A/N: Everything, including my bullshit excuses will be at the end. Enjoy! :)
Chapter 9
"Who gave you such a thick chunk of steel, my lady? Whoever it was needs a flogging." Ser Arthur teased. Lyanna's sword was slung lazily over one shoulder, gripped loosely by her right hand. She could feel rivers of sweat roll sluggishly down her spine and although it was still early morning, the sun's heat was overwhelming. Curse this summer sun.
"Why don't you get off your horse, Ser Arthur, and then we'll see who needs a flogging." Lyanna grinned, boots sinking further into the mud. She swung the sword down from her shoulder and turned around, making her way steadily across the field up to the castle. "You lot can get up now," Lyanna barked at the men still kneeling. "You'll be of no use to anyone with your noses in the mud."
The steady tromping of the horse's hooves behind her let Lyanna know Rhaegar and Arthur were following. Her brothers had gotten off the tree stump and bowed their heads to the prince dutifully as he passed. Lyanna snatched the half eaten apple from Brandon's limp grasp, biting into the succulent fruit, juice dribbling down her chin. Darry castle loomed up stout and sturdy before them, its stones weatherbeaten and worn from all its years standing. It was not as mighty as Winterfell nor as impregnable as the Eryie, but Darry had never been brought down, and for that, Lyanna respected the small castle. You needn't be monstrous to withstand the world and all its horrors, only smart.
"Argoy Whent nearly drowned himself in wine last night, he was so worried," Lyanna shouted over her shoulder as they came closer to the front gates. A stable boy spotted them and ran off. The group came to a halt and waited for the rest of the castle to be notified of their arrival. "What exactly took his royal highness so far off course?" She directed the question at Arthur with an arch of her brow. Her voice was drawling, casual, with just enough affected concern to be polite. She had perfected this manner of speech with her father and Maester Luwin. They both nagged her on her courtesies as a proper lady, insisting she remember her decorum during her sessions. Luwin has given up when she was seven, but kept up the observance for the sake of ceremony. Lord Rickard was not so shaken, and adamantly exhorted Lyanna to assume the ladylike formalities she was expected to endow gracefully.
The sunlight backlit the two riders, forcing Lyanna to squint up at them. "Call it spontaneity, if you'd like, although, I prefer torture. I was lost, not even the Seven could point me in the right direction," Arthur slide a glance at his close friend. "Although, I believe Rhaegar knew where we were the entire time. The amount of pain the prince causes my heart is astounding."
"It is a talent hurting hearts," Lyanna tilted her head to evade the sun. She stepped forward and into the shadow of Rhaegar's horse. The black beast sniffed at her, breathing heavily, its nostrils flaring. Lyanna cupped her palm around the juicy red apple, fingering the fruit behind her back. "How many hearts have you skewered, Your Grace? It must be quiet a number. I could never compete. Stable boys and rancid guards is all I tempt." She blinked up through the light at the silver hued dragon prince, with his even shoulders and formidable frame and strong featured face. The otherworldly traits of the Targaryens was impossible to ignore. Oh, yes. The prince has broken many hearts, most by mere glances, she guessed. Lyanna wondered if he had broken Elia's. It was a strange thought. Elia of Dorne was his lady wife, a sweet and elegant thing. The two had all the happinesses Westeros could present, it seemed. But everyone had their shadows and the Iron Throne cast innumerable shadows upon the family who possessed it.
"Lying to a member of the royal family is a heinous crime, Lady Lyanna," Ser Arthur quipped from atop his white warhorse. "You have ruined countless hearts, I'm sure of it."
"Lies!" Lyanna snickered. "Lying to a lady is bad luck, Ser Arthur Dayne," Lyanna teased with a twist of her lips, planting the tip of her sword into the ground. "But lie to a wolf," she shook her head, eyebrows rising with a look of reproach. "We travel in packs, did you know? Little Benjen has a nasty punch, I'll warn you."
Lyanna presented the apple to the great black horse who hungrily devoured it within a matter of seconds. It nuzzled her fingers for more, but whined softly upon discovering there was nothing more. Lyanna shushed the beast, running her hand against its long jaw. Her fingers scratched behind its large ears and Lyanna smiled when the horse leaned into her arm, snorting appreciatively.
