Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at

http://download.archiveofourown.org/works/5260862.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Relationship: Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen,
Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Brandon Stark/Catelyn Stark, Lyanna Stark
& Rhaegar Targaryen
Character: Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar Targaryen, Elia Martell, Ned Stark, Ashara
Dayne, Brandon Stark, Robert Baratheon, Aerys II Targaryen, Cersei
Lannister, Jon Connington, Rickard Stark
Additional Tags: First Love, First Time, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Arranged Marriage,
Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Romance, Childhood
Friends, Friends to Lovers, Tourney at Harrenhal, Bittersweet, R plus
L equals J, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Drama
Stats: Published: 2015-11-22 Updated: 2016-05-06 Chapters: 12/? Words:
44866

Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken

by ashotofjac

Summary

At the age of seven, Lord Rickard's southron ambitions win Lyanna the hand of Prince
Rhaegar Targaryen. To solidify the betrothal, Rhaegar is sent to foster at Winterfell as
ward to Lord Rickard and squire to Ser Gerold of the Kingsguard.

Amongst the snows, ice, and vast Northern skies, Rhaegar and Lyanna grow up together,
turning from playmates to friends to lovers.

But after the Defiance of Duskendale, King Aerys turns mad and breaks his son's betrothal
to Lyanna without cause. Forced home to King's Landing, Rhaegar is made to marry
another.

Two years later, a splendid tourney is held at Harrenhal, with all of the realm in
attendance. Once again the wolf meets the dragon, and Rhaegar and Lyanna will find out
that absence truly does make the heart grow fonder.

Notes

Rhaegar and Lyanna are the same age in this story.

 Grey and White

Winterfell was not beautiful . . . it was overwhelming.

A grim and ancient place, the castle spread over miles of vast rolling hills and flat snowy plains,
far and away the largest fortress Rhaegar Targaryen had ever seen. Erected by Brandon the
Builder, it rose in countless towers and turrets and keeps that were paned with lined glass, with
tunnels and corridors that formed above and below ground.

Its thick, formidable curtain walls lay like granite serpents across the land, curving in some places
and flat in others, forming between them a deep moat that which any man would greet his death at
the bottom of - if not for the depth, then the freezing cold.

Atop the battlement of the First Keep overlooking the land beyond Winterfell, Rhaegar stood
flanked by spires, piercing grey needlepoints against the empty sky; there was not a single cloud
up above, only a vast coverling of pale blue silk the gods had laid over the heavens to shoo away
the final dregs of winter. Not even the sun had deigned to show.

The North was a place mute of light, where the chilling cold winds bellowed and froze the stone
to ice, where snows fell ten feet deep and could bury a man harder than dirt and a shovel. It was a
hard place for even harder people, the land of the winter family Starks.

Winterfell was an ancient place of mystery, its walls and kings and crypts having seen the children
of the forest and the migration of the First Men, Brandon the Builder and the Age of Heroes. And,
of course, the fabled Others.

This place, Rhaegar reflected for the thousandth time since arriving here seven years ago, is a
place of magic.

Rhaegar was fourteen now, almost fifteen, nearly a man grown by Westerosi standards. He had
been sent to Winterfell at seven years old to further solidify the betrothal between himself and
Lady Lyanna - besides his daughter's betrothed, he was to be ward to Lord Rickard, to squire for
Ser Gerold who was sent to accompany him, and to grow up beside the children of Stark.

He had done more than that in his time here. The grey walls of Winterfell were now his home and
the Starks were family to him. Lord Rickard had come to be like a second father; Brandon and
Eddard and Benjen brothers; and Lyanna...

By every god in the sky, he was absolutely in love with her. How could he not be? His beginning
days in Winterfell had been cold and miserable, long chilling days in the training yard and solemn
nights tucked away in his room reading beneath candlelight. Until one morning, Benjen and
Lyanna came pounding at his door.

Benjen had been only five at the time, Lyanna seven - the same age as Rhaegar. He remembered
thinking how small she was in his doorway, slight and skinny with knobby knees and mussed
hair. But the light in her eyes had been magnificent, enough to fill his dreary room with bright
energy.

One of the horses in the stables was birthing her foal, so they had come to take him to watch.
Lyanna had lunged forward, seized his hand with surprising might, and hauled him all the way
down to the stables. With no care or propriety for that he was the crown prince and she his future
princess.
His Stark betrothed had coaxed him from his serious, quiet, and bookish nature, setting his world
afire with life and color.

From that day, they had grown up happily together beneath the grey cloak of the Northern sky,
racing horses across the vast fields beyond Winterfell's walls, playing childish games in the
godswood, hunting with her father and brothers, trying (and failing) to teach her the high harp.

They'd had their first kiss after the feast honoring her twelfth name day; he'd been twelve as well,
just on the brink of his thirteenth name day as he was nine months older than her.

After the feast, he'd gifted her with a lovely banded ring that had been reforged from a Valyrian
steel dagger he'd given Winterfell's smith Mikken.

The ring was dark as smoke, its edges smoothed and blunted so as not to cut, but in the light the
Valyrian steel showed wisps of flaming red from the spells.

He could still recall the look on her face when he slid that ring on her left hand, dark and sensuous
and innocent all the same. When he'd showed her the twin to her ring, the one he wore on his own
finger, she had smiled a smile so lovely, it put the sun moon and stars to shame.

That night, she snuck to his chambers and put her mouth on his for the first time.

It certainly wasn't the last.

In the eerie light of the godswood, riding to the summits beyond, in the dark courtyard after
suppers, pressed up against the walls in long-forgotten towers. Beneath the ice and snows, they
had fallen in love.

And in a few years, she will be my wife.

Rhaegar tore his eyes from the sky and smiled. It was a cold, peaceful day; Lyanna and Benjen
were likely off playing at swords, Ned had just gone back to the Vale, and Brandon was in
Riverrun visiting his betrothed, Lady Catelyn. Lord Rickard was holed up in his solar and Ser
Gerold had freed Rhaegar to a day without training.

What to do? he thought just as another person came into view.

Maester Walys' heavy, labored breathing slashed the peace right away. The fat, sagging maester
hobbled up the steps to the battlement, huffing and puffing his way right to Rhaegar's side,
bowing as best he could with his keg belly.

Walys drew in a few sharp gasps and choked, "A missive from King's Landing, Your Highness."

Rhaegar frowned and took the scroll, watching with passive eyes as the maester bowed and
shuffled away. Only when he was alone did he deign to look at the seal.

A glob of black wax, dark as gleaming onyx, with the roaring three-headed dragon of his House
embedded into it. Dark wings, dark words, went the saying. He picked away the seal and unrolled
the coiled parchment, flattening it against his knee.

Then he read.

He instantly wished he hadn't. His stomach dropped to his toes. He breathed out sharply in utter
disbelief. He tasted bile. He read the letter a second time, and a third and a fourth, the dawning
acknowledgment falling down on him as cold as winter snows.
Breaking the betrothal . . . come home . . . marry another . . .

His heart pounded as violently as a war drum, his breath freezing to ice in his lungs. The letter fell
from his hand as gracefully as a leaf from an autumn tree.

He searched Winterfell like a man possessed.

He finally found Lyanna alone in the heart tree's clearing in the godswood, sitting with her back
against the weirwood as she fashioned a stripling into a makeshift bravos blade. The heart tree
watched him approach with that long accusing face, but Lyanna did not even glance up; she was
so attuned to his every sound.

Running a dagger down the the length of the wood, Lyanna said with all the indignation of a
fourteen-year old girl, "Father found my tourney sword."

Despite his rushing anticipation, Rhaegar cracked a smile; Lord Rickard was hellbent on making
his daughter a proper princess, and with that honor came little and less of what she actually liked
to do. He'd already banned swordplay - despite her disobedience to do so - and running around
barefoot in Benjen's breeches and baggy tunics.

Rhaegar went to her side and sat in the snow, shivering despite himself. Lyanna continued to form
her stick sword, peaceful beneath the thick canopy of blood-red leaves. Up above, a murder of
crows watched them both with gleaming black eyes.

In his pocket, the letter from his father burned like a hot coal; Rhaegar knew he was running out
of time. "Lyanna, stop," he put a hand on the hilt of the dagger she used to strip the wood, "I'll get
you a real sword."

Those words gave her pause. That Rhaegar would defy her father's wishes was enough to strike
wary excitement in her. She looked up from her work, those grey eyes melting him. "What is it?"

He rummaged through his pockets, never breaking eye contact, and held up the crumpled letter.
He hadn't the heart to let her read it, to take in the cruel words written about her and her family,
but he could paraphrase.

"My father has broken our betrothal."

Lyanna blinked, clearly taken aback, then scowled. "Quit your japing, Rhaegar, I want none of
it."

It was classic Lyanna. She had a temper that could only be matched by her brother, Brandon, or
one of the winter storms the North oft boasted.

She had Eddard's kindness and Benjen's mischief, and he could even glimpse in her Lord
Rickard's unforgiving nature. But her rages and mirths were all Brandon. The wolf's blood, Lord
Rickard liked to call it.

Rhaegar shook his head wearily. "I am not making a joke, Lya. This is real."

Her scowl turned to a genuine frown, and her eyes widened to eggs. "What, why?" She
demanded, angry and confused.

He pushed back the fear in his head, the fear that raged to get ahead of his father's scheme to
shame House Stark. "I truly do not know. All he wrote was that our betrothal was officially
broken and that I was to come home immediately."
Lyanna's breath hitched. She carelessly threw aside her wooden stick and dagger, and laid a hand
against his cheek, all anger forgotten. "You're leaving? This is truly happening?"

He leaned into her touch like a child, then turned his head to kiss her palm. The smell of the
spiceflower perfume she loved to dab on her wrist intoxicated him. For as long as he'd known her,
she had worn that oil.

She'd first gotten it in a shipment from White Harbor, Lord Manderly having sent it as a gift for
the future princess and queen. The perfume was all the way from the Dothraki plains in Essos, and
smelled both spicy and sweet. She wore it nearly every day.

"Rhaegar," Lyanna prompted with a furrowed brow, pulling him from her spell. "You mean to
leave me?"

"Not if I have anything to do with it." He ran his eyes down her face, that lovely, lovely face that
he had fallen in love with amidst this very godswood. He had a sudden, wild thought that touched
his lips before his brain. "I have a plan."

Her lips parted in relief. "Tell me," she urged, ever his partner.

He ran his thumb over her full bottom lip, knowing his words were steeped in madness, but
needing to fulfill them anyhow. "Marry me."

She frowned, unblinking. "But-"

"Tomorrow," he clarified suddenly. "Marry me in the morning, while your father hunts with
Benjen and Lord Manderly's host. If we have," he swallowed, pausing, "consummated our union,
there is no plausible way for my father to break us apart. Not without causing major strife for
himself with the Faith, and possibly a civil war. Marry me, Lyanna. Don't let Aerys win."

She looked deep into his eyes, searching. "You truly believe this will work?"

He didn't, but he nodded anyway. "I do."

Lyanna closed her eyes and blew out a harsh breath. "My father is going to kill us."

"I'm the crown prince," he murmured teasingly, though inside all he felt was dread, "and after
tomorrow morning, you will be a princess. Harm to us is considered high treason."

Lyanna did not smile. She only gave him a look that spoke volumes of foreboding, and beneath
that, the constant layer of intimate adoration that she had only ever showed him.

After a long moment of tense silence, she spoke. "We'll meet in the godswood as soon as my
father and Benjen have left for the hunt in the morning." Rhaegar nodded eagerly. "But," she said,
"I'll need someone to give me away to you. The old way requires it."

"Jon," Rhaegar suggested immediately. Jon Connington was his closest, oldest friend and had
been fostered for a few years at Winterfell as Ser Gerold's second squire. Lyanna was terribly fond
of Jon, the two having grown thick as thieves.

The mention of Jon soothed her somewhat. "You'll tell Jon tonight?"

Rhaegar said, "Yes, I will. After supper so no one gets suspicious. I'll send him to you in the
morning, and we'll meet here." He looked straight into the weeping red eyes of the heart tree, and
for one terrible moment, he could swear it was truly watching him. "And marry."
When Lyanna squeezed his hand, all he could feel was the cold bite of her ring.

Rhaegar could barely sleep a moment that night, tossing and turning with restless, aching legs and
eyes, but never falling unconscious for more than a few minutes at a time. Every time he slept, he
dreamt nightmares of being without Lyanna.

He always woke gasping.

It didn't help that Jon Connington had kept him up nearly half the night, jabbering him senseless
with warnings and arguments against the wedding. Rhaegar had stopped him silent with one look
and said, "I won't be without her." Jon didn't speak another word after that.

When the sky turned from black to slate to pale grey, Rhaegar climbed from bed. Outside his
window, the sounds of the hunting party gathering were loud. They would be leaving soon no
doubt.

Just the thought set his heart to pounding. Lyanna was within the castle, in her own chambers
wide awake probably, waiting to put on her wedding gown. To occupy himself from his nerves,
Rhaegar rummaged through his chests for his own ceremonial attire.

When his father sent him to Winterfell seven years ago, Aerys had planned on keeping him in
Winterfell until he was sixteen, at which point he would wed his bride before her gods, then bring
her back South. Due to that plan, Rhaegar's marriage cloak lay folded at the bottom of his trunk,
red on dark material. He reached out to touch the black velvet.

His door swung open and closed suddenly and without warning, Jon slipping inside. His red hair
was a shock of color against the bleak day, and his face seemed bright with energy. He wore the
colors of House Connington in white wool breeches, a white tunic, and a red doublet embroidered
with counterchanged griffins.

"You're not even dressed yet," Jon hissed quietly, as naggy as a kitchen maid. "You must do this
thing before Lord Rickard returns and skins you alive."

"Quiet," Rhaegar frowned, "he's only just left. I'm about to dress now. Go to Lyanna's chambers,
make sure she's ready, then bring her to the godswood in ten minutes."

"You'll be ready by then?" Jon asked doubtfully.

"Yes," he said, "now go!"

Jon left. When he was gone, Rhaegar shed his clothes and dressed in his wedding finery: his
surcoat was black wool with studded buttons, his breeches and boots good black leather. Last, he
pulled his marriage cloak over his shoulders and fastened it around his neck with a dragon brooch
of polished jet.

He went to the door and paused, frozen for one moment. He could feel the dread flowing through
him like poison in his veins. His chest hammered violently and he felt bile rise in his throat.

I have to do this, he thought. He twisted his ring around his finger once for comfort, then slipped
out the door.

The godswood was freezing that morning, and dreadfully silent. All around him the trees rose up
like spears from the ground, crowded together in three acres of wood. Above, the sky was the
palest grey, almost white.
It was snowing, a sign of good luck from the old gods.

The clearing Rhaegar waited in was blanketed with centuries' worth of humus, leaves and dirt and
decay that which had been underfoot once of the Kings of Winter; the black pool at the base of the
heart tree was calm and still. Distracted, he wondered if it had a bottom and, if not, to where it led.

The sound of crunching footsteps took him out of his thoughts.

When Lyanna stepped into the clearing on the arm of Jon, it was all Rhaegar could do not to pass
out.

Her wedding dress was obviously unfinished; the silvery lace that covered the neckline was
flapping free of thread in some places, and the hem of the skirts was raw and already stained from
her walk through the godswood.

But over top the lace, there were sewn little beads of freshwater pearls, and beneath the snowy
chiffon skirts, a longer train of dove grey silk trailed behind. She wore not a stitch of jewels, but
for the gleaming steel ring around her left-hand finger; even so far away, Rhaegar could still make
out the red spell-forged hue hiding beneath the smoke grey Valyrian steel band.

Between them, a look passed. Are you ready? it asked. They both inclined their heads.

Jon escorted Lyanna forward as Rhaegar waited beneath the heart tree, quivering in his boots and
ready to collapse from his raging heart. When she came to stand next to him, her spiceflower
perfume put his head in the clouds, calming him.

He began his words, the words he'd learned by attending numerous Northern weddings in his time
at Winterfell. "Who comes before the gods?"

Jon said, "Lyanna of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn
and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"

Rhaegar took a deep, steadying breath. "Me, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Crown Prince of the
Seven Kingdoms and Prince of Dragonstone. I claim her. Who gives her?"

"Jon of House Connington, dear friend to the bride." Jon turned to Lyanna. "Lady Lyanna of
House Stark, will you take this man?"

Lyanna sent a quick glance to Rhaegar, a sick thrill of fear and excitement in her eyes. "I take this
man."

Then, she stepped forward and they entwined their hands, kneeling together before the face of the
heart tree. They bowed their heads in submission.

As custom dictated, they were meant to spend a few minutes in silent prayer, praying to the old
gods for health and wealth and summer. Rhaegar prayed for none of those things.

Let me have her, he prayed to the countless, nameless old gods, let Lyanna and me be together.
Let us have a child together of this union, a prince I can call my heir. Please.

When the prayers were over, Rhaegar got to his feet, helping Lyanna up as well. When she stood,
he untied the maiden cloak and pulled it from her back; Jon Connington stepped forward to take it.

Then, Rhaegar unfastened the cloak from his neck and placed it over Lyanna's shoulders. The
cloak was midnight velvet, emblazoned with red silk sewn into the shape of his sigil, and over top
that stamped with a thousand rubies.

It's done, he thought wildly. It's done. We are wed. He could hardly believe it; though he'd
planned this all himself, he still felt a wild rush at actually having gone through with it.

Lyanna's face told much the same story.

"Congratulations, Your Highnesses," Jon added into the quiet, snowflakes melting in his bright
air.

Rhaegar tried a smile. "Thank you, Jon. For everything. There has never been a truer friend."

Jon fidgeted. "I will..." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Leave you to it now." He gave
Lyanna a small smile and went on his way, leaving behind Lyanna's maiden cloak on the forest
floor.

When his footsteps faded, only silence and snowfall was left. Rhaegar felt suddenly terrified and
exhilarated, both at once, his veins thrumming. Without warning, he crushed Lyanna against his
body and kissed her deeply.

She chuckled. "We're married."

He smiled against her kiss. "We are." When he drew back, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes
were bright. "Your Highness." He could tell the words thrilled her, though it likely had more to do
with him saying it than the royal title.

She looked up into his eyes, some doubt still clouding in her features, but looking happy all the
same. "We must consummate, right? Or else this can be set aside?"

Rhaegar swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "We must."

For the first time all morning, Lyanna looked as though she was entirely sure. "I'm ready, are
you?"

He sighed softly, happily. "Yes," he molded his mouth to hers, "Lyanna Targaryen."

Their lips moved together softly, slowly, tongues sliding together. They went to the ground, her
on her back and him over her, between her legs. The snow fell over them both, blanketing them in
cold and white.

He forgot all his problems in those moments: his father, her father, the inevitable retribution of
their actions. For right now, all that mattered was Lyanna and himself together. He put his hand on
her thigh, walking his fingers to her hem.

They would freeze their skin to ice if they disrobed, so instead Rhaegar shucked up her skirts,
trying to shield her skin with his body. She was already wet when he touched her cunt, warm and
wet, grinding into his hand.

They'd kissed countless times over the years, touched with nervous hands, but they were both
virgins, unpracticed in coupling. His heart raced to even think about being inside her. Perhaps she
would even become pregnant.

He could almost imagine their son, silver-haired . . . perhaps even dark-haired like her with the
blood of the dragon and the wolf. He never imagined children so young, both of them only
fourteen, but if the gods willed it, he would welcome any offspring of their coupling.
Lyanna's breathing suddenly grew ragged as his fingers worked her over, gasping lungfuls of
breath and snow until she froze, shaking, and came apart beneath him. She rode out her peak, her
cheeks flushing becomingly.

He was harder than iron in his breeches, pressed against her thigh. "Are you ready?" He asked her
when her breathing had calmed.

She looked up at him with dazed grey glass eyes and smiled. She nodded. He bent forward and
kissed her while he fumbled with his laces, pulling his cock out to brace the cold. Despite his
freezing, he moved his mouth to her ear and whispered the words she loved to hear.

"Avy jorrāelan." It was High Valyrian for I love you. Lyannna shivered beneath him, but not from
the snows.

It was a guilty pleasure of hers, to hear him speak in the lilting, poetic language of the dragonlords
of old. He'd often whisper it in her ear at supper to make her blush, or against her neck as he
touched beneath her skirts. High Valyrian never failed to make her sigh, and there, beneath the
heart tree was no exception.

His lips formed the words against the shell of her ear again. He had said it a hundred and one
times over the years; when they were children, they'd said it only because they thought that's what
married men and women did. When they got older, growing up beneath the snow and the trees,
the words turned true.

Rhaegar took his cock and placed it at her warm cunt, sliding in so, so slow; his eyes rolled back,
the warring sensations of cold snowflakes and warm her making his mind explode in sensation.

She was excruciatingly tight, so much so that he was thrust into an instant limbo of the greatest
pleasure and the worst pain. He froze inside her, knowing that if he moved, he would finish inside
her already. As it was, he was on the brink of ecstasy, just being still with her warmth around him.

He forced himself to swallow and chanced a look at Lyanna. Her face was screwed up as if in
pain, but she was not crying or whimpering. "Lyanna," he said in a hoarse voice.

Her eyes snapped open, grey chips that reflected the trees and snow. "I'm fine," she whispered
breathlessly, "go on, I'll be fine."

He moved, only a handful of times, and was overcome with the most intense pleasure he'd ever
felt spreading through him like liquid fire, turning him to ice and stone, freezing inside her as he
gave his seed to her body. He groaned out load, uncaring. If anyone else was in the godswood
now, it was too late.

"I love you," he whispered again when his pleasure had abated, pulling out of her and standing
up. He helped her stand and brushed the leaves and snow from her dress and Targaryen cloak. He
then began to tie up his laces.

Lyanna suddenly made a noise of surprise in her throat and pulled up her skirts, frowning.
Rhaegar came to her and asked, "What is it?" He feared to see the bloody reminder of the pain he
likely caused her.

"Your," she paused, cheeks burning brighter in humiliation, "seed is running down my leg."

"Oh." Rhaegar blinked. "Well...we'll hurry back to the castle so you can wash, alright?" The
snows were coming down harder now, a wealth of good fortune from the gods.

Or perhaps it was an omen.

Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of his father's Kingsguard, stepped into the clearing just
as Lyanna let her skirts drop. But it seemed as if it was too late.

Ser Gerold's face was a mask of horror. "What," he whispered, "have you done?"

Rhaegar pulled himself up straighter, trying to look like the king he would one day be. "We
married, Ser. And consummated."

Gerold's lips pressed into an angry thin line. With what sounded like a clenched jaw, he said, "I
gathered as such." He blew out a breath and shook his head. "Gods, Rhaegar, you have done a
terrible thing."

Rhaegar's rare anger sparked. "I love her, we're betrothed. It would have happened in a few years
anyway."

"Were betrothed," Ser Gerold corrected him immediately. "No longer."

Rhaegar blinked in surprise, his heart dropping. Only he himself had read that letter, and only Jon
and Lyanna knew of its contents. Neither would have told. "How did you know that?" He
demanded.

Ser Gerold gave him a hard look. "You were not the only one who got a letter, Your Highness."
Without warning, he strode forward and grabbed Rhaegar's arm as he never had before, pulling
him away. "Lyanna, sweet girl," he said gently over his shoulder, "go to your chambers and
change clothes. Clean yourself up. There are guests."

He wrenched Rhaegar away with terrible strength. Lyanna ran after them, shouting, but was no
match for Gerold's speed. There were so many things happening at once, the first question
Rhaegar grasped onto was, "Guests? What do you mean?" Surely the Manderlys did not require
dressing up for if they were hunting with Lord Rickard.

"Your father sent a party to collect you," Gerold hissed at him, nearly dragging him through the
godswood. "He means to see you home."

Rhaegar's heart went wild. His father had sent reinforcements to ensure he would not pull
anything against his wishes. He could not allow this to happen. "I'm taking Lyanna with me then.
She's my wife now."

Gerold stopped and roughly pushed Rhaegar against a tree. "You can not tell anyone you married
that sweet girl." Rhaegar went to object, but Gerold continued. "He will kill her and her entire
family, do you even realize that?"

Rhaegar was lost, confused. "Who?"

"Your father," Ser Gerold said, "he has not been right since Duskendale. His mind . . . it isn't
right, Rhaegar. If he knows of your disobedience, he will kill Lyanna to teach you a lesson."

Rhaegar was speechless. He'd heard that his father was not well, in letters from his mother. But
he'd just assumed she meant that he was sick, ailing, but not mad.

Gerold sighed deeply. "I will not say a thing of your marriage. I'll forget it ever happened. I
suggest you do the same."

In shock, Rhaegar allowed himself to be pulled along in silence.

Until they got back to the castle, that is. In the yard, every one of his belongings lay on the
ground, being loaded into wagons by servants. Men-at-arms in black and red milled about, talking
with the four knights in white.

His father had sent more of his Kingsguard to ensure his passage home. Rhaegar stopped in utter
surprise, looking around. Across the yard, Lord Rickard was speaking angrily to Lord Tywin, the
Hand of the King, and Benjen was frowning.

"I can't leave," Rhaegar breathed suddenly, coming alive with dread and adrenaline. He shook his
head, eyes wide. "I cannot leave her, Ser Gerold."

Gerold frowned. "You must, Rhaegar. You cannot defy your father by staying, and you cannot
defy him by taking her. If you want to keep her safe and alive, you will forget this day ever
happened." He paused. "Get yourself together, Lord Tywin approaches."

The Lion Lord arrived with that same emotionless face he'd always had, the pale green of his eyes
vivid against the grey backdrop of Winterfell. "Your Highness, I have come to bring you home on
your father's orders."

"So I have heard," he whispered, willing away tears with every ounce of his might. Lyanna, my
beautiful Lyanna . . . what am I to do? To love her is to kill her.

Lord Tywin glanced behind him quickly and turned back. "I have informed Lord Rickard that the
betrothal between yourself and the Lady Lyanna is officially broken by order of the king. Once
your things are loaded, we will leave for King's Landing at once."

Rhaegar scowled. He needed one more day in Winterfell - to figure out a plan, to take Lyanna and
run . . . "I cannot have my goodbyes?"

Tywin's eyes narrowed the slightest bit; he was not a man used to backtalk. "Your father wants
you home at once. No distractions can allow us off course. We will leave soon, a few minutes at
the most. Make of that what you will." And then he turned and walked away, his golden whiskers
dull.

"Rhaegar," Ser Gerold said quietly. His eyes were trained across the yard.

Rhaegar looked. Lyanna had changed into leathers and furs, her wedding gown and marriage
cloak gone, but it was the face she wore that broke his heart: an expression of utter disbelief and
misery as she took in the scene. When she caught his eye, she broke out into a run, sprinting
across the yard, shoving aside soldiers and lords, running, running, running.

He caught Lyanna in his arms, a force that nearly threw him off his feet. She cried out in his ear.
"Oh gods, Rhaegar, what are we going to do?"

Over her shoulder, the last three of his chests were being loaded. His heart clenched. "Shh," he
soothed her, "it's alright."

"No, it's not," she cried fiercely, "they're taking you away. What if I never see you again? What
are we going to do?"

