Lord Velaryon to our side. With his support, we could finally secure your daughter’s freedom. She would be reunited with her mother and her brother, no longer a hostage to your father’s will."

Rhaegar’s fists tightened. "He is one of my father's dogs. What makes you think he would ever turn against him ?"

"He might, if he’s meant to have royal grandchildren and if you help him realize the dream his House has chased for generations."

"You expect me to aid the man who holds my daughter prisoner ? Are you mad, Arthur ? The day she is freed should be the day he dies."

"Then let us secure her release first. The promise could be passed to his heir, not to him, should he fall…" The implication was obvious to everyone who heard it.

Rhaegar was silent for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "That would be better."

A voice broke the tension in the room. "My Prince, what dream is Ser Arthur speaking of ?" asked Ser Lemount.

Rhaegar answered quietly, "Since the Dance of the Dragons, House Velaryon has done nothing but decline. They were once the wealthiest house in Westeros, second in power only to mine, and commanded the mightiest fleet across Westeros and Essos. Their dream is to reclaim that golden age, when the Sea Snake ruled the seas from Driftmark.”

"Hm. Quite the dream."

"You could say that, Richard," Rhaegar replied evenly. "Are there any other suggestions ?" he asked, glancing around the assembly.

"I don't believe any other lady could match your station." answered Jon, ever loyal.

"What about Lady Stark ?" Arthur proposed, drawing a look of surprise from Rhaegar.

"You want our Prince to wed a Northern savage ? Have you lost your senses, Dayne ?" Jon Connington snapped.

"If you think the Starks are savages, then you're a fucking fool, Connington. Though, frankly, that's not news to me." Arthur retorted, his voice sharp with irritation. 

Rhaegar sighed quietly, why those two couldn't tolerate each other remained a mystery to him.

"Watch your tongue, knight. You're speaking to a Lord." Connington warned, glaring.

"And you, Lord Connington, are speaking to a man who could defeat you as easily as if you were a mere squire. Choose your words with care." Arthur fired back.

"You cu—"

"Enough. Both of you !" Rhaegar cut in, his voice calm but firm. 

He turned to Arthur. "Ser Arthur, if you truly believe a marriage with Lady Stark is worth considering, then explain to us what it would bring."

"Certainly, my Prince," Arthur stepped forward, composed and confident. "While the children you would have with Lady Stark may not carry pure Targaryen blood, they would bear the lineage of the oldest noble house in Westeros, House Stark. The Starks ruled the North long before the coming of the Andals. No other house commands such deep and enduring loyalty from its vassals."

He paused a moment before continuing. "Lord Rickard may appear suspicious, if you were to marry his daughter, you would be siring his grandchild. For that child, he will fight. His sons will fight. The entire North would follow you, without hesitation or doubt."

A silence settled over the room, thoughtful and heavy, until Rhaegar finally spoke. “There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark, the North will follow.”

Arthur inclined his head. "A marriage to Lady Stark would secure unwavering loyalty from the North. And if the Tullys are true to their words, they will follow their Northern kin into battle."

“I do not  see Lord Hoster going against his in-laws, either.” said Selmy.

Arthur continued without pause. "As for the Vale, they may not fight for us, but they will not stand against us. Jon Arryn considers Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon as sons. That bond will stay his hand and sword, even if it does not win his sword."

“With the Stark girl as our Prince’s wife, we would secure the support of House Stark alone. Lord Tully may still turn against us, even if his daughter becomes the future Lady of Winterfell and the Queen’s good-sister. His ambition is well known.” Jon said firmly, not a trace of doubt in his voice.

“Considering Robert Baratheon's arrogance and self-importance, it is difficult to determine whether his bond with Eddard Stark outweighs his hatred for the royal family. In my view, marrying Lady Tully remains a safer and more advantageous choice than Lady Stark.” Ser Barristan added, his tone calm but resolute.

“It’s true, most of Lord Robert’s bannermen have long given up offering their daughters to him. His obsession with the Stark girl is no secret. She cannot be chosen, my Prince. Such an affront is one the Stag would neither forget nor forgive. He would seek your death for it.” Lord Connington warned grimly. 

“Yes, my Prince. There are whispers in every corner of the Realm. It is said that Robert has fallen deeply for Lady Stark and wants to become part of the Stark family through marriage. Eddard Stark loves him like a brother and is reportedly pleased at the idea. Rumour also says that Brandon Stark holds him in high regard. Choosing her would be dangerous. Robert could very well call his banners.” said the Knight of Skulls and Kisses, a man who knew his liege lord all too well.

"She is a Stark. She likely follows the Old Gods, and the Faith will not look kindly on that. We cannot afford to provoke the Citadel. Their influence in the Reach is considerable, and we risk losing the support of some Houses there. The South may also prove difficult for her. The climate, the customs, even the food, everything would be unfamiliar. It might be more than just uncomfortable, it could be isolating. That is why I believe Lady Cersei or Lady Tully would be more suitable matches." Ser Darry said with composure, before turning his gaze to his companion. "Brother Oswell, what is your opinion ?"

Oswell considered the question before speaking. "From a strictly strategic perspective, Lady Tully is the most advantageous choice, my Prince. However, there is a complication. It involves a certain incident between her and Lord Tully’s ward, Petyr Baelish, a youth from a lesser house."

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. "What kind of incident ?" 

Oswell nodded slightly and explained. "Petyr Baelish challenged Brandon Stark to a duel for Lady Catelyn’s hand. It was reckless. Brandon Stark is a trained swordsman, a leader of men raised to be the future Lord of the North, while Baelish was little more than a frail boy with no real combat training. The outcome was never in doubt. He survived only because Catelyn Tully pleaded with her betrothed to spare his life. He will bear the scars for the rest of his days."

He paused a moment before continuing. "What troubles me is not the duel itself, but Lady Lysa’s reaction. She was deeply shaken, far more than one might expect for the injuries of a mere ward. Her attachment to Baelish is... unusual. I cannot say exactly what passed between them, but I believe it would be unwise to ignore it."

Rhaegar remained seated, elbows on his knees, his fingers laced tightly together. His gaze was fixed on the ground, but his voice cut through the heavy air of the tent.

"So, let me get this straight... I have four choices. Cersei Lannister, whose ambition knows no limits. Lysa Tully, who might be in love with another man. Daena Velaryon, daughter of the man who holds my child prisoner. And Lyanna Stark, who may soon be promised to Robert Baratheon who would likely call for my head if I choose her. Four choices, and none without risk. Seven Hells, I’m truly spoiled for options. You’ve all been so incredibly helpful."

A tense silence followed, until Ser Barristan offered quietly,

"My Prince," Ser Barristan suggested calmly, "perhaps you could seek the Queen’s wisdom and counsel on this matter ?"

Rhaegar closed his eyes, drew a breath, and let the storm inside him settle. "You’re right. Thank you, Ser Barristan."

He addressed the room, his voice quiet now. "You may return to your duties. We will speak again once I have made my decision."

The men bowed and exited the tent one by one, leaving the Prince alone with his thoughts.

Rhaegar approached his mother’s royal tent, seeking her guidance in a moment of uncertainty. Inside, he found her seated among her ladies-in-waiting, sipping tea and exchanging the latest courtly rumours, deepening her knowledge of the Realm’s Lords and Ladies. This was the true Queen he had always known, graceful and commanding. Not the distant figure wrapped in silence and ceremony at court, but a woman of resilience, who had survived the deaths of many of her children and the madness of her husband more than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms, yet still carried herself with dignity and embodying the true spirit of a dragon.

"Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne." announced Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, known to all as the White Bull.

The tent fell quiet. The Ladies rose, bowing respectfully as protocol demanded. Rhaegar stepped forward and greeted his mother with the formal reverence owed to her rank.

"My Queen."

"Son, I thought you would be preparing for tomorrow’s tourney."

"I should be, Your Grace. But I hope to speak with you, if I may."

"Then Ladies, you heard him. Give us a moment of privacy, please."

He waited for the room to be completely empty, feeling the lingering weight of Cersei Lannister’s hungry gaze as she departed with the other ladies-in-waiting and handmaids. Once alone, he let himself fall heavily into the nearest chair, as if the burden he carried had finally caught up with him left him with no strength to stand.

Rhaegar closed his eyes for a brief moment before speaking. "I know I should be preparing, Mother, but I needed to speak with you. The tourney can wait." He paused, the words heavy on his tongue, as if saying them aloud made everything more real. "Everything is pressing down on me. The Crown… My worries for Elia. For our children. I am tired, Mother..."

His mother reached across the space between them and gently took his hand in hers. Her face, usually so composed, softened with quiet worry. "Speak to me, Rhaegar. What weighs on your heart ?"

Rhaegar nervously played with the rings on his fingers, gathering the courage to speak. "I cannot keep doing this, Mother. I feel like I am standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall with no hope of climbing back up… If I fall, the Seven Kingdoms fall with me. There will be rebellion, slaughter, death, rape, plague, and ruin. Oaths will be broken. Our House will be reduced to ash. We survived the Doom, but I fear we may not survive this age. I am afraid, Mother. Truly afraid. I do not know how much longer I can carry this weight."

His mother listened in silence, her gaze steady and full of understanding. She had long known the burdens that came with wearing a crown and loving those who must bear it. When she spoke, her voice was gentle but firm. "My son, you are not alone. The weight of the Crown is heavy, yes, but you were never meant to carry it alone. Our House has endured sickness, death, madness and war, and still we endure. You are strong, Rhaegar. And more importantly, you are kind. The people love you because they see that you are not your father. You will forge your own legacy, and I believe it will be a great one. Never forget that you have my love and my faith, always."

Her words settled over him like a balm, soothing the ache in his chest. Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, as if something invisible had lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you, Mother. Your words give me hope, even when everything else feels lost."

She smiled at him, warmth shining in her eyes. "Always, my son. Always."

After a moment of silence, Rhaegar straightened slightly in his seat, the weight on his shoulders still present but tempered by his mother’s comforting presence. Her calm was a balm to his unrest, and in her presence, he allowed himself to be just a son seeking guidance.

"I came because I need your wisdom regarding my future bride." Rhaegar confessed.

"Of course, my son. What are your options ?" his mother asked.

"We have narrowed it down to four choices. Lady Cersei Lannister, Lady Lysa Tully, Lady Daena Velaryon, and Lady Lyanna Stark."

"Simple," his mother replied without hesitation. "I will never have Joanna's daughter as my daughter-in-law. My blood will not be tainted by Lannisters."

Rhaegar let out a small, knowing chuckle. If there was one thing his parents had ever agreed on, it was their shared disdain for the Lannisters.

"So, you must decide between the other three. Your advisors surely have their opinions on the matter, but what do you think ?" she asked, her voice warm and steady.

She searched his face for an answer, but all she saw was the same quiet torment that never seemed to leave him. A silence that had grown more familiar with each passing moon, etched into the lines of his brow and the distant look in his eyes.

He stayed silent for a long moment, eyes fixed on the floor of his mother's tent. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, but tinged with something raw.

"I’ve spoken with her."

"Who ? Cersei ?" his mother asked, her voice edged with concern.

"No. Lady Stark."

"Oh ? Did she come to you ?" she asked suspiciously.

"No. We met by chance."

"Are you sure it wasn’t arranged somehow ?" she asked again, clearly unconvinced.

"Yes, Mother. I’m sure. Don’t worry."

She gave a small nod, though the doubt lingered in her eyes. "Very well. And what did you think of her ?"

Rhaegar took a deep breath. His hands had stilled, and there was a different weight in his voice now. "She reminded me of you."

His mother raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"You share something in your strength," he continued. "Not loud or proud, but quiet and unshakable. She’s not afraid of Robert’s temper, or the shame he might bring her. What frightens her is the idea of being forgotten. Of vanishing between duty and desire, of becoming someone she no longer recognizes."

He paused, jaw clenched slightly. "She doesn’t deserve the life waiting for her."

His mother was quiet for a moment, absorbing his words. Then she smiled softly, thoughtfully.

"She sounds like quite the young Lady. The She-Wolf of Winterfell, indeed."

"A fitting name," Rhaegar replied, and for the first time since stepping into his mother’s tent, a faint, genuine smile curved his lips.

"Do you think she will be a good bride for you ? Is there something that makes you hesitate ?" his mother inquired.

Rhaegar looked away, his jaw tightening. The answer was not simple. Feelings warred with duty inside him, and for a moment, he struggled to find the words. Deep down, he knew she was not the wisest choice for the Realm.

"How can I do that to her ?" Rhaegar's anger took hold of him. "Send her into a viper's nest, surrounded by traitors and nobles who will disrespect and insult her. She won’t even have the comfort of knowing her firstborn son will be the future King. Tell me, Mother, how can I do that to her ?"

His mother looked at him, surprised by his outburst, but then a look of understanding and amusement crossed her face, as if she knew something he didn't.

"Tell me, my sweet little Prince..."

"Mother ! You know I have two children." Rhaegar interrupted, annoyed at being referred to by his childhood nickname.

"Hush ! You will always be my sweet little Prince. Now, if you're so worried about her freedom, tell me: do you think she will have more freedom as the Crown Princess of Westeros or as the wife of that whore-hungry nephew of mine ?"

He didn't respond, remaining silent. She continued, her voice filled with love and encouragement,

"You will treat her better than he ever could, you know that. So do not be afraid, my son. Make your decision."

She looked at him with quiet affection and calm assurance. Coming to her had been the right choice.

"Given the state of the Realm, your options are far from simple. The Lion will plunge the kingdoms into war the moment the question of your succession arises. The Fish have grown bold, forgetting who elevated them to Wardens of the Trident. Their lands are strategic, yes, but their army is weak, and their bloodline lacks the prestige of other Great Houses. As for House Velaryon, their fleet is strong and their blood is of ancient Valyria, but their loyalty lies with the King, not with you. As for the girl, I can find no fault in her, yet I have heard whispers that she suffers from a delicate constitution. As for the Wolf, he remains distant, unconcerned with matters beyond his territory for centuries. His people do not follow the Seven, the Faith will not look kindly on that. And the Stark... They love nothing beyond the Neck. But they are honourable,  to a fault. When a Stark gives his word, he keeps it, son, until death, if needed." 

Rhaegar blinked, caught off guard by the sharp clarity of her analysis. He stared at her, momentarily speechless.

"Don’t look at me like that," she said with a quiet, satisfied smile. "Where do you think your political instincts come from ?"

Rhaegar allowed himself a faint smirk. "Then lend me that political mind, Mother. What do you think of the candidates ?"

"Gladly, my dear," she replied, straightening her posture with quiet grace. Her voice grew sharper, more measured, this was the Queen, not just his mother. "Cersei Lannister… the lioness, the so-called Light of the West," she said, her tone dry with sarcasm. "She is indeed Tywin’s daughter, clever, proud, and dangerous. But I’ll say it again; I do not want her as my daughter-in-law. If she bears you a son, she will fight for his right to rule, even if it tears the Realm apart. She would make a poor Queen and an even worse mother; she has too much of her mother in her.

Rhaegar nodded, thoughtful. "And what of Lady Lysa ?"

"Lady Lysa will fulfill her duties, obedient, quiet, she will never cause trouble. As long as her father's ward remains far from court,everything should be fine." Her expression darkened slightly. "I have reservations about her father. He is arrogant and his loyalty shifts with the wind. Do you not agree ? "

Rhaegar acknowledged his mother's point about Lord Tully before asking about Lady Velaryon.

His mother’s expression hardened, though her voice remained measured and calculating. "Lord Velaryon’s loyalty lies first and foremost with your father, and by his command he keeps our dear Rhaenys as a hostage. That makes him both dangerous and potentially useful. A marriage to his daughter could bind his House to you and perhaps secure Rhaenys’s release. It is no small thing… poor child…"

"She has written to me. She says she is well and treated kindly, at least there is that. She misses me, her mother, and you. She speaks often of her little brother and says she longs to see us again, even if she admits she is enjoying herself there."

"That is some comfort," Rhaella said softly, her voice carrying both relief and lingering worry. "It eases my heart to know she is treated kindly, though it does not lessen the ache of her absence. A child should never have to endure such a thing."

"Happily, she is too young to understand, or to feel like a hostage," Rhaegar replied, though his tone betrayed a shadow of unease. He did not wish to linger on the thought of his daughter’s fate. "Tell me," he asked, seizing upon another subject, "What of Lady Daena ?"

“Lady Daena herself is a fine young woman, well-educated, graceful, and learned in the manners of the court. She is said to possess the beauty common to her house, with the silver hair  of old Valyria and sea-blue eyes. She would adapt easily to life in the Red Keep, and few could find fault in her conduct. The Velaryons command the one of the largest fleets in Westeros, after the Ironborn and the Redwynes, and their Valyrian blood would silence any who dared question the match. But remember, my son, binding yourself to them means dealing with a man whose loyalty lies with your father today… but who might one day be persuaded to shift that loyalty toward you."

"Choosing the Velaryons may be a good idea after all… What about Lady Lyanna ?"

"The Light of the North, the She-Wolf of Winterfell, wild, young, and free," his mother began, her voice calm yet tinged with caution. "She is not yet ready for the Court or the Red Keep. She would need careful instruction in etiquette and the customs of the South. Yet she is cherished without reserve by her three brothers, by her father, and by every soul in the North. If you were to choose her, their loyalty would be yours. The Starks are bound by honour above all else, and once they have given their word, they will not break it."

Rhaegar inclined his head, turning over her words in silence before speaking. "I know the Starks will never forget an oath," he said. "But their affection for our House is thin, and I doubt sending the only Stark daughter to the Red Keep would serve their interests."

"That is not the only difficulty, and you are well aware of it. Robert will not take kindly to such a match, and if the whispers are true, Lady Lyanna will not either. To stand beside the Crown, she would have to transform herself into a model Crown Princess and one day a Queen. I cannot imagine her taking pleasure in such a life."

Her reasoning struck a chord. In the little he knew of Lyanna, he saw a spirit that would wither in King’s Landing. The elaborate games of the court would earn nothing but her disdain, and he could not bring himself to condemn her to such a fate.

"Lady Daena or Lady Lysa are your best options, Rhaegar, if you think of what the Realm needs," his mother said, her gaze steady and knowing. "But follow your heart, Rhaegar. If you want one of them as your bride, then take her. You are a dragon, be a dragon. Take what you want."

A slow smile tugged at his lips as an image formed in his mind. "It would be a sight to see Robert’s face if I chose Lyanna." he murmured, the thought drawing a rare, genuine laugh from his throat.

"Yes," Rhaella replied, eyes alight with amusement, "and I imagine angering your cousin would be a delightful bonus, I am sure."

"Do not forget that gaining the North’s loyalty is also no small advantage."

"Of course, son, of course." She leaned back slightly, the faintest glimmer of pride in her eyes.

"Is there something else you wish to tell me, Mother?"

"No, nothing," she said, though her smirk betrayed her. "But you should go and train for the tourney, Rhaegar. I fully expect to be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty."

He arched a brow, pretending to weigh her words. "It will not be an easy task, my Queen."

"Do you think Ser Arthur or Ser Barristan will defeat you ?" she asked, genuine surprise flickering across her features.

"No," he said, his tone carrying the quiet certainty of his bloodline. "I will win."

"Then what is the difficulty, Rhaegar ?"

"Well," he replied with mock solemnity, "You are already Queen, Mother. Should you not grant the honour to someone else ?"

Her hand shot out to swat the air in his direction, her laughter soft but warm. "Ungrateful son. Get out of my tent before I decide to have you flogged."

"As you wish, my Queen," he said with a smirk, giving her an overly elaborate bow, the silver of his hair catching the sunlight. "Now, I am going to train so that you may keep your crown."

She watched him go, shaking her head, though her smile lingered long after the tent flap had fallen closed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 : A Dangerous Game

Lyanna

Lyanna stood in the small clearing that had become their secret meeting place, whispering reminders to herself to be patient as she awaited the Prince’s arrival. Patience, however, had never come easily to her. Weeks had passed without the freedom of riding, and each day the longing gnawed at her more fiercely. Her father had forbidden it, insisting that in the South it was not proper for a Lady to ride a horse as she did in the North. She had surrendered her favourite pastime only to soothe the pride of some old-fashioned noble, and the sacrifice stung like a constant wound.

Ashara’s company had made the wait more bearable. The Lady was beautiful and clever, her laughter bright enough to banish Lyanna’s darker moods. She loved Ashara’s spirit, so unmistakably Dornish even beneath all the polish and propriety of a true courtly Lady. The spirit of Dorne still in her, no matter how carefully it was veiled.

Ashara’s brother was another matter entirely. He was the very image of what a true knight should be: strong and loyal, though he turned into a merciless monster when it came to training. Lyanna’s body carried the memory of every blow and every fall. Her arms and legs throbbed, her shoulders felt like stone, and each movement sent little stabs of pain racing through her. She felt as stiff and clumsy as a walking stick, her whole body one single ache. Still, beneath the soreness there lingered a strange pride, for she had endured, and part of her longed to endure it again.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the heavy sound of hooves breaking through the stillness of the woods. Out of the shadows emerged two horses, and one of them immediately stole her breath. A massive black stallion, broad-shouldered and fierce, even from a distance, Lyanna knew this was no ordinary horse. It was meant for jousting or for war.

