A/N: Hi y'all. I'm back with chapter four, and this is a big one!
I get why Ned is getting a bad rap, but I want to make it clear that he's not malicious. He is just a younger version of the naive character he is in season one. Being raised happily in the north and then by the honorable Jon Arryn has given him a rather rosy view of the world. Thus he takes Robert at his word for the most part.
Enjoy and please comment :D
Chapter 4: Wine, Women, and Song
"Open the gates!" announced the herald, forming up the van of the great column of mounted men and wheeled carts trudging along the Kingsroad. "Make way for his Grace, Aerys II of House Targaryen!" Before them the wooden gates of Harrenhal swung open, allowing the first rider to pass along the already lowered drawbridge into the massive outer courtyard. The large banners of the black bats contrasted with the many red three-headed dragons carried by the hundreds of Targaryen household guardsmen. Aerys didn't leave the Red Keep often, but when he did he travelled with a small army.
"One can still smell the pyre of Harren the Black," stated Arthur Dayne. Leaning left on his horse, he punched Oswell Whent in the arm. "Told you your sister should have hired more washerwomen."
Ser Whent rolled his eyes, previously enjoying being back home. "That jape wasn't funny the last time we were here and it wasn't funny now." The grin on Arthur's face belied the fact it would be used far more times in the near future. "Besides, all the lye in the world can't clean out the metaphysical."
"Ser Arthur." Both experienced knights turned to see the Lion of Lannister approaching. Dark grey steel breastplate with the Targaryen sigil stamped atop it barely masking his golden aura. "What is wrong with His Grace the Prince?"
Sharing a look with Oswell, Arthur shrugged. "The day where he will have to face his… northerner is approaching. I wouldn't doubt he'd be nervous."
Jaime nodded. "But does he always just head alone into the woods?"
"Not the woods, if Ser Barristan is to be believed." Oswell grinned at Arthur. "Isn't it just a shame that he takes ol' Boldy out with him and not you?"
"Fuck off, Whent," Arthur shot back, good-naturedly. They trotted underneath the gate, thankful for the gentle breeze from the God's Eye that cooled them within their armor. "Jaime, go keep Gerold and Lewyn company until the King leaves, then escort the Queen to her chambers." It went unspoken… the King was not fond of being close to his wife for most circumstances. They took separate wheelhouses, and slept in separate chambers.
Beaming underneath his helmet, Jaime tapped his hand against it and reared his horse back, galloping to the royal wheelhouses. Arthur and Oswell gave each other a knowing glance.
Staring over his shoulder at the massive spires of the great castle of Harrenhal - melted stone still remaining from when Balerion the Black Dread wiped out Harren Hoare's rancid line from existence - Jaime felt a sense of deja vu. Of remembrance. For here was the place just one year before where the King had knighted him after his victory in the melee for Lord Whent's daughter's nameday. Where he had almost won the joust on behalf of House Lannister. Where his oath as a Kingsguard had been sworn on the old gods and the new.
Jaime let escape a sigh from his lips. Oh how he wished to be returned to those days. When his ideals still meant something and dreams still waited, fully able to be realized.
Lord Tywin Lannister had not been the most loving person… seven hells, affection from him was rare even before his mother died birthing Tyrion, let alone after. For his sister Cersei the entirety of her childhood was being groomed as a marriage prospect to enhance House Lannister. For him,Tywin saw his golden-haired successor. A man skilled in battle and sharp in mind to continue the legacy he built off the chaos of his father Tytos. Jaime, unlike the 'deformed Imp' of his younger brother - though Jaime loved Tyrion unconditionally - was such an heir.
But the young lion bore such no mind. He cared not about ruling lands or petty politics, though tutelage under his father had exposed a decent grasp of it. No, it was the mantle of the Kingsguard that had been his dream since he could remember. The Kings of the Rock or Targaryen monarchs hadn't been his heroes, but noble knights like Corlys Veleryon, Aemon the Dragonknight, or Duncan the Tall. All Kingsguards, all part of the best of the best with the sole purpose to protect the king. Oh had Tywin raged and Cersei wept when he announced his intention to accept the white cloak even after the King rejected Tywin's proposal of marriage between Rhaegar and his sister. But no one could dissuade Jaime.
