He remembered the first time he held her in his arms. He had been bloody and bruised in his black armor when Ser Arthur Dayne put her in his arms. It was after the sack of King's Landing, having made it just after his wife and children were raped and brutally murdered by Tywin Lannister's dogs, apparently, the old lion believed that the war was shifting in Robert Baratheon's favor and picked a side.
He had picked wrong. Rhaegar Targaryen had slewed the Stag at the battle of the Trident and the rebel forces had laid down their arms in surrender once they saw their leader put down. Oh, it wasn't easy, he had had to work for it, parrying blow for blow and dodging that goddammit war hammer, that more than once nearly caved in his chest. Instead, it struck his leg, and he had been horribly injured after the battle, not even able to enjoy the fruits of his victory. ' It was damaged badly' they had said 'If you're lucky you'll be able to walk again, just with a limp, your grace'. And that was that, he was a cripple, and he'd never be able to ride or joust how he used to again, but he guessed it was better than having his chest caved in.
But when he walked into the gates of King's Landing, and was once again greeted with death, rape and destruction, when he walked into the Red Keep and saw a golden sword planted into the back of his father with Ser Jaime sitting on his father's throne, when he had seen what the Mountain, the man he had knighted himself, did to her, his wife, his children, he had wished he died. He had wished Robert Baratheon would have swung his war hammer down onto his chest so he could have died and never known the fate of his family.
And then Ser Arthur gave him her. It was all for her. The war, the pain, the death. He wanted to blame her, to hate her, to curse her. But when he had cradled her in his arms, and he saw those eyes and that mop of dark curls on her head he couldn't. Because all he saw was Lyanna, his queen of love and beauty, her daughter that she died birthing into the world. His Visenya, he had thought.
As soon as he had thought of the name all the feelings of resentment came back, but more for himself than her. He was such a fool, an idiot. All for some damned prophecy. The dragon must have three heads. Well, what does it matter if two of them are dead, all because of him? And here he is, ready to blame a newborn baby for something that he started. 'I'm a fool' he had thought as indigo met stormy gray 'And a craven'. But it was so much easier to blame someone else.
"Take her" he had said as he passed the babe back to the knight. He couldn't look at her anymore. She reminded him of all his mistakes, of everything he lost.
He began to walk out of the throne room, ready to lock and confine himself to his room to wallow in misery, when he had heard "Your grace."
He had turned back around to face the white knight "Yes" he had said, voice strained and tired.
"The Lady Lyanna…" he had hesitated to finish, until he looked down at the babe and regained his courage " she had wanted to name her Lyarra your grace."
Rhaegar had just nodded and continued his way out, with a limp in his step.
Lyarra had grown to be a solemn child. He didn't know if it was because she took after her northern side or perhaps him, perhaps both.
She had her mother's eyes, yet his melancholy stare. Her mother's lips, but his rare smile. Her mother's long face but his look. She was everything like him and at the same time, nothing like him. And yet all he could see was Lyanna. Lyanna, Lyanna, Lyanna.
'All the more reason to avoid her,' he would think bitterly when he would end up in his fits of melancholy, before feeling guilty about it afterward that is. Yet that didn't stop him from avoiding her like the plague.
When they would cross each others paths in the halls, he would freeze like a doe caught by its hunter. She would stare at him, with those looks of longing and hope, hoping he would at least say hello. But he would just shake himself out of his trance and carry along.
Soon he would move her to the other side of the Red Keep, to avoid anymore run-ins. That was until one day he happened to walk past her room, and he heard her voice and a harp. And by the gods, she sounded like an angel. Her talent nearly rivaling his. Then he would continue to "happenly" walk past her room, to lean against the door when no one was around, and listen.
She mostly played northern songs like Brave Danny Flint and The Burning of Ships. He was content, in hearing her voice, that was until she played that song. That song that haunted his dreams when ever he thought about them, the family he'd lost. His wife's mangled body and children unrecognizable corpses. 'And who are you? The proud lord said' she had sung.
He couldn't stop himself before he slammed her door open and marched into her room. No one was there to stop him from snatching the harp out of her hand and throwing it against the wall, as he shook her like a madman, repeatedly asking her who taught her that song, and why in the seven hell did she think it was okay to sing it?
Later that day, he would be overwhelmed with guilt and disgust. But most of all, regret. Rhaegar had lots of regrets.