"His name is Aeron," the Prince said as he drew near, his voice calm though his grip on the reins was firm. "He is a little wild, but he is a good boy."

"My Prince," she greeted, her eyes fixed more on the stallion than on him. "Hi there ! Look at you, you are magnificent." She reached out a hand, her touch light against the animal’s neck. The stallion’s response was immediate and furious, a sharp neigh that echoed through the trees as he tossed his head.

"Aeron, calm down !" Rhaegar commanded, pulling the reins tighter. His gaze snapped to her, worry flashing in his violet eyes. "Beware, Lyanna !"

The great stallion shuddered once, then stilled. His breath came hard and hot against her palm, but the ire in his eyes dimmed under her gentle touch. In a few heartbeats, the stallion who had terrified squires and stableboys in King’s Landing bowed his head to her caress.

Rhaegar watched in silence, astonished. Aeron had thrown off knights stronger than him, yet here he was, quiet under the hand of a northern girl. "You truly have a gift." he said at last, wonder in his voice

Lyanna turned to him, a proud gleam in her grey eyes. "I am not the best rider in the North for nothing." she replied, her words edged with arrogance though softened by a playful smile

"Then it is time to show me your skills with her," he said, gesturing toward the second horse that stood gracefully behind the black stallion. This one was smaller, its frame elegant and refined, built not for battle but for speed. Its body was slender and poised, and Lyanna could already tell it would run like the wind itself. The creature’s beauty took her breath away: its pure white coat shimmered in the dim light, reminding her so vividly of the endless snows of Winterfell that her chest tightened with longing.

"Her name is Sōna," Rhaegar explained softly, as though even the horse deserved reverence. "In Valyrian it means snow.’"

"She’s… I have never seen anything like her." Lyanna murmured, almost forgetting the Prince’s presence as her fingers itched to touch the animal.

"Yes, she is unique, just like Aeron. Both come from Essos. A wealthy merchant of Volantis gifted them to me five years ago." he replied. As he spoke, his hand moved along Aeron’s strong neck in slow, practiced strokes, and Lyanna found herself staring. For a fleeting moment he seemed less like a man of flesh and more like the kind of Prince sung of in old ballads, noble, strong, brave, handsome and gallant.

"Then shall we, my Lady ?" he asked with the faintest smile.

"Lyanna." she corrected, meeting his eyes with stubborn pride.

His smile deepened, softer this time. "My apologies. Then shall we, Lyanna ?"

"Yes, let us go," she said quickly, eager to ride. She placed a foot to mount, but the sudden sting of pain from her morning training made her falter, her body locking up as though in protest. "Bloody Dayne." she hissed through her teeth, but not quietly enough. The Prince’s chuckle answered her.

"He can be a little merciless when it comes to training, can he not ?" he said, his voice laced with amusement.

She shot him a sharp glare. "Stop laughing at me and help me." she demanded, embarrassed at being caught so vulnerable.

"Ordering the Prince, have we truly seen it all ?" he teased, tilting his head.

"We are friends, are we not ?" she countered quickly, her tone half a challenge, half a plea.

"Of course," he said at once. He stepped closer, closing the space between them, his hand brushing against hers as he steadied her by the waist. The warmth of his touch lingered far more than it should have, and for a heartbeat, Lyanna forgot the ache in her muscles. "So allow me to help you." he finished, his voice low, almost intimate.

She let him guide her into the saddle, her heart beating faster than the horse beneath her.

After he mounted his own horse in silence, they set off together, the wind rushing through their hair and the steady rhythm of hoofbeats echoing all around them. Lyanna’s heart beat faster with every stride, though it had less to do with the ride itself than with the memory of the Prince’s touch and the unspoken bond that seemed to grow between them.

They rode side by side until, some moments later, Rhaegar slowed his stallion to a walking pace. Lyanna, surprised, urged Sōna closer. "Why are we slowing down ?" she asked.

"I only wished to speak with my new friend." he answered with a small smile, and the warmth of it unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She cursed herself for being so weak in his presence. Many men had smiled at her before, but none had ever made her heart race or her cheeks flush like this one. It is only because he is a Prince, she told herself, though the excuse rang hollow.

Timidly, she asked, "What do you want to talk about?"

"I could not help but notice how tired you seemed after Arthur’s training. I have trained with him many times. He is more demon than an instructor, if you ask me," the Prince added. "Tell me, how was it ?" His eyes searched her face, the concern in them both unexpected and, in some way, irritating her.

Lyanna stiffened. The question pricked her pride. If she had been one of her brothers, he never would have asked it. The hint of amusement in his expression only vexed her further.

The hint of amusement in his expression only vexed her further. "Not that hard." she snapped back, her pride bristling at the thought of being underestimated simply because she was a woman.

"You know, Lyanna, you are rather cute when you are angry, " he teased, his voice mocking and soft all at once.

Her face burned with embarrassment and indignation. How dare this princeling mock me ! Before she knew what she was doing, she lashed out, striking him on the shoulder.

The instant her hand connected, she froze. She had actually hit him. Words stumbled on her lips, apologies she could not form, leaving her stammering incoherently.

Rhaegar burst into laughter, the sound rich and unrestrained. "You struck your future King ! By the gods, you are truly remarkable, Lyanna."

"My Prince…" she managed at last, her voice unsteady.

"I will forgive this act of treason," he said with exaggerated solemnity, though his eyes gleamed with amusement, "if you agree to grant me a favour in return."

Still flustered, she blurted, "Alright, I will do it. What do you want from me?"

He leaned back in his saddle, smirk tugging at his lips. "But who said anything about claiming it now?" His voice was full of mischief. "For now, let us speak instead of Arthur’s training."

"It was an incredible experience. In a single session with Ser Arthur, I learned more about swordsmanship than in all my previous practices combined. He is an unmatched knight. If you were to ask him to train Prince Aegon, I have no doubt your son would grow into a formidable warrior."

Rhaegar’s expression softened, though a shadow crossed his eyes, for he knew his son would never be a warrior with his weak constitution. "I am afraid it is not that simple." he replied.

Lyanna tilted her head, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"The sword of House Dayne is not something that can be handed down like a lesson in arms," he said slowly. "Arthur can train others as he has trained you. He can correct their stance, give them counsel, teach them the Dornish way, or the style of the Westerlands. But all of his knowledge, all of his mastery, he reserves for a single chosen disciple. Only to that one will he entrust the whole of his art, the mind as well as the body, discipline as much as strength."

"But he is a Kingsguard," Lyanna pressed. "Can you not simply order him to do it?"

"I could," Rhaegar admitted, "but before being a Kingsguard, he is my friend." His tone carried such sincerity, such quiet conviction, that Lyanna understood at once the depth of the bond between the Last Dragon and the Sword of the Morning. It went far beyond any rumour. They were not merely a Prince and his knight, they were more like brothers.

Maybe it was the same kind of bond for her own brother Ned and Robert Baratheon. That closeness, that brotherhood, perhaps made Ned blind to Robert’s flaws, or at least too willing to forgive them. And perhaps it was also the reason why he longed so fiercely to see her wed to Robert. For Ned, it was not only the union of two houses, but the sealing of a friendship. With her marriage, he and Robert would be bound in blood as well. 

Lyanna felt a twinge of guilt for her earlier suggestion. "He seems a man worthy of your friendship," she said at last, a faint smile on her lips. "Even if he is a little too in love with swords."

"Yes, you are right." He smiled, his eyes glinting. "And what about the rest of your day ? Did you simply lie in bed, too weary to stand ?" he teased softly.

"Very funny, Targaryen. No, I actually made a new friend today."

"You made a friend ?" Rhaegar asked, his expression unreadable. "Who is it ?"

"Lady Ashara Dayne."

"Oh, Ashara," he said. "She was the Lady-in-Waiting to my wife, former wife and of course Ser Arthur’s sister. She is a remarkable woman. You chose well, Lyanna."

"My first friend from the South." Lyanna replied brightly, pride flickering in her eyes.

"Do not forget someone."

"No, why ?"

"You wound me deeply, Stark."

"My first female friend," she corrected, her voice dripping with mockery. "Do not weep like a maiden, Targaryen."

"You will regret that, Lyanna." he warned, his tone playfully grim. With exaggerated slowness he reached out as if to push her from the saddle. Lyanna laughed, her grey eyes flashing, and with a sharp tug on the reins she spurred Sōna forward.

"You will have to catch me for that, Last Dragon !" she cried, her voice ringing like a challenge through the trees. The sound echoed among the branches as the two horses broke into a gallop.

Aeron thundered behind her, huge and powerful, but Sōna was quicker, her white coat flashing between the shadows of the wood like a streak of light. Lyanna bent low over her steed, exhilaration burning through her veins. She was certain that no rider in the world could match her.

Yet when she risked a glance behind, the silver-haired prince was still there, riding with astonishing skill, urging his warhorse to keep pace with her. For a heartbeat, she felt the thrill of true competition, as if the world itself had narrowed to just the two of them, racing through wind and shadow.

At last, Lyanna pulled her mare to a halt on the banks of the lake, breathless and laughing. The water shimmered under the fading light, still and endless before them.

"I won," she declared, cheeks flushed, her joy as radiant as the landscape around them. "I won, Rhaegar.”

“Yes." he laughed softly in return. "You won, Lyanna." When he smiled at her, her heart skipped a beat, something her damn heart seemed to do more and more often in his presence. Then, without warning, he took her hand. "Come with me. I know a place."

She could only nod, unable to find her voice. All her thoughts were consumed by the warmth of his hand, the feel of his skin against hers. They walked along the lakeshore until he led her to a secluded corner hidden beneath the trees.

It was a haven of peace, untouched and secret. Tall trees formed a canopy overhead, their branches weaving a shade that was cool and green. The ground was carpeted with soft moss, as though the forest itself had prepared a seat for them. The water shimmered in shades of blue so clear one could see fish gliding lazily beneath the surface. Along the banks, wildflowers swayed in the breeze, their colours bright against the stillness. The air was filled with the murmur of the water and the songs of unseen birds, as if the whole place had been waiting for them, hidden away from the rest of the world.

"It’s beautiful," she whispered, breathless. "How did you find it?"

"I came across it a few days ago." he said, still holding her hand as he gestured toward the distant Isle of Faces. His voice lowered as he began to speak of the Children of the Forest. Lyanna already knew the tale, but something in her made her want to hear it again,  because it was his voice telling it.

"The Children of the Forest are said to have carved the faces of their gods into the weirwoods on the Isle of Faces. That is how the island gained its name. It was there, legend says, that they made their pact with the First Men, ending a war and beginning an age of peace in Westeros."

"Read this in a book ?" she teased gently, recalling his love of reading.

"Yes and no," he answered with a touch of mystery. Lowering himself to the ground, he unfurled his cape beside him. "Sit here, Lyanna. You will not stain your robe."

"Thank you. That is very thoughtful of you." she said, settling at his side. The moss was soft beneath her, but it was the nearness of him that made her pulse quicken. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

“I learned most of this legend from books, but some parts I heard from the smallfolk, while hiding myself and my condition.”

"The smallfolk?" she asked in disbelief.

"Yes. If you truly wish to understand a land, you must listen to those who live upon it every day. The customs of its regions, the stories that never reach the halls of Lords, the way people live and endure, these are things no book can teach."

"Not all nobles would agree with you."

"That is true. Many nobles believe the smallfolk to be ignorant, but they are not. Most have simply never had the chance to learn reading or writing. That does not make them fools. They are not as privileged as we highborn, and that is the only difference."

Lyanna was struck by his words. He was a Prince, the heir to the throne, yet he spoke with compassion for those beneath him. More than compassion, he spoke with respect. He was indeed a good man, though if the rumours were true, he was born of a monster. "You are right," she admitted. "I was only surprised that you would seek the company of the lowborn. You are a Prince, and the King’s heir."

His face grew distant, his features solemn, his eyes brooding as he gazed at the horizon. It was the same expression her brother Ned sometimes wore when burdened by thoughts he would not share.

"I know that royalty must deal with nobles in order to reign," he said at last, "but the smallfolk are far more numerous. The Lords may rule from their castles, but the true roots of Westeros lie in the people. If I ignore them to satisfy the vanity of the Lords, I would be condemning them to hunger, to sickness and to despair. Like my ancestor, the Good Queen Alysanne, I want to rule for them as much as for the nobility. That, to me, is the duty of a King."

Lyanna was impressed by his resolve.

"It is quite an ambitious goal you have set for yourself…" she said softly.

"Yes. It is not only what I want, but what I must do if I am ever to end the tyranny of my father," he answered, his tone weighted with emotion. "Do not look at me that way, Lyanna. I know my words sound traitorous, but the only ones who do not see my father as a terrible King are his loyal dogs."

"In the North, we have heard of your father’s new obsession…" Lyanna began carefully.

Rhaegar said nothing. His gaze fell to the ground, his silence filled with guilt.

"The only mercy in his cruelty," she continued after a pause, "is that his fury is aimed at the Lords and not at the lowborn."

"Yes, but remember this," he said at last, his voice low and solemn, “it is the highborn who command the armies and who could rise in rebellion."

"Rebel ? No. They will never rebel, Rhaegar. They swore oaths." Lyanna declared with all the conviction of her northern blood.

He raised his eyes to her, and for a moment she saw not only weariness but a shadow of sorrow. "I wish I could be as certain as you are…"

Rhaegar

Rhaegar looked at Lyanna with a pained expression, he hesitated, knowing his words would be hard for her to hear.

"I wish I could be as certain as you are, Lyanna. But with each passing day, the Seven Kingdoms grow more unstable. Murmurs of discord stir in every corner of the Realm, and I fear that my father’s actions will only make things worse."

He drew in a deep breath, his eyes drifting toward the still waters of the lake, as if seeking answers in its depths. "Do you see all the alliances being forged through marriages and connections within the Seven Kingdoms? None of them include House Targaryen."

Lyanna frowned. "What do you mean? Is it not natural for the great Houses to wed one another ?"

"It is natural," he conceded, "but when you look at the realm as a whole, the truth is more troubling. All Houses are sworn to House Targaryen, both great and small, yet in truth only one kingdom is bound to us by blood. And now, with my marriage annulled, tensions rise in Dorne. Blood is stronger than any vow, Lyanna. That is why I know Dorne will stand with me. But it is also the reason I fear the rest."

Lyanna’s voice softened. "Why are you afraid ?"

Rhaegar met her gaze, his purple eyes clouded with sorrow. He hesitated, knowing that the truth would weigh heavily on her. "If you were to wed my cousin Robert, and your brother were to take Lady Tully as his wife, the North, the Stormlands, and the Riverlands would be bound together by blood. And if you add to that the almost fatherly affection Lord Arryn bears for both Robert and your brother Eddard, then it would not be three Houses united, but four and all of them could stand against us."

Lyanna shook her head, her voice rising in protest. "You cannot truly believe that..."

Rhaegar cut her short, his tone sharper, more urgent. "It is always possible, Lyanna. The whispers have long been there. Before my annulment was known, there were rumours that Lord Tywin sought to wed his daughter to Edmure Tully, heir of Riverrun. That would have sealed yet another bond beyond our reach. And still it is not over. Lysa Tully may yet be given to Lord Arryn, or worse, to Ser Jaime. Do you not see? Step by step, the great Houses draw together, and none of them bind themselves to the crown."

He paused, his gaze turning back to her with a kind of solemn reverence. "That is why I am afraid, Lyanna. Because blood is stronger than oaths, and one day it may unite them all against my own House."

Rhaegar could see the storm rising in Lyanna’s eyes as he spoke of the alliances her father, Lord Rickard Stark, had forged throughout Westeros.

"I cannot believe my father would do such a thing !" she burst out, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white. "To think he would turn against the Targaryens after all these years, impossible !"

Rhaegar held her gaze with quiet understanding, though he did not speak at once. He knew her anger was born of love and loyalty for her family, yet he also knew the truth was more tangled than she wished to admit.

"Tell me then," Rhaegar said, his voice low, bitterness threading through his words. "Since when has the North been so entangled with the South? There was a time when the Lord of Winterfell never set foot beyond the Neck. Yet now look, all of the Starks are in the South, involved in the very schemes you claim to despise. So tell me, what am I supposed to believe ?"

"I do not want to hear it, Rhaegar," she snapped. "I will not believe my father is capable of betraying the Targaryens. The Starks have honour. Unlike these southern Houses, who break oaths and promises without a thought, and feel no shame for it."

Rhaegar’s expression softened, though sorrow clouded his eyes. "Lyanna, you must try to see. Political choices are not always born of treachery. Perhaps your father believes these marriages will strengthen the North, or even bring joy to you and your brother. I cannot know his heart… but not every decision made in the North is born of honour. Sometimes they are made in desperation, in hope or in greed."

But before he could say more, Lyanna cut him short, her anger blazing.

"You believe the honour of my House and of the North is nothing more than a legend, my Prince? Then what of the madness of the Targaryens?"

"No, Lyanna. But you must see the truth. The fact that many in your House have been honourable does not mean all of them are. And the fact that some in mine have fallen into madness does not condemn us all."

Rhaegar sighed. He knew how stubborn she was, yet he hoped that one day she would understand the weight of politics, the harsh choices that rulers were forced to make.

For now, he forced himself to believe in coincidence. His mother, his counsellors, even he himself had always trusted in the famous Stark honour. History seemed to prove it. And yet unease gnawed at him. Why were the Starks drawn so far into the South? Did this generation still carry the same honour as their ancestors ? Something felt wrong, even if he did not wish to believe it.

Lyanna shook her head, her jaw set with defiance. "I cannot believe my father would ever abandon his honour for politics. The Starks have always kept their oaths, and I will not allow anyone to tarnish our legacy."

Rhaegar’s face remained composed, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. He understood her loyalty was unshakable, yet he also knew the truth was far more tangled than she could yet imagine.

"My father may have forged alliances with other Houses," Lyanna insisted, "but that does not mean he would betray the Targaryens. We are not like those southern lords who weave their intrigues and break their promises without shame. The Starks stand by their word, and we always will."

Her voice rang with passion, fierce and unyielding. She defended her family’s honour with a fire that left no room for doubt or compromise.

How could she place such absolute faith in her father?

"I hope so, Lyanna. I truly hope…" Rhaegar murmured at last, his voice trailing into silence.

*Lyanna’s anger was palpable as she snapped at him. "Why do you hope ? Do you truly believe my father will betray you ?" Her disappointment and frustration sharpened her tone as she rose to her feet and added coldly, "Is that what you believe, Your Grace ?"

Rhaegar rose as well, the anger in his voice seemed to meet hers. "Then what am I supposed to believe, Lyanna ? Tell me. If it is not treason, what else am I to think ?" He could feel the fire of his temper stirring, though he tried desperately to master it. He did not want his fury to drive her from him.

Lyanna’s eyes burned with defiance. "My father acts only in the best interests of the North."

"And what if he decides that the best interests of the North no longer lie with House Targaryen ? What then, Lyanna ? Your family once had honour, yes, but I see little of it now."

"My father will never do that. He is a good man, and a good Lord. You cannot say the same of your father, can you, Your Grace ?"

Her words struck like a blade. Rhaegar had always known the truth of his father’s cruelty, yet hearing it spoken aloud so plainly wounded him more than he would ever admit. However, he was still a Targaryen, and his anger rose as the blood of the dragon in him awakened.

"A good man ? Then tell me, Lyanna, what kind of man would sell his only daughter to a whore-hungry bastard like Robert Baratheon ?"

"A better man than one who accuses everyone of dishonour without proof. A better man than one who allows his own father to burn people alive."

Her retort struck harder than she could know. It touched the rawest wound in him, the guilt that gnawed at his soul every time his father’s madness claimed another victim while he stood by, helpless to intervene.

"Do you think I want to stand and watch ?" His voice broke with anger and grief. "I have no choice. He is the King ! One word from him and I am dead, and without me, Westeros would fall into chaos."

Remorse darkened his eyes even as rage poured from his lips. "I am the only thing holding the Realm together now.

"I am…"

"Don’t say it. Don’t say you’re sorry. I don’t need your pity, Lady Stark."

"It is not pity," she cut in, her voice trembling. "It is only… regret for my words, my Prince. I tend to be harsh sometimes."

Rhaegar felt the silence stretch between them, suffocating, thick with all the truths neither dared to speak. His chest tightened, each breath harder than the last. She was looking at him with those storm-grey eyes, unflinching, daring him, almost provoking him. And he, who had mastered himself for so long, felt control slipping away. The blood of the dragon roared in his veins, fire answering the call of her defiance.

He stepped closer without thinking, closing the space until his presence towered over her. He saw it then, the flicker in her eyes, the sharp inhale, the subtle stiffening of her shoulders. She felt the fire within him, she felt the dragon. For once, he was not a Prince or a father. He was only a man, carved in fury, pride, and desire.

