Fair Jenny was the closest in age to Lyanna of the younger Duncan's daughters. As her moniker so aptly suggested, she had the Targaryen looks her own mother had inherited from the long-dead Princess Rhaena. She regarded Lyanna through slightly crinkled eyes, her expression warm and inviting. To her own frayed nerves such kindness grew tenfold when accompanied by a slight lift of lips.

"Did I not tell you to wait for us with your grandfather?" Princess Rhaella demanded of her kin, tsking lightly at the blatant disobedience. "For shame, girl. Even the future husband has more sense than to risk his presence being known."

"Come now," the young Jenny cajoled, her thin lips spreading in an even wider smile. She reminded Lyanna of a clever fox about to talk the crow out of its prize, "Do you think I should be so foolish? Grandfather allowed my presence. He said I might as well make myself useful and lend Lady Lyanna a hand."

Somehow, Lyanna restrained herself well enough that she did not mention Fair Jenny's lack of help when she had needed it most. Alas, the time for such accusations was past. A wise woman would bury her complaints within the darkest corner of her heart. And she, Lyanna thought, not without a hint of ire, did not wish to appear unwise. Biting her tongue was the clever thing to do. At least until she had a cloak around her shoulders and a husband to show for it.

Scarcely were they arrived in the hall when another figure dashed up to them. The young girl was doubtlessly Princess Ascelina, allowed out of the Maidenvault. The girl, Lyanna had been told, was a sickly, frail thing even on the best of days and no one saw the wisdom of straining her poor health any further. Her grandmother tarried in her wake.

The little girl turned wide dark eyes upon Lyanna, her face cheery. She trussed a small bouquet of fragrant flowers towards Lyanna. Despite her young age, she was quite tall. "Grandmamma says I am to give you these," she told her, voice pleasantly low. She spoke quietly, as though shy or worried her gift might be rejected.

But Lyanna knew enough about shy young girls to accept the flowers. She bent and pressed a kiss upon each of the child's cheeks. "They are lovely." Lyanna took a moment to appreciate their scent as the girl beamed up at her. How unlike her sister she was, with the round face and dark braids. Briefly, Lyanna wondered if Prince Duncan the Younger had any idea the woman in his life had banded together to rob him of his prize. How he would chafe to know. Might be she would tell him one day how his youngest daughter had sweetly pressed flowers in her hands. That would serve him right.

The Crown Prince's wife drew to a halt at her side and shooed her kin away, even little Ascelina. "Go before us. I wish a word with the bride." As soft-spoken as her youngest granddaughter, the woman regarded her with interest. Yet again Lyanna found herself lost for words under the careful scrutiny. The Crown Prince's wife had no such troubles. "Lady Lyanna, how it shames me that my son has been instrumental to your predicament. I would tender apologies, but in such instances, I do not know that it would sufficient."

"Was it Your Grace who suggested this marriage?" There was poor-disguised guilt in the woman's eyes. As though she thought she was leading a lamb to slaughter.

"There were but few options." The older woman hesitated a moment before she reached out for Lyanna's free hand, the one unburdened by flowers. "I loved my husband dearly when I wedded him and I wished in that moment that all other people would know such joy." To think she was robbing a young girl of her chance must have wounded her. Lyanna nodded in understanding. "Were my son of a less disagreeable disposition in this, I would have simply sent you back to your father, assured that he would protect you."

"Your Grace," she interjected before the both of them grew maudlin, "my upbringing has been as such that I came to expect I should wed for my family's advancement." She was not daft and neither desirous of grand passions; not as far as she could tell. "Is your kin, Rhaegar, not a kind man? A man I may depend upon?"

"He is a fine young man." The sincerity of those words was very nearly palpable. He was, Lyanna realised, well-liked enough in a family that seemed little bashful at admitting to the lesser qualities of their stock.

