Author's Note: So I lost access to my prior account (Mephist) and following the ending of GoT (SHUDDER) I felt compelled to continue on with this fic despite the fact it's been a hot minute. So here it is!
Background info - Story follows canon up to and including the Tourney at Harrenhal. Set 11 years following Robert's Rebellion (295AL). Picks up with Robert's visit to Winterfell but does not follow the books. Events from the books will be included, however.
Key differences to be aware of - Since it's set 11 years following Robert's Rebellion and not 15, everyone is 4 years younger. Ex. Ned is 32, Lyanna is 27, Robert is 32. All other characters will also be 4 years younger according to as they enter into the story unless otherwise specified.
When Ned thought back on that fateful tourney at Harrenhal, it somehow seemed another lifetime altogether and yet only the day before all at once. Brandon's quick wit and still quicker temper, his gray eyes blazing with the foolish pride of too many swiftly won tilts and too few real battles overcome. Their father's steady bearing and wisdom, the blood of the North flowing surely through his veins. Robert's booming laughter, all bawdy jokes and slaps on the back (or the rear, depending upon the company he kept). Lyanna's untamed countenance and ardent delight, slender fingers pale as they clutched the crown of winter blossoms in her lap. The Dragon Prince's violet gaze shining with something much more portentous than melancholy for once. And suddenly the sorrowful notes were drifting to him as though he were sitting in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths once more, amongst a crowd captivated by the keening melody Rhaegar Targaryen's skilled fingers coaxed from his lyre.
With difficulty Ned roused himself from his reverie, and yet the harp's song did not fade. Its voice floated through the air, quavering now and again as though the tale it told was too forlorn for even it to bear.
Yet he knew this particular strain was more than a memory, it was a protest. For it had only been a few hours before that a messenger had rode into the courtyard bringing word that the King of the Seven Kingdoms would be arriving ere long.
Steeling himself, Ned followed the dying music to its source. The door presented an obstacle which a decade had not seen him able to successfully negotiate. He laid his palm against its rough and unrelenting exterior.
"Lyanna."
The harp's last tragic note faded away into nothingness. Into silence.
"Lya," he attempted again, and this time there was sound. There was something.
And then the bolt slid back, the door swung inward, and Ned was met with the sight of a stranger. A woman stood facing him with dark curls and sloping features which should have been easily recognized as belonging to the sister he had last seen eleven years before, but Ned could not reconcile this diminished and solemn creature with the She-Wolf.
"I know why you are here," she spoke then, and the voice was Lyanna's. Deflated and ragged, much as it had been the day he had finally found her in the Tower of Joy, but Lyanna's nonetheless. Ned had fallen down to his knees before her that day, nearly choking on all of the relief, anguish, and contempt.
"I couldn't tell him not to come, Lya, he is the King." Robert had been planning the visit for years, but thankfully there always seemed to be something standing in his way. Namely, his love of Dornish sour and wenches, which, while there was no shortage of either in King's Landing, became increasingly difficult to procure the further one travelled North upon the Kingsroad.
Ned's words were met only by the animosity in the cold slate eyes of she who was once his wild and willful sister. "He is a murderer and a usurper. A crude beast. A-"
"King of Westeros, over you and I and everyone else, and you will not say such things. They are treasonous, Lyanna. Whatever ire you hold towards Robert-"
"Ire?" The word was spat as though the mere taste of it on the tongue was repulsive. He saw something of the woman she had been in her sheer fury, in the scorching intensity of her gaze. And then it was gone, snuffed out like the flame of a candle that had burnt itself down to the last strands of its wick and vanished, only to be replaced by an expression void of emotion. "You always loved him more, Ned." It was a whisper he barely had time to register before the door shut.
The heavy iron bolt slid into place and Ned shivered. He stayed there, waiting for more, for anything. For screaming or the sounds of things crashing against the walls. The utter stillness seemed louder than anything he could have imagined.
After a time, he forced himself to walk away and prepare for Robert's arrival.
"She isn't well."
"She's never well, according to you! All of my letters unanswered. All of my gifts unreceived."
"Your Grace-"
"Balls to that, Ned! I'm no King in this, only a man forced to marry a hissing lion instead of the wolf I was promised!"
"Lyanna was not fit to marry, she was half mad with grief."
"And now? In eleven years nothing has changed?"
"Everything has changed. You have a wife and children now. You're King of all Westeros."
"It isn't enough. I need to see her."
"Let it be. Please, Robert. Let her be."
