A/N - This is a drabble fic, told from multiple POVs. It shows highlights from the lives of major characters in the series. I have tried to stick as closely to the story as I could in most places, but sometimes I've diverted a little.

Hope you like it!

LYANNA

Lyanna knew that it was a bad idea to smile back. The tourney was over, and her hands still clutched the prickly halo of blue winter roses that the Dragon Prince had given her. Little She-Wolf, he'd murmured as he placed the crown in her lap. I know what you did today. You are as valiant as you are lovely, sweet Lyanna. Bravery like yours is a kind of beauty that cannot be equalled.

He'd spoken so low that nobody else had heard, not even Ned seated beside her. Lyanna's stomach had flipped over, and she felt herself flushing as she stared up into the prince's violet eyes. He was beautiful, she thought, like the heroes in Old Nan's tales. It wasn't like her to swoon over a man. She was a Stark, a northern girl, not one of the southron airheads she had seen in their thousands since she reached King's Landing.

But she couldn't help it. When she saw him standing there on her balcony that night, his silver-gold hair fluttering in the breeze, she felt almost giddy. It wasn't like the lukewarm affection she felt for Robert. It was something deeper, something that made her heart clench and her head spin.

"Can I help you, Your Grace?"

He whipped around to face her, surprise evident in his expression. There was a kindness to his countenance that Robert didn't have. Something gentle, something that spoke of honour. Lyanna drew closer, as though in a dream.

"Lyanna," he breathed. And then he smiled. It was a smile that turned night into day, a smile that chased away the doubtful shadows at the edges of her heart. Robert, she thought heavily. I'm betrothed to Robert. I shouldn't be here.

She knew she shouldn't smile back, but she did. Rhaegar Targaryen stepped towards her, shyly extending a hand. Lyanna looked at his palm for a second, pale as the moonlight above. "Why are you here, Your Grace? Surely your wife will be waiting for you."

His hand stilled, and dropped to his side. Lyanna cursed herself internally. Why had she said that? She had offended him, obviously.

"You're right," Rhaegar murmured. "My wife will be waiting. I just… I had to speak with you."

"Regarding what?" Lyanna stepped even closer, knowing that she should be doing the opposite. There was an irresistible pull that surrounded the Targaryen prince. It was a pull that couldn't be denied, no matter how much she wished for control.

"Your skill at the tourney today." He smiled again, an indulgent smile this time. "You made quite the knight, my lady."

Lyanna blushed, grateful for the darkness. When she had discovered poor Howland being kicked and beaten, she knew that she had to do something. Righteous anger blazed through her veins just long enough for her to disguise herself and enter the tourney. She had had her vengeance, even if nobody knew. Well, nobody except Prince Rhaegar.

"Thank you, for not telling anyone. That was kind."

"I'm no fool, my lady. I'm well aware that most men frown upon women entering into violence."

"Most men?" Lyanna raised her eyebrows. "Not you?"

"Not if they have flair and a passion for fighting," Rhaegar said quietly. "I believe that everyone deserves to realize their dreams. It's ridiculous to hold people back because they were born of a certain class, or gender."

Lyanna wondered if he had any idea how revolutionary the views he was putting across were. King Aerys certainly wouldn't have approved. She had never much liked the king – there was always a touch of madness in his purple eyes. In his son, that madness had been replaced with a sort of melancholy that made Lyanna's heart ache.

"You shouldn't have named me the queen of beauty today, Your Grace."

Rhaegar lifted one pale eyebrow. "Should I not have? Why?"

"Your lady wife was sitting there. Everyone saw you favour me over her."

"And why should a prince not tell the truth?" His eyes searched her face desperately, as though he were looking for some kind of answer that mere words could not give. "Elia is beautiful, to be sure, but her loveliness pales in comparison to yours, Lady Stark. I married her out of obligation and duty, and I am fond of her. But my soul is not aflame when I gaze upon her face."

He speaks like a poet, Lyanna thought. Though his words ring of truth.

"I know about duty and obligation, Your Grace."

"Rhaegar," he corrected. "Enough of the titles."

"In that case, my name is just Lyanna."

He dipped his silvery head. "As you wish, Lyanna. You say you know of duty and obligation? I assume you're referring to your betrothal to my cousin?"

"You assume right," Lyanna sighed.

"You don't love the man who is to be your husband." It wasn't a question.

Lyanna bit her lip. "No, I don't."

Rhaegar smiled again. "He doesn't set your soul aflame."

"No. I'm not even sure what that would feel like, Your Gr- uh, I mean, Rhaegar."

He laughed softly, and the violet colours in his eyes danced. He reached out a hand towards her, and this time, Lyanna Stark did not shy away. She let him cup her cheek in his palm, felt the warmth of his silken, slender fingers against her skin.

She couldn't breathe as she stared into his eyes. It was as though she were burning up from the inside out. A pleasant burn, though. The kind of burning that made her ache for more. She had never thought such a thing existed until that moment.

"Oh, Lyanna," Prince Rhaegar sighed. "It would feel exactly like this."