It's the desperate note in her brother's voice as her name slides off his lips with the same ease with which he lifts her half-limp hand. Rough skin scratches against hers, the touch warm and gentle. "Open your eyes, Lya." The voice is far off, somewhat hoarse. It's on the tip of her tongue to ask him if in Robert's camp men are fed rocks.
This is not at all the manner in which she remembers him.
But the again, she is likely not as he remembers her. With one last burst of strength she managed to part her lids just slightly. Enough for the shadow before her eyes to morph into something almost-human. The distorted image lasts for a mere moments before darkness takes over again and she simply allows it to wash over her.
Hearing is still there. Ned, some would argue the very best of the Stark line, continues to promise her world and deep seas and mountains in exchange for a few words.
All that she can say, however, dwindles to just a couple, "Promise me."
Somewhere far off a child is crying. The sharp sounds are not yet words, but the heart knows what it knows. Too weary to reply, however, Lyanna sinks into the comforting lightless abyss awaiting.
It's a sharp pain perforating her stomach that calls her to. Lyanna opens her eyes with a sound of pain and the glaring flame of the candle held before her face makes her squint. It's too bright, too warm and much too close.
"The wax," a voice cries out just as a drop of hot, molten beeswax falls onto her chin. She gives a start but otherwise her whole body is much too frail to move. Soft hands push away at wayward strands of hair. She hears a familiar voice speaking but fails to make out the words.
Somehow, she falls back into a heavy sleep fraught with bits and pieces of colour-filled visions and inviting sounds. But try as she might, Lyanna can piece none of it together. The blue roses. An angry face. One hand held out. Warm whispers in her ear. The promise of forever. A drop of blood hits the cool flagstone.
When next she wakes, diffuse light is pouring through the high lancet, bathing the bedchamber in its muted glow. Confusion strikes without a hint of mercy when glancing at her hands, Lyanna a can observe but slight fingers wrapped in cloth.
Her side burns and there is the taste of something acrid in her mouth.
Was it all a dream?
Grabbing hold of thick furs, she drags them off her body and observes the short legs and thick nightdress. This is not Dorne. Is it possible that it was all some manner of night terror? A warning, might be. Whatever the case, there is not a bit of sand in sight, a chill is creeping in and the distinctly familiar bedchamber of her childhood days surrounds her.
This is Winterfell. She is home.
Lyanna falls back against the pillows and closes her eyes. Her mind is reeling, filled with all sorts of thoughts. But as they die down, for in the end they do, they leave behind uncertainty.
In the end, she decides that it hardly matters whether it was a night terror or not because Benjen is in her bed, wrapping an arm around her waist, asking for forgiveness. "I did not know you would hit your head."
She forgives him. Mostly because Benjen has that look on his face, that look she can never refuse.
The rest of it, her life, unfolds in a familiar manner. She bangs sticks with her brother in the godswood and rides her horse so hard it regularly throws shoes off.
Her mother dies during a cold winter's night. This is again something which Lyanna expects. As to why; she simply knows, there is not any other explanation she can find.
Father pulls further and further into himself and finds good company in their maester.
When they tell Lyanna is shall wed Robert Baratheon, she gives a smile and a nod. A child cries lustily, chubby fists wrapped around her finger. She bids farewell to the boy and promises herself that she won't allow the night terror to come true.
And then the tourney comes.
Decked in a simple dress, whispering to her brother, Lyanna neve4r dreams that she will, for any reason attract the eye of the Crown Prince, not now when she's gone out of her way to make herself uninteresting as can be,
But the crown of roses still finds its way in her lap. And for some reason, some gods-given insanity pushes her to question whether the maker shan't be kinder a second time around.
She runs away with Rhaegar.
Death is not long to come.
The third time she weds Robert.
The winter roses have long since dried and succumbed to their death when she becomes Robert's bride, on a sunny day. Her eyes do not cast their way to the Crown Prince and his lady wife as she speaks her vows. Not out of a sentiment of longing, or so she tells herself. Rhaegar and she, together, can only bring pain and destruction. Out of pity. Because despite not looking, his stare is burning her.