Upon the fields of Harrenhal, the young lion the at the top of the world when he achieved that dream - Ser Jaime Lannister, brother of the Kingsguard. The youngest in all of history to top it off! An achievement sending the new knight to King's Landing full of chivalry and expectations... Plans for his exploits to grace the great book alongside Aemon or Barristan the Bold.
The royal wheelhouse rattled into the courtyard, Jaime surrounding it with Ser Gerold and Ser Lewyn. All around the Targaryen guardsmen and the retinue of House Whent all fell to their knees… all but the three Kingsguards as Jaime drew open the door for the King to step out. Aerys was dressed in his best today. Flowing robes and perfectly styled hair reminiscent of descriptions of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. All but his eyes were the epitome of a great King, only the wild violet gaze exposing the true paranoia and guardedness within. Without even acknowledging Jaime, he made his way to the waiting Lord Walter Whent.
"Harrenhal is yours, your Grace," the Lord stated, rising from his bended knee. "Preparations for your son's tourney are going ahead of schedule."
"Good," the King replied rather evenly, beginning to walk into the castle. "Finally someone with a little initiative, unlike the cunts back in the capitol…" Gerold and Lewyn fell into place behind the King while Jaime stayed behind. Watching the man that had turned all his dreams to dust.
Sword at his side and armor draping him, the newly knighted Jaime was forced to confront the pathetic excuse of a king he swore to protect. His father's rants were… quite accurate for once. Every day Aerys slipped further into paranoia, into a brooding madness threatening all around him. He would accuse others of treason for imaginary crimes, torturing them. Some he let go, some he imprisoned. Many, Lord Tywin included, were part of the King's twisted fantasies of wildfire… "The true tool of Targaryen Kings."
Forced to be part of these, enduring the demands of the King to behead 'traitors' and abuse hapless courtiers… Jaime's dreams and respect for the Kingsguard began wear away. How could he be tasked to support such a King? Such a monster? The gusto and good cheer he had dove into his vows with was replaced with a growing cynicism. Morosity, constant drinking during his off hours, withdrawing into himself... all just too much for a man only ten and eight with too many dreams exposed to reality...
Until an angel appeared in his life.
Genuine smile returning to his face, Jaime bounded quickly to the second wheelhouse. Behind the King's, it was a mutual decision from both monarchs to wait until Aerys had left inside the castle for the occupant to emerge. Curling his fingers around the handle, he opened the door, revealing the shimmering silver hair of the Queen Rhaella. Frustrated frown turning into a warm smile at the sight of her personal guard.
It never stopped causing the young lion's cheeks to glow. "Your Grace." He bowed.
"Get up, Ser Jaime," Rhaella waved him off. "I am in need of your assistance - hard to walk in this poofy thing." Her characterization of the latest in Crownlands fashion wasn't wrong, the Queen needing his hand to ease her out of the wheelhouse. "The Dornish or northerners know how to properly dress. Simple wools and silks."
"Of course, my Queen." From Cersei such frivolity had annoyed him, but with Rhaella he did not mind the slightest.
It was Crown Prince Rhaegar that was his salvation. Switching out the young Jaime with the more experienced Gerold Hightower and Lewyn Martell on the King's duty, placing him instead as Rhaella's bodyguard. May the old gods and new always bless my noble prince. The quiet and reclusive Queen that Jaime had rarely seen for his first eight moonturns under the white cloak truly emerged the light in the darkness. Kind, compassionate, wise, gentle… a beautiful and graceful dragon as overshadowed by the King's bitterness as everyone in the Red Keep.
A sigh left the Queen's lips, looking up at the spires of Harren the Black's crowning achievement and undoing. "I do hope Lady Whent gives me the same chambers in the high tower as last time. I don't think I could tolerate any other."
"Are you alright, my Queen?" Jaime asked, daring to place his hand on the small of Rhaella's back to help her up the steps to the keep. Giving a little push - something he remembered his father doing for his mother long ago. A truly intimate act, but not too much of a boundary cross. It warmed him greatly, though.
