PROLOGUE
Twenty Years Ago…
The morning mist was still thick and heady on the Isle of Faces.
Lyanna Stark, first and only daughter of Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, stepped off the small rowboat she had taken. Behind her, across the smooth waters of the God's Eye, the great castle of Harrenhal rose out of the flat lands of the Trident like a leviathan's shadow. The five great towers thrust into the air like black fingers two hundred feet tall. Even from here, she could make out the multi-coloured tents of all the assembled Lords of Westeros, both great and lesser, high and low, ancient and new-sworn.
It was in one of those tents that her brothers, Eddard and Benjen, still slept, undisturbed by their sister's departure. Ned had stirred a little as she had slipped out of the tent, but last night's beer and food had kept her brothers fast asleep in the morning light. Lyanna still had no idea where Brandon was, though she thought it likely he'd visited Ashara Dayne's tent late last night. Either that, or he'd gone to the small village with her betrothed to find other, less noble company.
I can never say Ned didn't tell me what Robert is, she told herself, though how the two get along I will never understand.
She pushed thoughts of her brothers from her mind; they would not serve her well today. That was precisely why she hadn't told them about her departure, and was currently concocting a lie to tell them if they woke before she returned. They would only get in her way, or insist on escorting her when they had no business doing either. Lyanna fingered the blade she kept at her belt, hidden for now behind her cloak, which was embroidered with the direwolf of Stark.
I am a daughter of the North, blood of the Kings of Winter. I can look after myself.
Lyanna knew not who had summoned her, or why, but she could attempt a wager that even a fool could not disagree with. After the events of the previous day… she shuddered to remember them. Then, after all that was done, she came back to find the note on her pillow, and remembered her fury at the absolute gall of who she supposed it was from. Nevertheless, she'd read it, and read it again, and stared at the words until they were seared into her mind.
Lyanna,
Come to the God's Eye tomorrow at dawn. We have much to discuss, and must go to great pains to keep it to ourselves.
Yours,
R
There had been no seal, but the letter had no need of one. The "R" alone was almost enough to allay Lyanna's suspicions, and the figure she found waiting for her confirmed them all.
For, standing before her, garbed in the red and black of his House, was Rhaegar Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone himself. Standing atop the shore, a cloak black as night whirling around him in the morning wind, sword belted to his hip, hair floating about his head like a silver cloud, he looked half a god. It was easy to see why so many feared the power and seeming supernatural aura of the dragonlords.
He smiled at her, as if he had not caused outrage across all Seven Kingdoms at the tourney yesterday, as if he was just a man she'd happened upon on a jaunt in the woods, and as if she was the only woman in the world.
"Stop that."
But Prince Rhaegar only smiled more, "Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that," Lyanna snapped, not in the mood for japes, "Have you any idea the upset you've caused? Or are you so wrapped up in yourself that you ignore all consequences of your actions?"
The smile faltered for a moment, "My lady, I have summoned you on –"
"You can dispense with that as well," Lyanna cut him off harshly, and was surprised that he actually stopped talking, "It may work on the lickspittles that surround you in King's Landing, but it won't work on me."
Rhaegar paused, before apparently changing the topic, "I heard about your antics the other day. I'm impressed."
Lyanna barely stopped herself from rolling his eyes. Flattery now. Will he kiss my boot next, to get my good mood? "Impressed? Are you impressed that I beat off three squires because I am a lady, or because I did it selflessly, a quality you Targaryens seem to lack."
She had wounded him, and she could tell. Lyanna wanted to press the advantage, while she still had it anyway. She was sick and tired of southron courtesy, of Lord This-And-That telling her how beautiful she was, how she was a fine lady, how Rickard Stark ought to be congratulated on how he'd brought his daughter up, how it was a shame that her mother had died when she was very young, how she was lucky to be betrothed to Robert fucking Baratheon of all people. She was sick to death of them and their simpering smiles, their bows, their whispers behind her back of how wild she was, or how she would be more ladylike if her mother had lived.
To hell with them, Lyanna told herself, I'll do as I please, and no silver-haired poet of a prince is going to stop me.
However, Rhaegar just looked abashed, "I apologise if I have given offence, my lady. I was merely impressed by your devotion to so lowly a man."