With that, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back. "Don't ever say that," he
hissed, "don't ever suggest we won't be together."

Her grey eyes were ice. "This is happening," she whispered, as if she had just come to terms.
"You're leaving."
He thought of Ser Gerold's words. The Lord Commander was a king's man, sworn to serve the
king only and above all else. Ser Gerold would not have warned him Lyanna would be executed
if he had not meant it.

Rhaegar could not let her die, could not bear it. He would think of a different plan to fix this, but
he would leave today, so as not to raise his father's suspicions.

Lord Tywin approached again, all feeling leeched from his expression. "Your Highness, we must
be on our way now." Behind him, the Targaryen party was mounting up.

Lyanna's eyes got wide and Rhaegar's heart clenched so painfully, he feared he would die right
there. Instead, he sneered at the Hand and smashed his lips to Lyanna's for a brief, passionate kiss
that showed everyone in that yard just who he belonged to.

Pulling away from her was one of the worst things he'd ever had to do. Walking away was the
hardest.

The stableboys had readied his horse, saddle and all. Rhaegar mounted up, Ser Gerold at his left,
Lord Tywin at his right, and the rest of the Kingsguards all around. A cage for his ride.

Rhaegar turned in his seat, desperate. Twenty feet away, Lyanna watched, tears flowing, and
standing coiled as if she were ready to run. Rhaegar felt a profound ache that rooted deep inside
him. My friend, my wife, my lover, my life.

The party kicked into motion, beginning to pour out of the gates. Benjen was waving desperately
and Lord Rickard just looked grim. Rhaegar waited until the very last second, and locked eyes
with Lyanna. "I will see you again, Lyanna," he shouted to her, "I promise!"

It was the last thing he said before riding out of Winterfell's gates, leaving behind the only love he
would ever know.
 It's A Sorrowful Life
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER

Spring in the capital was like an artisan painting: the vast bay spreading out to the east, glittering
like waves of black diamonds as the golden sun shone down upon it; the twisting streets like
serpents writhing their way up the hills of the dragon; the vast blue sky overhead, with the birds
soaring high, singing their lilting songs.

The Dragonpit, unused and desolate, a husk of former greatness; the Great Sept of Baelor, of
shimmering white marble and a massive crystal dome that shot beams of reflected light across the
cityscape; the Targaryen fleet swaying lazily in the bay, their red and black sails billowing against
the wind.

And above all that, the Red Keep. A sprawling palace wrought of pale red stone, each of its seven
legs grasping to a sharp point. White Sword Tower with its flowing banners of white; the throne
room with its towering bronze doors and monstrous iron throne; Maegor's Holdfast, the castle-
within-a-castle, cored by a dry moat and drawbridge.

After two years of dwelling in the castle's belly, Elia Martell was still unused to the Red Keep's
splendor and show, even despite her upbringing.

At eleven years old, Elia was sent to Essos to serve as cupbearer to the Archon of Tyrosh and act
as companion to his daughters.

The manse of the Archon had been fabulously massive, a sprawling palace of marble, crystal, and
gold. She'd spent her years serving and sunbathing, running the streets with the Archon's
daughters by day, and attending fantastic balls by night.

But for all the splendor she had experienced in Essos, she lacked greatly in knowledge of
Westeros. Tyroshi politics and royal business worked differently than Westeros; where in
Westeros the dragons had reigned for hundreds of years, in Tyrosh, the Archons were chosen
cyclically by a council of the noble and wealthy.

Elia had often wondered growing up if her mother wouldn't marry her off to a wealthy Tyroshi, or
perhaps another noble from the Free Cities, but that had never happened. She'd thought to be
betrothed to Ser Jaime of House Lannister when she was eighteen, but that was broken before it
even began. And then, when she was nineteen, she was finally summoned home to marry Prince
Rhaegar, heir to the Iron Throne.

She still could recall, with the most vivid intensity, the first time she met the royal family. She had
stepped off of the ship in King's Landing only three months after her name day, met by four of the
infamous Kingsguard: Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell, Ser Barristan, and Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord
Commander.

They had escorted Elia and her family up to the Red Keep, riding through the city as silent and
solemn as ghosts. The city had smelled just as awful then as it did now, heavy with the acrid stink
of fish and filth. But the Red Keep . . .

It had seemed magnificent to her. The dwelling of the Targaryens, the nest of the dragons. The
Kingsguard had taken her and her family straight to the throne room, where her betrothed was
waiting.

Because of her Essosi-heavy upbringing, Elia was far out of the loop with regards to Westerosi
alliances and politicking. She came to King's Landing with little to no knowledge of her prince,
meeting him for the first time with fresh eyes.

She'd fallen half in love with him at first sight.

She had wondered if anyone mortal could be so gorgeous. With those strange Targaryen features,
Rhaegar was a special kind of beauty. Tall and slim, he had a long fall of silver-gold hair and a
face that had been carved from marble. With a spirit that was just as cold.

Rhaegar had seemed to see right through her with those disturbing purple eyes, bowing simply
and not saying a word as she was brought forth for the king and queen's appraisal.

Rhaella had been lovely, a woman thin in the extreme with both hands heavily bandaged, but with
a smile that could heal any heart. She had welcomed Elia with a soft voice and kissed both her
cheeks.

The king, though . . .

Aerys had taken one look at her, sneered, and turned to leave.

Four days later, she married Rhaegar in the Great Sept of Baelor.

She still remembered the day of their wedding, how the bells sang sweet songs from sunrise to
sunset. The population of King's Landing had gathered in the streets as she and Rhaegar rode in a
topless carriage for all to see. They stared curiously after her, an alien of dark hair and dark skin so
unlike their silver royals and pale lords.

Rhaegar had only been fifteen at the time to her nineteen years; he was a melancholy boy, those
purple eyes so unfathomably sad that it made her want to drown in his stare for all her days.

He was quiet all throughout their wedding feast and slipped away halfway through, returning to
her side after an hour's absence. She never did figure out where he'd gone, but later when it came
time for their consummation, it took a while for him to become ready. Although she'd stripped off
her wedding gown, Rhaegar left on all his clothes, releasing himself through the ties of his pants
as all seven of the Kingsguard stood outside their chambers.

Rhaegar had moved inside of her with a cold silence, looking up at the wall instead of down into
her face. She had wanted to grab at him, beg him to sink his love into her. But his soul was always
so far away that if she tried to reach, she would fall.

Three months after their wedding night, she became pregnant. Rhaegar had not touched her since.

That was more than two years ago.

A squeal of laughter suddenly shook Elia from her mind. A little girl hobbled over on stunted legs,
grasping for her mother. "Rhaenys," Elia cooed, scooping her daughter up with both hands.

Rhaenys had recently turned a year old, and was turning out to be a small copy of Elia: a thick
smattering of curly black hair, skin the color of amber ale, eyes like liquid onyx, and strong brows.
Her father had left nothing of himself in her.

It often hurt that she hadn't given Rhaegar a child in his image. A child with hair of silver and
Valyrian eyes with blood of the dragon. We still have more time, she thought to herself, we have
all our lives to make silver children.

But even as she thought that comfort to herself, her insides boiled with panic. Her husband had
not lain with her since he had found out she was pregnant; that had been over two years ago.

And since then, there had not been a kiss, not a touch, not even a hot spark of the eyes. It was as if
she were only a broodmare for the royal blood, instead of the dragon's princess the world saw her
as.

It stung that he did not seek love from her, physical or emotional. Rhaegar's quiet introversion was
strange and cold in a husband, more of an acquaintance than a lover really. She craved to be
touched by him, longed to have him inside of her, filling her body with his seed.

Her lust for him had only worsened as he grew older. Seventeen and new to knighthood, Rhaegar
was the beau ideal of a prince. Strong and slender and graceful, fast as a panther, his hair shining
silver and his purple eyes so exotic. His beauty was all hers, and yet, it was unreachable.

And not just closed to her, but to everyone else around as well: whores and harlots, the ladies that
roamed the castle, no one could spark his intrigue. Rhaegar did not have an eye for anyone. She
supposed it should have made her happy to have a husband that did not wander . . . but happiness
was by the wayside since he did not wander to her bed either.

I will change that at Harrenhal, she thought with the determination of the sun, I will show him
why the women of Dorne are revered by all. She smiled a secret smile to herself.

Suddenly and without warning, Lady Ashara Dayne came rushing into the garden, gasping with
joy as she went to sit next to Elia, tucking the purple silk of her skirts beneath her with no sense of
sophistication. Ashara was one of her ladies-in-waiting, and her most favorite by far. Clever and
kind, she was the truest friend Elia had in the capital.

In her hand was a letter, its picked seal white as snow. "I received a missive from Eddard," she
squealed with excitement. "He writes that he'll be attending the tourney at Harrenhal."

The mention of the upcoming tourney brought a thrill to Elia's heart. Harrenhal was a massive
castle in the Riverlands, and the Whents were fabulously wealthy, planning to host a ten-day
tourney in one month's time that would be the talk of the realm for years to come.

She could just imagine its magnificent, the wonderment and colors and splendor all around. The
feasts and food, the mummers and puppeteers, the magicians and witches. The knights of gallancy
on their massive steeds, riding for the honor of their ladies. She harbored a secret hope that
Rhaegar would ride for her love.

"That's wonderful," Elia smiled genuinely. "I would be glad to meet him." She had heard quite
much of this Eddard over her time knowing Ashara and was eager to put a face to the man.

Ashara's eyes grew starry. "I cannot wait to see him again. It has been nearly a year since we last
saw each other at our betrothal feast at Starfall." Eddard of House Stark was Ashara's recent
betrothed, their engagement having come about after long years of their fathers being friends.

Ashara constantly spoke of her betrothed, of the way he looked and dressed and spoke, of the
lands he hailed from, and the family from which he was groomed. Lord Eddard had three siblings:
Brandon, the oldest who was married to Catelyn Tully Stark, Benjen, the very youngest, and
Lady Lyanna, their only sister.

Elia did not know hardly a thing about the Starks, had never heard much about them save for their
winter words, but Ashara was fully entranced, eager to dwell in the North. And because of that,
Elia could not wait to meet them.

"He writes that he is bringing Benjen and Lyanna as well," Ashara continued joyfully, sighing
with the biggest grin on her face. "Oh, I'm so happy."

Elia smiled, seeing some of her starry-eyed self in Ashara. I wonder what it is like to have a man
that wants you as much as Lord Eddard wants Ashara, she thought.

She spoke her next words without meaning to. "I am considering leaving Rhaenys behind with
her caretaker."

Ashara blinked in surprise. "Truly?"

Elia nodded, despite the bad feeling it gave her to leave her child for several weeks. "Yes, I think
it would be good for Rhaegar and I to be alone at the tourney, to have some time to ourselves."

Ashara's eyes turned mischievous. "To start working on that heir?" She winked.

Elia blushed, tucking her chin. But she did not deny it.

She needed to leave Rhaenys in the capital, needed to spend time with Rhaegar getting to know
him better, this father of her child and her husband of two years. She wanted him to know her
inside and out, to crave her as she did him, to ignite whenever he saw her. To view her as his
future queen, and not just the woman to whom he was married.

I want him to love me, she thought with wild want. And it will all begin with Harrenhal.

The steel ring spun endlessly, flashing grey as Rhaegar turned it beneath his fingers. He stopped it
suddenly, holding it between his thumb and finger. Testing it this way and that brought out the
deep smoky color of the Valyrian band, then steely blue, and dragonfire red.

He felt his heart constrict in his chest. I wonder if she still wears hers.

A knock at the door took his mind from a dark, wintry path. "Enter," he called out.

Arthur stepped in, a newly-made Kingsguard and one of his oldest friends from early childhood.
He hovered in the doorway, distinctly uncomfortable. "It's your mother," he murmured.

His heart tha-thumped. "Where is she?" Rhaegar asked, sighing softly.

Arthur fidgeted, but met his friend's eyes head-on. Straight and true, like a man of honor. Ironic
how one king could turn a group of heroes into a party of bystanders. "In her chambers. Rhaegar,
I..."

"Am a Kingsguard," Rhaegar finished tiredly, walking away. He strode from his chambers and
headed toward the queen's suite. "Sworn to protect our dear beloved king," he added bitterly
beneath his breath.

No guards were posted outside the doors when he arrived, nor were they locked; he pushed them
open quietly and slipped inside.

He found his mother hiding beneath the covers of her bed, looking more a lost and scared child
than a queen of Valyrian blood. She lay with her knees tucked to her chest, and the red velvet
blankets tucked to her cheeks as if she were in the safety of a dragon's wing.
Rhaegar both dreaded and begrudgingly accepted what he was about to find. Approaching the
bed on silent feet, he watched her. But Rhaella continued to lay completely still, an unmoving
statue beneath her private cocoon.

He sat gingerly at her bedside and peeled back the covers. He had to grind his flinch to a halt.

The entire left side of her face was turning purple, the cheekbones that which he had inherited
malformed and swollen beneath her aubergine complexion. Bile rose to the base of his throat like
a thick, toxic soup.

The same way it always did when he found her in such a state.

"Mother," he whispered, running his hand over her hair, "can you tell me what happened?"

Tears slipped beneath her eyes, and her chin quivered. "I'm sorry," she cried very, very quietly. "It
was my fault. I asked him if Viserys and I could attend the tourney at Harrenhal. I knew I
shouldn't have asked, but I did anyway. It's my fault."

If there had been anything left of his heart, it would have shattered right then.

But his heart had broken a long time ago.

This was hardly the first time he had heard his mother take blame for Aerys' actions. It was hardly
the first time he had seen her battered and bruised by his father's hand. It likely wouldn't be the last
either.

The first time he had ever seen Rhaella abused, he was fifteen years old. Just returned home from
Winterfell, he was heartbroken and angry, antsy to get back to Lyanna, to fulfill his promise to
her.

As soon as he stepped foot back in the Red Keep, his father had announced his new betrothed
was coming to the city to wed him immediately. At first, Rhaegar had thought his father mad.
Aerys' hatred for Dorne, and more specifically the Martells, was legendary.

Aerys thought them to be sneaks and scoundrels, unworthy of their lands. Rhaegar never dreamed
in a thousand years his father would sell him off to the Dornish princess.

The morning Elia Martell's ship was spotted on the horizon, he realized his father had not been
lying. So, Rhaegar snagged a horse from the stables and fled from the Red Keep, hellbent on
riding to Winterfell for his true betrothed. He would starve, would steal, would do anything as
long as he got back to Lyanna. Once he reached her, he'd decided, they would run away to Essos
and be together, free from his father's grasp.

The Kingsguard had caught him before he even reached the kingsroad.

They'd dragged him back to the throne room before his father, their hands iron clamps around his
shoulders as Rhaella was summoned forth. To this very day, he could still recall the terrified glint
in her eyes, the shifty way she shuffled to Aerys' side.

His father had taken both of her hands in his, smiling at Rhaegar all the while, and savagely
wrenched. He broke both of her wrists in that moment and then ordered Maester Pycelle to
bandage her up before Elia Martell reached the castle.

"The next time you try to flee," his father had promised him, "I will kill your mother. And her
blood will be on your hands."
He never tried to run again.

Rhaella began to cry harder as Rhaegar reached out a gentle finger to run over her cheek, shaking
violently under her covers. "Viserys was so eager to see the tourney. I never meant to upset your
father."

Rhaegar frowned, feeling his exhaustion for his life to his very core. He was a prince, healthy, of
wealth and fortune, but he would have traded it all to be a lowly farmer with Lyanna at his side.

Even after all this time, he still craved her presence.

"Perhaps I can speak with Father," he murmured, "I can ask you to accompany me since he does
not wish to go."

Rhaella shook harder. "You cannot!" She grasped his hand with startling strength. "He'll be upset,
please don't ask him. I'll be fine. Viserys will learn to take disappointment like a man. Please don't
speak to your father of this, please."

The desperation in her voice made him sick. "I won't," he assured her quickly before she worked
herself up even worse, "I promise I won't."

His vow seemed to calm her some. She settled back in bed, crying silently now. Her pain made
him ache with frustration: frustration at his wicked father, frustration with the ever so noble
Kingsguard, frustration with himself for being unable to stop it.

I hate myself.

"I am not going to go to the tourney, Mother," he told her gently, caressing her hair. "Elia will go
alone and I will stay here with you and Viserys."

Rhaella sat up in the bed fast and straight, letting the blankets fall from her. Her neck and
collarbones were laced with a thick necklace of hand-shaped bruises the same color as her hurt
cheek. He held in a gasp simply for the wild look in her eyes.

"You must," she insisted, grabbing his hands in hers. "You must show the lords of the realm that
you will make a great king. Show them so that one day you may unseat your father."

"Mother," he chided, "that is treasonous talk." But there was no harshness in his words, for he had
thought the same thing a thousand times lying in bed at night as his mother's screams drifted down
the hall.

Rhaella's tears came faster, but her voice was strong. "Do this thing for us, my boy, do this thing
for your kingdoms." She touched his cheek. "I know that you were born for greatness, Rhaegar,
even if you were borne of a monster.

"Show them your strength, show them your beauty, your smile." She sighed as she looked him
over. "You have a smile that could open up the very gates of heaven."

Rhaegar closed his eyes, wondering if his mouth even knew how to form a smile anymore or, if
he tried, his lips would crack and his teeth would shatter at the queer movement. "I have not been
happy in a very long time, Mother," he told her.

Her tears continued to fall. She was quiet then for a long while - so long in fact that he thought she
had forgotten about him - but when she spoke, her words were quiet. "Have you tried writing her
again?"
 A little thrill went through his chest at the mention of her. When he'd come back to King's
Landing at fifteen and tried to flee back, after Aerys had broken his mother's wrists and he had
been forced to receive Elia, Rhaegar had gone to his mother's chambers. He'd gone to his knees
and begged her forgiveness, had cradled her broken hands in his and kissed her bandages.

After she had calmed him, had assured him he was not at fault, he admitted everything. His
wedding to Lyanna in the godswood of Winterfell, their consummation and Ser Gerold finding
them.

His mother had cried for his loss with him, soothing her bandaged hands over his back. She had
loved Lyanna as much as he did, had known her to be a sweet and clever girl, had been waiting
for her to become a princess of the royal family.

And it was his mother who had suggested that since he could not try to escape back to Lyanna, he
could write her letters instead. One a week for six months he did, each message of varying length,
but none had ever been returned. He knew Lyanna was likely furious at him not yet returning
back to her, but he had hoped she would welcome his correspondence.

After that day in Winterfell's yard, he had never seen or heard from her again. Over two years, he
thought miserably. The melancholy weighed over him like a lead-lined blanket. Two years . . .

"I have not written her in a very long time," he said softly, looking away. His Valyrian steel ring
banded around him with a winter cold bite.

He could feel his mother's sad, tilted frown. She reached out, the purple of her face seeming to
darken to blue and black, and tucked a silver strand behind his ear. "Perhaps you will see her at
the tourney," she whispered gently, her words wispy as wind, "and you can rekindle what was
once lost. After all, the gods did fashion us for love."

Chapter End Notes

For anyone wondering: with the time jump, the ages are now as follows.

Rhaegar: 17

Elia: 21

Lyanna: 16
 Of Storms and Winter
Chapter Summary

Lyanna: 16 years old

Winterfell's sky was a bright and lively blue for the first time in months . . . but the turmoil
swirling inside Lyanna's head was as vicious as an autumn storm at sea.

An omen, Lyanna thought to herself, frowning as she stared outside her window at the burgeoning
spring morning. Starks are not meant for spring and summer. Only winter.

Frustrated with the gods, she turned away and jumped down from the sill, going instead to lug a
huge chest up from the corner of her room. Packing would be a welcome distraction from the
pretty blue sky, though packing itself came with its own array of dark thoughts and realizations.

Despite the risks, she was eager to do the mindless chore her father had meant for her maids;
packing silks and satins was far more preferable than the lessons Maester Walys had waiting for
her. She moved to spread her trunk out on the bed, thinking of ways to avoid her duties later on,
but suddenly froze at the sight of her dark blue coverlet.

On her bed was a crumpled piece of parchment, an invitation that which she had obsessively read
over a hundred times since her father had received it over two months ago. Its edges were
wrinkled from the grip of her fingertips, and its words had been smudged from her touch, but the
seal had been left miraculously unmarred, still shiny and hard.

A glob of yellow wax, bright as sunshine, imprinted with nine bats in flight. The sigil of House
Whent.

The abused parchment was an invitation addressed to Lord Rickard of House Stark, an invitation
that which called all important lords and vassals, freeriders and hedge knights, highborn ladies and
well-famed sers, to travel to the castle of the Whents in one month's time for the greatest event the
realm would ever see.

The tourney at Harrenhal.

A ten-day tournament, there was to be jousting and a melee, feasts and dancing, a tourney for
singers, axe-throwing and archery, a horse race and a mummer's show, magicians and puppeteers
and artisans the likes of which Lyanna had never known.

It was talked to be the grandest event Lyanna would ever see in her life. Every noble House
worthy of mention had been called to attendance, to participate in the boasted grandeur of haunted
Harrenhal: Lannister, Baratheon, Arryn, Stark, Manderly, Hightower, Redwyne, Tyrell, Dayne,
dozens and dozens more, and . . . Targaryen.
Lyanna gritted her teeth like a woman in childbirth; even the mere thought of the dragon dynasty
brought a sour taste to her tongue. She had done well as of late, had trained her mind to clear and
blank whenever he was mentioned. It had been months since she had truly thought of her
husband, months since her head had been tainted with his influence.

But, without fail, the sight of his name on that parchment released the floodgates, and her mind
was once more stormed with remembrance: silver hair under a pale grey sky, a raw lace gown, a
cloak of midnight velvet and glistening rubies that were frosted with snow.

Memories had teeth, Lyanna had been forced to learn to her utter sorrow, but that particular one
never failed to bring a stinging pain to her chest. Like the hunger of a pack, her wedding day sank
its fangs into her flesh and drew blood.

Sometimes it was difficult to believe it had been over two years since Rhaegar had wrapped his
cloak around her shoulders in the godswood, making her both a princess and a Targaryen with
one fell swoop before the eyes of her gods. He'd brought her under his protection, laid her down
to take her maidenhead, and rode away the very same day.

His last words to her had been a vow. "I will see you again, Lyanna!" he had shouted to her just
before he rode through Winterfell's gates. "I promise!"

When he'd left, she had held onto that childish, steadfast faith in him. The faith that affirmed that
Rhaegar would one day be back for her like he promised, riding in on his favorite black steed,
ready to steal her away. She'd dreamed that when he finally did come back, they'd travel the world
- Braavos maybe, or Pentos, or perhaps trekking beyond the Wall where they'd meet a pack of
wildlings and ingratiate themselves into their tribe.

She had fantasized about a babe coming from their once and only coupling, perhaps a silver child
in Rhaegar's likeness. Despite her fear and youth, Lyanna had prayed to the Old Gods that her
belly would grow in time for his return, so that she could see his brilliant smile bloom when he
saw the fruit of their union. A babe to bind them for life.

She had dreamed a thousand and one things . . .

. . . and Rhaegar never came back.

The news of his wedding to Princess Elia Martell reached the North only two months after he had
left.

Crushed and heartbroken, Lyanna had fled her lessons the day that news came and ran to the
keep, throwing herself at Old Nan's feet. With her own mother having died in giving birth to
Benjen, Old Nan was the only mother Lyanna had ever known.

Old Nan had smoothed her head and hummed a song until Lyanna had calmed enough to speak.
Then, Lyanna had spilled every last thing - the breaking of her betrothal to Rhaegar, their
makeshift wedding, the consummation, Rhaegar's promise, his new bride. She told Old Nan
everything that cold afternoon, and Old Nan listened.

It was a cleansing experience, to burden someone else with the secret she had kept locked tight
inside her chest. Besides Rhaegar and Jon Connington and Ser Gerold of the Kingsguard, Old
Nan was the only other person who knew about Lyanna's marriage and torn maidenhead.

When Lyanna had finished confessing, Old Nan had given her the saddest smile she had ever
seen. "The gods are cruel and have fashioned us for love, sweet child," Nan had said, "but you
will find that the people we love are rarely the ones with whom we spend our lives."
Then, she had left for an hour or two, telling Lyanna to wait in her chambers and to speak to
absolutely no one in the meantime, not even Benjen. When Old Nan came back, she held a cup of
steaming tea, the smell of it so strong, it burned Lyanna's nose.

"Drink this, child," Old Nan had said, urging the cup into her hand, "it will help fix any mess your
prince has made."

Lyanna had drank every last drop of that bitter herbal tea, and bled for seven days and nights.

Several months later, a raven flew to Winterfell, perching itself on the ledge of Maester Walys'
window. Walys had been in the middle of teaching Lyanna and Benjen the difference between
their laws when the raven landed, cawing impatiently as its beady black eyes looked around.

Lyanna could have sworn it looked right at her as it squawked, "King, king!"

Maester Walys had huffed and heaved himself up to feed the raven corn, then untied the scroll
from its claw. The old maester looked over the missive, growing ever more uncomfortable the
longer he read. When he was done, he chanced a swift, but meaningful, glance toward Lyanna
and dismissed her for the rest of the day.

At supper that night, her father had told her Princess Elia was pregnant with Prince Rhaegar's
child.

She'd cried herself to sleep for weeks afterward.

It was as if a hole had been punched through her chest, leaving her with nothing but a gaping
black chasm where her heart had once been. Food lost its taste, colors lost their life, the wind and
snow lost their touch. More often than not, she hid beneath her blankets or retired to the godswood
to nurse her wounds in secret, sobbing raw, heartbreaking sobs to any of her gods that would
listen.

It was excruciatingly painful to think of him with another girl. The images were what tortured her
most. Vivid thoughts of him shedding his clothes, sliding his skin over Elia Martell's, loving her
body, giving her his seed. It made her want to claw away her skin and scrape away whatever part
of her that still loved him.

She had trusted him, had faith that he would come back to her. Her best friend, her husband, her
lover, her liar. Rhaegar had never come back, had never even written her so much as a letter.
Instead, he'd gone and made love to a woman the realm called princess, and that was perhaps
what hurt the most . . .

. . . that while she grieved in her cold misery, Rhaegar was off loving another.

It was only when Brandon finally returned home with his new bride from Riverrun that Lyanna
came to terms and calmed. Her oldest brother had found her in Winterfell's godswood, gaunt from
malnourishment and swollen-eyed from her grief.

Brandon had sat with her for hours, letting the silent peace of the wood wash over them until dusk
fell, a dreamy purple sky blanketing Winterfell as the day came to a close. Then, he had turned
and taken her by the chin, looked her straight in the eyes, and said, "You are a direwolf, and
direwolves do not cry. Especially over dragons and the sun."

Lyanna had not cried a single tear since.

Not even when the announcement of the birth of Rhaenys Targaryen came by raven's wing.
With Brandon's lesson, Lyanna had hardened herself to the world, had turned her flesh and bones
to ice and steel until nothing could touch her again. She held herself like a true lady of the North,
feeling the blood in her veins howl like the white winds of winter.

I am of the Kings of Winter, she would tell herself, and no sun can touch my ice.