After that day, she never tried to seek him out again. It was funny how the tables had turned and now she was avoiding him. But he guessed it was for the best, because he couldn't even look her in the eye's anymore after that. Because when he did all he saw was Lyanna, looking at him with fear and sadness, with her big gray eyes.
The years would go on like this. Her spending more time with her grandmother and aunt, while he focused on running the vipers den.
Until her six and ten nameday. He thinks this is the longest time they have ever spoken to each other, if you call screaming and shouting at the top of your lungs speaking.
He had found it strange when she decided she'd rather not have a feast, or when she didn't shyly come into his solar to request a certain gift.
But he had understood then, when she came into his solar to ask for something else…
"Father" she had said, nervously rubbing her hands together, not quite meeting his gaze.
"Yes Lyarra" he had said, massaging his temples to ease his current headache while he set down his finished paperwork. He had been expecting her to come to his solar, during this time like she usually did during her name day, when she felt he was nearly finished with his duties.
She took in a breathe as she said: " Today is my name day."
"Yes, I know" he stated bluntly, making her flinch and making him feel once again guilty. He sighed as he softly said "What is it that you want Lyarra? Whatever it is you wish, you shall have it."
Hope had sparked in her eyes. "Truly?"
He gave her one of his rare smiles and she gave one in return, giving her more courage to make her request.
"Well, actually...You see I was wondering if…" she took in another breath " If I could visit the north."
He had never felt so cold as he said "What?". His voice dark and as cold as winter.
She gasped at his sudden change of mood, as she started again "The north" her voice had been so small "To Winterfell, to see my mother's home and...her family"
After that something had snapped in him, "No." was all he could say, all he would say. Anything else would have been dangerous.
"B-but you said-"
" I know what the hell I said, but the answer is no, Lyarra! J-just leave... now…" He didn't know he could produce so much venom in his voice. His hands were practically shaking in rage.
Something must've snapped in her, "Why." It wasn't really a question, just a blank statement that matched with her blank face and her empty, empty eyes.
"Why?" he had laughed drily "Because I am your king, and your father besides and you will obey me!"
She didn't respond, just stared with that same blank look, her breathe intensifying. He should have seen then that she was about to explode, perhaps he could have prevented everything that came after.
He started to rub his hands together to get them to stop shaking as he said " Besides, you are far too young to travel" trying to sound calm again. In truth, he knew that reasoning was just..stupid. But he would have said anything and everything to end that conversation there.
It didn't end.
"My mother was younger than what I am now when she died, and yet that didn't stop you from taking her across the damn continent to fuck her!"
He didn't even remember or feel himself move but suddenly he was standing in front of her. And once again no one was there to stop him from what he did. Time itself had seemed to stop as a loud sound of skin on skin rang throughout the room. And Lyarra was suddenly on the ground, face red, breathing rapid, dark curls hanging over her big gray watery eyes, staring up at him.
He had tried, the gods know he had tried after it had happened. Tried to comfort her, hold her, kiss her, promise her the whole damn world and everything in it. But nothing worked, and he couldn't blame her. He didn't even know he was capable of such things. To hit a woman, his own daughter. It would be days before the red print on her face would go away and even the faintest touch brought tears to her eyes. He didn't know if it was the pain of it that made her cry or how she got it in the first place, perhaps both.
She had screamed bloody murder after it had happened. Had cursed his name and damned him to hell and back. 'I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,' her shouts would ring through his head, constantly on repeat. 'I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, by the gods I'm sorry,' he had responded.
His mother had rushed into the room to see if everything was okay, only to find her granddaughter's small hand over a red print of a bigger one, tears rolling down her cheeks. She had looked at him in disbelief before her expression turned into disappointment. He had never seen his mother so disappointed. How could you?, he remembered her saying, before ordering Ser Arthur to carry Lyarra to the maester. His old friend didn't even look at him. Not really. He doesn't think he will ever again.
Rhaegar doesn't remember ever drinking this much. But he drank. To everything. To Lyanna, and the love he had felt for her, to the war that was caused by it, to Elia and his dead children, to Lyarra, and how low he's fallen over the past decade. He was a far cry from the man he was before the tourney at Harrenhal, the Silver Prince. And he's not really sure if that's good or not. It makes him laugh.
'God's I've truly gone mad' he thinks.
