Archive of Our Own

*

"Are you certain you wish to do this?" Lyanna questioned, checking the fastenings once more. She glanced towards the shield she had painted with her own hand. The laughing weirwood stared back at her, its snow white branches standing out against the pinks and reds. "I could-"

"The risk is too great," Ned cut her off. "They would notice if you were missing." She knew he was right, Ned usually was when it came to this sort of issues. "Besides, you've never worn armour in your life."

Giving him a dirty glare, Lyanna murmured something under her breath. She straightened and went for the shield. Taking it in her arms, Lyanna turned to her brother, prepared to hand it to him for inspection. But Ned seemed to have other plans. He simply nodded her way before sitting up and moving around a bit. "Hold it with one hand only, Lya."

He wished to teach her something. Lyanna raised one eyebrow questioningly, but did not hesitate in following his command. However, before she was even used to the feel of it in her hand, her wrist ached in protest. Ned continued to walk around, testing the flexibility he was afforded. Lyanna clenched her teeth and made a conscious effort to keep the shield at the same height as before. Her fingers coiled tighter around the handle.

The clank of metal distracted her for a moment and she saw Ned taking off one gauntlet and one vambrace. He came towards her. Lyanna placed the shield down and accepted his help in donning the offerings. The thin material of her sleeve offered scant protection when the edge of the vambrace came down upon her arm sharp and cutting. Ned hadn't given her the couter that went with it.

Ned had taken the shield off the ground and held it out to her. Lyanna wrapped clumsy fingers around the handle. Her whole forearm laboured under great discomfort to which her still tired wrist responded with a pulsation of pain. Stubbornness could only get her so far. She handed the shield back with a small sign. "I suppose I'll have to practice." A small smile made its way to her face.

"At the next tourney, you'll be the one riding out," her brother laughed. Lyanna joined him. She gave back the armour pieces, once again helping him don them. "You'd best leave now or father might grow suspicious."

Or, heavens forbid, Robert might get it in his mind to ask for her favour. Lyanna gave her brother a small nod, kissed his cheek for luck and sprinted out of the small clearing, running as fast as her feet could carry her. Although they hadn't gone very far and most people were heading off to see the joust, Lyanna was not unaware of the curious looks sent her way.

Her father was already waiting for her. "Where have you been?" he questioned, his cool gaze piercing through her. "Your tardiness will make us late." Lyanna blushed at the criticism. She bowed her head and bit her lower lip to keep from answering. "And where is Ned?"

Lyanna shrugged gently. "He must have joined Robert." Benjen jumped in to agree. Rickard merely shook his head. But since Brandon was not jousting until the third day, neither Ned, nor any of his siblings were obliged to participate. However, Lord Stark demanded that they honour the host by witnessing the opening match at least.

In truth Lyanna was glad for that. It meant that father would not be able to discover Ned. She could just imagine his reaction. It was better if he thought Ned at the melee. Later, they would explain the whole matter to father, or not, depending on the situation. But Lyanna did hope the situation would not call for it.

Careful of the lace application of her dress, she climbed the wooden stairs deftly, taking her place on the bench, sitting closest to the wall. She looked forward to see the royal family sitting in an exact replica of the pavilion on the other side. For a brief moment her gaze clashed with the Prince's. The urge to gaze away surged through her.

However, she was saved when the Prince himself turned his head towards his wife and leaned slightly as if to hear her better. A sliver of disappointment, which she did not know how to interpret, surprised her. It was followed by a flash of horror and a hurried barring of all doors that led that way. Why should she feel anything but excited? After all, she was in possession of a secret.

Brandon slid in next to her. "That was my place," he said in a voice that held the suggestion of a complaint. However, his blue eyes laughed.

A scowl was his reward. "I was here first." She hadn't quite expected to be squabbling with her older brother over seating arrangements, but, as Benjen was too far away to bicker with him, Brandon would have to do.

"Robert wants you to watch the melee," her brother comment6ed a moment later. "He says, he'll win it for you."

"I would have been more impressed if he'd won me the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty," Lyanna quipped. "Now that I call a victory."

"Well, just don't let your future lord hear you say that. It would break his heart," Brandon mocked. A razor-sharp smile accompanied the statement.

"That would be the point," the sister replied, nonchalantly turning her face away from Brandon's. If she allowed herself too much time in his presence, she might be tempted to confide in him. And that could not happen.

The tourney was opened by one of the brothers of the reigning Queen of love and Beauty. He rode against a knight of an impoverished House, but was defeated. It was a swift defeat too, to the shame of the man. Lyanna smiled pityingly at the worried look that crossed the face of the Queen of Love and Beauty. Soon enough she would watch her own brother take his chance.

She prayed the gods that Ned would have enough time to grow used to his armour and that he would defeat his foes.

*

On the second day of the tourney, the peace was disturbed by a most peculiar arrival. Rhaegar was no stranger to mystery knights entering the lists. The tradition was old and quite popular among those who for some reason could not participate with their own name. They were also quite popular with the crowd.

However, right at that moment, Rhaegar wished the knight had never made his appearance. Although it was commendable that the man would fight to defend the honour of another and punish errant behaviour, the knight – whoever he was – did not realise the situation he had put them all in.

"This is a plot," the King spoke, his eyes wide and distrustful. "They wish to kill me. This knight is an enemy spy." His hand clenched around the arm of his seat, long nails bending to follow. "They think to draw me in a trap. I shall show them all."

"Your Majesty," Rhaegar interrupted him, "there is hardly any need to be alarmed. The knight was protecting Howland Reed. He has achieved that goal, so I-"

"Silence, you foolish child!" Aerys roared. "You will find me this knight. Bring him here, let him look into the eyes of the man he wants to harm. I charge thee thus. Bring him."

Rhaegar did not flinch in the face of such rage. He continued to gaze serenely at the man who had once been a loving father. All that he saw was a ghost of that man, a ghoul that had the face of his father, but nothing beside. It hadn't always been thus. Once upon a time, the bloodshot eyes had been clear, the nails shorter, the scowl a smile. He could barely remember it. Rhaegar had long since grown used to what was before him. As had the rest of the realm.

With a long rueful exhale, Rhaegar nodded his head. "I shall see to it, Your Majesty." But on the morrow, after the tourney was at an end. He stood from his place and exited his father's chambers. If he could only buy himself enough time.

At the door, Ser Oswell and Prince Lewyn nodded at him. Rhaegar returned the gesture stiffly. No doubt they'd heard the King yelling and cursing. But it was not their place to show that, so they merely returned to guarding the door. The whole business had grown tiresome. And yet he had to carry on. Rhaegar closed his eyes for a moment, conscious that he had stopped in front of the door that led into Elia's bedchamber. He touched the handle, wondering if he ought to enter. She would not be expecting him.

He went in anyway. The first to notice him was Ashara Dayne. She looked at him through thick lashes, rising to her feet, followed by the rest of the occupants of the room. Rhaegar looked towards Elia. "Your Grace, do come sit with me," his wife invited, her gentle voice washing over him. For some reason, it failed to put him at ease.

Elia's ladies scattered, each claiming some duties that should see to at the discreet nod of the Dornish Princess. Why had he come to her? "My lady, how are you this evening?" he asked, striving to drive away the worry from his voice.

His partner frowned momentarily, but her disposition brightened a moment later. "I am well, better even now that you are here." She took his hand in hers, long elegant fingers clutching to his lightly. "I have heard the King is in rather poor a mood. Is there anything I may do to help?"

Not unless she could convince the lords of the realm to take the King's throne. Rhaegar swallowed the cruel words back. Sweet and gentle Elia was not deserving of his ire. But she did not understand either. She though that mere word would soothe whatever the tension was. She was a good woman, kind and tender, concerned for those close to her. If he had been any other man, he would have counted himself lucky to have her.

"It'll work itself out," he assured her. "Have you received any word about the children?"

Unfortunately, it had not been possible to take Rhaenys and Aegon with them. Rhaegar often found himself missing the two. They had been left in the care of the Queen and her women. His mother had written that Rhaenys had caught a chill, but the Maesters were sure it would pass. Rhaegar had been worried when he received the message.

"They are well, the both of them," Elia confirmed. "Rhaenys coughs slightly, but I am assured that the worst of it has passed. She shall be well upon our return.

They conversed on the topic of their children a bit longer, but soon it was time to be abed. On the morrow he would joust. Rhaegar stood up, prepared to bid Elia a good night and move to his own bedchamber. He was, however, stopped as she hesitated to let go on his arm. Elia looked at him with her dark eyes. Her olive skin glowed in the candlelight.

The sight should have produced something inside of him, he was aware. His heart should have been moved. Rhaegar bent down to kiss her lips. She wrapped her limbs around his neck and shoulders, following him up as he straightened. He read the invitation in her gaze and his heart dropped like lead into his stomach.

Obliged to do as duty dictated, Rhaegar allowed Elia her desire. After all, Dorne would eventually aid him. But only if their Queen was satisfied. Rhaegar led her to the bed slowly. He blew out the candles and climbed in with her after both of they were ready.

And in the thick darkness, where no one could see, the closed his eyes as warm lips met his own, the taste of blood oranges flavouring the kiss, and though of anything but the woman at his side.

Not for the first time, Rhaegar found himself lamenting his mother' choice. She had meant well, he told himself, the old sore chafing anew. She had done the best she could do.

*

Skirts billowed in the wind, dark hair flew in the breeze like a banner and Lyanna rode her mare at high speed. Sweat coated the beast's fine hair and her breath came out in puffs. "Just a little longer, girl," Lyanna promised. She patted the warm neck, feeling the muscles tense, and bent to whisper praise to the mare's performance. They were almost there. If only Evenstar could hold the pace the pace longer. "That's it, girl, run. Run."

On any other occasion, exercising her mare thus would have been most pleasant an exercise. Yet current circumstances made it so that Lyanna could not enjoy her ride. Her mind was filled with dread and her heart squeezed in worry. She had to find Ned and warn him.

Quite without meaning to, Lyanna had overheard a discussion between Robert and Richard Lonmouth. They were betting which of them would be the first to unmask the mystery knight, and more important which would hand him over to the King for a reward. Old Aerys had been visibly displeased by the appearance of the knight. According to rumour, he was prepared to part with a nice sum of stags and dragons for the man behind the helmet.

Her brother was sitting under a tree, sans any piece of armour. Lyanna pulled on Evenstar's reins. "Ned!" She jumped down and ran towards him, momentarily forgetting about the weight tied to her back. Her balance was upset enough for her to almost lose her footing. "We have to get rid of everything," she began without waiting for Ned to speak. "Where is the armour?"

Ned unstrapped the shield from her shoulders, a question in his gaze. "I buried it." And he had forgotten the shield by the looks of it. "Is it getting worse?"

Narrowing her eyes in a speaking glare, Lyanna shoved the shield in his arms. "Every little piece must disappear, Ned. The King is determined to unmask you. And if it were only that."

"What has you thus worried?" He touched her shoulder gently. "Did he name anyone? Is there a suspicion?"

"Not yet." But there could be. In anyone made a connection. The King hardly needed proof to satisfy his violent urges. And who would protect them. Certainly not their father and perhaps not even Brandon. The House had to live on. "But there is a bet. Robert could undo us, Ned."

But would he? That was the more appropriate question. "He will not. We could always claim I was elsewhere, if I am asked. But we must be in agreement. And we would need someone trustworthy, someone the King would have no reason to disbelief."

"Someone not long at court." Lyanna nodded her head in understanding. "But how could we convince her to aid us?" The Dornishwoman was a perfect choice.

"I shall take care of that." He turned away and picked the shield up. "We'll mount this on the tree. Are you still a good climber?" Ned asked, a soft chuckle following the question.

"You doubt me?" she answered with a sly smile. Lyanna pulled \the skirt of her kirtle up, revealing her breeches clad legs. She used her sash to hold the skirt up and started climbing. "How high do you want it?"

"Keep climbing," her brother replied. Lyanna balanced herself on a thick branch and made to grab another. "There. That should do," Ned called to her. "Come forward a little."

Lyanna pulled herself nearer as her brother instructed. The limb had not yet grown thin enough to bend with her weight. She exhaled in relief. After all, no one fancied broken limbs, and most of all not Lyanna. How would she ride if her bones were dust and splinters? Looking down, she saw her brother carefully analysing the distance between them. His arm came up in a swinging motion, but the shield did not fly up towards her. Lyanna leaned in, cupping her hands to her mouth. "Throw high!"

"You don't say, sister dearest," Ned answered. He had such moments in which he projected Brandon perfectly. Lyanna could only guess that the trait was quite coming as it seemed to be shared by them all. In fact, she could feel her own reply making its way to her lips.

Instead she released a laugh. "Hurry up," she called down to him. Just then her brother hurled the shield her way.

The round shape flew towards her, spinning as it went. Lyanna thrust forward her arms, her whole body preparing for the impact. Her muscles tensed and her mouth opened slightly in anticipation. Unfortunately, she had miscalculated the speed and weight of the object. The shield slammed into her, knocking her backwards.

"Lyanna!" Her brother's yell sounded in her ears, loud in the quiet evening. The only sound she managed to get past her lips was a pained moan. "Sister?"

Legs locked around the branch tightly, Lyanna held onto her precarious balance. Her arms held the shield over her chest, nails digging into the wood. She managed to rise into a sitting position. Taking a deep breath, she grimaced. "That hurt."

"You should have paid more attention," Ned chided her. The worry in his eyes warmed her to her very soul.

"Ah, never mind that." Tying the shield deftly to the limb she was sitting on, she looked down to her brother once more. "Wouldn't it have been better to burn it?"

"Nay," Ned disagreed. "How are they to remember this defeat if we take away all mementos?"

In that moment, Lyanna realised that the blood of the North beat just as wildly in Ned's veins as it did in hers and Brandon's. "And father says I have the blood of the wolf," she laughed. "All along it should have been you he worried about."

"Just climb down and let us be on our way." He waited for her to climb down, then helped her on the horse. "Did you use a stool to climb when you left?" he asked innocently.

"Oh, do stop, Ned. I'm not that short." She was. But so was he. Lyanna blushed hotly. "I do wish I were taller."

"You and I both," Ned confirmed.

*

Evenstar nickered softly prompting her mistress to shush her. Lyanna held her brother's hand tightly, her other hand occupied with the mare's reins. He had been adamant to join her in case a snark decided she'd make a good meal. "Though he won't have much to eat," he noted, poking her in the ribs.

"Then he'd best snatch you," Lyanna had replied, digging her heels into Evenstar's flanks. They almost ended up in the grass. Thankfully both of them were splendid riders, or at the very least good enough not to make an embarrassing display and return all muddy to their tents.

There was hardly anyone awake. Most wanted to be well rested to watch the final matches of the joust. The Prince would compete. That had inspired many a swoon and much sighing from the fair maidens that had gathered at Harrenhal. There was only one notable exception, Cersei Lannister. The Lord Hand's refusal to participate at the tourney was much commented upon. Even more so was Jaime Lannister's apparent success. It seemed that the King had been so impressed with the boy's skill that he had a mind to name him in his guard. For herself, Lyanna merely wished it had been Robert Baratheon the King wished to turn into a White Cloak. He would likely end up like Ser Lucamore Strong.

With the help of her brother, Lyanna settled Evenstar in her stall for the night, rubbing her down and leaving some oats for her to feed on. There was a stable boy, but he was sleeping in the hay and none had had the heart to wake him. More so because witnesses were a burden, but also because it was quite late. They left in complete silence.

A sea of tents stretched out before them. Hand in hand, the brother and sister tiptoed through the tents, careful not to make too much noise. One or two showed sigs that their master was awake within, for the warm light of candles could be seen.

The yellow banner of hose Baratheon trembled in the wind, the black stag almost leaping off with every quiver. A deep moan broke past the closed tent flap. It was followed by breathless giggles and a soft shriek that spoke of pleasure rather than pain.

Frozen in her place, Lyanna looked towards the tent with round eyes. Her fingers clenched tightly around her brother's hand even as Ned tried to pull her away. She dug her heels into the ground and refused to move. Her gaze turned accusingly towards the source of those sounds, or rather where she thought the source to be.

"Lya," Ned breathed her name in half exasperation, half something that she did not care to name. "We have to go."

Indignation brought a red hue to her face. "Of course." She started walking, trying to bloke the second wave of moans and groans that came from Robert's tent. She had just wanted to hear with her own ears evidence of Robert's loving character.

She would have wanted to speak of it to Ned. But Robert was his friend. Ned would defend him. Lyanna swallowed her pain and discomfort. At least she would not have to bear long with it. Still, that comfort was scant. Brandon would not be much help either. He would laugh and brush off her hears with a smile. Benjen was too young to know anything about the subject.

Ned kissed her forehead and ushered her into her own tent. Lyanna watched through the slightly raised flap as he walked to his own and disappeared into the darkness of it. She let the flap fall down. Searching for the candles, Lyanna bumped into a low stool. She bit back a groan of pain and bent down to rub her stubbed toe.

It did not take long to find the candle and light it. Sitting down on a small bench she began braiding her hair, a ritual as familiar to her as breathing. Old Nan used to tell her it was mother who taught her how to do it. But Lyanna did not remember her mother, not even the sound of her voice or the shape of her face. Lyanna hummed, searching her mind for even a memory of the departed Lyarra Stark. Her braid finished, she tied it with a ribbon and was about to blow the candle out when she noticed something peculiar at the end of her table.

A single sweet pea awaited her arrival. The stem held four perfect blooms on it of a soft colour which she could not quite discern. In the light they looked peach. Lyanna picked it up and held it to her nose. A sweet scent emanated from it. She placed the gift back where she had found it. It had not been here when she'd left.

Whoever had placed it in her tend held the knowledge that she had not been about. And if that person so wished, they could make trouble fort her. Lyanna blew the candle out and huddled under her blanket, closing her eyes against the worry that had started roiling inside of her.

The beginning of a prayer formed on her lips. Who could have entered her tent thus undetected? Who would have though they had the right to?

