A half-crumbled tower set like a jagged crown against a blood-streaked sky, a wreath of winter roses, a bed of blood, an oath of violet storm. Rhaegar hears the songs they will sing of him and his love, knows them in his heart as he stands here looking at the setting sun. It is a fierce sun this evenfall, red and hot as the rubies that pepper the breastplate he will don come the morrow. He watches the sun sink behind the Red Mountains: a fiery eclipse that bleeds darkness across the soft lands of Dorne. Like ice and fire, like love and death. A soft voice rises from the tower and he turns now from the archway and slips back inside on silent feet.
His heart is fire and smoke and ash; hers is ice and snow and storm. She is bright as the sun in the light of half a hundred candles. Golden rays drink her eyes: those grey eyes that change from doe to wolf in a moment. Eyes that found his in a crowd of thousands, eyes that drew him to what men will call dishonour and treachery and theft. Let them say it – let them sing of it. He will compose a song of his own making here, now, where he stands in a half-crumbled tower set like a jagged crown against a blood-streaked sky: a song of ice and fire. His fingers flutter in the cooling air, ruffle it as he does the silver strings of his harp. He hears the ebb and flow of string and smoke: a sad song, but theirs nonetheless.
"Rhaegar," she says from the red-curtained bed. "Love, come to me."
Her voice is finer than a thousand songs, sweeter than the fruit trees of Highgarden, wilder than all the seas that swirl shore and cliff and rock. It rises from her full lips and lingers there in the air: the rich dark smoke of the north. They will say he stole her, that he forced her, that he carried her away from hearth and home and heart tree. How little they know. Lyanna Stark can be made to do nothing: all she does, every step, every sound, ever snarl, is done with the force of a thousand wolves beating at her throat. Snow and ice and storm. The stars tarry now the sun has slipped away; soft light white as bone slips through the archway and turns the room to silver. He steps to her.
His eyes are indigo, endless – they drink her in as he sinks beside her on the bed, sets the crimson curtains fluttering with his sigh. Dark as wine, they sway the length of her, trip over every rib and rise, from the smooth curve of her throat to the swell of her hips and above it –
"His hair will be dark like yours," says Rhaegar. "I'm sure of it, Lya."
Fingers find her belly, glide like silk over the hard curve of it; she meets his eyes and shudders. Her hand goes to his, weaves her fingers with his own: they spin a song together across the mound of their making. A song of ice and fire. He lifts her hand to his mouth, presses each finger to his lips, marking them, scenting them as she has done to every part of him: every breath and bone and beat of blood. He is hers, he has been hers forever, and she is his – his as they lie abed in a half-crumbled tower set like a jagged crown against a blood-streaked sky. Her eyes are the grey of starlit seas in the candleflame.
"Will he have my eyes, too?" she asks, a smile soft on her cheeks.
His heart breaks, it bleeds, sets jagged as a crown against his ribs. He flutters his fingers over the tight skin of her belly, whispers across its curve as gently as if it were the silver strings of his harp. What lies beneath skin and blood and bone is more precious than silver, than gold, than gemstones, than the finest song wrought on harps of nymphs: it is a song in there, resting dormant, a pulse of life and love: a song of ice and fire.
"No," he says, soft as the breath of night. "He will be born with eyes that look black as pitch… but they will burst like purple flowers in the dark, love." Lilac, indigo, violet: bellflowers beneath a jagged crown. "He will have Targaryen eyes."
The sadness clouds him; she sees it, sweeps her fingers across the smooth silk of his jaw, meets his eyes: starlit sea drinking wine. He watches her and loves her fierce as the fiery eclipse of the red sun over Dorne – feels the weight of leaving her on the morrow lodge heavy as a hammer to his chest. Ruby raindrops, riverwater, the bellow of a stag… He sees it all in her eyes: a sad song, but theirs nonetheless.
"I am proud of that," she says. "You know it, love."
A tear trembles on his cheek; she swipes it away with her thumb. They tumble together, arms a hot hard anchor to counter the sting of the night. There is a crease in his brow and he hears the songs they will sing of them. But the golden ray of candlelight catches her eyes and shines them smooth as river-pebbles – he is here again, they are twined together like smokeberry vines, blade nor brother could cut them free.
"He will be born from love," she says.
Her voice carries the strength of a thousand wolves. Her heart is ice and snow and storm; his is fire and smoke and ash – and it bleeds, it breaks, it tears jagged as the half-crumbled tower set against a blood-streaked sky. His fingers are lost in her silky black hair, winding tendrils round and round till they glitter bright as rings. She is his, he is hers: every breath and bone and beat of blood. She tastes the salt of his tears as he kisses her, treasures the silk of his fingers as they flutter the curve of her belly, weaves her own. They spin a song together across the mound of their making: a sad song, but theirs nonetheless. A song of ice and fire…
"He will be born in grief, Lya," he breathes finally into her mouth. "As I was."