Grasping her husband's hand, Lyanna allows herself to be pulled to her feet. "Come, my Lady. 'Tis time we retired," Rhaegar tells her softly. Not that she would offer any sort of protest, for she herself is tired beyond measure. It's been months since the Maesters have told her she is with child, and with every turn of the moon she feels a little wearier, a little more drained. Her companions tell her it is normal, that she shouldn't worry. Lyanna nods along distantly, too drained for anything else.

Rhaegar has gifted her jewels and silks and anything she could possibly dream of when she told him. He had smiled in a way that left her breathless when she had started rounding. Lyanna still clutches the memory to her heart. Rhaegar is not a man without honour. He treats her well. She has never wanted for anything since marrying him. She is a Queen, not only in name, but in deed also. But as much as she doesn't love him, he loves her neither. Not even the child growing in her womb can change that.

Tonight the babe is extremely fussy, kicking her with every step. She is sore, more so than she remembers being during the course of her pregnancy. A harsh pain cuts through her, making it hard to breathe. She looks down, perhaps at the same time as Rhaegar because she can hear his gasp, hers becomes a cry of alarm.

Her husband wastes no time picking her up in his arms. He is stronger than she would have guessed, but Lyanna has never found that to be surprising, her brother is much the same. Yet is serves nothing to be thinking of Eddard when the pain rips her apart. She doesn't know exactly when they bring her to her rooms or when the Maester's come. The only thing Lyanna can feel is constant, unadulterated extreme pain.

Fear spears through her when Rhaegar is asked to leave. She would beg him to stay, but she can't manage anything other than scream. Someone hands her a clean strip of cloth, instructing he to bite hard on it. Her yells are muffled some, as her teeth dig into the white material. Tears run down her cheeks, mingled with sweat, full of desperation and rage and everything she never managed to say when she could. "I'm dying," she sobs when her mouth is freed and they try to give her water. "Make it stop."

"My Queen, save your strength," one of the Maesters tells her. "Here, have a drink of water." He also wipes her forehead with a cool rag of dark green. "That's it, my Queen, just so."

She hasn't quite regained her breath when she has to start pushing again. There's a waves of pain, then another and another. Lyanna finds herself praying for some sort of succour, be it in even in the form of eternal sleep. The encouragements reach her ears, but she has little force now. It feels like the child is cutting its way out of her. Is that what Benjen did to her mother? Is this the way her mother died? Gods be good, she can feel the blood flowing out of her, each lost drop leaving her even weaker than before.

It could have been days, hours or merely minutes, with her bound to the bed like that. Lyanna has no idea how much time has passed. But, in the end, the pain stops. Her head falls back on the pillow as she forces herself to give one more push. Just one more, they say, and she can rest after that. The dampness on her forehead is once more washed away. Strangely there is no sound in the room. She could hear pin drop if she tries.

"My child," she speaks, hoping that they can hear her. Why are they not giving her the child? She has bled and writhed in pain for the life she's brought onto this world. The least they can do is let her see the babe. They prop her up, helping her against the pillow.

"We beg your forgiveness, my Lady," the oldest of the Maesters says. He holds a bundle in his arms. "She was stillborn." And the whole world falls on her.

This time her yell is one of grief. She doesn't care that Rhaegar comes rushing in, nor that his siblings follow. She doesn't care that she looks a madwoman. "Give me my child!" It's a harsh commend that leaves her throat. "She cannot be dead."

There is not a moment when she hates Rhaegar more than when they put the dead child in her arms. She looks like him. Her sweet baby. Sobs spring forth from her. She wants to push Rhaegar's arms away when they wrap around her. She wants to yell at him and curse his name. He's given her this precious creature, the only good thing about their marriage, only to have everything become a nightmare.

"Leave, all of you," her husband commands. "Lyanna, look at me." He pries the tiny corpse from her arms, allowing the Maesters to take it, and hols her firmly when she tries to scramble after it. "Stop it," Rhaegar hisses when she claws at his arms in her anguish. "Enough!"

"Let me go! I hate you," Lyanna spits the words out at him. Still he holds her to him, smoothing her damp hair back. She begs and begs; he doesn't listen. He embraces her through the tears and the anger, not releasing her. His warmth is soothing, and she hates that it can calm her somewhat.

"She was mine too," he whispers in her ear, his grasp tightening. For him there are no tears, but Lyanna does not doubt that his eyes have darkened in grief as hers have. She rests her head on his shoulder, and her arms come around his shoulders.

In the end they find that little Visenya wouldn't have had much of a chance at living had she been born with breath in her lungs. She came too early, not yet properly developed.

Lyanna leans into Rhaegar.