Two were the possibilities and each answer held its own sort of peril. Yet the more likely of them was the one Lyanna dreaded most. She could hide in the darkness a while longer, she could pull the blanket over her head and try to sleep, but the morrow would come and with it anxiety and fear. Lyanna shuddered and wrapped herself tighter in the blanket, using it as a shield between herself and the flower on the table, the knowledge on the lips of whoever left her the gift.

'Twas a cruel game the gods played with her and she knew not what they punished her for. Yet she would endure, Lyanna swore to herself. She would be strong and she would prevail. Somehow.

For the rest of the night she tossed and turned, lost in strange dreams, a voice calling in her ear.

*

The roar of the crowd rang in his ears. He looked at the gathered people through the visor of his helmet. His latest opponent was only just mounting his horse. Ser Arthur Dayne also received support. He was well loved, not only for his courage and valour. Some people were destined for greatness. Rhaegar inclined his head at his worthy opponent and led his horse into a trot. Arthur did the same.

They stopped before the King, each bowing to the man. Elia handed a red silk ribbon to one of her ladies to tie to Rhaegar's jousting stick. Her newest companion tied her own favour to her brother's wooden weapon, a breathtaking smile on her lips. The ladies tittered and whispered among themselves as the two knights retreated.

While he had faced Ser Arthur in combat before and lost, Rhaegar was certain he would win this round. He rode the horse to his initial place. Arthur too had reached his designated position. They stared at one another, aware of each movement despite the distance between them. Had it been a choice the gods allowed men, Rhaegar would have chosen Arthur Dayne to be his brother.

A herald stepped forth and announced the competitors. The crowds cheered loudly for them, shouting encouragements and such. The great horn slowly rose from the ground, heft by four men. The monstrous instrument was blow, an impossibly loud sound bursting forth. Rhaegar gripped his horse's reins tighter, urging the beast to remain still yet. His lanced came into the appropriate position for attack. Arthur mimicked him at the other end.

One more was the horn put to use, the sign that they were to begin. Rhaegar pushed his heels into the charger's flanks, the animal breaking into a run. Arthur was coming towards him too. Rhaegar searched for an opening in the knight's stance. Just when he was certain he would not find it, Arthur shifted his position slightly. It was enough to allow Rhaegar the chance he needed.

The wooden stick made contact with Arthur's armour clad torso, breaking across the finely tempered steel. Shards and splinters flew through the air. Arthur's own stick caught Rhaegar in the shoulder. However, quicker than the last time he had jousted against Ser Dayne, Rhaegar managed to regain his balance, as Arthur was knocked backwards enough to throw him off the horse.

His victory was signalled by another blow of the horn. Rhaegar barely heard it as he dismounted his own charger and stepped towards his defeated competitor. A squire had hurried across the sand to relieve Arthur of his helmet.

"Are you injured?" Rhaegar questioned, holding a hand out.

"I've had worse," Arthur replied good-naturedly. He accepted Rhaegar's aid. "Well done, Your Grace."

Water waited for him and a new rod where his own squire stood. Rhaegar gratefully drank the water and wiped the sweat off his brow as the next contestant arrived. Ser Barristan Selmy inclined his head respectfully towards him. Rhaegar returned the gesture politely, if somewhat coolly.

Mounting his horse, Rhaegar took the jousting stick in his hand. In his other he held a shield. Arthur had declined using a shield and so had Rhaegar then. But it appeared that Ser Barristan opted for the shield. Rhaegar recognised the challenge and embraced it wholeheartedly.

Protocol dictated that they once again salute the King. After that the horn announced the beginning of the match.

They rode, both poised to strike. Sticks broke and the crowed cheered frantically. Hooves kicked the earth and shields clanked together. However, neither man was unhorsed. Though with difficulty, Barristan had held his position on his charger, Rhaegar doing the same.

The hit he had taken had dented his armour at the shoulder. He gave an appreciative nod towards the older knight. Selmy hadn't intended to unhorse him, he realised. Had the stick caught his lower, he would have fairly flown out of his saddle.

"Ser, let us not play games," Rhaegar said as he passed Ser Barristan by.

"Aye, Your Grace," Ser Barristan agreed.

If the first round had been for the benefit of the crowd, the second one had as purpose winning. For that reason, neither opponent held anything back. They charged at each other with twin yells of battle. The crowd, perhaps recognising in those bellows the end to come, fell into a hush as once again jousting sticks sought to unhorse and win glory.

Dust rose about them. With strong shoves wood met steel into a decisive battle. Ser Barristan's hit saw his stick planted into Rhaegar's middle. Of course, it hadn't actually broken the metal of the armour. However, the pain was quite acute. Rhaegar groaned but forced himself to remain still. His muscles tensed and he struggled to breath.

Ser Barristan had been hit directly in the chest. Perhaps it had been pure luck or mayhap the Warrior had guided his hand, but the old knight fell off his horse in the next moment. As he had done for Arthur before him, Rhaegar left his own seat atop the charger to see whether his opponent had been injured.

"Well fought, Your Grace," Ser Barristan congratulated him.

"I have had a good teacher," Rhaegar answered, knowingly fully well the words would please the knight.

Champion of the tourney, Rhaegar climbed back on top of his horse and accepted the delicate crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty that was handed to him. He was to name a new Queen, a Queen of his own.

For one brief moment he was tempted to glance at Lyanna Stark and see her face. Crushing that impulse, Rhaegar guided his horse to where Elia sat. His wife stood from her seat at his approach and leaned over. A crown of white pear and plum blossoms adorned her inky tresses. The small delicate flowers shone in her hair like stars upon a midnight sky.

Rhaegar held Elia's hand and moved aside just enough so that the crowd may have a good view of her. The people cheered and cheered.

On the opposite side, Lyanna Stark stared mystified at the Dornish Princess. In her hands she twirled a sweet pea with three blooms. The fourth was missing.

*

"Father wants to see you in his tent," Benjen announced, poking his head through the tent flap. "Whatever did you do this time, sweet sister?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Lyanna replied, throwing a riding boot his way. Benjen dodged and ran away, laughter trailing in his wake. Lyanna simply dusted off her dress, brushing imaginary wrinkles away. She put down the sweet pea and calmly walked out of her tent top her father's.

It was no great surprise to see the Prince was there. She had expected his presence. Rickard broke off in the middle of a sentence at her arrival and gave the Prince a short nod. Lyanna was about to greet her father, but he walked past her, stopping only to kiss her temple softly. "I shall return later," he promised, leaving her alone with Rhaegar Targaryen.

"Lady Lyanna," he began, closing the distance between them in two long strides, "may I ask some questions of you." Rhaegar smiled almost benignly at her then. He could do whatever he wished and both of them were aware of that much.

"But of course, Your Grace," she offered, fixing her gaze on a point over his shoulder. If she looked him in the eyes, only the gods knew what would come out of her mouth.

"What would you be willing to do to protect the ones you love?" The question startled her. Lyanna had been expecting something about her absence on the previous eve, or perhaps a question of the mystery knight's identity.

"Anything," she answered quite without thinking.

The Prince frowned at her. "Anything at all?"

Blushing, Lyanna amended her reply. "Anything within the realm of possibility, Your Grace. There are, of course, endeavours at which I would fail even if I was willing to undertake them."

"Why is it that you despise Robert Baratheon so?" By that point both of them has sat on a low bench, facing one another. Rhaegar, however, kept a short, but glaring distance between them.

"Because I cannot respect him." Her response prompted a nod from the Prince. "He is not the worst possible choice, I reckon. But he is the worst for me. Your Grace, have you ever felt that a person simply did not understand. I dislike Robert not because of the myriad of flaws he exhibits daily, but he because he wants to cut away all those parts of me he cannot understand." She bit her lip in indecision. Should she continue? Lyanna did, anyway. "To be his wife in truth would be–"

"A cage without a door," Rhaegar supplied after her words had died down. Startled, Lyanna glanced at his face to see if he really did understand. A thoughtful, yet tender expression crossed his features. "I see, my lady."

They remained locked in a staring contest, neither willing to break the contact. Lyanna thought the distance between them to be slowly dissolving. Strangely, unexpectedly and quite without her wanting to, she felt a flare of heat shoot through her. Boldness might have helped. Impunity might have shocked the Prince enough to send him running for the hills. Out of the corner of her eye she spied his hand coming towards her. Lyanna was frozen. She felt his fingers touch the back of her head and her breath quickened. Her eyes closed voluntarily.

"I wondered where it had gone," the Prince's voice broke her out of her reverie. He held a small bloom in his hand, twirling it between his fingers. Instinctively, Lyanna brought a hand to the back of her head. Rhaegar gave her an odd smile. He placed the flower back in its original place. "I trust you shall employ stealth in any further moonlit walk you choose to take."

He stood to his feet, Lyanna remaining seated. He knew. Her heart hammered in her chest. He knew. Yet he hadn't done anything beside confirming the knowledge. "Your Grace, do you not wish to know where I went?"

A chuckle broke forth from the Prince. "Lady Lyanna, I trust you to discern the appropriate behaviour you should exhibit."

And with that he left her on her own, sitting on the bench and holding a hand to her heart. Her father entered the tent quietly and sat down next to her. He put an arm around her shoulders and gently pressed her to his chest. "Have you seen your gift?" Rickard asked her after a short moment of silence.

Lyanna shook her head. "A gift?" Another gift. Why would the Prince be making her gifts? He claimed that he trusted her. What need was there of such trinkets? "Father, do these gifts have a meaning which I do not know?"

Rickard considered her question in silence. He brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "They mean nothing, my child," he offered, then smiling, he added, "and they mean everything."

A small chest made its way into her lap. It had not been locked. She lifted the lid with care and peered inside with undisguised curiosity. A gasp left her lips at the sight before her. "Oh, it's very pretty." It was beautiful, like nothing she had ever seen before.

Nestled against black velvet, a golden hair comb adorned with three sapphire roses gleamed at Lyanna. She took out the comb and studied it in each and every one of its details. The craftsmanship was exquisite. "What is this?"

"A wedding gift," came the answer.

Understanding dawned upon Lyanna then. "It is to be soon, then?" Resignation made her bow her head. And fear. She was depending on the Prince's word, on his whim. If he decided he had no need of her, she would be Robert's. How would she endure that, Lyanna wondered.

"Upon your nameday. You shall be a lady wedded on the day you turn five and ten." Rickard took the comb from her hands and placed it in her hair. "The Prince has requested you wear this gift." He seemed to admire the glitter of the gems for a number of heartbeats.

Afterwards the gift was placed back in the chest and locked away. Lyanna lowered her gaze to the ground.

"Come, the melee shall begin and you must cheer for Robert," her father said.

Aye, she'd cheer. She would cheer every time Robert got hit.

*

Oberyn snorted lightly. "Have you convinced him yet, sister dearest?" he asked, sitting next to Elia. There was laughter in his eyes. At her expense, Elia thought, or rather at the expense of her failure. "Or is it much too difficult? Targaryens, you know."

"He is as stubborn as a mule," she complained in a hushed manner. "And he is planning something besides. He won't tell me what, but I can see it in his eyes that he is hiding something."

Her crown of flowers had been carelessly thrown on one of the chairs, the delicate white blooms leaving a trail of petals in their wake. Elia scowled at the token. There were days such as these when she quite regretted having fallen for that handsome image her husband had presented upon their first meeting. Rhaegar was rather peculiar and contrary and not at all what she had expected when her mother arranged the match.

If anything, she had been promised splendid castles, riches beyond her wildest dreams and a husband to lover her. While the first two matters had been more or less satisfied, her husband did not seem to hold her in any special regard. He was kind enough to her, having a care to indulge her often, give her costly gifts and see to her comfort, but he made no demands on her heart. Elia had expected to be pursued. Instead she was handled with gloves, as if she might break.

Only too late did she understand that Rhaegar could not give her what she wanted. By that time it had been impossible to break from him, not only because they had a child together, but also as the King's suspicions had grown to never before seen proportions. So Elia trudged on, striving to keep before all an image of affection and understanding.

"Has he rejected the idea itself or the possibility of broaching the subject to the King," Oberyn continued speaking. He was pulling apart a fig, breaking it in two. "Because if it is the latter than your husband might actually have something in that head of his."

"He avoided answering," Elia clarified for her brother. She sighed. Among the many things she hadn't anticipated was her husband's stubborn streak. Targaryen were notorious for their tempers, however, Rhaegar had seemed quite placid, soft spoken and malleable. At least such had been the reports they've had of him. "Perhaps after the King is no longer."

Of course, that was wistful thinking. Elia had come to find that her husband tended to avoid conflicts. When debating a matter, he would listen to the opinions of three or four people, taking into account a great many number of factors, and only after that would he make a decision. But once the decision was made, he would not stray from the path he had chosen. There was danger in such behaviour. Even more so when one considered the very reason for which Elia had chosen Rhaegar over any other potential partner.

However, the matter at hand had little to do with the Iron Throne or any crowns. "Lord Fowler is too impatient either way," Oberyn brushed it aside. "Mayhap naming him on the Small Council might have proven a mistake. Who knows, your Prince might have saved us from making a grave mistake."

"Or he might have cost us an ally," Elia countered. "How are we to name our own Hand of the King if we cannot even claim the support of our own lords?"

Tywin Lannister had grown surly of late and his silence was a dangerous thing. Ever since the King had refused the prposed match between the Lord Hand's daughter and his eldest son, Tywin had taken himself off to his rock. In fact, not even Cersei was allowed to frequent court any longer. She had not even been allowed at the tournament.

"He plans something," she spoke after a few moments of silent consideration. "I have never trusted the man."

"His son being a disappointment did not help either," Oberyn pointed out helpfully. He gave his sister an odd little smile. "Are we still sore about that particular incident?" Her brother could make light of it all he wished, but Elia did not take kindly to being insulted. And that incident, as he had named it, was nothing less than an insult.

"Do not misunderstand, I wish the Lord Hand no ill. But he meanders where he had no business." He alone stood in the way of change. Tywin Lannister was a formidable man. An unfortunate truth, that. "Oberyn, he is too powerful already. He must be taken down."

"On this we agree." Her brother stood to his feet and walked to her small writing desk. "We could always employ one our old tricks, yet Doran would de most displeased." They shared a smile at that. "I had best write to our brother."

"See if he can make his way to King's Landing. His presence would be helpful. Rhaegar might actually take to heart his words." As opposed to ignoring hers. Elia watched her brother pen the letter. It occurred to her that her husband had promised to take her for a short ride and she had yet to prepare herself.

Her brother was gracious enough in assuring her that he could in fact survive in her absence, so she saw herself surrounded by all her ladies.

Ashara Dayne was notably late and she wore a rather peculiar expression on her face. Elia threw her a hard stare, shortly joined by a questioning glance. Her answer was a simple smile. There was something about Ashara Dayne that bothered Elia. It was not precisely her mannerism, but sometimes the Dornish Princess found herself wondering exactly why Rhaegar had insisted on the woman being admitted as one of her ladies-in-waiting.

Rhaegar, on the other hand, seemed deep enough in thought that Elia actually had to squeeze his arm to her his attention. "Shall we be on our way?"

"Indeed," came his noncommittal reply.

On their way they passed the melee field where Robert Baratheon had just fallen to the ground, knocked over by a man holding a flaming sword. In the crowd, a girl with a face too serious for the occasion raised her face heavenward and seemed to be thanking the gods.

*

The soft muffled sobs, which by all accounts should have gone undetected, only seemed to sound out like thunder in the stillness of the room. The pitiable sounds would have called sympathy even into the coldest of heart, the wretched melody tearing into the conscious of anyone unfortunate enough to happen by. If anything, their effect grew tenfold when they fell upon the ears of a child.

As if pulled by his very soul, Rhaegar could not stand in the doorway any longer. He entered the room fully, pulling the door in his wake, The Queen had hidden herself underneath a mountain of covers, her presence made known only by the sounds she occasionally let slip. Approaching the bed carefully, Rhaegar sat down on the edge and gently peeled away the blankets to uncover a red faced surrounded by tangles silver curls. A recent cut marred one cheek, the red of the wound almost losing itself in the red of his mother's skin.

Tired, sunken eyes glanced at him, registering his presence only after a few good moments had already passed. A bruised arm rose from beneath the sheets and Rhaegar counted the discoloured marks, the crimson ones and those of a violet colour. Each and every one of them fuelled his conviction and his desire to be done with the monster who would stoop so low as to harm a loyal companion, a loving mother, a good wife.

"You are returned," Rhaella Targaryen spoke, leaning heavily against him in order to assume a sitting position. "I was afraid –" Of shadows and whispers in the night and even of the flickering candles.

Shaking his head lightly, Rhaegar took her hand in his. "I am returned and you need not be afraid, mother." Another empty promise. He hated having to speak these words. He hated having no power. "Let us have some light," he spoke softly, rising from his place after he had wiped her tears away.

The curtains had been drawn tightly shut and as they came apart the whole room was flooded with warm light from the shining sun. The Queen, wrapping herself tighter in her robes, slowly abandoned her initial position. "He took Janyce Rivers from my service," she told him, her expression utterly forlorn. "Why, the poor girl has done nothing that hasn't been done before."

But if he pulled the girl from his mother's service then there is nothing left to do, but gather her bones and send them back to her family. "I shall look into it," Rhaegar utters after a moment. Janyce Rivers, he doesn't even remember what she looked like. "Has she been replaced?"

"Nay. And Viserys was so fond of her. She was the only one who could draw him out of his sulks." Rhaella sat down in a chair as if crossing the distance between the bed and the table had left her bereft of energy. "I couldn't even see the poor child these past few days." Her sobs started once more, broken little pieces of grief.

Brushing his hair back with a mildly exasperated gesture, Rhaegar occupied the chair closest to his mother's. It had taken many years – too many for his liking – for him to realise that his parents not only disliked one another, they couldn't stand each other. Hurtful as that discovery had been, it paled in comparison to the realisation that his father was a true danger, not merely an inconvenience.

"You shall have a new lady-in-waiting." And hopefully one that could draw his little brother out of his black moods. "Shall we go see Viserys now?"