The sound of gates opening and a cacophony of voices announced the lords arrival. Argoy Whent's bold voice echoed across the yard, "Your Grace, ah! Thank the gods!" Lyanna sighed and took Whent's arrival as her queue to depart. She gripped the hilt of her sword firmly before slipping between Ser Arthur and Rhaegar's horses and settling herself into the mass of guards that had accompanied her and her brothers onto the field earlier that morning.
"So, you're telling me that if the Grumpkin King of the Warring Waters battled Angus Great Skins, Angus would win? That's pathetic, Ly. Old Nan said the Grumpkin King could smash in a man's skull with one hand while ripping off his leg with the other-"
"But Angus had bears and shadowcats, Ben, be logical. And besides, the Grumpkins were daft, not to mention they had horrible eyesight." Lyanna leaned against the courtyard's stone column, legs and arms lazily crossed, Ben practicing his sword forms before her. "Slide your foot back. There, that's right."
The sun had departed behind Darry's towers and the compact courtyard were shrouded in shadow.
"I want a shadowcat," Ben mused in a childlike tone, sword falling to his side. "Rotten they only live north of the Wall."
Lyanna turned her head and peered at her younger brother. "We'll go someday, Ben. Then you can bring back twenty shadowscats."
"Father would never let me keep them."
"Father would never know," Lyanna whispered, rustling her fingers through Benjen's black curls. "We'd find somewhere to hide them all."
"Hide what?" A voice interrupted. Ser Arthur strode up, light glittering off his armor. Lyanna immediately took note of Dawn strapped on his back. A kingsguard was never without his sword.
"Nothing of your concern, Ser Arthur."
"As long as it doesn't involve scorpions and sun peppers. My brother and sister played a nasty trick on me when I was a boy. I've never gotten over it." Ben giggled and Lyanna spared him a smile. It sounded like something she and Brandon would do to Ned.
"Should I inquire as to where those scorpions were dispatched, good ser?"
"No, definitely not. That tale is not for children's tender ears."
"I'm not a child!" Ben said with as much maturity he could muster. The squeak of his voice discarded any ground he held. Unfolding her arms from her chest, Lyanna rested her hands on the stone pillar behind her.
"Lady Lyanna, Lady Darry requests your presence, she sent me to search for you."
"Don't you have princes to guard, Ser Arthur?" Lyanna asked. "Why does Lady Darry require your valiant kingsguard services, pray tell?"
Ser Arthur sighed. "Rhaegar is hiding somewhere, and Lady Darry caught me in the corridor, I didn't necessarily have a choice in the matter. This castle is so incredibly small, I seem to run into everyone but the cook in those damned halls." He ran a gloved hand through his dark locks, mussing the curls back behind his ears.
"Hiding? Why would His Grace be hiding?" Ben asked, and Lyanna was grateful she didn't have to, the question was burning on her tongue.
"Well, the Grumpkin King is rumored to roam the Riverlands." Ser Arthur said with a knowing smirk. "I wouldn't be surprised if he came here to snatch up the prince especially-after your sister, of course. He'd take her for his bride, but he'd probably roast Rhaegar over a burning pit."
Lyanna snorted, "The prince is a Targaryen. Everyone knows fire will only make dragons stronger." She pushed herself off the pillar, side-stepping Arthur. "A meeting with Lady Darry sounds enticing, ser, but I have other engagements."
"Like what?" Ben frowned. She began walking at a brisk pace across the courtyard, Ben trailing behind her. She thought about going to her chamber, taking a bath and washing all the grass and dirt from her body, but then realized she didn't really mind and she wasn't ready to be locked up just yet.
She needed a door, a stair, another hall. . . anything! Darry castle was so small, every path lead to the kitchens. Lyanna could slip out the back door and creep around the-
"Lyanna, wait! Where're you going? Brandon said we were going to dinner in an hour, he said-"
"Oh, what are you, Ben!? His messenger maid? Brandon isn't king of castle, you know. If you stopped listening to him maybe you'd have a bit more fun." Ser Arthur still stood where they'd left him, running another hand through his hair, shoulders resisting the weight of his position. Lyanna doubted she was making his job any easier.