The sudden knock at her chamber door seemed as loud as a crack of lightning, instantly tearing
her from her thoughts. "Enter!" she called out, praying it was not the fat maester fetching her for
her lessons.

She heaved a sigh of relief when Benjen slipped inside. "I thought you were Walys," she breathed
gratefully, throwing a scrap of silk into her trunk.

Benjen picked it right back up, frowning. "How do you not freeze in this?"

Lyanna snorted softly, swiping the dress from his hands and threw it back into the trunk with a
careless toss. "We Starks are forged of winter, stupid." She tried a smile that she knew held
absolutely no genuine excitement. "Besides, we are heading to the Riverlands. The Southron
women wear far more revealing things than that scrap of silk."

Benjen arched a brow; he was a year younger than her, a fresh fifteen to her sixteen years old, but
he still had no interest in women, much to Brandon's bewilderment. All Benjen cared for was
swords and snow.

"Speaking of the tourney," he quickly changed the subject, "Father wants us to have supper with
him tonight, so that he may discuss the plans."

Lyanna's grin melted into a grimace.

When the invitation to Harrenhal's tourney had first come months ago, Lyanna had dug her heels
in and refused to attend. There was no need, she'd tried to reason, no reason at all to attend that
ostentatious show of the Whent's wealth. She'd even tried to implore Brandon to her side,
knowing how much he loathed Southron customs.

But her father could not, would not, be swayed, no matter the power of her persuasion or passion
of her wolf's blood. Her father had decreed that Lyanna would attend the tourney come hells or
high water, accompanied by Benjen and a party of Winterfell's household; Brandon would stay
home with Father and the newly pregnant Lady Catelyn.

Once at Harrenhal, she and Benjen would meet up with Ned, who had been fostering at the Eyrie
for years, and his fellow ward, Lord Robert of the House Baratheon.

Lord Robert was just the latest in a long line of suitors her father had been corresponding with, but
somehow this time felt different. There was a glint in Lord Rickard's eyes when he spoke of
young Robert, a passion in his voice that which he'd never had again after Rhaegar.

Somehow, Lyanna knew, one day she would marry the storm.

"Lya," Benjen insisted impatiently, "are you even listening?"

Lyanna rolled her eyes, sifting through more of the new dresses her father had commissioned to
distract herself; she could not let Benjen see how irritated she was at the talk of the tourney. "I'm
not deaf, you stupid. I'll be at supper tonight."

Satisfied, Benjen hopped down from her bed and went to the door. Before he could leave, Lyanna
called out. He stopped and turned back, expectant.
"If you see Maester Walys," she said with all the wicked insolence of a sixteen-year old, "tell him
I'm off shoeing the horses."

When she made it to supper later that day, the sky had blackened to a bruise and the stars had
emerged in glittering colonies. Father was already seated at the table in the Great Hall, joined by
Benjen, Brandon, and Brandon's pregnant wife, Catelyn Tully.

Lady Catelyn smiled gently as Lyanna slipped into the seat across the table from her, the blue of
her eyes offsetting her red hair magnificently in the torchlight. Catelyn was a kind woman, with
never a malicious word to say, but Lyanna could sense the Southron girl's bewilderment when it
came to her own cold bearing.

There was a world of differences between the two women, customs and upbringings, and ever
since Rhaegar's betrayal, Lyanna had grown ever colder and skeptical to those that were not in the
circle of family and friends. Because of that, Lyanna had never become truly close to her brother's
wife.

"So good of you to join us," Lord Rickard intoned in his rough voice, arching a brow at his only
daughter as she sat.

Lyanna said nothing, holding back the tongue that which would release a hundred and one biting
remarks. Instead, she took a sip of the wine in her cup, waiting in thick silence.

Her father cleared his throat. "I wanted to speak to you all before Lyanna and Benjen leave for
Harrenhal in three days."

Brandon cut in before Lord Rickard could say another word. "Does Lya really need to go? She's
a Northerner. She doesn't belong at some frilly Southron tourney." Catelyn shifted uncomfortably.

Their father narrowed his eyes. "If all goes to plan, your sister will be a Southron woman by the
end of the year."

Brandon's eyes turned to burning ice. "Lya was never made for the South. That's like sending
snow to the deserts of Dorne. It's cruel, Father, even for you."

Lord Rickard's jaw flexed. "Brandon, I have seen you grow from babe to boy to man, and in that
time, your blood has grown ever wilder, ever more willful. One day you will be lord of all this."
He raised his hands. "All of Winterfell and the North will be yours . . . but not until I am dead.
And until that time, I make the decisions, not you. No matter how much you wish you could.
Lyanna will go to this tourney and charm Robert Baratheon for the good of our House."

Her father took his eyes off his firstborn son and looked to Lyanna. "Do you understand, Lya?"

Lyanna took a deep breath and nodded, ever cool and composed. I am of the Kings of Winter, she
reminded herself. "Yes, of course, Father."

Lord Rickard jerked a nod, partially satisfied at her cooperation. "Very good," he murmured.
"This will be an excellent match for our House should Lord Robert agree to the betrothal. By way
of his grandmother, he is fifth in line to the throne."

Brandon snorted unkindly, spooning food around his plate carelessly. "Lya once had the first in
line to the throne."

"Brandon," Benjen murmured, frowning in disapproval. Beside him, her father's eyes narrowed
even further at Brandon's insolence, and Catelyn chanced an uncomfortable look across the table
at Lyanna.

"How dare you," her father ground out, pressing the tips of his fingers into the table as he stared
Brandon down. Lyanna could feel the stirrings of the storm that was to come, as it always did
when Father and Brandon were in the same room, two alphas unwilling to bow to the other.

She welcomed winter amidst these first tendrils of spring, but the ice their inevitable wrath created
had too much of a burn. Even for her.

Lyanna pushed her chair back and stood, all queenly grace and cold composure as she carefully
placed her hands flat on the tabletop. "Calm down, dear brother," she murmured, "Father is right.
Lord Robert is an excellent match, and will bring much power and prestige to our great House."

She pushed away the thoughts of dragons and fire boiling in her mind. She met her father's eyes
boldly. "After all, there were Storm Kings and Kings of Winter long before any dragon came into
rule. My line will have the blood of storms and winter and fire and blood."

Lord Rickard nodded approvingly, pleased with the show of solidarity of his Southron ambitions.

But, she thought to herself as she sat back down, the band of her Valyrian steel ring bitingly cold
on her finger, I will be the first daughter of winter to have husbands of both the dragon and the
stag.
 Battle Scars

They stopped traveling for the day when the sun dipped below the clouds and painted the
Riverlands in shades of purple and gold.

The servants and cooks and maids in their party began to set up the pavilions and tables for the
night, while Elia and her dozen ladies-in-waiting went off to do whatever it was women did.
Rhaegar went to sit on a small hill a little ways off in the distance, likely to brood or stew in his
melancholy; Jon Connington decided to follow, finding a seat next to his silent prince.

It had been many months since he and Rhaegar were in such close vicinity. Not one for the
intricacies of Court, Jon often stayed home at Griffin's Roost instead of scheming with the other
lords in the capital. He and Rhaegar were still on good terms when Jon actually did decide to visit,
but the closeness they had once shared as boys had waned significantly since . . .

Jon could feel the weight of her pressing down on them like armor; just the thought of the winter
princess was heavy on the mind. Jon glanced sidelong at Rhaegar, warring within himself on
whether or not to mention her.

Jon was well aware that Rhaegar did not like to talk about Lyanna, refused to even; it was the
source of many arguments for them after his wedding to Elia, and the ultimate catalyst as to why
Jon finally retired home for good, leaving his closest friend behind.

But since returning to the Keep and traveling to Harrenhal, it had been a constant fly buzzing in
his thoughts, and lay down on him so much anticipation that Jon expected he might explode from
the tension of her absence.

It was not only Rhaegar that had lost her after all, but Jon himself as well. At Winterfell, squiring
for Ser Gerold and building lives amongst the snow, Lyanna had become a companion of sorts to
him. The men of the North would often jest that Jon was out to steal Prince Rhaegar's intended,
but he had never seen Lyanna that way.

The only love he had ever known was a fresh pile of misery, caught in a life not of his own
making.

Jon ached for the plight Rhaegar had been dealt. Though wealthy and powerful and blessed with
incredible beauty, none of these gifts from the gods could be measured against the black hole that
had been punched through his chest.

Without his princess, without his true love, Rhaegar was just the skin of an empty dragon.

Steeling himself, Jon shifted in his seat and murmured, "Are you nervous to see her once more?"

Rhaegar visibly froze, every line of his body coiled like a waiting snake. He did not move a
muscle, he was so tensed, and only raised his eyes a fraction to stare out at the horizon. Even
without eye contact, Jon could sense the very turmoil raging within his prince's heart like a cruel
summer storm.

When he spoke, Rhaegar's voice was as hard as iron. "To whom do you refer?" He preferred to
dance around Lyanna's existence rather than truly confront it, pretending that if he did not mention
her, then perhaps she would cease to haunt his heart.

But Jon knew his friend better than some stranger, and would not leave it at that. Jon had given
her away at their wedding, had seen the all-powerful love between the two. He would not allow
her away at their wedding, had seen the all-powerful love between the two. He would not allow
Rhaegar to forget her, no matter how painful it was, no matter if he had a new life to tend to now.

Emboldened, Jon said, "Your wife, Your Highness." He narrowed his eyes and dropped his voice
to a faint breath. "The only true wife you have."

Rhaegar let out a cutting breath and squeezed his eyes closed, as if just the reminder of her caused
him great pain. "Jon," he said with horrible exhaustion. "Please, don't..."

Jon was both shamed and enflamed. He never wished to hurt Rhaegar, he did not want to ever
heap more pain onto his plate, but he loathed the way Lyanna was treated like some war criminal,
or worse, a ghost.

The Stark name was forbidden at Court. The first and only time someone had uttered the tale of
the betrothal shame to House Stark, Aerys had had the man's tongue cut out and painted the floor
red. Only a week later, Princess Elia Martell had arrived to the capital to marry Rhaegar, and
Lyanna was near forgotten.

Jon remembered her though. He remembered the broken way she had looked in the yard as
Rhaegar had been forced to ride from Winterfell. A week later, when Jon himself had ridden for
King's Landing, she had hugged him and promised she would see him again, that Rhaegar was
coming back for her and life would go back to normal.

Rhaegar had never gone back for her, and that was something Jon would never understand.

"Do you not appreciate my candor, friend?" Jon asked, feeling particularly incensed on behalf of
Lyanna; he had not seen her since leaving her at Winterfell, and felt her loss greatly. "Or is it that
the reminder of the true princess of these kingdoms weighs too heavily on your heart as you play
prince with that Dornish imposter?"

Rhaegar scowled and turned to face him. "Talk like that will make people wonder where your
loyalty truly lies, Jon."

"So eager to forget her," Jon frowned, wondering just how close his prince had become to the
Dornish girl in his many months away from King's Landing. Had Elia finally sunk her claws into
him?

Still, Rhaegar had never seemed to embrace his second marriage . . .

For a long time, Jon did not think Rhaegar would respond. His prince stared sullenly out into the
distance, as if lost in deep thought. But his voice was passionate, yet low, when he finally spoke.

"I have never forgotten her, Jon," Rhaegar murmured, threading his hands together nervously.
"There has not been a moment of my life that has been free of her influence. I think of her
constantly, I dream of her nearly every night. My wife . . . my true wife is never out of my
thoughts." He clenched his jaw, popping a muscle. "Or my heart."

Jon was surprised. It was the most feeling Rhaegar had shown in years. Since the breaking of his
and Lyanna's betrothal, Jon and Rhaegar's friendship had fallen into disrepair. A chasm formed
between them, leaving them two old acquaintances rather than the brothers they had almost
seemed.

But now, with only the mere mention of Lyanna Stark, it was like seeing Rhaegar alive again,
even if steeped in sadness.

Jon was curious, struck with a sudden query. "Rhaegar," he said quietly, "does Elia know of your
past betrothal? Does she know of your first marriage?"
Rhaegar let out a shuddering breath. "Of course not," he said. "I'm unsure if Elia even knows I
was betrothed before her, let alone," his voice lowered, "married."

At the far side of the field, Elia suddenly laughed as she danced with her lady, Ashara, to the tunes
a singer bellowed before them. Rhaegar was lost in his own mind, but Jon scowled, instantly
sickened. "Vapid girl," he muttered low.

It was an old habit Jon had picked up from the very beginning of Rhaegar's marriage with the
Dornish princess. Some deep, dark part of him despised Elia Martell, though it was no fault of her
own that two of his closest friends' lives were wrecked.

That fault lay at the door of King Aerys, and King Aerys alone.

And yet, Jon could not help but boil with scorn whenever Elia stepped into a room, or placed her
hand on Rhaegar's shoulder, as if she belonged there. She was weak and unfit as consort to the
crown prince, and brought nothing to their union.

Her family was a pit of snakes with no real wealth to boast; her culture was undignified, and her
beauty was demonstrably weak next to ladies like Cersei Lannister and Ashara Dayne, and
especially Lyanna.

But perhaps the foremost reason Jon Connington hated Elia Martell was that she stole the last
shred of happiness left in his silver prince. And for that, she could never be absolved.

Twilight brushed away the last dregs of daylight, transforming the Riverlands into a globe of pink
and periwinkle. The clouds churned endlessly, forming puffy shapes and reaching so tall, the sky
was like a score of dreamy palaces from some little girl's favorite story.

At one corner where a magnificently fluffy cloud formed the grandest castle, Ashara Dayne
imagined Winterfell, the home of her betrothed. She wondered just how big the paramount
stronghold of the North was, and if it was as vast as people oft boasted. Eddard had once told her
it was three times the size of the Red Keep, a sprawling mass of towers and keeps and yards of
granite and snow.

Just thinking of Eddard brought an instant wistful smile to her face. She raised her eyes once
more, wondering if he was looking to the same sky as he rode to Harrenhal beside Lord Robert
Baratheon and Lord Jon Arryn from the Eyrie.

A sudden elbow caught Ashara firmly in the waist, causing her to stumble in the grass. Cersei
Lannister gave her a look that boasted both utter disdain and sweeping boredom as she glided
past, the trail of her green velvet gown brushing the field; Ashara held back the anger that rose up
in her quick as poison, not wishing to cause a scene before her fellow ladies.

It was only the fifth day of their travel to the tourney at Harrenhal, but Ashara was bone-tired. Of
both the wheelhouse she was relegated to sit in all day and the company, but they were really one
and the same problem.

The wheelhouse was comfortable to be certain, with throws and pillows, and food and drink for
Elia and the dozen ladies she had brought with her for the tourney. But the long days traveling, the
close quarters, the snide comments, it was a toxic mix waiting to explode.

Elia's dozen was an eclectic group of ladies, plucked from various corners and dunes of Westeros.
There was Ashara herself, three of Elia's cousins from a descended line, Septa Cay, Alerie
Hightower the wife of Mace Tyrell, twin ladies that hailed from Hellholt, another from House
Jordayne, a lady of Godsgrace, a younger girl from Yronwood, and Lady Cersei of House
Lannister.

Elia was often criticized for having such a wide array of Dornish in her entourage, most often by
the king himself who seemed to distrust Dorne as a whole if his constant sneers of derision were
anything to go by. The only ladies he seemed to tolerate were Lady Alerie - when she deigned to
show at Court - and Cersei Lannister herself.

Ashara enjoyed all of her fellow ladies-in-waiting, each for their own unique reasoning. But
Cersei Lannister was a snake in the garden for which Ashara was forever wishing for an axe.

She had golden looks and green eyes, Cersei did, with a thorny pride that could be pricked with
only the slightest provocation. She was haughty and condescending, with a cruel streak that
extended to any person below her station. However, her contempt did not stop at only servants
and their like.

Even Elia, Dornish princess and wife to the heir apparent to the Iron Throne, was subject to
Cersei's scorn and disdain. But, perhaps that was the point.

Cersei was . . . fond of Rhaegar, to the point that it was obvious to every man, woman, and child
with working eyes at Court. She would often smile and flirt coyly, running her hand down his
arm. Her favorite move had been to toy with her long hair, pulling it away from her neck to
expose her cleavage.

Well . . . she had done that before the accident.

One night, months ago in the Tower of the Hand, a candle had tipped over in her bedchambers. It
had spread flames that caught onto her bedding and her long golden locks. A servant had smelled
the smoke in time to douse Cersei and her bedding with a pitcher of ice water, but the damage had
been done.

The bedding was nearly incinerated and Cersei's hair blackened. They'd been forced to shear her
hair, so that now all she was left with was a cap of blonde curls even shorter than her brother
Jaime's hair.

To Ashara's utter disappointment, the cut had only slightly lessened Cersei's beauty. When she
kept her mouth closed and her eyes from narrowing, she was still an unbelievably lovely lady.

But Prince Rhaegar did not seem to notice Cersei, or any other woman - no more than he even
noticed Elia, his princess and mother to his child. Which saddened Ashara immensely.

Rhaegar was so fair of face that even Ashara had a difficult time looking away from him; tall and
cut with lean muscle, he was a sad, beautiful prince from the songs, a silver dragon to Elia's sun.
Elia was madly in love (and lust) with Rhaegar . . . well, as in love with a cold and distant man as
you could be, but it was an entirely unfulfilling and, frankly, one-sided love.

For Rhaegar, impossibly beautiful and melancholy that he was, never reciprocated emotions. Nor
anything physical either, Elia had let slip to Ashara one fantastically drunken night.

It was as if he had absolutely no interest in children, or the delightful process of making them. He
was a good father to little Rhaenys of course, always ensuring she had whatever she needed or
wanted. But still, it was evident, even to an objective outsider like Ashara, that there was a
disconnect between the prince and everyone around him.

Ashara could only be supremely grateful for the betrothed she had been given to. Lord Eddard of
the House Stark, tall and slight and long-faced, with the grim grey eyes of winter. He was a quiet
man, prone to long bouts of silence and unreadable expressions, but with a golden heart and, for
that, she could not have been gladder for the match.

Her father and Lord Rickard had maintained a longstanding friendship since their youth that had
eventually led to talks of betrothal. Ashara had once thought to be betrothed to Brandon, the wild
eldest son Rickard spoke of with fond exasperation, but he had ended up marrying Lady Catelyn
of Riverrun.

And then Lord Rickard had brought Eddard to Starfall when he was sixteen, and Ashara had
fallen instantly for the serious, quiet second son of Stark.

Ashara prided herself on being cool-headed and poised with the confidence of a true
Dornishwoman, but when it came to Eddard, something inside her would snap. He brought out
vibrancy in her life the likes of which she had only experienced on the shores of Starfall, with the
blue waves crashing against the rocks and sand, sweeping away the shells as the water tickled her
feet. Eddard gave her heart the childlike lust for life she had lost years past once leaving her home
to serve Elia.

Near him, Ashara grew bolder. Writing to him gave her calm. Receiving his letters made her heart
ache with want.

She had never once thought to be married to the North, especially after the debacle of King Aerys
shaming House Stark by breaking the betrothal between Prince Rhaegar and the Lady Lyanna. It
had been the scandal of the realm at the time, Court buzzing with talk just as Ashara had arrived in
King's Landing.

All that had ceased when one day, King Aerys caught a man of his guard jesting about the Wolf
of the North's wrath against the dragon. The Mad King had demanded the man's tongue out
instantly before Court and forbid any more talk of the North or House Stark.

It was the sole reason Ashara had never mentioned Lady Lyanna's past connection with Prince
Rhaegar to Elia; having spent most of her adult life in Essos, it was likely that Elia had little
knowledge of Westerosi affairs, even of her own husband. And no matter how close she was to
the princess, Ashara feared the Mad King far too much to betray his orders.

She had no idea how close the prince and Lyanna Stark had once been in their youth, but Ashara
hoped for all their sakes, that any love that might have once been between the wolf and the
dragon, was dead and buried and gone.

Or else, she feared, the sun would have a perilous time trying to stave off winter.
 The Wives of Ice and Fire

The welcoming feast was in full swing as twilight fed into darkness.

Harrenhal's Hall of the Hundred Hearths entertained an army of nobility: armed knights with
swords flashing needlessly at their hips, eager groups of young squires babbling excitedly, young
lords prancing around like proud peacocks in their House colors, and silken ladies that hailed from
lines old and new, each side-eyeing each other with a hunter's look in their eyes.

In the upper galleries, a variety of musicians were playing and singing songs beloved of every
region of the realm: "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," "The Dornishman's Wife," "Brave Danny
Flint," and many, many more. But none of these songs could surpass the wave of noise of the
tourney guests - laughing and shouting, excited chatter and boasting words, screaming
encouragements and shrill shrieks over drinking games and the like.

Dozens of trestle tables had been arranged throughout the hall, seating those most important
closest to the east side, gaining westward as their prestige descended. The dais was set up against
the far wall, a long table with a runner of sunshine yellow cloth straight down the center. Behind it
hung two banners, one of yellow and black with bats in flights, and the other of black and red
with a roaring three-headed dragon. Whent and Targaryen.

The dais sat Rhaegar and Elia, both crowned, Lord Whent, Lady Whent, their four sons and
single daughter, a few of Elia's ladies, and several of the king's council, though the king himself
had thankfully stayed behind in King's Landing. All six of the Kingsguard had accompanied their
party to Harrenhal, forming two lines of three men on each end of the dais, each white-clad in
tunic, mother-of-pearl hauberk, woolen breeches, and high boots.

Servants, cooks, and wenches roamed like ants between the tables, refilling plates and topping off
decanters and cups, sneakily flirting with the bolder lesser lords and green squires.

It was the first official feast for the tourney, welcoming in all the guests that had traveled far and
wide to come to the ruinous splendor that was Harrenhal. A ten-day event it would be, with races
and melee and jousting and entertainment. And tomorrow, the games would begin.

Looking outward from her place on the dais, Ashara helped point out to Elia everyone worth
knowing as the third course came to a close.

As far from the dais as could be, there were the tables of freeriders and hedge knights, camp
followers and squires. There were men of lower-level Houses that Elia had never before heard of.
There were Hornwoods, Blounts, Haighs, and Mormonts. Lonmouths, Hunters, Dustins, and
Freys.

Toward the center of the room, Ashara pointed out the Manderlys, Blackwoods, and Royces. Elia
saw Lord Jon Connington, a friend to her husband, sitting with men in livery of red and white.

Then, closest to the dais were those of the Great Houses: Ser Jaime, all golden hair and arrogance,
sitting with Cersei and men of House Lannister. There was Lord Jon Arryn, Warden of the East,
and his crew of cream-and-blue men. She saw fat Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, eating happily as
his sullen mother's beady eyes searched the hall; beside them was Mace's wife, Alerie of House
Hightower, the great-niece of Lord Commander Ser Gerold.

Next was Lord Robert Baratheon, a maiden's fantasy if there ever was one: strong and muscled
and black-haired, with blue eyes and an infectious laugh. He wore a cloth-of-gold doublet and a
smile that promised trouble, his teeth shining white and two crescent moon dimples showing in his
cheeks.

The last, and most important, Ashara teased, was House Stark. She first pointed out her betrothed
Eddard, a grim-looking boy of nineteen, with none of the easiness or spirit Robert Baratheon
possessed. Eddard had long brown hair, a long face, and eyes that seemed cut straight from ice.

His brother, however, was a different story. Benjen, the youngest of the Stark brood, was dark of
hair and dark of eyes, with a face that was expressive and open as he took in the hall. He seemed
engrossed in whatever story Lord Robert was telling, leaning forward on his elbows as he snuck
sips from his cup of wine.

The eldest, Brandon, had stayed behind in Winterfell with his pregnant wife, Catelyn once of
Riverrun, and his father, Lord Rickard, Warden of the North.

Yet still, at the Stark table, a single chair was empty, a glaring absence amongst the group. Ashara
frowned as she looked. "Lyanna did not come to dinner." Her tone was offbeat, relieved almost.

Elia glanced back at the table, curious. But it was as if the boy could feel her interest; Benjen's
eyes found her eyes, grey on black, narrowing so coldly that she flinched. He stared at Elia,
through her, as if she had just killed his puppy. She dropped her eyes quickly, heart racing wildly,
grateful when the servants bent before her to take the plates away.

Dessert, the final course, was coming. She tried to forget young Benjen Stark.

Platters of honeyed pears and crisped and spiced apples were brought forth first, followed by flaky
tarts and creamy custards. The dais was served first, followed by the rest of the tables by order of
prestige.

Elia tried the fruits first, never one with a stomach for richer things. Like her mother, Elia had a
weak body. She allowed Ashara to have her plate of tarts with custard, instead eating small bits of
spicy apples as she stared blankly out into the distance.

And it was only because of that, her bored stare, that she caught the page opening the door clear
across the hall, holding it back as a figure stepped slowly through.

The torchlight fell upon her in shades of crimson and gold, revealing a small, slim girl that was as
pale as freshly fallen snow. Her silken gown was the color of hoarfrost, a slinky thing that clung to
every curve of her slim body, from the swell of her chest to the tuck of her stomach, all the way
down her long legs. Sitting around her brow was a slim crown rope of glittering beads; sapphires,
from the look of it.

She strode inside blank of face, and eyes instantly began to stray toward her, awestruck and
curious at the latecomer's arrival. Her steps were deliberate, a gliding movement almost that
reminded Elia of the stories Oberyn used to tell her of the fabled Others. It struck Elia at once as
this mystery girl made her way through the center of the room, that she had all the presence of a
winter storm: dangerous, but oh so beautiful to look upon.

"Who is that?" Elia heard herself breathe aloud, her heart picking back up.

Ashara was silent for a loaded moment before finally murmuring, "Lady Lyanna Stark."

Elia blinked. The sister to grim Eddard and excitable Benjen? This girl, this young Lyanna Stark,
was quite possibly more beautiful than even Ashara’s tales had permitted in the past.

Elia was instantly entranced by the little Northern lady, finding it hard to tear her eyes away; the
girl was young and slender, unmarred by time or childbirth, with a ridiculously small waist and
subtle curves in her chest and hips that would attract anyone's attention.

She was a maidenly vision of innocence and beauty, and all seemed to know it; neither man nor
woman could seem to take their eyes off her, including even the Kingsguards that whom had
sworn solemn vows to never take up a wife or lover.

Only one man concerned Elia though . . .

In the two and a half years of their marriage, Rhaegar had been a most surprising husband. Not in
the way of gifts or fancies, but in character. When Elia had first heard she was marrying a dragon,
she had expected a lusty, fiery creature that would devour her just as sure as she would allow him
to.

What she had received was a melancholy boy of fifteen years old, the world sitting heavy upon his
shoulders. Rhaegar was not brazen or even lustful, laying with her only until she became pregnant
three months into their union, but even in those times, the act was not passionate or particularly
warming.

He always kept his clothes on so that his skin could not brush hers, never kissed her, and retreated
from her chambers as soon as he had filled her with his seed. She'd never even been inside his
rooms; Rhaegar never lingered, nor tried to make things last. He did his duty as was expected of
him, and no more.

But the look on his face when Lyanna Stark approached was that of a man fully engulfed in the
flames of his own desire, ready to burn for every inch of that girl.