"Then I see no reason why affection should not grow between us given time." Her aunt lived for passion. What had that gained her? Lyanna had no wish to give anyone as much trouble as the woman recently had, not to speak of the unseemly displays.

She had not been so very young when her mother died that the departed Lady Lyarra refrained from sharing thoughts upon marriage with her daughter. Love would come if her man was kind. A wife could not ask for more of her keeper, the woman had said. If she gave him her devotion and did her best by him, her efforts would be met accordingly and there would be affection between them. Was that not enough? Should she aspire to something as dreadfully overrated as passion?

"You are a brave young lady," Jenny of Oldstones offered. "Ascelina and I picked those flowers ourselves from my gardens. They will give you something to concentrate upon should you feel overwhelmed." Clever. Lyanna nodded her gratitude and strived for a smile. "There now," the woman consoled her, "you've a long night ahead. Let us not tarry, lest my niece return to collect us."

The threat of the Princess returning with more witnesses had Lyanna ambling towards the door in somewhat of a daze. Who would have thought her wedding evening should proceed as such. Lady Jenny did not offer her arm and Lyanna kept a scrupulous distance from her.

Nevertheless, they arrived to their destination before long and Lyanna was surprised to find that herself pressed into the arms of her betrothed, before a small audience, as the Crown Prince's wife entered a sealed chamber guarded by two Kingsguards. If they thought the scene in the antechamber strange, they said not a word, nor allowed it to contaminate their expressions.

"I wanted to introduce you to our witnesses," her betrothed said, his voice a pleasant breeze. It calmed her nerves and helped settle her that he had everything so well in hand. She nodded; her tongue, she feared, would not behave if she allowed it free reign. "Come along then." His hand slid to her lower back, the touch kind, but firm, pushing her inexorably forth.

As far as Lyanna knew a marriage required only two witnesses. Four men waited with her soon-to-be-husband though. "Allow me to present to you Ser Arthur Dayne," he started with the man closest to him. Lyanna looked at the tall fair haired man whose appearance was similar to the Prince's. House Dayne was of Dorne if she did not mistake her geography; interesting that he should sport such colouring. Nevertheless, at his bow she curtsied. She thought Rhaegar would press on. Ser Arthur had other ideas.

"Lady, I confess my friend's precipitous announcement that he was to wed took me much by surprise. I expected his kin were up to mischief." Lyanna allowed him to take hold of her hand and bow courteously over it. "But I am glad to find myself much in the wrong."

"Would that all men had such views on being in the wrong, ser," she replied sweetly. Lyanna was not and had never been in possession of a glib tongue. Other young woman around her knew just what to say, she forever found herself debating whether she'd land herself in hot water. By Ser Dayne's chuckle, though, she reckoned her response had been suitable.

"Dayne, behave," her betrothed ordered to the great amusement, she perceived, of the next in line. "I think you'll find a more refined conversation partner in Ser Richard, here, of House Lonmouth." The Knight of Skulls and Kisses, aye; Lyanna had heard his name bandied about court. She responded to his friendly greeting.

"From the look upon you face, I perceive my reputation precedes me," the man spoke softly. His voice was unexpectedly deep. It was not unpleasant, but rather in the manner of warm ale sliding down her throat, it smoothed its path to her ears.

"All good things, I assure you," Lyanna hurriedly spoke, lest she offend. He smiled at her and she could not help smiling back.

"Then comes Ser Myles Mooton. A veritable rogue, this one, lady. Best you tread lightly in his presence." The warning was half in jest. The other half she expected was that particular male desire to impress, for Ser Myles preened like a peacock. Still, there was naught particularly objectionable that she could see, so Lyanna accepted the introduction with little fuss.

"An honour, my lady." He leaned over and kissed both her cheeks. The familiarity of the gesture had her blushing.

"Ser!" The protest was soft, and accompanied by a gentle shove. Wholly unrepentant, the young man winked at her. She supposed his charming countenance afforded him some leeway, thus her ire faltered.