Roberts clutches her face between his wide hands and presses his lips into her with an obscene amount of jest. There is some cheering, some bawdy jests, a whistle or two.
And then she's naked and trembling, limbs covered with a thin sheen of sweat and panting. Her husband's weight presses into her slight frame. Her thighs scream in protest with every jarring thrust of his hips and the pain is like a knife, twisting, pressing deeper and deeper.
This feels nothing like the loving she still dreams of every one in a while.
She grows used to it.
The first child born is, ironically enough, a daughter. Roberts names her after his long gone lady mother. She looks a Baratheon, with her wide blue eyes and thick curling raven ringlets. A son follows softly on the heels of babe Cassana. He is the child of his father as well.
Twice within the span of the next three years does Lyanna give birth,
Cassana, Ormond, Steffon and Robar; four children as tithe for the life she lives.
Lyanna is thankful, of course, that Robert exercises discretion in his affairs; those she does know of, at least. He does not bring his lovers to parade them before her, nor speaks their name in her presence. Once or twice, women have come bearing bastards in their arms, claiming the father to be her husband. In such moments, Lyanna simply finds her way into an empty chamber so she might weep in peace.
Out of all her children it is Cassana who offers comfort. She comes with her trusty doll and hugs lanky arms around her mother. "Never weep, lady mother," she begs gently. "All shall be well."
It is lifting, in the best of manners, to have this comfort.
As the years unfold, Robert's courtesy chips a little at a time.
By the time Lyanna gives birth to their seventh child, a daughter with, surprisingly enough, her own looks, Robert makes no secret of enjoying the touch of some tavern hostess.
To say that it is love pushing her towards the decision she makes would be a lie. Lyanna does not love Robert. She is fond of him. In the same manner one is fond of one's trusty quill. Nay. Not at all.
It is a letter come by raven from King's Landing, announcing the death of the King. Not Aerys, for that one is long since gone. The son.
Though she keeps of him only a memory of bright eyes and pleading lips, Lyanna still feels betrayed. Once more, he has abandoned her. The world is just a tad colder.
It's the waves she gives herself to. The embrace of the foamy, lapping, salty water wraps around her, dragging onto her heavy skirts, pulling her deeper and deeper still. Lyanna breathes in with the full knowledge of the pain awaiting her. The salt burn the inside of her throat and her lungs cry out in protest. She is deaf to it all, her eyes closing in contentment.
And then there is nothing more.
She is one-and-twenty, a mother for the fourth time and Robert has just returned from his hunting trip, presenting her with a thick wolf pelt. Lyanna is having none of that. "If you would please me, lord husband, than pray stay your visits to the beds of other women." It's not so much a request as it is a reproach. Little wonder that, in feeling attacked, Robert lashes back at her.
There are many accusations flung about. She is cold and unloving. He lacks compassion and attention. She never even attempts to please him. He does not try to men fences with her.
Lyanna is certain he does not mean it, at least not in the brutal manner in which he does it, to slap the back of his hand into her face. His ring cuts into her lip and before she knows it, he's holding her face between his palms, swiping with the pad of his thumb against the trickling lifeblood.
She never forgives him though.
It takes half a dozen attempts at being a good lady wife and just as many failures for her to figure that she is simply not cut for it.
Consequently, at the feast celebrating the marriage of Prince Viserys and Lord Tywin's daughter, Lyanna seeks Rhaegar out. She known Elia Martell to be somewhere in the vicinity and she knows very well what path she is choosing. But Lyanna does not care in this very moment.
She is more concerned with catching a glimpse of the King and luring him away.
This she does with considerable ease. Whoever said that maidens await with baited breath the gallant who will sweep them off their feet and seduce them into grand adventures must have been from Essos. Allowing free reign to her impulses, Lyanna accepts every kiss and touch with the fervour born of deep longing.
