Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8508808.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Lyanna_Stark/Rhaegar_Targaryen, Lyanna_Stark/Robert_Baratheon_
      (unrequited)
  Character:
      Lyanna_Stark, Ned_Stark, Brandon_Stark, Lord_Rickard_Stark, Rhaegar
      Targaryen, Robert_Baratheon, Benjen_Stark, Catelyn_Tully, Howland_Reed
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Period-Typical_Underage, Period-
      Typical_Sexism, Unrequited_Love, Loss_of_Virginity, Lyanna_Centric,
      Lyanna_Lives, R_plus_L_equals_J
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-11-08 Completed: 2016-11-19 Chapters: 7/7 Words: 32842
****** No blood, no alibi ******
by forestgreen
Summary
     They call her She-Wolf to her face, and Mad-Bitch behind her back.
     Lyanna likes both names, is proud of them.
Notes
     This story has been long in the making. When I first read "A Song of
     Ice and Fire" a couple of years ago, a line in the books stayed with
     me. Early on Ned Stark tells Arya: "You have a wildness in you,
     child. 'The wolf blood,' my father used to call it. Lyanna had a
     touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch." And I
     remember thinking: What would have happened if it had been the other
     way around? The question never quite left me. And here, more than
     four years later, is the result.
     As usual, my thanks go to the magnificent enabler, supporter, and
     beta-reader extraordinaire akelios. This story wouldn't exist without
     her encouragement and patience. All remaining mistakes are mine.
***** Chapter 1 *****
                                            "You have a wildness in you, child.
                                   'The wolf blood,' my father used to call it.
                                                     Brandon had a touch of it,
                                       and my sister Lyanna more than a touch."

                                                     Eddard Stark to Arya Stark

                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
A lady should not grow up without a mother.
"Lord Stark should remarry," her father's servants and bannermen whisper where
they think they can't be overheard. "Lady Lyanna needs a woman's hand to guide
her. She'd be different with a woman in the house. Tamer."
Lyanna does not care for tame. She is the North's winter rose, wild and
beautiful and thorny. There's magic in winter roses, Old Nan tells her, and
strength. No other flower can survive the harshness of winter, and yet the
colder and longer the winter, the more beautiful its roses.
Lyanna might have no mother, but she has three brothers and a father who dote
on her. She finds that more than enough. She doesn't remember her mother and
doesn't really miss her, even though everyone seems to think she ought to, but
Lyanna has never been one for doing what others expect. She's contrary like
that.
Wild, the men call her, and Lyanna smiles with pride when she hears it. She
likes being wild, like a winter storm, like a direwolf. Like the North.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
On her fifth name day all kinds of presents wait for Lyanna: a new gray and
white coat; fine dresses; a doll like the little ladies in the South like to
play with, clad in delicate embroidery, with real hair as fine as gold and just
as pretty.
Lyanna looks at her father with the betrayed look of a child who has always
gotten her will and doesn't know why today of all days should be different.
"Where is my sword?" she asks. Maybe they just hid it some other place. "I said
I wanted a sword, just like Ned's. He got a sword for his fifth name day."
Her father laughs, that deep laugh he has whenever one of his children does or
says something that takes him by surprise and yet pleases him. "Darling, Ned is
a boy. Swords are for boys, not for little ladies. Don't you like your doll? I
had it made for you in King's Landing, just for my little princess."
"I want a sword, not some stupid doll." Lyanna glares at her father and stomps
her foot so hard that she feels it in her knee.
"Darling, that's not possible," Lord Stark cajoles.  
It's the first time as far as she can remember that her father has denied her
anything. She doesn't like it. "I want a sword!" she shouts in a high-pitched
voice that precedes a temper tantrum. Her lips tremble and tears well up in her
eyes.
"She can have my wooden sword," Brandon hurries to offer, always the first to
cave to Lyanna's whims. "Ser Willam says I'm ready for a real sword anyway."  
"Nonsense," her father snaps, his tone harsher than Lyanna has ever heard. "I
won't have my daughter running around with swords."
"I hate you!" she screams at him. "If mom was alive, she'd let me have a
sword!" she says, crying, and runs to her room, slamming the door shut with all
her strength. Deep down, there's a part of her that regrets the words, but
right then that part doesn't matter. Only the tides of anger crashing against
her chest with no other outlet than useless tears.
Lyanna refuses to leave her room, even after Brandon and Ned and Old Nan come
to cajole her. Brandon even offers to get her a sword behind their father's
back and teach her how to use it, but Lyanna doesn't want to hide. She wants to
learn to fight like her brothers, like the warrior princesses of Old Nan's
stories. Her anger feels almost alive, like a caged animal that wants to escape
and lash out.
She catches sight of her new doll, blonde and pretty and so very frail—a silly
doll for a silly girl—and her anger grows. Nobody thought to give Ned a doll.
Or Brandon. What does she get a stupid doll? She hurls it against the wall and
its porcelain face shatters into hundreds of pieces. It feels good. Liberating.
She comes back to herself within the embrace of her father's arms. Only then
does she realize that she's been fighting against him, biting and kicking and
screaming. Her room is in shambles, with most of her things lying broken on the
floor. Dimly, she remembers being the one responsible.
"I'm sorry," she says, sniffing. "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry." And she is
sorry. She doesn't know what got into her, only that she needed to let her rage
out or else it would have consumed her.
Her father strokes her hair and hugs her closer. "Hush, I know. I know. It's
the wolf blood in you, darling," he says. "All Starks have some, and you have
more than others."
"I'm sorry," she says again, because it seems as though it's something she
ought to apologize for.
Her father chuckles. "It's not your fault. There's too much Stark blood in you,
that's all." He kisses her forehead and holds her and she falls asleep within
the comfort of his arms, exhausted.
The next day, she gets her wooden sword.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
After Old Nan finally considers her clean enough, Lyanna runs to her father's
solar to tell him all about her first day of sword practice. Ser Willam is
speaking to her father, and Lyanna slows down, coming to a stop on other side
of the door. She knows better than to interrupt her father when he's fulfilling
his duties as Lord.
"Are you sure that's wise, my Lord?" Ser Willam is asking her father.
"Ser Willam, if you go easy on that girl, she'll never stop wanting to play
with swords," her father says. Lyanna holds her breath, aware that they are
talking about her. "A few bruises won't kill her. Be hard on her; harder than
you'd be on the boys. When it gets to be too much, she'll realize that swords
and horses aren't for women. The sooner that happens, the better."
"Let's hope you're right, my Lord," Ser Willam says. "That girl could out-
stubborn a mule."
Lyanna balls her hands into fists, turns around on silent feet and goes back to
her room. She'll show them.
There's wolf blood in her, and it was her father who told her that true wolves
know no fear. She'll prove to him that she is as much a wolf as her brothers.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
By the time she's two and ten everyone has forgotten that she shouldn't fight
with swords.
On the training field she has no rival. Not even Brandon can best her, despite
being five years her senior. She's fast, faster than any of her father's men,
and utterly ruthless. She fights to win and doesn't stop until she has, no
matter the cost. The other children learn to fear her. Strength and size don't
matter much against someone willing to do absolutely anything to win a fight.
They call her She-Wolf to her face, and Mad-Bitch behind her back. Lyanna likes
both names, is proud of them.
Then Ned comes home after years in the South and brings his friend Robert
Baratheon with him. It's the beginning of the end, but Lyanna doesn't know it,
nor would she believe it if someone were to tell her. She's just turned two and
ten, and life seems as eternal as the snow in the North.  
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
She, Brandon and Benjen whisper about Ned behind his back.
"He's not our real brother," Brandon tells Benjen with a serious face, and
Lyanna has to bite her lips not to laugh out loud at the worry in Benjen's
face.
"But father says he is," Benjen points out, looking around to check if there
are grown-ups close by. Benjen had been four when Ned left to be fostered at
the Eyrie and doesn't remember their brother well.
"He looks like our brother," Lyanna confides, playing along, "but in truth he's
an Other."
"An Other?" Benjen gasps, glancing at Brandon for confirmation.
"Yes." Brandon nods. "The Others probably took the real Ned when he was
traveling South and put an impostor in his place. The Southerns didn't notice,
of course. Everyone knows they're too stupid to recognize an Other when they
see one," he says dismissively.
"But father would surely notice, wouldn't he?" Benjen frowns.
"Well, he's getting on his years. His eyesight isn't what it used to be,"
Lyanna whispers.
Benjen breaks into tears during dinner when father makes him sit next to Ned,
and Lyanna and Brandon laugh so hard that their bellies ache. Father finally
manages to get the story out of a terrified Benjen, and she and Brandon get the
scolding of their lives — although not as bad as the one they'd gotten when
they were caught trying to sneak away to go see the Wall.
Ned is angry with them, too, but this new Ned is so serious all the time that
his anger goes almost unnoticed. It's just as quiet as he is, nothing like
Brandon's shouts or Lyanna's infamous tantrums. Lyanna can't reconcile this
tall stranger with the brother that used to run around Winterfell with Brandon
and her playing hide and seek. He's her brother, though, and when Robert
Baratheon laughs at him after Lyanna beats him in their first sparring session
she feels honor-bound to show the Southern Lord that in a match against her
Robert wouldn't fare any better.
It's been awhile since she's had new sparring partners, and when Robert finally
agrees to take the challenge, thinking he's indulging Ned's little sister,
everyone in the yard gathers around them, wanting to see her thrash him. That's
the nice thing about fresh meat; they never see it coming.
Robert is no different.
It takes her all of ten seconds to disarm him the first time, using her speed
to knock the sword out of his hand before he has had the time to realize that
the match has already started. He laughs in good humor, claiming that he wasn't
yet ready, and asks for a rematch.
"Best two out of three," he says, and Lyanna accepts, knowing that it won't
change the outcome. He's big and strong, but much too slow to truly reach her,
and his footwork shows the sloppiness of someone used to winning fights by
sheer strength. Besides, he underestimates her, as most first timers do.
Best two out three turns into best four out of seven, and by then Robert stops
playing around. His mouth hardens into a thin line, and she can almost taste
the moment when she stops being his best friend's silly kid sister and becomes
a serious opponent. He's still too slow, and it's easy to use his strength and
rising anger against him, sidestepping in the last second and using Robert's
own momentum to make him lose his footing and overreach. Still, it takes her
longer to win the fourth bout, and she can't help but grin, enjoying the
challenge.
He asks for best six out of ten, and Lyanna laughs out loud but readily agrees.
Most boys would have given up by now; she likes his perseverance.
"Enough," Ned says, coming to Robert's rescue.
"No, Ned, I want another try," Robert insists, rising to his feet. "She took me
by surprise the first few times, that's all. Best six out of ten will do it."
"Robert, if you haven't realized yet that best forty out of fifty wouldn't be
enough, there's no helping you. She's turning you into a laughing stock," Ned
says with that devastating honesty that marks this new version of him.
She expects Robert to take offense, as most men would in his place, but he
looks at her with a strange intensity she's never encountered before. His eyes
travel up and down her body, lingering on places that make Lyanna want to beat
him again just because.
"Well, there's no helping it then," Robert says, a small smile catching the
corners of his lips and spreading across his whole face like fire on dry hay.
"If I can't beat her with a sword, I'll just have to marry her. Baratheons like
their women fierce. I couldn't find a better Lady for Storm's End were I to
travel the Seven Kingdoms."
All the men in the yard laugh, and Lyanna can't shake the uncomfortable
suspicion that this time it's her they are laughing at.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
Robert writes her letters about Storm's End, about his brothers, about the
places he wants to show her, the life they will have together, the children he
will give her. Lyanna doesn't care much for letters. She'd much rather ride
horses and play with Benjen, but father makes her sit down and answer.
"It's a good way to get to know your future husband, Lyanna," Lord Rickard
tells her.
"I don't want a husband," Lyanna mumbles. She had said as much to Robert, when
it became clear that his offhand remark hadn't been meant as a joke. It had
made Robert laugh. "Then I will just have to change your mind, my Lady."
However, it hadn't been her mind he'd gone out of his way to change, but her
father's.
Lord Rickard sighs. "Darling, Lord Robert is a fantastic match. Better than
anyone I could have hoped for. Not only is he Lord to one of the Great Houses,
he also has ties to the king's family! And Lyanna, my child, he's in love with
you. He'll probably indulge your horse riding and swordplay. What more could
you possibly want?"
"Not to marry at all," Lyanna grouses. "I could stay here, at Winterfell, and
become Brandon's Master-at-Arms. He says he'd take me. I'm really good with
weapons. Please father, I don't want to live in the South. They don't even have
proper winters or proper gods, everyone knows that. I like it here."
"You're still much too young, darling," her father says. "I've told Lord Robert
that you're not to be wed until you turn six and ten, and he has agreed to
wait. You've yet to have your first moon blood. Things will change after you
flower. You'll want a husband and children." He chuckles and kisses her
forehead. "Master-at-Arms, what an insane idea. You'll be the death of me,
child."
Lyanna fears the mysterious moon blood everyone keeps mentioning. Even Old Nan
seems to think that Lyanna will change after it comes. Lyanna can't imagine how
some bit of blood could change anyone that much, and a part of her worries that
they might be right. What if it does change her? She doesn't want to become
some lady that only cares about husbands and children. She likes who she is.
She doesn't want to change, any more than she wants to marry Robert.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
Her moon blood comes, and it does change her, but not in the ways Lyanna
feared. It's her body that grows, filling out in places that make boys and men
stare when her father and brothers aren't looking. Her brothers' cast me downs
no longer fit her, and her father refuses to purchase new breeches for her. He
wants her to wear dresses all of a sudden, and no matter how much Lyanna
protests he won't listen to reason.
It leads to another screaming match, and Lyanna is so furious she can barely
breathe. She stomps out of the house ignoring her father's shouts and jumps
onto her unsaddled horse. She rides away, spurring Winter to go faster when her
father's men try to stop her, forcing them to scatter when she races by.
By the time she's managed to calm down, dusk has already set in. Lyanna stops
her horse and looks around, surprised when she doesn't immediately recognize
her surroundings. Night is falling and it is much too late to head back, not
that Lyanna really wants to. The anger is still rolling in waves inside of her
— the wolf blood —  and going back when she's like this is just a recipe for
disaster.
She secures her mare and starts gathering dry wood for a fire. The sounds of
the night creep in. In the distance she can hear owls hooting and the whispers
of the wind among the trees. The new moon is just three days away, and Lyanna
knows that the night will be a dark one. She's not afraid, though. Men in the
North wouldn't dare to harm her, and if there was one fool enough to try,
cutting the idiot's throat would be quick work. And for all that the North is
full of horror stories about wild animals killing lost men, she knows that in
truth it is men who kill wild animals more often than not.
The fire burns warm in the cold night. Above her the stars shine bright in the
clear sky, breathtaking in their beauty. She'd much rather spend her life like
this, under an open sky, than caged in some castle playing at being a Lady.
If she'd be born male… she would probably be just as unhappy, truth be told.
Brandon doesn't seem too content with his lot either, forced to become a Lord
and marry some silly Southern wife who will only care about embroidery and
children. It's the kind of life only Ned would want for himself, Ned who's
become a half Southern. Not a drop of wolf blood in that one, Lyanna thinks
rather fondly. Kind, loving, boring Ned.  
Her stomach growls with hunger, and Lyanna does her best to ignore it. She lies
down near the fire and lets the sounds of the night and the heat lull her. She
falls asleep trying to imagine the life she'd like to have, if given the
choice. She'd go to the Free Cities, she thinks, become a sellsword and travel
the world. A life filled with adventures and dangers, with no one to answer to
but herself. The best kind of life.
She dreams she's a wolf, hunting in the woods. The snow is soft beneath her
paws as she stalks her prey, slinking closer on silent feet. The stag flees
when it sees her, and Lyanna howls and gives chase, hunger and instinct taking
over. A surge of warm, fresh blood floods into her mouth as she closes her jaws
on its soft throat, tearing at it. She swallows greedily as the life bleeds out
of it. She reaps a chunk of flesh and gulps it down, satiating her hunger. It
tastes delicious.
It's not dawn yet when shouts wake her. She sits up, groggy, barely remembering
where she is. The taste of blood still fresh in her mouth. Such an odd, vivid
dream.
Memories of the fight with her father come rushing back. When she listens
again, it's her name people are shouting into the night. Far away she sees the
flickering lights of torches and sighs. She lets herself fall back on the
ground and closes her eyes wearily. A part of her still wants to make a run for
it, but she knows it's pointless. Sooner or later she'll have to head back.
She doesn't call to the men, not wanting to hurry the moment when they finally
find her. Her father will demand an apology, Lyanna knows, and it rankles that
she will be forced to give one, as if she was the one at fault. Why should her
father have a say in the clothes she wears? The anger rekindles in her, but
it's not soaring like before, just a useless, tame thing, like a lit-up
fireplace, bright and warm, but contained and harmless.
Things are as they are, and raging about it won't change anything. Maybe she's
growing up after all, she thinks, and the thought fills her with dismay.
Her mind wanders to Robert, and she wonders idly if he will let her dress as
she pleases, or if he, too, will insist on what's proper and right for his Lady
Wife. The torches are coming closer still, and Lyanna casts a longing look at
the darkness of the hills further ahead. They remind her of her wolf dream, the
rush of excitement as she chased her prey, the expanse of the unending forest
surrounding her. The freedom.
If she could choose her life, she thinks, that's what she'd like to be. A
direwolf: fierce, feared and free. Not the tame bitch her father is training
her to be, with her pretty collar and her prettier leash and the fitting
Southern Lord to better hold it.  
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
A raven comes from the South inviting their family to a tourney at Harrenhal —
a real tourney with jousting and sword-fights and melees. Lyanna wants to go
and fight, show those Southerners than she's better than all of them put
together.
"Fight at the tourney? What a crazy idea," her father laughs. "Soon you will be
a married woman with responsibilities to your husband and your house. You need
to grow up and leave these childish dreams behind, darling. You may go to
Harrenhal with your brothers, but not to fight." He laughs again and shakes his
head in disbelief. "You'll see Lord Baratheon again and meet your brother's
fiancee, Lady Catelyn. Being friends with other Ladies of your own age will
help you. Maybe Lady Catelyn can talk some sense into you. The gods know I've
tried."
She bites back a sharp reply and mumbles her acceptance. If she can't
participate in the tourney, watching it would be the next best thing. Lyanna
knows her father well enough to recognize this is one of those arguments where
he won't change his mind. His willingness to indulge her whims has faded over
the years. Everyone keeps insisting she needs to grow up, but Lyanna would much
rather stay a child forever, at least then nothing seemed impossible. If
growing up means giving up her dreams, she'd rather skip the whole thing.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
Lyanna has never seen so many people together, not even on a market day in
White Harbor. The South, Lyanna discovers, is a loud, overcrowded place, with
people constantly shouting and moving around. Not a mile of road goes by where
they don't encounter other riders or some kind of town or at least an inn eager
to take their coin in exchange for food and drinks. It's nothing like the
North, where the king's road stretches for days at a time with hardly a
traveler in sight.
It's easy to get lost in the South, and at times Lyanna feels almost invisible.
In the North, everyone knows who she is: Lord Rickard Stark's only daughter,
the Lady of Winterfell. Even the lowest of farmers know her name.
Here, she's one more Lady among many. She might be the daughter of a Lord
Paramount  but most people don't know that when they see at her. Her dresses
are sturdy and plain, made to resist the cold of the North, lacking the frills,
laces and colors the Southern ladies favor.
Lyanna studies the Southern Ladies with barely contained curiosity. They look
frail and soft, like puffed-up summer birds, trilling and chirping and giggling
for no apparent reason. They seem foreign to Lyanna, and she can't quite shake
the feeling that she stands out like a sore thumb, unable to blend in. Too
simple. Too Northern. Too other.