Myles Mooton grinned down at her even as she turned. Why did the lot of them have to be so tall? Lyanna would have sighed but for the fact that the last man was being introduced to her and she required her attention to be directed properly. He did not wait for Rhaegar to speak, "Jon Connington, my lady." As greeting went, it was brief and to the point. Cold.

"Ser," she heard one of the others mutter. It was not Ser Richard; that was all she could tell.

Lyanna curtsied but did not think the man found her aught other than an oddity. His flame-red hair put her in the mind of Tullys. The eyes were blue as well. She forced herself to smile. He too had been included among her betrothed's friends. Whatever his manner she had a duty to be pleasant to him just as much as she would be to any other.

Rhaegar chuckled. "You could use a little polish, Jon." The teasing seemed not to affect the other knight. Lyanna blinked as the hand upon her lower back retreated. She glanced up into the Prince's face. He looked back at her. "I expect everything is in order, but I shall go check." She nodded. What else could she do?

He entered the same chamber the Crown Prince's wife had. Left with the four men, Lyanna snapped to attention when Ser Richard broke away as his comrades as they gathered closer together. The knight placed himself before her, so that she could see naught other than him. "Ser?"

"My lady, you may think this forward of me, but have you any kin to give you away?" Looking into his eyes, she could see there something that had been sorely missing from her life recently. Kindness. His cheeks heated when she offered no reply. "Pray, do not think I mean to embarrass you."

Coming to herself, she shook her head. "I fear 'tis I who has embarrassed you." She brought her hands to her front, clasping then before her middle, careful of the flowers. "Your inkling is correct."

"His Grace and I, we've been good friends for many years. I would be most honoured if you allowed me to lead you within." And why should she not? Lyanna nodded her head, unable to speak. Small fine tremors were visible when she lifted her hand to his arm.

Gingerly, as though he dealt with spun glass, Richard Lonmouth led her to a bench along the wall and sat down with her. "You are all very kind," she managed to whisper somehow. Her eyes fell to her flowers, which she still clutched with some force. Lyanna lifted them to stem the flow of her thoughts. The pungent smell did distract her.

And just as well that she had done so, for the door opened and the witnesses were called within. Richard placed a hand upon her shoulder. "We still have a few more moments, lady."

And then they didn't.

But Ser Richard, whose name was so very much like her father's that she felt somewhat buoyed at the prospect of him standing with her, did not, at any point, rush her. His reputation was well-merited as far as she was concerned and Lyanna did not doubt he'd give her further reason to sing him praise before the ceremony's end. Her hope was that she might sing her husband praise as well. But it was not so easy.

Despite her tumultuous thoughts, when brought before the small gathering in the chamber, Lyanna felt herself relax, of all things. She had to do this; she could face the challenge sniffling and weeping, or she could hold her head up and act the highborn she was. So she raised her chin and fought to maintain her composure as her eyes landed on the old King.

The fifth Aegon had a small, assuring smile for her. The High Septon at his side had only a bland look. The rest of it proceeded in the manner all such ceremonies boasted, with vows exchanged, cloaks, by turns, loosened and pinned upon shoulders and a brief peck upon the lips which gave Lyanna nothing of her new husband's measure, except the knowledge she would not swoon if he should desire to put his lips to hers.

"Since my lady is not yet of age," the High Septon explained, "we shall need the consent in writing, so we may better prove the validity of the union."

Lyanna signed the papers they gave her. There was no time to quibble or search for further trouble. She dipped the quill in the inkpot and scribbled her name beneath Rhaegar's, taking but a moment to admire the fine hand he possessed. Gods, she hadn't seen anyone write with such an elegant stroke before.

And then it was done. She was a wife. Hands were pressed, cheeks were kissed, and this time she did not push Myles Mooton away, and congratulations were offered.

The King and his heir were kind enough to toast to the newly married couple's health. And Lyanna found she was not as apprehensive as before to look at the man she would from that day forth call husband. Rhaegar favoured her with an easy smile, but did not encourage her approach, when he caught her eye as Septa Mylisant offered a low murmur of blessing.

