Prologue

It had started with that damned song.

Lyanna reached behind her carelessly to find purchase, but the Prince's kisses were as rough as his face was gentle. He tugged her closer to him, and opened her mouth effortlessly with his tongue. He smelled of ashes and roses; like the crown he had given her, which was now tucked inside the pages of her favourite book. It would wither in days, she was sure, but those roses had already harmed what was there to be harmed.

"Lyanna," he whispered, and it was so sweet that she whimpered. She had never in her life heard such a gentle voice. She was of the North: a she-wolf of winter, and the North was not a place for gentleness and sweet-spoken men. If someone were to tell her three days ago that she would soon be losing her mind and swooning over a Prince with the voice of a bard, she would laugh at the incredulity of it.

But the moment he had sang that song at the feast, her heart had melted, as if he had been playing at her heartstrings instead of the strings of his golden harp.

He kissed her gently on her brow, giving her time to catch her breath. As she harshly took in air and delved her fingers into his silvery hair, Rhaegar reached down and fumbled with the hem of her nightgown. His hands reached inside and Lyanna stifled a cry when his fingers made contact with the skin of her thigh.

She closed her eyes in bliss.

Lyanna loved her family, she truly did. She loved her father, and Benjen and Brandon, and her sweet Ned, and she would be ashamed to even think of bringing dishonor upon them and the house of Stark.

But she was not able to stop him, or herself. He had put her under a spell, as silly as it sounded to her ears. Her heart was filled with a longing she had never before felt for a person, let alone a man.

"My Prince," she whined, when his hand rubbed her over her breast.

Lyanna was not used to warmth, and she had blown out all the candles except one, in search of a little of the cold in the chambers where she slept. The flame danced wildly, and Lyanna tried to keep her eyes open and mouth closed when Rhaegar pressed himself against her. She was a maid, and inexperienced, but she knew enough to recognise his arousal. The soft thrust of his hips against her centre sent a jolt of pleasure through her body, and Rhaegar kissed her harder, sucking the swollen red of her lips.

"Let me have you," he asked.

Lyanna wanted to say no, for the love of her brother and for the honor of the North and her own, but she could only nod her head. Her body had betrayed her, terrifyingly.

Her took her to the feathered, and between his kisses turning from rough to soft and so on, Lyanna could barely hear her own voice that spilled from her lips like a strangled cry.

Rhaegar Targaryen took her once, twice and Lyanna melted exhausted in his arms. The candle burned off and so did her pleasure, as she ran her fingers over his chest, sculpted and bare. She raised her head to speak of something, but Rhaegar had fallen asleep, with a contended smile on his face.

Before drifting off to sleep herself, Lyanna heard him murmur about dragons and fire in his sleep, and in her own dreams, saw them both walking together, with a trail of blood following them.