If she must live this cursed life again and again, she might as well have some enjoyment to call her own.
In a move most indecent, behind the cover of only a single pillar of sturdy marble, skirts lifted, legs wrapped around her lover's waist, Lyanna begs the gods for loud songs that drown out all else, because her voice, she is certain, is not the proper ladylike volume, nor are her words particularly susceptible to be repeated in polite society.
But by the gods, this is the most alive she's felt in a long time.
A son is born to her. The unfortunate thing, and despite being only one, 'tis a grand matter, is that he has the looks of his father.
This is one of the death she remembers throughout the rest of her lifetimes. as she is running after Robert, the squalling babe's cries tearing at her heart, Lyanna trips on the hem of her skirts, fatigued body unable to hold her weight upright.
She falls over, barely just managing to grab onto her lord husband.
They both roll down the flight of stairs.
Before her neck snaps and the wound on her head bleeds her dry, the image of her infant son's mangled corpse is all that she sees.
She must be in her early years, the maiden surmises. Her heart is pounding loudly. Her legs feel wobbly and uncertain. The beast staggers towards her, bearing long fangs to her eyes. It snarls. How very appropriate. A wolf should only be slain by another wolf. The wild animal lunges forth, strong claws tearing into her soft flesh even as she stumbles backwards with a bloodcurdling scream of terror. Jagged wide teeth bite into yielding tissue.
Lyanna positively refuses to wed. The attitude has earned her quite a few monikers throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Icehearted, beastly, frostblooded Lyanna of House Stark, the most demanding of maidens, undeserving of any manner of attention. She quite agrees with all of them. Their attention is not something she seeks.
If there is a man whose eyes, heart and mind she desires, then she dares not name him.
Her father will no longer speak to her. Despite not having forced her into wedding, nor having kicked her out of her home, Lord Rickard Stark frequently makes his displeasure with her known. Her brothers are easier to lease, for she swears she is happy to them and they leave matters be.
No one ever questions what has hardened her against marriage. All they know is that since the early days of her girlhood, she has proclaimed loud and clear that she shall never wed. There will be no murdered babes, no burning cities and no lost lives this time. But neither will she know the touch of a lover, the sweetness of holding a child to her breast of the fulfilment of watching her young ones grow. If the sacrifice is fair or not, she cannot tell.
But Lyanna spends her days chasing after Brandon's heir, the boy with Tully looks and Stark attitude. She converse long into the night with her good-sister and never even dreams of what fate brings.
By the time Edwyle is six-and-ten there comes word that trouble waist at the Wall. Naturally this is dismissed with the sanguine reaction of any person with a heedful of wit. "There is no such thing," Lyanna laughs at the look on young Marna's face, "as White Walkers."
The Others are not in agreement.
In spite of the fact that she meets death head-on, with a rusty blade in her hand and meagre skill, Lyanna does not feel at all satisfied. Especially when foreign words ring out in her ears, words of condemnation.
She convinces Rhaegar to take her to King's Landing. It is no easy task, for he has his heart settled on Dorne. But Lyanna begs and cried and promises, using all the tricks she known, and they are many. She offers pleasure and asks for little in return.
He gives in.
Though she can never be sure as to why, Lyanna has her plan. And she will stick to that. If the large decisions bear no consequence, the smaller ones must matter.
This time it's poison that does her in, not long after her arrival, in a sumptuous bedchamber within the Maidenvault. Her silver spoon falls to the ground and her fingers curl inwards, nails biting into her skin. She feels a hand pressing to her back, someone shakes her frantically.
But the effects of whatever she has ingested is just too strong, too swift, too merciless. She wonders if the gods are feeling amused. They must be, for they keep making her go through this over and over again.
Careful of all food that comes her way, Lyanna manages to survive until the arrival of her brother. Despite all attempts made to end Brandon's madness, to calm the King's fury and avert a war, Lyanna finds that the voice of any mistress is only as strong as her use.