Lyanna smiles and curtsies and tries her best to be the kind of woman that
would make her father proud. Lady Catelyn takes her under her wing, introducing
Lyanna to all of her friends, sharing useless gossip with her about engagements
and scandals, alliances and feuds. She advises her on how to dress and teaches
her how to pin her hair up in a Southern style. They talk about fabrics and
laces and the best tailors to order dresses from, and for moments it feels as
if Lyanna could belong. Most times, though, it's exhausting, like wearing an
ill-fitting armor, constantly aware of all the places it keeps slipping,
showing glimpses of her true-self—a Northern girl, lacking the refinement of a
Southern Lady.
Robert doesn't seem to mind, though. He stares at her like a starving man in
front of a banquet, desperate for the host to give the signal to dig in. He
strips her with his eyes, his gaze lingering in places that make Lyanna want to
slap him even though she knows she can't. He's her betrothed; he's allowed to
look at her however he wants, but it still makes her skin crawl when he comes
near.
He introduces her to the royal family, talking about her like she's some prized
mare he just purchased. His cousin, king Aerys II is an ugly excuse of a man,
scabbed over and jittery, with sunken eyes and a mad laugh that chills Lyanna
to the bone whenever she hears it. His son, prince Rhaegar, comes closer to
Lyanna's childish image of what royalty ought to look like, tall and handsome,
regal. Princess Elia, on the other hand, is as disappointing as the king, a
quiet, frail woman who reminds Lyanna of the statues in the crypts of
Winterfell with their ghostly beauty and unyielding gaze.  
Whenever she can get away with it, Lyanna slips away from Lady Catelyn and
Robert, to go watch the squires and knights practice, trying to discern their
fighting styles, so different from those in the North. Her hands ache with the
desire to take a sword and challenge them, wanting to see how their
extravagant, showy moves would fare against the Northern straightforward and
simple approach. Her father has forbidden it, though, and Brandon made it clear
that he would make sure that she obeyed the command. All that Lyanna can do is
hide in the shadows and watch from a distance.
It's on such an occasion that she sees three squires, not much older than
herself, bullying one of her father's bannermen, pushing him around and
laughing when he tries to defend himself. Before she knows what she's doing,
she has already advanced on the three boys, demanding that they leave her
father's man alone.
"What are you gonna do about it, little lady?" one of the boys taunts her,
turning to her with a mocking smirk.
It is an invitation if Lyanna has ever heard one. Her father and his rules are
suddenly forgotten, erased by the bloodlust howling inside her, demanding that
she show them exactly what she can and will do. She takes one of the practice
swords lying around and raises it. The boys laugh, forgetting her father's man
for the moment and turning to her.
Three on one. Lyanna laughs, too, because she loves a good, hard fight. It
makes winning so much sweeter. It's almost disappointing how little time it
takes her to send their swords flying. "Run," she says, and she sounds like the
wolf she is. They squeak and scramble away, running as fast as their legs can
carry them.
A part of her wants to give chase, finish off the easy prey. Instead, she
forces herself to take a deep breath and turn to the man lying on the floor,
wearing her father's colors.
"Are you alright?" she asks.
"Yes, thank you, my Lady," he says, standing up with some difficulty. He
doesn't quite meet her eyes. "I apologize for shaming your father's bannermen."
Lyanna frowns. "Did you do something to shame my father's bannermen?"
"I wasn't able to fight off those squires, even though they were just boys," he
says, looking at his feet.
"Nonsense," Lyanna says. "They are the only ones who ought to feel ashamed,
ganging up three on one like that. Someone ought to teach them better manners.
What's your name?"
"Howland Reed," the man answers. "I'm a crannogman from the Neck," he adds,
reluctantly, as if expecting to be mocked for it.
"My father speaks greatly of you," Lyanna says, which is not quite true, but
it's not a total lie either. Her father has mentioned crannogmen before.
"You're loyal subjects, and talented fighters." Mostly, her father thinks that
their fighting is a bit craven, but Lyanna disagrees. A fight is a fight, and
the only thing that matters is winning it. If the crannogmen use smarts against
size then that only speaks for them. "I know so little about your people. Will
you tell me more?" she asks.
It takes some convincing, but she gets Howland to come with her. She and Benjen
pester him with questions endlessly under the premise of tending to his wounds.
Howland knows about poisons and plants, and how to best hide in the forest,
covering your tracks so that dogs or animals can't follow you. Lyanna decides
that she likes him more than she does Lady Catelyn or her friends. He's
certainly more interesting, and the things he has to teach more practical than
listening to silly gossip. She and Benjen convince him to accompany them to the
fest that night, and Lyanna is glad to have an excuse to stay away from the
other women.
Ned and Robert sit with them, but soon enough only she and Benjen are talking
to Howland. Robert and Brandon are distracted by the drinks and the music and
have both entered into some inane competition to figure out who can outdrink
whom, while Ned tries his best to run interference.
Across the table, Lady Catelyn's lips are pursed in displeasure, as she watches
her fiancee make a fool of himself. Lyanna has the strong suspicion that Lady
Catelyn will not be as happy in her marriage as she probably expects. At least
Lyanna has no illusions about her future. She knows she will be miserable away
from the North.
She pushes away her dark thoughts and turns her attention to Howland, trying to
console him to no avail.
"I'm sorry, my Lady," he says. "I know I'm not good company tonight. I just
feel so useless and powerless. You say crannogmen are good fighters, and we
are, but what good are our tactics here in the open? Those boys still took my
sword and my armor, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it." He takes
another swallow of ale and sighs. "You don't understand. I hate feeling this
helpless, knowing that there's nothing I can do to make them give back what is
rightfully mine."  
Lyanna glances at Robert, laughing louder than before and swatting the rump of
the unlucky maid in charge of refilling his cup. She knows all too well what
helplessness feels like. She hates the feeling, too.
"I have an idea," she whispers to Howland and Benjen.
She might not be able to do much about Robert, but it is in her power to help
her new friend.
One last act of rebellion, before she becomes the daughter her father expects
her to be.  
***** Chapter 2 *****
When she gallops onto the tourney field for the first time, Lyanna's heart
beats so loudly that it is all she can hear. She's terrified that someone will
recognize her or figure out somehow that she's a woman.
Her armor is ill-fitting, scraped together from mismatched pieces that she,
Howland and Benjen managed to scavenge here and there, but her sword and lance
are excellent and so is her horse. Those are the three things she wasn't
willing to compromise on. A Northern horse, fast and strong, bred to survive
winter and ride fast even on treacherous snow, and a fine steel sword she'd
brought from Winterfell hidden in the bottom of her trunk. It had been crafted
for her, light and well-balanced, with a small but quick fighter in mind.
"I'm the Knight of the Laughing Tree," she booms when prompted for a name by
the scribe in charge of arranging the matches, deepening her voice as much as
she can.
"What house?" the scribe asks, but doesn't bother to look at her as he writes
down the words on his book.
"I'm entering as a mystery knight," she says, trying to keep the deepness of
her voice.
The scribe raises his head then, feather poised inches away from the ink pot.
"A mystery knight?" He tilts his head as he studies her, taking in her armor
and height. His eyebrows rise with skepticism and his mouth purses. "This is a
serious tourney, young man, if your master doesn't think you're ready yet,
entering your name without his permission will only get you in trouble."
"I'm not a squire," Lyanna snaps, trying to sound confident.
The scribe huffs, unconvinced. "If you say so. Well, the rules allow for
mystery knights to enter. If you so desperately want to prove yourself, nobody
can stop you. Go to that corner and wait for your name to be called."
And just like that she's entered the tourney.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
It's fun, more fun that she ever imagined it would be. Lyanna had known she
could win, but she had underestimated what a difference a real crowd would
make. There's a rush of adrenaline and excitement every time the crowd cheers.
Lyanna loves it. Soon, she's playing for them, galloping extra fast and forcing
her horse to rear up, while she raises her lance into the air, making the crowd
scream louder.
She defeats all her opponents and forces the knights to give Howland's armor
back and to apologize to him in the name of their squires. It's all she wanted
to accomplish and yet so much more.
That night, the Knight of the Laughing Tree is all people talk about. Lyanna
revels in it, pleased beyond words with the mayhem she has caused. Howland and
Benjen can't stop snickering.
The wildest stories buzz about like flies circling rotten meat. It's utterly
ridiculous. Everyone has a theory about the knight's true identity: a long-lost
Blackfyre, who came to usurp the throne; a sell-sword from Davos, who wants to
win the money; Jaime Lannister, back to fight under a disguise despite the
king's orders. Lyanna laughs and adds wood to the fire by spinning her own wild
tales.
Even Lady Catelyn's boring friends spend the night talking about the handsome
stranger—how they would know if he was handsome or not without having seen him,
Lyanna doesn't bother to ask. Each of them is convinced that the knight surely
will crown them Queen of Love and Beauty, and the notion is so ridiculous that
Lyanna has to bite her lips not to say something that might betray her.
And if the young ladies all think the mystery knight is their future husband in
waiting, the men act as if his existence was a personal offense. They can't
stop criticizing his fighting or bragging about how, if they had been the ones
to fight him, the mystery knight would have been already defeated. They drink
and gripe, telling everyone who wants to hear—and some who don't—how they are
going to be the ones to unmask the knight the very next day.
Somehow Robert manages to be the worst, or so it seems to Lyanna. He's drunk
and loud and is constantly boasting about how no one is good enough to best
him.
"I swear it, Lya," Robert slurs in her ear, his words slipping and tripping
over each other with too much alcohol.  "I'll defeat that coward who won't even
show his face and win you the crown. I'll make you queen!"
Lyanna puts a bit of distance between them, the stink of alcohol almost too
much to bear.
"I doubt it very much," she says, a bit offended on her own behalf. As if
Robert of all people could defeat her. Robert's idea of jousting is pointing
his lance straight ahead and galloping at full force while holding it steady.
He's a strong man, and the strategy serves him well more often than not, but
there's more to jousting than brute force for all he seems to always forget it.
"I'll prove it to you!" he says, loudly enough that probably the whole hall can
hear him. "Tomorrow, I'll defeat the mystery knight and bring you his shield as
a trophy!"
And just like that Lyanna knows. She won't let that challenge go unanswered. It
might be unwise, but her little adventure will continue. She will make Robert
eat his words, maybe with a nice helping of dirt.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
The crowd cheers when they see her, and Lyanna gallops across the field, lance
held high, bowing to them. She comes to the far end and turns around, forcing
her horse to rear up once while she waits for the first match to begin.
Lord Monmouth is the first to ride into the lists. They face each other, lances
ready, horses whinnying and pawing at the ground in excitement. The signal
comes and Lyanna spurs her horse forward. Through the narrow field of her visor
she sees Lord Monmouth approaching at full speed, his lance straight and firm,
pointed towards her shield.
Her instructor told her there's no time to think once the jousting starts. It
all comes down to instincts, riding skill and muscle memory. He was right, of
course, but for Lyanna the seconds before the impact stretch into an eternity.
Maybe it is instincts and skill or just her damned bitch luck, but those
impossibly long seconds are all she needs to see a rider's weakness, to know
where she has to aim to unhorse him. Aim at the center, her trainer told her,
and that's what everyone does, but it's seldom the center that gives. It's the
places where the body isn't in perfect alignment with the horse carrying it,
tilted forward or to the side half an inch too much. That one spot in the
shield that, when hit properly, will push the shield and arm holding it just
so, sending a wave across the body until it breaks its balance. Like hitting a
crack in a stone wall and watching it widen and spread until the whole wall
comes crumbling down.  
Lyanna hits the spot, and Lord Monmouth falls from his horse in a tangle of red
and black and yellow. The crowd cheers as Lyanna makes her horse come to an
abrupt stop and rear up, drunk with her victory.
The king beckons her closer, his eyes gleaming with something that Lyanna can't
quite decipher. The Mad King, people call him, and Lyanna thinks that it's not
without reason. Reluctantly, she walks her horse closer and remembers to bow
her head in respect almost too late.
She needs to say something, greet the king. It would be the proper thing to do,
but the words won't come. Her throat is too dry and inside her armor she is
trembling. If she were to speak, her voice would come out as a squeak,
faltering and breaking in all the wrong places. The charade would be over at
once.
Foolish hubris, coming to the tourney a second day. She should have let it be
as she had initially planned. Damn Robert, and damn herself for being unable to
resist his challenge.   
"Show your face!" the king bellows.
She freezes. She can't do as he bids. If her charade is discovered, her father
will kill her. And no matter how scary the Mad King looks right now, the idea
of her father's anger, even though he is back at Winterfell, seems even more
threatening. She stays still, paralyzed by indecision, trying to decide what to
do, all too-aware that one doesn't refuse a king's order, but unable to obey.
The princess and her ladies stare at her. Everyone is staring at her. She
senses the moment when she's waited too long, sees the frown starting to form
on king's face, the bewilderment of those sitting next to him, hears the quiet
whispers of the crowd gaining momentum as it becomes clear that she's about to
defy the king.
"Guards, detain him!" the king orders, and the words set her in motion.
Before anyone has time to react, she spurs her horse and rides away, jumping
over the fence and galloping as fast as she can. The guards shout at her to
stop, and the clank of men in armor and swords drawn follows close behind as
they give chase, but Lyanna is not the best rider in the North for nothing. By
the time the guards reach their horses, she is already almost outside the
castle, and once on the road is easy for her to lose them.
She jumps off the horse and sets it free, shooing it away, hoping the riders
will follow its tracks. It is a pity to lose such a fine mount, but she can't
be seen with him again or she'll be recognized.
She's in the process of hiding the last pieces of her armor, when she notices
two riders approaching from the North. She tries her best to hide in the bushes
without catching their attention.
They rein in their mounts and look around. For a moment she thinks she'll stay
unnoticed, but then one of the riders sees her, and starts galloping towards
her at full speed, his companion following close behind. Lyanna looks around
herself: most pieces of her armor are gone, but the incriminating shield with
the laughing tree is still there. Desperately, she thinks of a plausible lie to
tell and comes empty.
The men stop in front of her and her heart sinks as she recognizes them: Prince
Rhaegar and Ser Arthur, two of the best fighters in the kingdom. She thinks of
her discarded sword longingly and curses the moment she sent her horse away. On
a horse, she'd have had a chance to escape. Right now she's at their mercy.
"Where did the knight go?" Prince Rhaegar asks. "You better tell us the truth,
lad, helping him—no matter what he promised you—will only bring you sorrow."
Lad? Lyanna looks at the prince in disbelief. It takes her a second to
understand that he actually doesn't suspect her. He doesn't even know who she
is. Robert had introduced her at court as his betrothed on the day of their
arrival, but the prince probably doesn't even remember her. Taking quick stock,
Lyanna realizes that she's not dressed like a girl. Her hair is tucked away in
a simple ponytail boys with longer hair prefer, like the prince himself,
instead of one of the complicated hairdos women favor. Obviously, to the
prince's eyes, she looks like just another peasant.
She can't believe her own luck. "I'm not aiding anyone, m'lord," she says,
imitating the thick accent and mannerisms of the smith's boy when he talks to
her father. A peasant wouldn't know that he was talking to the prince, would
he? "I saw a horse galloping that way." She points towards the river, where the
tracks of the horse lead. "I was just a-looking at the things here. I wasn't
gonna steal anything, m'lord. I swear. Please, don't punish me," she adds with
a quiver in her voice.
The prince throws a copper piece at her, and Lyanna catches it mid-air. "Scurry
away, and don't you dare take anything. Those weapons belong to the king. If
they are not here when I return, I'll know who to blame," the prince says and
gallops away, following the tracks of the horse, Ser Arthur close behind.
How gullible, Lyanna thinks with a smirk and flips the coin in the air,
catching it as it falls. As keepsakes go it will have to do; she obviously
can't take the shield. It's not worth the risk. She walks backs to Harrenhal
whistling all the way.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
In the afternoon the tourney continues as if nothing had happened. There are
still rumors flying around, and for once Lyanna pays attention to the gossip,
fearful that someone might follow them back to her. However, she soon realizes
that she has nothing to fear. The story seems to grow with the telling, and by
late afternoon the mystery knight is already ten feet tall and broad as a bear,
his horse a purebred Dothraki stallion from Essos, the likes of which had never
been seen in the Seven Kingdoms before.
Lyanna shakes her head at everyone's willful blindness and counts her
blessings. Howland and Benjen laugh along with her, and the three of them grow
even closer, united by the mischievous smugness of having gotten away with it
all.
When Ser Arthur unhorses Robert with a spectacular move Lyanna's day improves
tenfold. The knowledge that she will no longer have to listen to Robert brag on
and on about all the knights he intends to defeat in her name is enough to lift
her spirits. Better yet, after the tourney Robert seems to be avoiding her, for
which she's only too glad. When he is around, Lyanna feels as if she needs to
become someone she isn't—in love and happy to have him near, when all she feels
is dread of the day when he will marry her and take her away from home.
During the evening feast Ned drags Robert to her, giving Lyanna a warning look
to treat his friend kindly. She pastes on her best smile and tries to be the
girl she's supposed to be. "You rode well today, Robert," she lies, trying to
sound reassuring and, if Ned's relieved expression is anything to judge by,
succeeding.
"I lost," Robert mumbles, not meeting her eyes.
"Yes, but what a way to lose," Lyanna says, admiration in her voice. "Ser
Arthur was magnificent! I've never seen anyone joust like him. He was
fantastic!"
"What Lyanna is trying to say," Ned interrupts her, his voice sharp, "is that
there's no shame in losing to Ser Arthur. He's one of the best fighters of the
kingdom. Really, Robert, you needn't be disappointed."
"I swore to Lady Lyanna I would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty," Robert
tells Ned, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "Nobody deserves that
crown more than your sister."
"It's nice that you think so, Robert," she reassures him, "but if I wanted the
crown I could win it for myself."
"Bold words, my Lady," a man says and Lyanna turns around to find Prince
Rhaegar and Ser Arthur standing just behind her.
She freezes, and her heart hammers in her chest with fear before she belatedly
remembers to curtsey. "Your grace, such an honor," she says, keeping her voice
low and her gaze fixed on the floor, praying to the old gods that the prince
and Ser Arthur don't recognize her.
Robert laughs out loud, some of his good cheer returning to him. "You don't
know half of it, cousin," he says to Prince Rhaegar. "Lady Stark is one of the
best riders in the North."
"Well, she will have a hard time unhorsing you, Robert," Ser Arthur says, "the
Seven know it wasn't an easy feat. You were an excellent opponent."
Prince Rhaegar smiles at his cousin, and Robert preens, pride restored. Lyanna
has the sudden suspicion that this little scene has been staged for her
benefit.
"I have unhorsed Robert before, and it wasn't that difficult," Lyanna has the
urge to point out. "Maybe you aren't as skilled as I initially thought," she
tells Ser Arthur.
Prince Rhaegar regards her with curiosity. "You have unhorsed him before?"
The doubt in his voice is enough to make Lyanna forget caution. She meets his
eyes straight on, unable to help the smug smirk tugging at the corner of her
lips. "Oh, yes, I have."
"She has indeed," Robert confirms with a chuckle and winks at her. "I was so
taken by her beauty that I could no longer tell up from down, and next thing I
knew I was at her feet. That's when I knew I would spend the rest of my life
there, at my Lady's mercy."
Ned and Ser Arthur laugh, but Lyanna doesn't join them, angry at Robert without
really knowing why. The prince doesn't laugh either; he's looking at her
instead, as if she holds the key to some unsolved mystery he desperately wants
to figure out. Lyanna sees the moment when he makes the connection between her
and the boy in the woods, between her and the Knight of the Laughing Tree. His
lilac eyes widen and a shadow of recognition rushes across his face. He blinks
and shakes his head before fixing her again with those strange purple eyes of
his, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.  
