Gazdan brings Lyanna back to him. There is a large red mark on her face and her eyes are tear-filled. How like a woman to cry over her own folly. "Leave us," he tells his uncle. What he wants to say is for her ears only. There are a thousand curses he could throw her way, a million charges, but he only manages this, "Why?" He catches her chin when she tries to look away. "Answer me, damn you!"
"My brother," she says, trying to pull away. Rhaegar will have none of that. His hold grows firmer. "I wanted to save him. For once I wanted to stop him from doing something stupid."
"Your brother," he spits out. "Is that supposed to excuse your behaviour?" It is not so much her leaving that bothers him. But that she did so without a word. Like every other woman, only lies fall from her lips. Rhaegar looks at her. "Did you save him?"
"No." Her answer brings a sort of perverse pleasure with it. "He never learned anything." She's told him of her brother, the irresponsible, hot-headed one. Rhaegar has known it was only a matter of time before he got himself killed. It is the same man he spared in the arena moons ago. "He survived the gladiators to die in a common, drunken brawl." Ten fights in the pit and he dies covered in sludge. Rhaegar almost laughs at that.
"I trusted you to stay here until my return." Her face is ashen. "Did I not say not to leave under any circumstances?" He takes one step closer and she one back. "There is not so very much to ask for, is it?" Her back hits the wall. Rhaegar's hand falls to her shoulder. He cannot help but notice she's shivering. Good. His other hand holds a still bloody knife. "Surely, surely, you did not wait until my back was turned to run off, to expressly disobey me. I must have heard it wrong. Tell me you did not jeopardize the Empire for one man." And her own position.
"He was my brother!" she screams at him, hands pushing against his chest.
"He was a drunken fool," Rhaegar returns calmly. "And you an even bigger fool." He strokes her abused cheek and wonders briefly who put the mark there. They will find themselves short of one hand. "I should just leave you here."
"Don't. Please don't." She pleads with her eyes; eyes that he's seen mist over with lust, eyes that he's seen laughing, eyes that have shed tears, eyes that he's been waking up to for almost a full year now. His heart advises understanding, his head demands he teach her a lesson. Rhaegar is frozen for a few seconds, looming over her as a marble statue. Does he forgive her? Blame her rashness on the moodiness of pregnant women?
His thumb brushes over a split lip. Talking has made the wound pull open. Red coats his skin. He remembers the light feeling in his chest when she told him of the babe – the maegi hadn't lied about the potion. He recalls, distinctly so, all those times he doubted that she was capable of deceit and disobedience. He's been proven wrong once more. "Why shouldn't I?"
Because his heart becomes lead at the though. Because he's grown used to her – like breathing – and he does not wish to. Because – damn it all – if he says he forgives her than none can hold her disobedience against her. Again the question, does he forgive her?
As if she has been waiting for the question, the woman catches his face between cold hands. It's sudden and heavy and not the most pleasant he's ever had, but her lips collide with his, the metallic taste of blood and grief mingling. He could cut her throat now. The knife hangs heavy in his hand. He could punish her impertinence. There are other women to bear him children.
But she's kissing him and she whispers foreign words such as 'love' and 'affection'. Elia has said the same. And where has that landed him. Yet it gives him pause. Women and their tricks. But this one appeals to him. Should he believe a life, just this once? For her?
Suddenly, Elia stand before him. The knife is at her throat before he knows what he's doing. She lets out a small gasp, and Lyanna stands before him again. He cleans away the blood oozing from her lower-lip. It's a gentle swipe, almost loving in its manner. It's by far the gentlest of touches he can manage in his current state. Forgive her, kill her? For a brief moment Elia's image overlaps hers. Rhaegar stares down at her expanding waist, round with his child. His child. The knife falls. He lets the weapon clatter to the ground.
Her face relaxes. Lyanna tentatively brings an arm around his shoulder, then the other. He allows her to. "Lyanna." And not Elia. She is Lyanna.
"I am not her, Rhaegar. I love you. I do." She pulls his hand, the one not holding her, to her middle. "I am not her."
Rhaegar nods. This has left him shaken. Women, they complicate matters. "They are all dead. The conspiracy has been eradicated." He is tired, so very tired.
"We leave for the Capital, then?" She is hopeful. He nods. Lyanna insists that he leave off writing to the Emperor. "There is time on the morrow, my lord."
"Rhaegar," he enunciates clearly. He is still angry – disappointed in the choice she made. But it is the past. And they must move forward. "You may use my name."
"Rhaegar," the name rolls off her lips. "The Empire can wait."
Unlike other times, he falls asleep first. He's never been quite this comfortable with another person sharing his bed. Bizarre, that is the word he thinks fits best. Not unpleasant. Would It have been different had he met Lyanna before?
What ifs, they do no good.
Now she is here because now if the right time for her to be here. The timing of the gods is the one that counts.