By her brother's actions, she causes trouble. The King will not hear from her, the Queen is unable to aid, Rhaegar must mend fences with his own lady wife now that Lyanna carries his child and the lords of the realm are up in arms at the senseless killings afflicting the Red Keep.
Both she and Elia Martell are left in the care of Jaime Lannister when Rhaegar rides off to the war.
These days are difficult. Not so much for the many demands of the King, not even because her brother spends his time in the dungeons, nor because she is faced with a woman she has never had much cause to take notice of. But because Lyanna finds, and rightly so, that even the best intentions can bring about grand failures.
Elia Martell, despite not offering a shoulder to cry on, is surprisingly cavalier on the matter of her husband's affair. "A wife may well be displeased," she says, rocking Aegon's cradle gently. "But I am first and foremost a princess of this realm. Were I to show any such weakness in the face of our court, I should be shorn to pieces in a matter of moment. You have much to learn, Lyanna Stark."
And little time to learn it. Very little indeed.
As expected, news comes of Rhaegar's death.
The King's madness, in such circumstances, can only flourish. He sees traitors in ever shadow and ruthless malevolence in every face. 'Tis little wonder that he breaks down is a sobbing mess of sharp screams and violent threats.
Lyanna is made to attend her brother's execution. The perverse pleasure in the King's eyes as the flesh melts off of her brother's bones, fat popping and dripping onto the tiled floors and agonised screams ringing through the air, thick and heavy, makes her sick.
So wrapped up is she in the gruesome scene that it never occurs to her to look away. This is the result of her work. These are the fruits of her labour. This is the punishment of any mortal daring to put themselves against the gods.
For her to go into labour upon the heel of such events is a mockery.
The sword that splits her clean in half is deliverance.
This time she hides herself in the throne room, the pillar that protects her the only obstacle between herself and the ranting madman. She breaths in slowly, softly, so as to not make a sound. If the King hears her, she is likely to share her brother's face. And Lyanna does not wish it.
She watches from her place as the youngest of the Kingsguards drives his sword though the King pinning him to his Iron Throne.
An idea blooms in her mind. Half-formed and wild. But it is enough.
With a loud sound she runs towards the murderer and catching him by surprise manages to impale herself upon his sword.
Four-and-ten, with nothing but a few coins and a small dagger, Lyanna runs away into the dark night, never to be heard from again in Westeros.
The ship she manages to board, giving a few coins and some gold here and there, takes her to Braavos. This is the easy part, of course. For in Braavos there is not much need for noble maidens and not much work for soft hands as hers.
Her first few nights are spent in a small abandoned hut. Lyanna would be pleased enough to sleep on the cobblestones without, if only she had something to feed on. But without coin there is no food and her stomach continues to make strange sounds as she lies down.
Pride keeps her from begging well into the first week of her stay. There is water to be found and that calms her stomach some. But before long, she feels fatigued and displeased and so very regretful at having left Winterfell.
She is sitting down in an alleyway when a young boy approaches her. With his golden locks and light blue eyes, he immediately puts her in the mind of Rhaegar. Lyanna watches, mystified, as he holds out a piece of bread towards her, speaking in words she cannot understand. He presses it into her hands and mimics the action of biting, chewing and swallowing.
Bringing the bread to her lips, Lyanna bites into it. It's old and hard, but solid. Her teeth sinks in, ripping through the thick texture with greed. So hurried are her movements that she even manages to choke on a bite of it, remorseful as she spits it out.
The boy merely nods his head at her and smiled, gesturing for her to sit up. Lyanna does as he bids. Mayhap there is more food to come. But he simply takes her by the wrist and pulls her along, into the main street, through the crowd of people.
There is a matronly woman waiting near a statue. Beside her are two burly men. Lyanna takes a moment to observe the fine linens she wears and shame overcomes her, looking down upon her dusty dress with its tainted front. She must be a sight.