Happy to be escorted, the Queen allowed herself a small smile and dried her eyes hurriedly. Many things could be said about her – good and bad both – however, one would have to admit that Rhaella was more than duty-bound when it came to her children. She had dedicated herself to their comfort and protection like only a mother would. There had always been kindness in her for them and comfort, even when her own wounds found no succour. She could not close her eyes to their suffering as the world did to hers and for her Rhaegar defy even the Seven.

Together they ambled down the hall at a slow pace. Considerate of her condition, Rhaegar did all he could, short of taking her in his arms, to make the crossing smooth. Despite the true delicacy of her body, his mother had refused and continued refusing to be aided in a manner which suggested ailment. She could not afford to show any weaknesses, else she might be torn apart.

Viserys they found howling and screaming for his mother, rolling around on the floor and crying. Rushing to the child Rhaella took him in her arms, holding him like one held fragile porcelain. The boy quietened in her arms and wound his own around her. Rhaegar sat down next to his brother on the floor.

"Were you worried about mother?" he asked his little brother in a gentle manner, though he felt a flicker of annoyance at such behaviour as the child had just displayed.

"They wouldn't let me see her," Viserys murmured in their mother's shoulder. He seemed comfortable where he was, but Rhaegar could see the signs of fatigue in his mother's countenance.

Taking Viserys from her arms, Rhaegar placed the boy on his bed. "Mother did not mean to worry you," Rhaella said, standing behind Rhaegar. "But Viserys, you must not act as you have. 'Tis not seemly."

"Indeed, mother is right," Rhaegar agreed. "You must be an example to all others. As the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms it is your duty to do so."

A shy nod was his reply. Viserys could be a sweet child when he wished to be. Yet, there was more of their father in him, though the King saw his second son rarely enough. Rhaegar knew that their mother was the cause. She placed herself in the path of danger, if only to spare her child.

"I apologise," Viserys spoke. His eyes were cast downwards and a dejected look crossed his face.

"That is chastisement enough," the Queen insisted and Rhaegar did not have the heart to contradict her. He simply stood there as Rhaella took her second born in her arms and kisses his cheeks.

*

Securing the padded armour around her torso, Lyanna picked up the jousting stick and climbed upon her mare. Evenstar did not protest as her mistress pulled on the reins a bit too harshly. Fixing her legs in the stirrups, Lyanna glanced at her brother. Ned was already mounted, his weapon at the ready.

Practicing at rings helped her riding form, yet a live target would help her skills more than anything. Though it had taken considerable time to convince Ned to aid her, Lyanna had managed to do so in the end. Despite his sullen look, Ned nodded his head. They charged at one another, each determined to be the winner of this bout.

An excellent rider, perhaps even more so than her brother, Lyanna had the advantage of a slightly better balance. She had been told that to win a jousting match one had to have a perfect equilibrium atop their steed. And while that was perfectly true, the dominance of that skill would not, and could not for that matter, assure one of their victory. More than once in their hours of training, Ned had knocked Lyanna off her horse with a well aimed hit.

"Strength of arm is important too," Ned had explained to her. "While remaining unhorsed is even more important, you cannot simply count on your skill as a rider to make up for what you lack in strength." What had followed was hours upon hours of swordplay and practicing at rings. "We may yet make an excellent knight of you," Ned had laughed when in her frustration Lyanna plunged her blunted sword in the stack of hay she had been practising on.

It was a gruelling, frustrating process, that of bettering herself in the art of war, but, as it was her ardent wish to possess such skills, Lyanna held her mouth firmly shut. Her progress was steady, if a bit slow. "You shall need other partner to practice against too," Ned offered. It would not do to have only him. She would grow accustomed to his technique little by little until no real progress would be met.

Brandon was a tougher nut to crack. He protested and chided them both. "A lady does not joust," he admonished Lyanna, only to turn upon Ned after, "what were you thinking, participating in this scheme." He even went as far as to threaten exposure. However, in the face of their pleas and promises not to cause trouble he agreed to aid. "I suppose just a little won't do much harm," he said finally. "But you are not to display these skills."

Only after receiving her word, did Brandon join them in their training. Taller than both of them and of a heavier built, Brandon was not only stronger, but more skilled and in possession of experience, which neither Ned, nor Lyanna had much of. Thus, he soundly trashed both when they rode against him. It was perhaps a carefully calculated move to dissuade his sister from her chosen exploits. But Lyanna, far from being discouraged, found that she would not be pleased with anything less than perfection.

"Does luck play any part in such a match?" Lyanna asked later, as the three of them reclined in the soft grass.

"Luck, aye. When the fates favour a participant, he has an advantage." Brandon ruffled her hair affectionately, despite her loud protests. "Why, do you think to join in the next tourney?"

A small smile painted Lyanna's lips at the question. "I merely want the knowledge, Brandon." But she could read suspicion in her brother's face. They were similar, he and she, stubborn to a fault and twice as reckless when it suited their purpose. Yet Lyanna had been tempered, since she had been young, by a wisdom that felt not her own. Her father often said it had been Lyarra Stark's gift to her daughter and Lyanna had taken it as such, giving free reign to her impulses only when that within her quietened in acceptance.

Brandon had little to stop him from doing as he wished. It was a worry that sometimes gnawed at Lyanna's heart. By no means a contestant blot upon her inner peace, that particular feeling rose within her the longer she stared into Brandon's eyes. That unease coursed through her veins, stronger than even her righteous annoyance at the implied insult.

"If father were to find out, Lya, we would all be in trouble." Aye, father loved them well, but he had wanted his children to dazzle, his daughter most of all. It had been his dearest hope that they would be great individuals as time wore on.

And he was so close to accomplishing his goal. Lyanna sighed. "I shan't anger father, brother. It is not my wish." She, after all sought knowledge in her acts, not wanton disregard towards the rules of her betters.

The days of childhood were past. She could see clearly. Lyanna tried to gather within herself the bits and pieces of happiness that she could find, for only they would remain to warm her in the winter that would follow. The wind was growing harsher by the day and the skies darkened. The protective cloak of youth would soon leave her shoulders and in its place maturity would reign superior and unquestioned. Lyanna Stark would someday look back upon the days in which she had been a girl and smile mournfully for the lost innocence.

Once she turned five and ten, and the day was drawing close, she would have to assume her position in the ranks of lords and ladies, and only the gods knew what her purpose would be then. She only asked that they allowed her hope, a shrivelled, thin thing to hold onto, but the only one which could be hers. She was a piece to be moved around in a game of power.

The sole question that remained was whether she would content herself with the role which she'd been assigned, or if she would reach higher and higher, spread her wings and take flight. To be a piece, or to be a player? To be a slave to the will of other or to be mistress of her own destiny?

But those were dreams, the fancies of a child with too many stories in her head.

*

Bedecked in her finest gown, Lyanna grimaced as Old Nan pulled on her hair, twisting braids and securing them into place. She had been dreading the day when her fate would be sealed with no possibility of escape. And it had come, like most unpleasant of experiences, unexpected, creeping upon her like a thief in the night.

"Hold still now," Nan admonished as young Palla dabbed a few drops of scented oil onto Lyanna's skin. "There, we are almost done." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the old woman pick up the small wooden chest so handsomely decorated and pull the lip upwards.

The emeralds encased in gold glittered invitingly, comfortingly even. The queasiness in her stomach even lessened some when the adornment was placed in her hair. How strange it felt to know that soon she would no longer be a girl in her father's home, but a wife – hopefully not in her husband's home. As soon as she could manage it, Lyanna stood to her feet and walked towards the high and narrow window to look outside into the courtyard.

She had been breaking her fast when one of her father's men came running into the hall, announcing to all and sundry that a large party flying the banner of House Baratheon was slowly making its way towards Winterfell. Preparations had been made even before that, for Lyanna had turned five and ten almost a moon's turn past. They had wondered at the delay. Or rather her father had wondered, Lyanna had been almost relieved and much too delighted to give Robert a moment's though. It had been towards another that her thoughts had turned. Yet, as all good thing must past, so must her respite. That understanding did not bring Lyanna much comfort, her fingers pressed into the stone.

Rickard entered her bedchamber just as she turned around. Her father's eyes inspected her appearance. "You look most beautiful, my daughter." The compliment brought a flush to her cheeks. Rarely did her father give her such praise. "Indeed, you remind me of you mother just now."

The blushing bride and her sire climbed down narrow steps and made their way into the yard where the whole life of the keep had gathered. The servants gaped and gawked, whispering comments to each other. It seemed that Lord Baratheon had brought singers and fools to provide entertainment. Barrels of wine were being driven towards them in carts and the spoils of a hunt with them.

Yet for all the wealth that had come to their doors, the prospective husband was nowhere to be seen. For the briefest of moments, Lyanna thought that Robert might have reconsidered his suit. But nay, that could not be it. He had sent to them means of making merry. All she had to do was wait to spot him among all the people that filled the courtyard.

Stepping away from his daughter, Rickard walked towards the head of the party who had dismounted. "Be welcome in my hall," the Lord greeted. "But where is Lord Baratheon? Has he not the inclination to come after his bride?"

A youthful face blushed in dismay. The young man whom Rickard had spoken to, swept him a bow. "My Lord Baratheon has been set upon by an ailment and could not make the journey. It is his dearest wish that I should stand in his place for the day."

Incensed, Rickard Stark could only growl out a reply. "An ailment, you say? Then perhaps we should wait until Lord Baratheon is well enough to come himself."

Paling by degrees, the youth could only stammer out his answer to that. "I beg that you shall forgive the misfortune, my lord. Lord Baratheon does wish for the wedding to take place as soon as possible."

Something must have caught her father's eyes for he nodded and the singers struck up a festive tune, gifts were given to the crowd and all present were led into the hall where bread, salt, cheese and wine awaited them.

As she was making her way to the hall, Lyanna was much surprised to feel a hand wrap around her arm, just above her elbow. Her head turned with whip-like movement to admonished whoever had the impunity, but she found herself staring into a pair of dark violet eyes. All words remained stuck in the back of her throat. Scarcely was she aware of even the rest of the world around her.

The Prince made a shushing sound. "Careful now, my lady," he whispered for her ears only. His presence having been made known, Rhaegar Targaryen slipped away, just like a ghost. Lyanna lost him in the crowd. She made various attempts to spot him, but was disappointed in all her efforts, for as soon as she saw a tendril of light hair or familiar violet eyes, they would disappear from sight.

Having agreed to wed in the southron fashion, Lyanna was obliged to allow a Septon's droning. She pledged herself to Robert Baratheon with all the enthusiasm one might find in the thief with a rope around his neck. They were perhaps the most difficult words she had ever spoke.

Yet Lyanna was well pleased to speak them as she saw in the crowd a face smiling benevolently upon her. She no longer wondered at the worthiness of a prince's word. The answer was clear. May the gods see to it that it would remain so.

The cloak of her house left her shoulders and in its place the yellow and black garment was fastened.

"Now, we make merry!" roared one of her father's bannermen. He was joined by other voices and music and jesters.

When she first danced it was with the youth that had spoken the words in Robert's stead. After that her father took her hand and then young Domeric Bolton plucked the courage to do the same. And Lyanna mad merry with them all, her disposition of such nature as to render her a gay maiden in the late hours of her stay in Winterfell.

Despite her attempt to catch the Prince's eye, for Lyanna dearly wished to express her gratitude, Rhaegar Targaryen still had not appeared.

"What ails my lord husband?" she asked when she caught the youth again. "I hope 'tis mild, whatever it is."

*

He'd been watching Lyanna dance merrily with her youngest brother, his eyes taking in every smile and every movement. It was by that time that Rickard Stark found him, Arthur Dayne at his side. His friend's hand had instinctively gone to his belt, but Rhaegar stopped him with a curt shake of his head. He opted instead to follow the man to another chamber.

"Your Grace, if I do not overstep, what ails my good-son?" He could read something in the lord's eyes that put him ill at ease, but Rhaegar knew he had to reply.

"A paramour," the Prince replied.

Rickard regarded him strangely for a few moments. "A lover? When he is to wed?" There was anger in his voice, though well concealed so that it might pass for surprise.

"I believe he contacted the pox through this lover, aye," Rhaegar had no choice but to disclose. "While Lord Baratheon no longer keeps with her, there are yet lingering effects."

It was a stroke of luck, Rhaegar considered. He would thought himself of something to keep Robert away from Lyanna had the Seven not taken the matter from his hands. In fact, he couldn't have planned it better himself.

"And his desire to wed Lyanna?" Rickard questioned, no doubt desirous to know the fate of his daughter.

"When he last could speak, he was adamant about the union." Of course, aside from pox Robert's companion had also given him some other presents. Colluding together with a stomach flu, the diagnosis did not look good. It was generally agreed upon by the maesters that treated him that he would not survive much longer if he did not improve. And all that without Rhaegar having to lift a single finger. "There is nothing to bring worry, Lord Stark; your daughter's position is secure."

"And her position at court?" During the early terms of their negotiation, Rhaegar had wanted Lyanna to enter his wife's service. Thus he would have easy access to her and they could keep curious eyes away. However a better position became available.

"All has been taken care on." There was however, one small matter which had not been touched upon. Rhaegar hadn't wished to broach the subject earlier, however, he felt that the time had come. "My lord, I should like to hear the answer to my other proposition." He waited patiently for the words to come.

"I have though about it," the other man said. "I have considered all the viable possibilities in my mind over and over again. If it must be thus, you have my vow and my sword and my men."

All in all it had gone well, Rhaegar thought. "It is for the best, my lord." And so ended his conversation with Lord Stark. Rhaegar returned to his previous location, only to find that Arthur had been set upon by a gang of three lovely servant girls. They cooed and giggled, two hanging on his arms and one standing before him. His friend sent forth a pleading look, his eyes crying for help. Or something similar.

Knowing he would have no more luck than Arthur if he lingered, Rhaegar gave him an apologetic smile and retreated somewhere in the shadow. He could barely make out the curse Arthur directed his way. It certainly hadn't been anything complimentary, so he was perhaps better off not knowing the exact form. Instead of paying any mind to the utter despondency of Arthur, Rhaegar searched for Lyanna, trailing her form as it moved about the room. She looked a happy bride.

Her head turned, her eyes catching his in a compelling stare. Their gazes locked and held and that indefinable something which he had felt at Harrenhal swept over his again. He was however pulled out of his reverie by a freshly escaped Arthur, who came forth grinning.

Suspicious, Rhaegar turned his eyes to him. "Finally free, I see. How did you convince them to leave you be?"

"Talk to them about illness and they run faster than they come," Arthur replied, clearly proud of himself for having terrified those silly chits. "I daresay Lord Stark won't have much wine left in his cellars after this." Everyone was more or less roaringly drunk, with a few notable exceptions.

"Is the wine that good?" Having opted not to imbibe, Rhaegar turned an eye to the table where wine was spilling forth in endless rivers and rivulets. As soon as it poured forth it was contained in a chalice and consumed in greedy gulps.

"Even better. Arbor." Arthur held his own cup up in a sort of salute. "Know that I drink to this harebrained scheme of yours, my friend."

"If nothing else," Rhaegar said, his voice devoid of any chastisement at his companion's behaviour, "then I will have at least won myself some respite."

He waited in the hall until most everyone had left. There had been no need for a bedding ceremony seeing as the husband was absent. Lyanna had been led to her own bedchamber, not a hair of her coiffure out of place. In the torchlight Rhaegar had seen the sapphires in her hair. She had understood, after all.

There was little reason to wait. It had been made clear to all present that Lord Baratheon had been unable to attend due to pressing matters of his lands, but so anxious had he been to finally have Lyanna Stark as his bride that he sent forth a man to say his words, for it seemed that his problems were persistent. It was as good a story as any and by the time the man perished or became healthy again everything would be as Rhaegar willed it.

With soft steps he found his way through the halls into Lady Lyanna's chamber. The door had not been locked and the hall had been deserted upon Rhaegar's arrival. He had done his duty by checking for any eyes that might see, but none were to be found.

Thus, determined to complete his plan, Rhaegar stepped within the bedchamber of the bride in the wee hours of the night as the moon shone high in the sky. And the memory of it would linger for many years to come, for it was an occasion special not only for Lyanna Stark, as it would turn out.

*

Robert had been his friend for many years and Eddard would claim he knew the man well. At least well enough to assure his sister that a life next to him would not be the stuff of night terrors she made it out to be. Yet his certainty wavered as he watched the maesters work on him.

There had always been a certain hunger in Robert. He wanted to have – whether it be women or drink, affection or power. It was his opinion, and perhaps not entirely wrong, that the world owed him. Women owed his love and obedience, men respect and friendship. The simple fact that he existed should have been reason enough for him to receive what he desired.

It must have been that confidence that made such a grand impression upon Ned. He had been content to live in Robert's shadow and he had been joyful at the possibility of calling him good-brother. He had even been prepared to overlook those faults that his sister insisted upon bringing up. But blood ran thicker than water, and if he had to choose, Ned knew what his choice would be.

Little Mya Stone sat in his lap, worrying her lip between the rows of pearly teeth. Her mother was dabbing Robert's forehead, washing away the sticky sweat that made his hair cling to his scalp.

"The fever is abating," the woman observed. Her gentle hands carefully brushed back a wayward strand of Robert's hair. Ned found himself wondering why she would care for her thus? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her why she would worry for a man who did not even remember her name or the fact that a couple of years back he had been pursuing her through the keep, professing his love for her fine eyes.

But he did not. There was a strange quality to being torn between two dear people in his life. Robert was as much a brother to him as Brandon and Benjen, perhaps even more so as they grew up together, trained together. And then there was stubborn, who insisted Lyanna to ride and practice with a jousting stick. In a way, he felt responsible for her. They were kin; closer than that they could not be – they shared a mother and a father, a life, a destiny.

Lyanna would have pitied the sight before her, but it would not have induced her to care for Robert. Mya shifted in his hold and yawned. Her coal black tresses shone in the light, a replica of her father's. Plump little fingers pulled on Ned's sleeve.

He looked down at the girl. "What is it, Mya?"