Chuckling softly, Rhaella's sweet voice wafted out like a breath of fresh air. "They say those wheelhouses are the lap of luxury." A snort followed. "Frankly, Ser Jaime, that's a crock of shit."
"My my." Jaime laughed, armor clinking as he continued to help her up. "Such unqueenly language, your Grace." He knew he was breaching protocol that someone like Aerys wouldn't tolerate, but Rhaegar encouraged it with Arthur and Barristan - Rhaella never said anything about it to Jaime, so he went with it.
"It's true, so very true." A sigh, creamy lids fluttering closed over her violet eyes. "I've asked his Grace to let me ride like our son, but no. 'A Queen must be present but not seen.' Ugh, it's like a hothouse in that wheelhouse, and not the relaxing kind."
Gods, Rhaegar becoming King couldn't happen soon enough. Perhaps then Rhaella could have the peace and serenity Jaime knew she deserved. "I could summon Lady Whent's servants to draw you a hot bath, your Grace."
A beaming smile came Jaime's way, as if Rhaella's entire face lit up. Eyes sparkling with compassion and kindness, hair shimmering in the sunlight. "That is splendid, Ser Jaime. I don't know what I'd do without you as my guard."
There it was, the same image that appeared in his dreams every night - warming him, torturing him… Jaime shook his head, inwardly. Face reality, Lannister. Rhaegar would give him the dream of serving a great King. The other… as if anything would ever happen. Rhaella was his compassionate charge, nothing more.
Regardless, if he could grant her even the simplest of smiles, the degradations of the day were worth it.
And the moment was here. One Lyanna Stark both imagined and dreaded for years - such only tripled in intensity when learning of her betrothed. Robert of House Baratheon, now standing in front of her in the tent. Hands clasped behind his back and waiting for her. Herself shifting, eyes flickering everywhere and bouncing on the balls of her feet. To say it was awkward would be an understatement.
All had been a blur for Lyanna, Robert and Jon Arryn arriving only after the Starks had just set up their tent on the tourney grounds - other Lords having taken the permanent quarters in the castle. The tent flap hadn't been drawn back for a second before Robert scooped her brother Ned into his arms and proceeded to squeeze all the air out of his lungs. Only a smack from Lord Arryn had made him let Ned go, a clear indicator of the man's personality. Introductions followed, and while Lord Arryn had been as charming and respectful as the one and only time she had met him, Lyanna saw how Robert was practically mesmerized by her, begging her father for a one on one meeting. A half an hour in her private alcove in the tent was what he received, and there they were.
It would be Robert that broke the ice. "I must say, Lyanna, your beauty was quite understated by Ned."
She blushed - while she was more aloof and grounded than most maidens, flattery did affect her. "Well… I doubt my brother would want to gush about my features in that manner." The Lord of Storm's End laughed at her jape, smacking his gloved hand against his breeches. Lyanna smiled softly. Perhaps it was a good start.
No one could say Robert Baratheon wasn't handsome. Quite the opposite, actually. Slightly swarthy from the sun, he was built like a bear. Knightly tunic stretched tight over bulging muscles and heavyset shoulders, his legs were proportioned for his imposing height. He had a roguish charm about him, the self-confident smile of a warrior who knew he was hot stuff. The last was a little concerning to Lyanna, but overall there was nothing physically wrong with him.
I bet all the girls swoon over him in the Stormlands… Therein existed the main worry in her mind. Well, I still have to get to know him. "So, Robert. I…"
"I shall be sure to compete in the joust, my dear Lyanna," he interrupted her. "The Queen of Love and Beauty deserves to be someone as breathtaking as yourself." Without letting her speak, he abruptly grabbed her hand, bringing it up to his mouth and kissing it. His breath wafted onto her - it reeked of wine. "Permit me to wear your favor?"
Drawing her hand back, slowly so not to offend, Lyanna blinked. A bit forward, but not out of the ordinary. "I can find no reason to not offer my favor to a man after my hand," she finally replied.
The answer made him grin, a wide beaming smile that displayed his row of teeth. All there, but some discolored. "It is decided then. I shall win the joust and crown you Queen of Love and Beauty. Nothing but the best for my future wife."