Elia felt an immediate uneasiness in her stomach, a curdling that made her want to empty her
dinner all over the floor. That look, that loaded look on her husband's face, was everything she
had ever wanted and hoped for at this tourney. Want, neediness, lust, and all for this random
Northern girl. Elia was sick.

When Lyanna Stark finally made it to her table, all the men had respectfully stood up, but it was
young Lord Robert that stepped forth to take her hand. He placed a kiss on her palm, his blue eyes
searing, then waited for her to sit before sliding into the seat beside her.

Elia glanced left. Rhaegar was still staring, his pulse point going mad beneath the pale skin of his
neck. She felt her entire body sink, anxious tingles spreading through her body until her fingers
were numb.

"Rhaegar," she called out, hoping to distract him from the stranger girl. Anything to make him
look away. "Rhaegar," she put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

Her touch seemed to make him come alive. Rhaegar flinched away and twisted from her grasp,
turning his wide purple eyes on her; it was as if she was a stranger. "What?" he asked breathlessly.
"What do you need?"

Elia swallowed back fear. "The dancing will begin soon," she smiled. "Would you like to open
the floor?" She wanted - no, needed - his mind on something, anything else than the pretty girl up
front.

Rhaegar blinked quickly, breathing harshly. "No," he whispered, as if to himself. He pushed back
in his seat suddenly and sent another glance toward the table of Stark, his body radiating a wild,
nervous energy. "I must speak with Jon."

He walked away without another word from the dais, his broad back to Elia, the three-headed
dragon of Targaryen staring her in the face. A shiver went up her spine. She sank back in her seat
as he searched out Connington's table, her stomach roiling and her hands shaking.

In Rhaegar's absence, Elia dared a look at the Starks, hoping to study this Lyanna.

She froze on sight.

Lyanna Stark was already staring straight at her, so intensely, grey eyes like the sharp caps of
mountain tops. Elia felt Lyanna's stare tangibly, scraping into her very skin like a blade. The look
lasted only a second, a brief, swift contact of the eyes . . .

But in that moment, Elia could have sworn she felt the first white chill of winter approaching.

A shower of sparks played devil red into the air before the dais by a magician's deft hand, made to
throw like the flames of a monster's bellow as the puppeteers commandeered their cloth-and-
sawdust dragons; the ladies screamed across the hall in delighted laughter and the men roared their
drunken approval, but Rhaegar was stone, with eyes for only one - the slender vision in snowy
silk, sitting cold as a block of carved ice at her table of wolves.

He felt his heart hammer out a staccato rhythm, raging against its confines of bones and meat in
response to her mere presence. He was nearly blatantly unfazed at whomever would catch him
staring, memorizing every splendid detail of her beauty; it felt like clean breathing, it felt like
home.

Lyanna had not looked at him once since arriving. She sat with a queen's bearing amongst her
brothers and men of Storm's End, her pale face glowing silver and gold by turns of the torch's
spitting flames. She was stunning to look at, he had been forced to realize anew, so tragically
different and so heartbreakingly recognizable.

She was still slight as she had always been, lithe and slim like some woodland predator, but filled
out in the places that only he as her husband should have noticed - but their little secret didn't stop
anyone's eyes from straying to her body, painting her dress hot with lustful gazes.

Lyanna's hair was longer, too, a thick mane of glossy hair that hung down her back like a river
slick; dark sapphires glittered wildly in a simple rope diadem around her brow, igniting like the
spark of cosmic starlight beneath the flickering shine of fire.

Rhaegar felt his hands thrum with need - the need to sink his fingers through her tangles, to slide
his touch up her skin and press his pulse into her neck. His blood was rushing like the hard current
of Blackwater Bay, making his veins absolutely sing for her.

With a move that likely delighted most women, Robert Baratheon, cousin to the throne, slid into
the empty seat beside Lyanna, flashing at her a crooked, dimpled grin. Rhaegar went rigid.

Robert was everything Rhaegar was not - dark hair, dark eyes, a bronzed complexion, heavily
muscled, a mummer. He wove elaborate tales and jovial stories to enrapture those around him,
liked to cast his net wherever it would fall with no care of the catch.

A hypocritical image of Rhaenys flashed sudden across Rhaegar's mind, only one in the very long
line of betrayals Lyanna had been dealt by his hand. A second wife, a first child, the life that
which had been meant for her given freely to another woman - another princess.

Two and a half years apart had left her to stew in her hurts, to let the poison of his treachery stain
her heart. The intensity of his gaze on her skin was as heady as a lover's touch, but she wouldn't
look back.
Look, he thought desperately, beseechingly, look at me, you beautiful thing. Look.

Lyanna accepted Robert's attention with a coy half-smile, meeting his eyes so intently, Rhaegar
knew she knew he was there, sitting, watching, waiting. Elia's hand drifted to his forearm,
squeezing gently, but he shook her off and pushed back from the table - the second time that night.

Elia's face turned up toward his, innocent and kind and not understanding the war raging within
him. "Ser Barristan," he called over.

Barristan marched to his side at a moment's notice, the white scale of his hauberk catching the
light. "Your Highness?"

"The princess would like to dance. I've heard a great many thing of your footwork." Rhaegar tried
to affect his tone light, to force nonchalance where he felt only pressure; his wife and knight both
seemed to buy what he was selling.

Barristan chuckled. "I have to admit my dancing skills are far lesser than that of my battle
prowess, but I would be honored to lead Her Highness in the next dance."

Elia smiled, her black eyes sparkling like dragonglass - the same eyes that his daughter had. "Lead
the way, good ser." She stood from her chair and took the white knight's hand, allowing him to
lead her to the floor.

The musicians began a new song, a slower build that was sweet to start and crescendoed
powerfully. When Rhaegar's eyes went back to the table of Stark, he found Lyanna gone.

Panicked, he searched the long hall, irritated by the flash of the torches and mummers and couples
dancing on the cleared floor. He saw black banners, yellow banners, pearly hauberks and silver
swords; there was the deep wood of the trestle tables and the brilliant ruby light of the hearths.

And there, suddenly, ghosting through the throngs of onlookers, a wolf all in white. Rhaegar
stood so quickly, his chair jerked back and toppled over, its clangor lost in the swell of the music.

He descended the dais, feeling the lupine eyes of Benjen Stark on him all the while, and wove his
way through the hall. He walked with such a speed, such a quick grace, that his people did not
seem to even notice his presence, too drunk and too full of joyful anticipation were they.

He followed Lyanna's brisk pace with a hungry gait of his own, eager to catch her, eager to stop
her. Once or twice, he lost her dress in the crowd, but he always found her. No matter where she
was, he would find her.

She had stopped by the table of Manderlys that was positioned near the middle ring of the dining
hall, encouraging a young girl out on the dance floor. Lyanna did not join, merely smiling as the
little one found an evenly-matched squire to hound.

Rhaegar froze in his tracks a mere ten steps away from her, locked in her field. Her eyes were
focused on the dance floor, but the tense lines of her body belied her awareness - she could feel
him just as surely as he could feel her, their energy and connection far too powerful to ignore.

Two long years and a handful of months they had been separated, and his heart had suffered the
greatest loss for it. Their last meeting was a tragic goodbye, and this moment, right here and right
now, was his chance.

At reuniting, at redemption, at her.

He closed the distance between them, trying to stand as casually beside her as possible so as not to
raise suspicion. A few ladies stopped to smile at him, but without his reciprocity, they quickly
moved on.

He was so close to Lyanna that he could nearly feel the skin of her arm an inch away from his
own; the top of her head came to the height of his chest, but he could make out the cold, clenched
expression on her face all the same.

He took a deep breath, holding it balled in his lungs, and blew it out in a whisper. "Lyanna."

She did not deign to flinch or show any other sign that she had heard him. Her eyes stayed stuck
forward. The song was nearing its end; his chance was almost over.

"Lyanna," he pleaded silently, half-turning toward her. "I need to speak to you. Come with me."

Lyanna stood still and icy, a Northern princess if there ever was one.

Rhaegar felt hysterical panic rising up within him. "Please, Lyanna," he begged, "I have so much
I need to tell you, to explain. Look at me, don't do this. Please, please."

The song ended in a gentle strum of the harp, and the hall erupted into applause. The floor was
beginning to clear as the next round of dancers emerged for the new song, an upbeat melody full
of fluttering sounds and soprano lyrics.

"Lyanna," he murmured urgently, eyes fixed on her.

When she turned to look at him, he nearly stumbled back in surprise. Her grey eyes, like winter
chips, were cold and merciless, landing heavily upon him like the beat of a hammer on steel; after
so long, he'd nearly forgotten what it was like to have the full force of her eyes on him.

For a moment, Rhaegar thought that she would not speak, only hold him in this madly intense
contest of stares, forging within them some bond that would either break his heart or exalt it.

But then her lips parted, full pink rose petals, and she spoke, clear and cold and sharp as steel
icicles. "You never came back for me."

She turned and strode away before he could respond or form a rebuttal, leaving him behind to
wonder if he had truly just been iced out by his wife, his princess and love, or if his heart had
resorted to conjuring up ghosts of heartbreaks past to further his pain.

Rhaegar took a deep steadying breath, tears pricking his eyes. The only proof she had been there
at all was the lingering smell of her spiceflower perfume.
 A Forfeited Promise
Chapter Notes

Last chapter, we left off with Lyanna and Rhaegar seeing each other for the
first time in years at the tourney's welcoming feast.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Lyanna could not believe he had been close enough to touch.

She had left the Hall of the Hundred Hearths in haste, eager to leave the ghost of her lover behind,
unable to reconcile that the boy she'd once known was alive and well and daring to stand before
her as if the past two years had not happened. Shaking with some unnamed emotion, Lyanna had
gone to her designated chambers within Harrenhal and crawled into the bed.

She had dwelled on Rhaegar's image half the night, brooding and aching until she was thrust into
a sleep so vivid, it was as if she were fourteen again with a head full of dreams - playing at swords
with Benjen, preparing to be queen under Maester Walys' teachings, letting Rhaegar read her
stories of Valyria in that lilting tongue.

But when she woke the next morning, gasping and cold with sweat, she was sixteen again, made
hard with ice and to be betrothed to a man with blue eyes instead of purple, black hair instead of
silver, lustful instead of true.

But no . . . that was unfair, wasn't it? Lord Robert had fathered a bastard, that was true enough,
but he had never married one only to take to wife another, had not pledged his love to the snow
only to drive his cock deep in the sand. And Robert's bastard had come before he'd met Lyanna,
whereas Rhaegar's had come after.

Rhaenys, the little girl was called. Was she a bastard? Lyanna wondered. Or was Lyanna the
bastard wife, the embarrassment to which Rhaegar turned his cheek? Lyanna supposed she would
never get her answer, for she planned never to engage with the man she'd once called her
husband.

Last night had been close enough as it was. A foot of space between them in the hall, Rhaegar's
scent so achingly familiar, it made her think of summer snows and curious fingers, High Valyrian
whispered in the hollow of her neck and bright eyes across the dinner table.

He was both so familiar and startlingly alien.

Lyanna knew his absence, but she did not know this man. And a man he was now at seventeen
years old; no longer could she glimpse in him the soft edges of her boy prince, nor the kindness in
his purple eyes, the light of his smile. All that she saw now was an iciness that had not been in him
even when he'd dwelled in the deep chill of Winterfell.

This new Rhaegar was taller by inches, and even slimmer, but with lines beneath his clothes that
belied strength and grace. His beautiful hair, once so long, had been cut, leaving the silver strands
to brush the slopes of his broad shoulders. His lips were fuller, redder, his hands meaner, but it
was his eyes that had taken Lyanna aback.
No longer lit up by the grey light of Winterfell's sky, Rhaegar's eyes were hard and cold and
nearly black as night.

No, this was a man that belonged to another, that had wed and bed a woman he called Princess,
that had a child who called him Father. Lyanna Stark's boy was gone, had been gone since the
day he left to go South. And he wasn't ever coming back.

While her brothers went to cross swords in the yard with other willing lordlings that afternoon,
Lyanna found herself in one of the great rooms of Harrenhal. A crowd had formed beneath a
raised stage where mummers were dressed in a rainbow of used finery and just beginning their
play.

Lyanna drifted toward the side of the room, squeezing between the wall and some knight she did
not know by name, curling in on herself. On stage, one mummer wore a wig of long white hair,
and was dressed in the colors of the crown; all around him were actors in colors of Westeros'
Great Houses.

She spotted Lannister colors, Baratheon, Martell and Stark and Arryn and Tully. Only House
Greyjoy was left out, the mummer boasting the kraken coat off to the side nursing a twisted ankle.

A musician with a small flute played out several notes and then the mummer in the white wig
stepped gallantly forth, raising a wooden sword that had been painted grey. "I am Aegon the
Dragon," he roared, "come to conquer the Sunset Kingdoms of seven. I shall be your liege lord,
and all those lesser beasts who dare call themselves kings would bow to me now!"

Aegon the Dragon turned his wooden sword first on the mummer who bore the colors of House
Arryn, cream and blue, and slew him through the armpit with an exaggerated stab. The Arryn man
yielded up his weapon easily and crumpled to the stage, laying injured and whimpering and fake-
dying.

Aegon the Dragon went for the Lannister mummer next, and then Tully and Baratheon, swiping
down each of his foes mightily until at last he came to the man in colors of grey and white;
Torrhen Stark, this man was obviously meant to be, though not nearly pale or solemn enough to
be a King of Winter.

Aegon the Mummer's Dragon drew his sword high on his last foe, preparing to mete out a most
fearsome strike, when the last King of Winter stopped him with a shout. "No! My lord," the wolf
mummer pleaded in a voice that boomed. "Lay down your sword, dragon, and I will kneel before
you, no longer as King Torrhen Stark of Winterfell, but as your man, true and loyal."

Aegon's mummer regarded the Stark mummer thoughtfully before finally lowering his arm and
dramatically accepting the winter king's allegiance. "Offer me up your sword, Torrhen Stark, and
rise again no longer as king, but as my Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

Torrhen bowed his head and stood, raising up with both arms in offering his own painted wooden
sword, a submission of peace. "I swear fealty to you, King Aegon the Conquerer."

The audience of watchers exploded with applause, smiling and laughing as the mummers bowed
and made a mockery of chasing each other across the stage, while Aegon himself rode a pig
dressed up in cheap dark steel that flared out at its sides in wings. Bits of coin and handfuls of rose
petals were thrown at the actors in appreciation, who in turn scurried back to gather their tippings
and went off the stage to usher in the next play of mummers.

It was then, in that interim of chaos when the mummers changed clothes and people filtered in and
out, that she saw him. Rhaegar, flanked by Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan, was watching her so
intently, it was as if no one else existed in the room.

Lyanna inhaled sharply in surprise and took a step back; she held her breath tight in her chest,
uncomfortable and itching beneath the weight of his heavy stare. She wanted to run, or turn, avert
her eyes at the very least, but he had her captured. Frozen. Locked in some snake's spell.

She looked back into his eyes, deeply despite the length of room between them. In his eyes, she
searched, trying to find that boy she had married beneath the fall of snows so long ago. The one
she'd wrestled from his own melancholic nature, the one she had cautiously touched in the
forgotten corners of Winterfell, the one whose seed her own body had accepted within the
godswood, the heart tree of her gods watching all the while.

She searched and searched those hard indigo eyes, and found nothing of what she sought. Lyanna
finally turned, spell broken, and slipped out of the room.

Her legs moved quickly through the dim twilit corridors of Harrenhal, blindly taking her anywhere
as long as he wasn't there. She didn't care where she ended up, or if she became lost; all she cared
about was getting away.

Away from him, those eyes, the body she had once known so intimately, the soul she thought was
hers to keep. She could not be near him.

Otherwise, that carefully crafted armor of ice she had worn for years would be swiftly dismantled,
and her shattered heart would fall to shards on the floor. These people would witness the shame of
her bitterness, her sorrow, and she would be ruined for the rest of her days. Brandon had helped
her forge this armor, and now that it had been tested, she meant to keep it.

She didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.

His proximity made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, made her skin absolutely
crawl with equal parts dread and anticipation. She could make out the thump of his steps on her
heels, timed out to the beat of her own heart, but she heard nothing of the Kingsguards that had
been with him at the mummer's show, no clang of steel behind her nor second or third pair of
footsteps.

Lyanna quickened her pace, feeling her palms slick as she closed them to fists; her arms were hard
and straight as iron rods as she practically ran deeper into Harrenhal, entirely lost and entirely high
on the adrenaline that pumped through her.

Ahead there were several doors, but she was unaware of what was inside them, and she saw no
glimmer of natural light to help guide her. Only the dim amber glow of nearby torches kept her
from being shrouded in the dark maze of this hallowed fortress. Lyanna's head swam as she tried
to lengthen her stride, to vainly make her legs longer somehow, to free herself of the footfalls that
pounded so close behind her.

Without warning, one shackle made of warm flesh suddenly banded around her upper arm, and
yanked. Before she knew what was happening, Lyanna was roughly pulled into one of the rooms
just off the hallway; Rhaegar had the door shut and her shoved against the wall before she could
demand to know just what he thought he was doing.

And because of the darkness, she could not see when his mouth finally came down upon hers,
only feel. The kiss cut through her as clean as Valyrian steel, tearing every last bit of her heart and
soul that was left to shreds; to the floor the pieces fluttered like drops of rain.
The press of their mouths together after so long apart seemed to drag into an infinite moment,
nearly never-ending, before finally she came to her senses - his betrayals, having to learn that his
promises meant nothing, the lack of letters, it all came rushing back - and she pushed him firmly
away.

With her eyes wide open and the slim cast of light through the tapestry-covered window, Lyanna
made out the wildness in Rhaegar's gaze. As if he were a corpse that had suddenly come back to
life, resurrected. In the dark purple chips of his eyes, there was a brief flash of her husband.

"What," she whispered, voice somehow booming like a war drum, "are you doing?"

His brows flicked up, eyes roaming all over her as his mouth worked for an answer to give. Like a
dying candle, he seemed to flicker in and out - one part Rhaegar and another part wholly stranger,
here one moment and then gone the next.

"I . . ." He seemed to struggle with words. "I needed to."

Disbelief rose up in her. "You," she murmured, "needed to kiss me?"

Dumbly and tongueless, Rhaegar could only nod.

"I am not yours," she told him fiercely, willing away the surge of lust roiling within. Her tone
turned to mild hysteria. "You cannot just kiss me after all this time. You have a wife, a child."

Rhaegar was desperate. "You are my wife."

Cold tears filled Lyanna's eyes, but it was not sadness that she felt overwhelmingly now. It was
rage. She had supped on her anger for two years, let it simmer and sit and age like a fine wine,
until it was shaken and stirred and ready for the cork to be popped.

"How dare you. How can you have the audacity to even think of calling me that after what you've
done? After the lies you told and the promises you broke. Prince or no, you have no right to even
kneel at my feet, let alone stand in my presence.

"You, who would call me wife, then ride South to fuck and father a child on another. Who would
give himself to Elia of Dorne in the light of the Great Sept, as if you had not lay me down beneath
the heart tree and let the Old Gods witness our union." Lyanna was trembling now, her entire
form shaking violently. "How. Dare. You?"

Rhaegar took a wild step toward, but paused when she flinched. "Lyanna, please, you do not
understand. There is so much I need to explain, if only you would hear me. Please, this has been
hell-"

"What," she snapped, "would you know of hell? What would you know of pain or suffering?
You left me, you promised me you would come back for me. You said vows in my godswood
and gave me your seed, you said the words before the gods. I witnessed you, Jon Connington
witnessed you. There's nothing you could say that would take two years of pain away. Nothing."

"I love you," he blurted out quickly. "Even time itself is no match for the love I feel for you."

Lyanna grimaced, chest tightening painfully. One wrong move and she would drown in his
words. "Stop that." Rhaegar frowned. "You do not get to say those words to me ever again."

"They're true," he said before she could interrupt. "They've never stopped being true."

Lyanna closed her eyes briefly, summoning the strength of her brothers, her father, Old Nan, and
 the cold winter snows of home. "Yes, they have," she whispered.

She began to twist off the ring she still wore on her left hand, the band of Valyrian steel that had
been her twelfth name day present from Rhaegar, that she had never before taken off. With a
clang, the ring dropped to the floor, spinning in half a hundred circles before finally coming to rest
on its side, a halo of blue steel and flaming red on the stone floor.

Lyanna looked up, eyes like silver full moons in the dark of the room. "Those words stopped
being true the day you left me behind." She wrenched open the door and walked out without
looking back.

Chapter End Notes

Hey guys, I'm back now!

 Wooing Winter
Chapter Notes

This picks up right where last chapter ended: Rhaegar kissed Lyanna, and she
left.

His soul had come alive.

I have been half-dead, Rhaegar mused as he strode back to the haven of his chambers within
Harrenhal, King's Landing was the shovel with which Aerys dug my grave, but one touch of
winter has brought me back to life.

Heart pumping, veins racing, head swimming, Rhaegar was gorged sick on adrenaline. The sheer
force of it was enough to make the glow of torchlight brighter, to make his fingertips tingle in
anticipation, to make the lingering smell of Lyanna's spiceflower perfume absolutely
overwhelming.

Rhaegar was alive, and he did not think he could ever go back. There was no plausible way, he
knew now; resuming that sham of a life in the capital was no longer an option. Not without
Lyanna. He had thought that he could play the mummer with Elia, so long as his father never
found out about his first wedding and no harm ever came to the Starks.

Hoping to live without Lyanna had been an epically stupid dream, and this mummer's farce was
finally done. Rhaegar held even tighter to Lyanna's forfeited ring.

Outside his chambers, bathed in the red-gold light of fire, Oswell Whent bowed in deference.
Rhaegar paused, half an idea forming in his mind. "Ser," he murmured, voice and thoughts
somewhere far away in the North. "I need a favor of you."

Oswell said instantly, "Anything, Your Highness."

"Flowers," Rhaegar blurted, "I need flowers. You are of this land. I need larkspur, and lilac. Pale
pink roses, perhaps."

To his credit, Oswell did not even blink or frown. "The larkspur and lilacs are native to the
Riverlands; however, the roses will be more difficult to acquire. But I shall do my best."

Rhaegar nodded, teething his lip. Absentmindedly, he opened the door to his chambers; it
screamed as it swung wide. "White roses will do just as well. I will need the bouquet soon, by
tomorrow night's feast." He fixed Oswell with a serious look. "It is imperative that I have them by
then."

For a beat, Oswell studied his prince, his friend. The Kingsguard searched, then he offered the
slightest of nods. "Of course, Your Highness. I will do so right away. Now, if that please you?"

"Yes," Rhaegar said, "the sooner it is done, the better."

Oswell searched his friend's eyes one last time, dissatisfied, and turned to leave. The clang of his
sword echoed ominously throughout the hall until quieting permanently, leaving the wing
shrouded in silence once more.

With Oswell gone, Rhaegar barred himself inside his chambers, lighting his army of unlit candles
with the glowing head of one already flaming by his bedside; the room went golden. Outside, the
sky was darkening from a deep lavender to a true cobalt, nighttime rapidly descending.

Tonight's feast would be starting soon, but he would skip it. Lyanna would not go, he knew her
too well; she would hide away in her lair, licking the wounds he had caused her while her pack
saved face on her behalf. Ned and Benjen would eat and drink and be merry, all the while
courting Robert Baratheon for their sister's hand.

In the clutch of his palm, the hard bite of Lyanna's ring turned Rhaegar's skin to ice. He brought it
up before his eyes, transfixed by the gleaming wisps of red that had been spell-forged into the
steel. Just its sight brought Rhaegar back to the day he had given the Valyrian steel dagger to
Mikken, only twelve years old, begging the grizzled old smith to melt it down to rings.

Mikken had been a good man, as had all of Winterfell's people. They had been the family Rhaegar
had never known he'd needed, kind faces and warm words in an otherwise chilling place - so
unlike King's Landing which was a mecca of beautiful landscapes, where kings were meaner than
dragons and words scarcely meant what they seemed.

In that moment, Rhaegar would have given anything to be fourteen again. To be that boy prince
who took lessons with Ned and Benjen, that rode horses alongside Lord Rickard, that pressed
secret kisses to Lyanna's neck by night. He missed the snowfalls and cold winds, the warmth of
the hot springs and the heat of Lyanna's hands.

His tongue swiped out reflexively, tasting the ghost of their earlier kiss that still lingered on his
mouth. It had been a stupid move, admittedly, chasing her through Harrenhal and crowding her
into a dark room. Stupid, so very, very ill-planned. But by every god, had it been worth it.

He had nearly forgotten what it was like to feel the press of their mouths together, the way hot
lightning struck through every limb and vein at the merest contact. Two long years without that
intimacy . . . and one touch brought it all rushing back.

The force of his love was even mightier than Aerys, than a ten-year summer, or a lifelong winter.
He would move mountains, raise every layer of hell to prove to Lyanna he would never betray her
again. If it took running away, if it took a war between kingdoms, Rhaegar decided, they would
be together again. The realm would either bow down to their rightful princess, or Rhaegar would
carve out every part of his lineage to start anew elsewhere.

The stack of parchment on the desk caught his eye. Rhaegar sat, dipped the quill into a pot of
black ink, and began to write.

The hours of the wolf and nightingale and bat came and went without Rhaegar ever having slept a
moment. Forgoing the embrace of sleep, he had composed two things for his wife: a song and a
note.

The song he would play for the later feast; he would stare into Lyanna's eyes as he sang the lyrics
he had written for her, as his sore, chafed fingers played over the silver strings of his harp. She had
always loved to listen to him play.

The note . . . would go with her flowers. Two lines of High Valyrian, all words she knew. I love
you, it read, meet me in the godswood after the feast at midnight.

Staring at the little scrap of parchment, Rhaegar could not help but think of all the letters he'd
written and sent North after his wedding to Elia, the letters Lyanna had never returned. He only
prayed this one would could sway her as all the others had not.

One last flourish was needed: Rhaegar slipped her ring from his small finger, and pulled out the
silk ribbon bookmarking his place in the tome on the desk. He wound the ribbon through the steel
halo, made a hole in the upper corner of the paper, and tied the ring to his note.

Rhaegar looked over at the window. Morning had dawned clear and bright over the horizon,
bathing Harrenhal in golden light. He would rest the daylight away, and tonight after the feast, he
would send her the flowers and note and ring.

He could only hope this letter was returned in love.

Little Lyanna Stark was laughing with Jon Connington.

Elia Martell could hardly keep her eyes off Lyanna the entire day, who'd been kept between her
brothers Eddard and Benjen as they eagerly watched the last day of the melee. It had been a long,
brutal event, with Lord Robert Baratheon emerging as victor. For his prize, he had been granted a
single long-stemmed rose of vivid red that he had immediately bestowed upon the Stark girl to the
roaring applause of the crowds.

And now, Lady Lyanna was standing by the tourney booths with Jon Connington, Rhaegar's
oldest friend, laughing and smiling as if they were the dearest of companions. Elia felt a spike of
irritation, swiftly followed by jealousy.

Jon Connington had never taken a liking to Elia; never had he sent even a gentle look her way,
never mind a kind one. All for her he seemed to have were sneers, where for Lyanna Stark he had
nothing but adoration, judging by the bright glint in his eye. Elia frowned, her eyes flicking
between the pair.