"Oh, don't mind her," the girl's mother cut in. "She is upset that her father won't play with her anymore."

Well, that could certainly be said for all of Robert's bastards. In fact, Mya had been rather lucky. Robert hadn't grown bored with her until she'd been a little over one year old. His other natural children hadn't seen much of him. The youngest of them he hadn't even bothered to see once.

Would Lyanna suffer the same fate as Mya's mother – relegated to the role of entertainment, meant to hold Robert's transitory attention for no more than a blink of an eye? When faced with the reality of what his sister was – not what Robert had made her into in his head – would his love endure? If it was love indeed. With Robert a simple fancy could seem the deepest love in the proper light and a moment later it would be revealed to be meaningless.

Mya's mother, Robert's other lovers – they were free of him. Lyanna would never be that. She would always be tied to his, by vows, by words she herself had spoken. A knot formed in Ned's throat. He had to know.

Depositing Mya in the chair, he left her to her mother's care. Ned walked closer to Robert and leaned in. "Robert. Do you love her? Do you love my sister?"

"I want her," came the faint reply, uttered on a dying breath. "More than anything, I want–" He hacked, the rest of the sentence swallowed by that cough.

Want again. Ned grimaced. Robert had wanted Mya's mother too. And apparently he had also wanted the bed mate who made him ill. Want was fickle and cruel a mistress. She applied to what one did not have, or to what one lost.

Want would not be enough for Lyanna. For a brief moment, Ned was engulfed by something akin to bitterness. It was too late for such considerations anyway. Lord Arryn had sent forth a rider to keep Robert's place. One could only hope that somehow, the gods would take pity and make life manageable.

He couldn't bare to remain in the room any longer. Pushing to his full height suddenly, Ned hurried out of the room, barely hearing Mya's mother call after him, worry thick in her voice. He couldn't just sit there and hold Mya and pretend he didn't know what upset his sister about the match. He couldn't remain closed between those walls a moment more, else he'd suffocate.

Outside in the yard a few men at arms trained. Ned barely glanced their way. He gulped in air, as if he'd been choking. Good gods, the entire matter was laughable, so much so that it made him want to cry.

Wasn't Robert in close similarity to Brandon? Wasn't that what had been the foundation of their great friendship?

Leaning against the wall, Ned concentrated on breathing. If he could just calm himself enough to go back to Robert's bedside. Matters had been settled, there was nothing to be done but hope. And that he had plenty of, the gods knew. Hope, he had to hold onto it tightly, lest it turned into mist and disappear before his very eyes.

After what felt like an eternity, Ned plucked the courage to return. He walked back, towards the room, his gait slow and unsure, his shoulders slumped. It felt rather like a defeat. It felt like disappointment – not only in Robert, but in himself, in his own perception.

The door opened in time for Ned to see Mya's mother smile down upon Robert, the remnants of a confession on her lips.

*

Flustered, Lyanna paused midstride. Her head had followed the sound of the door opening and when she saw Rhaegar slipping inside her room, something inside of her prompted alarm. None but her brothers and father had entered her bedchamber. To have a stranger there, within her private sanctuary, was startling. More so one whose presence spelt danger – hazard of the most distressing kind, something which she did not know how to fight against.

He stepped closer to her, a shadow gliding over the wall and across the floor, his palms held out in an open gesture. Lyanna shivered. He drew closer still, the tips of his fingers grazing her shoulder. He loomed over her. Suddenly, she was speared by the memory of him jousting, the precision of his aim and the steadiness of his hand. Lyanna gulped softly, momentarily short of breath as he turned her around to face him fully.

The scent of sandalwood reached her nostrils and she inhaled involuntarily at the unexpectedness. Apparently, she had been holding her breath. His fingers pressed against her shoulder, curling and gripping. Lyanna's eyes snapped to his, questioning.

"Allow me to help," he said. Yet Lyanna fancied she could hear more in his voice. A slow nod was his answer.

Without taking his eyes off of her face, he slipped the covering from her shoulders, the material giving way before his gentle coaxing. The heavy weight fell to the floor, leaving her in only a thin chemise. Exposed and seemingly powerless, Lyanna made to draw back, but Rhaegar's hand had moved down her arm, gripping just above her elbow, a reminder perhaps. His other hand settled on the curve of her waist, steadying her.

A silent battle raged within her even as she was led to the bed and made to lie down. Lyanna did not watch Rhaegar disrobe, she averted her eyes to a spot on the ceiling, closing her ears off to the rustling of cloth and pulling a heavy woollen blanket onto herself. She felt his warmth as he slid underneath the covers. He gave no words. She kept her silence also.

His limbs brushed against hers, the touch light and unobtrusive. Lyanna could not help but quiver even so. She had never shared her bed with a man. Rhaegar's presence was foreign and threatening, giving the whole act the impression of a hunt. His hands rubbed and slid against her, warm even through her chemise, and his weight settled atop of her. Pushing her legs apart slowly but determinedly, Rhaegar found his way between her thighs.

Something hard pressed uncomfortably against her. Lyanna did not have much guesswork to do. She had been told, in no uncertain terms, by a very frank Old Nan what she could expect on her wedding night. The thought of it frightened her. A whimper rose past her lips before she could stop it. It was not a death sentence. All women were at one time or another to endure the act and with care, there could even be enjoyment of a sort. Though she was not to imply such to a believer of the Faith, Lyanna had been warned.

What joy could be derived, Nan had not said and Lyanna though, as she was relieved of her smallclothes, it seemed quite impossible that she would find that pleasure. Left bare, Lyanna could only clamp her mouth shut and breathe through her nose at the alien sensation of skin against leather. It seemed that the Prince had not removed as many articles of clothing as she had thought. Lyanna looked down between them.

One on his hands was rubbing circles against her hip as if to soothe her. Rhaegar looked down at the, the candlelight casting strange shadows over his face. "Be at ease, my lady," he said. The formal address seemed out of place, so much so that Lyanna found herself sucking in a breath to stop from laughing.

When his hand moved to the ties of his breeches, Lyanna looked away again. She felt warm flesh touch her own, probing and pushing insistently. A moan of pain came shuddering past her lips as the intrusion commenced. The thick length of him entered her at a slow pace, her flesh parting and widening, yielding as he advanced.

At one point he halted in his progress and touched her cheek gently. Lyanna could but turn her eyes slightly to look into his. She couldn't read his expression in the low light, but it seemed to her to be almost apologetic. He pulled out of her, much to her relief. But then, he came surging back and something inside of her broke. The sting produced a low keening sound from her.

"Hush, hush," Rhaegar spoke against the reddened skin of her cheek. "The worst of it is over." He held still within her, but the pain lingered even so for a few moments longer. He combed his fingers through her hair in a gentle manner once, twice, trice before he set about moving within her.

Discomfort gripped her. Lyanna could not bite back the small whimpers. She tried, she really did. But soon enough, Rhaegar's pace hastened and something warm spilled inside of her. He shuddered and trembled, a small sound breaking from somewhere deep within him. His fingers tangles in her hair and gave a tug that could be described only as gentle.

With a shuddering breath, he left her, rolling on his side. He had his back to her for a few moments and Lyanna could only assume he was retying his breeches by the way his hands moved. Between her legs she throbbed, the emptiness both blessed and confusing. She felt cold, though the blanket hadn't left her form.

Standing to his feet, Rhaegar moved to where the pitcher of water stood. He used whatever cloth he found to dip in the liquid. Lyanna watched him with interest. He came back for her and placed the cloth in her trembling hand. "This will help," he said.

It took Lyanna a moment to understand his meaning. She blushed, but accepted the advice. "Your Grace, I–"

One finger pressed to her lips cut her off. "Rest for now. You must regain your strength."

And then he left her, after having tucked the blanket up underneath her chin.

*

Ashara looked at the paper curl and blacken within the flames. Another missed opportunity. She almost sighed, but caught herself at the last moment. Instead of giving any signs of distress she applied herself to her current task more diligently.

Princess Rhaenys squirmed in her lap and giggled as Balerion yowled at his treatment. "You mustn't do that, Your Grace," Ashara said, prying the girl's fingers from the cat's ear. "You will hurt him. Is that your wish?"

A pout touched the child's lips. Sulkily she let go of the tom, who seeing his chance ran for the door. Ashara pretended not to see the clouds gathering in the child's eyes. She hummed a cheerful tune, hoping to distract6 the little Princess with pieces of fruit. It worked, at least enough for her not to jump off her lap and chase after poor Balerion. Something really had to be done for that cat.

Only yesterday the Princess had tried riding the feline as if it were a lion and not a simply kitten. It had taken more than a few chiding words to convince the girl not to make use of the animal. Rhaenys was a good girl, but there was an utter lack of discipline that guided her existence. Ashara finished combing her hair. "There, all done. 'Tis time for you to be abed, Your Grace," she spoke gently.

"I don't want to," Rhaenys whined, her heel coming to slam into Ashara's leg. Flesh and bone smarted at the abuse, but Ashara merely pressed her lips together. The Princess had started chanting, her protests ringing in the room. That had attracted her mother's eye.

"Lady Dayne, what goes on yonder?" Princess Elia questioned, handing her babe to a nursemaid. "Why is my daughter weeping?"

Like any other mother in existence, Elia was fiercely protective of her children. It was that maternal instinct, forever at work, convincing dames that the sun rose and set upon their children. Ashara bit back the desire to scowl and push the crying child into her mother's arms. Instead, she summoned every ounce of diplomacy within her and answered in a civil manner.

"I suggested that the Her Grace take to her bed. The Princess protests the need to sleep." And apparently, she though the best way to do so was to flail about, kicking the person holding her and crying a river.

"There, there," Princess Elia hurriedly took her daughter from Ashara. "No need for tears, my dear one. If you do not wiah to sleep yet, perhaps you would like to hear a story."

"About dragons?" the little Princess questioned, the tears miraculously vanishing from her eyes.

"Indeed," her mother promised, rubbing her back soothingly. "My daughter's wishes are to be heeded, Lady Dayne. Do I make myself clear?"

"Oh, crystal clear, Your Grace," Ashara assured the illustrious woman she served. Once her duty was done, her brother owed her, and a great deal at that. The Seven give her patient until that time came. "Would that be all, Your Grace?"

"For now. You may retire nearer to the fire," the Princess allowed her, moving towards the bed with her child. "Would you like to remain with mother?" she asked the little girl, who swiftly replied in the affirmative.

For her part, Ashara was happy to find herself near the fire. She looked into the flames to see if the paper had burned. Of course it had. There went her proof, she thought, a twinge of annoyance flaring at having lost it. She would need to act with more care in the future. From the corner of her eye she could see Aegon being placed in his crib. At least that child knew how to keep quiet.

Elia Martell held no love for her. And Ashara Dayne was more than pleased with that. Whatever the Princess' reasons were, her dislike made it so that she rarely paid her any mind, so Ashara was more or less free to do as she wished. It was only by some cruel jape of the gods that she had been forced to keep company to her mistress during the silent hours. Elia's favourite had been taken ill, her stomach unsettled or some such disaster, and the other already had chores assigned. Ashara had remained the only option.

In truth, the Princess had been rather graceful. She too had been displeased by the arrangements, yet she made do by pretending not to see the other woman in her chamber. With nothing else left to occupy her, Ashara could do little but think. And think she did. She recounted the day's events and the proof she had gathered. It was meagre at best, but given more time, she could make something of it.

"His Grace is not returned, is he?" Princess Elia asked from her place on the bed, having interrupted her story in order to pose the question.

"Nay, Your Grace. He is not yet returned," Ashara confirmed.

"I simply cannot understand the appeal of those ruins he insists on visiting." Ashara looked up at that. She debated the merits of broaching the subject of the Prince Rhaegar's birth, but in the end decided she could not be bothered.

"If 'tis what His Grace desires–" Ashara allowed the rest of it to trail off. "I am certain he shall return soon."

"He had best." Afterwards the Princess returned to recounting the story of the conquest to her daughter. Ashara stopped paying much attention after before long. She nodded off in her chair, warmed by the fire as she was.

When the little Princess was finally asleep, Ashara was called upon to take the child back to her own bedchamber. "Be sure that the Septa holds her vigil," Elia instructed as Ashara was making her way out, "and that nothing disturbs my daughter's rest."

Refraining from asking what could possibly disturb the child's rest, Ashara carried out her orders stoically. The Septa had been asleep, nor did she look anywhere near so. Together they tucked the child in and looked about the room.

Satisfied that nothing would wake the child, Ashara gave a swift nod to the Septa before hurrying out of the room and back into Elia's bedchamber. She slid under the covers after blowing the candles out and prayed for sleep to come quickly.

*

Not one to waste away the day in bed, Rhaegar had risen early, much earlier than other guests to be sure. The kitchen, however, had woken earlier still. It did not take very much for him to have a hot meal in his hands and a cup of ale.

Strangely restless, he set out for a ride. If the ride itself did not prove to be of any interest, the return was another matter altogether. At first, it was barely a sound. Still, Rhaegar caught it. He directed his horse towards the source of it and the closer he got the louder and more distinct the sounds became. He could differentiate between the pounding of hooves and human noises. Frustrated human noises.

He discovered none other than Lyanna Stark, perched on her horse, running at rings. For a brief moment, he admired her form – not her stance, for that he had seen before, at Harrenhal. She was a very good rider. It was the familiar curves that caught his attention. Gritting his teeth against the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, he looked upon her hand.

"Your grip is too tight, my lady," he called out to her. He'd known it would startle her. He'd also known that she'd miss the mark. But it was better for her to have missed rather than break her wrist. Kicking his horse into a trot, Rhaegar made it to her side in a matter of moment.

A pair of irritated eyes flashed at him. "Your Grace," she greeted him tightly. There was fear behind the words. Rhaegar nudged his steed closer, Lyanna's backed away a few steps.

"The only thing you shall accomplish that way is a painful break." His hand shot out to grip her by the wrist, shaking it gently. She watched him with wide eyes, pulling her hand back at the same time. Rhaegar did not relinquish his hold.

"Your Grace, this is not proper." It was more proper than what went on in her bedchamber. Rhaegar held back the impulse to tell her that. It was not his wish to antagonise her. His fingers, however, tighten their grip.

"My lady, if you must pursue such sport, at the very least allow me to make sure you aren't endangering yourself." Her clasp on the jousting stick slacked, enough for Rhaegar to pry it from her hand. "Hold out your arm."

She followed the instruction, though suspicion lingered in her gaze. In the face of that small defiance, Rhaegar only grew more determined. He arranged the weapon to his satisfaction. "You must hold it against you. The grip is better. And do not raise it so high."

Grudgingly, Lyanna lowered it. A look of surprise crossed her face at that moment. Rhaegar could not help asking, "Any better, my lady?"

Breaking from her sullen silence for the first time she graced him with a tiny grin and an affirmation, "It feels lighter."

The grip she'd been using would have worked had her limbs been longer and sturdier. Satisfied with her understanding, Rhaegar retreated enough to clear the path for her. "Now, my lady, tilt." For just a moment, her stare turned incredulous. It then became excited.

Rhaegar watched her, analysing her movements. Truthfully, with a bit of work, she might master the art of jousting. She hit her target right in the centre, sending it to the ground. With that victory, she neared him, her horse cantering languidly.

"How was that, Your Grace?" she asked, rather short of breath. Rhaegar had to wonder just how long she had been practicing before he happened upon her.

"It was not bad." Her face fell a little at his pronouncement. Rhaegar, however, would give her the truth. "Don't frown, my lady. Best you listen well to what I say and better your skill." She nodded sharply. "When tilting, use your back, not your shoulder. A straw enemy will fall to the stroke of it, but a flesh and bones one shan't. Dismount."

She wasted no time in heeding his command. Rhaegar followed at a slower pace. He stared at her for one silent moment before turning her around, her back to his chest. Rhaegar took her wrist and held her arm forward. He set about demonstrating the motion of her attack. "There, you see?" he asked, forcing her to push with all her strength. "You might injure yourself like that."

Then he pressed to fingers at the top of her spine. Her back straightened further. Still pressing the point, he explained to her how she should go about properly. "Are you skilled with the bow, my lady?"

"Not at all," Lyanna admitted after a brief silence. Her head turned just slightly so that she could see his face. Rhaegar almost leaned in at the gesture, but caught himself in time to avert disaster.

What was he doing? He shook his head gently and Lyanna bit her lip, no doubt taking the gesture as one of disapproval. Rhaegar did not correct her. "That must be changed." He released her abruptly. After momentarily losing her footing, the lady regained her own composure. And he would have to do something about her horse too. It was rather too tall and wide for her. No doubt she had grown used to that, but balancing would be easier on a horse better suited to her own physique.

Lending a helping hand, Rhaegar deposited her on the horse's back with a small grunt of impatience. He looked around a moment longer. "Do you leave the equipment here?"

"Aye, my brother comes later in the day to practice here," she disclosed.

Mounting his own horse, Rhaegar acknowledged her words with a simply nod. "Enough for today, my lady."

"Enough," she agreed. "Your Grace, my father mustn't–"

"He shan't hear a word from me," Rhaegar found himself saying. No doubt Lord Stark would want to discipline her should he find out. But Rhaegar had seen her potential and he had already begun working. He couldn't possibly allow his effort to go to waste.

For some odd, mad reason, he was willing to aid Lyanna Stark beyond that which ensured him what he desired. Rhaegar elected not to think upon the matter further. That was dangerous territory which he had no intention of entering. What one did not acknowledge remained mere illusion.

*

Lyanna hadn't thought the Prince meant that he would teach her himself when he'd said she needed archery lessons. But apparently that was what he'd meant for, instead of Rhaegar coming to bed her, he came just before sunrise, shaking her awake. If at first she'd thought to pull the covers back and make way for him, the instinct was dismissed when the Prince told her to dress for training.

Yawning and rubbing her eyes, Lyanna had done just as she was told. Food and drink already awaited them. No complaint would pass her lips about the food, however as soon as she tasted the ale, Lyanna spat the thing out and coughed.

"Vile stuff," she complained softly, half afraid that the whole keep would descend upon them if she spoke too loud.