"Wise choice, cousin. Who wouldn't like that?" he says to Robert, but he is
looking at her. "Spending a lifetime at the mercy of a woman with Visenya's
fighting skills and her breathtaking beauty."  
The laughter dies, and a heavy silence falls upon them. "Your Grace," Ser
Arthur says after a moment. "It'd be best if we go back. Princess Elia is
probably looking for you."
"In a moment," Prince Rhaegar says. "Cousin," he turns to Robert, "would you
mind if I borrow your lovely fiancee for a dance?" He makes it sound like a
question, and yet everyone knows it's not.
"If she agrees," Robert deflects, and though his voice is nonchalant, Lyanna
knows him enough to detect a hint of jealousy in the tone.
"Lady Stark, would you do me the honor?" Prince Rhaegar asks, turning to her.
He bows his head slightly and offers her his hand. Lyanna looks helplessly at
Ned, hoping he will give her some kind of hint. Should she agree? Can she
refuse the prince? Ned lives in the South, he ought to know what is expected of
her. Ned nods slightly, but he looks as unhappy about it as Robert does. Even
Ser Arthur's lips are pursed.  
Lyanna turns to the prince, still unsure, and takes the proffered hand. "It
would be my pleasure," she says, and allows the prince to lead her to the dance
floor before the next song begins.
They take their place among the dancers and bow to each other. The prince's
hand feels hot against her cold, clammy fingers. The music starts, and Lyanna
concentrates in following the steps, back and forth, and again to the side,
allowing Prince Rhaegar to lead her through the complex choreography.
"It was you, wasn't it?" he asks in her ear, after leading her through a double
spin that ends with her inches away from his chest.  
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, your Grace," Lyanna
replies, hoping that he will let it go.
They step away from each other, the tips of their fingers the only point of
contact left between them. The music speeds up once more, and all too soon, the
movements bring them closer and closer.
"Don't lie to me. Once was bad enough; don't do it again," he tells her, and
his fingers crush her hand in a silent warning before he eases his grip and
spins her away from him with a practiced flick of his wrist.
The music dies down to a slow, steady drumming and the two of them circle each
other, forearm to forearm, a perfect mirror of the other dancers building a
line across the ballroom. Lyanna meets Prince Rhaegar's gaze unflinchingly.
"I've never lied to you, your Grace."
"This morning, in the woods. Or are you going to deny it was you?"
"I didn't lie," Lyanna defends herself.
Prince Rhaegar's lips harden into a thin line. "You told me you saw the knight
galloping towards the river. You lied, my lady."
"I only told you that I saw a horse leaving that way. And I did see one. A
horse, that is. I never said anything about the rider," Lyanna corrects him
with a cheeky smile.
Prince Rhaegar laughs out loud, and it transforms his face. Someone ought to
make him laugh more, she thinks, surprised at the change. He looks years
younger and much kinder, instead of stiff and aloof.
"You have a beautiful laugh," she says, before she can think better of it and
regrets it almost immediately.
The prince stops laughing, and his pale cheeks redden slightly as if ashamed to
have been caught so unguarded, but his face is still alight with amusement. He
shakes his head and snorts. "I wonder if Robert knows what he's getting into."
"He'll figure it out soon enough." Lyanna shrugs, displeased by the reminder.
For a moment, she'd forgotten Robert entirely. "You're not going to tell on me,
are you?" she beseeches. "I'll get into so much trouble. Besides, everyone has
forgotten about the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and at this point no one would
believe I was the one behind it. Ten feet tall—"
"—and broad as a bear." Prince Rhaegar huffs and shakes his head in disbelief.
"Yes, I've heard it, too."
"Can it remain our secret? Please?" She stretches the last word into a pout and
bats her eyelashes at him. It makes her look ridiculous, but somehow her father
and brothers seem unable to resist the look, and she hopes Prince Rhaegar is no
different.   
He chuckles, and his expression grows softer, almost fond. "Yes," he agrees,
"It can stay our secret. After all, having such a lovely lady in my debt can
only be to my benefit."
Lyanna smiles with relief. "And what do you intend to do with that debt?" she
asks, before he spins her away from him.
"Maybe I'll ask for your favor," Prince Rhaegar whispers to her, when she steps
closer. His warm breath caresses her cheek as he leans in.
"Why, you don't think that you can win the tourney without it?" Lyanna whispers
back.
"Maybe I would just like to have it." Prince Rhaegar replies as the dance draws
to a close.
"I only give my favor to those worthy of it," Lyanna informs him, deadpan.
"I've yet to see you joust. How would I know if you deserve it? Ask me again
tomorrow, after I've seen you in the lists. Then I'll decide." She curtseys to
him a final time.
Prince Rhaegar bows his head and his smile widens. "You drive a hard bargain,
my Lady."
Lyanna raises her head, aiming for the haughty air Lady Catelyn seems to carry
so easily. "I'm a daughter of winter, and winter is not known for its mercy,
your Grace."
Prince Rhaegar is about to reply, but Robert cuts in, taking Lyanna's hand and
leading her away to join the new dance that is about to begin. Lyanna's smile
drops for an instant before she forces it back into place. Across the room Ned
is grinning at her, and Lyanna reminds herself that Robert is her future. She
needs to learn to like him.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
Strangely enough, dancing with Prince Rhaegar raises her status among Lady
Catelyn's friends. They all want to talk to her to find out everything there is
to know, even things Lyanna herself doesn't remember.
"He's such a good dancer," Lady Eloyse says, and sighs longingly. "Almost as
good as Prince Martell. You're such a lucky girl."
She is, of course, Prince Rhaegar could have told the king the truth about the
Knight of the Laughing Tree. Somehow, though, she doesn't think that's what
Lady Eloyse is referring to.
"Really, Eloyse, you should keep your eyes off Prince Martell. Nothing good
will come out of that, and you know it," Lady Catelyn says. "His reputation is
worse than Lord Baratheon's."   
"Robert's?" Lyanna asks, surprised. "What reputation?"
Lady Catelyn pales a bit, and looks as if she'd like the earth to swallow her.
"Forget what I said, please."
"No." Lyanna's voice doesn't let room for argument. "What reputation?"
Lady Catelyn swallows and looks to her friends as if asking for help, but they
avoid her gaze. "It's really nothing," Lady Catelyn insists, aiming for
dismissive and failing.
"Then, surely you will not have a problem telling me about it, if it's really
nothing," Lyanna replies tersely.
"It's just that… well, I don't know if you've heard about it. Lord
Baratheon's…," she trails off.
Lyanna purses her lips and crosses her arms, making sure Lady Catelyn knows
that she is willing to wait as long as it takes. She's not going to give up
until she knows the full story.  
Lady Catelyn caves in. She breathes in and out and glances at her friends once
more before turning to Lyanna. "He sired a bastard back in the Vale," she
finally confesses. "It doesn't mean anything, though," she hurries to reassure
her. "Even a blind man can see how taken Lord Baratheon is with you. Once
you've married him, he'll keep to your bed, I'm sure." But she doesn't sound
sure. "Now Prince Martell, that man would not know how to keep to anyone's bed.
He has sired three daughters already, and rumor has it a fourth child is on its
way. Men like him only want one thing from women, to get into her bedsheets,
which is why it is best to stop them before they get any ideas." She turns to
Lady Eloyse. "Stay away from Dornish men. The last thing you need, it's people
questioning your virtue. You are engaged and it's a good prospect, too. Rumors
like that could end a marriage before it begins."
"It depends," Lady Eloyse says, and laughs. "Sometimes all rumors do is hurry
up the marriage even more."
The girls giggle and even Lady Catelyn joins in, trying her best to pretend
nothing has changed, as if her little faux pas was already forgotten. "You're
impossible. Truly, Eloyse, what will Lady Lyanna think?"
They all laugh louder, and it's obvious to Lyanna that no one really cares what
she thinks. For them, she is just a country girl from the North, who doesn't
know a thing about the South and its customs.
Lyanna forces herself to laugh along, even if it sounds fake. She looks
longingly at the table where Brandon sits with Lord Tully and Ned, and wishes,
not for the first time, that he could sit with them instead of having to listen
to Lady Catelyn and her vapid friends. She glances at Robert from the corner of
her eye. He, too, sits with Brandon, laughing out loud with that booming laugh
of his that can be heard from yards away.
Suddenly it seems impossible to fake good cheer. She excuses herself, needing
to be alone.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
That evening, Prince Rhaegar asks her for another dance.
Robert's eyes feel like daggers on Lyanna's back as she follows the prince to
the center of the ballroom.
Prince Rhaegar doesn't seem to notice his cousin's displeasure, and if he does,
he just ignores it. He bows to Lyanna, and offers her his hand once more. Their
palms touch, her fingers much too cold against his warm skin. The music begins
at his signal, and the two of them spin around the ballroom with the ease of
long practice.
"Did you enjoy the jousting today?" he asks her.
Lyanna leans close to whisper in his ear, "Not as much as when I was jousting
myself, but it was passable."
He laughs, delighted, and Lyanna blushes with pride at being the cause.
"Ah, so I didn't manage to impress you after all?" Amusement plays hide and
seek in the corners of his lips. "And I was so hoping that after today you
would find me worthy of your favor."
"It will take more than unhorsing a green knight who can barely keep his seat
to impress me," Lyanna deadpans. "Truly, where did Lord Grafton learn to ride?
At a piggery?"
Prince Rhaegar snorts. "You are a very harsh judge, my lady. The boy is barely
ten and six. You should go easy on him."
"I'm ten and five, and I can ride better," Lyanna says. "I don't see why I have
to go easy on him. Nobody goes easy on me. Nor would I want them to."
"Ah, but we have established that you, my dear lady, have Visenya's spirit. How
could a green boy from the Vale ever compare?" Prince Rhaegar whispers. His
breath ghosts against her ear, sending shivers down Lyanna's back. "It'd be
like asking a candle to outshine the sun."
Lyanna blushes, and her heart skips a beat for no reason. For a moment, she is
at a loss for words. "You probably say that to every woman," she finally
mumbles, feeling awkward.
"Hardly, my lady. You are the only woman I know who could join a tourney and
unhorse Lord Monmouth as if it was nothing."
"It was nothing," Lyanna murmurs, embarrassed and yet pleased by the
compliment.
Prince Rhaegar chuckles. "Impressing you is going to be a hard task indeed." He
seems excited by the prospect, though, almost eager.
Lyanna gives him a shy smile. "You're the crown prince of the Seven Kingdom.
I'm sure you'll manage somehow."
"Will you at least wish me luck for tomorrow?"
"Luck is a loser's excuse. If you truly want to impress me, it's skill you
need, not luck," Lyanna replies as the music dies.
Robert is immediately there, cutting in again, taking her away from the prince,
his lips pursed into an angry line.
"What does he want with you?" he asks once Prince Rhaegar is out of earshot,
glaring at his cousin's back.
"To dance?" Lyanna guesses.
"He has his own wife," Robert snaps. "He should dance with her and keep his
hands off mine."
"We are not married yet, Robert," Lyanna reminds him, but that seems to anger
him even more. "What do you expect from me?" she snaps, done with his childish
attitude. "I can hardly refuse to dance with the king's son, now can I?"
"Of course not. I'm not accusing you of anything," Robert tries to placate her.
"It's he who should mind himself."
"Don't be silly." Lyanna rolls her eyes. "Your cousin just wants to do you a
favor, showing everyone that he approves of your country fiancee. Lady
Catelyn's friends have certainly become much more accommodating since he
started dancing with me. It's just politics."
"As if I need anyone's approval," Robert says, offended. "I'm Lord of my house.
I can make my own choices. Besides, you are the best woman anyone could want. I
don't need my cousin's good will to know that."
"Thank you, Robert." She smiles.
Robert grins back, somewhat appeased. He keeps pulling her closer and closer as
they dance, until her breasts are almost brushing against his chest. Lyanna
lets him get away with it.
Her gaze seeks Prince Rhaegar. He is sitting at the high table, sipping at his
wine, watching her and Robert dance. Their eyes catch, and for a moment it is
as if the two of them are alone in the room. She forces herself to look away,
focusing on the dance and Robert with his wandering hands and easy laugh.
Jealous, possessive Robert, who claims to love her while he fathers bastards in
the Vale.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
Rhaegar does try to impress her. The stunts he pulls during the last bout of
jousting are so breathtaking as to be almost foolish. He gallops across the
field so fast that he seems a blur, his red and black cloak flapping behind him
like a sail in the wind.
"The prince is brilliant!" Benjen shouts next to her as he stands up, clapping
and whistling as loud as he can. Lyanna can barely hear him over the loud
cheers.
"His horse is magnificent," she says, clapping along with a bit more restraint.
"The prince is not a bad rider, though."
Benjen sticks his tongue out and crinkles his nose. "You're just jealous."
"That he can participate in the tourney while I can't? Yes, terribly so," she
admits.
Brandon, who has been listening in, pets her hair. "Now, sister mine, even you
would have had a hard time unhorsing the prince. If nothing else, father's
orders saved your pride."
Lyanna stares at him flatly. "How thoughtful of him," she says with as much
sarcasm as she can muster.
Brandon laughs out loud as if she'd just told the best joke in the world.
Lyanna pretends to ignore him, turning her attention to the field, where Prince
Rhaegar is getting ready to face his next opponent.  
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
That night, when they dance, Lyanna is the first to speak. "Still not
impressed."
"Why am I not surprised? I wonder what it would take," Prince Rhaegar says with
a mischievous expression that makes him look almost boyish.
Lyanna peeks around, making sure that no one is close enough to overhear them.
"Meet me tonight at midnight, at the clearing where you found the shield."
The grip of his hand around hers hardens for a second, and he almost misses a
step in the dance. His eyes darken, and in the light of the thousand candles
their purple hue seems almost black. He wets his lips. "That's…," he rasps out.
He stops and clears his throat before he tries again, "That's bold."
"I'm a bold woman," Lyanna admits, taking pride in the fact. "I will bring my
sword, and we will settle this once and for all."
"Your sword?" he asks, seeming surprised.
"So we can find out who the better fighter is," Lyanna explains. "Jousting
would be too complicated. I don't have any armor left, and the terrain in the
woods is not good for it anyway."
"Ah… I see." Rhaegar's face softens as he smiles. "A sensible proposition," he
agrees. There's an odd, thoughtful look on his face that Lyanna can't quite
read, warm and yet wary.
"Don't underestimate me," she warns him. She's not some fragile thing he needs
to protect. "I can hold my own."
"I would never underestimate you, Lady Stark," he tells her.  
Lyanna frowns. "You'll be there then, right?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world."
***** Chapter 3 *****
The minutes stretch like hours as she waits for her brothers to retire. She
lets one more hour pass and waits for the clock to strike eleven, before she
slides out of her room on silent feet. The night air is warmer than Lyanna is
used to, humid and heavy, nothing like the crisp breeze in the North, which
always carries the threat of snow.
The guards on duty are distracted playing cards and drinking wine; walking past
them unnoticed poses little challenge. The moon is almost full and the sky free
of clouds. The way is easy enough to follow in the moonlight, and she makes it
to the woods with a couple of minutes to spare. The brisk walk warms her up,
and her shirt clings to her back with sweat by the time she arrives at the
arranged meeting point.
She takes her sword out from its sheath while she waits and goes through some
quick routines to loosen the muscles in her arms and legs. Midnight comes and
goes. The faint echo of the tower's bells telling the hour is carried by the
wind in the quiet night. She continues to practice, glad for the excuse to
wield a sword. After a while, she stops, panting with exertion and looks
around. Rhaegar has not come, and for the first time she wonders if he will.
Doubts nag at her, despite Lyanna's efforts to push them away. He will come,
she tells herself, and starts practicing again, brandishing her sword faster
and faster, pushing her body to keep away the unwanted thoughts.
The sound of horse hooves in the otherwise quiet night catch her attention, and
she turns around, trying to identify the rider. She stashes her sword among the
roots of a thick tree and quick as a squirrel, climbs its trunk and hides. It
would be difficult to explain what she was doing here if the rider turns out
not to be Rhaegar.
She recognizes the long silver-white hair. It flies over Rhaegar's shoulders in
rhythm with the horse's stride. He's a handsome man, Lyanna thinks, surprising
herself. It's not the kind of thing she usually notices or cares about, but as
he rides closer, his perfect posture, his confidence, even the way his cloak
sways behind him conspire to take Lyanna's breath away, and her stomach
flutters with an odd mix of anticipation and dread.
Surely she is not afraid to lose, is she? She shakes her head, trying to chase
off the uncertainty. She will win and prove to herself—and to him—that he
really is not that impressive, just one more man among many.
He comes to stop next to the tree and reins his horse in as he looks around,
searching for her. Lyanna is tempted to let him wait, give him a taste of his
own medicine, but she is too impatient to get to the actual fight to go through
with it.
"And here I was starting to think that you were too afraid to show up, your
Grace," she says, and chuckles with no small amount of glee when he startles,
turning around with a jolt, before he finally discovers her among the tree
branches.
"Lady Stark," he says, and tilts his head in greeting as if they were still in
the castle, and he was about to ask for a dance. "I apologize for my tardiness;
shaking off the kingsguards is not an easy feat. Do you need help to come
down?" he asks.
Ignoring his proffered hand, Lyanna takes hold of the branch she's sitting on
and lets herself drop to the ground, landing in a perfect crouch. She comes to
her feet with an easy motion and curtsies briefly. She offers him her hand
instead. "Do you need help to come down?" she mocks him, imitating his haughty
Southern accent.
He jumps off of his horse deftly, and before Lyanna has time to react, takes
her raised hand and kisses it. "For years, I wondered what it would be like to
own a dragon, as my ancestors did. I now know how they felt, awed by their
wild, untamable beauty."  
A rush of heat spreads across Lyanna's neck and face, and she is glad that the
darkness will hide her blush. "Are you comparing me to a dragon, your Grace?"
"Yes, I believe I am," Prince Rhaegar says.
She's both pleased and offended at once. "I'm a wolf, not a dragon," she
corrects him. "You'd do well to remember that."
He caresses her face with the back of his hand, and once more she's surprised
by how warm his skin feels. "You could be anything you wanted, even a dragon,
if you so wished it." It sounds like an offer.
Lyanna doesn't know how to reply, so she steps back from his touch. "I like
being a wolf just fine," she tells him, a tad piqued. "Now, first things
first." She retrieves her sword from the its hiding place and turns to face him
with a smirk, feeling her confidence return. She is better at wielding steel
than she is at wielding words. "Let's find who's the better fighter."
"Let's," Rhaegar says, lips quirking. He looks amused, almost indulgent, as he
unsheathes his own sword. "Tell me, my Lady," he says as he circles her slowly,
"what will my prize be, if I win?"
Lyanna's grins widens, pivoting slowly so that she keeps facing him. "What
would you like?" It's not like she has much to offer him.
"What about your name?" he asks. "I would very much enjoy it, if we could
dispense with formalities between us, my Lady."
She thinks it over, not taking her eyes off of him. "Fair enough. You may call
me Lyanna, then," she agrees.
"Ah, thank you … Lyanna." He stretches the name, as if savoring it.
"You haven't won yet," she reminds him.
"Your name and a kiss," he bargains. "Those are my terms."
Lyanna's heart skips a beat. A kiss. She thinks of Robert, of her father, of
Lady Catelyn's warnings. "I accept."
"And what do you wish, if you win?" he asks, tilting his head.
Lyanna doesn't know what to ask for. She just wants to fight with him. Winning
would be a reward by itself. "May I call you Rhaegar, then?" It is a brash
thing to ask. He is the crown prince after all. Then again, she wouldn't be
here if not for her boldness.
