Lyanna Stark has always thought most of the men in her life were too perfect.
There was Robert to start with, who of course was stupid bumbling Robert, half-blinded by the adoration he held her in. But despite his foolishness, Robert was the strongest man around, the most handsome man around, the man who every girl wanted in her bed. Lyanna just couldn't understand her husband, really, who scarce talked to her, and seemed to prefer staring at her. This revolted Lyanna Stark.
There has always been her brothers, Brandon with his perfect jousting skills and multiple courters like the pretty Catelyn Tully (half of Westeros, in truth), and Eddard with his immaculate manners and better poise than a hundred maidens, and even little Benjen who had the humor and promise of growing up to be a warrior.
And of course there was Rhaegar Targaryen, the dragon prince, the beautiful one with the dreamy eyes that was promised to Elia Martell. He was even more of a bother than Robert was, somehow, with that folly at the Tourney of Harrenhal. It infuriated Lyanna that men thought they could win women like trophies, like women were such weak souls that they could be won over by songs and kisses.
It seems that men are more easily won, though, Lyanna thinks as she spurs her horse down the forest trail. Rhaegar and his family has been won over by the golden crowns that sit atop their mad little heads, and Robert cannot see past the promise of a crown of his own.
"That must be why my dragon prince crowned me as well," says Lyanna to the trees, and laughs at herself.
She rides her horse, a spirited chestnut mare by the name of Rose, deeper and deeper into the forest. Currently, Lyanna is not entirely certain of her location, but she knows that a highborn Stark will never be refused directions.
Perhaps I am near a river, muses Lyanna as Rose trots on. Lyanna whistles to herself, merrily, luxuriating in the dappled sun that pours through the trees. In the forest, she does not have to think upon Robert nor Rhaegar if she wishes, and-
Lyanna halts Rose. Faintly, she can hear not only the sound of a river rushing, but under that is the strains of a harp.
It can't be Rhaegar, he is with the rest of the dragons in King's Landing, Lyanna tells herself, and she quietly rides Rose to find the source of the music.
When she gets closer, Lyanna can make out the shape of a large grey stallion, standing guard by a young man. The man is older than Lyanna- of course, most men who take interest in me are older than my five and ten years, but no matter- and the harp rests elegantly in his hands as he plays.
Rose inches towards the young man- how old can he be, anyways? Two or three and twenty, I presume- who is plucking out the strains of a melancholy song Lyanna has not heard of. It saddens Lyanna to hear a harp played once again, for the last time she has heard a song so beautiful was at the Tourney of Harrenhal.
The song that Rhaegar had played was called "The Jeweled Rose," or so he called it, and it was undoubtably the saddest and most lovely song she had ever heard. Lyanna knew it had been about a man who loved a girl as beautiful as a jeweled rose, but in her mind, Lyanna could only hear of the girl who feared all other men and was forced to make herself beautiful, just to please her courtiers.
She had not wept for Rhaegar, nor love for him. She had wept for herself.
Well, I'm no rose, I'm a wolf, Lyanna thinks bitterly, and slides off her horse.
The young man whips around to face her, and blanches. "Oh- Lady Lyanna, I didn't-"
"What song are you playing?" Lyanna asks quietly. He is dressed in dark clothes, a sigil pinned to his vest, but she cannot make out the shape.
"For, forgive me, m-my lady," stutters the man. He gathers up his harp and makes as though to leave.
"Wait!" cries Lyanna. She sits down in the grass, grateful that she is wearing a pair of Benjen's old breeches. "Come sit with me, please, I mean you no harm. As you can see, I probably will not be able to hurt you."
It is only true because I do not have a sword, Lyanna reassures herself.
"Well..." The man still looks worried, and almost frightened of her. "If you insist, my lady."
"I do insist." Lyanna smiles radiantly up at him, pleased that her surname will ensure the man's company. "But I must know your name before we make acquaintances. It appears you know my name, so..."
"I'm Domeric," says the man, and lowers himself to the grass. "Of House Bolton," and he flashes her the pin, which Lyanna can see is a small flayed man. She tries not to wrinkle her nose- Lyanna's never much liked their grisly sigil. But despite his house's horrid reputation, Domeric seems rather nice.
"Excellent, then, and now you must tell me what song you were just playing."
Domeric Bolton flushes a little. "It is called The Hammer and The Anvil, my lady. About Baelor Breakspear and his defeat of Prince Maekar."
How dreadfully boring. Lyanna studies him. "You're the one who likes to read history, aren't you? I believe my father has told me a thing or two about you."
"Oh, that's very well," mumbles Domeric.
She sighs. "You needn't be so timid around me, Domeric, and you can stop calling me 'lady' right now. If we're to be friends, you shouldn't act like I'm some outlaw about to cut off your arm and take your nice little harp."
Then he smiles, actually smiles for her. Domeric isn't a very handsome man like Robert or Rhaegar, but he has a pleasing, crooked smile when he uses it, and a soft nature that Lyanna quite enjoys. With all his awkwardness, and simple looks, he's nothing like perfect.