"It'll keep you warm," was the only reply she got, so Lyanna forced herself to swallow a mouthful. Grudgingly she had to admit that it did make her feel warm. Rhaegar took the cup from her hands and downed the rest. She could but watch him in silent wonder.

Her father liked wine if he did drink and her brothers preferred it too. Lyanna was allowed watered wine at times, but she much preferred clear water if it could be helped. She continued to look at Rhaegar as he put both cups on a low table. The drink didn't seem to affect him.

"Come, lady," he said, holding out his arm for her to take. With a small shrug, Lyanna did just that, allowing herself to be dragged all the way to the stables.

She mounted her horse with care and followed the Prince down the path. For some reason she did not feel ill at ease in his presence. It was not a feeling of comfortable intimacy either, but being with him then, as they made their way to the spot where she usually trained, Lyanna had the certainty that he meant her no harm.

Archery proved to be a bit more difficult than Brandon had made it out to be when she was but a child. Her brother had made light of the art of wielding a bow and shooting arrows. Lyanna would have to have some words with him when they met again. Until then she would do well to build her endurance.

Rhaegar was a hard taskmaster but fair, she found. He would show her what he wanted her to do, and his voice held patience as he instructed her, but if her mind wandered away from the task at hand he would not hesitate in reminding her the reason for which they were there. As he positioned himself behind her, guiding her through the motions, Lyanna could not help feeling a strange pressure within her. She shook the sensation away and tried to concentrate on what Rhaegar was saying.

The first arrow didn't even sail through the air. The second neither. Her third shot fared better in that it managed to fly a few feet. Lyanna, however, was not pleased with that. She would shoot properly by the end of the day, she told herself. Gripping the bow just a little tighter, she nocked an arrow into place and released it in one fluid motion. That one embedded itself into the target, touching the edge of it.

Letting out a breath of relief, Lyanna beamed a smile towards Rhaegar. The result was far from perfect, but she had touched the mark nonetheless and that was reason enough for her to be pleased with. Lyanna waited to hear what the Prince would say.

"Good," Rhaegar confirmed with a small nod. He took the bow from her. "Watch me." He fitted an arrow in the bow and shot it. The steel tip implanted itself onto the target, right in the middle of it.

She reclaimed the bow and tried again. Not all of her attempts were met with success, but some arrows did make it to the target. Lyanna, of course, hadn't been expecting some miracle. Like all good things, learning took time. The knowledge however, didn't do much to ease her frustration. She made to grab another arrow when the Prince's hand touched her shoulder gently, eliciting a hiss from her. It was only then that she noticed her limbs were trembling.

"That should do, my lady," he said. Lyanna looked over her shoulder at his face. For a brief moment she thought she saw tenderness in his gaze.

"But–" the protest slid past her lips yet never made it to the end for she was cut off.

"What you need is time." Rhaegar pried the weapon from her hands. He gripped her by the shoulders after, fingers pressing into the slightly sore flesh. Lyanna made a small sound of discomfort, but she found that the way his fingers moved against her helped.

It seemed they were done for the day. Since the chill had thawed and Lyanna did not quite wish to return yet, the Prince allowed that they might sit under one of the trees for some time. Happy with that, Lyanna wasted no time in arranging herself comfortably on the ground. Rhaegar sat next to her, though he kept between them a small distance.

"Your Grace, I am grateful for the help," Lyanna found herself saying after a few short moments of silence.

"And I am pleased with such a student," came the reply. It hadn't been just words. Lyanna was certain he'd meant them.

But that was the extent of their conversation, for Rhaegar did not seem inclined to say more and Lyanna could not bring herself to ask him much else. She would have liked to know why he hadn't joined with her again these past few days, but embarrassment sealed her lips against such a question. That brazen she wasn't, at least not quite yet. And in the Prince enjoyed the silence, Lyanna could keep to herself until they reached the keep.

For indeed they would soon have to return. Her father was willing to close his eyes to her early absences, so long as he though she aided Rhaegar. That the situation was not rightly that, well, he needn't know. Would Rhaegar's presence always bring upon her such a mood, she wondered, eyeing the clouds that rolled by lazily.

*

Brandon dismounted his horse and accepted the wineskin. He took a deep swing and shoved a piece of slated bread in his mouth, washing it down with another mouthful of wine. His companions did the same. Were he to concern himself for them, Brandon would have had to pay less attention to Catelyn Tully.

The maid had joined her father in the courtyard. She stood tall and beautiful, her red hair a curtain around her shoulders. It was those fiery tresses that had his eyes sparkling. Brandon, completely ignoring the rest of the world, made his way towards the blushing bride. His bride. A triumphant smile lit his face at the thought. He bowed towards her father, bur his attention was upon her before more than a greeting could be exchanged.

"My lady," he sad, capturing her hands in his, holding them close to his chest, "tell me this is not a dream." Flattery he'd learned from the best and he knew when to use it. Catelyn Tully was lovely, a southron maid used to kind words and a sweet manner. Brandon was confident he could satisfy.

Red touched her cheeks, "Has my lord been long dreaming of these events then?" Her question was soft, almost demure, but for the playful gaze she levelled at him.

"Too long," he whispered, well aware of the many eyes that watched them. He leaned in just a notch closer, nothing that could be suspected of impropriety. "My lady, you mean to make me bed," came the accusation.

"Nay, my lord, you mistake me." Catelyn pulled back, folding her hands in front of her. "I am glad you are safely arrived. Perhaps we may see to our purpose as it were." A small smile crossed her lips, her eyes darting to her father.

Seemingly in full agreement with his eldest, Hoster Tully slapped a hand to Brandon's back. "Come, lad. 'Tis time to make good on your promise to the girl."

Of course a Septon had been engaged to oversee the ceremony. Brandon could have probably insisted on it not being necessary, but it wouldn't do to be discourteous towards the maid he wished to make a bride of. They were allowed to clean and refresh themselves after their journey. The road had been long, but not harrowing and Brandon hadn't needed too much time. Inflamed with thought of wedding Hoster's daughter he made quick work of the washing and combing, as did his companions, no doubt anxious for food and drink. Which they would be provided with at the banquet.

As he made his way towards the main hall where he was to swear before the Seven his devotion to the bride his father had picked for him, Brandon could not quite keep from his mind the image of Barbrey Ryswell. The last time they'd met she'd been begging him not to leave her. It was such a pity, truly. If there was one aspect of wooing that Barndon found to be an annoyance then that had to be the maids who could not understand chivalry for what it was.

Tearful and pleading, Barbrey had caught his sleeve and refused to let him go, no matter how Brandon had tried to disengage her from him. He was not proud of the outcome, but what had been done could not be taken back. Hopefully, Barbrey would no longer attempt to catch his attention once he returned with Catelyn Tully on his arm.

Occupying his assigned position, Brandon eyes the door, waiting for Catelyn's arrival. The bride was led in by her father to the cheers of the many guests that had come to witness the exchange of vows. Joy painted her features as they spoke the words before the Septon and they had their hands fastened, the binding between the two of them blessed by the gods old and new. Her Tully cloak was replaced with the Winterfell direwolf.

As he glanced towards the crows, Brandon caught the eye of Catelyn's sister, a shy creature that had been avoiding him since his skirmish with Hoster's former ward. Petyr Baelish. From her place, Lysa Tully glared at him, her blue eyes hard and accusing. Brandon looked away, unable to hold her gaze. She was just a foolish child, he decided later.

Song, drinks and food filled the hall. Catelyn was obliged to dance with her father and then with him. Not that she minded overly much, Brandon considered, a hint of pride there. She was an excellent dancer, graceful on her feet. Perhaps her presence in Winterfell might be of use. Lyanna could learn much and more from Catelyn Tully. And that had the additional benefit of keeping his sister out of trouble.

Pleased with his plans, Brandon downed a cup of wine and entered the crowd of dancers to take Catelyn's hand. His wife smiled at him, radiant. She leaned closer so that he might hear her. "My lord, when do we make for Winterfell?"

"As soon as my lady wishes," Brandon replied. In truth he was rather delighted with her eagerness. "But for now we dance and make merry." She laughed and he could not held laughing back. The mood was infectious.

Whatever else she might have wished to say, it was lost in the sound and movement of the crowd as they danced the night away.

It was very fortunate that his father had though to send him after Catelyn, Brandon considered. It was time that he had a wife of his own. Had he known the truth behind his father's action, he might have been less pleased, but ignorance could sometimes be a blessing of the highest order as it was for him in those moments. For had Brandon even suspected that as he acquired a bride his very sister became someone's pawn, he would have left everything and rushed back to give punishment to whoever dared act in such a manner. But knowledge of that nature he did not have.

So when shouts of "Bedding! Bed them!" rang trough the air, Brandon was happy to allow the womenfolk to carry him off, tittering and praising all the way. He teased back and forth with those brave enough and enjoyed the shyness of those who demurely looked away from unclothed skin.

*

Lyanna tossed and turned, the covers twisting around her legs and hampering her movement. Frustrated, she let out a small growl, kicking her limbs as if to break the soft cocoon. She hid her face in the pillow and counted in her mind the passing moments. Each one of them brought Rhaegar's leaving closer and she hated them for it. Just like she would hate the sun for rising in the morning. She didn't want him to leave.

Reality was a cold place to be on one's own, surrounded by people who did not understand, who would never understand. She was expected to give and give and give, but none seemed inclined to give back. Again, Lyanna changed her position. She did not want to be alone.

Selfish as she knew she was being, Lyanna wanted to keep holding on to that Rhaegar she had seen in the godswood. She wanted that man, even if he was not hers to want.

The lines had become blurred. She had accepted him as means of escape, but he'd not remain confined into the small box she'd crafted for him. Mayhap another might have looked upon his actions and seen their cruelty, yet Lyanna glanced upon them and saw caring. Nay, 'twas not the caring of a husband for his wife, nor of a father for his children. It was the caring of a monarch for his realm. He was like one of those heroes of the old world, stretching out towards the impossible. When one reached too high, the gods would knock then over.

Would the gods knock Rhaegar over, she wondered? He aspired towards goals that would not be seen kindly by most of his subjects – those in power, those with wealth. And if he fell, would she fall too? Would he want her to?

The questions gnawed at her, giving no peace of mind or possibility of rest. And she was so alone, so very alone. Lyanna sat up, pushing away the covers. She got to her feet and walked about the room. Moonlight shone through the window, bathing everything in its ethereal gleam. But Lyanna was blind to it. She could not enjoy the sigh for her eyes saw only what was not there.

For all the days he had been within the keep, the Prince had visited her bed just once. He claimed to desire a child from her, but he did not bed her. How could she be expected to make a life on her own? But then a thought struck her. Would Robert have been as careful of her as Rhaegar? Would he have noticed her pain or would he have simply hammered on within her as he doubtlessly did with his whores? Robert, the very name brought a flare of anger to life within her. Robert, who claimed to love her with one breath only to set to seducing some other woman with his next. She could have lived with him and his infidelity if only he hadn't lack even a shred of common decency.

There was no knock to her door, nor any sound to alert her, but her own heart lurched and her stomach was filled with fluttering wings as the door opened. Without a word, Lyanna stepped forward and, taking Rhaegar's wrist, pulled him in. He allowed her lead.

Lips came together in a dance reminiscent of what had passed earlier in the godswood, but Lyanna was no longer content with just receiving. She hoisted herself up, on instinct, wrapping her arms around Rhaegar's neck. His own upper limbs curled around her in a secure hold.

What passed between them was not the simple making of a child. It was flesh pressed against flesh, clothing falling to the ground. It was lips and teeth and tongues and barely-heard whispers. It was a woman and a man learning, being human, drowning.

Her body took in the length of her partner, the stretching both painful and wondrous. The ache was a fleeting thing, barely there, and then she simply felt full, filled and fulfilled. His mouth hadn't left her, but unlike the last time, his hands stroked and pressed, fingers gliding against her. Touch was important, Lyanna found. She liked being touched.

Something seemed to halt the progress though. Rhaegar's pace faltered and he lifted his head, looking down at her face. His gaze held something she had never seen there before, a sort of awareness, misplaced and unwelcome. He had realised something it seemed. Lyanna pressed herself against him, the cold fingers of the night chilling her skin.

Breathing hard, Rhaegar kissed her lips again. He moved slowly, slow enough for Lyanna to process every movement. It felt like a goodbye. It felt like a promise. It felt like more. "I want you." The tree words slid against her effortlessly, though she heard the strain in his voice.

"You have me." What could she possibly want more when she had already given him what was hers to give.

But Rhaegar disengaged from her once more. He simply smiled down, a twist of lips not quite bitter, as if she hadn't understood his meaning. "I don't want you. I want you." The clarification was lost on her for a few moments.

And then she understood, if one could call the vague feeling which flittered through her chest understanding. She was stunned. Lyanna gazed into his eyes, unable to form a reply. What could she say? She wanted him too. But he, unlike her, had someone to return to. Instead of giving him words, Lyanna pulled his head down, fingers tangling in his hair. Nay, she could not speak those words, not to him, not with so much at stake. Better to leave him think her a dim-witted child who understood not the matters of the heart.

He lingered within her even after his seed was spent, kept prisoner by her tight grip and perhaps by his own unwillingness to leave. There was something to be said of the way Lyanna wished the moment would last forever.

Alas when the first light of dawn crept upon them, Rhaegar abandoned her to warm blankets. He retrieved his clothing and dressed, seemingly uncaring that she watched him.

"Thank you, Lyanna." He pressed a kiss to her palm, not the back of her hand, and Lyanna shivered.

Only after he had left did she realise he'd used her name for the first time.

*

The wheelhouse shuddered to a halt. Lyanna's head smacked inelegantly against the wall and she moaned in pain. "I hate wheelhouses," she muttered under her breath and searched her small pouch for mint leaves. Wheelhouses were very restrictive – she could see nothing, she could barely hear anything and she felt vulnerable.

With a grunt, she pushed up to her feet. It they'd stopped, she could expect to see her brother in the doorway at any time. She gave a shake of her head, hoping her hair would miraculously fall into place. And if it failed to do so, she told herself, there was no one she wished to impress anyway.

Just as she had predicted the door opened and Ned's face became visible to her eyes. Without waiting a moment longer, Lyanna hurriedly walked towards him and, holding onto his arm, jumped out of the dreaded vehicle. She also narrowly missed landing on his foot, though she landed perfectly on hers. She laughed at the look on his face, a friendly show of amusement. "You look you've seen a ghost, brother."

Ned pushed backwards from her and looked her over, seemingly conduction a careful examination. "Just a moment ago," he said, his voice quiet and low, "you looked exactly like mother. I think marriage suits you, sister."

The smile dropped from Lyanna's face at those words. She reared away from him shyly and looked down at the ground. "I am merely happy to see you again so soon. Has father written to you about Brandon?"

"Aye, I've heard he finally wed his Tully bride." They exchanged an uncertain looks between the two of them, but pressed on to wrapping their arms around each other. "We can only hope for the best, Lya."

"True." Lyanna let him go, allowing Ned to lead her away. "I've come to see my husband, you know. As his lady wife it is my duty to care for him." By which she meant that if she could somehow relieve his suffering, her own guilt might be assuaged.

Of course, Lyanna did not feel guilty because Robert was ill. That he had done to himself with his own hands, or other parts of his anatomy. Yet she did feel a sort of weight settling over her shoulders at the immoral of her liaison. She did not love Robert, she did not even like him and she had long lost all respect for him, but something deep inside of her urged her to take pity. Perhaps it was the way of every human heart to bow at the sight of another's suffering. Or mayhap it was just her. But she knew that if she might see him and aid somehow, she could make peace with herself.

"He is not well, Lyanna. It is unadvisable that you be in his presence for too long." Her brother gave her a long look. "You do know what he is ailing from, do you not?" Lyanna could not decide if that was pity she saw in his gaze or not.

Steeling herself, Lyanna raised her chin. "I know all I need to know about Robert's condition." It stood on the tip of her tongue to ask her brother what she should have done had Robert actually bedded her. But then she thought better of it. She could be rather harsh, that was true, but she did not mean to become spiteful. "Would you please show me the way?"

Thankfully, not one of Lord Arryn's men paid them much mind.

Robert had been given a rather large chamber and a maester stood just by his bed when Lyanna entered. It was clear that he was being well cared for by the Lord of the Vale. A woman raised from one of the chairs, the child in her arms sleeping undisturbed.

"I presume you are the mother of Robert's child." The woman looked frightened by Lyanna's presence, barely able to produce a nod. Lyanna's gaze moved to the child – the very image of Robert. "Do not be alarmed, I mean you and yours no harm."

But Ned was already ushering the woman out. "I apologise. I thought she had left." He truly did seem troubled over the encounter. Lyanna shook her head. It mattered little to her, the woman's presence merely strengthening he belief that Robert did not respect her.

"All is well, Ned," she assured him. Her eyes were trained on her lawful husband. Lyanna walked closer to his bedside. Sweat soaked his pasty skin, his breathing was shallow.

"Not so close, my lady," the maester warned.

"Can he hear us?" Lyanna asked, momentarily looking up from the haggard face of Robert Baratheon. "Does he respond in any way?"

The master shook his head. "He has fallen into a deep sleep a couple of days past."

He was likely dying. The realisation made Lyanna pull away from him. Every instinct within her begged her to go. Death was near. It was the reaction of the transitory in front of the eternal, ever-lasting, never-changing. Her husband was dying and she felt nothing over it beside a vague sense of pity. Lyanna walked back to Ned. She did not know what to say.

Her brother counted Robert among his friends. "Ned, I can't be here." She didn't want to see Robert like that. She couldn't.

With an understanding nod, her brother took her hand in his and together they walked into another room, somewhere further down the hall. Just for a brief moment, one of those in the sea of all the moments which made up her life, Lyanna wished to open her mouth and tell her brother the truth. Whether that would lower her standing in his eyes or not, she couldn't tell. Ned valued honour above all else – a result of his many years in Lord Arryn's home, no doubt.