It was the pretty ones you had to watch, Elia's mother had always said, for the pretty ones always
hid the ugliest monsters. This girl could be a problem, Elia thought. She could not forget the
heated look in Rhaegar's eyes two nights past when Lyanna Stark walked into the dining hall; it
would forever be seared in Elia's mind.

She thought of what her mother would do, graceful in all courtly ways. Befriend the girl, most
like, for enemy or ally, she would need to be kept close.

Elia placed a hand on Lady Ashara's arm, tearing her eyes away from Lord Jon and Lady Lyanna.
"My lady," she said, "I will see you tonight at supper. For now, I would find my husband."

Ashara's smile was kind, but confused, and the curious looks of the other ladies-in-waiting did not
pass Elia's notice. However, Ashara nodded all the same. "Of course, of course," her smile turned
brighter, "I shall see you then, and for now find my own betrothed."

Elia departed quickly from her group of ladies, and made her way into Harrenhal. She had not
seen her husband since the previous day, just before he had gone to watch the mummer's show.
He had skipped the feast afterward and breakfast this morning, as well as the melee's final.

Unease trickled through her. For all her grand plans to woo him into her graces at this tourney, she
was utterly and completely failing. They'd barely touched hands, never mind bodies, and his eyes
could never seem to stay on her. It was maddening, but more than that, it was disheartening.

Elia wished for nothing more than her husband's attentions, to know that he desired her just as
much, if not more, than she desired him. She fantasized of long hot nights of passion and cool
mornings of coy looks across the table. It was not such an epic dream that it could not bloom, she
thought, she would just need to raise the stakes.

When she got to his chambers, she was surprised to see the door wide open for anyone to see.
Rhaegar valued his privacy above all else, locking himself away for days at a time in the Red
Keep, so to see his room open now was a shock.

Elia was quiet for a moment, viewing the scene inside with mute curiosity. Rhaegar spoke in low
tones with Ser Oswell, heads bent over the large desk in the corner of the room. Atop the desk,
resting in a vase of cut crystal, was a bouquet blooming in shades of purple and pink: larkspur,
bunches of lilac, a spray of lavender even, and blooming roses.

Elia shifted, and the door creaked beneath her hand. Rhaegar's head whipped to the side, his eyes
bright and feverish; the wild look he gave her made her want to run, but she forced herself to stay.

"My lady," he intoned formally, the only thing he ever called her. "What are you doing here?"

Elia put on a smile, though inside she was taken aback at how . . . alive Rhaegar seemed, as if
vibrating with intensity. "I only wanted to check on your health, my love. You skipped your
supper last night, and I had not seen you today."

Rhaegar's mouth parted, full and swollen as if he gnawed his lips to death. "I am fine. Your
concern is touching, though."

She could not help herself. "The flowers are beautiful. Who are they for?"

"From," Rhaegar corrected her viper-fast. "A gift from Lord Whent, as gratitude for the crown's
presence at his tourney."

Elia wanted so badly to believe his lie, and so she did. "How nice of him," she cooed. "I shall
write him a letter of thanks on your behalf."

Rhaegar was quick. "No need," he put in, stepping smoothly to the side, effectively blocking her
view of the grand bouquet. "I have written a song for the harp and will play it at the feast tonight."

Her heart fluttered; oh how she loved to watch Rhaegar play, to watch his long fingers dance over
the strings of his instrument. She was fascinated by the music he crafted, by the lovely words he
sang of love and pain and so much more.

"A new song, or old?" she couldn't help but ask.

"New," Rhaegar said with a clipped voice. There was a beat of tense silence as Rhaegar and Ser
Oswell only stared at her.

Finally, she broke it. "Shall you accompany me to dinner tonight, my love?"

She would nearly have missed the tiny narrowing of his eyes if she hadn't been so attuned to his
every move. "I shall see you in the hall, my lady." His tone was brusque, but there was a gentle lilt
to his words that soothed the dismissal; Elia's heart soared at the small offering of softness,
wondering if she had finally cracked this stone dragon.

"Tonight," she echoed, grinning like mad, and left with a skip in her step.

Lyanna wore the red rose Robert gave her in her hair. When she'd sat at their table in the Hall of
Hearths, donning a dress of grey velvet and the bloom of his flower, Robert had gifted her with a
smile so bright it put the torches to shame.

Lyanna studied this man that was to be her betrothed with a close eye as he drank and jested with
Ned, and threw grins freely at Benjen.

Robert Baratheon was handsome, that was a truth that could not be denied. Tall and fierce, with
laughing blue eyes and thick raven hair, he was opposite of his cousin Rhaegar in every single
way.

Perhaps that would make it easier to love Robert, never having to be reminded of what could have
been, of her past love. Lyanna's marriage and life in Storm's End would be entirely new. She
could start over, be someone else, and not just the girl who lost the prince.

Possessive as he seemed, at least Robert would never let her go. And if he gave her his seed, by
gods he would make sure to keep her afterward. And any child of theirs would be a force to be
reckoned with, half wolf and half stag, a winter storm. Blue-eyed and black of hair, too, likely; the
seed was strong in the line of Baratheons, and her wolf's blood would not change that.

Over the evening, Lyanna danced with Robert thrice, each time stepping a little closer, holding
him a little tighter, as if that would cleanse away the phantom kiss of Rhaegar's lips on hers. For
each dance that she spent, she drank a full cup of summerwine to forget his silver cousin who
brooded on the dais.

She had just gone to take a fourth dance when Lord Whent himself stood, quieting the hall and the
musicians. The lord raised his cup in a toast, and his guests followed suit. "To the gods," he
smiled, "and may they continue to bless this tourney and its peoples. May this summer last ten
long years, and may our harvests be bountiful. And to the crown."

Lord Whent turned to his side where Rhaegar himself had gotten to his own feet, donning his
royal circlet of gold for the night. Lord Whent continued, "His Highness has decided to grace us
with a song of his own making, to bring this long and beautiful night to a close." With one beckon
of his hand, servants came forth bearing the great weight of Rhaegar's silver harp. A chair came
next, with a gilded frame and a velvet seat. Both were placed in the center of the room.

Lyanna's chest tightened and her throat went dry. She could not remember the last time she had
seen Rhaegar play; years at the least. As a girl, she had adored watching him play in the Great
Hall of Winterfell, filling the grey halls with his silver songs. Lyanna filled her cup to the brim and
drained it all, ignoring the concerned glances of her brothers.

Rhaegar came to the center of the room and lowered himself into the ornate chair. The room was
thick with anticipation, waiting with bated breath as his slender hands poised above the strings.

And then one finger, that which was circled by a steel ring twin to her own, plucked and a high,
sweet note quivered through the air. A violent shiver wracked her body, eliciting the same reaction
his playing always had.

As if he could sense it, Rhaegar glanced up, fixing Lyanna with a bold stare. She swallowed a
breath, hoping beyond hope no one else could notice the fire in his eyes. Look away, she thought
angrily at him, at herself.

Ned's hand on her wrist made her look down at her lap. Somehow, not distracted by his eyes or
the glint of his crown, made the experience all the worse. For with blinded eyes, she could truly
appreciate his song, his harp, his voice.

The lyrics were haunting and full of sadness, rising to nearly insurmountable places only to crash
down in despair. Rhaegar sang in a liquid voice of love and heartbreak, of summers long and
grey-blue skies, of crumbling corridors and long bleeding faces and snowfall that never ended.
Their wedding day in song, worded deftly so, so that no one but she, himself, and Jon Connington
would realize its significance.

Her throat tightened, burning with the pain of held-back tears. She wanted this song to finally end,
she wanted it to last forever. The melody seemed to bleed with her memories, until all she saw
was the godswood at home, the heart tree looking down in acceptance as Rhaegar moved inside
of her.

The vision shifted, and she thought of crying at Old Nan's feet, of strong tea and excruciating
pain, of the ravens who bore the news of Rhaegar's first child - a daughter by the Martell princess.

Lyanna opened her eyes.

The song had ended and the room was alive with cheers as lords and ladies and knights and
servants all stood to applaud their prince. Lyanna stayed seated, as had Ned and Benjen, all three
Starks dwarfed by the standing height of Robert Baratheon.

Lord Whent himself closed the night. "Sleep well, my friends, for tomorrow is our day of races
and axe-throwing!" The hall instantly began to clear.

Ned leaned over to whisper in Lyanna's ear. "Do you need me to walk you to your room?"

Lyanna shook her head, knowing Ned was eager to see Ashara; at least one of them should be
with their love for the night. "No, you go with your lady. I will be fine." Ned did not seem
convinced. "Really, brother, go. I have Benjen."

Ned searched her eyes with gentle concern, but nodded finally. "I will see you on the morrow,
sister." He bent forward to kiss her cheek before he went off.

Robert swooped in, eager and grinning. "Would you care to have a drink with me and my men,
my lady? The night is still young and your brother, Benjen, would like to come to the tents with
us." Out in the fields, sleep did not come welcome.

Lyanna saw Benjen bouncing on the balls of his feet behind Robert, eyes pleading. She tried a
smile, but it was rusty and out of working order. "No, my lord, but you should still take Benjen.
Show him how true men drink," she jested.

Robert lit up at her faint praise, taking her hand to kiss. Benjen frowned, but his excitement had
not lessened. "Are you sure, Lya?"

She nodded. "I am tired and wish to rest. Go, have fun."

Benjen grinned, grey eyes alight with eagerness as he bounded for the doors. Robert sent her a
wink before following her brother the way to the tents outside, where his men of Storm's End
resided for the tourney.

Lyanna started the twisting way back to her rooms. But alone, she could not help but be haunted
by the way Rhaegar's voice had climbed over his own lyrics, of the heartbreaking way he had
practically implored her to remember their love in a room full of unsuspecting bystanders. It was
selfish, she decided.

The stone floors near her given chambers were not as smooth as the main halls, so drunk of wine
and angry at her husb- Rhaegar, Lyanna stumbled.
And was caught by one strong hand. Lyanna gasped and looked up, struggling to correct her feet.
The man was dressed in all white with the sigil of Whent embroidered over his heart; he was not a
Kingsguard she had ever met before, dark of hair and dark of eye, but with a kind smile. "Be
careful, Lady Stark."

Her embarrassment burned like fire. "Pardons, ser, I was not watching my steps."

The man waved away her apology. "These halls are tricky to navigate, of that I have personal
certainty." At her blank look, he introduced himself. "I am Ser Oswell Whent, brother of Lord
Whent himself."

Lyanna could see the resemblance now, those hooked noses and dark features. "I am pleased to
make your acquaintance, Ser Oswell."

"And you as well, my lady," he said quietly. He was still for a few beats, letting the silence linger
awkwardly, before taking his other arm from behind his back.

In his grasp was a vase of flowers in full bloom, dark larkspur and pale lilac, fresh lavender sprigs
and several stems of blush pink roses. Lyanna blinked, confused.

"These are for you," he said, handing them over. He did not move to leave.

So entranced by the flowers, Lyanna nearly missed the folded parchment attached to the vase, and
the Valyrian steel-cut ring dangling from it. Her jaw clenched involuntarily; Oswell waited.

Lyanna plucked the ring from the note and unfolded the parchment. Her eyes read the words of
High Valyrian quickly. She knew the first line intimately, had heard Rhaegar whisper it in the heat
of touch a hundred times; the second line she could piece together.

He wanted to meet her. Lyanna's eyes began to burn; her fist tightened around the note - the first
letter she had ever gotten from him since he left her on their wedding day. Selfish, she thought,
cruel. She wanted to rage. She wanted to cry.

Her eyes were drawn to the flowers once more, purple petals like his eyes, then to the ring. She
missed it already, having been without it for only a day. Just the solid weight of it in her hand
brought stark relief to her heart.

She chewed her lip, deep in thought, and before she could change her mind, slipped the ring back
onto her left hand. The crumpled note, she stuffed into one of Ser Oswell's open palms; in the
other, she handed back the bouqet.

"Tell your prince that I can not be won with flowers," she said to the Kingsguard with as much
seriousness as she could gather five cups of wine to the wind. Ser Oswell could only gape at the
small, skinny girl with anger in her eyes. "And one more thing: I am keeping the ring. It is mine
by all rights, forged by Winterfell's man."

Her throat burned with the cold rage of a winter storm. And I will not let it ever touch the finger of
Elia of Dorne.
 Heat of the Race

It was disconcerting, to say the least, to awake to the beauty of violet eyes.

Ashara rolled over in bed, letting the morning light lay golden stripes across her skin. Ned's heart
went slack at the sight. They had been betrothed for some time, but separated by seven kingdoms -
he high in the north or high in the Vale, she down south in King's Landing as lady to . . . the
prince's wife.

Ashara grinned, ignorant to the turmoil in his mind. "Good morning, my love."

Love, Ned mused. Ashara had never liked to call him "my lord" as propriety dictated, had taken to
calling him "love" instead in every letter she sent, dotting their talks with the word. A stranger to
the heated affairs of Dorne, he had at first been taken aback. But with each missive, each
encounter, he leaned a little closer into her roots.

Quiet, he leaned forward to press a kiss between her bare shoulder blades. Memories of their night
flashed behind his eyes; not consummation, but close enough. Usually, Ned would abstain, reject
such advances. But Ashara's smile, her affection, and the compelling point she raised of their
quickly impending wedding had Ned surrendering.

Ashara lifted up on her elbows, making the sheet fall even further down her spine. She studied
him for several long moments, drinking him in with those deep purple eyes, then smirked finally.
"If it is this sweet bliss I wake up to every morning in the north, I do not think I will mind the cold
so much."

Ned could not help the blush that raised to his cheeks. He was not what anyone would call a
lustful man - not in the shadow of Robert Baratheon - but Ashara's words were tainted with
nothing but honesty and satisfaction.

"Winterfell is built on hot springs, my lady. You would never chill within its walls."

"Or in your embrace," she added cheekily. Ned had to kiss her for that. She tried to hold on to
him, but he climbed from bed and began to dress while she watched, half-covered and completely
tantalizing.

"I wish we could stay abed all day," she sighed wistfully, watching her fingers splay across the
blankets. "It would be far better than to play court with Cersei Lannister."

He laughed. "Is this lioness a thorn in your side, my lady?"

"A thorn?" Ashara scoffed. "A dagger, more like. She schemes, and undermines, and lusts after
the prince while she smiles at his wife. She is no lioness, she is a snake."

Ned was quiet then. Sometimes it seemed as if the whole world knew his family's shame, of the
cruel way the king had broken Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar's betrothal, and cast her down. Ned
was only glad that half the realm thought Aerys mad, or Lyanna might have been unwed for all
her days.

Still, he could not help but remember the aftermath of Rhaegar's departure, of the slow way
Lyanna had folded in on herself until finally she was thin as a twig and inconsolable. Only
Brandon had been able to bring her from her sorrow, and even then, she was a changed person.
No longer the bright and laughing girl of her youth, but colder now, harder, a wolf queen if ever
there was one.
there was one.

Ashara seemed to sense her mistake. "Oh," she whispered, sitting up in bed. "I did not mean to-, I
was not implying Lady Lyanna-"

Ned cut her off with a raised hand. "My sister will be betrothed and married soon enough, Lady
Baratheon of Storm's End. The king's folly no longer haunts her thoughts." He was unsure
whether or not he was lying.

Ashara smiled shakily. "Has Lord Robert accepted her hand officially?"

He nodded. "Robert sent a bird out the night he met Lyanna, at the opening feast three days past.
He is half in love with her already, and wrote my lord father of his intentions. He has asked for my
father's permission to marry her soon after our own ceremony."

Once the tourney ended, Ashara would ride with Ned, Lyanna, Benjen, and Winterfell's host for
Starfall; his father had stayed home from the tourney in order to finish the overseeing of Ned and
Ashara's new chambers, but he would ride for Dorne to meet them for the wedding.

Ned suspected that after that, they would ride straight for Storm's End. Lord Rickard was too
eager for Lyanna to marry and wash away the stain of King Aerys' actions; on the day of their
departure for the tourney, his father had said to him: "Make Lord Robert see. Your sister is in the
flower of her youth, highborn and daughter of a great House, wild beauty personified." Then he
had paused, his grey eyes growing dark. "And wolves do not suffer slights."

Ned shivered to think of his father's words and the meaning behind them.

Ashara broke him from his thoughts with lighter words. "My wedding gown is in my trunk. It was
made in King's Landing by Princess Elia's own seamstress." Her eyes were playful. "Would you
like to see?"

Ned grinned. "No, my lady, let it stay a surprise for the day. I would see you in it for the first time
at the sept of Starfall, with the Summer Sea at your back." He shrugged on his doublet. "For now,
I must take your leave. The horse race starts at midday and I promised Lyanna I would cheer her
on. Will you come?"

Ashara smiled. "Perhaps." She reached forward and pulled him in for a brief kiss before letting
him go. "After all, I must get to know my good-sister before she is stuck in the south for all her
days and it is too late."

The spring day was perfect, blue and cloudless, light pouring down on them like liquid gold.
Cersei Lannister's short hair gleamed as bright as Dawn, her eyes green like summer grass, but her
words were clipped and ugly. "Lyanna Stark is hardly anything to look at," she snipped, griping
jealously. Cersei had seen the girl exchange a brief dance with her twin brother the night before
and could not shut up since. "And if you cut her open, she would bleed ice water."

Elia had other reasons to dislike the northern girl, but she would not voice them aloud, not here, in
this company. Ashara's unease was immediate, she having just joined them a few moments ago in
mid-conversation; she had been flushed and tousled in a way that belied her night's affairs, but all
over her face now was discomfort. Elia did not say a word.

"She is of the north," another of Elia's ladies added in quickly, eager for attention. From whom,
Elia did not know; sometimes it seemed as if Cersei was the princess that led these ladies instead
of Elia herself. It was easy to be trampled underfoot by Cersei's demeanor, her confidence, and her
beauty, all of which overshadowed Elia's plainness.
Cersei went on, unaware that just behind her, Ashara's frown was deepening. "Cruel gods breed
cruel people," the Lannister girl said in wispy gossip, "and the Old Gods are the cruelest. They
offer fealty to their gods by way of blood. Their followers are savage."

Ashara had had enough. "That is my future husband you speak of."

"No," Cersei gave her a pitying, condescending smirk, "I was speaking of his sister. But . . . yes, I
suppose Lord Eddard would be quite the same. Boys and girls living in the same household, they
can act quite alike."

"Is that why both you and Ser Jaime always seem so smug?" Ashara shot back. Elia tensed; she
had never seen her friend so disgruntled before, so different than her usual composure and grace.

Cersei smiled. "We are Lannisters." Left unsaid, and we are high above you all on our mountain
of gold.

In another life, she might have had a crown. Had Tywin Lannister been effective in his
persuasion, Elia had learned years past from Ashara, Cersei Lannister could have been Rhaegar's
princess. Elia wondered where she would have been then, without her silver prince. Still in
Tyrosh, married off to a lord? Or perhaps in Westeros, Dorne maybe, happy with some lesser
vassal? She would never know.

It was then that Melara Hetherspoon, Cersei's everpresent shadow, stepped in. "I've heard stories
about the north. They say the oldest bloodlines there are bred with animals - bears and wolves -
and that northmen can enter the mind of any beast they choose, to roam the lands and soar the
skies and feed off the flesh of man."

A lady behind Elia gasped. Elia laughed. "Skinchangers, you mean?" She had heard stories of
such people in the Free Cities, though none she had ever encountered. "I doubt the Starks are
cannibals. That's Skagos you're thinking of."

Cersei was unimpressed. "The Starks have no mercy," she said, "the ice and snows have frozen it
out of them."

"Hush," Ashara snapped, her ire prickled on behalf of her betrothed.

"They make blood sacrifices to trees," Lady Melara added stupidly. "The old way requires it. The
babes there stand no chance against such savagery."

Elia stepped smoothly between Melara and Ashara, lest the latter explode in rage. Or worse,
gather Ser Arthur's anger. "Ashara's children will be beautiful, and raised with the old gods as
well as the light of the Seven." Elia gave her friend a smile. "They will not be savages."

"Perhaps not a savage then," Cersei allowed slyly, "but no true lady blooms in the north. After all,
we have our shining example right over there."

Elia hadn't noticed they had made their way clear across the grounds until Cersei stopped. The
shouts were nearly deafening here as heralds called out names. The earth was dark and soft, and
the air reeked of sweat and horseflesh. Barriers had been erected around a long track of fresh
ground, where horses and riders and stablehands milled like flies. Spectators pressed against the
barriers in dozens, men mostly but for Elia and her ladies. And . . .

Elia saw at once to whom Cersei had been referring. Amongst the field on a large horse black as a
hellraiser was straddled Lady Lyanna; she was clad in rough leathers, her hair tied back into a
single braid, and one cheek smeared with dirt. She looked decidedly unladylike, Elia thought.
The black beast between her legs was stamping the ground angrily, knocking its head back and
snorting. It looked titanically powerful, altogether too powerful for the small girl atop it. Elia
wondered what folly Lyanna Stark was getting herself into amongst these men.

Men of great esteem were gathering all around her at the sideline of the field, each one mounted
on a horse of excellent breeding and demeanor; these men were true riders for a horse race, and
would best any woman who tried against them. Elia felt a pang of sorrow for this little northern
child who would lose.

"Lord Eddard said his sister would be riding today," Ashara murmured defensively.

"A great embarrassment she'll make for her House," Melara giggled. Cersei grinned.

Ashara frowned. "Northern children are taught to ride basically from birth. And Lord Eddard says
Lyanna takes after their brother Brandon, who is half a horse himself."

"Tell me, sweet lady," Cersei said, "what else does 'Lord Eddard say?'"

Ashara's eyes grew dark, and she opened her mouth to retaliate, but went silent as the herald
suddenly bellowed out a list of names. Afterward, more than half the men on the field left on
horse, faces drawn down. The losers, Elia realized. She had come late to this race.

The remaining contenders were four: three men and Lyanna Stark, triumphant and smiling on her
black beast. Elia could hardly believe it, Ashara had been right.

In King's Landing, being a good horsewoman was unnecessary, the talent beneath other womanly
duties like singing and sewing and praying. Looking at Lady Lyanna now, Elia could not imagine
her doing any of those things. This girl is a wild thing, she thought, eyes straying to the barriers
where the crowds were beginning to swell. Her heart jumped and fell. And my husband is
entranced.

With the final four races, the crowd had only seemed to grow more unruly. She saw men of all
stations come to watch - little squires, green boys barely off the teat, flashy knights, cooks and
servants, lords in finery, lords in rough, and . . .

Rhaegar. And there beside him Jon Connington, Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell flanking each man.
Jon was speaking fervently about something, moving his hands about wildly, but Rhaegar did not
even seem to hear. His attention was elsewhere, his eyes elsewhere, two arrows sunk deep into
little Lyanna Stark.

Elia tightened her fists in anger; her chest swelled with an unnameable emotion, something deeper
than jealousy, uglier than envy. Tears pricked at her eyes. Mine, she thought.

The herald suddenly called out a warning. The racers kicked their horses into place, and the
stablehands lined them into equal spaces. Rhaegar was watching raptly, as if his life depended on
watching her.

The herald called out again, a horn blew, and the riders were off like loosed arrows. The flurry of
speed was so quick that Elia could not tell where to focus; her eyes flew over the field, catching
Lyanna's braid fly, a man's face screwed in concentration, Robert Baratheon shouting
encouragements, Lord Eddard smiling, Rhaegar staring.

At the end of the track, the riders made a swift turnaround and were off once more, racing each
other back to the start. There was a young boy in front, flying too fast for Elia to make out his
colors, but he was quickly outraced by a grey girl on a black horse.
The shouts were getting louder now, ringing in Elia's ears. Everyone seemed poised to shout
something, curses, encouragements. All but Rhaegar, who was draped over the barrier in tense
fascination, eyes fixed on the hellhorse and its girl.

"She's going to win," Cersei Lannister breathed in surprise.

Lyanna Stark won. The spectators went absolutely wild, screaming and cheering and laughing at
the wisp of a girl who had outhorsed three grown men.

Lady Lyanna slowed her horse and took a victory trot around the field, her head thrown back in
delighted laughter. When she made it to her brother, she hopped down, and vaulted herself over
the fence and into his arms. Eddard hugged her tight and spun her in a circle. The men around had
to step back as her legs collided with them, but all seemed genuinely pleased to have seen her
victory.

"I must go give my congratulations," Ashara said excitedly, clapping her hands in glee.

Elia was mute, consumed inside her own mind, as snippets of thoughts and images battled one
another. But mainly, she could not get her husband's look out of her mind: hair catching the light
of the sun the way silver would fire, body poised and sensuous, eyes intense and vibrant.

A black thought that reeked of ugliness scraped at the back of her mind. Until Harrenhal, Elia had
never seen Rhaegar look at anyone with desire, least of all herself; in times of deep self-doubt, she
had convinced herself that his appetites strayed toward more . . . unusual flesh, but she pushed
such ideas far away, resolving to ultimately find a place in that cold heart of his.

But that night at the feast three days ago, something hot had gleamed in her prince's eyes as it
never had, and it was not the heat she had offered a handful of times in her bed before Rhaenys
was conceived, nor a return of her own attraction. Winter had come, and Rhaegar's fires burned
bright.

Rhaegar was still watching now, as Lady Lyanna was gifted with a purse of coin for her win.
Perhaps he just wants a pretty young thing in his bed, Elia told herself, fisting her hands in her
dress. It had been over a year since she had birthed Rhaenys, but the evidence of child still hung
softly over her belly. The rest of her body was twig-thin, a vestige of her sickly youth; men did not
like women who looked like boys, she had heard Cersei say once.

Lyanna Stark was not what one would call "shapely." The girl was slender and small, though her
breasts were perky enough for a maiden of sixteen. She had dark hair that was as long as Elia's,
but unkempt, and her face was deathly pale, as if forged from snows. Beauty, the girl had, but
there was a wildness to it, from the tousled toss of her brown waves to the boots she seemed to
wear in lieu of slippers or sandals.

Pretty young things were as common as coppers in King's Landing, where the peasant girls bathed
naked in the river and ladies in finery roamed the Red Keep. No, it was not necessarily the beauty
that had her husband's eyes following Lyanna Stark wherever she went, it was something else.
And Elia resolved to find out.

Befriend this wolf-child, she told herself fiercely as Lady Lyanna escorted her horse away from the
field. Take her under your own wing, and enchant her so that even if her eyes stray to Rhaegar,
the girl will not have the heart to betray you. She would buy Lyanna Stark's loyalty with care and
attention, and soon enough Rhaegar's interest would wane from her. It had to.

Elia leaned forward and caught Ashara's arm before she could go to her future family. "What is
it?" the lady asked, violet eyes confused.
Elia spared one last look for her husband, but he had gone, disappeared. Lyanna Stark's laugh cut
suddenly through the air, piercing almost. Elia shivered. "Go to Lady Stark at once," the princess
instructed, ignoring Cersei's sharp look, "and tell her I would enjoy the pleasure of her company."