"You should be afraid of me…" he whispered, not to frighten her but as a warning to himself. The words tasted like confession, heavy and bitter, for he knew too well the truth behind them. A desire burned in him like none he had ever felt before.

But instead of recoiling, she met him head on. Her lips curved into that infuriating, intoxicating smile, fragile at the edges yet unyielding in its defiance. "If you expect me to run, you are mistaken. I am no courtly maiden, Rhaegar. If you believe I should fear you, then prove me wrong."

His breath caught in his throat. For a single heartbeat the world shrank to nothing but her stare, her spirit, her wolf’s pride. He had wanted her. The temptation struck him like a blade to the chest, desire coursing through him like wildfire, and for the first time, he feared he might give in. He wanted to answer, to rise to her challenge, though reason told him it would mean ruin.

"You are playing a dangerous game, Lady Stark." Rhaegar whispered, his voice low and husky.

"Dangerous for whom?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with challenge.

"Lyanna…" Rhaegar’s voice trembled, barely audible. He was so close to her now that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his face. Every fibre of his being urged him to pull away, to regain control, yet he could not bring himself to do it. He was captivated by her presence, ensnared by her spell, and he did not want this moment to end.

He dared to dream that it might last forever, but the beautiful lady before him chose to shatter the spell in one of the most dreadful ways a man could imagine: by speaking of his marriage.

"Has your search for a bride progressed, my Prince ?" she asked. Her voice carried the illusion of indifference, but the flush in her cheeks and the way her eyes slipped from his betrayed her.

Rhaegar felt a pang of disappointment, a deep longing to avoid this subject altogether. He sighed and slowly drew back from her.

"We should sit once more," he said at last, gesturing toward his cape laid upon the ground where they had sat before. His voice was calm, but sorrow lingered in it. "My advisors have presented me with candidates. It seems I must make a choice soon."

"If I didn’t know you were talking about marriage, I would think you were describing a meal and what kind of meat you desire."

Rhaegar burst into laughter, and his mirth was quickly mirrored by Lyanna. She had succeeded where few others had, managing to draw genuine laughter from the Prince.

"Yes, in a way, I do merely seek women based on what they can offer me. It is my duty, I suppose, to ensure I bring no happiness to another wife." he remarked, his words dripping with sarcasm.

"I do not believe that," Lyanna said quickly. "You would not make anyone unhappy. You are… you are a desirable match." Her voice faltered at the last words, her cheeks betraying her with a faint blush.

"A desirable match?" Rhaegar arched a brow, his violet eyes gleaming with amusement. He could see the cracks in her usual boldness, the shy girl peeking through.

"You are the Crown Prince," she pressed, fumbling slightly. "No one but the King stands above you, and you are… you are quite…"

"I am what, Lyanna ?" he urged gently, savouring her discomfort.

"Quite comely, all right !" she blurted, her cheeks now scarlet.

Rhaegar’s smile deepened. He let himself enjoy her flustered honesty. "Thank you, Lyanna. I might say the same of you." he said smoothly, watching as her blush deepened further.

"You see, I do not believe any woman would ever be unhappy with you." the She-Wolf retorted, trying to recover her composure. Yet her tone betrayed a touch of nervous warmth that pleased him all the more.

"I cannot say I agree with you, Lyanna," Rhaegar sighed, his voice weighted with sorrow and resignation. "Look at Elia. In the beginning she seemed content, but the truth is that there was never love between us. Our marriage was built on duty, not affection. She longed for her home, yet remained imprisoned in the Red Keep, forced to endure the venom of the Court and the cruelty of my father. She was never happy, neither in the Red Keep nor at my side. Perhaps her only comfort lies in knowing that our son, Aegon, may one day sit the Iron Throne as Aegon the VI of His Name."

Most women in our world dream of nothing more than becoming the wife of a powerful man and bearing him heirs," Lyanna said softly. Her voice was gentle, as if she wished to shield him from his own guilt. "I cannot claim to know the true depths of Princess Elia’s heart, but perhaps she still found some fragments of happiness in her life.

"Perhaps," he conceded, though regret clung to every word. "But think of what has become of her. Her marriage annulled and it is widely known that she is unable to bear children due to complications from her last pregnancy. I cannot believe it was the life she imagined when she married me."

"It is the destiny of Ladies in our world, Rhaegar. We’re born to be a wife and mother. Our fates were chosen long before we could shape them ourselves." 

Her words did not tremble, yet the tightness he saw in her jaw betrayed the frustration simmering beneath her calm. She spoke as one who knew the truth of it, yet loathed it with all her heart.

"My future bride will not escape such a fate," Rhaegar continued, his gaze distant, his tone heavy with foreboding. "She will be confined within the poisoned walls of King’s Landing, surrounded by serpents. She will never have her husband's love and though she may be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, her children will never reign. They will remain in the shadows, princes and princesses hidden from the Crown’s light.Tell me, Lyanna, how can a woman find fulfilment in such a life ?"

The question hung in the air between them.

"I do not have an answer, my Prince," she said calmly, though her concern for her newfound friend was unmistakable. "Perhaps, if you chose someone who does not care who rules after you, or someone who loves you unconditionally, she might find solace in standing by your side."

Rhaegar gazed at her tenderly. She was still untainted by the manipulations of the noble Houses and the poison of the Court. 

 As if such a person could truly exist…

"Then you can also deceive her, Rhaegar," Lyanna said suddenly, as if she had heard his thoughts. "Pretend to care for her, seduce her, so that she remains loyal to you. With this, you will have nothing to fear."

"I will not do that to anyone. It is too cruel." Rhaegar said firmly, his voice low but steady.

Lyanna tilted her head, studying him with a faint, approving smile. "Good. That means you are not a bad man, and your future wife will find comfort in that."

For a while they stood together in silence, letting the stillness of the moment wash over them. The lake shimmered in the fading light, the whisper of leaves in the trees their only witness. Though no words were spoken, the weight of unspoken thoughts hung between them, pressing on both their hearts.

It was Lyanna who broke the quiet, her voice soft, tinged with melancholy. "I have to go. My father and brothers will be waiting for me." She hesitated for an instant, as if reluctant to leave, before looking away towards the path that would take her back.

Rhaegar’s heart sank for he knew how rare such moments were. "I understand, Lyanna," he said gently. "We cannot keep you out at night, especially with the rumours that would rise."

Yet even as he spoke, his eyes lingered on her, memorising the curve of her smile, the steel in her gaze, and the warmth she had shown him. He wished they could stay just here and forget the real world but such is not possible for Nobles.

"Thank you for understanding," she said, her voice carrying both gratitude and regret. "Our encounter has been… unexpected, but it will always hold a special place in my heart. Even when you are King, and I am Robert’s wife."

Rhaegar’s gaze lingered on her, purple eyes shadowed with something deeper than words. "Then may this moment remain ours alone, Lyanna," he answered softly. "A memory untouched by time, kept only between us."

Lyanna broke the heaviness with a sudden smile, mischief sparking in her grey eyes. "Before I go, my Prince, how about another little race ? We should part with laughter, not sorrow."

Rhaegar’s own smile spread across his face, embracing the challenge. "A race it is, my dear She-Wolf. But beware, I am not so easily defeated."

They positioned themselves side by side, adrenaline rushing through their veins. Lyanna’s voice rang out with determination. "Go !"

In an instant, their horses leapt forward, hooves pounding across the field. The wind tore through their hair, carrying with it the sound of their laughter. Their eyes met as they rode, a spark of rivalry flaring between them, but beneath it something unspoken lingered. It was more than a contest. It was a glimpse of what might have been in another reality…

Lyanna reached the clearing first, her cheeks flushed with triumph, her smile radiant. Rhaegar followed close behind, his chest heaving, but his amusement shining just as brightly as her victory.

Lyanna extended her hand, playful yet commanding. "Well, my Prince, it seems I’ve won fair and square. What favour shall you grant me as the loser ?"

Rhaegar laughed, taking her hand with princely grace, though he held it perhaps a heartbeat too long. "You have earned your victory, Lyanna. I am yours to command. Name your favour, and it shall be done."

Her eyes danced with mischief. "What did you say last time ? Ah, yes ! Let’s leave that for another day, Rhaegar. Until then, let this race remain a memory between us, something no one can take away."

Rhaegar’s smile faded into something gentler, more solemn. "Indeed," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. "Until we meet again, Lyanna. May the gods watch over you… and may they be merciful enough to let our paths cross once more."

With a final exchange of smiles, they bid each other farewell. Lyanna tightened her grip on the reins and urged her horse forward. Just as she was about to vanish into the distance, leaving him behind, a sudden surge of courage compelled Rhaegar to call out her name.

"Lyanna!"

She turned in the saddle, a hopeful smile playing on her lips, a smile she should not have worn, and yet one that struck him with a force he could not resist.

"You spoke earlier of seducing my future bride," Rhaegar said, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and anticipation. "Tell me, how does one go about it ?"

Lyanna paused, her cheeks flushing as she considered her answer. "It’s simple," she replied, her eyes glinting with mischief. "You give her a horse."

Rhaegar’s eyes widened at the unexpected answer, both surprised and intrigued, a blush still gracing her cheeks, Rhaegar remained standing alone. A foolish smile tugged at his lips, and for the first time in a long while  carrying a strange, newfound happiness in his heart.

Lyanna

As Lyanna rode back, a storm of thoughts swirled within her. She could not deny the exhilaration of being near Rhaegar, of sharing moments of  camaraderie and so strangely intimate. Yet reality pressed upon her like a weight she could not cast aside: Rhaegar was destined for another, fated to be the husband of a woman who would one day wear a crown. She herself was promised to Robert Baratheon. Their paths had already been drawn, and whatever her heart felt or not it had no future.

She knew all too well the disastrous consequences her attraction to Rhaegar could bring. The realm was already entangled in war and political intrigue, and any bond with the Targaryen prince would only bring misfortune

And yet, despite every reason that warned her away, the memory of his voice, his laughter, his gaze lingered in her mind like embers refusing to die. The shiver of excitement he left behind was not so easily silenced. She wondered if she could truly let go of that connection, that strange sense of understanding she had rarely felt with anyone before.

As the Stark tent came into view, Lyanna straightened in the saddle, her jaw set with resolve. She had to bury her feelings, from the peril such desires might awaken. And yet, despite her resolve, a single thought lingered in her mind, whether the stars themselves might conspire in their favour, and whether fate could still chart a path that allowed them to hope…

Chapter Text

Chapter 7 : A funny meal

Lyanna

Lyanna was pulled from sleep by a gentle but insistent voice.

"My Lady," whispered Jorelle, her loyal handmaid. "You must wake up. Lord Stark is calling for you."

Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment she was disoriented. The sunlight streamed into her chambers far too bright for such an early hour. She sat up abruptly, her heart sinking as she realized how late she had slept again. A daughter of Winterfell, oversleeping while others were already about their duties, it was shameful. Her brothers would never let her forget it. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she hurried to dress, vowing once more that it would not happen again.

Yet as she pulled her gown over her shoulders, her mind drifted back to the night before. The laughter in the woods, the warmth of Rhaegar’s hand brushing hers, the reckless joy of their race across the fields, it all felt like a dream now, fragile and fleeting. A secret she had no right to cherish, but one that refused to leave her.

By the time she entered the common hall, she was surprised to find Ashara Dayne there, speaking with Brandon. Their conversation stopped the instant Lyanna appeared. Suspicion stirred in her chest at the sight of them together. 

How could this be possible ?

“Ashara ?”

“Lyanna,” Ashara answered a little too quickly, “I crossed paths with your brother this morning. He was kind enough to invite me.” her friend explained, the words tumbling out faster than usual, as though she were eager to finish and leave no room for questions.

Brandon turned toward their father. To her surprise, Lyanna had not even noticed he was there. “Father, we should invite Lady Ashara to dine with us at midday. The tourney begins tomorrow, and tonight is the last feast. It would be proper to thank her for keeping my sister company. One more at the table is nothing to fret about.”

Lyanna arched a brow at her brother’s words. Everything he said made sense, yet his unusual politeness toward Ashara unsettled her nonetheless.

Rickard nodded. “Very well. Robert will be with us as well. One more or one less at the table makes little difference.”

Then Benjen leaned forward, eyes bright. “Lady Ashara, if it’s possible, could your brother join us too ? They say Ser Arthur is the best knight in Westeros. I would be glad to speak with him about swordsmanship, perhaps even see him spar.”

Rickard lifted a hand to check his son. “Benjen, do not press our guest.”

“Oh, Father, you always say he is a great fighter. Even Brandon says so. What harm could there be in asking him too ?” Benjen insisted.

Rickard sighed, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You are still young, Benjen. A Lord must learn when to hold his tongue, even when his heart is eager. It is not fitting to pull a Kingsguard away from his duties.”

“Yes, Father. I’m sorry, Lady Ashara.” he said, looking down, visibly embarrassed.

Ashara lowered her gaze for a moment, her hands clasped neatly before her. “He is indeed on duty often, my Lord,” she admitted softly. “But I will ask him nonetheless. My brother loves to speak of the sword after all.”

Her words carried both grace and loyalty, and Lyanna could not help but study her. Ashara seemed perfectly at ease, and yet there was something guarded in her manner, as though she weighed every phrase before letting it slip past her lips. She was not the only one to do so, Brandon’s eyes lingered on her a little too long for Lyanna’s liking, though whether it was interested or something else, she could not tell.

Rickard gave a short nod of approval, the matter settled in his mind. “Very well. Let us leave it so. If Ser Arthur can attend, it will be an honour. If not, then we shall not hold him from his duty.”

The meal was held in the Starks great tent, its heavy canvas walls doing little to mute the noise within. The Starks and Robert kept the conversation easy, a rough music of old jokes and new boasts while they waited for their Dornish guests.

Robert had been told that morning that Lady Ashara and her brother Ser Arthur had been invited. He had laughed at the idea, pounding his fist against the table with unshakable confidence.

“The Prince’s knight-servant ? Pfft, I could beat him easily. And now his wife’s lady-in-waiting…Oh no, I forget, he no longer has a wife ! ” Robert roared with laughter at his own crude jest.

Brandon chuckled politely, Benjen’s eyes shone with boyish anticipation, and Rickard gave nothing away, his face as still as carved ice. Lyanna did the same, her cup resting untouched before her, though her ears caught every word.

It was in that moment, as Robert reached for his goblet again, that the tent flap stirred and a servant stepped inside, bowing deeply before Lord Rickard.

“My Lord,” he announced, nervous and pale as if he had seen a ghost, “Lady Ashara and Ser Arthur are here.”

Rickard inclined his head. “Then bring them in, and quickly.”

The servant hesitated. His eyes flicked up, then fell again. “But, my Lord,” he added quietly, “the…the Prince is with them.”

The words landed like a thrown spear. The room fell into a sudden, uneasy quiet. Wine stopped midway to mouth, Robert’s grin thinned. Conversation died in the throats of the people present.

Rickard straightened, his face an even mask of lordly courtesy. Brandon’s expression remained open and measured. Benjen’s excitement faltered into keen curiosity. Lyanna felt her heart stutter; the sound of that name had a way of rearranging her thoughts. For a breathless instant she could feel the echo of the morning in the hollow beneath her ribs.

“Bring them in,” Rickard said at last, his voice steady. “We will welcome them.”

The tent flap was drawn wide, and three figures stepped inside, framed by sunlight. Lady Ashara moved with the sure grace of Dayne’s blood, pale silk catching the light, her smile softening into respectful composure as she curtsied before the table. Ser Arthur was beside her, tall and broad-shouldered, the long sword at his hip gleaming even in the dim light. He wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard, yet without the usual stiffness, his face was calm and courtly, a presence that made the chatter of men fall silent.

And with them walked Rhaegar Targaryen. He did not need heraldry to be known. Silver hair caught the light like a halo, violet eyes steady and distant. He moved as a Prince moves, measured, contained, a weight of courtesy in every step.

Rickard rose from his seat and bowed to the Prince with the solemnity of a Lord receiving a guest of high rank.

“Prince Rhaegar,” Rickard said, the words formal but cold. “You honour us.”

Rhaegar inclined his head once, a courtly gesture that softened into something like a smile when it reached his eyes. “My Lord, I must first ask your pardon for coming uninvited. When I heard Ser Arthur could not attend because his duties kept him elsewhere, I thought it only right to bring his duty with him, so that he might join you at table without neglecting his oath. Forgive me if I have presumed too much.”

Rickard’s expression remained measured, but he gave a single approving nod. Arthur’s stoic face softened with the faintest trace of gratitude, though he said nothing.

Robert gave a sharp laugh, his hand tightening around his cup. “Only an arrogant Prince would think an invitation to a Kingsguard extends to himself.” he said, half in jest, half in challenge.

Rhaegar met the words calmly, showing no sign of being provoked. His violet eyes lingered briefly on Robert, then moved smoothly across the company. “I am only a friend who wished for his presence to be shared.” he replied simply.

“Prince Rhaegar, as I said, your presence honours us. Please, sit.” He gestured toward the empty seat, inviting him to join the table.

At Rickard’s gesture, seats were drawn for the new arrivals. Ashara settled gracefully beside Lyanna, Ser Arthur took his place with quiet composure, and at last the Prince himself sat among them, every movement measured and deliberate. The tent felt smaller with him inside, the canvas walls pressing close, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken things.

The servants brought fresh dishes and refilled cups, but the meal began more cautiously than before. Words were chosen with care, laughter softer than usual. The presence of the Prince stilled the usual noise of Robert’s boasting, though not entirely, he still raised his voice, but his eyes flicked often toward Rhaegar as if daring him to answer.

The Starks, each in their way, kept their composure. Rickard was stone, Brandon courteous, Benjen restless with boyish curiosity, and Ned quiet as winter itself.

Lyanna sat among them, her cup untouched. She told herself to watch only her family, yet her gaze strayed, again and again, toward the silver-haired Prince. Once, his violet eyes met hers for the briefest heartbeat before sliding away as though nothing had passed between them. The moment was gone in an instant, but it left her chest tight, her thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. This meal was going to be a long one, she thought to herself.

Rhaegar

Rhaegar’s hand moved in a slow arc, the weight of the practice sword balanced carefully in his grip. He studied Arthur’s stance with the same intensity he gave to a piece of music, searching for the rhythm beneath the movement.

“No, like this,” Arthur corrected, shifting his own blade with a patient grace. “Your wrists are too stiff. The sword is not forced, it flows. Think of it as an extension of your arm, not a weight you drag behind you.”

Rhaegar mirrored him again, focusing on the subtle turn of the wrist, the fluid transfer of balance from one foot to the other. He was no novice with a sword, but Arthur’s mastery was something else entirely. Each correction, each gesture, revealed a depth that words could never capture.

“You learn quickly,” Arthur admitted, lowering his blade. Then his pale eyes narrowed slightly, studying his Prince. “But something is different today. You carry less… melancholy than usual. For a moment, I almost thought you were enjoying yourself.”

Rhaegar let the sword rest at his side, his lips curving faintly though he gave no answer. His silence was its own shield, one Arthur had seen often enough.

“Very well,” Arthur said at last, though his tone betrayed his concern. “Keep your secrets, if you must.”

Before Rhaegar could reply, the tent flap stirred and Ashara entered, her smile quick and warm as she greeted them both.

“My Prince. Brother.” Ashara entered with her usual grace, dipping her head lightly before them. Her smile was warm, touched with quiet excitement.

“You look pleased, sister.” Arthur remarked, his violet eyes lifting toward her.

“This morning, the Starks invited me to dine with them at midday.” she explained.

Arthur tilted his head, curious. “And why would they do that ?”

“They wish to thank me for the time I have spent with Lady Lyanna, and for befriending her.” Ashara replied, her tone proud yet modest.

Arthur gave a small nod, but before he could respond she added, her eyes bright, “And you as well, brother. They have invited you too.”

Arthur straightened slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual composure. “Me ? Why would the Starks extend such an offer to me ?”

Ashara’s smile deepened, softer now, almost teasing. “They spoke highly of you. The young Stark, Benjen, pressed the matter most of all, and Lord Rickard agreed. It seems even in the North, your name is known. They call you a great swordman, and I daresay they wish to see it for themselves.”

Arthur’s lips curved faintly, though his answer remained steady. “It is kind of them, but I cannot. I am on duty today, and I must remain at the Prince’s side. Tell them I am honoured, but cannot attend. Send them my regards.”

Ashara inclined her head, unsurprised, though her eyes softened with sisterly affection. “I thought as much. Yet I promised them I would ask. If you cannot come, then so be it. I shall go alone.”

Rhaegar had listened without speaking, his long fingers brushing absently against the hilt of his sword as though lost in thought. In truth, his mind was already stirring with quiet calculation. Arthur’s duty chained him here, yet duty was not immovable.

Yes, that could be funny…

“You say you cannot come because your duty holds you here,” he said softly, his violet eyes fixed on Arthur. “But what if I were to bring your duty with you ?”