"That man was Howland Reed, the son of my father's vassal," Lyanna retorted, "Hardly below my purview as daughter of the Warden of the North."
Rhaegar smiled wanly, "If only all of us could be so kind as you, Lady Lyanna, the world would be a brighter place indeed." He paused for only the briefest of moments, before continuing, "I suppose that you were the Knight of the Laughing Tree as well?"
Lyanna shrugged nonchalantly, though secretly she was pleased that someone had not been so bone-dead stupid that they didn't figure it out, "It was Brandon's idea," she answered modestly, "But I was the only one willing to carry it out. Ben is too young, and Ned thought it dishonest. He wanted to just tell you and the king of the boys' misdemeanours. Small chance of that working out though."
"Quite." Rhaegar just smiled again, maddeningly so, and Lyanna resisted the urge to smack him. He held out an arm, "Walk with me."
Not willing to let the opportunity go amiss, Lyanna strode right past him, and allowed herself a small smile when he rushed to catch up. This was one of her secret joys; letting men bid for her hand and fall over each other trying to help her, then walk right on by, showing them that she never needed their help to begin with. Such was how Lyanna Stark responded to men and their silly ideas of chivalry.
After a moment, Rhaegar said, "You and your kin looked well at the jousting yesterday."
Lyanna shot him a look, but there was no guile in those astonishing lilac eyes, only softness, and the barest hint of melancholy. Standing so close, Lyanna could see the golden strands in his silver hair, and marvel at the perfectly pure and pale skin of his face; unblemished, not so much as a freckle on his straight, well-formed nose. Rhaegar's mouth suddenly turned upwards at the corner, and Lyanna realised that she was staring. She quickly looked away.
"Is that why you crowned me, Your Grace?" she asked, deigning for the first time to use his title, "Is that why you committed a folly greater than all your father's rages combined?"
A flicker of hurt flashed across his eyes, but it was gone before Lyanna could be sure it had been there to start with, and Rhaegar looked to say more, but thought better of it. They walked in silence for a while, before stopping at the edge of the beach. Lyanna could see the sun rising in the distance, the world waking to a brand new day, and all the strife it would bring.
Nothing can be the same again, not if Robert and Brandon have their way.
This poor prince will be strung up by his ankles, if he dares too much more.
Perhaps no harm had been meant by it, though Lyanna failed to see how one so purportedly intelligent as Rhaegar Targaryen had not seen the foolishness in crowning a woman other than his wife as queen of love and beauty, even more the foolishness in crowning a woman promised to one of the greatest lords of Westeros. Lyanna had no doubt that she was more beautiful than Elia of Dorne, but that made no matter in these kinds of things. Rhaegar had won, and Elia was his wife, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. It was his duty to crown her, sick and waiflike though she was.
"Lady Lyanna," Rhaegar said at last, "Do you know what we Targaryens mean when we say that "the dragon must have three heads"?"
"That otherwise your banners would be mismatched?"
He smiled some at her jape, but it seemed that there were more pressing things on his mind, "It harkens back to our greatest ancestor, the first Aegon. As you may well know, he had two sisters, and the three of them each rode a great dragon. They were the three heads of House Targaryen; three heads of the dragon. As time has worn on, those three heads have been diminished, until only one head seems to remain. That head is the head that Aegon represented – the king. His sisters – in this case, the king's closest allies, counsellors and principle generals – have fallen out of use, or become one or more of the king's vassals. However, it is written in the most ancient of texts that a darkness is coming, a darkness that will swallow the whole world, and doom us all to an eternal winter."
"You speak of the Long Night," Lyanna laughed aloud, "And you've little to fear from that. According to legend, the Others were defeated, and broken forevermore. You're welcome for that, by the way."
"And yet what if they weren't?" Rhaegar continued, ignoring Lyanna's clear scepticism, "There is a prophecy of another battle for the world, a battle that must take place very soon. Think of your own words, my lady: "Winter is coming." Does that not strike you as passing odd, given that the Long Night is already been and done? We must prepare for the worst, my lady, and that is what I intend to do. This is the song of ice and fire, Lyanna. What do you think that means?"