"You may call me Rhaegar now, if it pleases you," he offers, magnanimously.
"Rhaegar," she tries the word out, and likes how it rolls in her mouth, short
and to the point, without titles getting in the way. Intimate. Not many people
are allowed to call a prince by his given name. "I'd much rather win the
privilege than have you just hand it out to me."
Rhaegar laughs. "You probably would. Is there nothing else you'd like from me?"
he asks. "After all, I asked for two things."
Does she want something else? Not really. "The knowledge that I bested you,"
she finally admits. "That'll be satisfaction enough." Then, she attacks.
He manages to parry her move just in time, sidestepping with ease and
counterattacking almost as quickly. The loud ringing clang of metal on metal
soars through the night. She blocks his counter, jumps to the side and attacks
again, but his sword is there once more.
He's fast, faster than she expected. She's half-surprised and half-pleased.
They move around each other, attacking, blocking and counterattacking. This is
the kind of dance she excels at, not silly ballroom choreographies and
curtseys.
Rhaegar is stronger than she is, but she learned early on how to make an
opponent's strength work for her. He fights well, yes, better than any man she
has fought with before. His style is different, too, and it manages to surprise
her again and again, his parries coming at angles she is not expecting, his
strikes higher or lower than she is used to. It's hard to keep up, but Lyanna
loves a challenge.
After her first attacks, she allows him to set the pace, concentrating on
blocking his moves, letting him think that he has the upper hand. He is too
overconfident, and the more Lyanna steps away and retreats, the more his
confidence grows. He doesn't really think she can win. He is sparring with her
as if it was game, one he's enjoying tremendously, but a game still. Lyanna
knows it will cost him the fight in the end. She starts increasing her speed,
jumping away and coming back at him from different angles, testing his
responses.
Sweat pours down her back, and her hair clings to her forehead. She feels
alive, aware of her body in ways only a fight can bring out, her sword an
extension of her body, as alive as she is. Rhaegar, too, looks beautiful in the
moonlight, his silver-white hair billowing out around his shoulders, his face
closed-off in concentration.
As time passes without him landing a blow, Rhaegar starts to lose his patience.
He becomes more aggressive, and his attacks trickier and meaner, more thought-
through. Lyanna needs to finish the fight. In a test of endurance he will
outlast her, and Rhaegar knows it. He's playing her, trying to tire her out,
making her spin and parry and move, using his longer reach against her.
Lyanna has to bite back a laugh. Amateurish, really, as if that was not the
first trick everyone used when they realized she was too fast for them. She
feigns weariness, lets her counters become a tick slower, her parries just shy
of too weak—not enough to let him land a serious blow or gain any advantage,
but enough to feed his overconfidence. She sees it in his eyes, the moment when
he thinks his strategy is starting to bear fruit. He redoubles his efforts,
attacking more often, not really aiming to hurt her but forcing her to move
more, trying to make her falter or lose her footing.
He works himself into a frenzy, as Lyanna makes him believe that he almost has
her, that the next strike will be the one that ends the fight. He is drunk with
anticipation, like a hound who's scented blood, so sure of his prey he forgets
to watch his surroundings.
Lyanna leaves an opening in her guard, and Rhaegar takes it. She lets him come
in and drops to her knees in the last moment, using Rhaegar's own momentum to
propel him forward. It's a move she has practiced thousands of times, dirty and
quick and so damn effective. Brandon might have seen it coming. Rhaegar does
not stand a chance. Just as quickly she rises from her crouch and kicks him in
the back of his right knee, ramming the butt of her sword into his unprotected
nape.  
He falls down like a ton of bricks, rolling on the ground in a tangle of
chainmail and cape. He loses hold of his sword and Lyanna kicks it further away
before she goes to him. He's lying on his back, still dazed from the blow,
breathing heavily and a bit irregularly. She aims the tip of her sword at his
exposed neck, letting him feel the sharpness of the steel against the soft skin
of his throat.
"Yield," she commands, flushed with the fight and the victory. She likes how he
looks sprawled at her feet, helpless. At her mercy. His cocksure smile gone.
"For you, always," he says. It sounds like something Robert would say, but his
words get to her in a way Robert's never do.
"I warned you not to underestimate me, Rhaegar." The name falls easily from her
lips, not a hint of hesitation.
He chuckles, and then groans. Lyanna almost feels bad for him; she knows how
mean that blow of hers is. She crouches next to him and places her hand on his
forehead. "Are you dizzy?" She thinks of apologizing, but she's not really that
sorry. A win is a win. "If it's any comfort, I didn't think I could beat you
otherwise."
"It's small solace," he says, and closes his eyes. "My pride hurts more than my
head, I'm afraid. I did so want to kiss you, my Lady, almost as much as I
wanted the honor of using your name."
He sounds dejected and yet so earnest, as if he truly means every word. Without
really knowing why, Lyanna lowers her lips to his and places a chaste kiss on
them. His eyelids fly open, and his hand comes to her head, holding her in
place when she tries to pull away.
"You play dangerous games, my Lady," he rasps, his voice husky and deep. "It is
not wise tease dragons."
"I'm not afraid of fire," she tells him, her face so close to his, that she
feel the heat of his breath against her cheeks. "I'm not afraid of anything."
He yanks her closer, catching her by surprise, and rolls them around until he's
on top of her, his arms bracketing her face. The long strands of his hair fall
like a curtain around them and all she can see is his face, mere inches away
from hers.
"Maybe you ought to be," he tells her. "Ice melts when it gets too close to
fire."
"Depends on the season," Lyanna counters, a hint of defiance in her tone. "When
winter comes, no fire is strong enough to stop it." Then, a bit smug, she adds,
"And winter is coming." She presses her hand to his nape, right where the skin
must still be tender from her blow, and kisses him.  
He is ready this time; his lips meets hers without hesitation. And maybe he is
right, maybe she is playing too dangerous a game without knowing all the rules,
for it feels as she is on fire, melting, burning, just as Rhaegar said she
would.
Kissing Robert never felt like this. It has always been something she let
happen and forced herself to endure, wet and clumsy and a bit messy in a
slightly disgusting sort of way. She spent half the time wondering where to put
her hands, how to move her lips or her tongue, trying to gauge when enough time
had passed to safely break away without it being offensive.
Kissing Rhaegar is like being set alight from the inside. His lips are
demanding, rough and hungry. Conqueror's lips, she thinks with a distant part
of her mind, and then even such a small thought is beyond her. She can only
react, arch into his kiss, open her lips to his tongue. She doesn't need to
think about what to do with her hands or her mouth or her body, whether she's
too close or too far from him. Thoughts are unimportant, meaningless things
against the wave of desire flooding her. The only thing she can do is kiss
back, and kiss back she does.
She loses herself in the taste of him as her tongue fights his for dominance,
demanding entry into Rhaegar's mouth, wanting to explore him just as he does
her.
She pulls Rhaegar's body closer to her own and rolls them around until she is
on top of him once more. They break apart, both panting for breath. His lips
are red and swollen, glistening with saliva in the pale moonlight.
"My Lady," he pants. "You drive me mad with need. I have never felt anything
like it." He looks wrecked, that haughty Targaryen perfection shredded.
She did that. The knowledge sends a shiver of want through her. She lowers her
head slowly and kisses him again. This time she knows what to expect, and she
wants it.  
It is Rhaegar who forces them stop. "Not here," he says, pinning her hands
against the ground, holding her still. "Not like this." At some point they
rolled around again, even if Lyanna doesn't remember it.
She likes the weight of him on top of her, solid and unyielding, the way the
hard muscles of his thigh press between her legs. She rubs against him and
moans, wanting more of that delicious friction.
"Stop it!" he rasps out, his voice husky and deep. "Your first time should not
be like this."
"Why not?" she asks. "Better here than in Robert's bed. Better you than him."
"Lyanna," he gasps her name, as if wounded. "My wild Visenya." He kisses her
lips, her cheeks, her forehead; small, chaste kisses that seem even more
desperate for their modesty. "You don't know what you are asking," he says.
"Not like this. I want more for you. More for us."
Lyanna closes her eyes and lets her head fall to the ground. She feels
strangely hollow. "There is no more to have," she says. "Just this. You and I,
now, tonight, perhaps tomorrow. It might be wrong, but at least you would be my
choice, not my father's. And when the time comes to become Robert's, I will
know how it should have been like. It's more than I had before."
"It's less than you deserve." He sounds angry.  
Lyanna thinks of her childish dreams: staying in the North forever, becoming
Brandon's Master-at-Arms, being free to wear breeches and carry swords. "We
seldom get what we deserve, and never what we want," she says. The resignation
in her voice surprises even her. She sounds defeated, hopeless. When has Lyanna
Stark ever given up? When did she become a quitter?
"You can have more. I can give you more," Rhaegar promises.
Lyanna opens her eyes and looks at him. She caresses the side of his face,
tucks a strand of hair behind an ear. "You can't."
"Yes, I can," he insists. "Marry me and I will give you everything you want."
Lyanna laughs bitterly. What would that change? She would still have to leave
Winterfell, would still have to wear dresses and be somebody's wife. Yes, the
kisses would be better and maybe the bed sport, but that's hardly what she
wants. "You are already married," she reminds him.  
"I would not be the first Targaryen with two wives," he says.  
Lyanna does not care much for politics, but she has spent too much time in the
training yard listening to men talk not to have learned a thing or two. "Your
father does not trust the North. He does not trust any of his Lord Paramounts.
He would not want you to marry me." Rumor has it the king was not even happy
with Rhaegar's current marriage, but Lyanna knew better than to say that.
Rhaegar lets himself fall to her side and sighs. The two of them lie quietly
next to each other, watching the stars in the night sky. After a while, Rhaegar
says in a low voice, "My father will not be king forever."
Lyanna tenses next to him. Such words… one ought not to speak like that about
the ruling king, even if the words are true. "But he is king now."
"You could wait," Rhaegar says.
Lyanna huffs mirthlessly. "I would like nothing more than to wait … wait until
I'm old and grey … wait forever. My father is having none of it."
Rhaegar turns on his side, holding his head with one hand and tracing the line
of her neck with the other. Their eyes meet. "Come with me to King's Landing. I
can hide you until the time comes. We can marry in secret, we—"
"No!" she interrupts him. Then she stands up and wipes off the dust and grass
blades from her clothes as best she can. "I have to go back. Dawn will be here
soon, and it is a long walk back to the castle."
"Lyanna," Rhaegar pleads, but she interrupts him before he can continue.
"Enough. I will not be your second queen, Rhaegar."
She remembers Princess Elia and the dozens of ladies constantly surrounding
her. The moments Lyanna has had to spend with Lady Catelyn and her friends are
bad enough. Just the idea of being forced to do that day in and out for the
rest of her life makes her nauseous. And the politics, the backstabbing, the
pointless power games. No. Just no.
"I need to go back now. I'm sorry," she says. Then, acting on an impulse, she
takes out a handkerchief and presses it into Rhaegar's hand. "Here, my favor. I
want you to have it, as a memento."
Rhaegar caresses the handkerchief mesmerized, before he looks up at her, a
curious look on her face. "Why would you give me your favor? I lost the fight,"
he adds, as if hesitant to remind her.
Lyanna rolls her eyes. "For that very reason. I want you to win the tourney."
Her grin is all teeth. "After all, if do you win, it would be as if I had won.
I've bested you already."
"Ah … of course."
He stands up and goes to her. He holds her face with his hands and presses a
soft kiss to her lips. "Then I will win the tourney for you, my Lady," he
murmurs against her lips, "and crown you Queen of Love and Beauty."
Lyanna snorts, an unladylike sound that Old Nan always criticizes. "I will not
be your queen, Rhaegar, not even in this. Win the tourney if you can, but give
the crown to your wife. I have no use for it."
"I will not give you up," he says, and kisses her once more, deep and slow, as
if to memorize the taste of her.
"You have to," she insists, resting her forehead on his, panting slightly.
"I will show you otherwise."
˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
She barely has time to come through her window and hide her sword under the
mattress before the door to her room swings open. She spins around, startled.
"Ned," she gasps when she recognizes the intruder in the faint light of the
candlelight. "What are you doing here? Did something happen?" she asks, placing
a hand over her chest in a useless attempt to make her heartbeat slow down.
Her brother is in his nightshirt, and his hair is a total mess. "Where were
you?" he asks in a clipped voice, entering into the room and shutting the door.
Lyanna glances at the still open window and her empty bed. She is wearing
breeches, and her nightgown lies untouched beneath her pillow. She wracks her
mind searching for a plausible excuse and finds none. "I couldn't sleep," she
tries—not a total lie. "So I went out for a walk."
"In the middle of the night? Through the window?" Ned voice drips disbelief.
She arches an eyebrow and lifts her chin, not intimidated by his tone. "Did you
expect me to wake Brandon up and ask him for an escort?" she asks with fake
sweetness.
"Don't lie to me, Lyanna," Ned snaps. "Where were you?"
"Out."
"Out where? With whom?"
"You're not my keeper, Ned. I don't owe you an explanation," she hisses at him.
"I'm your older brother, and you're engaged to my best friend," he tells her,
his accent traveling farther North the angrier he gets. "I've a right to know
what you've been up to."
"A right to know," she parrots, mockingly. "And what will you do with that
knowledge, Ned? Share it with Robert like you shared with me the knowledge that
he's siring bastards left and right in the Vale?"
"Who told you that?" And now he's the one caught off-guard.
"Are you denying it?" Lyanna presses her advantage.
"That has nothing to do with—"
"With me? His betrothed?" Lyanna doesn't allow him to finish. "Of course not."
"Is that what this is about?" he asks. "Are you trying to get back at him?"
She levels a flat glare at him. "Believe it or not, no matter how you and
father would wish otherwise, my life does not revolve around Robert Baratheon.
And as long as I'm not wearing his house colors or carrying his last name I
intend to keep it that way."
"Lyanna," Ned chokes out, "he's your betrothed and my best friend."
"Then maybe you should marry him!"
He raises his hand as if to slap her, but in the last moment realizes what he's
about to do and takes a step back, breathing heavily.
Lyanna steps forward, moving into his personal space. "Go ahead! Hit me! It
won't make it any less true. I don't love him. I don't want to become his wife,
and the only thing this marriage will bring me is misery. But it is not like
anyone cares about that."
"You don't know what you're saying," Ned tries to reason with her. "He loves
you. I know he does. Just give him a chance and he'll make you happy."
What do any of them know about her and what will make her happy?
"You want to know where I was tonight?" she asks, recklessness washing over her
like a wave, sweeping all rational thought away. "I was with Prince Rhaegar,"
she whispers against Ned's ear. "And we kissed. It felt better than anything I
have ever done with Robert." She pats Ned's cheek in a condescending manner,
like she would a small child's. "But it's not as if I know what I'm saying. And
Robert loves me so. I'm sure I'll die of happiness once I'm his wife."
"The prince is using you," Ned tells her, catching her hand in an iron grip and
moving it away from his face. "You're just too naive to see it. He's a married
man. He doesn't care about you. He just wants to use you."
"You're probably right," she admits. "But you're forgetting something. Maybe I
want to be used by him." She yanks her wrist away and steps back. She looks at
him in defiance. "Now you know where I was and with whom. What are you going to
do?"
Ned rubs his hands over his face, torn with indecision. "Did you sleep with
him?"
"No, I didn't."
She feels unshackled, almost weightless, as if by telling Ned, she has
unburdened all her fears and doubts onto him and kept none for herself.
"I believe you," Ned replies after a heavy silence, forcing the words to come
out. He avoids her eyes, and despite his reassurance, it's obvious that he
doubts her.
"I don't care if you believe me or not," she tells him, merciless. "I'm tired,
and I want to go to bed. Do what you want. Tell whom you must. Keep the secret.
Spread it across the Seven Kingdoms. It's not my problem."
"How can it not be your problem?" He doesn't raise his voice, but Lyanna knows
he is furious. "This is your life we're talking about."
"No, it's not," Lyanna spits. "We're talking about the life you, Robert and
father want for me. That's the only life we ever talk about."
She turns away from Ned and starts taking off her garments, ignoring him. After
a moment, she hears the door open and close, and she's alone once more. She
lies on her bed and stares at the shut door for a while, wondering what the
next day will bring. She closes her eyes and exhales, pushing the thoughts
aside, chasing after the feeling of utter certainty she had after she confessed
the truth to Ned.
'Tomorrow will come soon enough,' she thinks. 'No point worrying about it now.'
***** Chapter 4 *****
None of her fears materialize. The next day Brandon greets her with the same
indulgent smile he uses just for her. Robert sits next to her at the breakfast
table and is so cloyingly solicitous that Lyanna has to bite back the desire to
snarl at him. Benjen and Howland sit in a corner and whisper and laugh at
something only the two of them know.
Ned is late to breakfast, and when he finally comes down, the black rings under
his eyes make him seem years older. Lyanna catches his gaze across the table
and arches an eyebrow at him in inquiry. He looks away and refuses to meet her
eyes. He sits down in the far corner of the table and busies himself with his
porridge, moving it left and right, without eating any of it. Robert goes to
him and drops down into the chair next to Ned, clapping him on the back in a
boisterous greeting.
"Well, well, well," he says, loud enough that everyone on the table can listen.
"Looks like someone got lucky last night. That Dornish girl of yours put out?"
His lewd laugh booms across the the table.
Lyanna doesn't think that Ned looks like he got lucky. He looks like someone
who spent the night tossing and turning in bed, fighting with his thoughts—and
losing.
Ned's eyes dart to her for a second, before he turns to Robert, whispering
something in his ear. Lyanna tenses and waits, but Robert only laughs louder
and ruffles Ned's hair. Ned's answering smile looks like a grimace, but Robert,
self-centered as he is, doesn't seem to notice. Lyanna watches the two of them
for a while, until it becomes clear that Ned will keep her secret. She breathes
out and turns back to her own breakfast.
The great hall quiets and rises as the king enters, followed by his son.
Rhaegar holds his wife's hand, and Lyanna takes the time to study her, curious
about her in ways she was not before. Standing next to Rhaegar, Princess Elia
seems unbearably frail, like a candle about to burn out. Would Lyanna fare any
better if Rhaegar had his way? A cold shiver travels down Lyanna's back forcing
her to look away.  
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
Rhaegar barely looks at her during the tourney. Not once does he stop his horse
in front of her booth, and though he defeats knight after knight in the arena,
every time he turns to his wife and bows to her. By the time the day is over,
Lyanna is seething with rage even though she knows is silly. He is doing
exactly what she asked, winning the tourney and giving his attentions to his
wife.
The knowledge that she bested him ought to be enough to make her happy, but it
is tainted with the taste of his mouth on her, the heat of his kisses, the
memory of his hard body pressing her to the ground. She can't think about their
sparring without remembering the aftermath, and it drives her mad. She wants
him, she realizes, wants him to see her and touch her and crave her. She wants
more nights like the last. Many more.
The rest of the day goes by in a daze. Lyanna is distracted and short-tempered,
enough so that even Benjen avoids her, but she can't bring herself to care.
She's barely able to pay attention to Lady Catelyn and her friends' chittering
gossip while she counts the hours until dinner, yearning and dreading her dance
with Rhaegar in equal amounts.
She can't decide what to wear to the banquet. No dress seems adequate, and
whenever she looks herself in the mirror all she sees are the places in which
she is not tall enough, or curvy enough, or pretty enough. It only angers her
more, realizing that when it comes down to it, she is not better than any of
Lady Catelyn's insipid friends.
And then, for all her trouble, that night Rhaegar does not even ask her to
dance. He ignores her completely, lost in conversation with his wife, Prince
Oberyn and assorted friends. Not once do his eyes travel to meet hers. It is as
if he has completely forgotten her.