Soon, Elia thought, tense as a coiled snake. The sooner she comes, the sooner Rhaegar looks
away.
 A Sizing

Lord Rickard had always said that the wolf's blood in Brandon and Lyanna was one part
stubbornness to one part recklessness to one part boldness, all quenched and burning under the
surface of their skin, waiting for the right time to thunder out like some wicked winter storm.

That morning, as the mists rolled in over the grounds of Harrenhal, merchants opening their stalls
with fevered calls of last-minute steel and weaponry and ornament, Lyanna felt the wolf within
her howling for revenge.

She had woken with the sun that morning, leaving her castle chambers to roam the far fields
where the tents and pavilions had been set up. It had been a beautiful sea of colored silk, rippling
gently in the morning wind and set alight by the rising sun. Several squires had been up and
dressed, scouring their lords' plate to shining for the opening day in the tiltyard with bleary, sleep-
hungry eyes and sluggish hands.

Lyanna had stopped to admire a few: the indigo steel of Seagard, the gleaming silver of Tarly, a
filigreed chestplate with the design of a falcon and crescent moon. It was fanciful, fabulous work
of a learned smith, but Lyanna found the most appreciation in plain steel, unadorned, hardened
and chipped from wear. If Brandon had been here, he would have said much the same, for war
was not meant to be beautiful. She would have given anything to have him with her now.

Her walk took her around the field, through silk of blue and green and red and yellow, until she
was far enough that she could see the vast greenlands beyond Harrenhal's limits, lit golden by the
sun. It was there that she heard the first scream, a howl so solitary and full of pain that it had her
stalking closer like a wolf catching on to the scent of prey.

The boy could be no older than Ned, but he was as small as Benjen. Slender as a reed and short,
too, the boy hunched in on himself as three squires set to beat him mercilessly. Lyanna studied
with the briefest of glances the victim: the shaggy brown hair and bright green eyes wide open to
the sky, bronze-scaled clothing and spear laying beyond his reach. A crannogman, she had
realized in surprise.

"That's my father's man you're kicking!" she'd howled, quickly snatching a wooden tourney
sword from one of their belts and laying into them with wild abandon.

They had scattered like cowards, showing her their backs, but not before she got a good look at
the sigils sewn over their breasts. Squires no doubt by their youth, one in service of Frey, another
to Blount, and a third to Haigh. Lyanna would remember them. A wolf did not forget.

Afterward, she had helped the little crannogman - Howland, he had introduced himself - and
walked him to the wing of the castle where her brothers were sleeping. She'd woken Benjen
roughly, relayed to him the story, and ordered him to clean Howland up to sit with them in the
stands later.

Then she had gone to the stalls in search of a tight-lipped armorer. It was there, haggling with a
particularly stubborn smith, that Jon Connington found her.

"What seems to be the problem here?"

Lyanna whirled, blushed, and ducked her head. The smith was the one who answered. "This lady
here wants me to sell her a full suit of plate for five hundred stags. I told hers I ain't no yellow
fool! She won't trick me, oh no."
"Do you know who I am?" Jon asked. The smith shook his head. "What about her?" The smith
shook his head again.

Jon did not miss a beat. He reached to his belt, pulled away a pouch, and dropped it to the table
with a clunk. "A full suit then. Everything included. There's coin enough there for it, and even
more for your silence."

The smith straightened, eyes hungry as he eyed the purse. "Yes, m'lord. I won't say not a word,
you can count on me." He stood and came to measure her with a length of rope, as she stood still
and silent in shock.

After it was done, the smith said, "I'll have it done by the morn'."

"Good," Jon nodded. "And remember, this is one secret best left untold." The smith gave Jon a
wink and disappeared into his tent.

Lyanna clenched her jaw, embarrassed at having been caught, and finally walked off on brisk
legs. She heard Jon follow close behind. "I had it handled. You didn't need to do that," she
murmured sullenly.

Jon ignored her, and raised a brow. "You could thank me, you know. It wouldn't kill you."

"I will pay you back," she promised icily. She needed no debts. Debts would only lead to more
questions.

"What exactly are you planning to do with the armor, Lya?"

Lyanna sighed. The nickname brought back pain and nostalgia, and yet, no amount of fondness
for her old friend could make her betray her cause. The anger of that morning still burned hot, but
she had learned to school her face years ago. She would get away with this scheme. "Your hair
gleams so brightly in the sunlight, my lord. Like fire."

Jon snorted at her flattery, giving her a look of amused disbelief. "Your distraction is a thin one.
You never were one for gentle words, but if you wish to keep this secret close to your chest, I will
respect that. But," he smiled fondly, "do not forget I know you. There is mischief brewing in those
eyes."

Lyanna could not help her laugh, feeling suddenly as if she were fourteen with the world at her
feet once more, stealing pies from Winterfell's kitchens as Jon berated her wickedness. "Oh, I've
missed you, my friend."

It was the first time - other than a brief passing-by a day or so ago - in years she was able to look
on his face, see his smile, hear his voice.

Jon took her arm and wound it around his. "I am certain I have missed you even more." He let go
of a sigh. "Where has life gone? My youth seems to have disappeared, I have lines where only
smooth skin once lay, and my lands, though beautiful, seem empty."

That made Lyanna sad. As children, they had played at lords around the grounds of Winterfell,
conquering this stone and that turret as their own holdfast. When they grew too old for such play,
Jon promised that she and Rhaegar could escape to Griffin's Roost any time they pleased, and he
would visit court as often as possible.

It was almost reverberating, the shock at where their plights had driven them. She betrothed and
soon to be wed off to Robert Baratheon, Jon lonely at his Roost, Rhaegar . . . Her mind went
blank.
"You are liege to my betrothed," Lyanna tried, "and welcome any time at Storm's End. I would be
pleased to have a friend there."

Jon was quiet for several long moments, both of them basking in the tension that lay like a cloak
over their shoulders. "Robert Baratheon," he treaded finally, "is a fine match." There was no
emotion or inflection in Jon's voice to support his words.

"He is," she agreed, catching in her mind's eye an image of him. Tall, fierce, blue eyes so full of
mirth, and muscled like a hero from some song. Robert seemed already fond of her, finding any
excuse he could to touch her arm or hold her hand or press his palm against the small of her back.

"Lya . . ." Jon seemed to hesitate, his eyes swimming with indecision. When she raised a brow in
question, he continued in a soft, quiet voice. "He misses you."

There was a sudden burst of pain in her chest, and her hands grew clammy. She did not need to
ask who Jon meant. He was always there in the back of her mind, so long as she was here, his
presence a constant danger. It would be better when they were apart once more, she not
confronted with his face or words or attention.

When she did not speak, Jon prompted her. "Lyanna?"

She heaved a great sigh. "What would you have me say, Jon? I have no words for Rhaegar
Targaryen, not anymore."

Jon seemed pained. "This folly has turned into such a mess," he complained. "You two were once
my dearest friends, and I feel like we all have lost one another."

Lyanna frowned. "You and he are-"

"Not as close as we once were," Jon admitted. "When I left Winterfell for good, I went to King's
Landing. I am ashamed to admit I saw that farce of a wedding. I went home soon after that. But
Lyanna, she does not even know about you."

Her friend's presence at the Dornish girl's wedding hurt, she was unhappy to admit. But Jon's
allegiance first and foremost was due to his prince. "I am unsurprised the prince has not spoken of
his brief boyhood tryst with his new princess."

"Do not call it that," Jon said firmly. "What you had was more. King Aerys had no right to end
your betrothal, and Elia Martell," his words were venom, "has no right to the name 'Princess.'"

Lyanna felt a surge of love for her old friend, but she dared not piss on this wildfire. "It matters not
to me who the lords of the realm call Princess anymore," she said flippantly.

"It matters to me," Jon said stubbornly. And then again, "He misses you."

Lyanna scowled and drew her arm away. "Who he misses is not a concern of mine, Jon. Do not
mistake my friendship for feebleness."

"I wouldn't," Jon tugged her hand in his, "but I dread to see two people I love in such misery."

"You are mistaken. I am not miserable. I am in the eye of my youth and betrothed to a fearsome
warrior."

"You were never meant for Lord Robert."

"Perhaps I was never meant for his cousin either."

"If there is one thing in this world I know," Jon said, "it is that you and Rhaegar Targaryen were
meant for one another."

Lyanna's mild irritation turned to anger. "Did he put you up to this? Is that why you badger me on
his behalf? I have missed you fiercely, and love you still, but I do not appreciate being
campaigned for a whore."

Jon stopped cold, his face turning red. "I would never suggest you to be his whore!"

"Mistress then," she provided. "It's been two years, Jon. Rhaegar has moved on with his life. It's
more than fair I get to move on with my own. You've no idea what I went through when he left,
of the pain I endured. Rhaegar Targaryen was not the boy I thought he was. I realized the stupid
little girl I was when the wool was finally pulled from my eyes, and I have no wish to ever make
that mistake again."

"Nor should you," he agreed. "But there are more things you do not know."

"And none I want to hear. Please," she squeezed his hand, "for the love you say you bear for me,
let this go. Or else I fear I can no longer speak with you."

Jon stared at her, pained. There was a storm in his face, as he battled whether or not to heed her
plea. What he found in her eyes, apparently, had him nodding, however begrudgingly. "As you
wish." They continued to walk, so she barely heard his next words in the wind. "For now."

At midday, the yard was filling up for the announcement of matches, and the parade of knights, a
hundred or so who took circuits around the field to show off their plate and lances and horses to
the whole of Harrenhal.

Robert Baratheon had escorted Lyanna to the stands himself, regaling her with tales of Storm's
End as they waded through the thick of the crowd. Ned and Benjen and Howland Reed were
already seated, representing House Stark. The stands were split into rows and boxes, the royal
family at the very top, with an awning of red and black silk. High lords sat on the lowermost
benches behind unfurled banners of their colors and sigils, and all the rest sat in between,
unmarked.

"There are storms every other day," Robert was saying, "fierce storms that shake the earth and
make the sky tremble. The castle, though," he turned to give her a brilliant smile, "stands as strong
as it ever has."

She remembered Old Nan's stories. "Brandon the Builder," she smirked, "knew what he was
doing."

Robert's eyes were blue fire. "That he did, my lady. The Starks seem to be of a special sort."

"Flatterer," she accused, amused by the high spots of red on his cheeks. He really was handsome
to look upon.

Robert grinned. "Can a lady blame me?"

She could easily see, with that smile, how he had managed to father a bastard so young. She
recalled with vivid clarity the day Ned came home with the news of a black-haired babe in the
Vale by Robert's own seed. The remembrance made her cold.
"For many things, yes," she said over her shoulder, "but perhaps not for that."

When they finally got to Ned and the others, she was put between Howland Reed and Lord
Robert - Howland on her right and Robert on her left. Ned and Robert immediately got to talking,
and Benjen stood against the railing to get a better look at the sea of steel and silver in the field.

Lyanna set her eyes to the squires, finding the cowards from this morning. As she had guessed,
one served House Frey, another House Haigh, and the third House Blount. She hoped Jon and the
armorer could keep her secret, and that the latter fulfilled his promise.

"You have an admirer," Howland Reed suddenly leaned over to whisper. His words were quiet
enough that only she could hear.

Lyanna tensed, wondering if Rhaegar was being so obvious. She nearly turned, burning with
curiosity, when she remembered he was afield, decked out in ruby-studded black plate. Nor was
her "admirer" Jon; her friend was not far behind his prince in the tiltyard, wearing red-enameled
armor and a helm with a white silken plume. If not either, who else?

"The princess seems to have a sharp eye," Howland noted.

Lyanna locked eyes with him, struck by the bright, unnatural green. "Princess Elia?" Her voice
was a breath.

"The very one."

She clenched her jaw, trying very hard to stay still. Her eyes, though, moved sideways, until she
could barely make out the copper-skinned princess beneath the Targaryen awning atop them all.
Elia stared. Hard. Then, tipped her chin in acknowledgement.

Lyanna jerked her chin to look forward once more, and bore her gaze into the field. The heat of
the princess' attention made her neck burn. But Lyanna, she does not even know about you, Jon's
voice echoed in her head. She wondered if he had lied to her, or if he was a stranger to the crown
as much as she was now.

"You are acquainted with Her Highness?" Howland wondered.

"Not intimately," she admitted, wishing she could gain Ned's attention, or Benjen's even. They
would divert the crannogman's curiosity as she could not. She wished for Winterfell fiercely,
where even the sun was no match for winter and wolves.

"My lady," Howland leaned even closer, "I would brace myself."

Lyanna did not have time to question.

"Lady Stark."

Lyanna's heart thudded, paused. Ned and Robert had gone quiet, and Benjen was half-frozen at
the rail. Howland Reed's green, green eyes studied Lyanna for a reaction, but held nothing of
surprise. Only knowledge.

Princess Elia stood tall, skinny, and regal over them, flanked by Lady Ashara and Cersei
Lannister. The princess wore wisps of orange silk, and bracelets of solid gold with chunks of real
rubies. Her eyes, sunken behind crescent-moon shadows, were dark and glistening and knowing.

Lyanna's tongue was as stiff as ice in her mouth. "Your Highness."

Elia smiled gently. "Lady Stark, I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

Lyanna kept the skepticism off her face. "The pleasure," she lied, "is mine." Her eyes found
Ashara, who seemed stiff with discomfort, then Cersei, whose eyes were narrowed with
suspicion.

"I came to invite you to sit in the royal box today," Elia said softly. "I would so enjoy your
company."

Lyanna was caught in surprise. "Would you?" she dared boldly, unintentionally. "How kind. You
honor me." The lies were snakes in her belly. "But I fear I must refuse. I promised my betrothed
that I would accompany him today." She lay a hand over Robert's forearm.

Elia's eyes followed the movement. "I would hate to break up the lovers." She looked beyond
Lyanna for a moment, squinting, then back. "Tomorrow then? Like I said, I would love to know
you. Us highborn ladies have to stick together."

With dread, Lyanna realized she could not refuse the royal princess without creating a scene. How
many of these onlookers remembered her broken betrothal? How many would spread their
whispers across the kingdoms? For the second time, Lyanna wished that Brandon were here. Elia
Martell would stand no chance against Brandon Stark.

Lyanna took a deep breath, sweeping her eyes over the field, and locked eyes on a knight in
black, frozen atop his white horse. Even shielded by his helm, Lyanna could sense the horror there
in Rhaegar. Her love, the husband she shared, was shocked.

But Lyanna, Jon's voice whispered again, she does not even know about you.

Her fingers suddenly curled to fists, and her jaw went cold. The grey eyes of Winterfell met once
more with the black pits of Dorne. "Why, Your Highness," Lyanna smiled, hiding her teeth, "I
would be honored to know you, too."
 In the Enemy's Camp

Consciousness filtered in slowly, hazily, so that her dream and reality mixed together like oil
paints. Her dream was vivid color, deep purples and stark whites, clouded by cold greys and
falling ivory flakes and silver that glinted like fire running down live steel; she was warm in her
dream, wanted, and her skin was alive with the knowing touch of an old lover.

Reality was cold. It was darker, meaner, made up of harsh lines and ear-splitting sounds,
punctuated by deep depths of black and air that was less than pure. There was fresh earth, warm
horseflesh, the sharp tang of steel, and the gritty wet odor of green.

Lyanna's eyes cracked open. Reality rushed in. Her dream fell away in strips of pale violet and,
with it, the blood-hot touch of her silver boy. The ceiling of her chambers was stone, black as
Balerion, and the walls, too; a tapestry of Harrenhal's history that was done up in colored thread
took up nearly the entire eastern wall. She was in the riverlands, not at Winterfell, and she was
alone in bed, not making love in the godswood.

Lyanna rolled over onto her stomach and pulled the sheets over her head, hoping against hope that
she could fall prey to the grips of sleep once more, and feel his hands on her skin again.

Minutes went by, an hour perhaps, and Lyanna was as awake as she ever could be. The elusive
cloud of her dream seemed to have disappeared forever, and in its wake was only the cold light of
day and the reckoning of truth.

Lyanna got to her feet reluctantly and shook off the nostalgia of sleep, standing naked as the day
she was born as the open window filtered in a wet early morning breeze. It was warmer here than
what she was accustomed to - the cold bites of Winterfell that stung so nicely. No one but a Stark
could appreciate the north, not truly. Already she ached for home, and she was unsure if she
would lay eyes on it again.

After Ned's wedding, her father would insist on traveling to Storm's End, she had no doubt. They
would have a feast to celebrate the official betrothal between herself and Lord Robert, and then
later - perhaps a few weeks, perhaps a few months - she would wed him in his makeshift
godswood. Lord Rickard was too eager for the union of wolf and stag to risk delaying it, slavering
at the chance to redeem their House's shame after the Mad King's folly two years past.

A ball of profound sadness formed tight in her chest. She had been raised practically all her life
knowing that she would eventually go south, but the very real confrontation of her future had her
wilting like a flower in winter. Had she ever felt like this when it had been Rhaegar she was
promised to, or had she been too caught up in his sublime light to have truly recognized the fear?
Was it only Lord Robert that inspired such hesitation, or was it her inner wolf howling grief to the
gods?

The sun rose higher in the sky, splaying rays of orange-gold across her bare skin. Lyanna
grimaced and took a step back, and another, until the reach of the sun was futile against the
shadows. Elia Martell, the name came to mind with the sunrise. How could I have been so stupid?

With the phantom touch of her silver prince falling away as if it had never been there, and the day
dawning, Lyanna was met face-to-face with the consequences of her own impulsivity. How many
times had her father cautioned against rash decisions? How many times had she ignored him, only
to be met with a skinned knee, a broken arm, a broken heart?

She had allowed Elia Martell and her southron silken dress and jet black eyes to coax her
somewhere ugly and jealous and curious, and now Lyanna was forced to break her fast with her
usurper. And all because she could not say no, because her wolf's blood made her reckless where
she should have been unassuming. Resentful and regretting the day already, Lyanna went to her
trunks.

She took care with her dress that day, so unlike usual. At Winterfell, she wore woolen and velvet
dresses, cloaks of thick fur, stockings, and riding boots, and her hair in a tight braid against the
wind; she had no usurper at Winterfell to upstage, after all.

Today she donned a fitting silken gown dyed the dark purple of larkspur that bared the tops of her
breasts and flared out like an inverted lily at the hem; her sleeves, which were lined with ivory,
were long and dagged and nearly dragged the ground with her arms at her sides. Her hair was left
loose and tousled, tumbling around her shoulders in a wild river of dark waves.

It was time to face the aftermath of her acceptance - breakfast with the Usurper and her ladies-in-
waiting.

When she wrenched the door open, Lyanna jumped back, swallowing a gasp. Outside her
chambers, waiting, still as water, was Ser Oswell Whent. His armor was white and pure as snow,
the enamel glinting wildly against the sun that shifted through the dark halls. Those dark eyes
looked down his long, hooked nose at her, belying nothing of the soul beneath.

"Please excuse me, ser," she tried quietly, meaning to step past him into the corridor. Ser Oswell
shifted to block her. Lyanna paused, narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head. "Would you mind
moving?"

There, finally, just a quirk of his lips. The shadow of a smile mayhaps, or the purse of
disapproval? "Come with me, my lady." He turned, expecting her to follow.

Lyanna stayed where she was. Ser Oswell's presence could only mean one thing; the Kingsguard
worked at the behest of the king, and since the king was not present, their duty was for the crown
prince to dole out. Ser Oswell was the puppet of Prince Rhaegar's whims. She wondered if she
could make it back inside her chambers, close and bar the door before the knight could stop her.

Ser Oswell turned back and seemed to read her plan. "Please don't," he said softly.

Lyanna's eyes narrowed further. "I could scream."

Ser Oswell pursed his lips, considering this. "You could," he admitted, "but I doubt anyone would
hear it over the Wailing Tower. It's such a windy morning, and terribly loud. Besides," his eyes
strayed to the deep recesses of the hallway, where her brothers were situated, "Lord Benjen spent
another night in the Baratheon tents, and Lord Eddard seemed never to come out of the Lady
Ashara's chambers. You are the only Stark left in this wing."

He had her. He had her and he knew it, judging by the glint in his eyes. Ser Oswell did not strike
Lyanna as a cruel man, but he was the prince's man, and because of that, he could not be trusted.
And yet, something in her whispered to not fear him. Choiceless, Lyanna clenched her jaw and
followed Ser Oswell.

It was as if he took her through a maze, with all the twists and turns and secret ways. Deeper and
deeper into the cursed fortress had Lyanna realizing with a start just how old Harrenhal truly was.
And haunted too, judging by the hollowed moans and echoing sounds of agony that bounced off
the black stone walls. By the time Ser Oswell came to a stop, Lyanna had no idea where she was.
He merely held out a hand, gesturing to the sole door at the end of the hall, then turned and left.
She could try running, but he would catch her. She went to the door.
Rhaegar was waiting inside. He was dressed for the day in a silk tunic, black breeches, and a
doublet of vivid violet that made his eyes spark wild; his silver hair played like raw steel against
the palette of his clothing. And then her dream fell on her like a rain of fire: brushing thighs, her
silver prince sighing High Valyrian between her legs, his chest bare and pale, snows falling on
them in white blankets. Her heart began to ache.

Rhaegar looked up at the sound of her arrival, full lips parting. Lyanna pushed the dream away as
best she could, locking those heated images up where no one - not even she - could find them.
"You came," he breathed.

"You made me," she scowled.

His cheeks turned pink. "I am sorry for the force," he told her quietly, looking up beneath his
lashes. The purple of his eyes matched her gown, she noticed, just as he looked somewhere south
of her face. "You're wearing your ring."

Lyanna grabbed at the silken folds of her skirts, hiding the ring from sight; one glance had her
seeing he was wearing his too. "Why did you have me here, Rhaegar?"

He looked pained, seeming to forget his observation. "You evade me at every turn. I try to speak
and you pretend as if I do not exist. I send you flowers, you send them back. Last night I sent Ser
Arthur to retrieve you after the feast's end, but you would not hear him. You give me no choice,
Lyanna."

Lyanna laughed out a breath of disbelief, and shook her head. "I am not your mistress, you cannot
summon me like some common whore. You have a wife and I a betrothed, this is inappropriate
beyond belief."

"Yes," he agreed, "I have a wife, and her name is Stark. Have you so easily forgotten?"

Lyanna's palms turned clammy, but her blood was boiling. "Not nearly so easily as you," she
ground out. "I am sure the Princess Rhaenys did not just magically appear in your Dornish
woman's belly. You showed me the day of our wedding how babes are made, Rhaegar, or did you
forget?"

Her words seemed to light a fire within him. "I told you there were things you did not know, that I
must explain to you. If you would just let me explain, you would understand why I have been in
just as much agony as you."

"Don't," she whispered dangerously, "don't you dare. I may be forced in your presence whilst this
godsforsaken tourney continues, but I will not allow you to sully what I felt with the late-guilt of
your adultery."

"Adultery it may seem, Lya, but I promise it is more complicated than that."

Angered, she turned to leave, but Rhaegar caught her by the arm, turning her back; his grip was
iron. "Please," he whispered, "please, I will do anything. Anything. I live in misery every day of
my life without you, and I hate it. Life no longer seems worth living, my days are bleak and colder
than ever. Let me explain everything, and I will fix everything."

She pulled her hand out of his hold, but did not step back; so close, she could make out the small
flecks of cobalt in his indigo eyes, and the years-old faded silver scar over his eyebrow from the
first time he had gotten drunk and knocked his head against her bedroom door. The silver prince
from her dreams was standing right in front of her, warm of flesh and alive. She need only say the
word and he would touch her like he had last night in her sleep.
Sensing her hesitation, taking it as a positive, Rhaegar leaned even closer; her world erupted in
silver and purple. His scent was everywhere, making her mind go hazy and turning her heart
inside out.

"I would move the heavens and all seven hells for you," he said quietly, fiercely, holding her
frozen with those disturbing Valyrian eyes.

Her reply came out breathlessly. "Why?"

"Because I still love you," he whispered, breath fanning over her mouth. "Always. Avy
jorrāelan."

Lyanna's eyes drifted closed, stunned like prey before a snake, and she let him kiss her. His mouth
was warm and fuller than she remembered, slow, hesitant; her heart seemed to come alive from its
cold grave, and warm tingles of a feeling she dare not name crawled through her alarmingly fast.

Rhaegar sucked in a shocked breath, inhaling her scent, and then he was kissing her a second
time. His lips were firmer now, surer, with just the barest hint of his tongue. Her skin began to
crawl with lust. Had it always been this passion-provoking, or had time somehow dimmed the
memories of his touches?

She had only known the boy Rhaegar, who had been fourteen the day he lay her down to take her
maidenhood, fourteen the day he left. This Rhaegar was seventeen, knighted, taller and somehow
even more beautiful. It seemed cruelly unfair that the Usurper was blessed every day with his
presence.

Elia Martell. Lyanna went cold all over, and froze; Rhaegar sensed her unease and pulled back
just the slightest bit, meeting her eyes. "What is it?" he murmured, going back in to place a hot
kiss at the corner of her mouth.

Lyanna reared back and stepped away; her eyes were wide and wild, her hands clenched into
fists. Rhaegar all at once seemed to siphon whatever distress she was feeling, and reflected it back
through the large span of his gaze, the tightness of his jaw, the rigid stance of his body.

"I can't do this," she said shakily. She was discombobulated and shaken, and angry most of all that
he had somehow been able to dismantle the icy armor around her with just a few soft-spoken
words and a lingering dream. "I am not your plaything."

"You're not," he agreed, "you are the love of my life."

Lyanna shook her head violently. She would not let him do this, not again. "I am supposed to
meet your wife soon," was what she said instead.

Rhaegar blinked, mouth parted, and then realization set in. "That was why she was speaking to
you in the stands yesterday. To invite you to, what, be her lady?"

"She wanted me to sit with her in the royal box, but I refused. She insisted I break my fast with
her this morning instead." Rhaegar grew visibly more distressed. "Jon told me that she has no
knowledge of your and my past whatsoever. What luck the gods have lain down on you that you
have a wife who spent half her life overseas and knows nothing of your sullied past."

"I don't care what Elia knows," Rhaegar hissed, coming alive. "I'm not exactly subtle when it
comes to you, Lyanna. I never have been and never will be. Everyone sees me watch you here,
even your brute of a betrothed."

Lyanna shook her head; never as a child at Winterfell had Rhaegar been so, so . . . selfish or brash
or bold. It was like this new person standing before her wearing the skin of her past love. "This
following me around, sending me gifts, summoning me, kissing me has to stop. Not just for my
sake, but for yours as well."

Rhaegar was shaking his head, in denial. "I can't do that, Lyanna."

"You must."

"I can't."

"What do you want with me, Rhaegar?" she finally blurted out, at the end of her rope of patience.
Her veins were coarsing with life, making her hands shake and her heart pound like a warhorse.

"You." He said it so simply that, for a moment, she could only be stunned. He'd always had a gift
for words, and once she had loved it. But now . . .

She came back to her senses. "You forfeited me, a long time ago, Rhaegar. You have an entire life
that I know nothing about." He opened his mouth to cut in, to likely offer more promises of
explanations, but Lyanna wanted none of it.