Arthur frowned slightly, though his composure never wavered. “My duty is to guard you, my Prince. Wherever you go, I follow. That does not change.”

“Exactly,” Rhaegar replied, his voice carrying the subtle edge of conviction. “If you must remain at my side, then let us both go to the Starks. In this way, your duty is not neglected. You will guard me as always, and you will honour their invitation. There is no conflict in that.”

Arthur studied him, his expression unreadable. “It is unorthodox,” he admitted after a pause, his words measured, cautious. “But would it not be discourteous to Lord Stark ?” Arthur asked at last, his tone still careful.

“I am a Prince. I cannot be discourteous, my friend.” Rhaegar answered with quiet confidence.

Arthur’s brow arched ever so slightly. “Are you certain of that ? Ask all the Ladies who came here today, hoping to see you.” he said dryly, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“True,” Rhaegar conceded, the faintest smile curving his lips. “But let us not create obstacles where there need be none. The Starks have invited you, Arthur. They wish to know you. And who better to present you than me, your Prince and your friend ?”

“My sister, who grew up with me.” Arthur replied evenly with sarcasm.

“Are you mocking me, Dayne ? When all I seek is to help you ? Surely this meal will prove more engaging than watching me pore over the Hand’s ledgers and dull reports.” Rhaegar retorted, half-teasing, half-serious.

Arthur allowed himself the smallest smile. “That may be so. But tell me, why do you so strongly wish to attend ? Do you truly mean to see your cousin Robert or maybe it’s someone else you wish to see ?”

“My cousin, of course.” Rhaegar said smoothly, dead serious.

Arthur exhaled, unconvinced but faintly amused by the lie. “As you command, my Prince. If you wish it so, then we shall attend.”

Rhaegar inclined his head, decisive. “Then it is settled. At midday, we will join the Starks.”

Arthur gave a quiet sigh, as if resigned. “Very well. But if Robert Baratheon demands a duel over the meat, you will fight him yourself.”

Rhaegar allowed himself the faintest laugh. “If it comes to that, Arthur, I shall rely on your teaching.” At this, the two of them burst into laughter.

The meal was already underway by the time the servants set fresh trenchers before them. Conversation rolled easily between the Starks and Robert Baratheon, though it ebbed into quieter currents now that the Dornish and the Prince had joined their company.

Rhaegar sat with the composed stillness that always marked him, yet his eyes were less still. More than once he let his gaze drift to the far end of the table, where Lyanna Stark sat. She seemed determined not to meet his eyes, her attention fixed on her cup or on whatever Robert was booming about beside her.

And then, quite suddenly, their eyes met. Just a heartbeat, no more. But in that heartbeat, he saw the faintest flush rise to her cheeks before she dropped her gaze, breaking the contact as if it burned. Rhaegar felt the corner of his mouth threaten to soften. It was… charming, almost disarming, and he found himself lingering on the thought longer than he ought.

He drew himself back to the conversation, letting his voice enter the tent once more. “So,” he said lightly, his gaze shifting to Brandon Stark, “I am told it was at your urging that Lady Ashara was invited to your table, as thanks for her kindness to your sister ?”

Brandon answered politely, though there was a flicker of something sharper in his grey eyes. “It seemed only proper, Your Grace. Lady Ashara has shown my sister much kindness these past days, and I thought it fitting that she be thanked for it. My father agreed.”

Benjen, eager as ever, leaned forward before anyone else could speak. “And I said Ser Arthur should come too ! People say he’s the greatest knight in the Realm, and I wanted to hear him speak of swords.”

“You honour me with your words, young Lord. I’m sure you could be a great knight too.” 

At that, Robert gave a booming laugh, loud enough to rattle the goblets on the table. “The greatest knight in the Realm ? Boy, you’ll change your mind after the tourney. I’ll show you what becomes of even gods of battle when they face Robert Baratheon’s warhammer !” He slapped the table with a hand the size of a mallet, grinning from ear to ear.

Arthur, seated with measured calm, gave no more reaction than the faintest quirk of his lips, though his violet-grey eyes glinted briefly in amusement. It seemed, like Rhaegar, he cared little for the boasts of the Storm Lord. Robert never knew how to hold his tongue. Perhaps, Rhaegar thought, it was time someone taught him.

Rhaegar set down his cup with quiet grace, his voice calm but carrying easily across the table. “Robert, even I would not claim to match Ser Arthur’s skill. You should be thankful he has not chosen to test your words.” His tone was measured, yet the edge of a challenge lingered beneath it.

The effect was immediate. Robert’s face flushed scarlet, his eyes burning like embers as he surged forward, rage spilling into his voice. “Rhaegar, Prince or not, I’ll break your…”

He was cut short by another voice, one colder than steel, sharp as the wind that howls beyond the Wall.

“Robert Baratheon.” Lord Rickard’s words cut through the tent like a blade. “You are at my table. You will comport yourself as befits a man of your station. I will not have a savage dining beside my children.”

It was a subtle reminder of the betrothal looming between Robert and Lyanna, a warning that his behaviour might well decide whether the match came to pass. Rhaegar had trouble hiding the faint curl of a smile at the corner of his lips. 

Serve you well, Robert.

“My Prince, I must apologise for his outburst at my table.” Lord Stark said at last.

“Do not worry. Robert and I are cousins. It is only natural that there be a little friction between us from time to time.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Rickard replied, though his voice remained cold, very cold.

Rhaegar let his gaze linger on Lord Rickard a moment longer. The man’s face was carved in stone, every line set with the unyielding discipline of the North. Yet beneath that still mask, the Prince sensed the simmer of displeasure, a quiet heat that no courtesy could fully conceal. The heir was worse. Brandon’s jaw was tight, his eyes sharp, and though he tried to school his features, his youth betrayed him. Fury sat close to the surface, barely leashed, as though the very air between them had been poisoned.

Something was amiss. The anger of father and son was not directed at Robert, though he had given cause, nor at the table’s other guests. No, their restraint, their silence, their unspoken challenge, these were for him. Why ? Had his mere presence stirred some offence, or was it something more, a suspicion he could not yet name ?

Rhaegar lowered his gaze to his cup, turning it slowly between his fingers. He would find no answers by staring into their storm-grey eyes. Better, for now, to bend the current away from dangerous waters.

With deliberate calm, he lifted his head and allowed his voice to smooth the edges of the moment.

“So, Lady Ashara,” Rhaegar said lightly, turning toward her, “I hear you and Lady Lyanna have become friends ?”

Ashara answered Rhaegar’s question with her usual poise. “Yes, my Prince. Lady Lyanna has been most kind to me. With her spirit, she could have been Dornish.”

Lyanna, caught between surprise and amusement, gave a small laugh. “And you, my lady, have been patient enough to endure me. That alone is proof of your kindness.”

Their words softened the air around the table, and for a while the meal unfolded more easily.

It was Benjen who leaned forward next, his eyes alight with eagerness as he turned toward Ser Arthur. “Ser, is it true that Dawn is unlike any other sword in the Realm ? They say it was forged from the heart of a fallen star.”

Arthur inclined his head with quiet courtesy. “It is true, yes. My family has carried it for many generations. But a sword is still only steel in an untrained hand.”

Benjen’s excitement only grew. “Then… would you spar with me one day ?”

Arthur’s expression softened, though he shook his head. “Not now, I am afraid. With the tourney beginning and my duties as a Kingsguard, there is little time to spare. But perhaps one day, if the Gods allow it.” His tone was gentle, not dismissive.

Benjen nodded, trying to mask his disappointment, but Lyanna reached over and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. She was a good sister, tender and attentive, something he himself was not. Rhaegar could not even remember the last time he had spent more than an hour alone with his little brother, Viserys.

Perhaps that was why he now found himself searching for an answer, some way to ease the boy’s frustration. The Kingsguard were far too busy during the tourney, and their duties too pressing, to take on a new squire even for a few days. Yet surely there was another path, another solution, that might give young Benjen Stark a measure of joy. His other companions who might have helped were likewise occupied, Richard Lonmouth or Myles Mooton, perhaps, but even they were likely too busy.

Still, the more he considered it, the more another thought took hold.

Rhaegar turned his head toward Benjen. “Tell me, Benjen Stark… I am not as good as Ser Arthur, but I think I could make a decent opponent. Would you care to help me train for the joust this afternoon ?”

Benjen blinked, startled. “My Prince ? Yes, yes please.”

Rhaegar’s lips curved faintly, the rare smile softening his austere features. “If you wish so, then yes.”

Benjen’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Truly ?”

“Truly. I must prepare for the tourney if I want to win.”

Benjen turned at once to his father. “Father, may I ?”

Rickard Stark’s face was cold, unreadable as stone. His answer came with measured calm. “If that is your wish, my son, then go.”

“Yes, Father.” Benjen said quickly, his voice bright with excitement.

And yet, as he spoke, Rickard’s eyes lingered strangely on Rhaegar. Though he allowed his youngest this joy, there was suspicion behind his gaze, as though some hidden thought weighed heavily upon him.

“I thank you, Your Grace.” Lyanna said softly.

“Do not worry, my Lady. It is my pleasure.” Rhaegar replied, his tone calm, almost warm.

The meal ended without further disturbance, though the air around the table had shifted. Rhaegar found himself caught between the burning glares of Robert, the cold, watchful eyes of Rickard Stark, and the fleeting, uncertain glances of Lyanna.

A funny  meal indeed.

Lyanna

When the meal was over and she finally found herself alone, Lyanna let out a long breath, the tension of the feast still clinging to her. Robert’s boasting, her father’s cold tone, Rhaegar’s unreadable eyes all of it swirled in her head, heavy and unshakable.

Robert had laughed too loud, bragged too freely, his words like blows that grated against her patience. She could already imagine what life as his wife would mean: endless boasts, endless drink, endless nights of having her worth measured only by his victories. The thought twisted in her stomach like a knife.

Her father’s face had been worse still. That mask of Winterfell stone, unyielding and cold, each word spoken without warmth. He had rebuked Robert with all the chill of the North, yet when his eyes slid toward her, she had felt something else there, something sharper. It was as though he weighed her already, not as a daughter but as a piece on the board, a bride to be bartered away for alliances. She hated that gaze more than Robert’s hammering laughter.

And then there was Rhaegar. The memory of his eyes unsettled her most of all. So calm, so unreadable, as if he were carrying thoughts far heavier than the rest of them could ever guess. When their gazes had met across the table, she had felt a jolt in her chest, her cheeks betraying her with heat before she forced herself to look away. He had seen it she knew he had but he gave nothing back. Only that quiet, distant gaze that set her thoughts ablaze the more she tried to silence them.

I must think of something else. Lyanna pushed the memory of the feast away, forcing herself to breathe evenly. There was another matter, one that weighed just as heavily on her heart.

She thought of Howland Reed. Small, quiet Howland, mocked and beaten by squires who saw only his size and not his worth. She could still hear Rhaegar’s words echoing in her mind, spoken that night : I am sure you will find a way to help him.

A solution. But what ?

Her fists tightened in her lap. Those squires deserved to be shamed as they had shamed him, to feel before the eyes of the Realm the sting of their own cruelty. Yet how ? What could she do that would strike harder than a whispered insult or a hidden prank ? What could she do that would make every lord and lady of Westeros see their disgrace ?

The answer lay before her: the tourney. Before all the Seven Kingdoms, those boys would strut and preen, basking in their fathers’ names and the strength of their arms. If they were unhorsed, if they were beaten fairly in the lists, their humiliation would be complete.

But to do it… she would have to ride.

Her heart beat faster at the thought. The tilt yard was no place for a lady, much less the daughter of Lord Rickard Stark. Once she was wed to Robert, she would never have another chance. This tourney might be her last breath of freedom. Yet could she truly stand before them in armour, hidden, and strike them down for what they had done to Howland ?

Her lips pressed together. The idea was wild, reckless, dangerous, and yet it called to her all the same. She had to do that. 

“Lyanna, I’m back !” Benjen called as he pushed through the tent flap.

“Perfect, Benjen. Come with me, we need to see Lord Reed. I have an idea.” Lyanna’s voice was sharp with purpose, she could scarcely stand still.

Benjen blinked, wiping sweat from his brow. “What idea ?”

She told him, quickly, in bursts: the lists, the tilt, the way the squires had treated Howland, how an unhorsing before all those lords would make them bleed their pride. “If I ride at the tourney,” she finished, “I can put them to shame. I can make them answer.”

Benjen stared at her, mouth open. “You’re crazy, sister !”

Lyanna’s eyes narrowed. “Either you help me, or I do this alone.” Her voice had the cold, hard edge of someone who had already decided.

Benjen swallowed. For a moment he looked every part the little boy she knew uncertain, afraid  but beneath it something else stirred: loyalty, stubbornness like a true Stark. “I… I’ll help,” he said finally, needle-sharp with pride. “But how ? What do we do first ?”

Lyanna gave him a quick, fierce smile. “We find a helm, an armour and everything else we need. We keep our mouths shut. We practice riding until you can steer a lance true. Tonight we make a plan.”

The heavy armour made her feel as if she carried a bag of stones on her shoulders. That she was barely a head shorter than the average squire made it even harder to find the right set of armour. Most knights were battle-hardened warriors, not young girls like her.

Thus, Lyanna, Benjen, and Howland Reed had spent the evening searching the armoury for fitting pieces. Finding parts for the arms and feet wasn’t hard, but finding a fitting breastplate made for a thin girl like her had proved quite the challenge.

Now, after Benjen and Lord Reed had helped her put on her mismatched armour, she dared to take a glimpse of herself in the small looking-glass her father had gifted her for her last name day. Seeing herself dressed like this, she couldn’t help but grin. Her father would be angry with her if he knew about this, but her excitement made her forget her fear of punishment.

After Brandon’s wedding, she would be shipped off to Storm’s End, where she would wither away as Robert Baratheon’s lady. She was determined to make the best of her last days of freedom, even if it meant defying the laws of Gods and men alike.

“You look well,” Benjen remarked, pulling one of the armpits tighter. “Well, it’s not about the looks, but the performance.”

“Benjen speaks true,” Lord Reed agreed and smiled mildly. He was a quiet man like Ned, but he lacked her brother’s preachy manner. Ned would chide her for doing this, but Lord Reed had helped her as best as possible. “But I fear for you, my Lady. You mustn’t endanger yourself on my account.”

“Don’t fret, my Lord Reed,” She assured him and patted her helmet with both hands. “I am a good rider. Benjen can vouch for me.”

“It is true,” Benjen chimed in and showed her the large wooden shield he had been working on all day. It was a cumbersome thing, but the weirwood tree he had painted on the front made her smile. “Lyanna and I used to sneak out into the Wolfswood to train with the sword, the lance and the horse. Lyanna might not be the next Ser Barristan Selmy, but there is no better rider in the North than Lyanna. Not even Brandon can outrace her.”

“I see,” Howland Reed said sceptically. “It is just…I do not wish to see you harmed, my Lady.”

“Don’t fret,” Lyanna reminded him again and straightened her back. Then she picked up the shield and presented herself to them in full garb, ready to face her next enemy. “I won’t be hurt. I have fallen a hundred times from my saddle, but every time I managed to get up again.”

Howland Reed smiled.

“Well, you certainly look the part, my Lady.”

Lyanna laughed, her voice muffled by the visor of her helmet.

“Well, that is a consolation,” she said and realised that she had yet to make up a name for herself. “I am a Mystery Knight. What should I call myself ?”

“The Knight of the Weirwood ?” Benjen suggested and pointed at the shield. “The Wolf Knight ?”

“Too obvious,” Lyanna countered and tried to lower her voice to give the impression of a young man. “Do I sound manly enough to you ?”

“It is not bad,” Benjen replied sceptically. “Most will probably think you are a foolish boy trying to become the next Ser Barristan the Bold.”

“And yet I still need a proper name,” Lyanna reminded Benjen and her eyes flickered back to the shield. Seeing the disturbing laughing face, it hit her like thunder. “Ah, I know : The Knight of the Laughing Tree !”

Howland Reed chuckled and Benjen frowned.

“That sounds silly and not dangerous at all,” Benjen complained. Lyanna felt the urge to kick him, but her armour didn’t allow for such quick movements. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“Says the one who came up with the most generic names possible.” Lyanna teased and tried her best to move her arms and legs. Every movement took effort, but she didn’t want to appear weak in front of her brother and Lord Reed.

“I thank you, Lord Reed. The helmet is perfect,” she added and leaned closer to place her hand on his shoulder. “But I think it would be best if you leave us now. My brothers are surely searching for us. Mayhaps you could direct their attention elsewhere until Benjen and I have acquired a horse ?”

Lord Reed nodded his head.

“Certainly, my Lady.”

To find a horse had been Benjen’s task and as it turned out he had mastered it to her full satisfaction without. The horse he had borrowed from a young knight who was hurt on his trip to Harrenhall. Her and Benjen had to use up most of the gold coins their Lord Father had granted them for the trip, but it would be worth it if they could regain Lord Reed’s honour.

“This one is called Thunder,” the young knight explained proudly, his eyes fixed on Benjen, who had made all the arrangements for her. “My Lord Father paid a lot of coins for him. There is no smarter and faster horse than Thunder. I must ask you to take good care of him, my Lord.”

“We will.” Lyanna promised and smoothed her hand over Thunder’s mouth. It whinnied softly, its mouth searching for her empty hand.

You should never go empty-handed to a horse, Harwin, their stable master had told her once, but Lyanna had been so overwhelmed with her plans that she had forgotten about this simple courtesy.

“He is hungry,” she stated and smiled at the young knight. “Has he been fed ?”

“Aye,” the young knight confirmed and moved closer to pat the horse’s head in an affectionate gesture. “Thunder is always hungry, but my father’s servant told me that overfeeding him could hinder his performance.”

Lyanna smiled, but Benjen frowned.

“Are you sure this horse is worth the coin I paid you ?”

The young knight’s demeanour changed instantly.

“Thunder is the finest horse there ever was,” he grumbled. “Do you dare to question the word of a knight ?”

“Don’t fret, Ser,” Lyanna added in a calming voice and touched Benjen’s shoulder. “Please forgive my hot-headed brother. You shall have the second half of your payment on the day after tomorrow, but in exchange we need you to keep this confidential. Nobody can know that we borrowed this horse.”

“No word will leave my lips, my Lady,” the young squire swore and placed his hand on his chest as if to give a vow. ”I shall keep your secret until I meet the Stranger.”

“Good,” Benjen added, his grey eyes narrowed in mistrust. “But know that I remember your face. One day I shall be a knight like you, Ser. Dare to cross us and I shall make you pay for it.”

“Benjen,” Lyanna grumbled and exchanged a brief smile with the young man. “You are overdoing it.”

“I understand.” Benjen grumbled and crossed his arms in front of him. Even after they had long left the stables behind them, Benjen continued to frown.

“We should have sent Lord Reed to do the purchase,” Benjen remarked as they tried to evade a flock of ladies, garbed in fine silk dresses, their colourful shawls fluttering behind them like wings of butterflies. “I do not trust this knight.”

“We already burdened Lord Reed enough and it’s not like we told him our names,” Lyanna countered and brushed her tangled hair over her shoulder. It was in dire need of a brush, especially since Robert Baratheon was expecting her attendance tonight or better said she had promised Ned to spend time with the Lord of the Stormlands. “Besides, who would take offence if a young man dressed up as a Mystery Knight ? All good tourneys have one.”

“You are not the one who is going to get punished if Father finds out.” Benjen countered, but finally stopped complaining as they reached the camp.

“There you are !” Brandon remarked, a grim expression displayed on his face as he came strutting towards them. “Where the bloody hell have you been ? I was already thinking about sending out a search party.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes. Brandon had never given a fuck when she and Benjen had spent hours in the Wolfswood, but now that their Father had granted him all the responsibility when he was not with them, like tonight, Brandon was acting as if he was already the Lord of Winterfell.

“We were just exploring the castle grounds,” Lyanna lied and started to unwind her tangled hair. “Harrenhal is massive, brother.”

Brandon frowned in displeasure.

“Well, whatever you were doing…the last feast before the tourney will start soon, Father will not be here, he’s tired from the trip. You two are expected to look decent. Especially you, sweet sister. No dirty breeches tonight.”

“Stop playing the Lord,” Lyanna replied in annoyance. Her brother might be the heir to Winterfell, but she was still his sister, not his servant. “And stay away from Ashara. Must I remind you that you are to be married to Lady Tully !”

Brandon’s face darkened immediately as he leaned closer to grab her hand. Lyanna knew then that she had crossed a line.

“That is none of your bloody business ! ” he whispered into her ear, but Lyanna didn’t care and pulled her hand away. Then, she wheeled around and pulled Benjen along, who had observed their conversation in tense silence.

“I have a need for your help, Benjen,” she declared as her brother was about to head off to his tent. “Will you be my handmaid ?”

Benjen gave her a disbelieving look.