Fine, Lyanna thinks, anger soaring with no outlet in sight. Fine.
She turns to Brandon and tells him, "Brother, you know what I would really,
really like?"
Brandon's lips widen into a knowing grin. "Nothing good from the look in your
eyes."
"A dance, a proper one. None of this boring Southern crap. A Northern dance,"
she tells him.
Brandon's eyes sparkle with mischief. Of all her brothers, Brandon is the only
one who also feels the call of the wolf in his blood, even if his is not as
strong as Lyanna's. "If word ever gets to Father, he will have my hide."
"But think of the look on everyone's starchy faces," Lyanna whispers to him.
"Wouldn't it be worth it?"
Brandon laughs, wicked and mean. "I'll talk to the musicians." He stands up
comes back a while later, a grin on his face. "It cost me a pretty penny, but
your wish is my command, sister mine," he murmurs as he sits next to her.
When the next piece of music comes it is not what Lyanna is expecting, more a
soft, low cadence that gets under the skin and stays there. "That's not
Northern music," she complaints.
Brandon laughs. "Patience, little sister. I'm just covering our tracks. The
musicians will play a song from each of the seven kingdoms, in honor of the
guests of the tourney. That way no one will be able to tell we were behind it.
They started with Dorne, but they will end with the North, and what a memorable
end it will be."
"Dorne," Lyanna repeats, and her eyes dart to the head of the table, where
Prince Elia and her friends are looking at the musicians with pleased surprise.
'All right,' Lyanna thinks, her eyes fixed on Rhaegar. Her lips tingle with the
ghosts of kisses that refuse to be forgotten. He seems to be managing all
right, the way he's been ignoring her all day. Not for long, though. 'I can
wait.'
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
When the last chords of the lute die away and with them the song of the Vale,
Brandon stands up and offers his hand to Lyanna. She takes it with a smile, and
the two of them walk to the middle of the ballroom. Everyone's eyes are on
them.
The music starts, deceptively slow, like the first snowflakes of winter, soft
and insignificant, melting away to nothing the moment they touch the ground,
but it soon quickens. The lute and timbrel gain speed and the drums follow, the
rhythm becoming faster and faster and the music louder, until the room almost
vibrates with the sound.
Lyanna can feel the thrum in her blood, like a second heartbeat that resonates
through her body. She is the music. It chases away her worries as she pours her
anger and doubts into the dance, feeling them fade to nothing. She sways her
hips to the fast rhythm of the drums, her feet barely touching the ground as
she spins and jumps, following Brandon's lead, clinging to his body one second
and undulating away the next, a promise and a tease, like a flame in a
campfire, warm and beautiful, but too dangerous to touch.
When the music finally dies, she stays still, chest heaving up and down with
exertion, her spine arched back almost to the breaking point. Her legs, hooked
behind Brandon's hips and Brandon's arms around her lower back are the only
things supporting her weight. He grins at her, out of breath and flushed. It is
as if the two of them are alone, back in Winterfell, where no one else ever
mattered.
"Brilliant!" Robert's shout breaks the spell, and she is yanked back to
reality. The silence is broken, and everyone starts clapping and cheering.
Brandon rights her with a fancy swirl the two of them have practiced countless
times and bows to her. He spins her around once more and she curtseys to the
crowd.
Lyanna's gaze seeks the high table, where Rhaegar sits. He is staring at her.
His hands cling to the arms of his seat like claws and his face is twisted in a
grimace. If he was ignoring her before, now he can't seem to tear his eyes
away, and Lyanna knows with a sudden, absolute certainty that he wants her like
he's never wanted another woman. She smirks at him, barely a quiver at the
corner of her lips, but enough to let him know that she knows. His body tenses,
and for a moment Lyanna thinks he's going to stand up, walk to her and kiss her
in front of everyone, but Ser Arthur's hand goes to his shoulder and keeps him
still. Rhaegar closes his eyes, swallows and leans back into his chair slowly,
as if in pain.
Lyanna's smirks widens and she turns away, letting Brandon lead her back to
their place at the table. She can feel Rhaegar's gaze on her back, burning like
fire.
"You were fantastic!" Robert says, pulling her close to him. "I've never seen
anyone dance like that." In her ear he whispers, low enough that nobody but her
can hear, "You drive me wild with desire. I can't wait to marry you." Then he
kisses her.
Lyanna, all too aware of Rhaegar's eyes on her, kisses Robert back. And for a
moment, with her eyes shut and her awareness of Rhaegar as sharp as a knife
driven into her heart, she can almost pretend that it is not Robert she's
kissing.  
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
"What were the two of you thinking?" Ned hisses, when they are back in their
rooms. His face is blotchy red with fury and a thick vein throbs visibly on his
neck. He turns to Lyanna and his face seems to become even redder. "You are
engaged to Robert!" he reminds her, as if she can possibly have forgotten it.
"Do you think dancing like that in front of the whole court is something he
approves of?"
"Huh, I don't know," Lyanna says, as if considering the question. "He did seem
rather approving, the way he kissed me after the dance was done. I could even
feel some parts of him approving more than others."
Brandon laughs out loud and Ned splutters, so furious that he's at a loss for
words. "Don't encourage her!" he rounds on Brandon. "What will father think? He
put you in charge for a reason, Brandon. You're supposed to take care of
Lyanna, not let her run wild."
"Ned, relax, and don't be such a bore. Fostering in the Eyrie has turned you so
dull." Brandon rolls his eyes and claps Ned on the back. "It was just a dance."
"A dance! A dance? By the old gods, you both know that's not the kind of
dancing you do at court," Ned snarls at Brandon.
"It's a traditional Northern dance," Lyanna puts in, grinning sweetly at Ned.
"And like all Northern dances is meant to heat the blood and drive away the ice
of winter. The dance is as old as the North and nothing to be ashamed of,
brother."
Brandon chuckles. "And you can say what you want, Ned, but the way Lyanna and I
danced it, even the blood of an eunuch would boil. We did the North proud. I
think even some of those celibate White Knights are going to find sleeping a
bit, let's say hard, tonight."
Lyanna chuckles at Brandon's crude innuendo.
"I've had it with the two of you," Ned hisses. "Can you think before you act
for once in your life? They will think us savages! No proper lady—"
"Who cares what proper ladies do or don't?" Lyanna snaps.
"Robert—" Ned starts.
"—does not care," Lyanna interrupts, "and even if he did, what's he going to
do? Break the engagement? Oh, no, what a terrible fate." Lyanna's voice drips
with sarcasm. Then, before Ned has time come back with a reply, she turns
around and stomps to her room.
She slams the door with a loud bang and plops down on her bed. She buries her
face into her pillow to muffle the sounds and laughs and laughs until she can
barely breathe.
***** Chapter 5 *****
That night she tosses and turns in bed, reliving the last days of the tourney.
It's too hot to sleep, but when she pushes the bedsheets away, she misses their
comforting weight on top of her and ends up pulling them up again, only to push
them away a couple of minutes later.
By the time the bells strike midnight, she has given up hope of ever falling
asleep. Lyanna pushes the sweaty bedsheets aside one final time and burrows
into her pillow with frustration until thirst overrides her desire to lie in
bed and forces her to stand up. The air in the room is stale and her nightgown
clings to her body, drenched through with sweat. She opens the windows and
fresh air rushes in, cooling her overheated skin. She leans her head outside
and breathes in.
The full moon shines bright in the sky, which explains some of her
restlessness. She's never been able to sleep soundly on full moon nights. Going
back to bed seems a useless endeavor. She splashes water on her face and goes
in search of her breeches. It's too beautiful a night to spend it cooped up
inside waiting for the clock's bells to strike.
The guards are easy to fool. The castle is much too big for them. One would
need a thousand men to cover every corner of Harrenhal. It's a security
nightmare. Winterfell might have only one third of the area, but at least it
was well protected.
She climbs down an abandoned wall without being noticed, using the charred,
broken stones as handholds until she reaches the bottom. She strolls aimlessly,
letting her feet take her where they will. Still, she's not too surprised when
she notices that she's heading towards the clearing where she and Rhaegar
fought … and kissed, a treacherous voice reminds her.
She comes to a sudden stop when she notices a horse grazing near the trees. She
squints, trying to see better, and approaches warily, ready to bolt if the need
arises. Lyanna relaxes when she recognizes Rhaegar's horse, its gold plated
stirrups—an outrageous waste of money only a Targaryen would indulge in—easy to
discern in the bright moonlight. Rhaegar is sitting on the ground, his back
resting against the wide trunk of an oak.
Lyanna stops, unsure what to do. Her stomach flutters with indecision, and she
can feel her heart pounding like a trapped bird against her ribs. She should
turn back and ignore him—like he ignored her throughout the day—but a sudden
wave of anger has her stomping towards him instead. She's not going to run away
from him like some scared rabbit.
"Lady Lyanna," he gasps when he sees her coming, and stands up.
She stops a couple of feet away from him and glares. "So you do remember me
after all, Rhaegar." She draws out his name, bare of titles and honorifics, a
reminder that she had defeated him the night before. "I was starting to wonder.
Unless yours is the kind of memory that only surfaces when it's dark outside
and nobody is there to witness it."
Rhaegar's lips quirk, and for a moment it seems as if he's almost pleased by
her reaction, but the expression is gone so fast that Lyanna is not sure if she
imagined it.
"I—" he starts and then stops. He breathes in slowly and exhales, before taking
a step towards her. He raises a hand to touch her face, but Lyanna moves out of
his reach. His hand falls, and he seems at a loss for words. "I'm sorry," he
says at last.
Lyanna snorts, unimpressed. As apologies goes, she's heard better.
"I didn't dare to look at you," he explains. "If I had, I knew I wouldn't have
been able to stop myself from going to you and kissing you in front of
everyone, consequences be damned. Believe me, please," he beseeches.
She blushes and looks away, unable to disentangle the myriad of emotions
coursing through her. "I want to," she whispers.
He places a hand under her chin, urging her to raise her chin until their eyes
meet. Lyanna licks her lips nervously, and his eyes zeroed on the movement. He
leans closer as if in a trance. Their lips touch, barely a brush; the ghost of
a kiss, tentative and soft. He lets go almost immediately and steps back, hands
hovering uncertain at his sides.
"Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive." She doesn't know if she's talking about the kiss
or the day events. Maybe both.
She touches her lips with the tips of her fingers and feels as if the world is
tilting around her. She thinks of Robert, of the endless years ahead of her at
Storm's End; thinks of Ned and his warning: 'He's using you.'
Thinks, 'I'm using him, too.'
She closes the distance between them. She is so close that she needs to look up
to see his face. Rhaegar's chest rises and falls in rhythm with his ragged
breath and his pupils widen. He stays still like a statue as she tucks a strand
of long hair behind an ear, tracing the shape of his cheekbones with her
fingers. His nostrils flare and he swallows, but his body remains otherwise
motionless, spellbound by her touch.
In the moonlight he seems like a creature not of this world. She wants to claim
him, wreck that aloof perfection. She wants the ghost of this night to follow
him, wants him to close his eyes and feel her, to look at every woman and see
only her.
She rests her forehead against his chest and breathes in and out, slowly,
unsure if she's trying to fight the desire or just giving in to it. In the
distance she hears a wolf howling to the moon; the eerie sound sends a shiver
down her back. She raises her head and meets Rhaegar's gaze.
"Show me," she tells him. "Show me what you wanted to do."
"Lyanna, please." His hands go to her face, and his whole body vibrates with
coiled tension—a man at the edge of an abyss, too afraid to move.
"Show me, Rhaegar," she demands. "Consequences be damned."
And he does.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
"I love you, Lyanna." The intensity in his voice scares her. "Come with me to
King's Landing, become my wife. I will put the colors of my house on you and
show everyone that you are mine. I want to the whole world to know what you
mean to me. I want them to know that you are mine."
Love? The word takes her by surprise. How can he know? How can he sound so
sure? She freezes, unsure how to react. Is she supposed to say the words back?
She likes Rhaegar, a hundred times more than she likes Robert. Their time
together has been … fun, pleasant even. She likes sparring with him, and the
kisses and caresses, even lying with him. She had enjoyed how it felt when he
moved inside her. It had hurt some, but not as much as rumor had her believing.
She's had more painful wounds training with her brothers. All in all, it had
been all right. She wouldn't mind doing it again, if he asked. But was that
love? Is that what love feels like? Old Nan always told her that she would know
when she was in love. She doesn't feel as if she knows, though. Does that mean
that she is not in love then?
"Our fathers would never approve," she says at last, for lack of something
better. It's true, and it seems less cruel than sharing her doubts with him.
He brackets her face with his hands and forces her to look at him. "Come with
me anyway. I'll hide you until I can make you my queen. You and I, Lyanna,
we're meant for each other. Ours will be the children of prophecy—children born
of ice and fire. I know it." He sounds almost feverish, and though he's looking
at her, his eyes are miles away. For a moment, she can see the resemblance
between him and his father, the Mad King. It scares her.
She kisses him to shut him up. She would much rather lose herself in his kisses
than dreaming about things not meant to be.  
"You're incredible," he whispers, voice husky and drunk with desire. "I've
never met a woman like you." He looks at her as if she's a revelation, the
answer to prayers he's long since stopped believing would ever be answered.
Lyanna, for her part, does her best not to think. She does not want to talk.
She wants to feel. She knows what to expect now, and that makes her bolder. She
kisses Rhaegar,  fighting him for control, demanding more, taking what she
wants when he's not fast enough to suit her.
Soon, he is hard again. He moans her name over and over, as though it is the
only word he can remember. Lyanna spreads her legs and arches up against him.
An invitation. She rakes her fingernails across his back as he thrusts in,
heady with the pleasure mounting and crashing over her in waves.
It's nothing like the first time. It didn't feel like this then, and Lyanna
doesn't know if she wants it to stop or to go on forever. It's too much, and
yet not enough. She pants and groans, the sounds coming out of her without
control. She turns them around, until she's the one on top, free to move, to
take. She feels wild with need.
Beneath her, Rhaegar seems as lost as she feels, as helpless. "Lyanna," he
whispers, like a curse or a prayer, and pulls her to him, kissing her, biting
her neck, staking his claim on her.
Lyanna kisses back just as feral.
His hands go to her hips, and he urges her on, forcing himself deeper into her,
rolling his hips up as though he wants to disappear inside of her. Pleasure
slams into her like an avalanche, swallowing her whole as her body explodes
with bliss, unable to contain that much sensation inside. It feels almost like
dying.
She collapses on top of Rhaegar and wonders dimly, while she gasps for breath
sprawled over his chest, if this is love after all. She certainly wants more of
it. As soon as she is able to move.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
Angry voices wake Lyanna from a deep sleep.
"What is the meaning of this?" Someone is saying as Lyanna stirs and blinks.
Above her the sky is barely starting to clear with the first rays of sunlight.
Lyanna shakes her head, still stupid with sleep, and tries to remember where
she is.
"I can explain," Rhaegar answers.
The sound of his voice brings the memories rushing back. All traces of
sleepiness disappear as adrenaline shoots through her body. She freezes,
paralyzed with fear. Rhaegar's cloak lays heavy around her shoulders, covering
her naked body from the three kingsguards surrounding them. She feels small and
vulnerable, and even though a part of her tells her to snap out of it, the
towering figures with their white cloaks and angry faces scare her.
"I would like to hear that explanation," Prince Lewyn snarls, face twisted into
a scowl. It seems as though he wants to say even more but manages to stop
himself. Lyanna remembers with mounting dread that he is Princess Elia's uncle.
She glances around, looking for her clothes, and finds them discarded all
around the clearing. There's no denying what happened. What had she been
thinking? Brandon and Ned are going to kill her. And Robert—Robert is going to
…
… break the engagement, she realizes abruptly. In love or not, as Lord of House
Baratheon with a scandal like this surrounding his betrothed that's the only
thing he will be able to do.
And just like that, the fear that was keeping hold of her melts away like snow
at the first sight of spring.
"What's there to explain?" Lyanna says, and stands up, pulling Rhaegar's cloak
around her protectively.
Prince Lewyn, Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur all turn to her in surprise. She
raises her head with a confidence she does not actually feel and meets their
eyes. Never let the enemy smell your fear. "I think what went on is obvious
enough."
She picks up her discarded clothes, pretending to ignore their ogling, and
dresses quickly, twisting awkwardly this way and that in a useless attempt to
keep the cloak from slipping. She turns around once she's done and saunters
back to them. She stares down the kingsguards, daring them to say anything. The
heavy silence stretches uncomfortably and Lyanna lets it.
Ser Barristan is the first to cave. He shakes his head with a disbelieving
snort and turns his attention back to Rhaegar. "Your absence last night was
noted," he informs. "The king could not sleep and ordered for you to be brought
to his chambers. When we couldn't find you, he raised the alarm. Search parties
were arranged and dispatched throughout the castle, and he commanded that all
lords be questioned."
"What for?" Rhaegar asks, surprised.
"He seemed convinced that one of them had kidnapped you and intended to
challenge his rule." It's Ser Arthur who continues. His eyes dart to Lyanna.
"With the commotion those orders caused, someone ought to have noticed by now
that Lady Lyanna is missing as well. I don't believe we can keep this hidden."
Rhaegar rubs his face with his hands and exhales, dismayed. He looks wrecked,
drowning in guilt and desperation.
With a resolve she doesn't feel, Lyanna picks up his discarded cloak and hands
it back to him. "Put this on. We need to go back now before everything
worsens."
Rhaegar takes the cloak and stares at her dumbly.
"Put it on," Lyanna repeats, her tone clipped. "We need to go."
He takes hold of her hand and presses her fingers between his own. "You don't
understand what will happen."
But Lyanna understands perfectly, maybe better than he does. "Of course I do.
My brothers will shout at me. Robert will break the engagement, and no man in
the Seven Kingdoms will want to marry me once the news spreads. I'll be dragged
back to Winterfell, and once father finds out he will never allow me to leave
the castle again."
"I promise you that—"
"Not now. Later," she cuts Rhaegar off. "We need to head back."
She knows there won't be a later, though. Princes don't marry soiled women.
Strangely enough, Lyanna finds that she doesn't mind. She will spend the rest
of her life in Winterfell, free to do as she pleases, without the threat of
marriage looming over her. She can't imagine a better life.
The kingsguards regard her with something akin to pity, even Prince Lewyn. More
fool them. She doesn't need anyone's pity.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Rhaegar orders Ser Barristan to escort her back to her rooms, ignoring Lyanna's
wishes to face the king and the court together with him.
Ned is waiting for her, pale-faced and somber. His face crumbles when he sees
her, his pain and disappointment so obvious they could almost be corporeal. He
looks older than his years. Worn out. Sad.
Ser Barristan tries to explain, but Ned cuts him off. "Don't. I can imagine
what happened well enough. I'll inform Brandon and Robert; they are with the
king." He walks away without a second glance at her.
Ser Barristan bows briefly to her and follows Ned outside.
Lyanna's heart is heavy in her chest. She knows that Ned will never forgive her
for this. Not with Robert, whom he loves like a brother, smack right in the
middle of it.
She takes a deep breath and lets it out, trying to let go of the tension in her
body. What's done is done, she tells herself. There's not going back, just
forward. She changes her clothes, unwilling to face the king dressed like a
stable boy. It's all for naught, the guards watching the entrance of her rooms
refuse to let her leave—Ned's orders.
As time passes, the uncertainty starts to wear on her. What is happening? Why
aren't they back yet? The more time she has to think things over, the more
worried she gets. Surely everyone knows what happened by now. The way gossip
travels in court, anything else would be impossible. Brandon will try to defend
her honor for all the good it will do. Thoughtless, fierce Brandon. Hopefully
Ned will manage to calm him down before he does something too brash.