She shouldered a door to her left and took the first few steps down the dark stairwell. Already she could smell the aroma of sweet dumplings and roasting boar. "But, Ly!" Ben simpered softly. "Where're you going? Can I come with you?"
"Go find Ned," she flourished her hand at him, her attention elsewhere. "Or someone. Just don't do anything I wouldn't."
"Which is what, exactly? You always do stupid things." His voice stretched along the stairwell in an echo. "Where're you going?"
"I'm praying. It's a rather personal exploit and I'd prefer to go it alone." Her sloppy braid swung against her chest as she took a few more steps down the stair. The door was coming to a close and was snatching away the light with it.
"Praying!?" Ben shouted. "What are you praying for?!"
"A steady stream of conscience," Lyanna grumbled to herself bitterly. "My betrothed to not be such a dog nipping at my heels," her fingers grazed the stone wall as she staggered down the stairs, trying to get a proper footing. "My fucking maidenhead to be intact when I die. . . ."
Color bloomed in the sky like a blush blooms on a maiden's cheek, and Lyanna admired the fading sun from the branches of a heart tree.
Dusk was beginning to spread over the godswood slowly and the warmth the of the summer sun had not yet evaporated from the air. Lyanna could see traces of pink laced into the contours of the clouds high above through the branches of her tree. A canopy of red leaves loomed overhead, rustling with the breeze.
There was dirt underneath her fingernails, Lyanna observed. A knuckle of her right hand was scraped and bruising a faint purple, while the thumb of her left hand was swelling from a nasty encounter with some armor. The cut on her cheek was crusted with dried blood and her grey tunic was stained and torn as were her trousers. Benjen's leather vest clung to her waist too tightly to be deemed comfortable, and her braid was unraveling strands of dark hair, leaving her to battle the locks sweeping into her eyes unceremoniously.
It was quiet. The sweet kind of quiet. When the birds fall silent and the wind fills up your ears with its whispering; when the ground is not bothered by the scuffling of boots, nor the air with the harsh sound of voices thrumming across its emptiness. It was simply the soft melody of Lyanna's breath and the flutter of her lashes against her cheeks as she closed her eyes, letting go of the rope that fastened her to the surrounding world. It was just her up in the heart tree, a weirwood that's face could possibly be mistaken for laughing.
And then the rope caught Lyanna around the waist and yanked her from the quiet place, from very high up in the tree. The rope was a voice, and how lovely that voice sounded. It said her name. The name was called with familiarity, as if the address slid from lips that had handled it before. There was no 'lady' preceding the name, which made Lyanna appreciative. She grew weary of the formalities.
Opening her eyes, Lyanna saw the branches of the weirwood and the red leaves swaying and nothing had changed. But then Lyanna looked down from her perch and her teeth found her bottom lip.
"What are you doing?" She asked, her confusion had turned to anger and her voice was harsh.
"I came to the godswood to seek guidance from the Old Gods, but if this heart tree is claimed, I will find myself another." Rhaegar stepped back.
"Why are you hiding?" Lyanna questioned, her voice carrying a tone of accusation.
Rhaegar's brow dipped in confusion."I don't understand."
Lyanna breathed out in frustration, sleep departing from her entirely. "Ser Arthur said you were hiding. Why? What could you possibly be hiding from?" He surely wasn't avoiding the Grumpkin King.
The prince stepped forward hesitantly, a thoughtful pout possessing his mouth. "There are many things and all the more reasons. All of them are naive and imprudent. I will spare you of them."
Lyanna settled her neck back against the trunk of the tree, her breath steadying. A few moments passed without disturbance, and the quiet fell once more. If all the world were heart trees and sunsets, everything would be much simpler, she thought, fatigued. And certainly no princes. . . .
"Why do you fight?" Rhaegar asked abruptly. He had rested himself at the base of the weirwood, among the sprawling roots and fallen leaves, his shoulders relaxed. He held a red leaf between his long fingers, twirling the stem around in a flurry of color. "Surely there are more. . . simpler activities you could busy yourself with. Why bother with swords?"