"Well now. Since we're friends, I think you should play a song for me on your harp," Lyanna suggests, and catches Domeric's look of uncertainty. "What? I like to sing as much as any maiden. Do you know the song...hmm... Milady's Supper?"
Domeric shook his head.
"You don't? But I love that one so." It's also quite bawdy, and Lyanna giggles at the thought of one of her proud brothers catching her singing that song. "Do they teach you nothing of good music up in the Dreadfort?"
"Well, I don't actually live up at my father's fortress," Domeric replies. "I've been training for a while up in the Vale with Lord Redfort and his sons. I'm only in the North for a few days, my- um- Lyanna."
"Oh no?" Lyanna feels a little disappointed. Domeric Bolton appears to be a truly kind man, one who doesn't want to make a fool out of her, and who does not covet any more than what is his. His eyes are darker than his father's, and he has fine black hair cut like a boy from the Vale.
"I haven't learned many of the, ah, happy songs," Domeric confesses with a slight, lopsided smile that Lyanna takes a liking to instantly. "I prefer history to the feast songs."
"I can change that for you," offers Lyanna with a grin of her own. "You must know some of the love songs, don't you? Mayhaps you've heard Let Me Drink Your Beauty, or Two Hearts That Beat As One?"
"No." Domeric fiddles with his harp. "I don't much like those love songs. But, I can play you a song about King Aegon the Second, if you're interested."
"You don't like the love songs?" Lyanna pulls a shocked face. "Then you're stupid, Domeric Bolton. Hand me the harp, and I'll show you a good song."
He slowly passes Lyanna the harp with a look of great trepidation, as though he half expects her to run off with his precious harp.
Lyanna begins to pluck at the harp. Her fingers are clumsy against the fine strings, having scarcely paid attention to her music lessons in Winterfell, but soon she can force out a tune.
"It's called The Maids That Bloom In Spring," she informs Domeric.
"Is it a love song, or a history song?"
"Neither. It's a sweet song. About the free girls who live in the forest, in the spring."
Her singing voice isn't quite as good as his was, but Lyanna can remember the words her mother used to sing to her occasionally.
"Come to me, down by the river...
"Where the water will wash us clean...
"Come to us, down in the forest...
"Oh, meet the maids that bloom in spring."
Domeric tries to applaud, but Lyanna hits him. "I'm not done yet, you fool! Just close your mouth and let me sing."
He puts his hand over his lopsided-grinning mouth.
"Where the maids run free and no one can tell them not to,
Where the men can watch them sing,
Where love never ends and you can stay with me forever,
Where the maids just bloom in spring.
"Oh, come and see, down by the water,
Come to see us all
We'll join all our hands, and we'll sing ourselves a sweet song...
With the maids that bloom in spring."
She finds herself flushing, and nods at him with averted eyes.
This time Domeric does clap. "I did enjoy it, actually. But the last verse, with 'come to see us all,' doesn't truly rhyme with 'the maids that bloom in spring."
Lyanna hits him playfully. "I wrote none of the words."
"Also, I do think this is a love song," he muses, "don't you think? The line about holding hands and eternal love and such."
"It could be." Lyanna shrugs, and plays twitch the harp strings. "I think everyone hears this song differently. Mayhaps you're thinking on a girl you love when you hear it, but mayhaps I'm thinking on a friend I have. You know, a friend I have that I'd like to stay with forever."
"Oh, of course," says Domeric with a slight smile. Shyly, he looks at the ground. "Will you permit me to take my harp back now?"
Lyanna sighs dramatically. "If you insist."
She passes him the harp, but as soon as the instrument is out of her hands, she accidentally drops it onto the grass. "Forgive me," she murmurs, and reaches for the harp, just as Domeric's hands are trying to rescue the harp from its bed of grass, and somehow his hands get tangled up with hers.
"Oh," she whispers, "I'm sorry," but he doesn't look too upset. Domeric lets her hands rest in his for half a second, and then lets Lyanna's hands go. His face is rather close to mine, she observes, almost as though he could kiss me, and suddenly Robert's face flashes through her mind, followed by Rhaegar's, and then her family's faces, and she pulls back abruptly.
Mayhaps Domeric has felt the faint tension between them as well, for his light grey eyes drop to the ground.
Lyanna coughs, worried, and says loudly, "Now, I do believe your father has told mine that you are better at riding than I. As the best rider south of the wall, I must be offended."
He smiles, a small smile, but not forced. "Aye? You proclaim yourself better than I? The pride of my House?" Domeric's voice is gentle and teasing.
"I do, my lord," replies Lyanna haughtily, pleased that her folly with his hands has been diverted. "Would you race me to see if your father is true?"
Domeric sizes her up. "It's not polite to win a horse race against a girl."