“Are you trying to fool me, sister ? Father sent Jorelle with us, so ask her.”

“I gave her leave for today,” she explained and suddenly felt very silly. She had completely forgotten that she would need someone to help her put on her dress. “And I do not wish to go back on my word.”

She leaned forward and pouted at Benjen.

“Please, brother. All you have to do is to help me with the bindings of my dress.”

Benjen remained sceptical and crossed his arms in front of him.

“What do I get in exchange for partaking in such a humiliating task ?”

Lyanna sighed deeply. She should have known that Benjen wouldn’t be prepared to help her without getting something in return. He may be her beloved little brother, but he was also a greedy little brat.

“What do you want ?”

“You will lend me, Stormchaser for four full moons.”

Stormchaser was Lyanna’s horse and Benjen had always been jealous that their father had gifted her such a fine horse. Thus, she shouldn’t have been surprised that he would demand this price, but she wouldn’t agree to this without a proper negotiation.

“Two moons.” Lyanna proposed in return.

“Three and a half.” Benjen countered, his gaze hard and determined.

“Three and I want every detail with your afternoon with the Prince.”

“Two moons and the details.”

“Deal,” Lyanna grumbled, knowing that he wouldn’t budge on this and going by the pale violet sky she needed to hurry. “Now come along. We need to hurry.”

Behind her, she heard Benjen’s sigh as she pulled aside the folds covering the entrance of her tent.

“Wait for a moment,” she told him and stopped abruptly. “I first need to wash myself and change my undergarments.”

Benjen rolled his eyes.

“I shall wait.”

Lyanna nodded her head and disappeared inside her tent.

She quickly pulled off her sweaty tunic, dirty breeches and muddy boots, before picking out fresh undergarments.

Without further ado, she pulled on a white undertunic, smallclothes, tights,  and slipped into a fresh dress.

This one was Lyanna’s favourite. It was a shiny blue-grey dress with voluminous sleeves accentuated with trimmings. Her cloak was made of grey pelt and had once belonged to a bear. Lady Maege Mormont had gifted her the cloak after visiting Winterfell in company of her daughters.

Carefully, she placed the cloak on a nearby chair and glanced through the opening of the tent to find Benjen where she had left him.

“You may come in.” she informed him and stepped aside to allow him entrance.

“Here,” she told him and turned around, showing him the bindings of her dress. “All you have to do is to bind the dress as tightly as possible.

“It’s still weird.” Benjen complained and went to work. Lyanna tried her best to hold still, but now and then she felt the urge to kick Benjen. At times she feared Benjen would suffocate her.

“It is done,” Benjen declared at last, annoyed. “Can I leave now ?”

She raised a brow, amused by his discomfort “No, not yet. You still have to tell me about the training.”

Benjen threw his hands up. “Why do you have to know everything ?”

“Because I am your sister,” Lyanna replied evenly, her grey eyes fixing him with quiet authority. “Now sit and tell me.”

Benjen sighed, but after a pause the words came out, unwilling at first, then more freely. “He started with the joust. Made me ride against him, just a few passes. I thought I’d fall flat on the first tilt, but he showed me how to set my lance, how to keep my seat steady. After two, three runs, I could actually hold the line. He said I had a good balance for my age.”

Lyanna tilted her head, surprised by the spark of pride creeping into her brother’s tone. “And after ?”

“We sparred. Not for long,” Benjen said quickly, though his eyes betrayed his excitement. “The Prince… he doesn’t fight like the others. He didn’t even draw real steel, just practice swords. But he moves differently. Calm. Patient. Like he already knows what you’re about to do. Every time I struck, he was there first. Still,” a small grin slipped through, “I landed one touch. Just one. Then he had me on my back before I even saw how he did it.”

Lyanna couldn’t help but smile. “That one still counts, little brother.”

Benjen shrugged, though the faint glow of pride remained. “He gave me advice. Said I shouldn’t rush like a fool. Told me to use my feet, to wait, to think before I strike. Said quickness could be stronger than brute force if I learned how to use it.”

Lyanna reached across and squeezed his hand gently. “Good counsel. And better still that you listened.”

Her brother ducked his head, trying to mask how much the praise meant to him. “Maybe. Anyway, I trained, I did what he asked. Are you satisfied now ?”

Lyanna laughed softly and ruffled his hair. “More than satisfied. You can go, young knight.”

“Don’t mock me, Lya.” he grumbled, though there was no real anger in his voice. He turned to leave but hesitated at the flap of the tent.

“The Prince,” he said suddenly, glancing back at her. “He asked if you were well. Said you didn’t look well at the meal. Why would he ask that ? Do you know him ?”

Lyanna forced a light shrug, her tone as casual as she could make it. “No, I don’t. It’s strange of him, that’s all.”

Benjen frowned, but after a moment he only nodded. “Yes. Strange. Well, I’m going to change.”

Lyanna nodded her head. Then she turned around and took her first breath in the tightly-cut dress as she stepped towards the looking-glass.

Her hair was still a tangle of brown curls and she looked a bit pale around the face, but the dress fitted her and helped to accentuate her breasts.

Robert will be pleased, she thought with growing anxiety and brushed out her hair. Then she wound her curls into a loose braid and fastened her hair with a silver pin wrought in the form of a running wolf. At last she donned a pair of glimmering earrings and stepped outside.

She didn’t know how it had happened, but dusk painted the sky in colours of lilac and velvet, the sun nothing more than a distant ball of light concealed by a flock of clouds.

The night air was fresh and pleasant on her skin, but it didn’t help to ease her fears. It wasn’t like she was afraid of Robert Baratheon, but she hated playing the lady.

And yet she intended to keep her promise to Ned.

I shall try to like him, it's my duty.

She decided and made her way back to Benjen’s tent.

Benjen had also changed into finer clothing. He wore a grey doublet, dark breeches, polished boots and a silken-grey cloak held together by a silver pin wrought in the form of a running wolf. Even his hair was neatly combed and brushed behind his ears. He looked every bit the proper young lord he ought to be, but like Lyanna he shared a dislike for such grand festivities.

“Shall we go ?” Benjen asked and offered his arm to her. “Ned and Howland are surely waiting for us.

“And Brandon and Robert Baratheon,” she added tensely and braced herself like a knight for a coming battle. “Let’s go.”

The feast was already in full swing when she and Benjen entered the feasting hall. Like yesterday, the hall was filled to the brim, the smell of roasted meat and cookfires filling her nose.

Above their heads glimmered a hundred chandeliers and they had to pass a good dozen of trestle tables, before they arrived at their table, placed on the left side of the hall.

Robert Baratheon’s barking laughter greeted them from afar.

“No wonder you were hiding all day, my Lady,” the Lord of the Stormlands jested in a slurred voice, his glassy blue eyes roaming over her body. “I am almost blinded by so much beauty !”

Then he started to laugh again. His barking laughter could have been heard all the way to the Wall, but Lyanna tried to remain polite.

Tonight, she would play the Lady and on the morrow she would put on her armour to regain Lord Reed’s honour on the qualification for the joust.

She dipped her head in greeting and smiled at the men seated around the table. Brandon was seated next to the wall, his cup filled to the brim and an approving smile curling on his lips as his grey eyes took in her lady-like appearance. Ned was flanked by Robert Baratheon and a grinning man known as Richard Lonmouth. He was a man of ten and nine, tall, strongly built, and an able fighter. His sharp-featured countenance was not exactly a maiden’s dream, but there was something enticing about his quick, sharp smiles. Robert seemed to like him as well, for he had invited him to sit at his table two nights in a row.

Surprisingly, she also found Lord Jon Arryn and his heir, Elbert Arryn, seated at the table. Jon Arryn she had met before, but Elbert Arryn she had only seen from afar. He was a soft-faced man with blond hair, a striped cloak of white and blue wound around his shoulders.

“Lyanna and I were exploring the grounds,” Benjen added awkwardly and let go of her hand. “She wasn’t hiding.”

“Of course not, my young Lord,” Jon Arryn said, a mild smile playing on his wrinkled lips. “Robert was only joking. Did you enjoy your explorations, my Lady ?”

“I did, my Lord,” Lyanna confirmed and swept her gaze over the table. Under other circumstances she would have sat down where she pleased, they had guests. “Where may I sit ?”

“Here !” Robert exclaimed enthusiastically and moved aside to make place for her. “There should be enough space for a petite lady like yourself.”

Lyanna tried to smile gracefully and sat down.

Suddenly, she felt as if all air had been drained out of her at once, though she doubted her tightly-cut dress was the reason for it.

No, the reason was Robert Baratheon’s proximity.

“Now that you are finally gracing us with your presence you should tell us more about your explorations,” Richard Lonmouth suggested, a sly grin spreading over his lips. “Do you like Harrenhall, my Lady ?”

Lyanna didn’t know what to make of this forward question and pondered over her answer while Robert filled her plate with all kinds of roasted meat and vegetables.

“It is an interesting place,” she replied vaguely. “But very grim. I suppose it is fitting, given what happened here. The Burning of Harrenhal was always one of my favourite tales.”

“A rather frightening tale,” Jon Arryn added and cleared his throat. “I am surprised that your father allows your nursemaid to fill your mind with such gruesome tales.”

“I like scary tales, my Lord,” Lyanna replied politely. She had promised to act like a lady, but that didn’t mean she would play a weeping maid. “You are quite right. We Ladies of the North are not as sheltered as the ladies from the South.”

“Hear ! Hear !” Robert exclaimed and filled her cup to the brim, before placing it in front of her. “Well, then I am sure Storm’s End should be to your taste. It is a gloomy place full of storms.”

“Certainly,” Lyanna replied quietly and took a sip from the cup. It was sweet summer wine that should help to still her tense nerves. Yet it wasn’t just the meeting with Robert that was grating on her, but the impending joust on the morrow. “I shall be pleased to visit Storm’s End before our wedding. Mayhaps after Brandon’s wedding ?”

Robert looked disappointed.

“I hoped your father would allow us to be wed before your brother’s wedding.” he replied, his blue eyes piercing into hers.

Lyanna shuddered and felt as if she was standing before a black abyss, trying to swallow her whole.

The worst was that she couldn’t even find the right words to answer.

“Our Lord Father would have you wait until Brandon’s wedding, and until Lyanna has reached her ten and seven,” Ned said quietly. “It will also grant you time to know each other better, Robert.”

“I see,” Robert said and leaned over to touch her hand. Lyanna gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay in place, but it was harder than expected. “Well, we shall make the best of it, won’t we, my Lady ?”

Lyanna swallowed hard and nodded her head in confirmation.

“The day my father says so we shall, my Lord.” She tried to remind him silently that it was not yet official.

Trying to divert her mind from her pitiful future life, she grabbed her cup with her free hand and drank deeply.

“You should eat,” Robert prodded gently, speaking to her as if she was a little child. “You look famished, my Lady.”

It was true what he said though. Her stomach was empty, but she strangely felt no need for food.

She still minded her manners and took small bites, like her nursemaid had  taught her. Bird bites, Old Nan had called it and they had laughed. Now it was serious and she tried her best to follow Robert’s never-ending stream of words.

He told her everything. About Storm’s End, his exploits in the last hunt, his time in the Eyrie, his brothers and many more things she tried to remember. The fact that he hadn’t asked a single question about her own life irked her a little.

Had he been someone different she would have told him about herself without asking for his permission, but tonight she was playing a Lady and a Lady never spoke without being questioned. That was another rule Old Nan had tried to teach her, though by Lyanna’s estimation she had failed miserably.

Again, and again, Lyanna’s mind was drifting away from Robert and returned to the impending tilt on the morrow. Occasionally, her thoughts were also filled with her multiple strange meetings with the Dragon Prince. Even now she felt confused when she thought of him and found herself stealing glances at the high table.

Tonight, the King had stayed away from the feast. Only Prince Rhaegar presided over the feast but it didn't take long before Prince Rhaegar had been joined by two men.

One had fiery red hair while the other one was of a smaller and stockier build, his blond hair in disarray. They were too far away from her to determine what they were talking about, but Lyanna noticed that the Prince’s bearing was much calmer without the King’s presence.

He made an almost elated impression, though there was still something gloomy and sad about him.

Lyanna could have watched him forever, but Robert soon demanded her attention by the way of words and touch.

Lyanna had nearly jumped from her seat when she had felt his hand brush over the skirt of her dress. It had lasted only a heartbeat, but Robert’s amused grin made her stomach boil with rage.

She doubted that Ned and Brandon would have approved of Robert’s actions, but as so often they were nowhere to be found.

Ned had long disappeared in the company of Lord Jon Arryn and Brandon had slipped away with Lady Ashara Dayne. Even Benjen and Lord Reed had left her.

Only Richard Lonmouth verfie le blaze remained, but his smile was as bright as Robert’s.

“You are quite jumpy, my Lady,” Robert teased, his voice blurred by the taste of too much wine. He was very drunk, she realised then, but tried to hide her discomfort as best as possible. “Well, as Ned rightly said. You are only ten and seven, right ?”

“Ten and six,” Lyanna corrected him. Under different circumstances she wouldn’t have corrected him because she wanted to be an adult, but her lack of age was the one of the only things that kept her away from her marriage to this drunken fool. “I am ten and six.”

“And a bit shy,” Robert added and laughed, his glassy eyes darting to Ser Richard. “According to my personal experience, the shy ones are the wildest beneath the sheets. What do you say, Knight of Kisses and Skulls ? Do you agree ?”

The Knight of Kisses and Skulls leaned closer and grinned at her.

“I can only agree, my Lord.”

Robert howled with laughter and drowned another cup.

“I am well aware of my duties, my Lords.” Lyanna replied through gritted teeth and tried her best to keep her composure.

Again, they laughed, but Robert’s grin was the brightest.

“I have no doubt about that,” Robert said and leaned over the table, his wine-tinged breath tickling his cheek. “But before we get to that I intend to ask you another question, my sweet Lady.”

Lyanna felt the urge to back away and was about to follow her instinct, but stopped herself when she realised what impression it would make on Robert Baratheon.

“What question, my Lord ?” she asked and tried to soften her voice, though she dreaded hearing the answer.

Robert looked very pleased with himself.

“I am going to partake in the melee,” He explained proudly, his hand touching hers again. “I would be honoured to receive your favour.” 

“I’m sorry, but as I told you last time, my brother already has my favour.” she said as politely as she could, hiding the fact that she had no desire to grant it, no matter what he asked.

“Yes, I remember,” he replied shamelessly. “Then may I ask for another favour instead of your ribbon ?”

“Favour,” Lyanna repeated in an unsure tone and leaned forward. In truth, she held not much interest in the melee, but she could scarcely refuse. “What token would be appropriate ?”

Lyanna had barely taken a breath, before Robert’s hand slung itself around her shoulder and he had planted a kiss on her lips.

Lyanna froze and had to fight the urge to bring up her knee to plant it between his legs.

She endured his attention, her free hand grabbing the table.

“You need to calm down, my Lady.” Robert remarked after he had pulled away and brushed his hand over his mouth.

“You are too tense,” he added and grinned. “But your kiss should suffice for a favour.”

Lyanna forced a smile over her lips.

“I hope so, my Lord.”

Inwardly, she was burning with rage. To still the flames inside her chest, she picked up her discarded cup and poured the last drops of sweet summer wine down her throat. She held back tears of fury.

“I think you have startled Lady Lyanna.” Ser Richard Lonmouth said to Robert, who seemed delighted by her stunned expression.

“You are quite right, Ser Richard,” Robert agreed and re-filled his cup to the brim. “My Lady is rather shy. She has more of Ned than I thought.”

“Mayhaps a dance would help to lighten Lady Lyanna’s mood,” Ser Richard added, one of his sharp smiles curling on his lips as he leaned closer. His eyes were bright green, reminiscent of grass. “Would you care for a dance ?”

Lyanna didn’t know what to answer, her gaze darting to Robert. She had the choice between spending her time with her drunken betrothed or to share a dance with this Ser Richard.

Well, at least it would give her time to breathe and she might even use it as a way to excuse herself afterwards.

“It would be my pleasure,” she replied at last and dipped her head slightly as she angled her head to look at Robert. A true lady always asks of approval, she recalled one of her many lessons. “Does it bother you, my Lord ?”

Robert laughed and nodded his head in confirmation.

“I am sure Ser Richard knows where to keep his hands.” Robert warned in an amusing tone.

“I would never dare.” Ser Richard assured Robert and lowered his head to offer his hand to her.

Lyanna rose to her feet and took his hand, following him towards the dance floor.

It was long past midnight and there were few dancers to be seen, though the minstrels had not stopped in their labour.

“I think the next song will be to your taste,” Ser Richard whispered as he took her hand and placed his other on her waist. As promised, he kept his hands where they belonged, but even Robert’s warning couldn’t banish away his sharp smiles. “You will see.”

Lyanna didn’t know what to make of his words and frowned.

“I fear I do not understand you, Ser Richard…” she began, but Ser Richard pulled her along and jerked his head towards the minstrels.

Lyanna nearly stumbled over her toes when she noticed that Prince Rhaegar had taken his place among them, his golden harp placed before him.

Truly, it shouldn’t have surprised her. She had heard from others that the Prince liked to perform in front of others, but the way Ser Richard was smiling told her that something was about to happen.

“Have no fear, my Lady,” Ser Richard whispered and squeezed her hand gently. “Prince Rhaegar tasked me to do this. I was once his squire. He is an old friend of mine.”

Lyanna felt like hit by thunder and instinctively lowered her gaze to the ground. She feared that Robert might have seen her look at the Prince.

Yet when the first notes of the song filled her ears, she couldn’t help but to lift her gaze. Unlike the song from the first night, this one was sweet and uplifting.

Her heart fluttered wildly as Prince Rhaegar’s fine voice joined the soft sound of his harp.

My featherbed is deep and soft,

and there I'll lay you down,

I'll dress you all in yellow silk,

and on your head a crown.

For you shall be my lady love,

and I shall be your lord.

I'll always keep you warm and safe,

and guard you with my sword.

And how she smiled and how she laughed,

the maiden of the tree.

She spun away and said to him,

no featherbed for me.

I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,

and bind my hair with grass,

But you can be my forest love,

and me your forest lass.

Ser Richard had been right. The song suited her perfectly, yet she found it hard to focus on the dance, mesmerized as she was by the melody.

Once or twice, she tried to get a glimpse at Prince Rhaegar, but it was impossible to make out his features.

All she had was his soft voice caressing her ears.

This afternoon she had prided herself on having successfully banished Prince Rhaegar from her mind, but now all the feelings she had felt in their moments returned to her.

Why is he doing this, she wondered and winced when she stepped onto Ser Richard’s foot. He is the Prince. He shouldn’t be doing such silly things.

Yet she couldn’t help but feel flattered by his actions. He was so different from Robert. The prince had never overstepped his bounds. All he had done was place a kiss upon her knuckles, as etiquette demanded.

“Finally,” Ser Richard whispered and chuckled. “You are smiling, my Lady. The Prince will be pleased.”

Lyanna froze and realised that she was indeed smiling.

She felt both embarrassed and amused. Truly, it was such a strange mixture of feelings that were quarrelling in her chest for dominance.

She knew she shouldn’t feel this way, but she couldn’t help it.

“My smile would please the Prince ?” she asked then.

“Certainly,” Ser Richard confirmed. “When my Prince gave me this task, he said: Last time I had the honour to behold Lady Lyanna’s tears, but tonight I hope to behold Lady Lyanna’s smile’.”

She shivered involuntarily.

“He really said this ?” she asked and winced at her strained and distant voice. “You are not trying to fool me, are you, Ser Richard ?”

Ser Richard’s smile was as bright , as he led her through the last steps of the dance.

“On my honour as a knight,” Ser Richard promised and leaned down to place a kiss on her hand. “I am most loyal to my Prince and would never dare to distort his words. May you have a goodnight, my Lady.”

“Goodnight.” she replied in a flustered tone, still overwhelmed by these strange feelings taking hold of her.

”Goodnight.” she whispered as she knew a certain song had made sure she would indeed have a good night without thinking about her horrible fate.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8  : The knight of the Laughing Three

Rhaegar

As Rhaegar Targaryen examined the grounds of Harrenhal, anticipation hung thick in the air, like a cloak woven from the whispers of eager spectators. The tournament’s impending commencement had cast a spell of excitement over the ancient castle, its towering walls echoing with the murmurings of Noble Houses and common folk alike. The scent of freshly oiled armour mingled with the perfume of courtly ladies, forming an intoxicating blend that stirred the senses. Beneath the azure sky, banners fluttered in the breeze, each a vivid emblem of ambition and honour. Amidst the bustling preparations, Rhaegar, with a solemn grace befitting his station, could feel the weight of expectation pressing upon his shoulders, as though destiny itself hovered above the tiltyard, waiting to unveil its chosen victor.

Rhaegar sat beside his father, the King. As expected, the King was in a bad shape, his mouth still dirty from the small meal he had consumed earlier. One of the new servants had dared suggest he wash and had been promptly sent to the Wall, a mercy that meant the King was in a good mood, though not as good as Rhaegar had hoped. On a worse day, the poor man would have been dragged back to King’s Landing to serve in one of Aerys’s favourite pastimes: burning men alive.