This she frowned at. "We have not been officially betrothed, Lord Baratheon…"
"Call me Robert, my dear Lyanna."
Can't the man take a hint? "Robert… don't you think it's a bit presumptuous?"
"Pish, a formality," he waved off the concern. "No one has ever said no to Robert Baratheon!" Plopping onto her cot, he stretched his arms, patting the spot next to him for her to sit - as if this were his tent and not hers. Lyanna nevertheless complied, resolved to keep her promise to Ned.
Several minutes passed as Robert started in on stories of his prowess in combat and on a horse, arms sweeping wide as he added his own commentary to the various battle tactics and sword moves that necessitated profanity on his part. Not once did he let her get a word in, too engrossed in his own exploits. "Have I ever told you of my victory in the melee of the Great Tourney of Highgarden?" His entire eyes sparkled, a memory he seemed to cherish. "For the birth of Mace Tyrell's little brat… I don't doubt that dolt would celebrate the birth of a daughter."
"I've heard the lady Margaery is a rather adorable infant," Lyanna murmured.
The young Lord snickered. "Probably will be a juicy offering to stoke Mace's ego, but a tourney to celebrate? Only a son is worth celebrating, and I plan on having many sons with my wife." He wiggled his thick brows at her.
Lyanna pursed her lips. "And if I only have daughters, my Lord?"
"Ha! As if."
Clenching her teeth, willing herself to keep calm instead of simply laughing at him and telling him to get out, Lyanna tried a different tactic. "Would you like to know something about me?"
Robert peered at her, a smile forming on his face - one that looked to Lyanna as if he was humoring her. "Of course, my Lady, although I already know everything about your great beauty through my own eyes."
Blinking, she didn't know what to make of it. His words were sweet, but there was something about them that… unsettled her. Give him a chance, Lya. At least he seemed to be interested in her. "Here, let me show you." Beaming at the thought of her favorite book, she stood from her cot, dress swaying around her legs as she moved towards the hope chest containing her belongings. Pushing the clothes and the sheathed sword to the side in order to find it.
Behind her, Robert whistled. "A sword? They sure have strange ways of raising girls up in the North." He laughed leaning up to smack Lyanna on the backside - the crude gesture nearly causing her to stumble. "Don't worry, my dear Lyanna. There are no wildling savages in the Stormlands. You won't have need for a sword."
"But what if I would like a sword?" she asked quietly, more rhetorical than anything.
But Robert heard, and proceeded to answer it anyway. "Oh my wild wife to be, I'll make sure you have the finest needle and thread in the Seven Kingdoms.
Lyanna bit back the response on her tongue, still hoping to salvage this and get through to her all but official betrothed. Pulling out the book from the bottom of the trunk. "Here it is, Lord Baratheon." She offered a small smile, sitting next to Robert - the young Lord scooting closer till their sides touched, which Lyanna decided to ignore.
His eyebrows scrunched together. "A book?"
"Aye, it's called Dancing Dragons by King Viserys II Targaryen, before he was the King." Opening the binding to the pages of the marriage between Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon - her favorite. Robert peered at the pages, clearly struggling to read the words. "It's about the Dance of Dragons, a marvelous read. My most prized possession," Lyanna said genuinely. Bearing a bit of her soul to the man she would soon have to marry.
Offering him the book, letting Robert look at it closely, she waited in anticipation as to what he would say. Hoping that he would be interested and they could - finally - find common ground. Pursing his lips, the Stormlands Lord gently closed the book. Turning to peer at her with an… odd look on his face. As if he were trying to understand something he had never witnessed before. "You really find this interesting?" he asked her after the long silence.
That… could mean anything. Lyanna decided to think it positive. "What could be more interesting than such a time? The Queen and her dear husband, fighting desperately to protect themselves from a usurper bent on destroying them. Gods, the greatest romance story of Westerosi History."
Suddenly, Robert laughed. A deep belly laugh, as if all of what Lyanna told him was the most amusing thing he had ever heard. "Oh Lyanna… seven hells…" He reached out with his beefy hand, pinching her cheeks affectionately. Such a gesture was lost to Lyanna, for the book had slipped from his lap and onto the bare grass and dirt of the tent floor. The most precious single item in Lyanna's possession, a gift from Ned so dear to her, carelessly discarded by Robert. He didn't even notice. "You are adorable, my little she-wolf. Everything about you is exquisite."