She took a few breaths before supplying the prince with an answer.
"When I was a child I remember being frightened of the tales we were told. Winter tales. Snow bears, grumpkins, and white walkers," Rhaegar's head tilted up at her. Lyanna hung her head to the side and could peer down at him from her branch. "This ancient woman, Old Nan, has been at Winterfell since before I can remember. She told us all the stories. She loved to scare us, my brothers and I. She'd preach of winters and wildlings, wolves, and ice creatures." Wind tousled her hair against her cheeks as she spoke. "I would have terrible dreams after those tales. I'd wake up crying, scared out of my wits." Lyanna could recall the feel of the stone beneath her feet as she ran down the corridors. "I'd crawl into bed with Brandon or Ned, and they'd ask me what was wrong, and I'd be convinced I saw a wildling out my window, or a wight had come into my bed chamber to steal me away.
"They'd tell me I saw nothing. They'd say no creature could get beyond the Wall, that the sworn brothers of the Watch would guard us. I'd ask them what if the Wall crumbled, what if the Nights Watch failed? What would happen to us then?" Rhaegar listened silently, the leaf still clutched in his fingers. "They said that nothing could break the walls of Winterfell, that the guards would save us then. I asked what if they killed the guards and broke our stone walls. They told me if the walls fell and the guards had all been beaten, that they would protect me. That I'd be safe with them."
Lyanna found it hard to speak, her lips willed the words forth, but her throat was cinched closed. She grasped the rough bark of the the tree, her skin digging into the grooves of the wood, pain forcing her forward. She was thankful Rhaegar couldn't properly see her face.
"But then they left me." The words were fractured by the pain in her chest. "Brandon became a ward of Lord Dustin and left for Barrowton," Lyanna swallowed. "And Ned was sent to the Vale, a ward of Jon Arryn. They were gone for so long, I feared they had left me for good. But I still had Ben. He was very young then, only three years or so." Lyanna messed with the fringes of her grey tunic, her mind flushing with the memories. "Old Nan still spun her tales. I was impartial to them," she smiled. "She had already tainted me, but Ben was a tender babe. He grew frightened of the stories-he'd come to my chambers and cry about the white walkers. I'd tell him of the Wall and Watch, and how strong Winterfell was. But, still, he'd press on. What if the Wall crumbled and the Night's Watch failed? What if Winterfell was taken and all the guards killed?" Lyanna paused, and glanced at the silver haired head below her. Rhaegar was staring up at her, his expression pensive.
"I told him that if the Wall was destroyed, and if the Night's Watch failed-that if the stones of Winterfell could not hold the creatures of winter back, and the guards could not save us, that I would protect him."
Ben had looked at her with such trust in his grey eyes, eyes that were so alike hers, that Lyanna found she had to keep that trust. She fought with the guards, practiced with the weapons in the armory and wielded a sword as well as any man in the yard by the time she was ten and two. Callous fingers and scraped knees was the price she paid, as well as her father's disapproval. But there was nothing sweeter to Lyanna than the sound of steel.
Rhaegar was still resting at the base of the tree, his legs straightened before him, his hands folded in his lap as politely as one can look while sitting in a godswood with a maiden high up in a tree, telling you tales of her childhood.
Lyanna shifted her way through the branches and lowered herself down, making it so she was only a few feet above his head. Her legs swung reminiscently through the air, and her hair fell around her face. Rhaegar studied her. "That is why I fight, Your Grace."
The prince stood, the red leaf dancing between his fingers as he sifted his way among the roots. He weaved a path through the weirwood's fingers, the black boots on his feet contrasting with the bloody red leaves. Rhaegar paced like that for a few long moments, before meeting Lyanna's eye. His silver hair swept against his jaw as he watched her and Lyanna waited for him to speak.