Rhaegar desired nothing more than to leave, but that was impossible. The King had made it clear that he wanted his son to partake in the jousting competition, to defend the honour of House Targaryen. Rhaegar had agreed, though he felt little desire for the lists. His thoughts were elsewhere, occupied by his failed design to overthrow his father and by Lady Lyanna Stark, Lord Rickard’s daughter.

From time to time, whenever someone addressed him in conversation, he stole a glance towards the Starks, hoping to catch sight of the maiden of Winterfell. Yet she was nowhere to be seen. He saw only two of her brothers, Robert Baratheon and the crannogman Lyanna had  saved from the unwanted attentions of three squires.

The youngest brother, Benjen, sat beside Howland Reed, his attention captivated by the jousting competition, while his older brother, Eddard Stark, was whispering to Robert Baratheon.

The two of them could hardly have been more different. Robert Baratheon was a broad-shouldered man with pitch-black hair and a boisterous laugh that carried across any hall, while Eddard Stark was what most would have called stoic, his face solemn and framed by soft brown hair.

What Ser Richard had told him about Eddard Stark only strengthened this observation. Eddard Stark was a quiet and serious man who never joined the Lord of the Stormlands in his pursuit of pleasure. No, these two men had little in common, and yet they were supposedly as close as brothers.

“It is my brother who is taken with Robert.” Lyanna had confessed to him during their second meeting, and perhaps that was the very reason for this unwanted betrothal. Perhaps it had not been Rickard Stark’s ambition that led him to approve of the match, but the faith he placed in his son’s judgment. Mayhaps Rickard Stark trusted the word of his son more than the rumours circulating about the Lord of Storm’s End, rumours that named him a wanton man who had already fathered a bastard on a girl in the Vale.

Whatever Lord Rickard’s reasons, Lady Lyanna deserved better than a man like Robert Baratheon. Were Rhaegar free to act, he would have been the first to dissolve that union and spare her his cousin’s coarse attentions. Yet all he had done was sing her a song, though at least this time he had managed to draw a smile from her lips, or so Ser Richard had assured him.

Still, it had not been enough to quiet his longing. Throughout the feast, he had fought the urge to seek her out, to ask for something as simple as a dance, though prudence had kept him in place. Ser Richard, who had long spied for him on Robert Baratheon, had told him more than once that his cousin bore a grudge against the Targaryens, one born not of Lady Lyanna but of tragedy, the death of his father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, lost to a storm at sea.

And so he had been left to admire Lady Lyanna from afar. She had worn a gleaming blue gown, tightly laced about her slender form and trimmed in white. About her shoulders lay a pelted cloak of soft grey, perhaps once belonging to a wolf or a bear. Her brown, lustrous hair had been bound in a simple braid and adorned, he thought, with freshly plucked flowers, though the distance made it hard to be sure.

A faint flush crept up his neck as he realised where his thoughts had wandered. Get a hold of yourself, he told himself, and forced his gaze away. Looking at the King, who was tugging distractedly at the frayed edge of his cloak, ought to have helped, but it did not. His thoughts returned again to the maidden of Winterfell, to her deep frown and the puzzled look she had given him after he had brushed his lips against her hand. He wondered what it might feel like to kiss those lips, full and defiant, so often shaped for cursing.

When the horns sounded, the murmur of the crowd fell into silence. A herald rode forth upon a white palfrey, the seven-pointed star embroidered upon his surcoat. He halted before the royals and unfurled a scroll. His voice, clear and trained, carried across the lists.

“By command of His Grace, King Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, let all men gathered here bear witness: the Great Tourney of Harrenhal is begun !

On this first day shall be held the trials of the lesser knights, those who have yet to prove their valour in tourneys past, or who come to the field as squires newly made and knights yet untested. They shall contend in single jousts to earn their place among the champions.

On the morrow, the field shall open for the grand mêlée, where all sworn knights may test their strength and courage in combat of many against many, for honour and renown.

And on the third and final day, the lists shall be cleared for the great joust of champions, where the finest knights of Westeros shall ride before the eyes of gods and men, to claim the favour of the realm’s fairest ladies and the crown of victory itself.”

The herald rolled the scroll and lifted his hand. Trumpets blared, and a cheer rose from the stands, swelling like thunder against the blackened walls of Harrenhal.

Rhaegar remained still, the sound washing over him. Below, the first competitors were already mounting their destriers, their armour glinting beneath the pale morning sun. Soon the dust would rise, and the air would tremble with the clash of lances and the roar of the crowd.

The tourney began with the first jousts, but Rhaegar paid little attention to them, his mind elsewhere.

“Who fights next ?” his father grumbled, breaking Rhaegar’s reverie. “Tell me.”

Rhaegar frowned before leaning forward to see the tiltyard more clearly.

From his vantage point he saw the next pair of riders, and recognised one of them as Ser Jaime Lannister, heir to Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock.

“Tywin’s whelp is riding, isn’t he ?” his father asked, and Rhaegar gave a silent nod.

“Indeed,” he replied. “Ser Jaime Lannister takes the field.”

Aerys’s lips curved into a sudden smile as he leaned back in his chair. His amusement grew with every tilt of Ser Jaime’s lance, his eyes gleaming with a strange delight.

“I will go and see if my armour is ready,” Rhaegar said softly. “I shall return shortly, Father.”

“Yes, be quick.”

Once inside his tent, Rhaegar had scarcely begun to inspect his armour when his mother’s voice rang out, sharp with alarm.

“Rhaegar !”

“Mother ?” he asked, startled.

“Your father is announcing something. This is not good.”

Panic coiled in Rhaegar’s chest as he climbed the steps to the royal box. Was his father about to marry him off without his consent ? Had he broken his word ? His throat turned dry, and with each step he felt heavier, as though some unseen weight pressed down upon him, like a condemned man walking towards the gallows.

His father rose as silence fell over the assembly. He did not look regal; he looked pleased and proud, an unsettling sight in a man so steeped in madness. When their eyes met, the King lifted his voice to address the crowd.

“My dear people, as you know, no house has been a greater friend to House Targaryen since the beginning of my reign than House Lannister.”

The words struck Rhaegar like a warhammer to the chest. In the name of the Seven, what have you done, Father ? he thought, his heart pounding. His vision swam. Faces blurred and spun before him, and amid the haze, Cersei Lannister’s triumphant smile gleamed like gold. He clutched the railing to keep himself steady.

“Lord Tywin Lannister has served as my Hand for twenty years and now remains Warden of the West. A great servant to the Crown indeed.” Aerys continued, his voice drenched in sarcasm so bitter it almost foamed. Praise and insult twisted together like wildfire and smoke.

“His daughter too has long served the Crown, as a lady-in-waiting to my Queen.”

That was the final blow. Cersei is to be Queen. Rhaegar heard the whispers ripple through the Lords and Ladies like a rising tide :

“Tywin finally did it.”

“Look at the girl’s face, smug little thing.”

“The Old Lion will be untouchable now.”

The whispers spiralled through the crowd, heavy with speculation and unease, until the King resumed speaking, his voice dragging every gaze back to him.

“And as they say, never two without three ! A new Lannister shall serve the Crown. Ser Jaime Lannister, step forward !”

Gasps echoed among the lords and ladies. A boy of sixteen stepped forth, his golden armour gleaming like polished coin, his hair matching it shade for shade. He knelt before the King.

“I am at Your Grace’s service.” he said.

The King stared down at him, eyes gleaming with madness, then smiled, bright and terrible.

“Lord Commander, is everything ready ?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” came the solemn reply.

“Then, Ser Jaime, make your oath.” the King commanded with a predator’s grin, as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard approached, white cloak in hand.

The boy’s eyes sparkled with pride, unaware of the chains he was forging with every word he spoke. And so he began the oath that would bind him forever.

“I swear to ward the King with all my strength, to give my blood for his.

I swear to obey His commands and keep His secrets.

I swear to defend His honour and serve at His pleasure.

I will never flee, nor falter in my duty.

I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children.

I pledge to His Grace my life and honour, until the day that I die.”

With this, the youngest Kingsguard in history was born, as recorded in the White Book, the sacred tome where all Kingsguard achievements were inscribed. None of the true intentions of the King would ever be written in it. The King gained the young prodigy in his Kingsguard alongside the great Ser Arthur Dayne and the Bold and with this Aerys II made his Kingsguard the greatest and deadliest ever formed.

Applause filled the stands as Jaime Lannister rose, the white cloak draped over his shoulders. Some clapped out of courtesy, others out of genuine admiration, and many more with quiet hope that the title of Crown Prince’s wife still lay unclaimed. Only the Lannisters and their bannermen smiled thinly, displeased by the honour granted to their Lord’s heir. Yet the boy himself, newly made Kingsguard, seemed nothing short of radiant.

Rhaegar watched the scene unfold, a storm gathering behind his composed expression. 

Father has gained a hostage, one skilled with a sword and young enough to be shaped. And Tywin... he has lost his golden heir, leaving only the Imp or his brothers to inherit Casterly Rock. 

The thought twisted in his gut. This is more than madness. This is design. The King may be mad, but his mind, sharp as Valyrian steel, has not dulled.

“Arise, Ser Jaime !” the King proclaimed, his voice ringing across the stands. “Arise as a brother of the Kingsguard. May you serve us well !”

The young knight obeyed, a proud smile curving his lips as he cast aside his red and gold  cloak for one of white.

“You do me great honour, Your Grace.” Ser Jaime said, bowing low before taking his place beside Ser Gerold Hightower. Shortly after, he was dismissed from the King’s presence, and the tourney resumed its course.

Rhaegar was still  shocked when the King leaned closer, his foul breath grazing his cheek.

“That will keep Tywin loyal to me.” Aerys murmured, his voice low and triumphant. 

“Do not think I am blind to your little plots, my boy. The Spider keeps me well informed.”

Rhaegar clenched his jaw and looked away.

“I would never presume…” he began, but the King cut him off.

“Do not lie to your King. I know you tried to have Lord Varys killed, but I forgave you because you are my blood. Do it again, and I will have your head, my boy.”

Rhaegar’s fingers tightened around the arm of his chair as he turned to face the man who sat before him. His King. His father.

No, this was no father. The man before him was a stranger, a monster who took pleasure in the suffering of others. The father he had known would never have violated his mother. The father he had known had wept for every child he had lost. But that man had died at Duskendale. What remained was only madness and cruelty, sharpened by a mind still capable of cunning.

I underestimated him. Mad, yes, but not a fool.

“I understand.” Rhaegar said at last.

The King grinned, baring his yellowed teeth to the light. “Good. Now let us watch the next tilt. I trust it will be worth our time.”

The morning unfolded without disturbance, each bout ending as cleanly as it had begun, until a most peculiar knight rode onto the field.

He was a strange sight. His armour was mismatched and dented, his round shield painted with the face of a grotesque, laughing weirwood.

“Who is that ?” his mother asked him.

“No name was given,” he replied with a faint shrug. “A mystery knight.”

A heartbeat later, the clear call of a trumpet rang out, signalling the start of the next tilt. The two riders spurred their mounts, heels striking against polished flanks, and met in a splintering crash of lances. Ser Haigh barely grazed his opponent before losing his balance, slipping sideways in his saddle as his horse thundered across the yard. The sight drew a ripple of laughter from the crowd, delighting the onlookers and earning the mystery knight a chorus of cheers.

“He is so small,” Rhaella murmured to Rhaegar, her voice tinged with curiosity. “Perhaps another Ser Barristan ? Or maybe a son of House Blackwood ? Their sigil looks similar.”

Rhaegar had wondered the same, yet an uneasy feeling stirred within him as he watched the knight raise his lance once more.

The mystery knight charged with measured precision, unhorsing his opponent with a skill that belied his strange and humble appearance.

The crowd erupted in cheers, yet Rhaegar remained still, his eyes fixed upon the enigmatic rider. There was an elegance in the knight’s movements, a quiet grace that stirred something faint and familiar within him. Rhaegar leaned forward, drawn ever deeper into curiosity with each tilt the knight claimed.

The mystery knight had just unhorsed his first opponent, sending the man sprawling into the dirt with a thundering crash. Dust rose from the yard as the crowd erupted in laughter and surprise. The victor reined in his horse and turned towards the fallen knight, his mismatched armour glinting unevenly beneath the sun as he levelled his lance at him.

“I am the Knight of the Laughing Three and I only ask that you teach your squires honour, Ser !”

For a heartbeat, silence rippled across the stands. The boldness of the declaration stunned the audience, and then the murmur began, first whispers, then excited chatter. Yet there was something almost noble in the demand, something that made the smallfolk cheer louder than they had for any great lord.

Rhaegar sat rigid, eyes fixed on the strange figure below. He had seen knights of all kinds, but never one so brazen. Who would dare mock noble sons before half the Realm ? The laughter of the commoners mingled with the disapproving huffs of the highborn, while the mystery knight trotted back to his end of the field as if nothing at all were amiss.

Utter madness, Rhaegar thought, though he could not deny the flicker of admiration stirring within him. Whoever hid beneath that helm fought with courage and conviction  and an unsettling kind of purpose.

Soon the herald called for the next tilt. The Knight of the Laughing Tree lowered his lance once more, this time facing Ser Blount, a knight of no small repute. The trumpet sounded, sharp and clear, and the two riders thundered towards one another. Lances shattered, splinters flew, and again the stranger’s aim struck true.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The mystery knight rode on, steady and proud, while Ser Blount tumbled helplessly into the dust.

Rhaegar leaned forward, his heart quickening despite himself. There was elegance in the rider’s every motion, a surety that tugged at his memory, a grace that felt once again almost familiar. 

And once again, he rode towards the fallen knight, leveled his lance at him, and said once more,

“I only ask that you teach your squires honour, Ser !”

Once again, his declaration sent a stir through the stands. The smallfolk erupted in laughter and cheers, delighted by the audacity of the nameless knight who dared to lecture highborn lords on honour. Even among the nobles, a few permitted themselves faint smiles or murmurs of amusement, though most hid their reactions behind polite indifference. Yet beneath the laughter ran a current of unease, for such bold words, spoken so publicly, were a challenge few would dare utter before the eyes of the King.

The last opponent, a knight of House Frey, met a similar fate. The Knight of the Laughing Tree, though clad in mismatched armour, rode with a precision that belied his strange appearance. Twice his lance splintered against Ser Frey’s shield, each impact echoing through the tiltyard like thunder. Gasps rose from the crowd as the Frey knight struggled to keep his seat, weakened beneath the force of each strike.

On their final pass, Ser Frey managed to land a heavy blow upon the mystery knight’s shoulder. The power of it was enough to make the spectators hold their breath in one tense silence. Rhaegar felt a flicker of concern; this could be the moment the rider was unmasked. Yet the stranger did not falter. He kept his seat with remarkable steadiness, his resolve as unyielding as the tall oak. Rhaegar’s worry melted into reluctant admiration. Whoever this knight was, he possessed not only courage but a mastery of horsemanship rare even among seasoned champions.

With his own final strike, the Knight of the Laughing Tree sent Ser Frey crashing to the ground, his fall graceless and heavy, like that of a drunkard tumbling from his stool. A roar swept through the crowd, applause and laughter mingling in a single wave of awe. The smallfolk and the highborn alike watched in wonder, enthralled by the nameless champion who had turned mockery into legend.

Rhaegar watched intently as the mystery knight, maintaining an air of dignified humility, guided his horse towards the fallen knight. His lance was lifted high in a victory salute, the splintered wood a testament to his prowess and determination. As he rode, the sunlight caught the grotesque laughing face on his shield, adding an eerie charm to his already mystifying presence. 

Spectators leaned forward, eager to catch a glimpse of this unorthodox participant. Whispers of admiration and speculation buzzed through the crowd. Who could this knight be, with riding-skills so refined yet a demeanour so unknightly ? Rhaegar’s curiosity deepened, but so did his unease. What if this knight was a threat, or worse, a sign of the growing unrest of the Realm ?

When he reached Ser Frey, the victor neither dismounted nor offered aid. He simply regarded his fallen foe in silence, the weight of his gaze pressing upon the loser. It was not cruelty, Rhaegar thought, but conviction. Still, the absence of mercy unsettled him. Around them, the crowd’s fascination grew, whispers swelling like the tide.

“I only ask that you teach your squires honour, Ser !” The voice carried clear across the yard, calm yet commanding, steeped in the very essence of knighthood. A faint chill ran down Rhaegar’s spine. There was something hauntingly familiar in that voice, a cadence that tugged at his memory. The mystery knight turned his horse and rode back to his place, offering the cheering crowd no more than a humble wave.

As he prepared to leave the tiltyard, the mystery knight paused, taking in the thunder of applause and the sea of faces fixed upon him. The Knight of the Laughing Tree had not only proven his skill in combat but had carved his name into memory, leaving an impression that would not soon fade.

Rhaegar’s thoughts churned. Who is this knight, and what does he seek ? The question gnawed at him, unease mixing with admiration and curiosity. He inclined his head in silent recognition, then turned to face the King, drawn by the sharp murmur of his voice.

“How dare he,” the King mumbled in an agitated voice, tugging at his sleeves. “How dare he.”

Rhaegar knew that he couldn’t refuse his King’s command, an innocent knight might die, but he feared who he might find hiding beneath this helmet.

“I am the Knight of the Laughing Tree ! I only ask that you teach your squires honour !” the mystery knight proclaimed, his voice ringing clear across the tiltyard. Then he turned his horse and galloped away, the laughter of his shield seeming to echo behind him.

“Bring him to me !” the King roared, his voice breaking with fury as he craned his neck towards Rhaegar. His lilac eyes were wild, his face flushed and glistening with fever. “At once !”

Rhaegar felt his stomach tighten. He knew he could not disobey his father’s command. An innocent knight might die before the day was done, and yet a deeper dread coiled in his chest. He feared what, or who, he might find hidden beneath that helmet.

Lyanna

She was riding away from the tournament, a bright smile hidden beneath her helmet, the thrill of victory still singing in her veins. Lyanna was ecstatic, a rare and intoxicating joy bubbling up inside her. She had done it. For once, her name, her birth, her very gender did not matter. For this fleeting moment, she was free as the cold winds of the North. No one could take this from her. Not her father, not her brothers, not Robert, and not even the King. For this single instant, she was freer than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms.

The cool breeze whipped around her as she rode, carrying her laughter through the trees. The sound was clear and bright, like the ringing of a bell. Each breath she drew tasted of pine and frost, sharp and exhilarating. The sense of freedom was intoxicating. Her heart pounded, not with fear, but with fierce delight. She urged her horse onward, feeling the surge of the horse’s muscle beneath her, the rhythm of hooves striking the earth like a song of triumph.

But then, screams echoed behind her, faint yet urgent, and the spell was broken. Her laughter died on her lips. Distant shouts carried through the trees, raw and alarmed. She turned her head, her pulse quickening. Someone was following her. The exhilaration bled into unease, and a thin thread of panic pulled tight within her chest. She did not know why they chased her, but she understood enough to be afraid. Had they recognised her ? Would they drag her back and strip away the freedom she had dared to taste ?

Cursing her pursuers under her breath, she tightened her grip on the reins and urged her horse onward, hooves drumming against the forest floor. She rode towards the small cave where she had hidden her belongings, every beat of her heart echoing the rhythm of the gallop. She had planned everything with care: her disguise, her escape, her return. The cave was her sanctuary, a place where she could transform back into her expected role and slip back into Harrenhal unnoticed.

As she approached the cave, her mind whirled with a mix of fear and defiance. The thrill of her victory still coursed through her veins, mingling with the dread of being caught. She couldn’t let them take this from her. Not now. Not after she had tasted what it meant to be truly free. Her breath came fast, every exhale a silent vow to remember this moment, this fleeting taste of freedom.

At last, she reached the cave and swung down from the saddle, her boots sinking into the damp earth. She cast a glance over her shoulder, half expecting to see figures emerging from the trees. But the forest was still, the echoes of pursuit fading into silence. She ducked inside, her hands trembling as she began to unfasten her armour. Each piece she removed felt heavier than the last, as though she were stripping away not steel but the very spirit that had carried her. Yet she knew it had to be done. The Lady of Winterfell’s daughter could not remain a knight.

She told herself she had done it for Howland, for his honour and for his future. But as her fingers brushed the cool stone of the cave wall, she knew that was not the whole truth. She had done it also for herself. For this breath of freedom. For the wild, fierce joy that no one could ever take from her. She would have a memory of what she used to be or could have been.

As she donned her usual attire, she drew a deep breath to steady herself. The forest beyond the cave seemed a world apart from the rigid life she was about to return to. For a brief and precious moment, she had been more than Lyanna Stark. She had been a knight, a warrior, a free spirit carried by the winds. She swore to herself that this would not be the last time she seized her freedom, whatever the cost.