"But you wouldn't win, so there isn't anything to be ashamed of." Lyanna can feel the urge to race against him, the same giddy emotion she had during the Tourney of Harrenhal. It had run through her veins when she had beaten the three squires for Howland Reed, and later, when she put on the armor of the Knight of the Laughing Tree and fought better than any man- save Rhaegar, stupid bloody Rhaegar.
Domeric is grinning widely now, and his horse is on its feet. "Then I challenge you, Lyanna of House Stark, to a race, to see who is the best rider in all of Westeros, in the eyes of gods and... well, not men. Horses, mayhaps?"
She laughs at his booming voice. "Get ready to lose to a woman, Bolton, and bring years of shame upon your family."
And so, with her giggling and him grinning crookedly, the two riders mount their horses. Lyanna is perspiring from anticipation, her senses honed, and when Domeric calls out the signal to start, she feels something snap in her heart and, oh, she rides.
I ride for you, Rhaegar, and for you, Robert, thinks Lyanna madly, I'll show you what it means to think on a wolf as simple and sweet. Her blood is hot, her palms damp, and Lyanna begins to ride out all the fury that Robert and Rhaegar both have given her.
She screams in ecstasy as Rose rides faster than ever before, for Domeric's horse is pulling ahead of hers. But he's going too fast, and when they reach the river where the race was to end, his stallion halts and he wins.
"YES!" exults Domeric, his voice like a little boy's.
"NO!" screams Lyanna, more amused than truly upset. She's laughing, her eyes wet with tears of windburn and a queer sort of giddy joy as she watches Domeric leap up with glee. Lyanna is uncertain why being bested by Domeric is making her so joyful- it may bebecause of her expunging all her rage, or simply the promise of a friendship. "You're certainly taking your victory like a good lord."
He stops. "Forgive me," apologizes Domeric with his lopsided, unapologetic smile that makes Lyanna smile as well. "It is not each day that the gods let you beat Lady Lyanna Stark in riding, you see."
"The gods?" Lyanna is still laughing uncontrollably, and she is sure he thinks on her as mad. Her blood is still hot from the ride, and she wants to do something- something important, or not at all. So Lyanna lets the spurt of energy propel her forwards until she is nearly touching Domeric. "The gods have no hand in this!"
The same hot-blooded glint is in Domeric's eyes, Lyanna sees, and it transforms him from an awkward Vale boy to a regal, fierce Bolton, and when he laughs, the sound is rough. It should scare her, but Lyanna's seen the same gleam in a man's eyes like this. It gives Domeric Bolton a sort of wild beauty that she would never expect, and Lyanna feels a strange sensation in her stomach that may be due to him and his wild eyes.
"Would the gods," he starts, and she can hear nothing of the quiet, less-than-perfect Domeric in this man's voice, "have a hand in this?"
He takes her shoulder in her palms, and then he kisses her.
Oh, she thinks. Oh. Oh dear.
But Lyanna can not deny the fact that she is truly enjoying this kiss. She finds her hands looping around his neck before she can stop herself, and pressing deeper into him, even though she knows that she must stop, now.
In her mind, Lyanna does not see Robert nor Rhaegar nor her brothers. She sees only a hazy image of herself clad in a gown of black and pink velvet, and the feel of Domeric's hands wound with hers, and oh but his lips do feel lovely against hers-
Domeric is the one to pull back first, his eyes sobered. "Oh gods," he sputters. "I- I'm terribly sorry, my lady, I meant no-"
"Stop." Lyanna rakes her hands through her hair. It surprises her, how calm she is, despite the fact that all her family's well-laid plans for her have crumbled into dust. "Please don't apologize."
He nods, but he looks deeply ashamed. "You're to be married- gods, to Robert Baratheon, of all men-"
"And I do not love him."
"And what of Rhaegar Targaryen? The crown prince?"
"Rhaegar Targaryen? You worry of him?" Lyanna sighs. "No, Domeric. He is just a man. And I love him no more."
"But we can't be together, you and I. I'm off to the Vale again."
She pauses, because this has worried her. "Yes. You are. But... there are ravens in the Vale, are there not?"
"Well..." A smile begins to touch his face. "I suppose. You will permit me to send you raven, then, Lady Lyanna?"
"No. I command you to send me a raven. Every week, detailed and poetic. You can even tell me of the wretched history you are learning in the Vale."
"Good," Domeric says softly. His eyes lift to the sky, and he catches his breath. "It is past time for me to return, forgive me."
"You go then," says Lyanna, imperatively.
He kisses her once more then, and hastily mounts his horse, with a backwards glance at Lyanna. She knows he will be gone, but for now. Peace rises in Lyanna's chest, because she knows that no matter what Robert does, she will make this love work with Domeric.
Nothing that Robert can do, thinks Lyanna, and smiles.
A/N: All of these songs are real, except for "the jeweled rose." And I made up the lyrics to "the maids that bloom in spring."
oh and a million thanks to my "part-time beta" seekingtomorrow. she is awesome so go check her out now.
thanks for reading, please review!