"I, too, was fond of tales. Stories and songs of great warriors, battles, and creatures. I liked the dragons most of all. I used to wish I had one," he chuckled under his breath. "I'm not the first Targaryen to wish for a dragon, it would seem. I read all the histories, as well. Accounts of knights and their accomplishments, magic across the Summer Isles, the First Men," his eyes filtered to Lyanna. "Tales of the Night's Watch, and records of ranger's expeditions beyond the Wall.
"Deep down into the libraries of Kingslanding there're old books collected by the finest maesters over the span of three hundred years," Rhaegar resumed pacing slowly between the roots once more, rubbing his jaw, his face still with concentration. "One day, I found something peculiar. A scroll. The oldest scroll I'd ever seen. Written in numerous substances. Blood, ink, gold, and other odd mixtures. It foretold a tale of a prince," Rhaegar's lips twitched. "'The Prince that was Promised,' it spoke of. One man destined to defeat the long winter and vanquish the darkness. To destroy the wights and walkers alike. I assumed, naturally, that this was me," Rhaegar smiled and gestured to himself, but not out of fondness. "I believed I was the one the scroll spoke of, do you see?" His voice was melodious, ringing with a fevered passion, his words surging with vitality. "I thought it was destined-written in time. 'A song of ice and fire,' it said. . . ." His hand surged through his hair in a moment of overcoming vigor. He fisted the silver strands, his chest expelling the air from his lungs in suspended vexation. "But it was only a story, nothing more. I didn't realize that when I was a boy. It was so long ago, now. Everything's different." He stopped himself, the speech dying on his tongue. Rhaegar clamped his lips together and stared at the weirwood tree, almost helplessly, like a starved man being tempted with a feast not his for the taking.
Lyanna could see he was mislead. It was plain upon his face. Lost, confused, and battling the solitude that came with his position. Some said the Targaryens were mad, driven to insanity by the blood of the dragon they apparently descended from. But perhaps it wasn't the dragon's blood. Perhaps they just had insurmountable desires.
Rhaegar walked closer to the trunk of the enormous heart tree, and gazed at the oozing face carved into the bark. Red sap dripped down the wood and Lyanna watched him. The prince placed his hands against the tree and leaned forward, slumping his shoulders, revealing to Lyanna the weight he bore upon them. The weight of a kingdom, the burden of a father, the responsibility of a family, protection and happiness of a great many people. She longed to asked him if it was worth it. Lyanna felt ashamed to be a part of that burden. She must have weighed quiet a bit upon his back.
Rhaegar turned his head from its downcast position to look at her. "It is said the Children of the Forest carved these faces," Rhaegar mused aloud, running a pale ringed finger along the gauged face marks. "Some believe the Old Gods watch over their followers through the eyes of the heart-tree," Lyanna snorted.
"Maester Luwin was sagacious enough to know a bit about the old histories, Your Grace. I grew up among these trees, I know them." Lyanna titled her head to get a clearer view of the face. "There used to be thousands of heart trees," her voice was somber. "The Andals changed that, though, didn't they? Chopped 'em all down, all except the forests in the North. No doubt they pissed green, the cravens. Felt a bit of winter and scampered back to their summer suns."
Rhaegar stroked the tree's open mouth, sap clinging to his fingers. "This one's angry." The face did indeed look rather cross, its mouth manifesting into a silent snarl.
"The Children made the faces frightening to ward off Andals and First Men alike. They posed as a warning."
Rhaegar did something similar to a smile. "Are there no laughing heart threes?"
The reference to the assumed name she took at the tourney made Lyanna's stomach clench. She glared at the prince and the tree both. Flipping her mangled braid over her shoulder, Lyanna swung down from her perch in the tree and rolled to her feet. Brushing the debris from her trousers, Lyanna felt Rhaegar's eyes on her. Ignoring his gaze she strode up to the trunk of the tree. Scowling at her lack of provision, Lyanna looked at Rhaegar and then at his attire. Silk black tunic with a black leather vest, and black trousers-
Ah, there we are.
Stepping lightly into between the gnarled roots, Lyanna came uncommonly close to the Targaryen prince. At the close proximity of their bodies, Rhaegar immediately stepped back. Lyanna jutted out her chin in annoyance. The dagger at his side was ornamented with jewels and the handle was fashioned from bone. Her fingers had just curled around the hilt when her wrist spasmed in pain. Rhaegar's hand was locked around her arm, a frown appearing across his brow.
