A/N: This is my take on the Lyanna/Rhaegar relationship. Not sure how far I'm going to go with it , but plan on writing possibly two more entries. I don't plan on it being long. I will probably cover both tourneys Rhaegar and Lyanna are present for, and hopefully manage to write some Tower of Joy scenes, and their final moments of life. I am planning this story, obviously, on the theory of L+R=J which I am pretty confident is true. Hope you enjoy! :) Comments are much appreciated, and feedback is ALWAYS welcomed. I haven't written fix in so long, so advice is like mint chip ice cream- always welcomed.

Disclaimer: Most characters are GRRM's, although I might have the occasional random OCs for plot purposes.

Lyanna Stark

The flat of the sword came down upon Lyanna's head with malicious force. Ducking to the left, she was able to miss the heart of the blow, but did not escape unscathed. The tourney sword caught the back of her helm, and the roar of metal against her skull made Lyanna dizzy with pain. Spinning on the balls of her feet, she countered her attacker's high blow with her sword. She could never match his size or strength, but had speed on her side. He was too big to attack straight-on, so she would have to work from the sides. She danced feverishly around him, the heat of combat pumping through her veins; Lyanna could see people gathering around the yard and hoped no one would try and intervene. The large brute tried another high attack, the heavy sword arching downward in a rage fueled cut. She saw the move coming and slide her tiny body sideways, clouds of dirt bursting underneath her toes. He spun, his sword catching the sunlight, and lashed out for her.

Lyanna couldn't help but smile. This was what she was made for, what her blood called for. She was a Stark of Winterfell, a warrior of the North. People would try and say a woman couldn't fight, that it was a man's duty to hold a sword and a woman's to carry a child. They were wrong. Her place was here, fighting in the dirt, sword in hand, with the sunlight burning down upon her back.

Lyanna slide gracefully away from a low cut, and caught the young lord in the shoulder. He cursed. This made Lyanna's smile widen. She fed off his anger, drank in his rage. It only made her stronger. Grunting, she kicked out and felt her foot make contact with his knee. The lord stumbled forward. She tried to pull her leg back, but his gloved hands had it in their iron grip. He yanked her to him, and Lyanna went down hard. Gasping at the pain in her shoulder, she twisted sideways.

It was a bad position to be in. He was twice her size, and much, much stronger. She had to find an out. He pulled her body to him, and she struggled to break free. Dirt shifted with her every movement. She kicked her free foot outward, praying that it would find a target. The first blow rammed into his shoulder, the second found his helm. A meaty fist pounded into her belly with such force, Lyanna struggled to breathe. Gasping for air, she rolled to her side and didn't see him reaching for her.

His helm was dented and was twisted atop his head, but she could see his eyes through the visor. They were burning.

With a strangled cry, Lyanna's elbow found his face. The young lord's head snapped back with the force, but he didn't allow her to wiggle free. Grabbing ahold of her shoulders, he shoved her into the ground. She was short of breath and Lyanna could tasted blood in her mouth.

With one arm pinning her chest down, the young man leaned in close, his breath stinking of summer wine and his voice as harsh as the winds of winter. "I'm going to rip your fucking head off, you little shit."

A large, beefy hand clamped down against the helm's side and he pulled it free. Lyanna's dark hair spilled out and her face was flushed with rage. Sweat covered her neck and face, cascading down her cheeks in tiny beads. She watch the young lord's expression morph from fury to confusion. But she didn't have time to hesitate.

She spat blood at his face and slammed her hands against his chest. The lord jerked back, allowing her knee some space to move. She beat it into his stomach and watched as he lost his balance. Lyanna saw a way in.

Her fingers found his discarded sword, and she shoved her way atop him. "I," Lyanna heaved angrily, "Win."

The flat of the tourney sword was pressed against the young lord's neck, and his eyes were wide. The yard had quieted down significantly, and Lyanna wondered why.

"Lyanna!" The voice cut through the silence deeper than any sword could cut through flesh. Lyanna's heart dropped into her throat. Seven hells, she swore. Grinding her teeth, Lyanna leaped from the man's massive body and turned to face her brother.

Brandon Stark was not a small man. His height reached over six feet and his body was broad and muscled. His hair was a dark brown, nearly black just like hers, and he kept his beard cropped short. Many ladies called him handsome, and Lyanna had no trouble seeing why. He wore the traditional Stark colors: gray and black from head to toe. He was the eldest of Rickard Stark's four children, his twentieth name day come and gone, and heir to Winterfell by birthright. She tried not to be afraid of him, but his rage was cold and unnerving. She straightened her spine, and inclined her chin upward. She was a Stark, a wolf of the North by birth and she would not cower at her brother's displeasure. Brandon's lips were pressed in a fine line as he crossed the barren yard.