She squirmed, trying to reach for the text. "Robert… my book."
"Don't worry, my dear Lyanna. You won't have time for such frivolity while you're caring for my sons and my castle." He stared into her captivating grey eyes, growing mesmerized by them. "I know you seek great drama and love, and I shall provide them with my sword arm and affections. Far better than some musty old book written by cunts long dead."
Lyanna realized something in his tone. This wasn't condescension or sarcasm, but genuine. He actually believed such was the highest form of affection and devotion to a woman. She didn't know if that was better.
He figured her silence to be rapture - just like all the other ladies and girls that found themselves in Robert Baratheon's spell. Fitting, since he was rapidly falling into hers. "You are beautiful. Worthy of me, belonging with me where the sun and the clouds can shine above you." Without warning he lurched forward, pressing his lips against hers.
Gasping at the suddenness of it all, Lyanna's eyes only widened further as he took it as an invitation rather than a warning. Tongue shoving inside. Dominating, plundering. A charging stag crashing upon the being that threatened it, uncaring of anything but its own instinct. Grunting like a rutting bull, Robert began to push her none to gently flat on the cot. The instincts overpowering him…
Her hands were frantic. Panicking. Shoving against his chest until his lips popped off hers, drenching her in his saliva. His own eyes both clouded over and confused as to why she would reject him. Lyanna breathless as she recovered her bearings. Sucking in air down her lungs. "Please… I'm a lady… wait… wedding night…" It was all she could say, the she-wolf's thoughts all hammering one fact over and over again. My first kiss… Something she had been dreaming of for years, nothing like her dreams.
Hauling himself upright, Robert seemed to follow her. "Oh… sorry." He chuckled, wicked grin returning to his face. "Got too carried away there, and I respect your propriety, dear Lyanna." The young Lord bent down to kiss her forehead, Lyanna still too breathless to respond. "Don't worry, my little wolf. Our wedding night shall be soon. Then you won't have to restrain yourself." Still grinning, he stood tall and bowed. "Till later, my Lady. My dreams will be of you." And with that, he ducked out of her tent, leaving her alone.
Several moments passed before the she-wolf realized he had left. Quickly, Lyanna scrambled off the cot and grabbed her book off the ground. Closing her eyes and clutching it to her breast protectively. Letting Ned's precious gift to her ease the tempest in her heart. A winter blizzard that had ripped through every imagination and fantasy she had had over meeting her future husband. Not the devoted Prince Daemon but someone more akin to who Aegon II had been. An entitled highborn that felt the world revolved around himself.
A man Ned had praised as a good match.
But instead of coming to conclusions and letting her heart try to handle it, her intelligent mind kept replaying one portion of the meeting. How Robert had kissed her, intending to ravish her completely. It was smooth on his part. Polished, as if he had done it before. Many times.
Mya Stone.
Nestling the book safely in her trunk, Lyanna grabbed a cloak resting close by. Determined to get answers.
Strolling down the grassy fields, Robert almost felt like skipping - like drawing his sword and stabbing it up in the air. Cup of the finest arbor gold in hand, he raised it in a toast to himself. To the most breathtaking wildflower in the world that was now his. Gods, I am a lucky man.
He and Ned, bonded as brothers for life - Robert would have accepted a betrothal had it been with a fifty year ugly maid. But what he had gotten… His luck was as strong now as it was growing up - every triumph had been his with only the barest of efforts. Of course love would be the latest prize for him to win.
And not one part of Robert saw anything wrong with that. Any woman would swoon over being his prize in love. Why not? They had when the prize was merely his fancy.
"Pish, a formality. No one has ever said no to Robert Baratheon!"
No one had, and Rickard Stark wasn't going to be the first.
Lyanna was perfect. A willowy, kind, statuesque goddess of a woman that would make the perfect Lady of Storm's End. One to manage his household, charm the visiting Lords, and bear him half a dozen strapping sons and heirs that would carry the Baratheon legacy. Tough bruisers, half-stag and half-wolf. Better than any dour sourpusses or cowardly weasels that Stannis or Renly would sire. As if that mincing buggerer Renly could ever sire a child.