"I will leave you to your rest, Lya," her brother told her, placing a soft kiss to the top of her head. "You are tires, I reckon." And troubled. Lyanna's fingers had curled into the material of Ned's sleeve. Her brother looked down. She let go of him then. "Lord Arryn will return soon. He will want to meet you."

"I shall be ready," she promised.

After Ned left, Lyanna sat on the bed, facing the door. She was feeling alone once more.

*

Winter was upon them. Rhaegar held his hand out, palm facing the sky, and watched a few snowflakes land on his skin. He closed his fingers around them, wondering how long it would take for them to melt. When he opened his fist again, they were gone. Nothing remained, but the ghost of a chill.

The barren branches of the great oak tree groan under the weight of the snow and the attack of the harsh winds that were blowing. The withered vines of smokeberry curled around the trunk of the tree, an intricate pattern to decorate the dark bark. Rhaegar touched the very same bark and gave a sot sigh. The premises was familiar, but in no way satisfactory. No red eyes watched him as he came up the path. There was no one kneeling in prayer and no feeling of quiet satisfaction bloomed in his chest.

Instead he found himself fighting back frustration. He thought coming to the godswodd would help. Running his fingers through windblown hair, Rhaegar took a few steps back, contemplating the scenery before him. He then turned around, signalling for Lewyn Martell to follow him. The Kingsguard gave a simple nod and did thus.

The walk back was accomplished in silence. Rhaegar had no words for Elia's kin. The Seven knew what foolishness his mouth might sprout if he allowed his lips to open. Damn that Northern girl and whatever witchcraft she'd wielded on him. She was a constant shadow, trailing in his wake, a presence that was both with him and not.

He tossed and turned when in repose, searching for her between silken sheets, only to come up empty-handed. Even the few incursions into Elia's sleeping chamber did not assuage the strange need. Nothing seemed to wash away the taste of her from his lips. Rhaegar cursed silently, drawing the thick, fur-collared cloak around himself. Even the blasted weather made it a point to put him in the mind of her.

As he was ascending the stairs, Oberyn Martell was coming down. No doubt he'd been visiting with his sister. Rhaegar held back a sigh of annoyance. Oberyn's general disdain for everyone who was not Elia or part of his family put him on edge. The fact that the Dornish Prince glared at him as they passed one another only strengthened his belief.

One day, he would put that insolent man in his place. There were certain circumstances in which one could accept such behaviour. But Oberyn seemed to not know when such moments presented themselves and instead chose to make a plague of his presence.

Elia was in the nursery, holding Rhaenys on her lap and writing a latter as a nursemaid fed their son. As soon as his daughter saw him, she jumped down and ran towards him. Rhaegar caught her and lifted her up in the air. Rhaenys giggled and squealed.

"You have finally deigned to grace us with your presence," Elia noted somewhat drily. Though her face had arranged itself in a placid manner, Rhaegar could hear the accusation in her voice. Instead of responding to that, he gave his daughter a soft smile before placing her to her feet. "What brings you here, husband?"

She was still angry. Well, he supposed he ought to have expected it of her. Elia was a rather calm person, who was rarely angered. But when that certain emotion manifested itself, it took her more than just a few days to dispel it. He had refused to discuss with her, yet again, a scheme to name a new member on his father's council. Only she had confronted him about it, instead of using her usual subtlety.

"Do you still wish to leave for Dragonstone come the new year?" If only she would agree. It could prove the salvation of his sanity. Rhaegar was not inclined to consider the various directions each and every player of the game tried to pull him in.

"Has His Majesty agreed?" Elia did not enjoy staying in King's Landing. Rhaegar could not blame her for it. The departure would work towards giving both of them peace. What a blessing that would be. "Truly?"

"Indeed, he said that there was no reason for the prolonged stay. He has met his grandson and was well pleased with the way we've carried out our duty." If Rhaenys had come as a disappointment to the King, Aegon was more acceptable in his eyes – though not entirely safe from Aerys' complaints. While the child had not had his sister's perceived misfortune of inheriting the looks of his mother, his scent carried that seed, intrinsic element that was Dornish, and thus not to the king's taste. He has, however, had the decency to not utter that thought before the entire court.

Small mercies, Rhaegar contemplated as he sat down, Rhaenys perched on his knee, were not to be discarded as having no value. Among other small mercies he could think of was the fact that Lyanna had been sent for. His mother, unable to endure not having more than one lady-in-waiting had sent for her a few days past.

"But you are still to remain by his side?" Elia's eyes slipped from her daughter's face to his as she posed the question. Rhaegar offered his reply by way of nodding. "His Majesty is aware you have a duty to your family also, isn't he?"

"My duty, Your Grace," he answered, somewhat uncomfortable, yet also frustrated, "is to my realm first and foremost. When the King no longer needs me, I too shall make for Dragonstone."

His wife pursed her lips. "I understand." She sat up and went to her son's crib. She took Aegon in her arms. Familiar with the routine, Rhaegar allowed her to coo and coddle the child. The attributes of a mother could not be stripped from her, though she sought to make use of them not only for the babe's comfort. "But you shall come to us every now and again, won't you?" she added as an afterthought.

"Of course." Whatever his feelings about the tactics, Rhaegar could not so easily break himself away from those dear to him as to cruelly refute any attempt at manipulation. Let his wife think herself the puppeteer if it pleased her. And he would pull strings of his own in turn.

*

The path had been long since cleared of anything that might make for an arduous journey, and yet the wheelhouse failed to arrive. Jon Connington was a patient man. It was a talent he had to cultivate in his existence, especially in court. However, he was not willing to wait so long that he might end up being the foolish man.

"Edwyle, no word yet?" he asked on his man once more.

"Nay, my lord," came the short reply. Edwyle was likely cursing their very mission. Jon could not say he did not understand.

They'd been relegated to playing guard for the Prince's mistress. What had he possibly seen in the young woman? Jon had to wonder at that. He'd seen the girl. A slip of a woman, really, dainty and petite, looking for all the world much like she would topple over if the wind blew too harshly. There was something wild about her. Perhaps it was the eyes, cold and warm by turns, depending on whom she gazed at.

But Jon failed to see her appeal. He could not fathom the reason for which his friend had gone and fallen in love with her. There was no denying that. The Prince did not simply mean to use her as a tool to further his own ambitions. And that was dangerous. Once he allowed the she-wolf in his heart, the woman would gain power and if she so desired, she could create trouble for them all.

Jon sighed. He spurred his horse forward. Craning his neck, he tried to spot at least some banner streaming in the wind. To his great luck, he did see a wheelhouse somewhere on the road. It seemed that some problems had been encountered.

"Come on," he called to his men, kicking the horse in the flanks. The animal sped forward, galloping across the dirt. His men followed close behind. It was a matter of minutes before they reached the wheelhouse and the people gathered around it. The first thing he noticed was that one of the wheels was in shambles. The second matter which held his attention was the fact that they had put up a Baratheon banner and an Arryn banner. It had to be Lady Lyanna. "What happened here?"

"Wheel broke an axle," a man dressed in chainmail helpfully explained. Jon threw him a murderous look. Edwyle pulled out his knife actually. That seemed to help matters. "We ran into some trouble, a band of thieves happened upon us. Lost three good men."

"What do I care about your men?" Jon growled at him. "Where is the lady?" Good gods. If that woman was injured, or worse, dead, their days were numbered. "Speak, man!"

"She got sick. Willem and her maid took her through the trees, there." The man pointed in the general direction. "Didn't look too well that one. Might not have a stomach for such sights." He then proceeded to murmur under his breath about ladies and weak stomachs.

Without another glance towards the man, Jon turned to his own group. "Watch them. I'm going after Lady Baratheon. Edwyle, with me."

The she-wolf was, as the man had said, in the company of her maid and a burly man who kept watch. At least they were not complete fools. The maid looked up at their approach, but Lady Lyanna remained hunched over, still very much busy emptying her stomach.

The lady was handed a skin of water. She went through the process of cleansing herself, then turned towards the newcomers. "Lord Connington, I presume."She shipped a few mint leaves from a small pouch hanging from her girdle.

"Lady Baratheon," he offered, "are you well?" To his great surprise, her eyes narrowed in something like annoyance, at the name he addressed her with, he thought, rather than at the question. As soon as the look had come, it was gone.

"I am well, my lord. Give me but a moment longer and we shall be ready to go on." She gathered her skirts in a firm hand and shook them lightly. Jon waited, not without a hint of impatience for the ritual to be over. "I fear that the wheelhouse is useless, my lord."

"So long as you do not mind riding with me, Lady Baratheon, that should not present a problem." He cleared his throat. "Tell me about the attack."

"I heard yells," she said. "It was what woke me from my slumber. One of the thieves had managed to shoot down three of the men, and was about to fell another. His partners broke the wheel. One of them even entered." Lyanna took out a knife from beneath her cloak. "I killed him."

"Cut his throat, she did," the other woman spoke in a breathless voice. "A right courageous thing to do."

There was little he could comment upon. Her actions had been reckless. And by the looks of her she had understood as much. "Did they take anything?"

"Just some horses," the sole male in the trio replied.

"Are you still sick, my lady?" Jon directed his question towards Lyanna. "Or is it a chill?"

"The amount of blood spilled unsettled my stomach, my lord. 'Tis nothing to worry over." And perhaps her own conscience. Jon gave her a curt nod. It was rather foolish of her to feel sorry for the life she had taken, considering the circumstances. But then again, she was a woman, and they were strange creatures.

"We should depart." They made their way back to the main road. The wheelhouse had been moved a little bit with the help of horses to the side. Nothing could save it. Thankfully, Lady Baratheon hadn't much with her that could not be tied to a horse. The main problem was the lack of horses. Lyanna was to ride with him. Edwyle would take the other woman. And those that remained would have to fend for themselves. "Once in King's Landing you shall have fresh horses and coin for your service. Now let us move along."

They rode in relative silence, for Jon wished to share no words.

She had killed a man. Jon almost snorted. Perhaps she had something more of the North in her than simply looks. It would certainly serve her well at Court if she did. For intrigues were just as life-endangering as thieves on the highroad.

*

Faded bruises marred the Queen's left cheek. Elia continued to stare pityingly at the older woman. There was something to be said about the dark circles under Rhaella Targaryen's eyes and the forced smile which graced her lips. The woman looked tired, extremely so. It was little wonder, yet Elia could not help the tiny sliver of fear at the sight.

"I wished to present you with my gratitude, Your Majesty. But for your intervention, I fear His Majesty the King would not have taken to the idea of our leaving quite so soon." And she spoke the truth. Elia resisted the urge to comfort the other woman.

When Rhaenys was born, Rhaegar insisted that she be presented to the King. But it had been the Queen who took the child in her arms lovingly, tempering her husband's protests with king smiles and gentle coos. Where the King had only complaints – that the child was not a proper heir, that it smelled too Dornish, that it was no true dragon – the Queen had put that all aside to greet her granddaughter in a proper fashion.

"It was not I who spoke to the King," Rhaella said a moment later. "It was my son who insisted that the court was no proper place for children. I merely suggested that it would be best to proceed with the move come the new year."

"All the same, I am thankful," Elia returned. "Your Majesty, would it not be possible to have you with us. At least for a few turns."

It was a rather horrible fate that which the gods had given to the Queen. Elia could honestly say she was at a loss regarding the way Rhaegar's mother managed to cope with her marriage and her miserable existence. If ever her own husband followed into the madman's footsteps, Elia would not stand for it. After all, the main difference between herself and the Queen was that she had House Martell behind her. Her mother and her brothers would protect her. They would never allow her to come to harm. Rhaella had no one to depend upon.

Dark violet eyes stared at her from beneath long lashes. Not unlike her eldest child's, the Queen's gaze had something mesmerising about it. Mayhap 'twas the colour, dark purple, like amethysts. Still, very much different from her son, the Queen's confidence died with ease. She could not seem to hold Elia's gaze.

"I couldn't," the older woman answered in the end. "My husband would never allow my absence. And I should very much wish to remain with my son." Her attention was momentarily taken with the roses she had been stitching. Elia too looked down at them.

"Blue roses?" the Princess found herself asking. "Why blue, Your Majesty?" Red rose were much prettier. Blue was a rather sad colour. Elia had always thought as much. Blue was cold. The pattern, consisting of tiny, blue rose, some bloomed, others not, had been skilfully woven into the white fabric. "It is beautiful."

"Blue roses are the most beautiful flowers which grow in the North," the Queen replied, a soft smile gracing her lips. "My newest lady-in-waiting is from the North."

"Lady Baratheon," Elia acknowledged. Formerly of House Stark, the woman they spoke of was more or less unknown to Elia. "She is not yet arrived, is she?"

"Nay. But soon. I daresay you shall like her," Rhaella volunteered.

"I am certain I shall." But Elia was well aware that she would spend too little time in the presence of Lady Baratheon to be bothered with the woman. "I have seen her at the last tourney. She seemed much a child to me."

With that the conversation between herself and the Queen grew thin. Elia took her leave soon after that. Her attempt had yielded nothing, much to her annoyance. While Rhaella did not hold much sway at court, her support would mean much as long as she was decisively adamant on that point. The very position of Queen offered prestige. Elia sighed. She should have pushed harder.

Sighing, she walked out of the Queen's chambers, leaving the woman behind to finish her work. In her own rooms, her ladies-in-waiting were playing with the children, entertaining the young princess with some carved figurines, while the little Prince was being sung to.

"Lady Dayne," Elia called to the fellow Dornishwoman among her ladies, "come here a moment."

"Aye, Your Grace," Ashara Dayne appeared before her.

"Do you know where your brother might be?" The question flowed easily past her lips. Elia knew well enough that Arthur Dayne was not on duty to guard the King. It followed naturally that he was with Rhaegar.

"My brother, Your Grace?" the other questioned, visibly confused. Something strange shone in her eyes for a moment, but it was quickly suppressed.

"Your brother, Lady Dayne. Your brother that is part of the Kingsguard," Elia clarified, her voice growing harsh with frustration. She had failed in all her attempts so far and Lady Dayne was not helping the matters. "Where is he?"

"I am not aware of his whereabouts, Your Grace." Elia threw her a hard stare. Ashara remained where she was, a blissfully unaware look on her face. It was like she could not sense the urgency behind Elia's question.

"What are you standing here for? Go find your brother and His Grace," she commanded. "Tell His Grace that I must have a word with him as soon as possible." If Rhaegar had managed to convince the King to allow her and the children to leave, perhaps Rhaegar might convince the King to allow his mother to depart for Dragonstone too. All she had to do was convince him. However, she could not do that in his absence.

Her husband picked the most inconvenient moments to disappear. What could possibly be holding his attention? There were so very few people who knew what plans Rhaegar had. And most of them were unwilling to share the information with Elia, or with her brother. Oberyn had not found anything out beside the fact that there was some unrest among the noblemen of Westeros.

Elia turned towards her daughter. She sat on the bed next to little Rhaenys and kissed the top of her head lovingly. "What do you have here, my love?"

"A doll," Rhaenys answered. "Father gave it to me." Elia glanced at the fair-skinned, dark-haired doll Rhaenys clutched to her chest.

*

She was trembling. Lyanna took a deep breath and looked towards Lady Crakehall. "Don't be afraid, Lady Baratheon," the older woman said, "the Queen is kind and she is eager to meet you."

"Thank you, my lady," Lyanna replied, offering a weak smile. She glanced down, taking a moment to admire the way light caught in the silk of her dress. She could not help but be unsettled. Lyanna couldn't rightly say if it was the fact that she would see Rhaegar again – because she was very much aware that she would see him – or because she would spend time in close company with the Queen, a woman she knew almost nothing about.

The dimly lit, small corridor seemed to close in on her. Lyanna allowed her eyes to roam over pale red bricks with thinly veiled distrust. She found herself longing for Winterfell and its warm walls. Her hand reached to touch the red brick. It was cold. Lyanna's face scrunched in disappointment. The hall flowed like a dark stream before her, never ending, always moving forward.

A sharp stab of fear embedded itself into her, trickling poison. What is the Princess was there also? A shudder shook her whole frame as the notion wormed its way inside her head. Lyanna swallowed with difficulty. Cold sweat glided against her heated skin. How would she face that woman if she saw her? What would she do? What would she say? Her heart squeezed painfully. She looked behind her, wondering if it was still possible to run far away.

It would be so very easy. She just had to stop walking, turn around and vanish. Involuntarily her hand came to rest on her abdomen, but as soon as her fingers touched the silk of her dark dress, she drew them away as if she'd been burned. The young woman glanced down, shy and somewhat out of depth.

By the time they reached the imposing door which led into the Queen's private apartments, Lyanna felt like she'd been shooting arrows for hours straight. Her lungs dragged air in with much difficulty and her body ached. It was shocking how similar fear was with physical exhaustion. But there was something different to it, something which baffled Lyanna all the time. She couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Lady Crakehall knocked gently on the door before opening it. She turned to give Lyanna an inviting glance, leaving the words more a ghost than anything else. She entered first, of course, and Lyanna had no recourse but to follow. It felt rather like she was walking blindly towards her death. But she had agreed to it. Well, perhaps then she couldn't rightly go with blindly.

"Your Majesty," Lady Crakehall greeted, her comically thin hand coming to red upon her rounded stomach. Lyanna followed suit but she ended her greeting with a curtsey. Lady Crakehall might have been allowed a modicum of intimacy in her address to the Queen, but Lyanna certainly hadn't.

From a beautifully woven seat a woman stood up. She was breathtakingly beautiful with long limbs and a supple frame. Her face, however, was what captured one's attention. It was such an innocent face. The Queen looked at the two women dazed. Like her son, she had dark violet eyes and a thin face. It wasn't unpleasant, but it ended somewhat surprisingly in a narrow chin. Her small mouth opened, revealing rows on teeth from beneath slight lips. There was a striking resemblance between this woman and her son.

"You must be Lady Baratheon," she spoke in a clear but albeit soft voice. Lyanna had to strain to hear her, used as she was to the loud voices of her brothers and father. "Come here," the Queen ordered, "let me look at you."