Two years of no letters, no warnings, only tidings of his new life while she was left in the cold
with a promise that was as false as the woman he married, had Lyanna frozen in her suit of ice
armor once more. "Please stop," she said. "You're only making this harder. What we had was
beautiful once, but it can never again be revived. It is dead and gone, so leave it be, Rhaegar, I beg
of you."

His deep purple eyes shone with fresh tears, and his words were a whisper. "Please don't ask this
of me, I beg of you."

She frowned. "It is the only thing I can ask of you, Your Highness."

His tears fell down his cheeks. "This is what you truly want? To be rid of me like I never existed?
You want to forget me?"

An ugly part of her thought this was only just retribution for the pain and suffering he had caused
her for two years, but the part of her heart that still yearned for that silver prince of Winterfell had
her feeling only sorrow. Rekindling something from their past could never lead anywhere, she
knew, and yet it was a bitter fate to swallow.

"I just want to be free to my own life, one where I am no longer the shadow that was shorn from
your feet."

"You were never-"

Lyanna held a hand up to stop him. And then she swallowed, for her next words were difficult to
summon. "Lord Robert is my future," she managed to say confidently, "and you," she said with
sadness in her voice, "are my past."

Rhaegar was crying freely now, but she could not help but think this pain was of his own making;
looking at him, she remembered weeping at Old Nan's feet, strong tea that made her bleed rivers,
sobbing nights under the heart tree, and the way her bones had jutted at queer angles beneath her
gowns. His tears may have plucked at her heartstrings, but she was awash in the memories of her
own suffering.

Lyanna turned away to hide her own tears, ignoring his protests and offers of explanations, and
strode from the room with legs that carried her away, away, far away.
The smell of oranges surrounded Elia in a cloud, reminding her of hot summer days in Tyrosh, the
windows of her bedchamber thrown open against the breeze; there had been lemon and orange
trees within the courtyard of the Archon's manse, and their branches had grown wild enough that
Elia could lean out her window and pluck a bursting fruit from its limb. Sometimes in her darkest
days, she imagined herself back in Essos.

The clatter of knives tore her from her memories. The table in Lady Whent's private solar was
covered from end to end; little fish and burnt bacon, fried bread dripping in butter, fresh links of
sausage and runny sunshine yellow eggs, bowls of fluffy sweet cream, and rainbow slices of fruits
on silvered platters. In the decanters were watered summerwine, gold from the Arbor, a sweet
plum wine that was strong enough to burn, juices of blood oranges and bitter lemons, and plain
water.

Elia herself sat at the head of one end of the long table, and Lady Whent at the other. Between
them were Elia's ladies-in-waiting, Lady Whent, her daughter, her cousins and sister, and Lady
Lyanna Stark, who was sat between Elia and Ashara Dayne.

Despite the eased atmosphere of the morning - the gales of laughter, the motley-clad fool jumping
from feet to hand, the harpist playing gentle music in the corner - there was a ball of dread coiled
tight within Elia. It was a knot she could not unravel, and she knew she could owe its presence
solely to Lyanna Stark. Cold and quiet, the Lady Lyanna picked at an orange, and ate a few bites
of her bacon, but she did not seem to have an appetite. Ever since she had sat down at table, she
had seemed unimpressed and withdrawn.

The northern girl already provoked a sick brew of hesitance and eagerness in Elia, but sitting in
Lyanna's presence now - stiff and frigid - Elia felt as if there were snakes wrestling in her belly.
What about this cold girl catches Rhaegar's eye besides her beauty? she wondered.

Elia chewed the inside of her cheek nervously, meeting eyes with Ashara quickly; Ashara seemed
oblivious and as happy as ever, having woken up from another long night with Eddard Stark. Elia
wondered if the northmen were as cold as the northern women. Somehow she thought not.

Elia took a breath and steeled herself. "Is the food to your liking, Lady Lyanna?" She heard the
table quiet - not completely, but enough to eavesdrop.

Lyanna glanced up; her silver-grey eyes made the hairs on the back of Elia's neck stand on end.
"The food is exquisite," she replied, with absolutely no hint of feeling in her tone. And then,
warmer, but not enough to freeze the ice off her skin, "I thank you for the invitation to join you
this morning."

Elia smiled, hoping the fierce pounding of her heart was not as loud as she thought it was. "I am
glad that you agreed to come." She studied the girl quickly: the dark hair loose and messy as if she
had just come from a night in bed, her face as fresh as peaches and cream, silk gown dyed a
gorgeous purple that reminded Elia of her husband's eyes. "Have you enjoyed the tourney thus
far?"

Lyanna stared into Elia's eyes with an intensity that disconcerted the older woman. "It is . . . an
event, the likes of which I am unused to. We don't have many tourneys in the north."

Cersei Lannister used the natural pause to force her way into the conversation. "I'm sure you don't
get much in the way of entertainment at all, do you? It must be dreadfully boring, living like the
hill tribes. Poor Ashara, you'll be a star frozen in ice before you even turn twenty-five."

Ashara rolled her eyes, accustomed to Cersei's tongue, but Lady Lyanna fixed her with a curious
stare. And then her cold voice melted to something coy. "There are things to occupy our time, and
to warm our blood."

Elia perked up. Perhaps there was a northern boy back home that Lady Lyanna was taken with;
perhaps she enjoyed rugged men with beards and scars instead of pretty southron men like Elia's
Rhaegar. "Do tell?"

Lyanna quirked a brow. "There are hot springs in the godswood, where you can soak in scalding
water as the summer snows fall in sheets. The castle itself is built over them, and the hot water
rushes through the walls like blood through a man's body. You can never be truly cold at
Winterfell, not if you don't wish it."

Elia tried to imagine Lyanna's home, the place Ashara would soon retire to. She imagined big grey
walls, a castle that looked like a fairytale, fluffy snow that fell over the eerie face of the heart tree
of the Old Gods. It was not an image Elia could see herself in, however.

"Still," Cersei went on rudely, "I've heard crude stories about the north, like pale spiders that are
big as hounds and trees that bleed blood of sacrifices made long past. And other, less savory
things." Her green eyes seemed to glitter with eager malice. "Is it true that northerners couple with
wildlings and wights?"

Lyanna looked up, unfazed. "We have wolves," she said slowly, "and northmen and Others. It's
up to the women to decide which one is which beneath the sheets."

Ashara choked on a gasp, holding back her pleasure as best she could as the table erupted in
hushed laughter. Cersei scowled and sat back, aghast. Elia was intrigued by Lyanna's flat delivery,
finding amusement in the way Cersei Lannister pouted.

The laughter began to die as fresh decanters were brought to replace the old. A servant came to
Lady Lyanna to fill her drained water cup, then rushed past to get to Elia's; with the servant's
quick movement, the air carried with it the scent of a spicy perfume that brought back memories of
Essos. "That smell is lovely," Elia said appreciatively, "is that yours, my lady?"

"Oh," Lyanna said, straightening, "yes. Spiceflower perfume from the Dothraki plains."

"That is exquisite," Elia thickened her charm, hoping to warm Lyanna to her. "I must get some for
myself."

When they had eaten their fill of the first course, the servants cleared the table, then brought out a
long spike of lemon cakes carved into the shape of a tower. Lyanna did not move to get one for
herself at all.

"The jousting should be fine today," Lady Whent offered, looking to the window. The day was
dawning fresh, the sky a vivid blue and the sun shining bright.

"I'm eager for the real jousters to compete," Lady Whent's daughter said. "Like Ser Arthur and
Oswell and Prince Rhaegar."

"Will Lord Eddard ride?" Elia asked.

"No," Ashara answered immediately.

Cersei, having been shamed earlier, was eager to jump in. "Is Stark scared of the likes of the
Sword of the Morning and the Dragon Prince? Surely Prince Rhaegar will go easy on him, given
their past," she smiled.
Elia was confused. She meant to ask what Cersei had meant by that, but Lyanna's voice had her
forgetting. "War should not be a game," she offered with a shrug, "and Ned has never been one
for play. All the more chance for your twin brother to emerge victorious."

"I think Prince Rhaegar will win," Lady Whent's daughter declared excitedly. She was young,
perhaps a year younger than Lady Lyanna who was sixteen herself, but acted a girl still.

Elia blushed. The prize laurel this year was a crown of winter roses, blue as frost and fresh from
the north. She could only hope her husband won so that she could flaunt those beautiful flowers
on her head at the final feast, a display to show Lady Lyanna to whom Elia belonged.

Lyanna reached for her glass, and the sun shifted through the window. Elia blinked as a fierce
flash of light briefly rendered her blind; Elia sat back, out of the ray's reach. As Lyanna tipped
back her cup, Elia noticed that what she had been light-struck by was a small dark ring around
Lyanna's left-hand finger.

The rising sun streamed golden through the window's panes of lined glass, but Elia was otherwise
transfixed by the Lady Lyanna's finger; her ring flashed prettily against the sun, rendering the
band in colors of living fire. Her eyes seemed caught in it, then she frowned. Something . . . there
was something about the ring that seemed familiar to her, though she could not seem to place why.

So keen on the fiery band, Elia nearly missed Lady Whent's question aimed at Lyanna. "Have I
heard correctly, my lady, that you are recently betrothed to Lord Robert Baratheon?"

All eyes were on Lady Lyanna. She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. "Very recently," she
confirmed. "We will likely have a wedding soon as well, perhaps as soon as we leave Starfall."

Ashara was marrying Lord Eddard at her family's castle after the tourney ended; Elia had wanted
to attend, but did not want to leave Rhaenys for any longer. This tourney at Harrenhal would be
the last time Ashara was lady-in-waiting to Elia.

Hoping talk of her betrothed would help Lady Lyanna open up, Elia decided to ask, "You must
be excited to marry Lord Robert; he seems a fierce man, and Storm's End is a fine castle I've
heard. You must be eager to leave the bleak north as well."

Lyanna met Elia's eyes, but there was so much coldness in that grey stare that Elia immediately
shrank back. "Why would it be nice to leave the north, Your Highness?" It was the first time all
morning that Lyanna's tone was truly icy.

Elia searched for the right words to soothe her mistake. "I only meant, the cold," she stuttered,
completely undermining Lyanna's earlier explanation of hot springs.

Lyanna, once again, was far from impressed; in fact, she looked somehow offended. "I am the
blood of the Kings of Winter, as I always will be. You never forget your home, Your Highness . .
." She cocked one brow. "No matter who you marry."

Elia felt hot shame run through her as her cheeks blazed red; to be put in her place before her
ladies was one thing, but to be schooled on House loyalty was something else entirely. Her
humiliation made her palms sweat, and had Cersei Lannister smirking to no end.

Lyanna's chair screamed as she suddenly pushed back from the table and stood to her full height.
"I must take my leave now, my ladies. It is past time I met my brothers." She tucked a stray lock
of hair behind her ear, the sun catching her finger with a spark of white light. She briefly met eyes
with Elia. "Your Highness."

Then Lady Lyanna walked away, the dagged points of her sleeves dragging across the floor like
serpents' tongues. Elia's ladies and the women of Harrenhal stared after the Stark girl, then at Elia,
as if waiting for a command on how to proceed. But Elia's eyes - Elia's mind - was elsewhere.

On Lyanna's ring; the band that had flashed like fine steel in the sun, exactly like the Valyrian
steel dagger the Archon of Tyrosh had once strapped to his belt when entertaining guests. Elia had
been nagged by the familiarity earlier, had seen a ring exactly like that before, nearly a twin to the
one Lady Lyanna donned.

And it was worn on the finger of her husband's left hand.

 The Mystery Knight

It was the sixth day of the tourney, the second day of the lists, and less than a full day since he had
kissed Lyanna in the black heart of Harrenhal. This morn had broken clear and cold, though not
so cold as any day in the north, but a southern spring cold that seemed to be shaking off the last
remaining dregs of winter like a lady shedding her furs.

Rhaegar climbed from bed and thought of Lyanna. He donned his clothes and thought of Lyanna.
He broke his fast in the company of Lord Whent, his four sons, Lady Whent, and their daughter,
the reigning queen of love and beauty, and thought of Lyanna. And after, when they strolled the
grounds and climbed the steps of the viewing stand to take their place in the highest box, he
thought of Lyanna.

She was a plague he never wished to rid himself of. The feel of her warm mouth beneath his
yestermorn, her body close enough to shade, for just a moment he had truly believed she was
going to hear his two years' worth of explanations out. In those five seconds in which she had
been pressed against him, Rhaegar had managed to convince himself everything would once again
be theirs for the taking, him and her against the world.

But then she had pulled back, her eyes fresh with the hurt of betrayal, and tore down stone by
stone the castle by which he had built his dreams. It had hurt, far worse than the other times she
had rejected him. For this time, Lyanna had not just seemed angered or cheated or incensed - she
was pained by the sting of his lies and tired to her bones, wishing for no more of his sneaking or
secrecy, but a simple life with her new lord betrothed.

Remembering the look upon her fair face even now brought a crop of emotion to his eyes, and
had his heart withering with a profound ache like some rotten black apple. And to make every
matter sevenfold worse, Elia had caught the scent of his affection and weasled her way into
Lyanna's social circle.

She had personally invited Lyanna to break her fast in Lady Whent's solar yesterday morning,
leaving Rhaegar to torment over the possibilities of their union. But after, when the stands filled up
and the crowds gathered for the first day of matches, both of his wives sat separate from one
another: Lyanna in the midst of the wolves and the crannogman, and Elia with her dozen ladies,
stony-faced and hard-eyed beside him in the royal box.

He had not known whether to be grateful for the silence, or to fear its cause.

When the day of joust had closed, and the feast commenced, Elia had continued her vow of
silence, only speaking when spoken to and filling the rest of her time trying to find the bottom of
her wine cup. Lyanna had seemed to be doing much of the same, in between dances with her
brothers and Lord Robert and Jon.

Aching with fear and curiosity, Rhaegar might have asked Jon to probe Lyanna for questioning,
but he did not wish to sully their friendship with his incessant, unyielding worry. He had spent too
many years lying and pretending; whatever may or may not have come from Lyanna and Elia's
time together would only peel away the chains by which he had been bound through marriage to
the sun.

For revelation meant truth, and the truth would set him free to his old life. Or so he wished. He
was not so fool to think that the truth of his wedding to Lyanna would mean no casualties, but he
knew now that despite whatever she had said in anger yesterday morning, so long as Lyanna said
the word, he would tear this realm asunder with its rightful princess by his side.
But that dream, that fourteen-year old's dream, seemed to be fading faster than an old cloak in the
bright of the sun. Each rejection, each day without her, each day closer to her own wedding, had
his hopes sinking faster than a wooden toy at sea.

But no matter how long since their marriage beneath the heart tree or if years later she truly made a
life and home with Robert Baratheon, Rhaegar would always and forever harbor a small kindling
of hope in the back of his mind - waiting for the day that she might say yes, take his heart, and
light the fire within him once more.

"A cold day," Lord Whent grumbled as they took their seats beneath the high awning, bundling
his black woolen cloak tighter about him. There was no wind, but the morning air was as chilly as
snowmelt against the skin. "I pray the gods warm the sun so my arse doesn't freeze before night
falls."

"You should feel a spring snow," Rhaegar retorted, remembering the morning of his first
wedding. Lacy white snowflakes had fallen on his back as the heart tree watched him take
Lyanna's virginity; the tree had cried red tears of sticky sap, bright against the grey-white day, and
its face was long and solemn, but Rhaegar had felt at peace knowing the Old Gods were there to
bless the union. "In Winterfell, it snows all year round."

Out of the corner of his eye, Elia went still; she had never heard talk of his youth before, such talk
forbidden by Aerys and Rhaegar not near so forthcoming with the Pretender Princess. He could
nearly hear her ears straining now, burning with curiosity. So be it, he thought as his eyes fell to
the banner of Stark; Lyanna was nowhere to be seen, he noticed with doused spirits.

Lord Whent replied. "I'd nearly forgotten you were fostered as a boy in the north," he said
absently, watching like a hawk as his youngest son was armored by the side of his champion's
pavilion.

Five champions were to defend the honor of the reigning queen of love and beauty, Lord and
Lady Whent's daughter: her four brothers and Ser Oswell, her uncle. Three of her brothers had
fallen yesterday while the youngest had prevailed. As Kingsguard and renowned knight, Oswell
would not joust for two more days with the likes of higher-born knights and lords and their sons.

The five champions beginning the second day of the lists were Whent, his pavilion of radiant
yellow silk and his shield a field of sunshine marked by nine black bats in flight; Ser Gilwood
Hunter with his drab tent and device of five silver fanned arrows on brown; a knight of House
Haigh, represented by the sigil of pitchfork; Lord Mallister of Seagard with his pavilion and shield
of purple, the latter of which was crowned by a silver eagle; and finally one of many sons of old
Lord Frey, a chinless knight whose bearings were all steel grey and deep blue towers middled by
a crossing.

It was not a promising bunch, save Lord Mallister, but the day had only begun. There was no
telling the men that would rise and fall as the day grew bright.

Midday came and passed, and the commons and noble alike were restless. Only three of the
morning's champions had fallen, Whent and Hunter and Mallister, leaving the gruff Ser Haigh and
weasely Ser Frey. The vanquishers of the three had earned their pavilions at the north end of the
lists, but eventually they too had fallen, a cycle of foes fallen and victorious. None seemed eager
to tap the shield of Haigh, and none interested in the stock of Frey.

The shadows were growing longer on the ground, the afternoon growing older; the day had never
warmed. Jon Connington had eventually come to seat himself with Rhaegar in the royal box,
eager to pinpoint the winners and losers for future reference. He, too, would joust in a few days'
time, toward the end of the tourney.

A pitiful cheer suddenly went up as a knight of Blount unseated the challenged young Ser Addam
Marbrand, sending him flying to the dust. Ser Blount took his victory circuit as Addam struggled
to his legs with the help of a small squire. After, Marbrand's pavilion and shield were taken away
from the champions, and replaced by a tent of red-and-green striped cloth and a shield of the same
colors dotted by two black porcupines; Blount took a seat and accepted a goblet of wine, lounging
as champion.

The crowds quieted and the herald went to his stand. "The Knight of the Laughing Tree," he
announced in a reaching voice, "is welcomed to the challenge!"

Laughing Tree, Rhaegar mused curiously as the challenger trotted onto the field to the wild
applause of the stands; peasant and highborn alike loved a mystery knight. But the knight in
question was shockingly small, slight even, a good several inches shorter than even the shortest of
riders and slim to a point that even Viserys likely could bear his trappings. No matter the
excitement of his mystery, his stature was a weak point against any of the five champions.

Rhaegar searched the mystery knight for any clue of his standing or blood. His plate was good,
clean, new, but not exceptionally well-made nor pretty to look upon; it was plain steel, unadorned
of either chip or sigil, and did not seem to fit as well as it should. His helm was plain as well, with
only a thin slit for his eyes, and his horse - a red charger - was naked of bardings.

The only evidence of ornament was his shield from whence he bore his name. Leathern it was and
painted a wash of pale grey with a laughing, bleeding weirwood on its face. Rhaegar knew no
House in the seven kingdoms bore such a device, not even from the north where heart trees were
aplenty.

But for all the knight's shortcomings, he observed his courtesies well as he made his way before
the viewing stand to make his salute. Rhaegar noticed that the knight's visor was firmly shut, not
allowing a glimpse of the man or boy beneath, and he did not speak nor shift in saddle.

Rhaegar was intrigued. There had not been a renowned mystery knight since the days of the
Dragonknight or the youth of Barristan the Bold, or so his father had always said, and the
commons loved a mystery better even than lords of high birth or standing. And so, it seemed, did
the nobles; bets of coin were already being made for and against this Knight of the Laughing Tree.

The mystery knight paused to dip his lance to Rhaegar - twelve feet of freshly-painted pale grey -
then galloped to the north end of the field where the champions' pavilions were erected. He
stopped before a tent of stripes of red and green, and tapped his lance against the shield of the twin
porcupines. Ser Blount had been challenged.

But before the herald could call out the match, the Knight of the Laughing Tree trotted on and
stopped before the Frey's tent, grey-and-blue silk. The crowd hushed. Laughing Tree tapped the
end of his lance against the shield of two towers twice. Knock knock.

A second challenge, Rhaegar thought in disbelief. It was rare that a challenger chose more than
one foe, for the real threat of consecutive challenges against the possibility of ransoming armor
and horse were too high for most. If ever there was a double challenge, it was by well-ridden high
lords and famous knights. Who is this mystery knight? he wondered.

Frey stood up, scowling above his lack of chin. "I accept!" he announced angrily, glancing toward
Blount, where he sat confused. Frey's squire, a pimply young boy with mean eyes hurried to
gather lances and helm and shield.
The mystery knight nodded and moved on. Rhaegar could hardly believe it, blinking several times
as if to clear his eyes as Laughing Tree came to a stop before the pavilion of Haigh, his pitchfork
shield ringing hollow when knocked. A third foe.

"Does he mean to challenge the whole lot?" Lord Whent laughed, confused but amused still.
Rhaegar had to agree; he looked to Jon Connington, meaning to remark on the identity of this
rider, but Jon's look caught him cold. Wide-eyed, iron-jawed, hands clenched around one another
like sea beasts wrestling. Jon looked . . . shocked. And completely focused on the Laughing Tree.

Brows furrowed, Rhaegar looked toward the mystery knight once more. The knight had turned
his charger around and dipped his head to the herald, a silent message that he had made his
challenges. And so long as each champion accepted, the Knight of the Laughing Tree would be
allowed his triple-tilt.

Each of his challenged stood from their seats, and nodded their consent. The herald took to the
announcement. "The Knight of the Laughing Tree will have first ride against Ser Blount.
Challengers, ready!"

Blount, already suited from his previous tilt, mounted his horse, pulled on his helm, and grabbed
his lance and shield, riding to his place. The mystery knight trotted to the south end, the glint of
sun catching the laughing white tree on his shield where it cried red tears, bright as blood against
the grey background.

The opposing knights readied themselves, a trumpet blew, and then they were off. Their horses -
red for Laughing Tree and grey for Blount - trotted then hurried to a race as they came at one
another. Their lances shifted left, and shields were lifted. People were shouting encouragement,
screaming this and that until all their voices were a shrill cluster of just sounds.

Weirwood met porcupines in a shower of pale grey shards. The mystery knight had broken a
lance against Blount, but Blount had kept his seat, only barely. Laughing Tree retrieved a fresh
lance from a small, unwashed boy in undyed garb at the sidelines, and trotted into place.

A trumpet was blown two more times as the mystery knight and Ser Blount rode a total of three
times against one another. The second time, Blount had nearly broken a lance, but at the last
second it skimmed off the mystery knight's chestplate and remained intact. The third, Laughing
Tree aimed so well, Blount fell from his mount, who had barely managed anything above a quick
trot, and rolled in the dust. The mystery knight took his victory circuit.

The herald took to stand. "The Knight of the Laughing Tree has won the first challenge, and will
now take his second against Ser Harys Haigh!"

Ser Harys was young, but a formidable foe with long legs and a stocky build to him. The
pitchfork of his House was emblazoned over his chest, as if piercing the very heart it protected.
The armor he wore was soot-grey and marked with chips and scratches. It had been used and had
proved well.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree was now riding to the south end of the yard, readjusting his grip
on his shield and his seat in the saddle. Rhaegar had to admit the boy rode well, however small his
stature. Jousting after all was majority horsemanship to minority lance. Whoever this mystery
knight was, he was good with a horse.

When both knights were ready, a trumpet blew. Ser Harys wasted no time in charging the field,
hunching angrily as he urged his horse faster and faster still. Laughing Tree met his speed
gracefully, bringing his grey lance across his chest and bringing up his painted shield; the sun
splayed gold over its chipped face, rendering its leaves and bleeding eyes in the color of fiery
rubies.

Weirwoods are worshipped in the north. The thought came unbidden, like a lash against his mind.
Rhaegar's eyes landed on the Starks' box - Eddard, Benjen, a wispy little crannogman, no Lyanna
in sight. He slid his gaze to his corner, where Jon was wringing his hands fretfully and giving
himself wrinkles from his frown and worried brow. Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, looked back at
the Starks, the empty space next to Benjen, then looked out to the field.

Neither Haigh nor Laughing Tree had broken their lances, and both went back to their ends. A
second trumpet blew. The mystery knight shifted higher in the saddle, then did something queer -
he lifted himself up as he charged, holding strength in his thighs, tapped the air to his right with all
twelve feet of his lance to gain momentum, then swung it over the barrier at his left.

Rhaegar's heart stopped in his chest, unable to appreciate as the pale grey lance exploded against
the steel pitchfork plate in a shower of shards. He had seen that move before, the right-flick of
lance before shifting left. He had seen Brandon Stark do it a hundred times in his youth, and a
dozen more at tourneys over the years.

But Brandon was home in Winterfell, and there was only one other person Rhaegar knew that sat
a horse so well.

"Is that," his voice was lower than a whisper, "Lya?"

Jon stiffened at his side, but did not turn. He didn't reply, but he didn't have to.

As Rhaegar watched her fetch a new lance from the grimy child at the lines, readying her charger,
he knew without a doubt that that was his little wife. How could he have been so stupid? Brandon
himself had taught Lyanna to tilt, and when he was gone to Barrowton or Riverrun, Rhaegar filled
in. She knew how to ride, to shield, to sit, to aim. Where she had gotten the armor or horse, he did
not know, but the origin of her skills lay at the feet of her eldest brother and Rhaegar himself.

A third trumpet blew and Rhaegar found himself jumping to his feet in horror. Lyanna charged,
swift as the wind, her red horse a streak of fire. Haigh was just as quick - and aggressive too, his
lance landing heavy in the middle of her chest as they met, but Lyanna managed to keep her seat
by the grace of gods. Rhaegar let out a shuddering breath.

"Your Highness?" Lord Whent called over in confusion. "Are you well?"

"Yes," he called back, ignoring the bewildered looks of the Whents, Elia, and her ladies. His eyes
were for the field.

There weren't explicit rules against women jousting, but Rhaegar did not think this secret was one
for him to tell. Everything about Lyanna's bearing said so: her plain armor with no sigil, her
painted shield that belonged to no House, the helm that stayed firmly on, the fact that she had not
spoken at challenge. Even her squire. She had probably plucked him from some traveling stall and
bribed him with coin to play squire for the day. But the armor . . . where had she gotten it?

It came to Rhaegar as Lyanna and Harys Haigh readied for their fourth ride. Rhaegar went back to
his seat carefully, leaning over ever slightly. "Did you," he whispered to Jon, his oldest friend who
had stood witness in the godswood to his and Lyanna's wedding, "know about this?"

Jon grew stiffer, but shook his head. He would not lie. "I bought the armor," he admitted in a low
voice, "but she did not tell me its use. I only figured it out when she came on field."

Rhaegar could hardly believe it. But then again, he could. This was Lyanna Stark, a third boy, a
third wolf, and a third princess. She was of the north and line of the winter kings and the First
Men; she had the wolf's blood, bold and reckless and willful by turns. His wild northern princess.
How could he have been so blind before?