His mind drifted to that first glimpse of his soon to be wife. The sweet and innocent face of a maiden clashing wildly with the stunning body of a goddess. Someone to cherish and hold up as a paragon of virtue. The greatest conquest the great Robert of House Baratheon could secure, but gods… He downed the wine till there wasn't a drop left in his cup. Unfortunately, while it relaxed him the flush his betrothed has given him only grew.
Tent growing tight in his breeches, the feel of her body against his affecting him. Her delicious lips tasting like peppermint. He was horny, and in need of release. Many a man would vent their sexual frustration themselves, but not Robert Baratheon. He wasn't some pathetic girl of a man, and nothing compared to a tight, warm body to find release.
And he knew just where to go.
With the massive tent city being erected almost overnight outside the great castle of Harrenhal - itself the largest fortress in the entire Seven Kingdoms - the dozens of lords and thousands of bannermen, sworn swords, and assorted retinue were in need of the necessities of life. Food, drink, metalwork, clothes… hundreds of vendors from all corners of the Realm had descended on Harrenhal to take advantage of the Crown Prince's nameday. As plying the trade in one of the important necessities of life, this included hundreds of whores both female and male. Dressed provocatively and flashing their… assets to potential clients.
These individual actors were dwarfed by the massive mobile brothel that the notorious King's Landing madame Chatalya had brought over from the capitol to Harrenhall to scoop up the coin of the countless lords that would arrive. Giant tent the second-largest of the entire tourney grounds, in strode Robert Baratheon with a grin on his face. Already growing harder at the thoughts of delicious female flesh he would be sampling.
Not noticing the hooded figure following him nearly twenty feet behind.
Dark skin exotic and alluring in the midst of the Westerosi, Chatalya opened her arms and embraced the young Lord of Storm's End, kissing his cheeks. "Robert Baratheon. Welcome to my establishment." It paid to know the various high lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms and their sigils. He was drunk too, the perfect client.
"My reputation precedes me," laughed Robert, smacking Chatalya on the back. "I want someone young. Ten and seven. Fair, not dark."
The madame nodded. "No problem, I have many women who would do…"
Robert held up his fingers. "Two. I want two."
Chatalya grinned sultrily. "That is costly… though I'm sure it won't be a problem." Two dozen gold dragons tumbled into her hand. She licked her lips. "Perfect. Sarella! Cassana!" Out of the gossamer fabric that shrouded the various compartments of the mobile brothel came a redhead and a blonde. Bodies lithe and tight, but with large breasts that threatened to spill from their skimpy dresses. "Be sure to take care of Lord Baratheon here. He is one of the highest Lords in the land." With a throaty chuckle, the madame went to greet the other customers.
The ale and wine already beginning to cloud his mind in the wonderful haze. Wide smile planted on his face, Robert wrapped his arms around the two beauties he had purchased for the next few hours. "'Allo my pretties," he belted, grin widening at their giggling. They weren't as breathtaking as his Lyanna, but they weren't going to be his lady wife. Purposes were quite different to him. "So where are ye' from?"
Sharing a look with her colleague, the blonde smirked at the handsome young Lord. Patting his chest just as she had been taught. "Sarella is from Maidenpool, my Lord. I am from near Summerhall, in town for the… opportunities." The last came in a sultry whisper, nipping his earlobe.
Robert laughed merrily. "Stormlands, eh?" He groped her tits, whistling with approval. "Perhaps head to Storm's End after. I'll be sure to give ya' plenty of work!" Feeling boastful, he threw his head back, voice booming through the entire tent. "All of ya' come to Storm's End, ladies." The drink had loosened his inhibitions - not that he had many to begin with. "This beast may soon be shackled but it wont forget this heaven of booze and women anytime soon!" Feminine cheers answered him, squeals and claps only making him feel more at ease.
From a hole ripped into the side of the tent, a pair of grey eyes blazed pure fury. The hooded figure darted away from the brothel, fists clenched from what they had just heard.