The music and muffled voices faded behind Robert as he left the great hall behind him. "It's either to the privy or piss my clothes, Ned. And I can tell you they don't like it when that happens." He'd been eying up a serving girl when he'd made the announcement, and poor dour Ned had compressed his mouth into a thin line and made no response. The Kingsguard had been easy enough to waylay, he didn't need anyone to hold his hand while he relieved himself.
How could he let her be when he was here now, so close? Closer than he'd been in eleven long years. If she was unwell, he would not disturb her for long, though he'd long suspected this was a ruse Ned was putting on to conceal her fragile hold on sanity. He'd said as much himself; "half mad with grief", grief over the deaths of her father and eldest brother at the hands of the Mad King. Of that Robert had no doubt, it still brought his blood to a boil to recall the perverse nature of their end. What else could cause his brave and beautiful She-Wolf to shut herself away from everyone and thing she held dear for all this time? Oh, Ned had never said as much in his letters, but Varys had little birds in every corner of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, and they twittered readily enough about Lyanna's self-inflicted quarantine from her kin.
The first servant he stumbled upon pointed him in the direction he desired with downcast eyes and a trembling hand, but he hadn't spoken that harshly. It was only that he was desperate to see her again, to touch her. To hear her lilting Northern accent, so feminine and clear.
The door loomed at the end of a hall, tall and firmly closed. Yet when he reached for the latch, it creaked and gave way easily under his touch. Darkness enveloped the room, stealing away his sight momentarily. The amount of wine he had consumed did not help either. He thought perhaps he'd gotten it wrong, made an errant turn somewhere along the way, but then he saw her.
The bed was in shadows. A mere sliver of moonlight shone in from the window and caressed one pale, perfect hand as it lay still against the covers. Robert gravitated to it like a moth to flame, shuffling through the blackness and staring hungrily upon her sleeping form.
She was older, her features had shed all of the girlish traits he remembered. Lips were fuller, lashes thicker, her cheekbones more pronounced, but still framed by the same fall of curls the colour of the rich chocolates Joffrey was always demanding. And her eyes, he knew, would be the same stormy gray when she opened them. Robert's gaze travelled ravenously down the length of her body, hidden by furs and quilts, and suddenly looking was no longer enough. He yearned to hold this forbidden figment of his tormented dreams.
Clumsily, he knelt down. His palms were sweating, but he took little notice of this as he gathered her much slighter hand between his own battle-calloused fingers. Her skin was supple and milky in the pale light of the moon and he had no difficulty envisioning all of it, naked and satiny against his body. How many nights had he awoken aching with desire for this woman who lay before him, craving her touch and laughter?
When he raised his bleary eyes to her face again, it was to find that she was staring back at him silently.
"Lyanna. My sweet and beautiful Lyanna." His voice cracked with raw emotion and he searched her eyes for any of the love he felt to be mirrored within them. All he found was a strange light, a flash of something sinister. Then she was screaming and launching herself forward, catching him entirely off guard and sending them both sprawling onto the floor.
"Murderer! Murderer!" She screeched breathlessly even as her slender fingers found his neck and wrapped deftly around it. "It should have been you! You should have died!"
Robert's wits were slow to come about him, but even the haze of alcohol he was fighting through could not deaden the sensation of Lyanna's nails biting into his flesh and constricting his airway. Blindly he struck out, and his fist connected with her shoulder, loosening her grip. It was enough for him to cough and suck air into his lungs, but she was not deterred, and it was at that point he realized she meant to kill him. She was completely mad.
"Lya!" Ned's voice cracked like a whip, but it was his strong arms which finally pried the She-Wolf away from Robert, her fingernails scoring his skin as she was dragged off.
"I hate you! I hate you!" She was still shrieking, struggling like a feral animal caught in a trap.
It took both Trant and Moore to get Robert back to his feet, where he stood sputtering and trying to catch his breath, the tinge of his humiliation colouring his already flushed face an even darker shade of purple. He couldn't be sure whether the knights had arrived in time to see Ned haul Lyanna off of him or not.
"Lya, hush. Enough." Ned murmured against the top of his sister's jerking head. His grip was firm but not bruising, and he felt her body quiver as the fight quietly went out of her. All that remained was a limp weight against his chest.
Silence reigned for a moment.
When Robert finally collected himself, his voice was hoarse but decidedly infuriated. "She isn't unwell, she's crazed. Keep her out of my sight." He turned and staggered out of the room, barking with intolerance at Ser Mandon Moore when the knight reached out to steady his King.