"I'm not going to stab you, Your Grace, merely answering your question." He let go slowly. Lyanna thumbed the knife, dragging her finger along the blade. It will suffice, she suspected.
Turning to the angry weirwood, Lyanna drove the dagger into the pale bark. The screeching mouth, with Lyanna's steady hand, soon morphed into a lopsided grin. Impressed with her work, she stepped back. She cleaned the blade with the edge of her soiled tunic, red sap sticking to the blade, before handing it-hilt first-back to Rhaegar.
"Will the gods be pleased with your work?" He asked.
"Well, it's such pleasant work, they must be. It's better than my needlework at least."
"The Old Gods are more tolerant than I envisioned them to be. Little girls sneaking about their forests, mucking up their shrines."
"I am the blood of the First Men. They surely will appreciate craft of their own. And besides, the gods will never know."
"The gods always know, Lady Lyanna. They bare witness to all the doings of their people. Little girls are no exception."
Lyanna's mouth puckered tautly at his address and her lips twisted wicked. "Then let them bare witness," she pitched her chin slightly higher in the air. "I do not fear them."
Rhaegar raised a pale brow, his eyes calculating. "Some would think you're quite foolish, my lady, to speak such things."
Ben's vest was stitched up Lyanna's front, pressing uncomfortably into her injured side. Her fingers itched to relieve the wound of its bothers and drown it in hot wine, but that would have to wait. Despite the deep, pulsating ache throughout her muscles, Lyanna stood perfectly still. The tree remained laughing at her, and she wondered if the expression was mocking her.
"I am foolish, Your Grace." She admitted in a hushed voice. "Just a silly foolish girl," Lyanna turned to the heart tree-laughing tree. "But to let surreptitious beings have a ruling hand over my doings would be the utmost treason I could inflict upon myself. I may be foolish, but so are many others to believe they have no choice in the matter of their lives because a god may be displeased. I am foolish you say, Your Grace? So be it, but you are foolish as well to think I will prohibit myself from acting of my own accord and not succumbing to my own desires, whatever they may be, because a fat septon in robes tells me it's wrong." Rhaegar's face was calm in the way a sea was before a surging storm. His eyes were indulging in what he himself could not and that was the girl standing mere steps from him, her face turned just slightly from the tree to be assured of his presence, her profile striking in the evening light.
Lyanna waited or Rhaegar to reply, no doubt with some guarded and valid murmuring that would be an attempt to ease her resilience. She turned from the laughing heart tree, prepared to liberate her conscience of many things she wished to say when Rhaegar began to speak.
Lyanna's back straightened at the steel in his voice, her jaw tightening. "Is that what you truly believe, my lady? That I am foolish? You think because I am not forthright with my emotions and because I do not speak every fleeting word that dabbles across my conscience that I am unscathed by mortal desires? That I do not hurt, crave, and bleed like any other man?"
Lyanna twisted her neck to see his face and was surprised by his calm demeanor, even now with the words spoken with such ferocity and anguish. Her chest tightened at the burning of his eyes. Light filtered through the branches and licks of sunlight glowed against the prince's silver hair, abandoning half his body in shadow. Lyanna was beginning to see the many faces of Prince Rhaegar, fearing him, but intrigued by him as well. The power and venom seeping with every breath he exhaled made her fingers tingle at her sides.
Lyanna watched him with a steady gaze, wondering just when he would break. She had been tempering him like a fine piece of steel, bending him at her will, but Rhaegar was bound to shatter.
"A man of my situation," he chose his words carefully, "does not have the luxury of surrendering to his wants. I have a position to maintain, people to rule over, I cannot stop all that for a meaningless whim." He stood still and straight, fists clenched tightly.
"Meaningless, Your Grace?" Lyanna growled, feeding off his malcontent. "Is your satisfaction that unimportant to you?"
"The happiness of my people will always come before my own."
"A selfless sentiment, Your Grace. I'm sure it will please everyone to know," his gaze was penetrating. "But you lie."
