Author's Note: I recently switched jobs, so I have not had much time to write until this week. Sorry for the delay. I'm already working on the next chapter, which should be posted by the middle of next week, if not sooner. As a teaser…it's going to be an Elia POV chapter. Enjoy!

Rhaegar

Rhaegar flung open the tent after his entrance was hurriedly announced to his father.

"Your Grace," said Rhaegar, bowing his head.

"You know, in Slaver's Bay, I hear they use titles like "Your Radiance" and "Your Magnificence". What do you prefer?" Aerys looked up at his firstborn son, his purple eyes dancing.

"Whatever Your Radiant Grace prefers, Your Grace."

"Haha. 'Radiant Grace'. I rather like that, although it is quite a mouthful. I shall think on it. For now, 'Your Grace' will suffice."

"Yes, your grace."

"Ah, Rhaegar, always so formal. Come now, son, I'm your father afterall. You need not be so formal with me. And what in the seven hells are you wearing? Surely you do not plan to joust in that."

Rhaegar ran his hand over the dented and rusty armor, sighing.

"This is the armor you commanded me to wear, your grace, as atonement for my supposed sins."

"Well take it off. It is unseemly."

"Yes, your grace."

"Father."

"Yes, father."

"Better."

"Father, may I ask you something?"

"Of course, my son."

"Why did you name Jaimie Lannister to the Kingsguard?"

"The lad has surely proven his abilities. I think even Ser Barriston would have difficulty against the boy."

"I don't doubt his prowess, your grace. My concern is for the political consequences."

"Go on, say what you mean."

"Your grace, surely this will not go over well with Lord Tywin."

"I could give a rat's ass about what would or would not go over well with Lord Tywin. I'm the king, not that gold-shitting weasel. Do you think he is unafraid of me? Do you think he would challenge me?"

Rhaegar winced as the king held his arm over a small lit candle. He could smell the burning of his father's flesh, but still the king did not move his arm.

"I don't think he would dare challenge you. Is that why you did it? To prove a point? Father, a king who has to remind his people that he's king is not a very good king."

"Call me Father again, and I will have your tongue ripped out." Aerys said as he removed his arm and pulled his sleeve down over the many burn marks on his arm. "Power is where people believe it is. If the people do not fear the power of their king, then he has no real power. Occasionally, it becomes necessary to remind my subjects of my power. You should learn that, if you ever hope to sit the iron throne."

"Yes, F—your grace."

"You may go."

Rhaegar stormed from the tent, fuming. He took deep breaths to maintain his composure and headed toward the stables. As he opened the door, he was shocked to find Lyanna Stark, dressed in a light tunic and kicking a mail shirt that was lying on the ground. He raised an eyebrow at her rather creative curses.

"Treacherous troll of tin. Hmm, don't think I've ever heard that one before, my lady." Rhaegar nodded his head as she bowed hers to him.

"Your grace." Lyanna smiled like a kid that's been caught putting her hand in the cookie jar.

"Were you just venting your frustration, or were you actually trying to put that on by yourself."

Lyanna smiled again, this time blushing slightly. She told him the story of Howland Reed, her attempt to confront the knights about their squires, and her plan to face them in the joust. Rhaegar considered for a few moments, and then began to help her don the armor properly.

"Your grace, you seem deep in thought. Is something troubling you?"

"It's nothing. I'm just thinking of today's joust."

"Liar. You're thinking of Aerys."

Rhaegar stared at her, dumbfounded. He knew Lyanna was a different sort of woman, but he had never met anyone so bold of tongue. Even his close friend, Lord Connington, would not have been so blunt.

"Forgive me, your grace. I often speak without thinking. My father says it will bring me trouble one day. But it is your father that's troubling you, isn't it?"

Rhaegar paused a moment, and then like a tidal wave, relief washed over him as he confided in her, this beautiful woman he barely knew. He told her everything, about his mother, his father's distrust, his plan to put his father aside. He left out nothing. By the end he was weeping, his head resting gently on Lyanna's shoulder as she tried to comfort him.

"How could I have told you these things?" Rhaegar asked. "I barely know you. Yet, I feel I can trust you. I shouldn't."

"I think desperately needing someone to trust often overpowers reason."

"I feel so….naked." Rhaegar looked up at her and Lyanna laughed.

"Well, I guess that makes us even, then, since you have seen me as such."

Rhaegar smiled at the memory but still felt guilty. He really did feel like he could trust this woman, but he knew that he should not have.

Lyanna took a deep breath. "I'm betrothed to Robert Baratheon."

"So I've heard. He seems a decent fellow."

"In comparison, I guess. I find him stinky, dull-witted, and overly fond of female flesh."

"Well that last bit could suite you. Your flesh is ever so….female."

Lyanna rolled her eyes at him.

"Sorry," said Rhaegar, holding his hands up in a token of surrender. "So, you do not wish to marry him?"

"I do not."

"Is there someone else?"

"What? No, not really. It's not even that I want to marry for love, although that would certainly be ideal. I know that I have a responsibility to my family, to Winterfell, to marry for the betterment of my house."

"Then what is it?"

"I want to be able to be myself once I'm married. I'm not one to spend the day doing needlework and sipping tea."

"Surely Robert wouldn't mind if you didn't do those things."

"He expects me to be the perfect lady. He's completely infatuated with his idea of who I am, but he doesn't know anything about me really. Besides, he can't even stay loyal to his sacred idea of me."

"My lady?"

"His bed is never cold."

"Ah, I see. Well, my lady, it seems we both have our troubles."

"Do not fret, my prince, I shall keep your secrets…and pray that things work out for the best."

"I shall pray for you as well, my lady. For now, I'm afraid I must find my squire. My royal father has demanded I don armor more befitting a prince."

"It does look rather ragged." Lyanna giggled. "Good luck with the tournament, your grace."

Rhaegar turned back just as he was about to exit.

"My lady," he said softly, "Ser Trillare leans back in his saddle when he strikes. Feint to strike at the helm and then move to unhorse him."

"Thanks for the tip."

"Good luck….Lyanna."