Returning her attention to the woman, she could not help but ask. "I cannot help but notice Her Grace Princess Daella is absent."

A grim little smile touched the septa's lips. "Daella is our father's eldest. As such she strives to please him in all." The woman's soft, wide violet eyes regarded her with something akin to sympathy. "It would not be much of a surprise on the morrow, should father find out this night about the marriage; now, would it?"

"I see." The septa gave a brisk nod. The bobbing had loosened what must have been a severe knot, for a tendril escaped her wimple. The colour was closer to gold than silver. A marked difference from her younger sister then.

A serene mask slipped into place as Mylisant Targaryen lifted her cup to her lips. As a general rule men and women of the cloth were supposed to live a simple life, but she suspected as much did not apply to the woman before her. In spite of the appropriately dark colour of the woman's kirtle, the black velvet shimmered in the low candlelight, more so as it was richly embroidered. But then the High Septon wore a fine garb as well. Lyanna did not suppose she might hold the apparel's condition against the Princess.

"And very glad I am for it," the older woman said. "Might I give you a word of advice? From one woman to another, if you will."

"If Your Grace would be so kind." What would a septa know of being a woman, Lyanna wondered bleakly. Their lives were spent in prayer.

"Do everything in your power to secure your safety. If you can, convince Rhaegar you must leave King's Landing for a time. I wish I could say my father was a forgiving soul, but he is not. And you have thwarted him." How horrible, to think so ill of one's parent. Lyanna did not know what to say, so she settled for a noncommittal sound. But in a way she had expected as much. "I will speak to His Majesty for you, lady."

"How grateful I should be if you do." Was it some manner of ploy to remove Rhaegar from court? She supposed he now had cause, but even so, would he accept. The Princess' words implied he would not. And there was Dragonstone. There was a story there as well.

Her questions would have to wait for another time. Lyanna felt a tug on her sleeve and instinctively looked down. The young Princess bade her closer with a crook of her finger. She acquiesced, allowing the girl to whisper in her ear and at the same time giving her the flowers back.

"Very well, Your Grace. I shall do as you say." The young girl managed a smile before dashing off to her grandmother's embrace. Lady Jenny pressed a soft kiss to the child's forehead.

Lyanna did not linger to watch the display further. She instead reached her husband's side, just as the conversation was coming at an end. Without asking, she placed her hand upon his arm, feeling the muscles tense before they relaxed. He did not push her away, but instead gave her a questioning look. She did not need words to know what he wished to glean. Thus she bobbed her head to the affirmative with more confidence than she felt.

They escaped with minimal teasing, mostly from Ser Arthur and Ser Myles. She could not help but wonder whether they'd imbibed too much. But the words hadn't been slurred in the least. Ser Richard had set himself the task of herding his companions away as Ser Jon watched the proceedings with a dispassionate eye.

"Do not mind them, lady," her husband soothed, putting an arm around her waist. "They mean no harm."

"Better a few ribald jests than a disrobing ceremony," she answered, not knowing from whence she grabbed that bit of pluck. Rhaegar laughed softly, tugging her closer.

"The advantage of a marriage such as ours," he murmured.

It was to his chambers that he took her. Lyanna was not precisely surprised. Her own chambers in the keep she'd shared with a few other ladies, for space was scant and courtiers were many. And the last of her days as a maiden she'd spent in the Queen's chambers, which she had also shared with various ladies-in-waiting.

Interest sparked to life within her at the new environment. She heard the door close behind them and even the bar slide into place but did not turn. Instead, she forced her gaze to the furnishing illuminated by a roaring fire and a number of candles. The bed was what had her heart galloping. A bed she would be sharing with a man. One of the many firsts for the night, she expected. Lyanna drew in a sharp breath as a weight settled upon her shoulder.