Rhaegar's lips split from their tight facade. "What?"
"I know you for a liar, Your Grace." Lyanna uttered indignantly. "I am the evidence of your dishonesty, the reason for your shame." Her voice trembled with anger. "The day you bestowed the crown of winter roses to me is the mark of many unhappy people, not to mention a father-a king. You displeased the entire Riverlands that day, but that is where you lie a second time: you gave in to your longing, put yourself before your people." Rhaegar's expression seemed to soften at her words. Lyanna's eyes smoldered and her voice was cold. "You chose. Now you must live with that burden, that shame, and I with you. So please, Your Grace, save me your petty sermons of selflessness, I know you have sacrificed much, but do not lie to me about desire. You of all people should know how it feels to be caught in a trap. You faced Elia of Dorne and took her for your lady wife. You said the vows, as I one day will take with Robert, but please save me the discourtesy and tell me the truth."
Rhaegar stood so still she feared he had turned to stone. Anger no longer possessed his violet eyes, but the tightness in his shoulders remained. Lyanna saw a small muscle in his jaw twitch. His composer was slipping.
Rhaegar took a step forward in a rush of black leather. His hands brushed against her cheeks, ensnaring them in her hair and his mouth met her own. Lyanna's whole body arched away from him, "Get off me-get off!" She growled against his lips, writhing, her arms shoving him away. "Get off-You fucking-lying bastard," her palms dug into his chest, but Rhaegar wouldn't yield, he was fighting her. Lyanna's fingers trembled, suddenly roaming against skin where she should have been drawing blood. Her mouth pressed angrily against Rhaegar's, a growl building in her throat, suddenly craving the taste of him. Her body no longer resisted his touch, instead she ached for it. Rhaegar's arm wrapped around her waist, cradling her to him. Lyanna's fingertips wandered against his chest, stretching around his broad shoulders, pulling him closer. She fed off the urgency in which he kissed her, and the tenderness of his fingers as he trailed a hand down her side. Lyanna cried out against his mouth as the wound at her side pulsed in pain. Ignoring the searing flesh and roaring in her head, Lyanna dragged her fingers across Rhaegar's jaw, stroking her thumb across his cheek, feeling the skin and bone she was so desperate to touch.
The scent of potent sap filled her nose as they collided against the heart tree and Lyanna wondered if the gods bore witness to their passion, their clash of fire and ice. The prince and the she-wolf surrounded by leaves bathed in red as the sun finally set on the godswood.
"You are neither my regret nor my shame," Rhaegar croaked into Lyanna's ear, "Gods, Lyanna. What have you done to me?" He shook his head solemnly, strands of hair rustling with the evening breeze. "I do not regret-"
Lyanna's chest heaved, her breath quivering with dying rage. "Prove it," she whispered. "Before the Old Gods and the New, let them hear your words."
"It is not words I want, my lady," he murmured. "Let the gods have my words," Rhaegar's eyes glittered and his breath was hot against her neck. "They are wind."
A/N: And there we have it, our SMOOOCHHHHH. Whhooo.
I am so incredibly sorry for the incredibly long wait, it took me an incredibly long time to write this incredibly juicy chapter. Okay sorry, I'll stop saying incredibly now. . . . Anyway, I just started junior year a few weeks ago and like many of you have already experienced: it is quite the fucking hell everyone says it is. Not fun. But I really am sorry and hopefully will get the next chapter up sooner rather than later, but this year is very straining and takes a lot of energy.
I really hope it's satisfactory, if the kiss sucks dragons balls, I apologize, seeing as I've never had one of my own, writing them can be a challenge. You can pretend it happened in a completely different way, more descriptive, better way if you'd like.
Leave something in the comments if you're feeling particularly kind, and I'll love you forever and ever! :) For those of you who have been reviewing, I seriously cannot thank you enough, it means a TON.
PS: sorry for any terrible grammar, punctuation mistakes; it's 12 am and I've been doing homework all day, I am a bit slow from sleep deprivation, please excuse me.
Again, thanks to all of you for reviewing and a big thanks to Anita for her support, you're a big help! XD