The stands cheered with berserk pleasure. Lyanna's lance took Ser Harys firmly in the chest,
pushing him from his saddle as easily as a lemon cake sliding from a spike. The pitchfork knight
landed with a thud that seemed to shake the earth, but got to his feet all on his own, angrily
ignoring the squire that rushed out; he stomped back to his pavilion, kicking over his stand.
Lyanna took her victory lap, seeming tired, even covered in steel.

"The Knight of the Laughing Tree," the herald boomed, "takes his third challenge against Ser
Frey of the Crossing!"

Frey urged his horse into place. His armor was enameled blue, etched with twin towers bridged
over water, and jeweled with sapphires that burned like blue fire. Around his arm was a wisp of
silk that he had begged from one of Elia's ladies-in-waiting, and from his helm fluttered a plume of
grey. Just before he pulled down his visor, Rhaegar made out the look of malice on his weasely
face.

No, he thought with dread. Knights died all the time in tourneys, from their falls or a lance through
the throat or eye, and Freys were a greasy sort. This man would not care for honor so long as he
felled the mystery knight. Rhaegar could not allow Lyanna to be hurt or killed for whatever game
she was playing at. But . . . he did not wish to out her before the whole of Harrenhal, and he could
not halt the lists for no reason.

A trumpet sounded. Stark and Frey alike sent up red clouds as they went at one another. The
thunder of eight iron hooves sent rumbles through the wooden stands, jerking Rhaegar's heart
back in motion. The commons were cheering behind the fences; Laughing Tree, they roared,
Knight of the Laughing Tree!

Frey's lance took Lyanna under the chin, a twelve-foot arm choking her and pushing her back
until it exploded. Lyanna fell back, her shield falling to the ground and her lance skidding the dirt
as she fought to keep her seat. Rhaegar's eyes grew in horror. "No," he whispered, the word lost
in shouts of dismay.

Lyanna kept her seat by the skin of her teeth, managing to thrust forward against the neck of her
horse and hold tightly. The commons were booing now at Frey's lack of chivalry, but cheered
once more, now hesitantly, as Lyanna's peasant-squire retrieved and handed over her shield.

Lyanna's hand went to her throat, but she refrained from rubbing it or showing weakness. She got
into place, sat high, waited for the trumpet's sound, then flew with her red charger.

Rhaegar's hands were claws in his legs, digging as he watched with baited breath as she streaked
across the field. There was an arrogance to Frey as he met her, a meanness that had been glimpsed
before. Their lances tipped, and pale grey shards burst from Lyanna's hand as Frey wriggled for
the safety of his seat. They were tied now, each having broken a lance against the other.

"Damn it," Rhaegar muttered. His heart was fluttering like a hummingbird, and cold sweat had
beaded on his skin.

The two knights met their squires and readied. Rhaegar could tell Lyanna was tired, even dripping
in mail and plate, from the spoon-arch of her back to the slow way she wheeled her charger. There
was not much left in her, not after the three rides against Blount, the four against Haigh, and
weasely Frey's lance to her throat.

"Come on, you beautiful girl," Rhaegar found himself muttering, "beat him."
The trumpet blew. Lyanna kicked her horse with the last of her strength, lifted and tightened her
thighs. The fiery charger flew across the yard. Lyanna flicked her arm and lance eastward, gaining
momentum, and arced it over just as Frey came in reach.

Just as Frey firmly planted his lance in the joint between her arm and shoulder, the tip of Lyanna's
lance took Ser Frey at the throat, viciously ripping off his helm to reveal the weasely, chinless face
below just before he was thrown off his horse to land five feet away with a hard thud to the earth.
Lyanna kept her seat and the stands exploded with cheer.

Frey's squire rushed out, pimples angry beneath the light of a dying sun, and helped his knight up.
Lyanna took her final victory circuit as the herald announced the Knight of the Laughing Tree had
closed the second day of the joust.

Ladies threw silk and flowers at Lyanna as she trotted by, shouting for the mystery knight. She
finally came to a stop before the high box to dip her lance once more. Lord Whent had gotten to
his feet. "Formidable Knight of the Laughing Tree," he said jovially, "you have done well! Would
you show your face so that all will know your true name?"

Lyanna made no move at all, but to fold in on herself even further from the blow to her shoulder.
When she did not remove her helm and kept the visor down to shield her identity, Lord Whent
continued smoothly, "Then go on to collect your reward. Sers Haigh, Blount, and Frey, you must
relinquish your horse and armor or else ransom them back!"

A tinny voice boomed. "Fallen riders," Lyanna said in an affected man's voice, "I only ask of you
one thing. Teach your squires honor, and that shall be ransom enough!"

The three knights stood beside their collapse pavilions, stunned, before finally nodding. Blount
and Haigh gave their squires a good clout, and Frey pulled his away by the ear. All kept their
horses and armor to the crowds' chivalrous pleasure.

"An honorable request to end this day of joust," Lord Whent observed from high.

Lyanna was wilting fast in her seat, injured or dying from the two blows Frey had landed on her.
Rhaegar got to his feet, watching in concern as she finally pulled the reins and urged her horse
away from the grounds. Nobles and commons and knights all got to their feet, readying to leave.
Rhaegar looked to Jon and jerked his head.

Jon sidled up to him. "She's hurt," Rhaegar murmured with a soft voice. Elia and her ladies stood
from their seats, talking amongst one another, unaware of what had truly just transpired. "Did you
see Frey land on her throat and shoulder? I cannot believe her recklessness. She could be gravely
injured. We have to find her."

The stands were emptying quick now, the sun falling to the horizon as knights, lords, ladies, and
squires went to ready for the feast. Jon asked, "She won't go back to her room, not if she wishes to
keep this a secret. I agree we must help and find her, but where?"

Rhaegar thought of pale grey, a white tree, ruby leaves, and blood-soaked tears. He glanced up
and out to the the twenty-acre thicket of forest within Harrenhal's walls. He breathed a sigh of
relief, of gratitude for the Old Gods. "The godswood."
 A Truce on Shattered Rocks
Chapter Notes

This picks up immediately after last chapter, starting just a few minutes after
Lyanna won her three challenges and rode off.

A tired red-gold sun fell gently to sleep as a violet twilight came to herald the day's end, but it was
the comet that had hooked Lyanna's eye. Burning red with a tail that smoked Stark grey, the
comet arced over the purple evening like a fresh smear of blood. The sight of it, so bright it burned
through her visor, was enough to make Lyanna forget about her victories and her hurts, however
briefly.

Her steel helm was wrenched off and left to be forgotten amongst the dirt as soon as her charger
breached the godswood's safety. Trees pressed in thick and close here, crowding in on her like a
dark mob. Limbs tore at her flying hair with thin fingers and threatened to pull her to the earth, but
Lyanna Stark held on as fiercely as she ever had.

The red comet was snuffed out here in the dense wood, but every so often the trees would thin
and its arch would flash through the leafy canopy like fire. Like dragon's breath, Lyanna thought
queerly, swaying in her saddle as a wave of nausea took her in its grip.

The taste of victory still danced on her tongue, the thrill of what she had done thrumming wild
through her veins, but the sharp pain of her last tilt when Ser Frey had landed two hits on her
throbbed through her entire body. She could not discern agony from exhiliration any longer, and it
was all she could do to stay ahorse through the heavy burden of her armor and the mounting pain
of a lance's phantom touch.

Lyanna rode hard and fast through the wood until finally she glimpsed the heart tree up ahead, its
pale face long and mean and marred, bleeding tears of sap as red as twilight's comet. She had
never felt such relief, for here was the dominion of her gods, the Old Gods, and they would grant
her the strength she needed to see her victory through.

She left the red charger free to roam as she slid from his back and approached the tree. Here was
her most difficult venture to come: dismantling herself. She had bribed an unwashed peasant boy
to play squire at the tourney, but it had been Howland Reed that had helped her suit up in secret
before he joined her brothers in the stands.

Howland would keep her brothers from sniffing out her scent at the feast, and the peasant boy had
no idea how to take instructions besides bring me a new lance each time I break one, so she was
alone now. But so long as she made it back to her room before Ned and Benjen discovered her,
she would be successful in having avenged Howland's shame.

Her fingers went to begin unbuckling when a whinny shattered the quiet. Lyanna glanced up,
thinking to see her stolen charger, but it was two horses there, one black and one white, each
mounted by a rider. Jon Connington wore checkered red-and-white raiment atop his dark steed,
and Rhaegar was decked out in vibrant red that was stark against his snowy white mount.

She should have known Jon would be unable to keep her secret once he figured it out. As much
as Jon adored her, Rhaegar was his weakness.

Rhaegar dismounted gracefully and approached her on long legs; for once she had no strength to
shy away. "You're hurt," he accused softly, hand going to rest over her gorget.

Her throat seemed to throb all the more for the way her heartbeat quickened. She was in the worst
pain she had ever felt, head lurching, and sapped of too much strength to make an objection or
scene. "Get this," she breathed, "off of me."

Jon and Rhaegar made quick work of her armor, dismantling each piece and collecting it in a pile.
Violet sky yielded to a deep cobalt, the two colors rendering her world in a wash of dreamy
indigo. She sighed and Rhaegar blinked up at her as he loosened her greaves; his eyes seemed
almost black as dragonglass in Lyanna's swimming vision.

Once she was stripped to undertunic and leathers, Jon took her weight against him and led her to
his own horse. "Rhaegar," he said over his shoulder, "her shield. It's attached to the charger."

Lyanna looked over as best she could. Her painted shield, with its weirwood tree laughing as if it
knew some private joke, brought a disturbing smile to her face. Hysterical laughter rose in her
throat. She had done it, she had truly done it.

"Take her to my room," Rhaegar ordered, looking her over with concern, "I'll take care of the
shield."

Lyanna did not remember the trip from godswood to castle; one moment she was blinking against
the dragonfire comet high above the trees, and the next she was being lain across the covers of a
large featherbed as a thousand waxy whores danced for her in the flames.

She curled in on herself. The blade in her neck made her want to scream. "Take it out," she
pleaded, gasping for air. She clawed at her skin, but felt it whole and free of any dagger. Then she
remembered, Ser Frey, chinless and black of eye, placing his lance in the hollow of her throat like
a promise, nearly taking her head off with the strike. Fury fought pain, and pain won out.

"Where's that fucking maester?" Jon growled. There was someone behind him, an angel that
glittered like ice and snow, and another who wore the wings of a bat. Fire seemed to engulf them
both.

Lyanna's eyes drifted close, unable to handle the thousand flames that flickered around her, but
closed wasn't any better. Behind her lids was burned the scorched mark of a terrible red comet,
and there was no reprieve from its light.

Hadn't anyone else seen that red terror? She went to ask, but a moan was the only thing that
escaped.

A wavering ancient voice suddenly sounded out. "I must strip her before I can help her," it
warned, "and I will need help."

No, Lyanna thought as waves of pain burned her voice away, please don't touch me.

"Anything," a friend's voice answered, tinged with fear, "but we must hurry. The prince wants her
healed, and," there was a thick pause, "this to be kept secret."

She did not hear a reply.

Lyanna's mind swirled violently as if the earth was rocking and she fisted the bedsheets for
stability, but she was laying down and the world was still. The beat in her chest was almost violent
and the pain she bore grew arms and legs and teeth and ripped her open from the inside out like
Benjen had done to their lady mother. Was this what dying felt like?

Lyanna opened her eyes and all she saw was fire.

Sitting through the feast was the most difficult thing Rhaegar had ever had to endure. The singers'
voices, once beautiful, now seemed yodels, the buzzing chatter of feasters harsh as a swarm of
bees, and Elia's presence next to him like a gnat that refused to be swatted away.

But, Rhaegar admitted, for all the annoyances setting his nerves on edge until he felt near to
explode, he would willingly endure it a hundred times over so long as Lyanna's secret was not
betrayed.

The fear he had felt for her upon seeing her faltering in the godswood still sat rancid at the back of
his mouth like poison. She had been a vision beneath the darkening twilight, faint purple lighting a
crown over her hair and her gaze bright as fresh-forged Valyrian steel. But he saw it in the way
she carried herself and the way her eyes had glazed over that the pain courtesy of the Frey knight
rendered her near helpless.

Jon had brought her to Rhaegar's private room, and Arthur and Oswell had been told to guard the
hall against any intruders, lest Lyanna be found in his sheets. She was safe for now, and though
Rhaegar had wished for nothing else but to stay by her side, it was Jon who gave him sense.

"Your absence will be noticed," Jon had said, "and will raise questions, not only from your lady
wife but lords as well. If both Lyanna and you were absent, the Starks' hackles would rise and
you would unwillingly create a spectacle for the ages."

I am not unwilling when it comes to her, Rhaegar had thought, but he'd kept that to himself. All he
truly cared about was getting Lyanna checked and ensuring her health. He would still be able to
see her once the night came to a close.

Now he was three hours into this godsforsaken feast, wondering every second that went by when
his misery would be ended.

Across the room, a cup smashed with a sudden clatter. Robert Baratheon roared in delight and
stood to face the looks he attracted. "Hear me," his voice boomed like a wardrum, "on the
morrow, I will unmask that craven mystery knight!"

Richard Lonmouth, cheeks bright from drink, pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "You'd
have a better time trying to find the bottom of your cup," he hooted loudly, "I will challenge this
Knight of the Laughing Tree in the lists, and once he has been knocked to the dust, I'll demand he
show his face for all the realm to see!"

The room exploded in laughter and cheer. Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, grateful that Lyanna would
be too hurt to joust in the morn. The wolf's blood of hers, as Lord Rickard had always called it,
would rage at the chance to defend her own honor. And thank the gods she is abed, Rhaegar
thought, drinking from his cup as he looked around the room, bored.

Elia's laughter died down from Lonmouth's declaration and she turned to smile at him. Rhaegar
gave her a quick smile back; he did not need her pressing him when he disappeared to his quarters
later. Arthur and Oswell would keep her away, but Elia was persistent in matters of lust. How
many times had he turned her advances away over the years, brushing off her unwanted touches
and cringing at his duty in the first months of their marriage? If only Aerys-
His thoughts stopped cold. Elia leaned over suddenly, her breath hot on his neck, but the ice he
felt rushing through him had nothing to do with the way she whispered in his ear and everything
to do with the Stark table. Ned was in conversation with two men, one of Barrowton and the other
a Manderly, and Benjen was busy sneaking more wine into his cup while other northern boys
urged him on.

But it was the young man in the bronze-scaled jerkin that froze Rhaegar to ice, the green of the
stranger's eyes clear as wildfire across the room; those eyes, so queer and so bright, looked deeply
into his own, unflinching and bold and knowing. Rhaegar felt himself paralyzed, like a mouse to a
snake, and not at all like a dragon to a frog.

When he was young, still living within the walls of Winterfell, Old Nan had told stories of the
crannogmen of Greywater Watch while he and Lyanna and Benjen had sat at her feet; green men,
she had called them. She'd claimed that the green men had powers that lesser men did not, visions
of the future that no other man could know, knowledge that seemed impossible, and sometimes
the ability to shed their own skin and take on the hide of any beast of the sky, land, or seas.

Despite enjoying them, Rhaegar had always thought her stories to be just that: stories.

But staring at the crannogman now, he could not be so sure. Elia put a hand on Rhaegar's forearm
when he did not reply, insistently warm, and as she did the little man's eyes followed the
movement, then flicked back up; the crannogman raised an eyebrow, challenging almost, and
smirked.

Rhaegar shrugged Elia off harshly, earning a queer smile from the green-eyed man. "Forgive me,
my lady," Rhaegar said quickly, ashamed. He was not his father.

Elia gave him a cautious smile, always so quick to forgive his slights. Most times he did not care
for her or her feelings, for what were they compared to his own and those of Lyanna? But seeing
Elia light up at his slightest attention when, secretly, all he yearned for was another girl blackened
his soul the tiniest bit.

"I am tired," he excused his behavior lamely.

"You could lie down," Elia suggested, dark eyes glittering. "We could lie down. Rhaenys needs a
sibling to play with, and you need an heir. Let us make a boy tonight, my prince."

Bile swam up his throat. Despite her sweet nature, Rhaegar would never bend to lay with her
again. Rhaenys had only been his duty, the expensive price to pay to buy Lyanna's safety, but no
boy of his would ever come from the loins of Elia Martell. If Lyanna never came back to him, he
would die without an heir and be succeeded by Rhaenys or Viserys.

"I think I will retire alone," he said, watching her face fall.

"My prince," she reached out, grasping at air as he slid deftly out of his chair. Her dark eyes
suddenly filled with tears, turning to black glass. "Have I done something to offend? Please."

The hall hushed to silence, saving him from replying. Lord Whent signaled the end of the music
and announced the feast's end. Rhaegar spared one last look at the pretender princess and walked
off, eager to reach his little northern girl.

Lyanna was asleep when he walked into his chambers. Jon was slumped over in a chair, face
lined in exhaustion, and the maester was rolling up a roll of potions into one of his billowing black
sleeves.
"How is she?" Rhaegar demanded, pushing the door closed behind him. It would not do for any
eavesdroppers to hear, though they would be lucky to make it past Arthur and Oswell outside.

"In pain," the maester said softly, "but I gave her milk of the poppy. Nothing seems to be broken,
but her shoulder was out of place. I had to force it back, with the help of Lord Connington."

"But she'll be alright?" Rhaegar urged, hating to think of her in any agony. Ironic, since I have
caused her the most.

"She will," the maester said with confidence. He looked Rhaegar over curiously. "If I may ask,
how did she obtain the injury?"

"You may not ask," Jon cut in sternly, getting to his feet. The way his red hair stuck up and
danced in the candlelight gave him the horns of some demon.

The maester nodded, unoffended. "I will forget this evening ever happened." He bowed and left.

Rhaegar was rooted in place. He could only stare at Lyanna, reclined against his pillows with her
arm and shoulder entrapped with silk bindings, and her face slack with sleep like so many times at
Winterfell. Just the sight of her made him want to fall to his knees.

"Rhaegar," Jon's voice was a whisper. He looked over. "She's going to be fine."

Rhaegar closed his eyes in relief and sighed. "Could you . . ." He took a breath. "I would like to
be alone with her."

"Of course," Jon said, "if you have need of me, I will be in my chambers. Send Ser Arthur or Ser
Oswell and I will come right back." When he left, the door fell shut behind him.

"Is everyone gone?" a croaky voice asked.

Rhaegar's head whipped around. Lyanna's eyes, glazed but alive, stared him down from her perch
on the bed. It was then that he noticed the masterpiece of bruises that painted the skin beneath her
chin and jaw, blues and purples and blacks. His fist clenched, imagining a chinless weasel in his
palm.

"You're awake," he said with stark relief. "The maester said you were sleeping."

Lyanna snorted and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "I pretended so they would leave me alone," she
explained in a gravelly whisper, "the maester's hands were cold as ice and Jon hovered like a
mother bear."

The laugh burst out of Rhaegar before he could stop it. It was just like her, even in her darkest
moments, to play the trick; it reminded him of Winterfell days when she'd deceive Maester Walys
and run off to play swords with Benjen instead of learning about the histories of this House and
that. No matter how differently she looked, his love had not changed.

"How do you feel?" he asked, fiddling with his ring to calm his racing heart.

Lyanna caught the movement but met his eyes quickly. "Like death," she answered, suddenly
giggling to herself. The milk of the poppy had always rendered her lips loose and her moods
sloppy, ever since they were children, and this time was no different.

Rhaegar drifted closer cautiously, taking seat at the bottom corner of the bed, several feet away
from her. She had proven to be skittish in his presence so far at the tourney; he did not wish to
spook her away. "I am glad you are unhurt."
Lyanna's eyes popped wider. She studied him closely, looking for something in his eyes, perhaps
a lie; she stared so hard and so long that it seemed half an hour had gone by before she spoke
again.

"I hate you."

The words were expected, unsurprising, but they hurt like an arrow to the heart.

"I know you do," he whispered. And then, "I still love you."

She sighed. "I wish you would stop saying that. It makes me sad." She said it with all the
innocence of a child.

He leaned forward, resting his weight against his wrist. A sick feeling boiled in his stomach, and
the heat of the flames pressed over him like a blanket, but he was cold as a corpse sitting here with
her. "I never wish to make you sad."

Lyanna's snort was ugly and mean. "That seems to be all you are good at, Your Highness.
Making me sad and turning ladies into princesses."

It was the same start to every argument they had had so far at Harrenhal, but this time Rhaegar
intended to finish it. "I tried coming back to you, Lyanna," he said hurriedly before she could stop
him. "Ser Gerold forced me home, but I thought it to be temporary. When my father summoned
Elia Martell to King's Landing to marry me, I tried to escape back north."

Lyanna blinked, then narrowed her eyes as if she did not believe him. Even her tone was
skeptical. "You did?"

He nodded quickly, taking her lack of screaming or storming out as a positive sign. "I did. I took a
horse and made it out of the city gates before they found me. Aerys sent the Kingsguard after my
trail, and it was to my father I was dragged back. He . . ." His voice broke, as it always did when
he spoke of his mother, but he forced himself to continue.

"Aerys made me watch as he broke both my mother's wrists in his hands. As she sobbed, he told
me if I ever tried to run again, he would kill her before my eyes."

Lyanna's eyes were wide and full of revulsion. She had met the king once, long ago when his
mind had still been sound, but it was his mother that she loved. Hearing about Rhaella's treatment
had clearly hit her hard.

"He hurt her?" she whispered in horror.

"He hurts her," Rhaegar corrected. "Nearly every day."

Lyanna blinked, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

"As am I," he said solemnly. "I had hoped the small council would be agreeable to his removal,
but none so far have taken my hints. I have to be careful, or else be executed for treason, but I
wish more than anything that my mother could be free of him." His tone darkened. "He has ruined
my life."

Lyanna glanced up, silent. He could see the effects of the milk of the poppy all over her, but she
seemed lucid enough to comprehend - and later remember - his words.

"All I've ever wanted was to build a family with you, little wolves and dragons, and to grow old
with you as my queen. I wish more than anything for that."
Her eyes turned to ice. "You could have had that if you never left me."

"I had to, Lyanna, don't you see? When Ser Gerold came upon us in the godswood and he pulled
me away, he told me what my father was. A monster. And if Aerys had found out that you and I
had defied his broken betrothal by forcing a marriage, he would have killed you and your family
to make an example to the realm of his power. I could not let you die."

"He wouldn't have," she protested weakly. "The north is vast and loyal. He would have started a
war, yes, but our necks he would not have had."

"How could I have known? We were fourteen," Rhaegar implored her, "I was scared out of my
mind that my wife would have been executed. I left Winterfell with the sincerest intentions to
come back for you. We could have hid beyond the Wall or run off to Essos . . .

"But then Elia came, and my father threatened me with my mother's life, and before I knew it
years had passed and my dream had turned into a nightmare. My wife was a stranger and my
family was broken."

Lyanna sniffed, considering all that he had said. "I am truly sorry for what happened to Rhaella
and your fear over me, but that does not explain the little girl that bears the name Targaryen."

Rhaenys, he thought, ashamed. As much natural love as he had for Rhaenys, he had never wanted
her, and some evil black part of him always wished she had been Lyanna's instead of Elia's. He
might have never had a child with the Dornish princess if it weren't for another of Aerys' threats.

The night of his wedding feast, he'd slipped away as the sixth course was being served. He stole
away to his rooms, intending to send a bird to Winterfell. He'd written a long letter to Lyanna,
asking her to meet him in the city so that they might steal away together. He'd known then that
doing so would mean his mother's death, but he'd been so drunk on grief and strongwine, he had
not cared. Only Lyanna mattered.

And then Ser Jonothor and Aerys had found him in the middle of fixing his seal to the missive.
Rhaegar had been able to drop the paper in the fire before Aerys could demand to read it, but his
father had known exactly what he was doing.

"You will consummate your marriage tonight," Aerys had warned with a black gleam in his eye,
"and to be sure, I will have all seven of the Kingsguard outside your chamber to make sure it
happens. If you don't get a child on that Martell whore soon, your mother will pay dearly."

That night, he did his duty, drunker than he'd ever been before, half-blacked out in the sheets as he
moved over copper skin and black hair. Elia found out she was pregnant only a few months later,
and he had never touched her again.

He explained all this to Lyanna, watching for her reaction. She listened, still as a statue, flinching
only when he mentioned his consummation, and when he was done, she seemed to study him all
the harder.

"One letter is not effort," she finally said. "You should have written me in secret."

"I did!" Rhaegar exclaimed. "Aerys threatened my mother's life once more if I ever wrote another
after that night. That didn't stop me. I sent you many and more."

Lyanna sat up, holding her shoulder stiff. "Liar! I never received any letter from you. The only
birds we had from King's Landing were those bearing news of your wedding and new child. But
none in your hand or your heart."
"I sent them," he promised, scooting closer. "So many. I thought you just didn't want to talk to me,
and that's why you never replied back."

Lyanna frowned, uncertain. "I used to wait in the rookery for hours after you'd gone, hoping a
letter with your seal would come. Days and days went by with nothing. Eventually I learned to
give up."

He scooted even closer, right next to her now. Slowly, he reached out and covered her hand. It felt
blessedly warm, and soft as silk. "My hand would cramp from how many I wrote. Mayhaps the
birds got lost or killed, but I wrote you, Lya, I swear it by the Old Gods." He did not want to think
what had truly caused her to not get his letters.

Lyanna glanced down at their overlapping hands, then looked him in the eye. There was emotion
swimming in her gaze, but for once it was not hatred or anger or irritation. It was a profound
sadness and a sort of relief that came from getting answers after years of confusion.

"I hate Aerys for what he did to us, Lyanna," Rhaegar whispered, "and I vow to pay him back for
all the hurts he has caused, but let this not be the end of our story. I would start a war for you, if
that's what you wished."

She closed her eyes. "I do not want a war fought over me. My father has nursed this grudge for
years, and likely would not side with you. And besides, I am promised to another, do not ask me
such a thing."

Rhaegar felt ready to sob; she was so close and yet so far away. But he had promised himself that
he would wait for her however long that need be, if she married another, gave children to another,
and made a home in the halls of Storm's End until she was sixty. Rhaegar would take her old and
grey than not at all.

"If you want to stay the course and marry Robert Baratheon, that is fine. I will always be right
here waiting for you, no matter what. I want you to know that I am always an option if you wish
it, no matter what these past years have made you think otherwise."

Lyanna took a shallow intake of breath. The milk of the poppy seemed to be dragging her toward
sleep; he could only hope it did not take her memories of this night too. "You," she said shakily,
"used to be my best friend long before you were anything else. My heart may be wrecked over the
damage you paid it, but I didn't just lose a husband that day. I lost my closest confidant and dearest
friend. I have missed that more than anything."

Friend, Rhaegar thought, exulting. It was better than what he thought he would get.

Years ago he had been a melancholic, quiet boy who holed up in his chambers at Winterfell,
reading beneath candlelight with no one but the shadows for company. It had been Lyanna who
had pulled him from his quiet and made him her friend. Only after had they become lovers.

He could pay her back now for those years, and finally pull her back to him. He could show her
the boy she'd fallen in love with, just as he had done then.

Rhaegar's heart soared. He picked up her hand gently and bent to press a kiss to it; the simple
gesture reminded him of the heat they had once shared. And maybe one day might again.

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