Warming up to Rhaenys is a difficult thing from day one. Lyanna does not want to love this child her husband has brought with him, yet when she hears the babe cry she often rocks her to sleep. And even as she battles this affection growing in her heart, trying to pull its roots out, Lyanna knows she will not be able to. After all, Rhaenys is not Rhaegar's seed, no matter his laying claim on her. She won't forgive him this taking of decisions on his own, but she cannot hate this tiny human who is blameless in this.

For some days Rhaegar keeps well away from her as they make for King's Landing. He mounts his steed and rides all day long, only entering when they stop near lakes and other bodies of water to let the horses drink their fill. Lyanna bows respectfully but won't say a word to him. The Prince lets her be, knowing that when her anger abates she will thaw. But they are nearing the capital, and he hasn't been able to kiss her properly, or hold her hand at all during this long journey. It irked him, yet Rhaegar does not force her into anything, though by right he can.

It grows colder and colder and dark when Lyanna finally asks him to the wheelhouse. The children have been sent to their own wheelhouse along with Rhaenys' nursemaid. Rhaegar enters just as she wraps her nightshift around her. He stares at it, his lips not moving, throat suddenly dry. He could simply take what he wants and leave after, bend her over and be done with it. Yet he wishes for her to come to him on her own, forgive him and consent to his touch. What value is there in a forced act?

"You're tired," she observes softly, advancing until she stands in front of him in this monstrous thing of a wheelhouse. Lyanna takes his hand and pulls him along. She reaches for the clasps and buckles holding his armour together, unfastening knots and pulling the black metal away to leave him in his shirt and breeches. This time, when his hand catches her arm, she remains still as a statue, dark eyes on him. Standing on her tiptoes, Lyanna kisses him, close but not quite on the lips. She teases because she can, and he deserves it.

They don't speak of the children, theirs or his; they make no sound besides a sharp breath here and there. Rhaegar lets her lead, shuddering at the ghost touch and barely kisses. He helps her out of the soft linen covering a body he knows like the back of his own hand. And then she climbs atop of him, sitting astride, her thighs to his hips. Lyanna isn't much in the way of a courtesan, she's always been a straight-forwards sort of woman, yet Rhaegar thinks that for all that he's never felt quite like this with any other female. Her minute figure moves constantly, up and down, and she places both his hands on her hips, coming to a halt when he dares to move them. She's not particularly generous, there is still resentment there, but Rhaegar takes what she gives all the same.

After, they are a tangle of limbs, messy and sweaty. He presses numerous kisses to all the spots he can reach without moving too much about. Her skin clings to his, damp to the touch and tasting of salt. Now Lyanna merely closes her eyes when his hands roam the bared expanse of flesh she presents him with. Rhaegar is pleased enough by her acceptance, kissing her fully on the lips, a slow, sated union of lips. Just as he makes to leave her side, Lyanna presses her hand to his chest firmly. Gray eyes burn into his.

"Stay." She lets the word hang between them; an invitation he can choose to honour or not. Her breath is hot against him when she buries her face in his neck, mumbling words without meaning against his skin. Lyanna is giving him the choice. She would have him if he chooses to remain here.

Dropping back to his place, Rhaegar feels her leg coming to rest on him. Her hand is still on his chest, fingers moving slightly as he settles down. He can feel the heat of her body as it coils around him, and Rhaegar thinks of vines and blue roses and red dragons and gray wolves. "Forever," he murmurs. "I'll stay forever."

A sudden halt makes him aware that they are no longer moving. Lyanna raises her head, pulling the sheets closer to her when Rhaegar throws his clothes on. He nods to her and steps out of the wheelhouse. Lyanna grabs whatever she finds, lacing the cloak around her shoulders and follows. The sight greeting them is shocking.

"Aerys of the House Targaryen the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, commands that the Prince Rhaegar, his heir, and Princess Lyanna, with all their children, be escorted to King's Landing."

Blood drains from Lyanna's face, and Rhaegar bows his head. This can only mean one thing. Despite all the measures that had been taken, the King has found out about plans made in the dead of the night. And he plans to put a stop to them, after all he has other heirs besides Rhaegar and the children birthed by Lyanna.

Somewhere further down the road a babe starts crying, the wails loud and sharp, cutting through the torch lit night. Rhaegar's hands form fists. He bites his tongue to keep from swearing. They have been betrayed. By whom? Who would have anything to gain by keeping a madman on the throne? It was not even that important, the identity. Yet the Prince promised himself that he would find out and take the head of whoever it was.

"My Lady, let us be on our way. The King awaits." And so, he helps Lyanna back into the wheelhouse, shutting the screens in their wake.

"What now?" she asks, not ignorant of what has transpired.

"Now we wait," he replies, frowning at her.