She paces, listening to the bells strike hour after hour.
Finally, she hears steps on the hallway. The door bangs open, the wood rattling
against the stone wall. Brandon stomps inside, red-faced and angry, slamming
the door shut behind himself.
"What happened?" Lyanna asks.
"Is it true?" he demands. He's so close to her that specks of spit land on her
face as he shouts, "Is it true what Ned says? Did you give yourself willingly
to that dragon-spawn?"
Lyanna wipes her face and meets his eyes in defiance. "What if I did? What
business is it of yours?"
Brandon slaps her. Once. It sends her head reeling back, and she falls on the
floor. The force of the blow so strong she's almost dizzy with it. The pain
registers like an afterthought. It's the violence itself, coming from Brandon
of all people, that startles her the most.
And then, just as suddenly, a wave of rage washes over her swallowing the fear
and worry of the last hours. She stands up, blind with fury and hurls the
nearest chair at Brandon. He ducks in the last moment, and the chair crashes
against the stone wall, breaking into pieces.
"Are you out of your mind?" Brandon shouts, but Lyanna is far from done and
Brandon has never scared her. She flings herself at him, and the two of them
fall to the floor in a knot of limbs.
Brandon tries to grab her wrists, but she's having none of it. She kicks and
bites and twists, using every dirty trick she's ever known. It takes Ned and
four other men to finally tear the two of them apart. Lyanna struggles against
the hands holding her, still mad beyond words. How dare he strike her? Who does
he think she is?
"Enough!"
Brandon and Lyanna both freeze. She looks about in alarm, expecting to see her
father. It takes her a moment to register that the tight, commanding voice is
Ned's.
"What is wrong with you?" Ned hisses the words out. "Is this what you consider
a talk?" He scowls at Brandon.
"Don't patronize me, Ned." Brandon shakes off the grip of the two guards
holding him and tugs his clothes into place. He's cheek is bleeding from four
long scratches and his left eye is starting to swell. "If you know so much
better, you deal with her. I'd much rather forget I have a sister." His lips
curl in disgust as he glances in Lyanna's direction.
"May the Others take you, and good riddance!" she shouts after him as he
strides out of the room.
Ned exhales and rubs his face with his hands. "Let her go," he orders the
guards still holding her and gesture for them to leave.
Lyanna straightens her clothes and tests the movement of her jaw, grimacing
with pain. She can taste blood in her mouth. Brandon had never been one to pull
his punches.
Ned watches her for a while. The silence stretches and grows, taking on a life
of its own. Ned can't seem to find the right words to say to her, and Lyanna is
not inclined to make it easier for him. She pretends to study her ruined dress,
uselessly trying to bring together the torn pieces, and waits.
"I warned you this would happen, but you were too stubborn to listen," Ned
finally says, after what feels like a small eternity.
Lyanna breathes out, gathering her wits. "Who knows?"
"Everyone," Ned tells her. "It's not the kind of rumor that stays quiet for
long. Not the way the two of you handled it." His lips tighten into a thin line
and his brows furrow into a hard grimace eerily similar to their father's at
his angriest. "You've dragged the Stark name through the mud, Lyanna. You've
turned our house into the laughing stock of Harrenhal, and soon the Seven
Kingdoms. This is not one of your games, Lya. This is the kind of thing nobody
can fix."
It's Lyanna's turn to stay quiet, unable to form words. Ned looks so miserable,
so broken. She never intended to hurt him. She'd just wanted…. "What about
Robert?"
"At first he wanted to believe the prince had forced himself on you, but—"
"That's not what happened!" Lyanna protests.
"The kingsguards made that clear." Ned stops and crosses his arms defensively
before continuing, "I, too, told them the truth. I had to. I remained quiet
before and look what it brought me." He pauses again. "Robert broke off the
engagement," he adds in a hushed, empty voice.
'At least something good came out of it,' Lyanna thinks. "Does he blame you?"
"I blame myself!" Ned shouts. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath,
before looking at Lyanna again, more in control. "I could have put a stop to it
yesterday, but I chose to trust you. I was wrong," he adds, subdued.
"Don't," Lyanna counters briskly. "I didn't promise you anything. Nor did I ask
you to trust me."
"No, you did not," Ned tells her. "And yet I did it anyway. More the fool me."
"Did Rhaegar…," she starts and then trails off, unable to finish the question.
Ned's lips flatten into an unhappy line and he avoids her gaze as he admits in
a strained voice, "He won't marry you." He looks at her at last, his face
marred with lines of pain and regret that make him look older. "I'm sorry."
Lyanna's shoulders slump and her heart twists in her chest. She had known it
would be like that. She had. And yet a part of her feels abandoned and hurt.
Silly.
"Well, at least you can say you told me so." Lyanna's voice breaks midway.
"It will not change anything." He turns around and walks to the door. "We're
leaving today as soon as the tourney is over."
"We're staying that long?" Lyanna asks, surprised.
Ned stops, hand on the doorknob. "Brandon's next match is with Prince Rhaegar,"
he explains, without turning to face her. "He still believes he can avenge your
honor."
"I don't need anyone to avenge my honor," Lyanna snarls. "Brandon least of
all."
"Oh, I know that," Ned says drily. "I suppose Brandon will learn better. Don't
you dare leave this room without permission, Lyanna."
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She walks into the stands with her head held high. Silence falls like a cloak
when people notice her. She ignores everyone, pretending nothing is amiss. She
doesn't care about what people think, she tells herself over and over, but it
feels like a lie. The way everyone looks at her, pointing and whispering, even
giggling at times, makes her uncomfortable. Ashamed.
She's angry at herself for letting them get to her like that. She is Lyanna
Stark. She's the Mad-Bitch of the North. Why does she care what useless
Southerners think of her? And yet a part of her does. Denying it doesn't make
it any less true.
She takes her place in the stands, sitting between Ned and Benjen. Benjen
glances at her and blushes deep red, before he averts his eyes. It breaks
something within her. Ned's scorn and disapproval she can deal with, even
Brandon's pointless fury, but Benjen's reluctance to even acknowledge her hits
her like a punch in the gut.
She bites the inside of her lips and forces herself to breathe in and out
slowly. She blinks and raises her head in an almost unnatural angle, fighting
back the tears welling at her eyes. She concentrates on her body, taking stock,
commanding her shoulders to loosen and forcing the fingers of her hand to
unclench. She pastes a hollow smile on her face and looks over everyone's heads
at a faraway point.
The sounds of the trumpets heralding the beginning of the jousting draw
people's attention away from her. Two pages walk across the lists, holding the
banners of House Targaryen and House Stark, announcing the first match of the
day.
Once more, silence falls upon the crowd, but it's a different kind of silence,
filled with tension. The kingsguards hover near Rhaegar, swords drawn, shields
ready. On the other side of the lists, her father's bannermen swarm around
Brandon like flies over rotten meat in summer.  
'Don't do anything stupid,' Lyanna wants to say, and doesn't know if she's
thinking of Brandon or Rhaegar.
The two of them mount their horses and the crowd cheers, bloodthirsty. Brandon
ignores them. His whole focus is on Rhaegar. His lance is pointed straight at
the prince, and his horse, poised and ready, paws restlessly at the ground.
Rhaegar pays him no heed. He has yet to acknowledge Brandon; he is looking at
her instead, and even with his helm closed, Lyanna can feel his gaze boring
into her.
The trumpets sound once more, warning the riders to ready themselves. Rhaegar
barely reacts. His squire tugs at the reigns of his horse, catching his
attention at last. Rhaegar turns to him and takes the gleaming red lance the
squire is holding. His horse rears up as Rhaegar hefts the lance, adjusting his
hold.
The crowd cheers.
On the other side of the track, Brandon hasn't stopped looking at Rhaegar once.
He's coiled with tension. Something in the way he holds himself frightens
Lyanna. She tugs at Ned's sleeve. "Brandon wants to kill him," she whispers,
almost paralyzed by the sudden flash of insight.  
Ned yanks his arm away and glares at her. Once more, Lyanna is struck by how
much he resembles their father. "A bit too late to worry about it now, isn't
it?"
"If he succeeds…," she trails off, unable to go on, as possible outcomes each
more horrible than the last unfold before her mind's eye. "It would mean war."
"It would mean death. For all of us. Not that Brandon listened to me. None of
you ever do." Ned's voice is bitter. "If the gods are willing, your prince will
win. Brandon will not strike again if he's defeated. He will accept the will of
the gods."
Lyanna hopes he's right. She tries to remember when the last time she went to a
godswood to pray was and can't. She's never been as devoted as father or Ned.
She closes her eyes, trying to picture the heart tree of Winterfell, the deep
lines that make out the long, melancholy face carved into its bark. For a
moment, it is as if she is there: she can hear the breeze playing against the
leaves, smell the faint traces of winter in the air, see the imposing white
bark and the blood-red leaves of the weirwood. 'Please,' she prays silently to
the old gods. Desperately. 'Please let the match end without death. Don't let
Brandon win.'
It feels wrong, asking the old gods, the gods of the North, for her brother's
defeat. She can't shake the fear that the gods will not listen. When do they
ever? Why would they? Of all her siblings, surely she's the one that deserves
it the least. She opens her eyes and glances at Ned's serious face and hope
fills her. Surely the old gods will listen to him—kind, dutiful Ned, who prays
every day and always does what their father bids. If someone deserves to have
the gods listen, it is Ned.
The trumpet sounds a final time, short and shrill, and Lyanna's attention snaps
back to the field. Rhaegar and Brandon's horses gallop towards each other at a
furious pace. The light catches on Brandon's white lance as he raises it
higher, aiming straight at Rhaegar's helm. Lyanna holds her breath as the two
horses approach. Time seems to slow down.
Rhaegar leans forward in the last instant, and Brandon's lance misses him.
Brandon isn't so lucky. Rhaegar strikes him full force, lance shattering
against Brandon's shield. Her brother sways dangerously, but manages to remain
seated. Rhaegar wheels his horse around, and his squire hurries forward,
bringing him a new lance. Brandon, too, turns his horse and waits for the
herald to give the signal to charge again.
Lyanna claws at her dress. Her legs twitch with anxiety as she waits, praying
for it to be over soon, for it to end well.
"House Stark! House Stark!" Benjen chants and raises to his feet. Their
bannermen follow and House Tully joins in. The ruckus is enough to almost quell
the cries of those cheering for House Targaryen. Lyanna swallows, throat dry,
and glances fearfully at the king and his men.
The trumpet sounds and Brandon and Rhaegar charge again. Lyanna leans forward,
clutching the railing so hard that the wood creaks under her hands. This time,
both lances hit true. The impact of metal and shattered wood eclipse the shouts
of the crowd. Brandon topples over and takes down his horse with him, the two
roll on the ground with a loud metallic clatter. Lyanna jumps to her feet,
heart hammering with fear as she tries to see if Brandon is all right.
Rhaegar manages to stay on his saddle. He reins in his horse and dismounts,
drawing out his sword. Brandon is pinned under the weight of his horse, he
tries to scramble up to continue the combat, but can't break free. Lyanna wants
to jump into the field and stand guard by her brother's side.
Ned clasps her arms and pulls her away from the rail. "Sit down," he hisses.
"You're making a spectacle."
She glances around, notices that although most people's attentions are on the
lists, some are looking at her, too. She flushes with shame and subsides. When
she looks back to the field, Rhaegar has stopped advancing. He signals the
squires to come to Brandon's help and waits until they free him from underneath
his horse and take the limping beast away. Brandon stands up on unsteady feet.
He sways but manages to stay upright as he draws his sword and turns to face
Rhaegar.
Lyanna breathes out a sigh of relief, some of the tension draining from her
frame.  
"It's not over yet," Ned cautions her.
"Yes, it is." She has fought both of them, and in the state he's currently in,
Brandon is no match for Rhaegar. He can't barely hold himself upright. "Rhaegar
will make short work of him."
"How can you say that?" Benjen snarls at her, face flushed with anger. "He's
our brother. He's fighting for you. Do you want him to lose?"
"Of course not." The words come out too quickly and Lyanna knows that Benjen
can sense the lie in them.
His face contorts with scorn. "You're disgusting! You betrayed our house for a
man who shamed you, and now you want him to win?" He stands up and moves to the
other side of the bench, as far away from her as he can. Around her people
start to whisper once more, pointing and sneering.
Lyanna slumps back on her seat, feeling as if the strings holding her together
have been cut. When the tears come this time, she lets them.
"You brought this on yourself," Ned says, matter-of-fact.
Lyanna wipes her face and ignores him, pretending to watch the combat. It
doesn't last long. Just as she predicted, Rhaegar manages to disarm Brandon
within minutes, sending his sword flying across the ground. Brandon yields. He
stands up and stomps away without a second glance at Rhaegar. A squire runs
after him, picking up the pieces of armor Brandon is furiously discarding as he
goes.
She's scared that Brandon will come up to the benches. The last thing she needs
is another quarrel with her brother. However, Brandon stays away.
The rest of the tourney happens in a blur. Lyanna is too lost in her own
thoughts to pay much heed to it. She's faintly aware that Rhaegar is winning,
felling opponent after opponent. He fights like a man possessed—as if he has
something to prove. Maybe he does. After all, he needs to get back into his
wife's good graces. He will fight his way to victory, crown Princess Elia Queen
of Love and Beauty, and all will be forgiven.
Lyanna's eyes dart to the princess and her ladies in waiting, surrounding her
like a protective cloud of lace and silk. Princess Elia looks gaunt and
drained. Lyanna pities her. Let her keep the crown and Rhaegar. It seems like a
small price to pay now that Lyanna knows she won't have to marry Robert and end
up like her, haggard and hollow-cheeked, a shadow of the woman she was meant to
be, forever shackled to a man she can't love.
A small price for freedom.
She barely notices when the tourney ends. Ser Barristan yields to Rhaegar, and
the cheers multiply tenfold, snapping Lyanna out of her reverie. By contrast,
the silence among her father's bannermen is almost oppressing. For a wild
moment, Lyanna plays with the idea of joining in on the applause, wondering
what they might do. It's Benjen's small figure, huddled miserably beneath his
cloak at the far end of the bench that holds her back.
She sighs, suddenly exhausted, the lack of sleep catching up with her. She
longs for Winterfell, for the peace of the North, where things are clear and
easy, where she knows her place.
In the distance, Rhaegar takes off his helm, and the long locks of his silver-
white hair spill down his shoulders. She remembers how they felt brushing over
her breasts and the wave of heat the memory brings catches her by surprise. She
blinks and swallows, snaps back to the present. Rhaegar lifts the crown of blue
flowers Lord Whent hands over to him, proclaiming him the winner. He canters on
his horse across the field, holding the crown of flowers high for everyone to
see.
Then, to Lyanna's utter bafflement, he trots past his wife's booth not even
stopping to look at her, and continues until he is right in front of Lyanna.
Everyone hushes, the silence so deep one could hear a pin drop. Ned tenses next
to her, and from a corner of her eye Lyanna sees Benjen and the guards twitch
nervously, hands hovering over the hilts of their swords.
She stays still, not knowing what to expect or how to react.
What is he doing?
It is as if she's watching the events unfold from outside. Rhaegar bows his
head to her and kisses the crown of blue roses with reverence before placing it
on Lyanna's lap.
"Lady Lyanna." His deep, harmonious voice carries across the field, and in the
absolute silence everyone must be able to hear him. "I crown you my Queen of
Love and Beauty."
His lilac eyes burn into her as he repeats, "My queen." On his lips, it sounds
like a promise.
Lyanna's numb fingers close softly around the flower crown. She peers at it as
if in a trance. Blue winter roses, her favorites. How did he know? She glances
up at him, oblivious to the onlookers, and brings the crown to her lips. She
kisses the flowers, too.
Then, she raises her chin with a cocky smile and places the crown on her head.
Consequences be damned.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Ned drags Lyanna out of the stands before anyone has time to react, the
bannermen following close behind. Brandon is waiting by the wagons with the
rest of their party. His face contorts into a menacing grimace the moment he
sees Lyanna. He rips the crown of flowers from her head and tramples on it.
"You're a disgrace to the Stark name!" he snarls, and janks Lyanna's arm away
from Ned's grip. He hauls her to one of the carriages and shoves her inside,
ignoring her struggles. "I don't want to hear another word from you until we
are back home," he hisses, and slams the door shut.
And true to Brandon's words, no one talks to her during the long journey back
to Winterfell. Not Brandon, nor Ned, nor Benjen. Not even the guards.
Days turn into weeks, and weeks into a moon-turn. The first sightings of snow
begin to appear on the road. And in all that time, no one speaks to her. Even
the maids at the inns hurry in and out of her room with their heads lowered.
They avoid her eyes and her questions, as though talking to her were a crime;
Brandon's doing, no doubt. Ned wouldn't be that consistently cruel.
Lyanna feels like a criminal marching to her execution. She's not even allowed
to ride a horse, confined to a carriage whose doors open only from the outside.
Grim-faced, silent guards shadow her every move, making sure she only goes from
the carriage to her room and back again. She is trapped, and every passing day
adds to her sense of doom.  
It starts to wear her out. There are times when she finds herself crying
silently for no reason at all, unsure if it's anger or sadness or just sheer
frustration. Maybe all three. A pervasive fatigue weighs on her like an
illness, robbing her of strength. With nothing else to do, it's hard to fight
off her dejection. Sleep seems easier, and Lyanna gives in to it, allowing it
to steal the hours away.
Her dreams are restless, plagued with disjointed images of the past that make
no sense in the light of the day. She dozes on and off, thinking of Rhaegar and
Harrenhal, of Robert and might-have-beens, wishing things had turned out
differently.
Surely marrying Robert would have been the lesser evil? If she had at least had
the sense to be more discreet. Her thoughts wander to her father, waiting for
her in Winterfell. Brandon would have sent a raven ahead, and if not him,
others would have told him by now. What will he do to her? Will he forgive her?
Lyanna wants to imagine that he will, but she fears he might not. If even
Benjen can't find it in his heart to forgive her, then their father is a lost
cause. Lord Rickard will not suffer her by his side, not after what she did.
Her stomach churns with anxiety at the thought. At least with Robert she could
have visited every now and then, but if she is exiled she will never be allowed
to set foot in Winterfell again. It terrifies her.
Where could he send her? Who would want her now?
Maybe the Silent Sisters. Is that to be her punishment? Is that the reason why
Brandon has forbidden everyone from talking to her?
Why would something as insignificant as her maidenhead matter so much? She does
not feel any different. She is the same person. The same Lyanna. Robert had
slept with other women before and everyone had known it and expected her to
overlook it. Why couldn't it be the same with her just because he was a woman?
It was unfair. Just like learning to fight—something that women didn't do.
Except this was no child's whimsy. This time her father wouldn't relent, nor
would he forgive. It was an absolute certainty that left no room for doubt or
hope. Lyanna knew it like she knew winter was coming, down to the marrow of her
bones. If there was one thing Lord Rickard valued more than riches, or love, or
even his own life, it was honor.
'You're a disgrace to the Stark name.' Brandon's words hurt more than his slap
ever did.
Honor. The Stark name. The Starks' honor.
Lyanna can't stop thinking about it. She sleeps and wakes up, eats and dozes on
and off, watching the hours and miles pass by lost in her thoughts. Rinse and
repeat. But as time passes, and the days get colder, and the shadow of
Winterfell looms ever closer, Lyanna's energy returns and with it her spark.
Guilt turns into anger.
What is the Stark's honor worth, if something as fragile as a maidenhead could
threaten it so? What do her father and Brandon know about honor anyway? Or Ned?
