The Gods favour the strong. Lyanna holds onto that truth as they strip Eddard of his crown and titles, thus taking hers too. The King in the North is no longer, in his place is born the Warden of The North. They call her brother lord Stark, him who has been King for more than half her life.
"Lady Stark," says one of the generals with silver hair and violet eyes, "allow me to help you." He offers her his arm, covered in black velvet. The man looks at her intently, as if reading into her soul.
"Lady Stark has died more than a decade ago," she responds bitterly, slipping her hand through his. How could they possibly think her Eddard's wife? Perhaps because it is so deeply rooted into their own customs that brother should marry sister. Lyanna wishes she could show her disgust at the practice. Just how insane does one have to be to marry one's own sibling? It is simply revolting. And thus she finds yet another reason to cling tightly to her hate for these strangers with pale hair, eyes of amethyst and otherworldly beauty. In fact Lyanna bets that Rhaegar Targaryen takes his own sister to bed. What other woman would want him?
"And who is this?" asks a young man with the same silver hair and violet eyes. "Does the pretty bird have a name?" He takes a piece of her unbound hair, toying with the ends. Lyanna wants to snap at him, tell him that she's Princess of the North and should he treat her like a trollop she would see that he loses a hand at the very least. Sadly, she is no longer a Princess, and her threat cannot be carried out. "Well?"
"Viserys!" Rhaegar Targaryen calls out to his brother. "How good of you to have brought Lord Stark's sister to us." Daenerys next to him smiles serenely, like she hadn't been cutting down her countrymen mere days ago. Lyanna swallows her anger, not a thankful though making its way through her mind. She hopes, instead, that they choke on the wine at the feast. "Come closer, my Lady, I would see your face."
In vain does Lyanna wish it otherwise, her legs move on their own, bringing her, step by step, closer to the eldest Targaryen's lean, tall form. She bows stiffly, wounded pride stinging underneath the calm surface. "My King." The words almost don't come out. She's so used to calling Eddard by the title that it somehow feels like ash in her mouth to be saying the words to Rhaegar Targaryen. Unlike his younger brother, Rhaegar has something stern about his face. He looks at her in a manner that conveys sadness and hope at the same time. Lyanna cannot hold his stare, her eyes fall to the pin holding his cloak.
Rhaegar nods towards Eddard as if some sort of bargain has been sealed between them. "What is your age, my Lady?" The warrior's gaze doesn't leave her, even as the skin heats.
"Eight and ten, my King." What does it matter? Lyanna refuses to meet his eyes and hopes that her skin will cool down and that he shall leave her in the next moment.
"Good. She is old enough." He turns towards Eddard. Without so much as a by your leave, he speaks to her brother. "I'll take her to wife. Let her be my Queen."
"If it please you," Eddard replies.
Gray eyes widen in disbelief. Her mouth opens to protest, yet Lyanna can say nothing. The cut is deep. Her own brother would give her away so easily. Sell her to a man who took his crown as if she were horseflesh, no more important than an ornament, to be a gift. What can she say to this? Sharp nails dig into her palm, drawing blood. Lyanna pays them no mind. She's too preoccupied for that.
Why does he not marry his sister? Lyanna rages at the unfairness of it all. She doesn't want to be his Queen. She doesn't want to share his home and bed, and bring him sons with silver locks and vivid violet eyes. His sister would be better suited, and, indeed, Lyanna would be happier for it.
"I beg your pardon, my King, my Lord," she forces herself to speak. "I would like to retreat, if I may." She simply has to or else she'll likely do something she would later regret.
Eddard comes to her later. "It is for the best, sister." He places a gentle, caring hand on her shoulder, which she promptly shakes away. "Lyanna."
"How could you?" she growls out. "What am I to you that you would discard of me so simply?" Her voice thickens with tears and grief. "Do I mean so little?"
"You are not a child!" her brother tells her severely. "You have my love. But are not a child to be coddled. We must do what is best for our people." He holds his hand up when she intends to interrupt. "Heed my words. They have an army, ours was crushed. They have dragons, we have plain swords. We cannot fight and win. Bring the peace we need, sister, and you shall nor regret it."
"Can no other lady have this honour? There are fairer maiden in these lands, brother. There is Cersei Lannister, one of the Tully sisters, even a Tyrell girl." Rhaegar Targaryen could have his pick. Why does he insist that it be her when the title of Queen would best please other women?
"It is you he wants," Eddard says. "He is not without honour."
"I don't love him." She doesn't even like him. She hardly knows him.
"Yet you shall learn to live with him, for he is to be your lord and husband." This is the end of their discussion, Lyanna knows.
Oh, she does hate the Targaryens, especially Rhaegar Targaryen. Her knees grow weak, and she finds herself sliding to the floor. "Would that you feel exactly what I feel now, brother," she whispers to the shadows.