Narrowing her eyes, Lyanna took a hesitant step forward. And then another. Soon she stood before the Queen. Rhaella Targaryen gazed at her with pure interest, studying every little detail her eyes landed on. "You are very pretty." She grimaced. It seemed to displease her. "Well, well, I suppose we'll have to be careful."

"Careful?" Lyanna echoed. "Your Majesty, forgive me, but I do not understand."

"Better that you don't," the Queen assured her. "Mayhap we needn't even worry. Tell me Lady Baratheon, have you been married long?"

"Nay, Your Majesty, it has just been three moon turns." More than long enough. Lyanna expected that someday soon a raven would come.

"And your husband did not protest to your leaving him?" the woman continued, sitting back down in her chair and pulling a shawl across her shoulders despite the heat coming from the fire.

A small smile made its way upon her lips at that. It was something between irony and despair. "He can spare me, Your Majesty," she replied nonetheless.

Thoughtful, the Queen brought a hand to her cheek. She nodded her head in understanding. "I see, my lady." And she did seem to understand something. Lyanna reckoned that whatever thoughts passed in her head, they were not at all equal with the truth. "Sit," she told them abruptly. "Sit down the both of you."

Lyanna obeyed instantly, not even thinking to choose which chair she wanted. Lady Crakehall searched the room for some time before she found her preferred seat. The Queen sighed loudly. No one spoke. Lyanna glanced at the woman. She looked troubled. "Your Majesty?" she probed gently, half-wondering how her intervention would be taken.

"Ah, I've just remembered," the Queen exclaimed, jumping out of her seat. She walked swiftly to a door which Lyanna could only guess led into the bedchamber, and disappeared for a few moments. Whooshes and creaking sounds dominated for some time.

Then the Queen returned, clutching something in her hand. She drew closer to Lyanna and held the object out to her. Lyanna reached out, guided by she knew not what impulse. And then she brought the thin, embroidered material closer to her face.

Blue roses with wide petals danced on a lily-white square of cloth. "Winter roses, Your Majesty?" she asked in a small, coked voice. She hadn't expected to find anything of her home so far south. "It is very beautiful. Your Majety is too kind." Her voice was thick with emotion.

"Think nothing of it, Lady Baratheon," the Queen answered. She offered a motherly smile before sitting down once more. "You must miss your home."

*

Tunnels unwound in a maze of halls crossing and cutting each other off. Thick red stone bathed in shallow torchlight, setting it ablaze, burning with a malicious tint. Or so it seemed to the eyes of Rhaegar. There was something about these hidden passages, something not quite benevolent. The feeling was only accentuated by the deep silence that had settled over the tiny space. Not even mice scurried about. Save for himself, there was not another soul.

Growing up, Rhaegar had been terrified of these walls. In his young age, he'd been certain something was hiding in behind the layer of bricks. And then he'd found the tunnels. Instead of announcing his find, Rhaegar had kept his silence, exploring these tangled corridors a little at a time, during the long hours of the night when he could not sleep. For most of the time he avoided using them. However, the current situation left him with no recourse.

Thus Rhaegar found himself making use of the knowledge he possessed to reach the one person he wished to see the face of. Reluctant to rouse suspicions, for more than seven days he'd kept his distance from Lyanna Stark, commonly addressed as Lady Baratheon at court. He had thought it best not to disturb her, to at least allow the young woman to find her feet.

But alas, he could wait no longer. It was torture to know her so close yet be unable to spend time with her. And so he had left the coldness of his bed in search of Lyanna, hopeful that at the very least she would allow him to sit with her.

It would be absurd to presume her regard had changed in such short a time span. The last time he'd been with her, the poor child hadn't even recognised the burning desire in his voice as something that went beyond mere lust. But mayhap he could wake in her heart the same burning longing that kept him up at night and wrenched his heart painfully in her absence. Perhaps in time, she would come to at least entertain for him a fraction of what he felt towards her. And even that he would gladly take.

Never had he felt thus. Never had another person made such an impact upon him. But the gods knew he would not have it any differently. He would find a way to bring her happiness.

Finally reaching his destination, Rhaegar's fingers searched for the loose brick. But he did not have long to search. Something rustled, a faint sound in the night as the bricks parted. He had taken no more than a step into the room when a gasp reached his ears.

Far from being asleep as he though to find her, Lyanna Stark had hidden herself into a corner of the room, holding a small dagger in her hand. Wonder was painted on her face. Lips parted and wyes wide with surprise, the young woman dropped her weapon and rushed forwards, giving free rein to her impulses.

Not waiting for anything more, the Prince wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off the ground to make up for the discrepancy in their heights, more noticeable than even when they were standing. The fait scent of mint drifted from her and her already small frame had only seemed to have grown thinner.

"Lyanna," he whispered in her hair as she clutched him tightly, almost bruisingly. He set her down a moment later, taking the time to study her. He'd not been wrong. Placing both hands on her shoulders, Rhaegar leaned in towards her.

She however gave him no chance to question her appearance. Fierce as the direwolf of her house and twice as bold, she demanded hi nearness, arching upwards, guiding his hand to fall around her waist. "Did you know he was dying?" she questioned, her grey eyes losing their glimmer of joy. There was little doubt in his mind that she spoke of her husband.

Wearily, Rhaegar pulled away from her. His eyes glided over her face. "I knew the nature of his illness." There was little point in being dishonest.

The young woman looked away momentarily. "Why did you not tell me?" It was not anger in her voice, Rhaegar realised, but hurt.

Because, in his own experience, women tended to pity the sick. They would try to assuage the suffering, to offer succour. And he hadn't wanted to share her tenderness with Robert. But still, to tell her that was too much of a betrayal and too soon. "I thought it best that you should find out on your own."

Yet Lyanna surprised him even more. "I was so worried." Her breath had broken into uneven patterns, as if she were ready to weep. "Gods be good. I know 'tis a sin, it must be, but I have never felt so relieved."

Those were the words of a young mind, a woman who had yet to learn that in court secrets were to be protected. Rhaegar, however, did not have the heart to speak of it. He took her by the hand and pulled her in his arms. Again he the scent of mint followed her. Frail bones and too pale skin; it worried him. Rhaegar kissed the top of her head.

"Tell me the truth, Lyanna," he spoke, still holding her tightly, "are you unwell?"

It was her turn to break their embrace. She looked up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I believe it is to be expected. I could not think of how to tell you." She looked down between them, one hand timidly guiding his towards her middle.

His very breath was knocked out of him. Rhaegar stared dumbfounded at their hands, watching her fingers slide between his, keeping his palm pressed there. He hadn't expected that she would conceive so very soon.

"Oh, Lyanna," he allowed himself to breathe out before looking up into her eyes. She stared back at him unabashedly.

And then he could no longer hold back. He kissed her, picking her up in his arms and depositing her on the bed. Lyanna pulled him with her, curling into his side as soon as both of them were on the mattress. "I wanted you to be the first to know." The admission brought a smile on his lips; Rhaegar brushed from her face a strand of hair but said nothing.

He held her in the darkness; listen to her breathing grown even.

*

Brushing the dust from her skirts, Ashara took a deep breath before opening the door. When she'd left, Princess Elia had been sleeping, a blessed occurrence if she could say so herself. And if the gods were good, she'd not have woken up. Having agreed to help her brother, Ashara meant well. Yet even a lady of high rank and exemplary breeding would have a hard time of navigating court. It was even worse when she could not do so on her own.

Elia Martell, quite awake, gave her a questioning look as she stepped in. "Where have you been, Lady Dayne?" she asked jokingly. Clearly distracted, the Princess was not in want of an answer. Instead she called her lady-in-waiting closer. "Have you by any chance seen the Queen's newest companion?"

"Indeed I have not," Ashara replied. "I do believe, though, that the King means to hold court on this day." If the King did so, then they could satisfy their curiosity in regard to Lady Baratheon quite easily.

"Right you are, Lady Dayne, right you are," Elia approved softly. "Very well then, I should like to speak to my brother. Invite him to my chambers and see that we are brought refreshments."

"I understand, Your Grace." When in a good mood, Elia Martell could be rather sweet. Not in a manner which indicated servitude, but rather as the goodness of a goddess towards the lesser creatures. It was by no means a strange behaviour, for ladies of noble houses were raised from the cradle to believe themselves superior. Even more so a Princess whose words spoke of great pride and power. Elia Martell was no better and no worse than most other specimens of the fairer sex. She was juts more fortunate.

That conclusion drew forth a smile from Ashara. If indeed one could call the choices of the Princess fortunate. Growing up, Ashara had spent most of her time in her father's home; she'd not had sisters to play with, just her brothers. From then she'd learned many a thing, but perhaps the most important one was that she could allow no compromises. The lesson itself had come from their father who spoke of it to his two sons and they in turn instructed Ashara. It boiled down to the fact that a compromise could only lead to another such concession and so on, so forth until the person was left with nothing to show for it.

Her mother had been of the same mind. As a girl she'd been told countless times that one day, when she wished to wed, her choice of husband should rest upon not so much the handsomeness of the man, as on the countenance. "Find a man," her mother had said, "that respects you, Ashara. For without respect, not even the faintest of friendships may come to life. Earn his respect and you may later hold his heart."

And in that the Princess had been mistaken. She had perhaps simply demanded that she be given her husband's heart without considering that the man might not wish to hand it over with such ease. She had expected too much and she'd found herself disappointed. It was common enough. Thankfully for herself, Ashara knew exactly the sort of man she wanted. And she would have him. Of that much she was certain.

Wandering down the hall she finally found Oberyn Martell's room. With a gentle knock she announced her presence. There was no answer from the other side of the door, not one soul stirred. Ashara grimed and knocked harder yet. Something like a goggle sounded through the otherwise silent premises.

Rustling and soft voices gave her a firm idea of what was going on behind the door. Ashara could only sigh and wonder to herself in Oberyn had seduced even the last of the scullery maids. She waited patiently for the door tom open and a scantly clad figure made her way out. Her curled tresses gleamed in the light and she offered Ashara a smile.

The lady met her stare with a stern one of her own. She was in no mood to be gawked at by some silly twit who fell for Oberyn's charms. Least of all form one who looked like she had to have been persuaded by coin to join the man.

"Lady Ashara," Oberyn drawled, standing in the doorway, wrapped in a bed sheet, "how good of you to come and see me." He smiled wolfishly at her, eyes glinting as they roamed her frame. "Have you given my proposition any consideration?"

More than once the Dornish Prince had implied that he would very much like it if she so chose to grace his bed. Ashara had declined every time, just as stealthily as he had delivered his proposition. This time too she gave him an odd look. "I am here on behalf of Her Grace, Princess Elia. She would like to have words with you, Your Grace. If you would be kind enough to accompany me." Her voice had been deliberately flat, so as to signal her refusal.

Oberyn was a persistent man, but there was no true danger to him, possibly because he was kept well occupied by the scullery maids. They were utterly delighted by his attentions when he chose to bestow it upon them, and he was more than happy to indulge in their admiration.

She waited just outside the doorway for Oberyn to put on proper garments. The time she had, Ashara used to think of a certain young man who had danced with her. She blushed softly and resolved to do all in her power to observe Lady Baratheon well. If she well remembered, it was with her that he'd been seen with most.

"That is a very becoming look you are wearing," Oberyn said out of nowhere, startling Ashara. "I wonder what you were thinking of to blush just so."

"Wonder all you like, Your Grace, I shan't obstruct." The delivered answer warranted an amused chuckle from the man. Ashara simply fell in step with him and they made their way to where they knew Elia would be waiting for them.

Once inside, Ashara shut the door and walked over to the fire, picking up some needlework as she went.

"Doran had finally answered my letter," Elia was saying to her brother. "He says he will come to King's Landing but no sooner than the New Year."

"That is just as well," Oberyn replied.

*

"There is nothing more to be done," the maester said, covering the man with a long white sheet. "It would be best to call for the Silent Sisters to help with the preparation of the body."

Jon Arryn stared stonily at the bed. It seemed that the words of the maester hadn't registered in his mind. He kept his gaze fixed upon the covered corpse. "How?" he asked suddenly.

"My lord?" the master questioned. "There is nothing more I can do, my lord. He is no longer on the living." The maester was young. His voice trebled as did his hands. But he spoke the truth. Robert Baratheon was on the other realm. He no longer breathed.

Ned too, who had been standing in the back of the room, waiting patiently for the maester to speak, came just a bit closer. He looked at the pristine sheet which suggested the once familiar frame of a man who had been as dear to him as his own siblings – fo5r whom Ned would do anything. And yet, his heart was not as saddened as he thought it would be. Jon Arryn seemed to be the one who had been hit hardest by Robert's untimely demise.

Perhaps it was the knowledge which stopped the tears from coming. After all, the cutting pain was tempered somewhat by the fact that Robert carrying on much longer in the state he'd been in would have brought suffering not only to other but to himself also. A proud man, he would have been appalled at the state he was in, if only he could have seen it. Indeed, mayhap the Stranger's timing had been just – for undoubtedly it had been the Stranger to take him for all that Robert claimed he did not trust the Seven.

"I tell you, Ned, they are wily demons those thick-skinned brutes. And the Stranger most of all," he'd slurred once, drunk on wine and with a woman on his lap. It was a vivid memory but Ned felt that it wasn't at all appropriate for his current position. Looking towards the floor with great interest, he tried to keep himself from making any loud sounds which might break Lord Arryn's concentration.

The man had knelt by Robert's bed and fell in prayer. The words were not loud, but Ned could catch bits and pieces of the broken litany. He heard the Mother being mentioned, asked for mercy. Mercy, indeed, the young Stark thought. Mercy he would need aplenty of. The Father's justice could but bring some sorrow to the spirit of the departed. And Robert, while he'd been no cad, had not been perfect by any means either. All his flaws had been long since exposed by Lyanna.

And it took his dying for Ned to see them with clarity. A sudden, vicious anger speared through him. It flew all about, latching onto Robert – for being so very far from the ideal Ned had seen for years – onto Lyanna – for having made him open his eyes, despite his dearest wish to see only the best in his friend – and onto his own person – for being a fool and placing Robert on a pedestal, assuring Lyanna she had nothing to fear from him, swearing to her that she would be glad for her marriage to Robert some day.

He would have killed her. He would have made her suffer. Robert had had his own version of Lyanna, just as Ned had entertained his very own vision of Robert. As he was disappointed, so would have Robert been, given enough time to understand that Lyanna Stark was not at all like he thought her to be.

"And I would have gladly given her away," Ned whispered to himself. Disgust made his stomach roil. And he'd called herself her brother, her protector.

Lyanna had had the right of it. But at least she would be free of one burden, for Ned was glad to strap the weight of his miscalculations onto his back and carry it around for the rest of his life if need be. Aye, he would never disregard Lyanna's words ever again. Nor would he allow anyone else to, not so long as he drew breath.

"We must write to his lady," Jon Arryn said, breaking Ned out of his thoughts. "I believe you should do it, Ned. She is your sister, after all. It would be best to comfort her as well as you can." The man put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Ned, you should go to her. She might have need of a strong shoulder."

Those words nearly threw Ned in a fit of laughter. What Jon Arryn did not know was that Lyanna Stark was the one whose shoulder was strong. If anyone was to receive comfort then it would be him. Still, thinking it prudent not to mention such in front of the man, Ned simply nodded.

"I shall write to her," he promised. "In fact, it would be best if I were to start now." He made to break away and return to his own rooms. The covered corpse made him uneasy. It seemed so unnatural for it to lie there.

What a strange thing it was. Only a few turns ago, Robert had been a young man with his whole life before him. What remained of him was a drawn body and the heavy stench of illness.

The doors leading to the room were locked behind Ned and Lord Arryn after they made their way out. In the hallway, Mya's mother waited, her cheeks wet with tears and her lips bloody from all the biting. Jon passed by her without giving her any attention but Ned stopped. He felt it unfair that she should not hear it from him.

"Is he-" she trailed off, seemingly unable to say the word. Her eyes pleaded for an answer.

Ned nodded his head slowly. "He is no longer of this word." The woman broke down into sobs, her hand clutching at his arm. Ned did not know how to comfort her. He brushed her hair back awkwardly and gently placed a hand on the nape of her neck.

"What will we do?" she cried. "What will Mya and I do?"

And then he understood. The poor woman had imagined that Robert might leave her something to get on by. Ned pulled away from her as slowly, but as firmly as he could. "You shall do whatever it is you've done before meeting Robert," he answered simply.

*

The night had been long and Lyanna had not managed to sleep much for a strange unease had settled over her and refused to release her until the wee hours, when she had indeed managed to close her eyes for a few fitful moments of rest. It had started with doors being slammed somewhere down the hall. Lyanna was certain it could only be the one person she had yet to see up close – the King. What had followed were soft sounds – whispers, ghosts of screams and scraping noises. From that moment she had been unable to do anything but lie under her blanket and shiver with unexplained fright.

When dawn came, finally driving away the inky veil of night, much too tired to even consider the consequence of her actions, Lyanna walked to the door that led into the hallway and opened it just enough to see through the crack. Two Kingsguards stood at the door, out of which one was scarcely older than herself. Lyanna knew him as Jaime Lannister. He had joined the Kingsgaurd recently and was the youngest member – to have ever been accepted, that was.

Looking at his face, she could tell he was terrified and disgusted at the same time. Naturally, being closer to the source of the sounds, he would have heard much better than her what went on. His brother was telling him something, a soothing look on his face. The words, however, seemed to be lost on the young lion. In fact, one might say he had no wish for comfort.

Closing the door as softly as she'd opened it, Lyanna repaired to her bed. She looked at the wall longingly, wondering if perhaps Rhaegar would not come visit her. The Prince had come to her a few times up until that point, but he'd never stayed as long as he had that first night. He would hold her and slip little trinkets beneath her pillow when she was not watching. But he had told her that no one was to suspect a thing.

"We are strangers to one another outside the walls of this room," Rhaegar had said, his voice tinged with something like regret. "Oh, Lyanna. I do wish it were different, he had commented upon seeing the look on her face.