But the middle aged female seems to take no note of that. She eyes Lyanna up and down with a critical stare, says something in her peculiar dialect and nods at the boy. He lets go of Lyanna's wrist and melts away into the crowd.
"Where you come from?" the woman questions in a broken Westron tongue.
Surprised, Lyanna blinks slowly. "From the Kingdoms," she offers the vague reply.
"Do you work?" At this she merely shakes her head. "Do you wish work?" Of course, she would be a fool not to. Along with the question, however, the woman holds out a piece of fruit. "Work for me. I give food and coin."
Catching the fruit in her hands, Lyanna nods frantically.
When she finally realises the sort of work she has engaged herself for, 'tis too late to turn back. And where would she go? Her family no doubt thinks her dead, she knows no one in these parts and she has barely managed to survive. There is no lower level she could possibly sink to.
So Lyanna accepts the warm bath they give her, lets herself be combed and rubbed with scents, puts on shimmery gauze and red paint on her lips and shed the last vestiges of the Northerner lady gone on an adventure.
It is not the life she'd dreamt of, but this is all she has.
When a Lysene merchants steps into her bedchamber, his young jovial face holding an air of curiosity, Lyanna sees her chance. She takes it with both hands, embracing the youth, drowning him with the affection her kind is known to give, She puts to use all her skill, does not shy from any act while holding timid front for his eyes. She even goes as far as to tell him her story.
Impressionable as young minds are, the boy thinks himself her saviour when he buys her off and takes her to Lys.
Here, free of foul potions, Lyanna bears him a son and acts his staunch companion through much of their lives.
And yet, not even this far away can she ever be free.
For winter still finds her.
She has lost count of how many lives she's been through at this point. But somehow Lyanna finds herself in the Red Keep with an injured Jaime Lannister at her feet. Flames burn bright all around them, their eerie green light a curse. Dragging the charred man to the best of her abilities, Lyanna manages to find an alcove. She places his cloak upon them and waits. And waits. And waits. It feels like a thousand years before anyone comes. But when they do, to her great relief, it is not Robert's men.
Rhaegar reigns victorious, but that is not to say he does not know defeat. His poor lady wife, called before the King as he set the whole keep ablaze, was unfortunately unable to find salvation. Her children have turned to dust along with her. This is the end, Lyanna knows.
In her mind, the claim has ground, for Dorne will not forgive this. In a bid to escape the executioner's axe, the one she feels pressing into her skin even now, Lyanna slips the nightshade into Rhaegar's wine along with a last kiss. She never tells him she loves him, not even as his eyes widen, understanding dawning upon him. But Lyanna presses his hand against her waist. "Understand." That is all.
When asked, she claims the child to be Ser Jaime's. The boy is not long of this world as is.
In the wake of Robert's death, the existence of no more Targaryens and little protest, Stannis Baratheon takes the throne and Cersei fro his queen.
The supposed father of her child dies neither confirming, nor infirming her lie.
And Lyanna herself follows shortly after, upon what is most surprising, the birth of a daughter.
For the first time she finds herself the first bride of Rhaegar. Far from the naïve girl who dies seeking the promise of a brother, Lyanna, even at her tender age of two-and-ten, regards the man before her with just enough coldness to put him on edge. What purpose does wedding him serve now, she wonders, when there is no veil over her eyes?
But he gazes kindly upon her and asks after some manner of activity she enjoys. Lyanna offers a distracted answer, pondering the benefits of accepting. "If I wed you, Your Grace, will I be allowed to remain in my father's home until I am flowered?"
Taken aback, he stares at her in silence for a few moments. "I am certain that something can be worked out."
So they wed.
The promise he makes her is forgotten and Lyanna leaves it be. It had been a whim at any rate, not a serious consideration. She had merely been wondering how far she could bend him. Dragonstone is not a bad place to live. Remote and quiet, reminiscent of Winterfell is that manner, it offers her the solitude she needs and her young age sees her lord husband otherwise engaged.