Looking over his shoulder, Lyanna could see her other brother, Eddard, following in Brandon's wake. His expression was unreadable.

Brandon's black boots descended on the ground with even, measured steps, and Lyanna stood as still as ice. When he finished crossing the yard, he stood two feet from her and didn't say anything. Lyanna's hands curled into fists, her right hand still grasping the tourney sword. A headache began to sweep into her temples, the quick pulse of her heart throbbed with every beat.

She met Brandon's cold grey gaze with one of anger and refused to break it.

"Drop the sword," he commanded. Biting back an argument, Lyanna held the hilt tightly for a few defying seconds before tossing it a few paces away, her anger palpable. It fell with a soft clunk in the dirt. The afternoon's summer breeze whipped tendrils of damp hair into Lyanna's face. The dark hair danced about her eyes, caressed her cheeks, and stroked her small straight nose. She could feel more blood gushing from her cheek, and let it pool in her mouth. Eddard took his place beside his brother and stood watching her. "Now," Brandon started, trying to keep his voice steady. "Tell me what in seven hells are you doing, Lyanna."

"Practicing." She replied icily.

"Father said no swords. He said no, Lyanna. How dare you defy him."

She started at that.

"It's not fair, Brandon! You know it isn't. I have a right-"

"You have no right," he snarled in an undertone. "You have a duty to your house, a duty to do as your told, Lyanna. You don't get to decide. Father said no, and that's final." He locked a solid hand around her forearm, and leaned forward, his eyes flashing angrily. "I have half a mind to send you back to Winterfell-"

Lyanna interrupted, her voice furious. "You can't do that. I'm a guest here as much as you, I've come to watch the tourney."

"Exactly," he growled. "Watch, Lyanna. Not fight in it."

Brandon looked over her head to the unknown lord standing a few paces behind them and watching with uncertain eyes. He seemed completely unsure of himself.

"I must apologize for my sister's actions, my lord. She does not know her place," Brandon called out, his hand still curled around her arm. "Do you have a name?"

The young man rubbed dirt off his cheek and spat a wad of blood onto the dirt. "I'm of House Frey," he grunted. Lyanna's face became a mask, she would not apologize willingly to a Frey. If Brandon wanted her to be courteous, he would have to choke it out of her.

"And what might I do to repay you for my sister's trouble?" Brandon's hand tightened on her arm.

The Frey's eyes flickered to Lyanna and took a minute to search her. Rage burned afresh in her veins. How dare he look at her like cattle! She was not something to be bought or sold in a market. She was a Stark, a wolf, a child of winter, how dare her look at her with such disrespect!

"I might be in need of a wife. She's not bad on the eyes, I should think, not bad at all." His expression grew hungry, like a starving man being tempted with fresh meat. She could feel her brother's disgust, and could taste the tension in the air.

"I'm sorry to disappoint, my lord, but Lyanna is already promised to another."

The Frey's expression clouded over and he scowled. After a long paused he sneered, "I'd keep her on a shorter leash if I were you, my lord. A bitch like her isn't easy to control." A few hoots of laughter could be heard from the watching crowd, and Lyanna lunged forward, face flushing. Brandon, however, held her back, but she could feel his hackles rising.

"Guard your tongue, my lord," he called, his voice dangerous. With a cruel smirk and a shake of his head, the Frey man spat again. "Apologize, Lyanna."

"I won't-"

"Now, " he growled.

Straightening up, Lyanna stuck her chin high in the air. She ripped her arm from her brother's grasp and turned to the Frey man.

"Deepest apologies, my lord," she spoke slowly. "I hope I didn't hurt you too badly. Your nose looks regrettably off balance in comparison to your face, and your eyes seem a bit cross, but I'm positive a maester will be able to accommodate you." A handful of the crowd members roared with laughter and Lyanna curtseyed softly before turning and stalking away, her two brothers in tow.

A/N: So, that went. . . well, I hope. Please let me know what you think, I have no problem with harsh criticism, I'll do whatever it takes to better myself. Lyanna, in GRRM's books, is described as headstrong, willful, and beautiful (a lot like Arya, who is constantly compared to Lyanna). If my calculations are correct, Lyanna is 13 when the Tourney of Harrenhal takes place, Rhaegar is 22, Robert and Ned are both 18, and Brandon is 20. I am writing Lyanna to be exactly what she is: a child. She will be very childish in some ways, mature in others. I hope everyone can bare with me on my take of her. I expect to be writing Howland Reed into this plot, as he is at the tourney. Again, comments are much appreciated! :) Thanks for reading.