The warmth of his palm melted into her own flesh through the layers of cloth separating them. "You must be tired," he observed softly, stepping around her towards the bed. She did not feel tired. But there was little point in saying as much.

To her consternation though, he lifted one of the pillows and picked up a small dagger.

"What are you doing?"

She could have kicked him for answering with a low chuckle. "For the bedsheets, lady." It occurred to her that he meant to draw blood. She paled.

"I beg you wouldn't, Your Grace." He rolled up his sleeve.

"Lady Lyanna," her husband sighed tiredly, for the first time looking as uncertain as she felt, "I am not such a brute that I would demand s husband's right with you now."

Her mind worked hard to understand those words. It dawned upon her that he was being gallant and she ought to be relieved. "Your Grace, how ruthless if your uncle precisely? What would he be willing to do to obtain what he wants?" She deliberately left his father out of the questions.

Her husband gave her a long, contemplative stare. "What are you about?"

"If he challenges the validity of the marriage, he might do so by having the bride examined. If my maidenhead is whole," she paused, doubting she had to explain further. Her conscience was not thanking her already. "I am humbled you would show such concern for my comfort nonetheless."

"I had not considered that." Of course, he was a man. He had simply assumed a bloodied linen would be taken at face value. And might be in other circumstances it would.

"I would be left at his mercy until my father arrived. Rather, it might help to face this now and accustom myself to," she blushed and inclined her head toward the bed. "Marriage is forever."

"So it is," the Prince allowed, putting away the knife. Lyanna breathed out in relief and approached the large bed. She glanced shyly at her husband and he seemed to know it fell to him to lead. Unsurprisingly, the man was prepared for that as well.

The soft, drawn out pants coming from the trembling form beneath him were familiar and yet not. Rhaegar lifted his weight upon steady elbows, wondering whether the crush was too much for her to take. No complaints had been forthcoming from her. He gazed down into the flushed face of his wife and was assailed by an unexpected wave of tenderness. One of her hands was still lodged around his shoulder, the other maintaining a position at his nape, nails scraping softly at the spot there.

He was breathing hard as well, Rhaegar realised after a few moments, as the rush finally left him. Brushing a thumb to her cheek, he spoke softly, "A maiden no more." Lyanna nodded, her lips opening on mute agreement. She swallowed whatever sound she'd been planning to make. Was she in pain? Withdrawing from her, he kept careful watch over her expression. There was exhaustion there and might be some apprehension, but not pain. "Are you well?"

"Aye." The sound was so small he almost did not catch it. She did not hesitate to follow his movement when he settled on his side. Rhaegar rewarded that with a loose embrace which she burrowed herself into. Moment later he was startled by the weeping sounds coming from her.

Instinct prompted him to hold her tighter. For a brief moment he wanted to demand an answer as to her peculiar behaviour, but a crying woman would simply ignore the demand, he knew. So he allowed her the few moments, rubbing soothing circles in between her shoulder blades. There were many reasons for which she might be weeping, not the least of which was her torn maidenhead. Some woman, Rhaegar had been told, found the parting more difficult than others. He had no sins to weigh him down.

After a while her tears subsided and she shifted in his hold, sniffling lightly. "Apologies," she whispered, looking ashamed for some reason. His fingers paused in their whorls-painting on the canvas of her back.

"What for?" he kept his voice equally low and resumed his earlier activity.

"Turning into a watering pot." The words were tentative, as though she feared some manner of judgement. His wife hid her face into his shoulder, dark hair obscuring her visage further. "I meant to end this with some dignity."

He slid his hand lower down her back, his fingers feeling along the line of her spine. "Should I be cross with you, then?" She lifted her head from its shelter. "Would a lecture make you look me in the eyes?" She did as he wanted. "If you want to weep, lady wife, you may do so when it please you. If you want my comfort, I will give it willingly. And if not, you need but state your preference."

