His lips curved into an amused smirk. "And who will stop me, little lady?"
Light eyes glared at darker ones. "I will stop you." The owner vehemently ground out. A disbelieving snort was her companion's only reaction. "I'll make you stop, and you'll eat those words." He sardonically grinned. Glare intensifying, the Lady shouted, exasperated. "Tell me why!"
"…No."
Snarling, the girl of fourteen years spat at his feet. He paused, grin gone, staring her coldly into her eyes. "Watch yourself."
She glared at him and spitefully shot her reply. "With all due respect I am. My. Lord. Prince."
He simply sat down, watching as she followed distractedly. "Is that right." Her black haired head stilled and her hand froze still half-way stretched towards her companion of five months. "Why are you leaving?"
A surprisingly gentle look entered his dark indigo eyes even as his mouth moved to speak his words that were undoubtedly to be cold.
He stopped halfway, uttering an almost longing Lyanna… Voice quavering with so many unsaid things, vibrating with emotions they both knew were better off buried, and then she understood. And she hated that she understood, because she wished she never knew that these feelings bursting from her rapidly beating heart existed.
"Don't call me that." Lady Lyanna sharply spoke. Lowering her ice blue eyes, pale fists clenched, fisting satin dress. Regret flashed prominently through those purple eyes, regret and hurt before they darkened to a pitch black, blank in expression. Throwing one last look at her, he walked away, throwing the parting shot back at her. Her head rapidly shot upwards to behold just his departing back.
"My lady of Stark," Tone crisp and glacial the man, silver hair flowing, hesitated at the gate. "You will find that sometimes ignorance is sweeter than knowing."
The stone gates swing closed.
She has never hated them more. When she manages to stumble into her room and bolt the door the tears have long dried.
The words remained unspoken on two tongues. She whispers them restlessly until the morning sun tears through her curtains like an avenging angel. He forces himself to stay awake even as his tired eyes begin to waver. His lips to move, ripping the words from his mouth with a vengeance so terrible.
(It does not suit the meaning they cannot convey.)
(I love you…)
When she heard the news, she was only a few years from marriage. With a calm face she watched her father, the great Lord Rickard mention a Lady Elia Martell Targaryen, wife of Prince Rheagar Targaryen she held a disinterested façade as she left breakfast not long after. Then she broke down into a furious storm, cursing and yelling at herself and him and the stupid bride of his.
(She hates him.)
(She loves him.)
Her own engagement happens with speed and certainty. Yet she cannot help but flinch at the loud laughter of Robert Baratheon, the entranced way he stares at her. The marriage is arranged and she does not say one word against.
Under the exceedingly joyful gazes of Father and Brandon and Ned and even brave Benjen, what can she say?
(No, no, no, no, and no…)
It is the Tourney of Harrenhal that people say changed it all. Lyanna knows better.
When strong arms come and pick her up, crown of winter roses and all, she smiles ever so slightly.
It only grows, the smile, that is.
Later that night when she asks him he whispers the answer into her ear until the morning sunrise tears past the flimsy curtains to shine upon a peaceful pair.
(Do you love me?)
(…Yes. I love you, Princess of Winter.)
The rest is a blur of happiness and unease- what prophecy?- and joy and then chaos. Lying in a pool of her own blood, Lyanna breathes in and out and painfully asks one last thing of her brother.
"Promise Me… Ned..."
They remember her wreathed in fierce passion, strong willed, beautiful.
(Beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time.)
"…Thank You… Ned."
(You never knew her as I did, Robert. You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath.)
The pale and delicate hand falls, and a brother sobs.