She remains with the stone dragons through the seasons, receiving every now and again letters from the man she has wedded. The Tourney of Harrenhal she does not attend, but hears he has crowned the daughter of the host. She even chooses to keep behind the walls at Rhaegar's arrival.
But the years pass. She flowers and bleeds and can no longer keep herself detached. Duty is duty.
He puts a child in her with ease she had been counting on and Lyanna is pleased, though not surprised, when Jaehaerys arrives into the world. She insists upon the name of her choosing even when Rhaegar expresses the desire to name him Aegon. He gives in by the end of an effusive tirade.
Lyanna gives birth to two more children, a set of twins, a boy and a girl. They are Aeryn and Aerea, the finishing blow to Rhaegar's dreams. He never says a thing to her, but Lyanna can see him looking up into the starry skies and knows he wonders upon comets with red tails and prophecies.
He takes her hand on such occasions, his thumb pressing into the back of her hand, drawing patters upon her skin, symbols she does not know, nor wishes to.
Their children grow. Winter comes. The realm is thrown into chaos.
Winterfell receives them with open arms, Brandon now lord of the keep.
Her brother and her husband get on surprisingly well where their effort is united. It sometimes makes Lyanna wonder. But her mind cannot linger on what might have beens for she has seen many of them, too many to count.
Instead she sits herself to Rhaegar's left and listens to the carefully laid plans. It sounds as it it could work.
Might be the gods will spare them.
They do not.
This time she gives herself to Rhaegar more to anger the gods than anything else. In the home of her father, she slips into the bed of their guest and spends the hours of the night in his embrace. She is curious what will come of this. Not a wedding, for he has his lady wife awaiting his return, yet she wonders.
Rhaegar tries to convince her to join him in King's Landing afterwards. She refuses. He tries to pressure her into accepting, threatening to tell her father of what has gone on. Upon those words Lyanna reminds him who is guest and who is host.
"Do not think to force me," she says, a smile upon her lips. The wolf can only be a partner.
And he doesn't. In exchange, Lyanna promises that she will see him again.
She never does.
What Lyanna does manage is to hide away in the crypts when her blood no longer comes. But forced into this potion she has no aid when it comes the time to birth her child.
So Lyanna dies alone, in the dark, in a pool of gore, a half-born thing stuck between worlds.
It all seems very familiar.
She stands at the high window, eyes upon her ironclad husband, waiting, as all the others do. His voice carries through the vast yard, the words of encouragement spilling past his lips, so as to aid these men. These brave and unfortunate souls that have come here to war.
Lyanna is half-certain they shall lose. They always do. She has found recently, sometime after her death at the hands of a very upset Robert, that while people never remember anything, stone and paper do. The scars she's left into a weirwood can still be seen to this day, although she has died a hundred times past. In the spirit of her discovery, Lyanna has begun to write down some parts, facts and decisions she finds important. Mayhap, at some point, a brighter mind might look upon them and find some solution to save them all.
The men ride off.
They never return.
Winter embraces all.
Carelessly she forgets to place her writing in a chest, away from prying eyes. Lyanna tries to take the papers from her son, but Jaehaerys gazes at her with dark eyes filled with fury. "Let me explain," Lyanna attempts to reach him. "It is not as you think.
In the middle of wartime, he cannot mean to confront her upon this matter. But her child shows no signs of stopping. Instead, he pulls back when she tries to reach him. "Do you even know who I am?" his voice is hard and rough.
"You are my beloved son," she replies out of habit.
Jaehaerys grins. "Am I? Or am I one of your sons? What about your Lysene son and Ormond, Steffon, Robar, along with Stevron? Are they your beloved sons? Would father like to know them?"
In the ensuing struggle it is a fall that takes her life, head smashing against a hard edge.
The papers are strewn upon the dusty floors. Lyanna wastes little time in giving them to the flames, a painful memory of Jaehaerys' rage still in her mind.
They face winter again.