He was standing too close to her, and Lyanna decided to escape the awkwardness of the situation – and the self-righteous and sanctimonious tone Rhaegar was beginning to adopt – with one of her usual tactics; wit: "I would say that someone out there has a flare for the dramatic, most likely."
"A sharp tongue will get you nowhere when the forces of darkness come, Lyanna," Rhaegar retorted crossly, "The dragon must have three heads. Ice and fire. Azor Ahai, who forged a flaming sword from the heart of his beloved wife, and joined forces with Brandon the Builder to defeat the Great Other. These stories are told all over the world, Lyanna. Azor Ahai, champion of the red priests. Brandon Stark, first King of Winter."
I like not where this is going.
"Does all this babbling about prophecy have a point, Your Grace?" Lyanna growled, "Or do you intend to start on about portents and scary dreams you've had?"
Rhaegar looked as though he was going to respond with a similarly biting reply, but held his tongue. Instead, he looked down, seemed to realise how close he was to her, and stepped back, eyes downcast, "I mean to say that these are all linked. I am a cautious man, Lyanna, and prophecies do not lie. Mislead, perhaps, but they do not lie. The dragon must have three heads, when the time comes. One of fire… and one of ice."
Sweet gods of the North.
He really is a bigger fool than I could have imagined.
Lyanna slapped the Prince of Dragonstone hard across the face. She was shaking with rage, and part of her screamed at him for not rising to her own fury, "How dare you?" she half-snarled, half-screamed, "How dare you? Not only are you a married man, ser, and a prince besides, I am promised to another, and a woman and person in my own right. You have no cause to order me to bear a child, as though I were some Lyseni bedslave you had come across in the whorehouses which your shitpile of a capital is so renowned for. You should be ashamed of yourself for even considering the thought."
"Lyanna," he pleaded, "the very fate of the world hangs in the balance. I am trying–"
"I don't give two shits what you're trying," Lyanna growled, so very wolflike, "You have no right… no right to request this of me, to demand that I give you my body as nothing more than a vessel for you to breed with. The Lords of Westeros say your father is mad… they have no idea that this is the future of House Targaryen!"
Rhaegar took a step towards her, grabbing her arm. His purple eyes were wide with fervour, blazing with mania. Lyanna cried out, stumbling backwards, pulling her knife from her side, slashing wildly. Had she slit the Prince's throat, she was not sure that she would have particularly cared. However, it did serve to halt his advance, and now Rhaegar Targaryen regarded her more warily.
"Lyanna," he spoke again, his hands raised in a placating gesture, "I know how insane this sounds. Believe me, I do. But you have no idea what's coming."
Lyanna arched her eyebrow, "The dead, my lord? An army of shambling wights to terrorise the Seven Kingdoms? Forgive me if I don't believe the stories my wetnurse told me anymore."
Rhaegar's expression hardened in an instant, "The world must be saved, Lyanna, and sacrifices will be made to ensure our survival." He stepped closer, his face inches from hers, "By your will, or by mine."
Lyanna's eyes widened, seeing the madness flickering behind his, and fled along the beach, hair whipping in the wind, a chill settling in her bones. The Prince of Dragonstone, a man renowned throughout the realm for his kindness and chivalry, was no less of a monster than his loathed father. Her boots, sturdy though they were, dug into the silken sand, creating deep tracks. They chafed at her ankles, and she bit her lip, knowing that she'd have blisters on the morrow.
Her boat was forty feet away when she became aware of the Prince behind her. Not for nothing was he seen as one of the great knights of his time, with long, loping legs and an easy grace to his movement. He ran up behind her almost effortlessly, and she could imagine his hair streaming behind him in a silver wave. Lyanna dared not look around, for fear that she'd slow.
A strong hand gripped her shoulder, and Lyanna spun, falling and flailing as she did so. She stumbled back to her feet, but Rhaegar was on her now. She smashed her elbow backwards, and heard a yelp as it crashed into something solid. She didn't bother looking around to see what it was.
The boat was only a few feet away, and she pushed it off into the water, the boat rocking as she leapt in. Lyanna Stark began to row as if her very life depended on it, and, as Rhaegar and the Isle of Faces faded into the distance, tears began to run down her cheeks.
Gods, she thought, What will become of us?
Thanks for reading, I'd love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;
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