Something shifted in her gaze. "I was not upset," she told him. "Not about this." He presumed she referred to their wedding night but asked for no further clarifications. "It is simply that," she hesitated, then moved against him, before settling more firmly at his side, "I well know how silly this will sound, but I was so relieved. So very relieved. In that moment, I simply could not stop the tears."

Without another word, she curled around him, pressing herself into his form until her head rested under his chin and her arms encircled him as sure as his held her. He wondered whether the embrace came about as a result of their knowing one another. If ever he'd had any doubts about this woman, they had been dispelled. Her breathing turned languid against him. She must have slid into slumber.

Mindful of her comfort, he drew the covers higher around them and closed his own eyes. While there would be little sleep for him, he could lie abed for some hours yet. Which was what Rhaegar did. His bride slept easily, but not without the occasional twist and turn. He kept a loose hold on her throughout most of the hours, by and by having her return fully to him. He wondered if she dreamed, to be moving about so much.

Inevitably sleep did find him some hours later and kept him for a little time before releasing him into the waking world once more. At his side, his wife enjoyed her rest. The furs had slid lower, exposing her to the cool predawn air. Rhaegar turned to assess the fire burning low in the hearth. The flames could do with some stoking, he decided, sliding out of bed.

He dressed himself before approaching the small stack of chopped wood. One or two logs should do, he decided. Morning would come soon and there was little sense in building a great fire. Thus he set to work, his task easily accomplished. Once done he used the poker to give the flames some much needed encouragement. Before long the crackling and popping of burning wood filled the chamber.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Lyanna change her position yet again and smiled. Had she had an easy time of it sharing the bed with others as she'd done before? Might be he would ask her one day. Until then, however, he could do with something to drink.

A pitcher of mulled wine had been left out along with two cups. Rhaegar took the first and filled it. The wine had grown cold in the long hours but he'd never been very particular about such matters. Supposedly that was what came of travelling between the Red Keep and Dragonstone with such regularity. He'd grown used to the rigours and shortcomings of such a schedule. To think he now had a wife, well, it was rather unexpected. At least they were evenly matched in that the both of them would need time to accommodate.

He should take her to see Sawolfyr. Best get the two most important women in his life on the same page. Would she be afraid? He'd not seen a thing to suggest cowardice during their few short hours of acquaintance, yet he supposed that were she craven, she would have simply given in to either his uncle or his father. The damndest thing was that he found himself glad for it.

He put down his cup, the soft noise reverberating through the bedchamber.

"Your Grace?" Rhaegar startled at the noise. Given he was half-covered by shadows he could well understand why her eyes scrutinised the darkness. He stepped towards the bed, noting the moment she saw him. "I thought you'd left."

It was no hardship climbing back into bed when she turned the cover down for him, scooting over to the other side. "Leave on my wedding night? I imagine the slight would not go unanswered." She settled by him but did not close the distance between the fully. The backs of their hands were touching, knuckled grazing against each other. He felt the touch sear into him though, as if he'd been struck by lightning. It was not precisely uncomfortable. Just unexpected, to be so aware of another human being.

"What would you have done?"

"What?"

"If I had left."

He craned his neck so that he might face her. Her eyes were upon the ceiling, hands clasped over the furs just beneath her bosom. Her chest moved up and down. "Followed you. Brandon tells me with startling regularity that I have no sense."

"Brandon?" he prodded.

"My brother. The oldest." Of course, his grandmother had said she had three brothers, after all. "Ned comes after. Eddard. I follow next, and then there is Benjen." She was smiling.

"Are you close in age?" The North kept mostly to itself. But then he might have checked the maester's writings. Rhaegar turned his own gaze upon the ceiling.

"Benjen is the closest to me in age. Brandon and Ned are only one year apart, and there is half a decade separating me from the heir. Naturally, Brandon was never too keen to have me around when we were children."

They whiled the remaining time until dawn away by speaking in hushed tones.

And why not take a moment. After all, trouble was never far away.