Is that all honor is about? Giving up her dreams, marrying a man she doesn't
love, resigning herself to an unwanted future without a fight?  
No.
If that is honor, she is glad to be rid of it. If Brandon and her father think
that isolating her will make her regret her choice, they are thoroughly
mistaken. Anger has only ever made Lyanna fiercer.
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When they finally arrive at Winterfell, the inner yard of the castle remains
remarkably subdued. The servants come and go carrying off their luggage, the
stable boys hurry to tend to the exhausted horses, and men bustle about taking
care of wagons and supplies, but the usual buoyancy surrounding long awaited
arrivals is missing.
The guards open the door of her carriage, and she steps outside, breathes the
cold air in and braces herself for what lies ahead. Winterfell seems smaller
somehow, more ragged, reality no match for the memories nostalgia painted in
her heart. She never catches any of the servants staring at her, but the
intensity of their disapproving glances pierces her back. She doesn't feel
welcome.
Brandon and Ned march her directly to their father's solar, not even allowing
her to relieve herself. Lord Rickard is waiting for them, sitting behind his
desk with a somber expression. He, too, seems older and frailer. Lyanna has
missed him. She wants to run to him and hug him, hide her face in her father's
shoulder and pretend all it's all right.  
"Hello, father," she says. After so long without talking, the words come out
rusty. She clears her throat and adds, "I hope you are doing well."
Her father's nostrils twitch and his lips tighten into an angry line. "I cannot
talk to you right now," he says in a low, harsh tone. "Go to your room and stay
there," he orders, grim-faced.
"Father, let me explain," Lyanna tries, taking a step forward.
Her father slams his hands on the desk so hard that the inkwell topples over,
spilling ink over the wood. His face turns red with anger and the veins in his
throat bulge as he shouts, "Be quiet! I don't want to hear your paltry excuses!
You have no idea what you have wrought!" He takes a calming breath. "I have
heard enough of you to last me for a lifetime." The low, chilly tone is
absolute.
"So, is that what it will be then? The Silent Sisters?" she asks in a small
voice.
"Maybe that would be a fitting punishment, but sending my daughter to serve the
new gods will not cleanse our name from the shame you have brought upon it. No,
I will marry you off to whoever is willing to have you, and be done with it. A
third son or even a bastard; I don't care. The sooner you stop carrying the
Stark name and sullying it with your mere existence, the better." He closes his
eyes and when he opens them again, his face is cold and empty like the stone
statues down in the crypts. "Take her to her room," he tells Ned.
Lyanna offers no resistance, trailing after Ned as if in a trance, too shocked
to do anything but follow.
Ned pushes her softly into the room and guides her to the bed. He studies her
with a frown and asks, "Are you alright?"
Lyanna laughs, a brittle sound that is just shy of a sob. "Since when do you
care?" She feels like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Lifeless. Lost.
Without purpose.
"Don't," Ned says. "You brought this upon yourself. I warned you. Don't blame
me if you don't like the consequences. Life isn't a game, Lyanna."
"And you would know how? You were born a man," she spats. "You could do
anything and no one could strip the Stark name from you. I'm disposable. I was
born disposable. Something to barter away for power or favors. And now … not
even that."
Ned sighs. "That's not true. Father wanted you to be happy."
"And now he wants nothing to do with me." Lyanna chortles. "Well, at least I
know what I'm worth to him. To you all. A maidenhead." She dares Ned to deny
it, but he doesn't. He just shakes his head and leaves.
Lyanna closes her eyes and lets her head fall between her hands. Tears of
helplessness well up in her eyes. Marry her off. To anyone. Anyone at all. Her
stomach churns.
'The sooner you stop carrying the Stark name….' A sudden wave of nausea has her
running to the chamber pot. She throws up what little she managed to eat that
morning and waits on shaky knees until the dry-heaves stop. She wipes her mouth
with her sleeve and searches around the room for some water to rinse with.
She spits the foul-tasting water out and rinses again. Her father's words keep
echoing in her ear over and over. 'The sooner you stop carrying the Stark
name….'
She hurls the cup against the far wall with such force that its wood cracks and
the cup breaks in two pieces, falling to the floor with a loud clang. Her hand
reaches for the jug of water next. The familiar feeling of mindless rage
engulfs her, and she starts smashing and throwing everything she can find,
kicking her possessions and screaming.
Despite the racket no one comes to check on her. She doesn't know how much time
passes before she finally stops, exhausted. Her room is a wreck, as if a storm
has torn through it. She pauses, mid-motion, a half-crumpled nightgown still in
her hand, and takes in the mess. She drops onto her bed face down and sobs,
kicking and punching at the destroyed bedding until the last remains of anger
bleed out and she falls into a heavy sleep.
She dreams of winter and snow, of frozen landscapes and hunger. She walks
through a forest of weirwoods, following the caws of a raven. Wolves howl as
Winterfell burns. Above, in the sky, dragons circle over the charred remains of
what once was her home.
The rattling of the door startles her awake. Lyanna sits up with a start, heart
beating madly. It takes her moment to remember where she is. The realization
that the fire was just a nightmare is heady and sweet like summer wine.
A maid opens the door and comes in with a tray of food. She's new. Father's
foresight at play, forestalling any attempts Lyanna might have made to cajole
information out of her childhood friends. The girl gasps when she sees the
destroyed room. She looks around with wide eyes but doesn't comment, scurrying
away immediately after delivering Lyanna's dinner.
Lyanna falls back on the bed and exhales, letting the last remnants of her
nightmare go. If dreams are sent by the gods, like Old Nan claims, this one is
not particularly hard to decipher. After what happened between her and Rhaegar,
Winterfell is lost to her. She has no home; her father has made it more than
clear.
Her future is not here.
She knows with sudden clarity what she needs to do. The future unfolds before
her mind's eye and the solution seems so easy. So obvious. Like a sudden
opening in an opponent's defense. A  weakness to be taken advantage of and
exploited.
Lyanna clenches her teeth and nods to her self, determined. If her father wants
her gone, by the gods, she will disappear and they will never find her again.
She will give them exactly what they want. If they don't think her worthy of
the Stark name, then she will get rid of it, but it will be on her terms.
There are two types of Starks, Old Nan always told her: those with the wolf
blood and those without. It has been like that since Bael the Bard seduced
Brandon Stark's daughter and put the seed of wildness into the Stark blood.
Lyanna's wolf blood has always been strong. Sometimes, when she dreams she can
sense the wolves running free in the woods as if she were one of them. She
knows now what it means.
Lyanna stands up, bright and awake, all traces of tiredness gone. She strides
to the window and opens it. Crisp, cold wind brushes against her face, carrying
a whiff of hay and horse manure. Dusk is giving way to night. The sky is clear
and the moon so thin that it seems like a white feather floating among the
stars. Light spills out of the windows of the main hall. She can even hear the
faint echoes of loud laughter and music. Father is celebrating the arrival of
his sons after all. It's only her nobody is glad to see.
It's the perfect night. If she wants to leave, this is her moment.
She has never been one for second-guessing herself, and she's not about to
start. Quickly, she gulps down the porridge the maid brought and leaves the
bread, apples and dried meat to take with her. She rummages through the wreck
of her room, trying to locate things she might need for her journey. She finds
her thickest woolen winter cloak and spreads it on the bed.  
She discards her dress and puts on men's clothes, the kind she uses for riding
and sword practice, plain and sturdy, but comfortable and warm. They feel like
a second skin in a way dresses never have.  
She's glad her father never thought to take away her weapons. Her room is
filled with them. Even her sword is there, still hidden in the bottom of the
trunk the servants carried in with the rest of the luggage. She selects her
best knives, two small climbing axes and one bow she never got around to
bringing back to the armory before their journey to Harrenhal. She'll have to
craft her own arrows, but that's easy enough.
Choosing among her possessions is hard, like picking pieces of herself, aware
she will lose the rest. Ballast she won't need in her journey. Freeing in a
way. And yet, leaving so much of her old life behind hammers home the knowledge
that this is her farewell.
Lyanna looks around one final time, breathing in the comforting smell of home.
Grief fills her, and she has to blink away tears at the idea of never again
returning to Winterfell, but strangely enough, a part of her is also looking
forward for what is to come: the unknown adventures and dangers ahead of her.
Her stomach flutters with excitement and fear, both, the way it does when
facing an opponent on the field she knows might be better than her. Other
people might shy away and retreat, but Lyanna has always loved the thrill of
it, the challenge, the knowledge that one wrong step, one tiny mishap might be
all it takes to fail and the overlapping bone-deep confidence that she will
succeed.   
She pulls the edges of the spread cloak around the supplies and ties them into
a makeshift sack, using the thick neck tie-strings to secure the opening. She
then piles some of her discarded clothes on the bed, giving them a rough human
shape, and covers them with the duvet. It ought to give her a couple more hours
head start, provided she doesn't get caught on the way out. Finally, she puts
on her sturdy, everyday cloak, wraps it tight around her neck and binds the
bottom into a rough knot around her waist. It looks terrible, but it leaves her
legs and arms free to move without getting tangled up.
Climbing out her window is as easy as she remembers it. Her hands know where
the cracks and braces in the old stones are. It's not the first time she has
gone out at night without permission. The trick is to go up, not down. The
patrols only guard the perimeter of the wall, focusing on the doors, the
accesses to the castle and the courtyards, but they mostly ignore the roofs.
Lyanna sticks to the shadows, balancing on narrow ledges, and leaps from roof
to roof until she reaches the First Keep.
She checks for patrols before she climbs down, as close to the crypts as
possible. The heavy, ironwood door at the entrance groans and its old hinges
creak as she opens it. Lyanna cringes and holds still, terrified that somebody
will come check on the noise, but nobody does. She slips into the crypts and
shuts the door with a sigh of relief.
Absolute darkness swallows her. Cautiously, she gropes her way down the narrow,
winding spiral stairs, sliding one foot tentatively forward until she can
locate the edge of the steps. It's a slow, nerve-wracking process. The darkness
plays havoc with her sense of time, and the only reason she doesn't get lost is
that there is only one way to go: down.
After a small eternity, the stairs give way onto the first level, then the
second and finally the third. Lyanna steps in, groping along the wall for a
torch. She's starting to despair when her fingers finally happen upon the iron
sconce. She pulls the torch down and holds it between her knees, fumbling in
her pockets for flint and steel.
The flickering fire illuminates the long line of granite pillars that lay ahead
as far as the light reaches. Dust covers everything and thick layers of
spiderweb engulf the statutes of her ancestors, shielding their faces like a
veil. Nobody ever wanders this deep into the crypts. Her grandparents and the
last generations of Starks are buried in the upper level. Only Lyanna ever
comes this far down, though nobody knows about it.
As she walks by, the white, imposing statues of the first Starks look down on
her with their blind, stony eyes. Before, she thought that the statues looked
majestic and proud, but now they seem heartless and cold. Judging.
Once, she had thought she would be buried in the crypt, alongside her family.
She even dreamt of a statue of her own, the first Stark woman to earn one. She
knows better now. She would have never been allowed to remain a Stark.
She stops before the statue of Bran the Builder, the founder of House Stark,
and her chest twists with pain. "This is farewell, then," she says, gloomily.
The words echo softly, and it sounds as if the dead are saying farewell, too.
The corridor of the crypt narrows and twists the farther ahead she gets. The
granite pillars end and little by little the last traces of man's touch fade to
nothing, and the crypt becomes once more what it originally was before the
first men came, a never-ending complex of caves, carved out into the depths of
the earth by the same hot springs that warm the halls of Winterfell.  
Once, as a child, playing hide-the-treasure, Lyanna went into the deepest,
farthest parts of the crypt, until the path became so narrow that she was
forced to crawl. She had been determined to make it to the very end. Except
that the end never quite came. After a long while, the path started to widen
again, turning into a new cavern that lead outside, far into the wolfswood at
the north of Winterfell. She was thrilled by her discovery, certain that
nobody, nor father, nor Old Nan, nor even the castle Master, knew about it.
Lyanna guarded the knowledge jealously, for once unwilling to share it even
with her brothers. It was her secret passage. Hers alone. A door to adventures
without fear of reprimand. Now, she is glad she never told.
By the time she makes it out of the caves, the night is in full bloom.
Winterfell is just a small set of faint, golden lights in the distance. The air
is crisp and cold, but dry, the perfect weather for a long journey. Lyanna re-
ties the sack with supplies to her back, rights her cloak, and after one last
look towards Winterfell turns resolutely away.
She seeks out the stars of the Ice Dragon. In the dark, almost moonless night,
its blue eye shines brighter than ever. Lyanna walks towards it. North is where
her destiny lies.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
She avoids the Kingsroad, knowing it is the first place they will look for her.
Morning at the latest someone will notice her absence—noon if she is lucky and
the new maid takes the fake bundle on her bed at face value. She doubts the
dogs will be able to trace her at first. Nobody will think of the roofs, and
even if they do, the dogs can't go there. That will give her a good day head
start, maybe two. Nonetheless, sooner or later one of them is bound to get
lucky and catch her fading scent in the woods. After that, all bets are off.
She needs to put as much distance between herself and Winterfell as she can
before it happens.
After so long caged inside a carriage it feels wonderful to move again under an
open sky. She is out of shape, though. Six weeks of forced inaction, just
sitting and sleeping, have taken its toll. Her legs tire faster than she
expects and the sack of supplies on her back becomes impossibly heavy. Still,
fear of capture pushes her forward long after she would have otherwise given
up.
It's midday by the time her feet refuse to take another step, and she allows
herself a small rest. Despite the spring weather, there are some patches of
stubborn snow that have refused to melt, and Lyanna eats some of it to quench
her thirst. It melts quickly in her mouth, cooling her overheated, exhausted
body. She eats some of the dried meat and bread, portioning her meagre food
reserves carefully. Stopping to hunt and cook would slow her down too much. She
chews slowly and idly wonders if someone has raised the alarm by now, or if
they have yet to figure out she's gone.  
After a couple of minutes, she forces her protesting legs to continue, aware
that it will only get worse if she allows her muscles to cool down. The forest
becomes thicker, and it takes longer to make progress. On top of that, hunger
and exhaustion start to wear down on her. By late afternoon, she admits to
herself that she needs to stop and find a place to rest for the night. Truly
rest. The little breaks she has taken here and there won't be enough to keep
her going for another full day.
The gods must be watching over her, for not soon after she starts seeking a
good spot, the faint trickle of water catches her attention. She follows the
sound to a small stream, coming down from the hills to join one of the White
Knife's tributaries. Its water tastes like ambrosia, fresh and cold and
perfect. Lyanna follows the stream up until dusk starts to settle. The sight of
a lone weirwood, rising majestic in the distant brings her to a stop. The
blood-red leaves are set off by the dark green crowns of the oaks and sentinel
trees surrounding it. Its trunk is broader than Winterfell's heart tree and its
roots spread wide and deep, reaching almost all the way across the stream.
Lyanna approaches the tree reverently, walking slowly between its roots and
circling its massive bone-white trunk with awe. Surprised, she notices that it
has not been carved. She caresses the rough wood softly, marveling that nobody
has ever bothered to open its eyes and mouth to the world. Sleeping gods, Old
Nan calls weirwoods without faces.
She rests her forehead against the trunk and closes her eyes, breathing in the
clean sweet tang of the tree. As she looks up into the wide deep-red crown
something in her settles. Relief rushes through her exhausted body in waves as
she finally sits down, allowing her legs to rest. Her feet ache terribly, and
when she finally manages to pry off her boots, they are swollen and blistered.
She drags herself around, not bothering to stand up, until she can dip them in
the stream. When the icy water touches her heated flesh she hisses and cringes,
but after the initial shock, it feels heavenly.
She's so tired that she's no longer hungry, but she still forces down the rest
of the dried meat and the apple, leaving the last piece of bread for the next
day. Lyanna fights off sleep, worrying about the journey ahead. She can't keep
up the pace of today and with every passing second her father's men get closer.
 
The howls of wolves wake her up, and Lyanna starts, realizing that it's already
pitch black. She fell asleep from one moment to the next without meaning to.
Another howl pierces the night, reminding her that there's a reason why the
forest is called the wolfswood. It's too dark now to find a safer place to
spend the night. She uses one of the lower branches of the weirwood to pull
herself up and slowly climbs up, until she reaches a bough wide enough to
support her weight comfortably. She tucks her legs in and wraps her arms around
them, fitting herself into a small nook created by the tree trunk and two other
protruding branches. At first, fear of falling has her startling awake whenever
she starts to doze, but after a while exhaustion wins over her wariness and
sleep claims her.
The chirping and tweeting of birds coax her awake. She's a bit groggy at first,
and it takes her a moment to remember where she is. She curses loudly,
realizing that she has wasted precious hours of sunlight and hurries down the
tree. Her supplies are untouched, lying between the roots. The last piece of
bread has hardened into a stone, and Lyanna dips it in the stream to make it
softer. She chews on it slowly, trying to make it last. From this moment onward
she will have to scavenge her own food.
After finishing, she is even hungrier than before. Her empty stomach growls and
she feels slightly queasy. On an impulse, she takes out her knife and slowly
carves a hole into the bark of the weirwood. Red sap starts to ooze, and Lyanna
gathers it with her fingers and licks at it, remembering old stories about the
First Men drinking from weirwood's trees before marching into battle against
the Others. The sap tastes bitter and she screws her face into a grimace, but
strangely enough it settles her stomach. She licks some more, and the taste
changes, losing its bitter edge, becoming almost sweet.
When the sap stops running, she carves a second hole, and continues drinking it
until her belly is full. The queasiness disappears, leaving her full of energy.
Even the ache in her feet fades. With the two holes, the weirwood almost
resembles a heart tree, and Lyanna feels compelled to finish it. She slashes a
wide, horizontal line beneath the holes, trying to imitate a mouth as best she
can. More sap leaks out as if the tree was slobbering blood.  
Lyanna places her hand on the trunk and closes her eyes. "Please don't let my
father's men find me," she prays. "Guide my way. Protect me." She kisses the
bleeding red mouth, puts on her boots, gathers her supplies and continues her
journey.
˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
Despite her misgivings, she makes good pace. Sunlight streams through the
crowns of the trees and warms the air. Birds sing and fly by without a care.
New flowers and bushes sprout around, brightening the forest with fresh color.
The ground is soft and moist beneath her feet, and the leather of her boots
darkens slightly with the moisture. The air smells of spring. Of new
beginnings. Of freedom.
Lyanna basks in it. This! This is the life she wants for herself. It hardens
her resolve never to go back. She finds mushrooms and berries along the way and
stops to eat, stuffing the pockets of her cloak with more for later. Her mind
wanders back to Winterfell. It's been two days. By now they must be close to
finding her trail, if they hadn't already found it. The thought dampens some of
her good mood.
Her Lord Father is a stubborn man. Even if he wanted to get rid of Lyanna, he
would never agree to lose her like this. He wants her in a place where he can
still lord over her life, married to some man of his choosing for what little
political advantage her soiled body might still bring him. He would not let her
wander free through Westeros any more than he would allow an expensive purebred
mare to escape his stables. He will comb the North until he finds her.
The idea comes to her unbidden, brilliant in its simplicity. If she wants her
father to stop searching, she needs to give him something to find.
She spends the rest of her walk hatching her plan. When she stops to rest that
evening, she goes through her possessions until she finds the only dress she
brought along. It's a simple cotton-dress. Its light blue color matches the hue
of winter roses perfectly. Brandon had given it to her as a present for her
last name day, and Lyanna, who had never been one for dresses had fallen in
love with it the moment she put it on. She doesn't even know why she brought
it—useless sentimentality—but she hadn't been able to leave it behind.
