Lyanna looked surreptitiously over her shoulder to make sure her older brothers were busy with their little project. Benjen scowled at her and clutched his most precious possession to his chest, perhaps feeling threatened. Rolling her eyes, Lyanna grinned his way. He could keep his food.
"I'm going now," she told them. "Take care of our guest, won't you?"
The only acknowledgement any of them was able to produce was somewhat like a grunt in composition. Knowing she could expect no more out of them, Lyanna shook her head in a fondly exasperated manner and pushed the tent flap out of the way. Carefully stepping over a patch of mud, she glanced around, praying to any deities willing to listen that Robert Baratheon was too busy drinking to remember her existence. Hopefully she would be spared. Suppressing a shudder at the thought of that man, Lyanna crept towards her father's tent, intending to take one small peek before making her way to her own tent.
The sight which awaited her was, if not unusual, at least worthy of one long stare. Her father was not alone, uncharacteristically enough. A solitary soul, not unlike his Lyanna herself and Ned, Rickard Stark rarely had need of company. It was strange indeed to find him entertaining anyone when there was no need for such. However, the guest in her father's tent was not one of the Stark bannermen, nor was it a knight seeking to win favour. Sharing wine with her father was none other than Rhaegar Targaryen, the heir apparent of the Iron Throne. Lyanna stood stunned at the entrance of the tent.
At that point, Rickard turned noticed her. His grey eyes narrowed and Lyanna made to step back and depart, thinking that she had done something wrong. "Stay," her father called after her. "Come here, Lyanna; I wish to speak to you."
Twin violet pools had also settled on her. The Prince assessed her with something like speculation in his gaze. His eyes swept from the top of her head down to the dusty hem of her skirts. Lyanna felt herself blush furiously at the dishevelled sight she presented. It was nothing beyond embarrassing. Managing to compose herself enough though, she stepped closer to her father and waited. She knew not for what she waited.
Rhaegar had not taken his eyes off of her and her father had simply sat back down, pouring more wine for himself and his guest. "And she is four and ten, you say?" Lyanna bit back the urge to reply. Aye, she looked young for her age, and her height was not quite as impressive as Cersei Lannister's, not did her bosom hold the allure Catelyn Tully's did, but she was well enough in heath and looks. There was a plot somewhere around and Lyanna was sure that she had officially become part of it.
"She is," Rickard confirmed, signalling for Lyanna to sit down. "If it please Your Grace, she can be wedded as soon as the tourney is over."
The flush from her cheeks was gone as those words reached her ears. Lyanna jumped to her feet, unable to help herself. "I won't." Dread coiled inside of her, tightly, ready to burst. "You promised I could wait a while longer."
"Hold your tongue," her father hisses, turning purple at her outburst.
"Now, Lord Stark. Perhaps Lady Lyanna will be more amenable if we explained to her this scheme,
the Prince interrupted, cutting through the tension. "Do sit down, my lady." It was he who stood up then and paced the length of the tent. "I have need of your aid, Lady Lyanna."
"Whatever may I do for you, Your Grace?" Lyanna questioned warily. Why should helping him involve hurrying her wedding to Robert?
The explanation she was given was as simple as it was fantastical. She did not know if she quite believed the prophecy exposed before her, nor was she excited by the prospect of being a steppingstone in the Prince's way to greatness. However, between wedding Robert and becoming a lady of the Princess Elia and wedding Robert only to become a wife in his home, Lyanna would a thousand times over pay the price the Prince asked.
There was only one matter that pressed upon her heart; sinking sharp fangs into her flesh like a snake, the trouble would not let her be. "What of your rightful wife, Your Grace?" Elia Martell had already given her husband a couple of children. "She may yet conceive."
The Prince smiled. "My lady, do not concern yourself with Her Grace, the Princess." He placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch gentle. "Better think upon what you wish of us, fair lady."
Advantages were aplenty. And if she dared, she might ask what she wished for. "Your Grace, there is only one wish I have. If I am to bear Your Grace this child, I desire to be kept out of Robert's reach. I shall accept any means by which this may be achieved."
Her father gave her a sharp look. "Your distaste for the match is astounding."
Deciding not to grace the imputation with a reply, Lyanna merely inclined her head in acknowledgement of the speech. "Those are my terms, Your Grace. I shall wed Robert if I must and I shall bear the child Your Grace requests, but only if I am given guarantee that I shan't be through to my husband's mercies." Offering the Prince a sharp smile, Lyanna spoke further, "I am given to understand a woman may conceive even out of wedlock. I am certain Lord Baratheon will attest to it."
"It shall as you desire," the Prince promised.
"Go now," her father said, urging her to rise to her feet and leave.
Lyanna, glad to be allowed to leave, almost ran out of the tent. There was still the feast to be attended and Robert to be contended with. May the gods help her, she though, not without a hint of irony. May the gods help them all.