"It was not a happy home she had with her Storm lord," Daeny says giving Maega a slight push with her foot. "Can you really blame her for searching for happiness elsewhere?"
"Well, no." Maega's serious face becomes slightly sullen. "But he died fairly quick. Why didn't she marry the King then?"
Daeny smiles softly at her little sister who is trying too hard to understand all the reasons. "When Robert Baratheon rebelled against the throne he did a great disservice to Lyanna. As his widow she was treated no better than a person touched by plague."
"That's not fair!" That a man's foolishness should reflect so on a wife he barely even spent time with seems a crime to Maega's mind.
"It isn't." Daeny Stark shakes her heap for emphasis. "Nothing else either. But she still turned it all around . She became Queen. So, do you want to hear the story or not?"
"Yes!" Maega settles down on the bed, cross-legged and attentive to her older sister who pulls out the tome. "That's gonna take a while, isn't it?"
280 AL
Lyanna Stark cried in the comfortable darkness of her room. They were set to do this. They were truly going to wed her to Robert Baratheon. "Oh, Gods," she cried in her pillow. "Anything but that." She had met him and she knew him to be quite affable on first glance. However if one probed deeper they would find the beginning of a nightmare. Her father meant well, but he knew only of Robert's skill and the status of his family, not about the imbibing or of the bastards. If he'd known, Lyanna was sure he would have not given her hand in marriage to such a man. Father respected honour.
In somewhat of a daze, the young she-wolf crawled from under her covers and snuck outside her room. Barefoot she tiptoed across the halls and down the narrow staircase. The round moon lit her way as she left the torches behind. The snow was soft and cold beneath her feet, the sting of needles making her feel alive, as did the wind blowing her hair. She reached the entrance of the godswood with a prayer on her lips and dread burrowed deep in her heart. "Don't let him get me." Her Gods would protect her here, they would watch over her. "Please, let me stay." The carved face remained motionless to her plea. "I beg you," she half whispered, her feet carrying her closer to the edge of the small pond which had frozen. She was liable to catch a chill, but Lyanna did not care for such things. "Better that I die free."
Her night of prayer brought comfort, the cold, dark sort that is too swiftly blown apart by the first rays of sun. Aye, for when the morning came, gold spilling over ink, then came her father also. Rickard Stark was not pleased to find his daughter where she was, curled under the red leaves. He marched her back to her rooms with a frown and a scold and then he added a rap to her knuckles. "She is not to leave her rooms, Nan. Not until Robert Baratheon comes for her."
"Then let me not leave these rooms forever," Lyanna said to the emptiness and to the stones and to the fire burning low in the hearth.
Alas, her fate had never been her own. She to be passed from one man to another as they deemed fit, her voice ignored, her pleas left unheard. Not even the Gods would help her. She would learn when the years had passed over her that hers was a men's world, and men rarely paid attention to women if there was nothing to be gained of it. Few were those that felt for the hardships of women and fewer still those who would be impressed by them. Nay, Lyanna would have to make her own way using what wit she had.
Robert Baratheon came a fortnight into her captivity and under the tree he swore himself to her under the vigilant eyes of a Septon and she replied in kind, but her words were faded, her heart far from them, drowned in it's sorrow. However she was given one kindness.
"What mean you that she is not yet flowered?" Robert boomed.
"Calm yourself, Lord Baratheon. She is yet three-and-ten. For certain she will be fully bloomed in a few months. I simply ask that you keep away from her bed until such."
Bedding a woman unflowered was regarded as degenerated and crude, punishable in the eyes of Robert's gods. Lyanna did not grant them their fate. She kept to her own, yet this turn of events suited her all too well. Robert's touch woke fright into her, it made her tremble in disgust to see his eyes on her when she danced with Benjen or Eddard. She had little pity in her heart for the man and was critical of him and his ways.
"He does love you, Lya," Eddard tried to persuade her. "Just allow him to and you shall be happy for it."
"Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature." And those words should not have come out of the mouth of a child. They were wise in the way of old women. Despite her love of frolic, Lyanna had learned long ago that life was no game. She left her brother standing and joined her husband who by then was well in his cups.
And that was the wedding of Lyanna Stark to Robert of House Baratheon as it was recorded and as it was sung by those who had attended.
"I shall make you happy, sweet Lya," Robert slurred, grinning widely at her. "You will like Storm's End. The sea is beautiful and wild. Just like you." Such unguarded comments from the mouth of strangers had ever made her uncomfortable, so Lyanna kept her silence. "Here, have a drink!" Robert pushed the wine cup into her hands.
"I am not thirsty, my lord."
"Drink, I said," Robert snapped the next moment, eyes clouding over. "Do not disobey me, my lady."
Sensing eyes watching her and remembering quite well that as a wife she was under the power of her husband, she raised the cup to her lips and took a mouthful, chocking on the bitter taste. She had no love for wine. As the liquid slid down her throat she swore to herself that it was only this once. Never again would he have command of her after she was no longer under the watchful eyes of her father. Aye, once South she would find a way to freedom.
Doubtlessly, the sae would greet her with open arms should she have no other option in sight. And in truth the thought of water's cold embrace suited her well enough, better than the sharing of her husband's bed when she finally flowered. Alas she was beyond hoping that the day would not come. When it did, if she could, she would give herself to the waves.
"She should have just run away!" Maega interrupts. Her outburst has Daeny rising her eyes from the page and pushing her glasses back.
"Maega, if you can't listen, I'll stop reading." They are very similar, Maega and she. Daeny sets the open book on the sheets. They think along the same lines. It would have been wonderful for Lyanna to escape her marriage so easily. But those are fairytales. Lyanna's story is a true one, and like all the facts of life it mingles the sweet with the bitter.
"Don't stop reading," Maega whines. "I promise not to interrupt again. Just don't stop."
Daeny looks at the clock. "It's late." It is late, way past Maega's bedtime. "But I'll tell you what, you help me do the dishes," her sister's groan interrupts her. Daenys huffs. She goes on louder, "If you help me do the dishes, I'll finish my homework really quick tomorrow. Mom and dad are going to go to that party and the two of us can continue reading. What do you say?"
"Until late?" Maega does resent being treated like a baby, almost as much as she hates having to go to bed early. Not that she actually does, Daeny knows.
"Until as late as you can stand." Daeny bends the corner of the page they are on. "Put this under your bed." But it is she who does it. The book is heavy.
Lady Lyanna, Daeny thinks, is a wonder of sorts. From a helpless girl to a powerful woman, she dodged intrigue and played those who would have played her. It is no easy thing, her story is not a most happy one, but she is a fighter and in that a victor. Little wonder that her legend had endured until today. Daeny feels almost giddy at sharing her last name with such a woman.