The cloth is soft and smooth, and Lyanna knows she will never own anything this
beautiful again. It was meant to be a memento, a memory of her family. Of
Winterfell. She pulls her knife out and shreds the dress, trying to make the
tears look rough and uneven, like the work of an animal. She cries as she
works, wretched and miserable without even knowing why. She had thought she'd
already come to terms with her decision, but she can't control the wave of
sadness that washes over her as she tears apart one more piece of her old life.
After she's done, she sets the remains of the dress aside, wipes her face and
stands up, shaking feeling back into her stiff legs. She walks around, finding
good places to set snares, and after putting up five, climbs the branches of a
tall sentinel tree and goes to sleep. The gods seem to be with her for luck is
on her side. The next morning one of the biggest hares she's ever seen is
caught in one of her traps. It twitches weakly, bloodied foam leaking from its
mouth. The noose has dug deeply into the flesh of its neck, and the fur around
it is coated with blood. When it sees her, it makes another feeble attempt to
stand up and run, but its legs refuse to hold it.
Lyanna ends its suffering with a quick slash of her knife, catching the blood
that spills from its neck with the shreds of her tore dress. The hare lies
still, its empty, glassy eyes wide open. Lyanna skins it with ease and uses the
rests of the dress to soak up the blood. She removes the snares, being careful
to erase her tracks, and runs back to the stream at full speed, stumbling once
or twice. One time, she even lets herself fall, before she stands up and
continues her mad dash, not bothering to avoid tree branches or bushes on her
way.  She's panting by the time she reaches the stream, lungs hurting with
exertion. She wheezes as she props her hands on her knees, trying to catch her
breath.
A quick glance back shows an array of broken twigs and unearthed stones, turned
over as she stumbled on them. The earth is visibly trampled and her footprints
deep and impossible to miss. A good tracker would see that she was running from
something, too scared to think, especially given that she had been so careful
to leave almost no tracks before.
She throws the bloodied, torn-off pieces of the tattered dress to the ground,
and taking hold of her thick braid chops it off near her nape. Dark locks of
hair fall around her face. Her head feels incredibly light, and Lyanna shakes
it, amazed, enjoying the odd sensation. She eyes the thick, dark braid in her
hand and weighs it with awe. It doesn't feel that heavy. She moves her head
again, trying to get acquainted with its lightness and grins broadly.
Lyanna tugs at the ribbon holding the edge of the braid and loosens the plait,
tossing a handful of locks over the bloodied clothes. When she is finished, she
lets herself fall on top of it all and starts kicking and dragging herself
around until she reaches the water, making it as real as possible, as if she
was fighting off an attack. She places the skinned body of the hare at the
center, hoping that the smell will attract wolves or some other large
predators. If the gods are willing, their tracks will be big enough to complete
her little charade.
It isn't perfect, but it will have to do. She just needs to give her father's
men an easy excuse to stop the search, something to take back to Winterfell
with them, if they ever make it this far.
Proof of death.  
Mindful not to leave unwanted tracks, she gathers her remaining supplies, ties
the makeshift sack to her back and skips into the stream. The icy water reaches
up to the middle of her calves and Lyanna wades swiftly through it, helping her
body to keep warm.
The sun has not yet reached its zenith, and its rays brush sensuously against
the skin of her face, caressing it. She looks up into the clear blue sky and
and grins. "Lyanna Stark is dead! Long live Lyanna!" she shouts, and laughs.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
The next days are hard. Something in the food she manages to scavenge doesn't
agree with her. She wakes up nauseous and tired and just thinking of the miles
and miles ahead of her makes her want to cry. Or turn around and go back to
sleep. Let her father's men find her if they will.
Her ruse seems to have worked, for even though her pace slows down, and more
often than not she has to stop mid-day to nap—she is that tired—nobody seems to
be following her. As days pass, the unease that has shadowed her since she left
Winterfell starts to ease, and she slacks even more, giving in to the demands
of her exhausted body. She takes the time to set traps and fashion arrows,
supplementing her diet of herbs, mushrooms and fruits with fresh meat and the
occasional fish, hoping it will settle her stomach, but nothing seems to help.
The sky turns a murky dark grey that hides the sun and promises heavy rain and
the temperature drops. Spring weather, unsteady and unpredictable at the best
of times. Lyanna finds shelter among the branches of two pairs of entwined
weirwoods just as the first drops of water start to fall. Lightning bolts dance
among dark clouds and thunder rumbles close by, rattling the air. Rain pours
down, thick and violent, blanketing the forest in grey. It's impossible to
remain dry, even protected by the deep mantle of red leaves surrounding her.
Lyanna draws the hood of her cloak tighter and curls into herself, waiting for
it to stop. Her eyelids grow heavy and the steady pattering of the rain lulls
her to sleep.
Her dreams are troubled. She sees her father in Winterfell's godswood, kneeling
before the heart tree, cheeks wet with tears, praying to the old gods: "Bring
my daughter back home safe." The words tear at Lyanna's heart like claws and
she wants to go to her father and hug him, but the dream changes.  
She's once more standing in front of the charred remains of Winterfell,
watching the castle burn while dragons fly in the sky. Hatred and grief war
inside her. "Kill them all," she orders, and her voice is older and harsh.
Unforgiving. The dragons dive, their mouth wide open and fire gushes out.
She's holding a burning torch. Its flickering fire lurches and dances in the
darkness as she runs. Fear, bordering on terror seizes her, erasing all
thoughts but one: She needs to find him. She needs to find him now. Lyanna has
never known such dread; it pulses through her veins like a living creature.
"Mom," a child calls from the darkness, happy and carefree. A rush of relief
washes over her, so deep, that her knees threaten to give up. Love, she
realizes, this is what love feels like. Old Nan was right, she would recognize
love when she felt it. No doubts. No hesitation. Absolute certainty. A dark-
haired boy runs towards her. Lyanna lets the torch fall and hugs him to her
chest, almost crushing him. "Look, look what I found," the child demands,
squirming against her hold. Lyanna forces herself to let go. In his small hands
he holds a huge oval stone, breathtakingly beautiful. Lyanna touches the
shimmering jewels, crusted in colorful patterns over the surface, and gasps.
They are scales.  
"A dragon egg," she whispers, and wakes up.
Lyanna's hands fly to her flat belly and she presses the palms softly against
it. "Oh," she breathes out. "Oh, gods." Her heart stumbles. "A dragon egg," she
repeats, the dream's meaning becoming clear. She rakes her mind, trying to
recall when she had her last moonblood. Much too long ago, she realizes. On her
way to Harrenhal. Almost two moon-turns ago.
It's not possible, she thinks, but knows it for the desperate denial it is. The
nausea, the exhaustion. The missing moonblood. It all becomes clear. For a
frantic, terrified moment she thinks about turning back. Her plan was for
herself. It never included a child. Rhaegar would surely help her, if her
father turns her down. She breathes in and out, clutching at the wet branches
of the weirwood, and asks the gods for guidance.
She laughs bitterly. The gods have already spoken. The dream is still vivid in
her mind. Her father would accept her, might even be glad to know she is alive.
But Winterfell would never be her home again. Lyanna might be welcome, her
bastard child would not. And Rhaegar, her dragon prince, would be happy to have
his mistress back. Lyanna's child would grow alongside his true heirs, despised
and feared. The history of Westeros is written with the blood of Targaryens'
bastards. 'Kill them all.' Her own voice, harsh, merciless. If she goes back,
she will learn to hate them both: Rhaegar and Winterfell.
The gods have spoken. There is only one choice to make.
Forward.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
The journey is strenuous and long, but Lyanna does not falter. She does not
want her child to be marked a bastard the moment it is born. Now, more than
ever, she needs to leave the Seven Kingdoms. There is only one place in
Westeros where last names matter not: North of the Wall.
The days turn colder the further north she travels, but game is still easy to
find. The bittersweet sap of the weirwoods calms her stomach and fills her with
energy. It becomes her main source of nourishment, and more often than not,
there are days where the blood-red liquid is all the food she manages to keep
down.
It's not all bad, though. Lyanna learns to love the forest and its noises, the
smell of fresh air and freedom. Even the solitude. It's easy to get lost in her
thoughts. She cries sometimes. For the family she will never see again. For
Rhaegar, who will never meet his child. For things that were never meant to be.
But with every step, the pain becomes less, easier to bear.
She leaves Highpoint behind and reaches the Northern Mountains. She breathes
out; her father's bannermen are few and far in the hills. It's only the
mountain clans she needs to worry about, and though all know her name, none
would recognize her face. Still, she starts traveling at night, following the
eye of the Ice Dragon, doing her best to avoid mountain dwellers. She takes to
sleeping in the tops of the trees during the day, protected by their mantle of
leaves.
She still dreams of Winterfell. Still sees her father crying in the godswood.
Once, she sees Brandon, grim-faced and tight-lipped, placing the Stark cloak
over the shoulders of a beaming Catelyn Tully. More often, though, she dreams
she is a wolf. Those are the dreams she likes best.
The terrain gets rougher as rains turns into sleet. Lyanna puts on every piece
of cloth she owns, layer after layer, keeping the biting cold at bay. The icy
winds cut her face and her feet sink into the freshly fallen snow. Walking at
night becomes impossible and she stops even trying. If there are men about, she
never encounters them, the mountains too vast and the North too sparsely
populated.
Strangely enough, it is in the harsh cold of the mountains, freezing and hungry
after days without finding any game, that she realizes she holds no regrets. If
she had the choice to do it all over again, she would not change a thing. She
would rather die of hunger, walking through the northern mountains alone, than
live for decades at Robert's side, dying one day at a time.
It is as if by walking away from Winterfell and her former life, she is walking
towards herself. Every step strips her of pretenses and masks, leaving only the
core. Determined. Fierce. Wild.
Lyanna might not know what life holds in store for her and her growing child,
but she does know what it doesn't. Whatever her destiny, becoming Lyanna
Baratheon was and would never be it.
                 ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
The moons come and go, and it seems to Lyanna as if all she's ever done is walk
through the mountains. Most days Winterfell and her former life seem like a
faraway dream. Other times, though, she wakes up and expects to still be there,
the memories sharp and bright, close enough to touch.
Then, she finally sees it. First a thin line that gleams in the horizon, more a
trick of the light than reality. It grows and takes form the closer she gets,
until it rises in front of her. A fortress of ice, overwhelming in its cold
magnificence: the Wall.
Lyanna looks up at the massive structure with awe. It is bigger than anything
she had ever imagined or seen. Even Harrenhal with its gigantic towers and
overly large hallways seems small in comparison.
The baby kicks her, as if it too is amazed by the sheer size of the Wall and
wants to Lyanna to know. She grins and caresses her slowly growing belly,
enticing it to kick again. "Yes, little one," she whispers. "You're right. It's
beautiful."
She checks for guards or patrols nearby but sees nothing, only ice and snow
stretching across the land as far as the eye can reach. And across it all, the
Wall.
Her fingers touch the ice of the Wall reverently. For an instant, it seems as
if it is talking to her in a language she can't quite understand. It should
scare her, but Lyanna is not afraid. She made it this far; she will not falter
now.
A Stark built the Wall; a Stark can beat it.
She feels exposed, all too aware that the guards of the Night Watch could
easily spot her, a dark figure in a sea of pure white. Despite her apprehension
she stays within touching distance of the Wall. In her experience, guards
seldom lean over parapets to look directly down. It's the woods and plains of
snow between the forest and the Wall they will be keeping an eye on.
If her luck holds, and Lyanna prays to the old gods that it does, no guards
will come. She has heard enough of her father's rants about the dwindling
numbers of men willing to joint the Watch to know that odds are in her favor.
Most of the castles are no longer manned, long ago abandoned and wasting away.
A raven croaks, startling her. Lyanna looks up and can barely see it, a black
point perched on the top of the Wall hundreds of feet away. It croaks again,
louder than before, before it flies away. Lyanna hesitates for a moment before
giving in to her impulse to follow it. She spots it a couple of times more when
it alights on the ground and picks at the snow as if waiting for her, only to
lurch into the grey sky as she draws near.
At noon, Lyanna comes to a sudden stop. In the distance, a small tower raises
from the top of the Wall, interrupting its daunting evenness. Lyanna's heart
beats with dread as she tries to decide what to do. Turn around or go forward?
Then, she sees the ravens. Dozens and dozens of them, perching at the top of
the tower without a care. It cannot be manned, she decides, not with that many
birds loitering around. Slowly, she starts moving again, keeping her eyes and
ears open for any sign of men, but she finds none.
As she comes closer she realizes that the watch tower is old and unkept. It's
just a small structure, probably built to give men a place to rest and warm up
before continuing their patrols. In the good old days her father mourns after,
it was probably manned with a guard or two. These days, when they are not
enough men to tend the proper castles, it has been long abandoned.
Lyanna doesn't find an entrance. The tower might be at the top, but at the
bottom the Wall is no different. No entries. No doors. Nothing. Just a cliff of
ice that could just as well be a mountain.
"Come on, there has to be a way," she says out loud, and rests her forehead on
the ice. Once more, it seems to her as if the Wall is trying to talk, foreign
whispers she can't understand. Lyanna snorts at her own foolishness. It's
probably just the sudden gusts of wind playing tricks with her mind as they
sweep like miniature storms along the tall ice surface.
She lets herself fall on the ground, mindless of the snow, too tired to worry
about the cold. Despair catches up to her. To be so close and at the same time
so far away.
From the ground, the Wall seems even bigger. Unsurmountable. She can't even
begin to imagine how Bran the Builder managed to raise it. It seems more like a
bluff of pure ice put there by the gods. Even Winterfell, which Lyanna had
always believed to be the Builder's best creation, paled in comparison. Her
naive idea to climb the Wall as she would one of the tower of Winterfell seems
childish and stupid now. The stories had not been enough to make her understand
the sheer size of it.
She watches the ravens play at the top, flying around and chasing each other
before settling to roost, and wishes fervently she could be able to fly like
them. How would the world look from up there?
Sharper and brighter. Clearer. Everything different. Even the snow, which to
Lyanna's eyes was only ever white, is marked by new hues of whiteness she has
no name for. She is dreaming she is one of the ravens, but the realization is
not enough to wake her up. She likes how the world looks from the top of the
Wall. Down below she sees herself, sprawled on the snow, a foreign creature
that does not belong. A potential predator to be monitored carefully.
Lyanna wants to fly and the thought is enough to send the raven soaring into
the sky. They plunge from the edge of the Wall and extend their wings. Gravity
calls to them as it does to all things, but instead of an enemy it is an ally.
It's easy to flap their wings and let the currents of wind carry them. They fly
lower until Lyanna can see herself more clearly. She can even make out her own
face, utterly still and empty, eyes white and sightless like a statute's. Dead
eyes.
She gasps awake, heart beating madly against her chest. For a moment, her own
body seems foreign to her, and she can't quite remember how to make it work.
Her muscles are stiff and cold, and the back of her head is soaked through with
melted snow. She curses. Stupid! Of all the moronic things to do, falling
asleep in the snow without even a fire to warm her up. Every child in the North
knows better than that.
The raven flies past her, almost within touching distance, oddly unafraid.
Lyanna stands up and shakes herself, brushing off the snow from her clothes.
She jumps from foot to foot, trying to warm herself faster. The raven settles
in a hollow in the ice a dozen of feet above the ground.
Lyanna squints against the glare of the light, trying to see better. The hollow
seems almost like a narrow, uneven step carved into the side of the Wall. She
studies the jagged surface closer, surprised to notice it differs from the rest
of the Wall. Large pieces of ice jut out from the icy cliff, rough and uneven,
forming small grooves. Big icicles as thick as her arm cling to their edges.
Under a closer scrutiny she can almost discern a vague pattern. They are steps!
Or they had been at some point in the far away past. Now they are misshaped and
neglected, having thawed and frozen again and again over the centuries. Many of
them are completely missing, melted away by the passage of time and whatever
counts as summer this far North.
What's left of the stairs does not reach the bottom. The first step is almost
twelve feet away, but it still better than anything she could have hoped. Dozen
feet she can climb, four hundred is another matter.
She pulls out two small axes and buckles the rest of her belongings tight
against her back. Lyanna rams the first ax deep and high into the ice and tests
its hold before doing the same with the second. Painstakingly slow she starts
the difficult task of climbing, one step at a time, using the axes' handles to
pull herself up. She thinks only of the next step, not the ones that will come
after. She only needs to master that next step, the few inches it will gain
her.
Stopping is not an option.
She loses the sense of time, but when she least expects it, that first step is
suddenly there. She drags herself up until her feet find purchase on the
slippery ice. She tests its stability, afraid to let go of her hold on the ax.
It's surprisingly solid, and Lyanna sighs with relief.
Carefully, she pries the axes away from the ice, looks down and swallows. She
loves climbing, always has, but even she is all too aware of how easy it would
be to slip on the slick ice and plummet to the ground.
Slowly, she starts her ascend, mindful of the too narrow steps, pressing her
body into the Wall as best she can and securing her stance with the axes. The
wind becomes harsher and colder the higher up she gets, threatening to topple
her more often than not. In more than one occasion she has to crouch down and
hold on firmly until the gusts of wind ease and she can continue. A few times,
only the axes allow her to bridge the distance between missing steps, and she
has to pull herself up or sideways until she can reach the next piece of
crumbling stairs.
The way up is strenuous and treacherous. By the time she reaches the top the
sunlight has begun to dim. The ravens fly away with loud, indignant croaks as
she pulls herself over the edge with one last effort. She drops on her back,
catching her breath, elated with the overwhelming sense of victory rushing
through her veins and the thrill of the climb.
She made it!
Lyanna stands up after a while and takes it all in. The top of the Wall seems
broader than the kingsroad, and just like it, it stretches left and right as
far as the eye can see. She peers at the other side, curious about the unknown
world of wildlings, direwolves, children of the forests and Others. A world of
songs and legends. A dangerous world. From this far up, all she can see is a
forest, deep and dark, reaching out all the way to the horizon.
The Wall is the border between two worlds: one familiar, one unknown. Once
Lyanna crosses over, she will no longer be Lady Stark. Last names mean nothing
North of the Wall. She will become one more lawless wildling among thousands of
them. A fugitive. A law-breaker. And with her, her unborn child.
Lyanna looks back to the South, towards Winterfell, faraway and invisible. A
dream that never was. In the forest behind the Wall a wolf howls, and to her it
seems like a greeting. A wild world, for a wild girl.
Hers is the blood of the direwolf. Some place out there a new pack awaits her
and Lyanna can't wait to joint it. If she cannot be a Stark, being just Lyanna
will have to suffice. She cannot keep her last name, but by the gods, she will
keep her dreams.
 
El Fin
Chapter End Notes
     I want to thank all readers who have accompany me on this journey -
     the lurkers, but specially those who left kudos and bookmarked and
     those who took the time to comment. Your feedback made me smile and
     inspired me and made me happy in a time when I needed it. So thank
     you!
     I'm not ruling out more one-shots in this universe, but I don't want
     to commit to anything, because my track record writing sequels is
     terrible.
     For those of you curious as to what the future holds for Lyanna, know
     that before this story had an official title, in my head I used to
     call it: Queen-Beyond-the-Wall!Lyanna. That probably tells you quite
     a lot about where the journey is taking her.
     The actual title "No Blood, No Alibi" comes from the song "What I've
     Done" by Linkin Park, which is the reason the story ever made the
     transition from a story-I-tell-myself-when-I'm-bored to a story-I-
     actually-sit-down-and-write. I'd been thinking on and off about this
     universe for a while, when I heard the song on the radio. It was just
     perfect for this Lyanna. And all of a sudden I had a title, and
     Queen-Beyond-the-Wall!Lyanna was ordering me to write her the story
     to match it: her origin story.
     As for Rhaegar? Well, for him Lyanna is always going to be "the one
     that got away."
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