She was about to step outside the cave when a voice cut through the forest, sharp and unmistakable, scattering her fleeting sense of peace.

“Lyanna Stark, are you a fool ?”

Her heart lurched. She turned towards the sound, expecting to see a stern figure waiting to drag her back and crush the fragile taste of freedom she had fought for. But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the cave’s mouth, she stopped breathing.

It was not an executioner who stood before her.

It was a Prince.

Rhaegar

My Prince, your horse." said a servant.

"Ser Arthur, take twenty men. We are going to catch this mystery knight." Rhaegar ordered as he mounted his horse, his voice filled with determination.

"Yes, my Prince." replied the Kingsguard, saluting before summoning twenty men sworn to House Targaryen to ride with them.

They rode into the dense forest surrounding Harrenhal…The Prince's mind raced. Who could harbour such hatred for those knights, enough to risk so daring a deed ? The image of a Lady from the North flickered through his mind, but he forced it away. The thought  was absurd. She was too clever, too composed to endanger herself in such reckless folly. And yet, a shadow of doubt lingered.

Robert too had been sent to hunt the Knight of the Laughing Tree. With both parties led by the Targaryen prince and the Baratheon lord, the knight’s chances of escape were slim. Rhaegar felt a pang of sorrow. The knight’s courage and skill were admirable, yet his fate seemed sealed.

"My Prince, we have found tracks. He is heading east." one of the scouts called, snapping Rhaegar from his thoughts.

As they rode deeper into the forest, the trees seemed to close in around them, their branches weaving a canopy of shadow. The air grew colder, heavy with the scent of damp earth and moss. Rhaegar’s heart beat faster, caught between unease and anticipation. He could not shake the feeling that this hunt was no longer about a nameless knight. It felt personal, as though something were drawing him forward.

Through the shifting leaves ahead, he caught sight of a rider. The figure moved with unmistakable grace, fierce, every motion alive with wild freedom. Rhaegar’s heart skipped a beat as realisation struck him. He knew that way of riding.

No, it cannot be her. Who could it be? I must reach him before anyone else. Please, let it be someone else. Let it be anyone but her.

“Arthur, follow me. Men, ride ahead. We will stop him by closing in from both sides.” Rhaegar commanded, his voice steady though his thoughts were in turmoil. If it was her, he had to protect her, shield her from the consequences of her actions.

One glance at Arthur was enough. His friend understood at once that this tactic was a diversion meant to send the twenty soldiers away from the target.

They rode through the forest at full speed, branches whipping past as Rhaegar’s mind churned with emotion. Anger at her recklessness. Confusion over her motives. Admiration for her courage. And beneath it all, a sharp, aching fear for her safety. 

How could she take such a risk ? For her friend, Reed ? Or for her ?

“You must calm yourself, Rhaegar. Even if it is…” Arthur began, his voice measured.

“Do not dare finish that thought, Arthur,” Rhaegar cut in, his tone colder than steel, before continuing, “How did you guess ? I am not even sure myself.”

“There are few who could shake you so deeply,” Arthur said quietly. “Are you certain ?”

“The way she rides,” Rhaegar murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “It is the same.”

Arthur’s expression darkened. “That is not good. Not at all.”

They approached the cave where she had stopped. His heart tightened with the realisation of what she had done and the danger she had invited upon herself. He 

“Arthur, see that no one approaches, whatever the reason.”

“Yes, my Prince. The King... he will demand answers about the knight.”  Arthur said, his voice edged with worry.

“I know. I will think of something, my friend.” Rhaegar replied, his gaze never straying from the cave as he dismounted and advanced on foot.

Each step towards the cave felt heavier than the last. Dread coiled within him, mingled with a fierce need to protect her. What if someone else had found her first ? What if his father’s men had reached her before he did ? He forced the thoughts aside.He couldn’t afford to think about what might have happened. Only the present mattered now. Only her safety.

When he finally reached her, he should have made sure she was safe and ensured she was unharmed. That was what mattered most. But reason gave way to anger.

“Lyanna Stark, are you a fool?” he demanded. His voice was dark and harsh. His eyes searched hers, burning with frustration and fear. The boldness in her gaze met his anger.

“My Prince, I had to…” she began, her voice wavering under the weight of his anger.

“No, do not speak,” he cut her off, his tone sharp and merciless. “You fool, you behave like an immature child. You put yourself in danger for what ? Because some foolish squire who struck down your new friend, one you have known for what, not even a moon ? Think, Lyanna ! For the sake of the Fourteen Flames, think !”

Rhaegar’s frustration boiled over, his words trembling with a mixture of anger and desperation. He couldn’t understand why she would risk so much for so little. Beneath his composed exterior, a deep fear gnawed at him, one he could neither voice nor suppress. He couldn’t afford to let it show, not here, not now. Yet the sight of her standing there, fierce and unyielding, filled him with a storm of protectiveness and dread. Her courage and defiance, though admirable,  put her in great danger.

“Do you realise what could have happened ?” he demanded, his voice softening, “If anyone other than me had found you…”

Lyanna’s eyes flared with defiance, yet behind the fire, a flicker of doubt betrayed her. She parted her lips to speak, but Rhaegar silenced her once more.

“Beneath that helmet, you’re not just Lyanna. You are Lady Lyanna Stark. Your name, your House, your very life are all hanging in the balance. And still, you risked everything. For what ?”

He drew in a deep breath, struggling to calm the storm raging inside him. “I know you’re brave, and I know what honour means to you. But this… this was reckless. If one of my father’s men had found you, if anyone else had learned who you truly were…”

Her defiance wavered as his words sank in. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing,” she replied, her voice steadier now. “Someone had to teach them a lesson.”

He admired her spirit, the same spirit that made her so different from every Lady he had ever known. Yet the thought of what might have happened to her if things had gone wrong made his chest tighten. “And what if you had been caught ? What then ?”

She turned her gaze away, her jaw tightening as the weight of his words settled over her. “I had to take that chance,” she said quietly. “For honour.”

Rhaegar sighed, the weight of feelings he could neither name nor control pressing heavily on his chest. “Promise me you will not do anything like this again,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. “I cannot protect you if you keep taking such risks.”

Lyanna met his gaze, her eyes gentler now, a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. “I cannot promise that…” she whispered.

Rhaegar’s heart tightened at her words. The very thought of her in danger was unbearable. “And what about your life, Lyanna ?” he asked softly, his voice betraying the depth of his concern.

“It does not matter when honour is at stake. Honour is sacrifice, my Prince.”

“What ?” he breathed, the word escaping him in disbelief. Her answer struck him like a blow, her conviction burning both alarming and awe-inspiring.

“I would rather die than live without honour.”

Rhaegar felt a surge of desperation rise within him. “Why ? Why do you care so little for your life, Lyanna ?” he shouted, the fire inside him consuming his reason. He could not comprehend how she could treat something so precious with such recklessness.

“It’s my life, not yours, so why do you care so much about this ? You’re not my father, nor one of my brothers. Like you said, you’re also just someone I met less than a moon ago. You’re no one to me.” Her voice trembled with anger. Each word was like a dagger, sharp and cutting deep. “So tell me, Rhaegar, why do you care so much ?”

He didn’t answer her immediately. How could he ? Admitting the truth meant crossing a line from which there would be no return. His feelings for her were a storm, powerful, uncontrollable, and unreadable. Revealing them would mean putting his duty to the Realm after his own heart.

She stepped closer to him, her eyes searching for him. “Tell me, Rhaegar.” Her voice was not angry, when it reached him, it was soft, steady, almost fragile. He could tell she was as lost as he was; she needed that answer.

That was enough for him. Rhaegar felt the weight of the world pressing upon his shoulders. He knew he should not do this, yet he moved towards her, slowly, drawn by something. He should have turned away, he knew that, but the heart has its reasons that reason ignores.

He lifted his hand to her face, cupping her cheek gently. The warmth of her skin against his palm sent a shiver through him, and when his violet eyes met her grey ones, he found a courage he had never known  he possessed before.

“I care because I have feelings for you, Lyanna.” he confessed, his voice barely more than a whisper, heavy with emotion. The words lingered in the air between them, carrying the truth he could no longer deny.

Lyanna’s breath caught, her eyes widening. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to vanish around them, leaving only silence and them together. He knew she could see it in his eyes, the truth he could no longer hide, the pain, the longing, and the fear.

Rhaegar’s hand trembled as it lingered against her cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of her skin as though trying to memorise it. “I’ve tried to fight it, to bury it, but I can’t. Your bravery, your spirit, they draw me to you as much as your beauty, your mind, everything about you draws me to you.”

Lyanna’s expression softened, into something quieter, more uncertain. “Rhaegar…” she breathed, her voice trembling with emotion. “I… me too…”

At her words, Rhaegar’s heart melted with a painful blend of joy and sorrow. He knew the path before them was steeped in danger, that their love could ruin everything he had sworn to protect. Yet in that moment, none of it seemed to matter. He drew her closer, their foreheads touching as the world narrowed to the fragile space between them.

“I don’t know what the future holds,” he murmured, his voice filled with fragile hope. “But I know I cannot let you go. We will find a way, Lyanna. We must.”

As Rhaegar held her against him, the world seemed to fall away into silence, their breaths the only sound. The moment hung suspended in time, heavy with everything they could not say, yet bound together by the truth they had finally spoken.

Rhaegar’s hand, which had never left her, trembled slightly, betraying the vulnerability he felt. His thumb traced the line of her face with a tenderness that spoke more than words could. He felt the warmth of her skin, the faint rhythm of her pulse beneath his fingertips. Every sensation seemed sharper, every heartbeat heavier than he had ever felt.

His gaze dropped to her lips, and for a moment, he hesitated, searching her eyes for permission. The silence between them pulsed with a quiet, electric anticipation. He could not hold back any longer

Slowly, gently, as though afraid she would stop him, he closed the distance. His lips brushed against hers tenderly. It began as a hesitant touch. Her lips were warm and impossibly soft against his, sending a shiver through him. The contact was brief but intense

Lyanna responded with equal tenderness, her lips parting slightly to meet him once again. The kiss deepened, growing in warmth and intensity as their emotions overflowed. Rhaegar’s fingers slipped from her cheek to the back of her neck, drawing her closer, the heat of her body melding with his own.

Rhaegar’s heart raced, an electric mixture of joy and a boyish, almost reckless excitement. Lyanna’s breath came in soft, shuddering sighs, her body pressed firmly against his.

The kiss didn't merely continue; it became a feverish necessity. All shyness dissolved, replaced by a fierce, undeniable desire. Rhaegar gently traced his tongue along the line of her lower lip, a simple, velvet caress that sent an immediate shiver through Lyanna. The intoxicating softness of her mouth threatened to make him lose all control.

He should have stopped. He knew it. But it was precisely then, instead of pulling back, that Lyanna responded to his plea with an urgency and fervour that stole his breath. It was too much. Abandoning all thought, he plunged, his tongue seeking hers, a sudden, deep intrusion that caught her by surprise. Their mouths fitted together perfectly, a burning revelation. The kiss became a sweet struggle, Lyanna pressing her lips hungrily against his, the taste of her, wild passion spreading through him. Their tongues met, exploring, tracing arcs of pure yearning. He felt the heat rush to his face, and Lyanna gripped the silk of his doublet, pulling at the fabric in silent fervour.

His hands anchored firmly on her waist, holding her with a gentle strength against his body, not allowing her to move an inch. If paradise existed, Rhaegar was certain he had found it in her embrace.

When they finally broke apart, their eyes met again, filled with renewed determination. They stood close, their foreheads touching once more, the kiss having sealed their pact in a way words alone could never achieve.

Rhaegar gently stroked her hair, his voice a low murmur filled with fragile hope. “Together.” he said.

Lyanna nodded, her smile now radiant and hopeful. “Together, then.”

As they stepped out of the cave, the weight of their actions lingered in the cool air between them. Rhaegar’s mind was still racing, tangled in a storm of strategy and emotion. He glanced at Lyanna, the resolve in her eyes undimmed by what had just occurred. She had taken a tremendous risk, and now they had to ensure her identity remained hidden.

“Arthur is waiting for us. We must ensure no one discovers it was you.” Rhaegar said, his voice calm despite the turmoil inside him.

“Ser Arthur… he is with you…Does he know?” she asked, uncertainty softening her tone.

“He knows it is you, but he would never say a word. Do not worry.” he reassured her gently.

“No, not about this… about us?” she asked, her voice dropping to a shy whisper.

“He may suspect something. He knows me too well,” Rhaegar admitted, giving her hand a soft, reassuring squeeze. “But he will speak of none of it. You have nothing to fear.”

Arthur was waiting for them just outside, his expression tense but relieved. He had managed to keep the other men at bay, ensuring no one approached the cave.

“My Prince,” he said, his voice low but firm, “we need to move. The longer we remain here, the greater the risk.”

Rhaegar nodded, his mind already putting together the pieces of a plan. “No one must ever learn who the Knight of the Laughing Tree truly was. Arthur, take Lyanna through the forest. Keep her away from the main paths and bring her back to Harrenhal without drawing attention.”

Arthur cast a brief look at Lyanna, a flicker of amusement in his eyes before he faced Rhaegar again. “Understood, my Prince. And you ? What will you do ?”

Rhaegar lifted the shield of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, the painted face seeming to mock the danger of the moment. “I will return to the King and tell him the knight has been dealt with. This shield will be our proof. We will claim he fell during the skirmish and that the body lies too deep in the forest to recover. It should keep my father satisfied for now.”

Lyanna stepped forward, her eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and worry. “Rhaegar, be careful. Your father’s wrath is not something to be taken lightly.”

He managed a reassuring smile, though a knot tightened in his chest. “I know. And you, Lyanna, stay with Arthur. He will see you safely back.”

Arthur guided her towards the denser part of the woods, where tracks vanished and branches grew thick enough to hide a secret. Rhaegar watched them disappear beneath the shadows of the trees. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the confrontation ahead.

Lyanna

Arthur and Lyanna moved swiftly through the thickening forest, their horses navigating through brambles and roots with the ease of seasoned mounts. Above them, pale moonlight filtered through the high canopy, scattering silver shards across the ground. The night was quiet save for the soft thud of hooves and the distant whisper of leaves stirred by the wind.

Arthur cast a glance over his shoulder, his expression amused.

“You certainly know how to create a stir, Lady Lyanna.” he said, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

Lyanna returned his look, her grey eyes steady despite the exhaustion weighing on her limbs. Her muscles ached from the ride, and the lingering tension of the night clung to her like a second skin.

“Thank you for helping me, Ser Arthur,” she said quietly. “I could not let my friend’s honour be trampled.

Arthur studied her for a moment, genuine respect flickering in his eyes. “You were not lying when you said you knew how to ride. It was impressive.” he admitted.

Lyanna’s lips curled into a proud smile. “Thank you. It is a shame I will not be riding tomorrow. I would have bested you.”

Her bold claim drew a deep, warm laugh from the Kingsguard. “Oh, I have no doubt you think so, my Lady.” he said in a teasing tone.

“They say you are a great Knight, but a great Knight would not mock a Lady, would he, Ser Arthur ?” she shot back, her voice sharp but playful.

“Yes, perhaps, but you are not very lady-like, Lady Stark.” he replied with an amused smirk.

“Humph, you are right,” she conceded with good humour. “Call me Lyanna. After all, we are partners in crime now.”

“I cannot do that, my Lady.” he said with a gentle shake of his head.

“Why not ?” she asked, more curious than offended.

“I am a Kingsguard.” he replied simply, as though it explained everything.

“So ? I am not royalty. I am a Stark.” she said, baffled.

“For now,” he murmured with a hint of mischief, “with the way you and Rhaegar look at each other.”

She felt heat rush to her cheeks at his words. Rhaegar, you fool she thought, realising with mortification that Arthur had understood far more than he pretended. Embarrassed, she quickened her pace and chose silence, which only made the Dornish knight’s laughter grow.

“Let it be known that the Sword of the Morning has made the She-Wolf of Winterfell flee with nothing but words.” he declared with smug delight.

“Dayne ?”

“My lady?”

“Fuck you !” she snapped, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

Arthur chuckled, utterly unfazed. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

“My Lady, careful. We are almost there.”

They dismounted and led their horses through the thick brush, careful to avoid any prying eyes. As they neared the edge of the forest, Arthur found a small clearing, hidden from view but close enough to the tournament grounds for Lyanna to slip back unnoticed.

“This is it,” Arthur said, tying the reins of their horses to a nearby tree. “Stay here until you are sure it is safe and late enough. I will head back to the main grounds and report to Rhaegar. He will handle the rest.”

Lyanna nodded, her gratitude evident in her eyes. “Be careful, Ser Arthur.”

He gave her a reassuring nod before turning to leave. “You too, Lady Lyanna. Remember, discretion is key.”

As Arthur vanished into the darkness,  Lyanna found herself alone, the silence of the forest wrapping around her like a cloak. She leaned back against a tree, trying to steady her breath, though her heart still thundered from the day’s events. The memory of Rhaegar’s kiss lingered on her lips, warm and haunting.

Minutes felt like hours as she waited, every rustle of leaves and snap of twigs setting her on edge. Gradually, the distant clamour of the tournament grounds faded away, replaced by the soft trill of night insects and the whisper of wind through the branches.

When the silence felt deep enough to shelter her, she drew a steadying breath. It was time.

With one last glance at the forest, Lyanna steeled herself and made her way back to Harrenhal. She moved silently, blending into the shadows, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. She had taken a tremendous risk, but for a moment, she had tasted freedom. And for that, it was worth it.

She slipped into her tent without being noticed, the soft canvas walls closing behind her like a sigh. And as she finally allowed herself to breathe, her thoughts circled back, unbidden, to Rhaegar and the kiss that would not leave her mind.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9  : The Melee at Harrenhal

Lyanna

Lyanna slipped quietly into her chamber, praying for silence, for a moment to gather herself after the chaos of the day. But the air felt wrong the instant she stepped inside. Something shifted in the corner of the room, and her breath caught.

Benjen was there.

He stood beside the small table where a single candle flickered, his arms tightly crossed, his jaw clenched so hard she could see the muscles trembling beneath his skin. He had been waiting for her, and the sight made her chest tighten painfully. He must have been so worried.

The door closed behind her with a soft thud, loud enough to make her flinch. Before she could draw even one steady breath, Benjen’s voice cut through the quiet.

“You could have died today.”

Her heart lurched. She lowered her gaze, but it did nothing to soften the weight in his voice.

“Do you know who was sent after you ?”

The question struck her harder than any blow she had taken in the lists. She froze where she stood, her pulse stumbling. Benjen stepped toward her, his eyes dark with a fear she had never seen in him.

He did not stop.

“You should have seen how angry the King was. Furious. Truly furious. When he saw you fleeing the fields, he demanded they bring you back at once. Lyanna, he did not care who the knight was.” Benjen’s breath shook, soft and ragged. “If they had succeeded and  found you, the King would have killed you without a second thought.”

The worry of her little brother was almost touching, though a quiet guilt coiled inside her for letting him fear so much.

“Lyanna, the King gave the order himself,” he said, his voice low and sharp, barely under control.“He sent men into the woods. He sent Lord Robert. And he sent Prince Rhaegar too.”

Her throat tightened, the memory of the hunt in the trees pounding behind her ears like a second heartbeat.

Benjen dragged a hand through his hair nervously.

“And I watched them ride after you,” he whispered. “Two of the most dangerous men in the Realm, both of them hunting you in the dark. Do you know what it felt like to stand there, unable to do anything, wondering which one of them would drag you back to the King ?”

Lyanna swallowed hard, her palms suddenly cold.

Benjen stopped and turned fully toward her, his fear laid bare, nothing held back.

“Twelve knights. One Lord. The Crown Prince and Ser Arthur Dayne. All searching for you.”

He shook his head, slow and disbelieving.

“You should not be standing here.”

Silence settled between them, heavy enough to press on her lungs. She felt his fear like a weight, something real and suffocating, something she could not shove aside.

Benjen looked at her the way someone looks at a miracle they never expected to see again.

“You came back,” he breathed, unsteady and shaken. “I do not understand how.”

A short silence stretched between them, heavy and trembling. Lyanna watched him, truly watched him, and the fear in his eyes struck her harder than any lance ever could. He looked younger than she had ever seen him since their mother died, shaken to the core, his breath tight as if he had been holding it since the moment she rode into the forest. Something inside her softened.

“Calm down, Benjen. I am all right, you do not have to worry anymore.” she said gently as she reached out to ruffle her little brother’s hair.

“I will never help you again, Lya,” he muttered, the tension finally draining out of his shoulders. “Never again.”

She let out a soft laugh. “I do not think I will ever do something like that again.”

“You must not.” he insisted with a seriousness that softened her smile.

“Go to your room now. I am a little tired. Please tell Father I am already asleep.”

Before he could turn away, Lyanna leaned forward and gave him a quick, awkward hug. It was brief and unfamiliar, the kind of gesture neither of them made often. They were Starks, after all, and open affection never came easily between the family. Still, Benjen froze in surprise, then returned the embrace with a shy, uncertain squeeze but with a huge loving smile on his face, one she didn’t see.