Hair billowing out from behind her, elaborate hairstyle absolutely ruined by the winds gusting around her, Lyanna could barely see through her scorching sobs. Eyes stinging as the air shot past her and Winter. The horse urged faster and faster through the vibrant green underbrush of the Riverlands forest. Lush with plant life, a beautiful sight. But the she-wolf didn't notice. Didn't care.
All on her mind was the events of the last few hours, filling her with a fury so hot it would have melted Valyrian steel. Starks were ice, not fire, and the flames nearly brought her to her knees.
She had to escape. Had to get out of the tight confines of the great castle and tourney grounds, grabbing her trusty steed and riding him saddleless into the woods as she had done many a time back home. Everything passed by in a blurr, little did she care.
A whoremonger. I'm betrothed to a whoremonger. The image of her future husband and his thick arms wrapped around the shoulders of two bare-chested prostitutes, oafish grin on his face, was seared into Lyanna's mind. Ned was wrong! They were all wrong! That was to be her life, one of metaphorical chains shackling her inside a keep with half a dozen screaming children while her drunken husband fucked half of the Stormlands.
I don't want to get married!
I… I can't live in chains!
The pain, the anger overwhelming her, Lyanna suddenly pulled back on the reins. Winter neighing loudly in panic as she skidded to a stop - rearing back and kicking with her front hooves. Normally Lyanna was an accomplished rider who never let herself be forced into an emergency skid, but the swirling emotions simply overwhelmed her reasoning. Without a second's hesitation she leaped off Winter's back, unsheathing the sword Brandon had gifted her for her fifteenth nameday. Eyes red, she looked around, practically seething. Finally raising the blade and swinging at the closest tree in an enraged frenzy.
"Fuck you Robert Baratheon!" she screeched, throat burning. Sword gouging deep chunks off the poor beech tree that served as the target of her rage. Fuck you father! Fuck you Ned!" Lyanna could care less, face hot with tears and snot. Red with pure rage. "Kill me, gods! New or old, I don't care! I will not marry that... that… THAT FUCKING!" Thwack! "WHORING!" Thwack! "DRUNKEN!" Thwack! "DISRESPECTFUL!" Thwack! "DISGUSTING!" Thwack! "OAF!"
With a final snarl and swipe of her blade a branch was sliced clean in two, the wood and leaves clattering to the forest floor with a chaotic crash.
The sound hitting her ears was almost like a bucket of icy water drenching her. Lyanna blinked, breathing deeply as the red tint of her vision began to fade. Anger and rage slowly transforming into a sense of fatigue. A deep sadness that permeated her very soul, the weight of the North crashing upon her shoulders. Tears began to form once more in her eyes.
I won't marry Robert… I can't…
"You will do your duty, Lyanna."
Standing there, sniffing. Droplets staining her dress as they trickled down her cheek, Lyanna felt a gentle nuzzling on her hair. "Oh, Winter." She turned, greeted with her beloved companion's gentle nicks of affection. Hand lifting up to stroke her muzzle, Lyanna gently rested her forehead upon the soft hide. "I don't know if he'll even let me have you." The soft croo of the horse sounded too much like a requiem for her.
Alone in the woods with only a faithful friend that couldn't even speak to her, Lyanna simply let the tears fall...
And then she heard it.
Ears registering the light sound in a split second, it took a moment before Lyanna parsed it out of the background noise of the forest. Not birdsong, not the wind, but a melody. Wiping the tears from her eyes, curiosity overtook her. I thought I was alone? Sheathing her sword, Lyanna cocked her head and listened closely to where she thought the music was coming from.
"High in the halls of the kings who are gone,
"Jenny would dance with her ghosts.
"The ones she had lost and the ones she had found,
"And the ones who had loved her the most."
She knew not of the song, but it tugged on her heartstrings nonetheless. A tale of love and of sadness, of a poor girl pining for her lost loves. Intrigued, Lyanna pushes back the underbrush - ignoring the branches and brambles scraping against her dress. Following the music, with each step the melody growing clearer and clearer.
"The ones who'd been gone for so very long,
She couldn't remember their names.
They spun her around on the damp old stones,
Spun away all her sorrow and pain."