He doesn't know when he started walking but he did. He walked and walked and walked until he walked right in front of a door he hasn't seen in almost five years. Because it was her door, her room. And he has always avoided anything that has to do with her, until now.
When he walks in, he is greeted with the scent of winter roses. And it takes everything in him to not cry, but it isn't enough. He drops to the floor and completely breaks down. He crawls to her bed and smothers himself in her covers drowning himself in her scent, so much like her mother's. He lifts up his head to look around her room, covers still in his grasp, and everything looks so bleary with tears constantly pouring out of his eyes, yet he can still make out all the dolls his mother gifted her over the years, the little paintings she made with her hand prints when she was just beginning her lessons as a child, and he wasn't there for any of it. He doesn't even remember what her first words were or when she learned how to walk or when she started developing into a young woman. 'How could I have missed so much?' he had thought. He looked until his sight landed on a white harp, with a cracked exterior sitting on her desk. He slowly got up and walked toward it. His finger gracing the crack, remembering how he snatched it out of her little hands and threw it against the wall. More tears rolling down his cheek and onto her parchment.
And that's when he noticed it, that name, that name that he'd despised so much. Lord Eddard Stark. Before he knew it, he was going through all of them, reading letters dating back ten years ago. She had been writing him for ten years. Expressing her hopes and dreams, her fears. Asking about Winterfell, and this "Robb" and "Arya" and "Bran" and whoever else. And Ned Stark knew more about his daughter than he did, and Rhaegar lived with her whereas Stark lived thousands of miles away. And then he had read it: You may not have my name but you have my blood and you'll always have a place at Winterfell.
He felt something, something that he's never felt before. Jealousy, yes, that's what this was, jealousy. He had nearly crushed the letter in his hand, but before he could the door swung open and closed. He turned to look, and it was her. Her eyes filled with surprise before they turned cold.
"What are you doing in my room?" she said, before looking into his hand spotting the letter, her stoic mask turning into that of a horrified one "Why are you going through my things?"
"You've been writing to him," he said in more of a statement than a question" a traitor to the crown. The man who rebelled against our family."
"You act as if he didn't have a reason," she says, voice as hard as steel.
He stares at her in silence before starting again " 'You may not have my name but you have my blood and you'll always have a place at Winterfell' " he stops for a moment again "...That is how you feel Lyarra? That I am not your blood? And this is not your-"
"Why do you even care?"
"What?"
" Why are you even pretending like you care?," she says voice beginning to crack and waver "All my life you've ignored me, avoided me like some disease and now that I want to leave you don't even want to see the back of me. Where I can finally be around people who care about me, who remembers that I still exist" and she can't stop the tears from falling out of her eyes, as she puts her head down and cries some more.
He wants to hate her, to scream at her, and curse her. Let her stand there and cry without comfort but he can't, because hes completely broken her, and it's his fault that she feels this way about him, about herself. 'I owe her that much' he thinks as he catches her in his arms as she collapses to the ground. Tightly wrapping his arms around her small form as she wraps hers around him in return.
He begins to kiss her. Kiss the top of her hair, her forehead, and nose. And before he can stop himself, he kisses her lips. She lets out a groan in surprise and he abruptly pulls away in fear. Fearing that this was the last strike, fearing that he's lost his daughter forever. Her stormy gray eyes meeting his indigo, before she hesitantly brings her face near his again, her soft lips melting into his chapped ones.
They do it for a while, arms wrapped around each other. Neither of them knows how much they needed it for so long, needed each other.
Before he knows it, they're a tangle of naked bodies on the floor. Meeting each other's thrust and kisses, getting closer and closer to their peak. His body on top of hers, her legs wrapped around his waist, and hands tangled in his silver strands. You could hear the sound of skin constantly meeting skin, with a furiosity. Their moans and pants combining together, as they echo throughout the room. 'I love you, I love you, I love you' her voice on constant repeat in his head as he cums, his head thrown back as he lets out a loud groan.
"I love you," she says again, as she reaches her climax and shouts.
He looks back down at her, at her long pale face and her dark curls, her stormy gray eyes, so much like her mother's "I love you too," I've always loved you' he thought ' I was just too much of a craven and an idiot to face you.'
He pulls himself from out of her and lays to her side as he pulls her close, wrapping his legs around hers.
"Please...don't leave me," he says as his head rests on her breast, and he closes his eyes.
"Promise me things won't be how they used to be," she says, her rapid breathing slowing down.
" I promise."
The End