“Yes. I will see you tomorrow. And remember, I meant what I said. I will never help you again. Next time I am going straight to Father.”

“Yes, brother, I promise.” she replied, watching him slip out and close the door behind him.

Silence fell in her room.

Lyanna let out a slow breath, her heart still tangled in the storm of the day.

“You do not know, brother,” she whispered to the empty chamber, her thoughts drifting inevitably to Rhaegar, “but I have already done something far more dangerous…”

The day of the melee rose heavy with expectation. Harrenhal stirred long before the light touched its blackened towers, the entire castle vibrating with the restless preparation of men eager to test their courage. The smell of oil, sweat, and churned earth clung to the morning air, and the sound of metal rang out like a promise. It was a day built for spectacle, and the Realm had come to witness it.

The stands were already alive with anticipation. Ladies whispered behind their gloved hands, exchanging predictions with bright, eager eyes. Old lords leaned forward, grumbling over past melees and wagers placed decades earlier. Squires darted between rows with jugs of watered wine, nearly tripping over themselves as they hurried to serve their masters. The air hummed with excitement, the murmur of hundreds of voices blending into a restless, rising tide. Lyanna took it all in from the Stark box, feeling the electric tension ripple through the crowd like the calm before a storm.

Lyanna and her family had arrived early for today's event, already settled in their box overlooking the courtyard. She leaned forward with anticipation as the knights gathered on either side of the field. Most of them she recognised only by their House sigils, but one figure stood out among the rest: Ser Gerold Hightower, the famed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, known throughout Westeros as the White Bull.

The name suited him perfectly. He was immense, built with the breadth and solidity of an oak trunk, though the grey in his hair revealed the years he carried. Sword in hand and shield resting against his side, he looked every inch the seasoned warrior ready to uphold the honour of the Kingsguard.

“Ser Gerold looks eager. He is going to win this, do you not think so, Father ?” she asked, glancing toward her family as the Starks waited for the melee to begin.

“Maybe. The man is strong and experienced; he is the Lord Commander after all.” her father replied. From his tone, it was clear he cared little for the melee or the jousts that preceded it. To him, such displays were southern theatrics, games for knights who fancied themselves warriors rather than men who had proven themselves on true battlefields.

“Ser Gerold may be the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, but he is getting old.” Brandon remarked, sounding slightly worn, likely the consequence of yet another night spent in some tavern bed he had no business occupying. When Lyanna glanced at him, she finally noticed the odd light in his eyes. For a man who should have been exhausted, he was practically glowing. His gaze was fixed on the royal box, but not on the royal family. He was staring at one of their Ladies.

Lady Ashara Dayne.

The fool, he is promised to Lady Tully.

“Robert will win in terms of strength. No one can match him or his hammer in Westeros,” her other older brother Eddard said proudly. “You should give him your favour, Lya. I know you promised Brandon but… It would please Robert very much. He cares about you dearly.”

Another fool in my family, she thought to herself, her expression turning cold as she looked at her second brother. How could Ned and Robert ever be friends ? They were complete opposites. 

“Maybe you should give him yours, brother. You sound very much like a maiden in love when you speak of him.” She lifted a brow, the corner of her mouth curling in open mockery, making it very clear she meant every word.

At her words, her brother’s face drained of colour, turning as white as fresh snow. Brandon and Benjen exchanged stunned glances, both of them caught off guard by their sister’s boldness in front of their father. 

This farce of an engagement had gone on long enough. She would never marry Robert Baratheon. Never. Her heart already belonged to someone else.

She drew a deep breath, hunger rising in her chest.

“Your friend is a drunken fool who indulges himself in whoring and drinking. He is a pig,” she said, each word sharper than the last, her disdain unmistakable. “I would rather become a fucking septa than marry him, Ned.”

For a heartbeat, the Starks were frozen in absolute silence. Even the crowd’s distant cheers felt muted as Lord Rickard Stark’s gaze darkened. When he finally spoke, his voice cut the air like a blade.

“Mind your words, girl. The lad is a Lord Paramount, and if I say you will marry him, then you will marry him. End of discussion. Am I clear ?”

Lyanna felt something inside her crack at her father’s words.

It was not only that he dismissed her feelings. It was the cold certainty that he had never considered them at all. Emotion surged to her throat, choking off any reply. She stared at her father, her vision blurring as tears threatened to fall. How could he be so unyielding ? So ready to trade her future for alliances and power ?

He would give her away without hesitation and she had never felt more alone. It had been a long time since she had felt this way, longing to run and bury herself in her mother’s arms as she once did as a little girl. 

“Am I making myself clear, Lyanna Stark ?” he repeated, each word colder than the last.

She nodded, a hard lump rising in her throat, fighting the sting of tears she refused to let fall. Her mind raced, already suffocating under the weight of the life she was being forced into, a life bound to a man she could never love.

“If Robert comes to ask for your favour, you will give it to him and smile and behave like a proper Lady. Do you understand, daughter ?”

Anger, fury, and betrayal surged through her, pushing aside the deep sadness in her heart. She was nothing more than a tool to her father, simply because, unlike her brothers, she was a girl meant to be locked inside a castle and made to bear heirs for her husband. The injustice of it all made her blood boil.

“I understand, Lord Stark. I will do whatever you and Lord Baratheon desire. My apologies.” she answered, her voice cold, mirroring his, hiding the despair tearing her apart.

“Lyanna…” Her father’s voice softened, just slightly, as if something else lingered on his tongue. But whatever it was, she never heard it, for the trumpets split through the air, announcing the arrival of the participants.

The moment shattered, swallowed whole by the pomp and fanfare of the tournament.

The melee was a brutal clash of nearly fifty armed men, each one fighting until only a single victor would remain. It was a spectacle soaked in blood and sweat, a trial where only the most ferocious could hope to triumph. Across the Realm, all wagers favoured Gerold Hightower and Robert Baratheon, two giants of strength and reputation. The bettors had judged wisely.

As the combat unfolded, the spectacle became both breathtaking and terrifying. The chaos of battle churned like a living beast, roaring with clashing steel and shouting men. Knights from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms hurled themselves into the fray, glory gleaming in their eyes as they fought with savage determination. The ground trembled beneath them, the air crackling with violence. 

Chaos had swallowed the courtyard long before the first knight fell. In every corner of the field, steel crashed against steel with a violence that seemed to shake the very stones of Harrenhal. The great dust clouds rising from the ground blurred shapes and colours, turning the fighters into shadows locked in desperate combat. At times, Lyanna could barely distinguish one man from another, only the flash of a sigil or the glint of a blade cutting through the haze.

Somewhere to the left, two knights slammed into each other with such force that both fell sprawling, armour ringing as they hit the dirt. One scrambled to rise, only to be knocked back down by the sweep of a shield. Another stumbled from the fray with his visor torn half open, the exposed metal dented inward as if crushed by a hammer. A squire rushed forward to drag a wounded man out of the crush, nearly tripping as an axe missed him by mere inches and buried itself in the ground where he had been standing a heartbeat earlier.

Everywhere she looked, there was violence.

A knight grappled with an opponent until they both tumbled to the ground, rolling in a tangle of limbs and metal.

Another fought with savage desperation, his blows becoming frantic as two more men closed in on him.

A third was caught from behind and fell to his knees, his helm torn away and kicked aside, vanishing into the sea of feet and dust.

The air was thick with the tang of sweat and iron. Screams of pain rose and died. Shields splintered. Lances snapped. Swords rang out like bells struck too hard. It felt less like a contest and more like a fight to death.

From the Stark box, Lyanna watched it unfold with a mixture of awe and rising dread. This was not the elegant, measured beauty of a joust. This was a brutal storm where only instinct, strength, and endurance mattered. She saw bodies shove and collide, knights circle and strike, lines collapse and reform as the fight twisted like a living creature feeding on chaos.

Then, through that violent blur of bodies and dust, a single figure began to force its way into clarity, an unmistakable presence cutting a path through the carnage as effortlessly as a ship cleaving waves.

Robert Baratheon.

Where others fought to survive, he fought to dominate. His warhammer rose and fell in devastating arcs, each blow sending men flying as if they weighed nothing at all. One knight tried to block him, only to have his shield shatter under the impact. Another attempted to meet his strike, but Robert’s hammer crushed through the man’s defence, sending him sprawling to the dirt.

Every time Robert swung, the battlefield parted around him. He roared as he advanced, a force of nature given armour and steel. And with each opponent that fell before him, the crowd’s cheers swelled like thunder rolling across the field.

Lyanna watched, breath caught in her throat, as he continued his rampage through the melee. Whether she liked the man or not, there was no denying the truth.

Robert Baratheon was a storm and no one on that field seemed capable of stopping him.

But Robert was not the only one commanding attention.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, cut through the melee with a grace and precision that defied his age. Where Robert fought like a storm unleashed, Gerold moved like a man carved from discipline itself. His every motion was measured, controlled, a study in efficiency. Each parry flowed seamlessly into a counterstrike, each riposte delivered with the calm certainty of a swordsman who had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of battle.

Unlike Robert’s raw, overwhelming power, Gerold relied not only on pure strength but on decades of experience. He read his opponents with unsettling ease, anticipating their blows before they even truly formed. His greatsword flashed in the sunlight in a sweeping arc of silver inevitability, and wherever the blade passed, men fell.

His technique was a masterclass in swordsmanship. He evaded incoming strikes with the smallest of movements, shifting his weight just enough to let a blade whistle past him before driving his own weapon forward in a forceful thrust or a devastating cut. His pristine white armour, the unmistakable sigil of the Kingsguard, looked almost untouched, a testament to both his defensive skill and the respect his presence commanded on the field.

Even when younger, faster knights charged at him in reckless attempts to overwhelm him, Gerold remained unshaken. There was no panic in his movements, no wasted motion. He dismantled their attacks with almost clinical precision, turning aside blades as if swatting away mere inconveniences, then ending each confrontation with swift, decisive efficiency.

He was not simply surviving the melee. He was mastering it.

A sudden lull rippled through the chaos. For the first time since the melee had begun, a strange, heavy stillness settled over the field. The echoes of clashing steel faded one by one, swallowed by the dust-filled air. Even the crowd seemed to sense the shift; voices dropped, movements slowed, anticipation tightening like a drawn bowstring. Lyanna felt it too, a prickling tension crawling along her spine. Something was about to change. Something inevitable.

The chaos of the melee slowly thinned until only two figures remained standing, two giants of the Seven Kingdoms: Ser Gerold Hightower and Lord Robert Baratheon. TThe courtyard seemed to fall still around them, the roaring crowd fading into a low hum as the last dust settled. All eyes turned to the field. The true champion would now be decided.

Robert Baratheon stood like an avalanche poised to fall. His broad shoulders and immense frame were wrapped in his armour that burned darkly beneath the afternoon sun. The warhammer he wielded seemed almost too large for any man, yet Robert held it with the casual assurance of someone who had long since mastered its devastating weight. Every movement he made radiated raw destruction. Even the earth felt unsettled beneath his heavy steps, quivering as if anticipating the force of the blows that would follow.

Ser Gerold Hightower, by contrast, was not a force of nature but of discipline. The White Bull’s armour shone like freshly polished silver, each plate unmarred, each line perfect. Despite the streaks of grey in his hair, the Lord Commander stood tall and unwavering, his expression calm, almost serene. His greatsword rested easily in his grip, the long blade a seamless extension of his own formidable will. It caught the sunlight in sharp flashes, promising death wherever it passed.

The two men circled each other slowly. Power faced experience. Fury faced precision. And the courtyard held its breath.

Robert moved first. With a roar, he swung his warhammer in a wide arc, the sound of it cutting through the air like a rushing wind. Gerold met the blow head-on, his greatsword rising to intercept it. The first clash of their weapons was a deafening explosion of metal. Sparks flew, and the shock of impact shuddered up Gerold’s arms. He absorbed it with a grim set to his jaw, redirecting the force just enough to pivot away, his blade glancing harmlessly off the hammer’s destructive path.

Robert advanced, relentless. His hammer rose and fell with terrifying force, each swing capable of crushing armour, bone, and whatever lay beneath. Dust burst into the air every time he brought the weapon down, the ground trembling with each strike. Yet Gerold moved with the precision of a man who had honed every instinct through decades of combat. He sidestepped the downward blows with graceful economy, turning just enough to evade, just enough to counter.

His greatsword responded in seamless arcs. Gerold struck at Robert’s exposed side, his blade slicing toward the weak point where plates overlapped. Robert managed to bring his hammer up in time, deflecting the blow with a grunt. Their weapons met again and again, each clash ringing through the courtyard like rolling thunder.

Robert’s strength was overwhelming, almost inhuman. Every swing of his hammer forced Gerold backward, bootmarks tearing into the earth. But the White Bull refused to yield ground. His counters were sharp, merciless. With every exchange, he sought the smallest mistake in Robert’s guard, the smallest hint of hesitation.

Lyanna watched with her breath caught in her throat. Robert fought like a force untethered, wild and unstoppable. Gerold fought like a man forged from steel and purpose, every strike calculated, every defense measured. Neither man held the advantage for long.

The duel intensified.

Robert stepped forward, hammer sweeping low in a brutal upward arc. Gerold leapt aside with astonishing agility for a man of his age, the hammer missing his ribs by inches. In the same breath, Gerold countered, his sword flashing toward Robert’s helm. Robert raised his gauntlet just in time, sparks flying as the blade scraped against the reinforced steel.

Gerold pressed the attack now, his movements a blend of relentless precision and raw strength. He moved with the rhythm of a master, each blow flowing into the next with disciplined ease. He aimed for Robert’s abdomen, then shoulder, then knee, forcing the Storm Lord to adapt quickly or fall.

Robert snarled, anger and adrenaline blazing in his eyes. Sweat ran down his brow, trickling over the edges of his helm. His breath came harder, heavier, his powerful swings losing a hint of their initial speed.

Gerold saw it. And the White Bull struck.

He drove forward, landing two clean blows against Robert’s armour, one to the shoulder, one to the side. Robert staggered back a step, his armour dented where the sword had struck true. The crowd gasped. For a heartbeat, it seemed the Lord Commander might bring the younger man to his knees.

But Robert Baratheon was not finished.

With a roar that echoed across the field, he planted his feet and heaved his hammer upward in a staggering display of strength. Gerold dodged the first blow, the second, but the third came in a vicious downward arc that forced him to brace. His greatsword intercepted the hammer again, but this time the impact was too much.

Gerold’s boots skidded across the torn ground.

The weight of Robert’s strength crashed through him, forcing him to his knees.

He tried to rise, but Robert did not give him the chance. With a surge of primal force, Robert swung his hammer in a massive side arc. Gerold lifted his sword to block the hit but the hammer smashed into the blade with catastrophic force.

The greatsword tore from Gerold’s grasp, spinning across the field before landing several yards away. The White Bull, unarmed and breathing hard, looked up at Robert Baratheon towering above him.

Silence fell like a curtain.

Gerold hesitated only a moment before lifting his gauntleted hand. “Enough,” he declared, voice steady despite the exhaustion. “I yield.”

A roar erupted from the stands, swelling like thunder. Robert Baratheon straightened, raising his hammer high toward the sky, his triumph bellowed from deep within his chest like a victory cry from some ancient beast.

And as the crowd’s cheers drowned out the fading echoes of steel, Lyanna Stark felt a chill run down her spine.

For all his flaws and excess, facing Robert Baratheon on a battlefield was not merely facing a man. It was facing death itself.

Brandon let out a low whistle as the roar of the crowd finally began to fade. “By the gods… I have never seen someone swing a hammer like that,” he said, leaning forward in awe. “Robert fights like he was born for the battlefield.”

Benjen nodded quickly, still wide-eyed from the chaos they had witnessed. “Did you see that last swing ? I thought Ser Gerold’s sword would cut the hammer in half, not the other way around.”

Eddard’s gaze remained fixed on the field, his expression steadier but no less impressed. “He won with only his will and strength,"  he murmured, almost reverently. “Strength like that… it is rare. Robert, he's meant for the battlefield .”

Lyanna kept her eyes on the torn earth where Gerold’s sword had fallen. Her heart still pounded from the brutality of it all. Her brothers’ voices felt strangely distant, muffled beneath the weight settling in her chest.

Ned finally turned to her, a faint smile touching his lips. “He did it,” he said softly, pride warming his tone. “I knew he would. Robert is unstoppable, Lya. You should be proud.”

Proud. The word tasted like ash.

Without noticing her stiffened posture, Ned continued with the same earnest warmth.

“He will make a fine husband one day.” he added gently, as though offering comfort.

Lyanna felt the blood drain from her face. Brandon and Benjen, still caught up in the thrill of the spectacle, failed to notice the way her breath caught.

Brandon shook his head with a grin.

“If Robert fought like that for my favour, I would give it to him in an instant.”

Benjen laughed under his breath. 

“I think half the Lords in the stands would.”

None of them noticed the way Lyanna’s hands curled into fists in her lap, or the cold dread coiling in her stomach.

Lyanna tore her eyes away from the field, her heart heavy and her thoughts darker still.

The crowd’s cheers rose again, rolling across the courtyard like distant thunder, swallowing her emotions in their roar.

Far from her box, in a tent draped with Targaryen colours, another pair of eyes had watched the same victory.

And the man who carried the Realm’s expectations felt the weight of it far more keenly than anyone cheering outside. To him, it did not feel like triumph. It felt like a warning.

Rhaegar

Alone in his tent that evening, long after the melee had ended, Rhaegar sat in the dim glow of candlelight, listening to the distant rumble of celebration. Rhaegar’s fingers drifted to the silver ring on his hand, turning it slowly without conscious thought. The cheers still carried across the camp, raw and wild, echoing the triumph of his cousin. He found no comfort in them. If anything, the sound unsettled him.

He exhaled slowly, grateful only that Robert, drunk on victory, had forgotten to seek Lyanna out for some performative honour. The thought of seeing Robert Baratheon standing before her, sweating, roaring, his hammer still stained with dust, was almost unbearable.

“He is a fool, yes,” Arthur said calmly from where he stood, polishing his vambrace. “But there are few men in Westeros who could survive against him, my Prince.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened. He knew Arthur spoke the truth. Robert was a force of nature, one that impressed him as much as it troubled him. There was no denying the power the Storm Lord held on the field. And today, all of Westeros had seen it too.

Robert’s victory had not merely won him glory; it had shifted something in the air, something political and dangerous. The Lords had cheered him with an enthusiasm that made Rhaegar’s stomach twist. Their loyalty was not silent. It thundered like the hammer Robert swung so easily.

In war, the Stormlands would follow him without question. In peace, they already adored him.

But power on the battlefield was not the only reason unease gnawed at Rhaegar tonight.

The rumours had become fact.

The whispers had turned into open talk.

The quiet, poisonous talk of a betrothal between Robert and Lyanna Stark had become obvious to everyone.

Even though nothing had been announced yet, Westeros already believed the union was inevitable. The Realm was aligning itself, expectation tightening like a vice around his shoulders. Duty, family, crown. The weight pressed harder tonight than any day before. 

And yet, beneath everything else, one name refused to stay buried.

Lyanna Stark.

Every time he heard her name spoken beside Robert’s, something inside him twisted sharply. He tried to banish the feeling, but it clung to him like a shadow he could not outrun. The memory of her in the forest, wild and defiant, returned with merciless clarity. The way she had looked at him, unbroken even in fear. The thrill that had passed between them when their lips met.

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening.

He could not bear the thought of her at Robert Baratheon’s side. Not in life. Not in marriage. Not in the chains of an alliance she did not choose.

A gust of wind stirred the tent flap. For a moment, the noise of drunken laughter rose louder. Robert’s name echoed above the rest, chanted like a victory song.

Arthur glanced toward the sound, then back at Rhaegar. “You are troubled.”

Rhaegar opened his eyes slowly. “Westeros believes their union is inevitable,” he said. “A Lord’s daughter bound to a Lord’s son. A simple thing. Easy. Convenient.”

He paused, the flickering candle lighting the sharp angles of his face. “But nothing about this is simple. Or right.”

He rose from his chair, unable to sit still as the unease inside him flared into something sharper.

“I cannot let it happen,” he whispered. “Not while I still draw breath.”

Arthur remained silent, watching him with the steady patience of a man who knew Rhaegar better than anyone alive.

Rhaegar paced once, then stopped in the center of the tent. He felt the weight of the Realm pressing on him, the expectations of his father, of the court, of prophecy itself. And yet, beneath all that, something else stirred. Something fierce. Something terrifying in its certainty.

“I must make my intentions known,” he said. “Before the tourney ends. Before the Realm binds her future to his.”

The candle burned low, shadows dancing across the canvas walls.

Rhaegar felt the dragon inside him shift, stretching, waking. He had something to protect now , even if the world would not accept it but Targaryens answered to neither gods nor men.

There was no turning back from what it demanded.

Not now.

Not ever.