Ahead, the sun shone through a clearing in the forest. The sweet wafting of music drifting from within it - sight blocked off by a thick growth of bushes and trees. As quiet as possible, not wanting to spook the person who was producing such an enrapturing sound, Lyanna fell to her knees and crawled through the bushes. Gently pushing them aside to secure a hidden glimpse of the singer.
"And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave,
"Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave."
It was a man - a young man in his prime. He sat against a tree, dressed in a simple red tunic and riding breeches. Cleanliness indicating a man of means and posture showing a man of class. A red and black cloak was hung on a branch of the tree, horse tied up to another tree several feet away. He held a harp in his hands, tune created from the strings and words crooning out from his lips.
"They danced through the day,
"And into the night through the snow that swept through the hall.
"From winter to summer then winter again,
"'Til the walls did crumble and fall."
Lyanna never heard someone sing so beautifully. Each word was more graceful than the last, the way his long pale fingers wavered through the cords of his harp putting most musicians to shame. Hands dropped to her sides, tension leaving her. Anger and sadness forgotten.
She shifted in the bushes, catching a clearer glimpse of the singer, almost swooning at the sight. His silver hair fell over his shoulders, thick muscles - not as beefy as Robert's brawler body, but strong and toned like a nimble boxer or skilled horseman. His violet eyes sparkled with peace and emotion. A serenity with the world that many men lacked. Gods, he was the most handsome man Lyanna had ever seen.
"And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave,
"Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave.
"And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave,
"Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave."
His voice was so beautiful, even Winter watched from behind the dense treeline, mesmerized by the melancholy melody that filled the forest. All around, not another sound could be heard but the thrumming of the harp and the man's song. Even the birds stopped their singing, listening to the mysterious man. Lyanna wished to cry at the sad serenity of the words drifting from his lips, but it was so beautiful that she couldn't do anything but watch in a dazed adoration.
Had anything ever made her so lost for words? So… entranced her?
"High in the halls of the kings who are gone,
"Jenny would dance with her ghosts.
"The ones she had lost and the ones she had found,
"And the ones who had loved her the most."
Then, much to her disappointment, the melody ended and the stranger ceased his singing. The deep sigh of a troubled soul leaving his lips, weight of the world seeming to return to him once the escape of the instrument had finished. Lyanna felt her heart reach out to the man, the Lady of House Stark able to relate to him more than one could imagine. She wished to go to him, to hold him in her arms and help take his pain away. For him to take her pain away.
Lyanna shook her head, as if in a daze she needed to snap out of. What is wrong with me? For what had to be a quarter of an hour she had watched a mysterious man singing and almost fell in love with him from that alone. I don't even know who in seven hells he is! Didn't know what the morose, talented, handsome, beautiful, breathtaking man's name was.
Her mind and heart at war, Lyanna allowed herself one last look. One last glimpse between the leaves and brambles of the bush. The man had risen, grabbing his cloak - preparing to take his leave. Strapped to his waist was a glittering sword, a large ruby on the pommel and hilt adorned with intricately-carved dragon heads. A sword so iconic to be known from the Wall to Qarth. Blackfyre…
Blinking, Lyanna pulled back. Silver hair… Blackfyre… No, it couldn't be… Peering back through the leaves, her eyes bugged out of their sockets at the red three-headed dragon emblazoned on the back of the cloak.
There was now no doubt in her mind. The Crown Prince… Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
The image of her dream Prince Daemon in the flesh.
A/N: Oh Lyanna. It's love at first sight (she's seventeen years old; it just so happens that the one she immediately falls for is the right man for her, lol; Lyanna's gonna learn and mature rather quickly).
Jaime has a knack for forbidden love, lol! It was something unique and subversive for me and I hope y'all don't mind.
As for Robert, the depiction of a good-natured Gaston is probably the best way to describe him. He doesn't just act that way, he thinks that it's both his due and the way others want to be treated. Right now he may be hotheaded but he has no hate or bitterness. Remember, he is Rhaegar's cousin. There's no reason for any family disunity.
There are rumors that Rhaegar was the one who wrote Jenny of Oldstones, so I went with it. Also went for a Katniss/Peeta vibe from the Hunger Games.
Next up, the feast!