Soothed by his manner and speech, Lyanna had allowed him to take her in his arms and then had gone to sleep, as she usually did. But his absence, or rather his presence in her bedchamber before she fell asleep became somewhat of a necessity. Because he had not come, she found herself ill at ease and quite out of sorts. She did understand that he could not stay, but a glimpse of him would be more than enough.

She shivered involuntarily as she often did in the absence of other souls. Lyanna pulled the blanket around herself and pressed her hands to the flat of her stomach. She had been sick for quite some time and she was certain it could be nothing but the child making mischief. A find smile crossed her lips. She felt even better when Rhaegar was present. It almost felt like the little one knew that the father was around.

Yet the time for lying around had passed. Lyanna knew it by the rays of the sun that slithered in her room. She pushed herself off the bed and searched for an appropriate dress to wear. Once she had it, she wasted no time in dressing herself.

Slipping outside her bedchamber, her eyes were drawn to the doors of Queen's bedchamber. Thankfully, the Kingdsguards had left. That meant that the King too was gone. Hurrying along the hall, Lyanna opened the door with a careful push and entered the antechamber. There was no one to be seen there. As quiet as she possibly could, she then passed into the other chamber.

On the bed a figure had curled into itself, soft sobs permeating the air. Lyanna could not understand what had gone on and she likely never wanted to know. The sheets were stained with red droplets and on the ground a strip of rough cloth lied innocently. A wave of horror crashed over her.

"Your Majesty," she whispered, unsure whether she should remain or go. From beneath the sheets a head peeked out. The Queen's gentle eyes watched her, looking rather confused. But she soon recognised Lyanna enough to call her over.

"Come here, Lady Baratheon." She patted the bed. "And bring another blanket."

The command was swiftly followed by Lyanna, who looked around from another blanket and brought it over to the Queen. She climbed on the bed, trying not to think about what had gone on there. The Queen discarded her other blanket and Lyanna covered her with the new one.

"It smells like him," she complained about the discarded sheet which had been thrown on the floor. "I do truly hate it." Her thin arms came to rest on the new blanket. "This one is so much better."

Keeping herself from saying even one word, Lyanna merely nodded her head absently. She looked around and observed the room carefully. There were two other small bed that were unoccupied at the moment. Her curiosity must have been noted for the Queen.

"Those belong to Septa Arma and her distinguished sister, the good Septa Moyra." There was something in the Queen's voice that suggested her admiration was of a negative sort, if ever that existed. "How lucky I am those two witches are kept away at prayer."

At the astonished look on Lyanna's face, the Queen could but nod sadly. "Oh, child. You will come to find this court is not as gay as you were led to believe."

She had not been led to believe anything of the sort, but Lyanna nodded dumbly. "Your Majesty, is there anything else I may bring you?"

"Only the comfort of your presence," the woman replied. "Sit with me for some time, for the day is yet young."

They sat together on the bed, no more words exchanged between them. Lyanna knew not what she could say to the frail but so very strong woman next to her and the Queen likely had her own thoughts to consider. They were not disturbed for some time, until the rest of the keep was hard at work.

And then when it had, the Queen had a special mission for Lyanna. "Here, Lady Baratheon. Find my son in that monster of a library and give him my message. Wait for a reply too."

*

Rhaegar remained ill at ease all through the rather long interview with his father. The King had insisted that he must see his son presently and as such the Prince had been disturbed from his reading and brought to his parent.

"Tell me," the King began, "what am I to do with my Lord Hand? He has taken himself off to the Rock and will not even send a raven out with news. Debts are being called in, lords press me left and right for favours and this blasted winter will not let."

What all that had to do with him was clear enough. Aerys sought to place the blame and subsequently the burden on stronger shoulders than his. And that meant that Rhaegar had been offered an opportunity. "I do not dare presume to know batter than Your Majesty, yet perhaps we should discover together what is to be done about these troubles."

Something sparked in his father's eyes. "I should have never held my hand out to those Dornish devils." That again. Rhaegar merely stood in his place, waiting for the same speech to greet his eras. His father did not disappoint. "If only your mother had done her duty."

But his mother had done more than her duty, Rhaegar wanted to protest, yet he could not. "Regrettable as the situation is, there is no solving that," he prompted gently. "But perhaps, something might be done about the Lord Hand."

After all, it was due to Lord Tywin Lannister that his father was having such a hard time of it. The Lord Hand had been very much upset at the continual refusal on Tywin's part to entertain the notion of a marriage between their houses and the King, much assured in his own powers, hadn't dreamt that his once-friend would desert him. Yet it had happened.

"Your Majesty, the Lord Hand is an important ally. He must be appeased somehow and since there is no else we might give him, let us sere to it that our houses are united. Surely, that would soothe him enough to return the man to our side." It was as simple a plan as could be. And it had the advantage of giving Rhaegar leeway with both his father and the Lannisters.

"Viserys you mean," the King said unhappily. "He is but a child."

"Lord Lannister himself offered my lady wife such a match," Rhaegar countered. Of course, Tywin's offer had been outrageous, whereas offering Viserys for a husband was not quite as insulting.

"'Twas more than she deserved," the King grumbled.

Rhaegar shook his head. Elia was his wife and whatever their differences he would not allow for such words to see the light of day."She is my lady wife nonetheless. Lord Lannister should be glad for the offer."

"That he should," his father was quick to agree. "You truly think that would bridge the gap?"

"If it does not, there are ways by which we may rid ourselves of such a burden." He would prefer that it did not come to that though. Rhaegar had little taste for bloodshed. If it could be helped, he wished for it to end peacefully. Tensions had troubled the realm for long enough as it was.

Allowing the Lannisters their winning would calm the spirits for some time, and Rhaegar could see to acquiring the third head of the dragon. After that, he would concentrate of ridding the realm of the pest that sat its throne.

"Well said. You have a way with words," the King's voice reached his ears. "But we are done for now. Leave me."

Dismissed, Rhaegar swept his father a bow and turned away from the man. He made for the door, slipping out into the hall with barely a sound. Instinctively, he eyes the long hallway, not minding the two guards one bit, but to his astonishment another figure resides in the prison of stone.

Not having expected the sight, Rhaegar's eyes widened and he hand moved forward without his leave. He pulled it back a moment later. "Lady Baratheon," he spoke softly, as if for fear that they might be overheard.

"Your Grace," Lyanna offered, her own voice steady. "Her Majesty sent me for you, Your Grace. She instructed me towards the library." The needless explanation fell between them, an almost uneasy thing.

"Come away then, my lady." He did not give her his arm, nor did he wait for her. Yet he could hear the soft sounds her shoes made against the ground as she walked behind him. Likely, his larger steps were matched by two or three of her own. He turned around but slightly.

It was not to the library that he led her. Instead, he took her to his own private solar. The room, light and airy, and best of all private, was the perfect place for them to be. He entered first and she followed after.

No sooner was the door closed that he enveloped her in his arms. Lyanna returned his embrace; her slight frame nestled in his, as if seeking comfort from him. "The Queen wished me to give you a message–"

He cut her off. "Leave the message be for now, Lyanna." He reached two fingers underneath her chin and gently guided it upwards. "It can wait," he assured her, leaning in until their foreheads met. Lyanna had instinctively rose as high as she could and clung to him with a force he had seldom seen before; it was more of a mental nature, a compelling call from her soul to his own.

It was she who kissed him. Smooth, full lips touched his own. The kiss was sweet and light, but just beneath the surface something lied uneasily. Rhaegar could but wonder at it. He pressed her further into him for a brief moment forgetting everything but the taste of her.

When they broke apart, she opened her eyes to reveal a slightly watery gaze. For whatever reason though, she would not weep before him. Her hand found his. She took it wordlessly and pulled it towards her. A muted desire shone on her face.

Her silent plea reverberated through him and before he knew it, she was once again a captive of his arms. If other affectionate instances could be rationalised, this one could not. Neither necessity, nor duty, nor even curiosity fuelled him. But simple need and desire prompted him to act.

Was it truly what she desired? Rhaegar searched her face for an answer, but she gave none and he didn't press further.

*

Her brother had once again bothered by something or another. Rhaella raised her eyes shyly as he made his way into the room, a thin string of tension pulling taut as it ever did when the King graced her with his presence. She attempted to put on her best calm face, rising for her seat as he approached her.

But Aerys had no time for courteous manner nor any other niceties. "Sit down," he ordered her, completely ignoring the presence of her ladies-in-waiting. As far Rhaella was concerned, it was just as well. If he did not wish Lady Crakehall and Lady Baratheon away then he was clearly not interested in bedding her. Rhaella thanked the Seven.

"Your Majesty," she murmured, returning her gaze to the ground.

Her brother paced back and forth, hand held behind his back. His tangled and unkempt heir trailed after him much like a cloak. Rhaella breathed in through her nose, trying to calm her wildly-beating heart. She did not want Aerys around her, or her ladies-in-waiting.

"Viserys must wed Cersei Lannister," he spoke so suddenly that Rhaella nearly jumped out of her seat in fright. Aerys eyes her with his strange gaze, a fire burning behind the light violet gaze. "As soon as possible, he must wed her."

"Your Majesty," Rhaella whispered, her eyes filling with tears, "Viserys is but a boy." He would take her only joy from her and think nothing of it.

"I shall have none of that," Aerys replied harshly. "I allowed Rhaegar to wed according to your wishes and look what came of it. Not only is he irrevocably tied to that woman, but she has brought the whole Dornish court here."

That was, of course, an exaggeration. Elia Martell had never been a favourite of her brother's. Aerys had not liked Elia's mother either, if Rhaella well remembered. The issue had first presented itself to him when Elia arrived at court, to be weeded to their son. He had complained, albeit only to Rhaella, that the woman looked weak and ill. Still, all arrangements having been made, the wedding took place.

Then there had been the fact that Rhaegar himself hadn't been exactly thrilled with his bride. Aerys had many failing, some which Rhaella did not even wish to consider, yet he had always been inexplicably astute when observing men and women interacting.

After that, when Elia had taken to her bed in the late days of her pregnancy with Rhaenys and the maesters were unsure if she could actually deliver the child, her brother had cursed and thundered at the news. Then their son had come and brought with him the child. Aerys had been disappointed and strangely put off.

Rhaella was certain that Aegon's birth had not absolved Elia Martell of anything in the eyes of the King. Moreover, he was angered by the fact that she had effectively put a crimp in their begetting of the three-headed dragon. What good was she if she could not produce the children she had promised by way of wedding their son?

As for the Dornish court, Rhaella had brought one of her brothers and a few ladies-in-waiting. It was hardly that all the Dornish nobles had gathered in King's Landing. Yet, it was true that she was pushing to have some of her countrymen in office where she thought it a possibility.

"When will my son have to wed then?" she asked listlessly, knowing that if Aerys had decided upon the matter, he would not take into account any of her protests.

"Soon," was the only response he had for her. With a grunt he made to turn around, but something caught his eye and he stopped. Rhaella's whole frame tensed. She did not dare look in the direction he was looking in. "Who is this?" he demanded of her, motioning towards someone who Rhaella could only presume to be Lady Baratheon, as Lady Crakehall was known to Aerys.

"My newest companion," Rhaella answered automatically, "Lady Lyanna Baratheon."

And then her husband started laughing. The grating sound nearly made her ears bleed. "Lady Baratheon, are you?" he questioned.

"I am, Your Majesty," came Lady Lyanna's voice. Rhaella could detect a hint of fear in that voice. She was right to be afraid, of course. Who knew what manner of thoughts went on through his mind?

"Lady Baratheon," he began mockingly, "should write to her lordly husband." He flashed poor Lady Lyanna a sharp smile.

Thankfully for everyone involved, Aerys' attention span, which had never been reliable, gave way and he perhaps decided that Lady Baratheon did not respond as he wished her to. Rhaella had, nonetheless, stood from her seat and placed herself before the young woman. "Your Majesty will then reward the Lord Hand for leaving his duties unfinished?" She dearly hoped that would distract him completely.

"Daft woman," he muttered at her question. "Be silent. I will not have you question me." He gave her a hard stare and turned around, striding to the door, as if in a hurry to disappear. Well, Rhaella wanted him gone as fast as his feet could carry him anyway.

When he was gone, the door slamming in his wake, she turned to her ladies-in-waiting, both of them pale and unsettled. Lady Baratheon, however, looked to have acquired the worse of it. "If you wish to write to your husband, you may leave and do so."

Lady Lyanna shook her head, her lower lip trembling slightly. But then she blinked and nodded her head. "Your Majesty is kind," she offered weakly.

"Take as much time as you need," Rhaella allowed her. "Lady Crakehall, do join Lady Baratheon."

"Your Majesty," Lady Crakehall said, "if I leave with Lady Barartheon, who shall be here?"

A small, unhappy smile crossed her lips at that. "Why, Lady Crakehall, the Kingsguard posted at the door will keep me company. Who is it on this fine day?"

"I believe it is Ser Jaime Lannister," Lady Lyanna offered.

"There, Ser Jaime Lannister will keep me company." It seemed she could not rid herself of Lannisters. Rhaella waved both the ladies away and vowed that she would ask for one woman more. She had thought a mere couple would do, yet it seemed that such a small number was not the best.

The two ladies left, one still shaken, the other calmer, but not quite at peace. Rhaella followed them to the door and stopped at the threshold. Ser Jaime Lannister was looking at her with wide eyes full of remorse.

*

His eyes grew wide in horror. Ned looked at his sister and all blood drained from his face. Lyanna shrank back, her hand pressing protectively against her midsection. He caught her arm and pulled her closer, forcing her hand away.

"Lyanna, what have you done?" he asked her softly. The very thought of it made his stomach churn. "Gods be good, Lyanna, what have you done?" He could not reconcile the image of his soft, kind sister with the woman before him who bore the mark on betrayal.

His younger sibling tried to pry her hand away from his grip. "Please understand, Ned. Please," she begged, her voice brushing against him, yet even with its quietness and joylessness, it cut him like a knife. "I had to."

"You had to?" he demanded harshly, shaking her. "Did you indeed have to, Lyanna? Did you have to betray your every vow?" He could hardly look upon her. Ned did not know what to say. He had trusted her. He had trusted that despite Robert's failing, Lyanna would prove better.

Instead she had proven him wrong. Instead she had chosen to make a mockery of the sacred words she'd spoken. Ned suddenly let go of her, as if her flesh singed him, and Lyanna stumbled backwards, falling on the bed.

She held both hands up, her eyes filling with tears. Ned glanced mistrustfully at her shining orbs. Tears were the weapons of women when they wished to soften the hearts that would judge them. And yet Lyanna did not cry for the simple joy of crying. He knew her well enough to know that.

"You had to," he repeated once again, this time as if testing the words. "Tell me, tell me how you were made to…" he gestured at her, unable to say those words. Speaking it out loud would make it real. There was still an escape so long as no confessions were made.

"Ned," she pleaded once again. "I didn't want to wed him. I truly didn't. I would have flung myself from those high walls of his keep rather than be his wife."

"None of that," he spat. "I did not ask to hear how you felt about your marriage." Her face morphed with hurt as if his words had sliced an open wound within her. Ned could not beat a retreat. He simply could not do it.

Lyanna stood up gingerly and approached him in a cautious manner. "We were at the tourney when it happened. Father called me to his tent." She worried a strip of cloth between her fingers. The delicate embroidery caught his eye. The blue roses were beautiful. "I knew not what he wished to speak with me, but I went. And there I was presented to His Grace, Prince Rhaegar."

A curse sped past his lips before he could stop it. "This child is Rhaegar Targaryen's?"

"Aye, the child is his." The few words destroyed him completely. The pedestal he'd put Lyanna on crumbled under the weight of reality and broke into shards. "I don't regret it, Ned. I was offered a chance to escape and I took it. You may blame me for it, hate me if you must, but I am what I am."

"Listen to yourself, Lyanna," he spoke, cutting off whatever else she might have wished to say. "You are what you are. How easy the excuse comes to you. How easy you would close your eyes to everything but your own selfish desires."

"I never denied they were selfish desired, brother." She caught his hand in her own. "I can only make choices for myself. I chose this path,"

"While he was suffering, you were," he trailed off, breath catching slightly.

"While he was suffering, I was following father's orders and my own heart." The blunt manner in which she spoke the words made him shudder. Lyanna frowned. She pulled her hand back and bit down on her lip. "I might have refused had he given me the slightest proof of his devotion."

And that not even Ned could deny; Robert Baratheon would speak one moment of living the rest of his life devoted to Lyanna and as soon as a pretty woman stood before his eyes, Lyanna was pushed somewhere in the back of his mind, locked away until he had further need of her.

"It was not I that made him sleep with whores. It was not I who made him sick." Tears rolled down her cheeks. She hugged herself, still gazing at him.

"You would rather bear the censure of everyone you shall ever meet by becoming someone's mistress?" Her solution was strange at least. "Is it better thus, Lyanna? Is this what you want?"

A loud sob escaped her lips. "Nay. But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. I can have only what is possible." For a brief moment she looked away from him to the wall and then her gaze returned to his. "What shall you do, knowing what you know?"

The world was a cruel harsh place. Ned stood frozen before his sister, gazing at her intently. He wanted to turn his back on her. He wanted to run away and never look back. He wished he could do any of those things. Yet instead he found himself closing the distance between them and wrapping her in her arms. The world was an unfair place.

"You live in a world of black and white, Ned, when all around you dominate different greys." Her words were muffled into his shoulder. Lyanna hugged him back, upper limbs gripping him tightly. "What shall you do?"

"You are my sister, my blood," he replied, "and if need be I will battle every man in Westeros for you." What else could be said? If their own father had offered such a solution to her and if Lyanna had accepted, Ned had to dance to the dune that had begun playing. "Lyanna, tell me the truth, why are you doing this?"

She gulped. It seemed that she would not give him any answer for some time. They remained in silence clinging to each other. And then, as if roused from a deep sleep, Lyanna finally responded to his question. "At first I though I might keep myself above everything. But it seems it is my fate to fall."

Pulling away slightly so he could look into her face, Ned wondered who would be there to catch her when she did tumble down. "I shall vouch for the child if need be."