The day Eddard weds Catelyn Tully Lyanna finds Ashara crying. Now it all makes sense, her brother's welcoming arms and the closeness that's been between them for years. She doesn't say anything but strokes the woman's back gently. In her own way she understands the pain. Ashara loves Eddard, Eddard loves Ashara and Eddard weds Catelyn Tully. Lyanna sighs heavily. Later at the feast she sits by her husband and has to remind herself that Catelyn is her good-sister also. The redhead looks so small, despite being taller than Lyanna and older too.
Wine flows freely and dish after dish is served. And when finally it comes the time for the bride and groom to be led to bed, she shudders. Lord Tully insisted that they be wed in the faith of the Seven, and thus they follow those customs. Lyanna watches somewhat subdued as they tear clothes off, and the slightly panicked look on Catelyn's face. She doesn't dare look which men pulls harder on the dress, she doesn't want to know. Lyanna ambles to the chambers she shares with her husband and slides under the covers. She waits with a burning candle for company. She waits for Rhaegar to come to her, because she won't go to him. Since Visenys, Rhaegar has been almost hesitant. Lyanna wishes it didn't bother her.
Yet bother her it does. So when he comes, she gently raises her head, as if surprised. They speak no words. Rhaegar blows the candle out, then joins her in bed. Lyanna breathes heavily just once but offers no protest. Instead she twined her arms around his shoulders and coils about his straight form. It is not love, she thinks, for she has none to give to him, but she does desire a child. If the Gods be good they'll grant her one. So she stands back meekly and allows her husband to do as he will, taking her pleasure where she can. As always he is kind to her, holding her as if she were made of glass. He ought to have understood by now that the North breeds stronger women. She won't break under his touch. As a lesson she pushes against him in reply to his trust. And once she's started she cannot stop.
They push and pull apart, caught in one another, so much so that they hear nothing but their own passion soaring in the zenith before it comes crashing down around them. They may not love each other, Lyanna considers, brushing slight fingers through her husband's silver hair, but they sure do ignite. His skin clings to hers. His hands cradle her hips, the slowly move upwards. Lyanna shivers at the touch, because she knows, for she's spend too much time with him not to, that he is pleased. And for the first time in a long time he doesn't pull away immediately; instead lingers just there.
He buries his head in her shoulder, mouthing something against the curve of her neck. Lyanna doesn't hear, she closes her eyes to the feeling of his lips. Words are wind, words fly away, words are ghosts to the beating of their hearts. But they burn her skin nonetheless, leaving marks, as sure as she's left hers upon Rhaegar.
There is a jolt and then a reawakening. Lyanna wonders how he has any strength left. Apparently he has enough for she's barely caught her breath when he makes her yield it again to his mouth and hands. If she yells, or keeps her pleasure to herself, Lyanna doesn't really know. She suspects it is the former because she can feel Rhaegar smiling against her collarbone. It's the sort of smile she wouldn't have expected from him; he who plays the harp and rides his dragon and looks at her with such sad violet eyes. That is to say, he smiles like he's won something out of this, the same way he does when she's enthralled with one of his presents.
If she were a maiden, a foolish, little girl she would have sworn this is love; that Rhaegar loves her. "Thank you," she whispers against the top of his head, her fingers still coiled in his now wild mane. "Thank you. Thank you." Why can't she say anything else?
In response she fells him pressing kisses to her skin, damper and saltier than it was before, she's sure. Rhaegar is not a man of many words. But, in the darkness that has veiled them, Lyanna fancies she can hear promises and admissions. Maybe not from his lips, but from the way his hands hold her and the way he embraces her body to his; surely these are pledges and confessions all the same.
Forth comes morning, and Lyanna wakes to an empty bed. Usually it is her to wake first, sometimes before the sun rises. She would look out the window, then to Rhaegar's sleeping form, and to the distance between them. She'd settle back in, debate awhile in her mind, then attach herself to his side, curling against the warmth. With that she would fall back to sleep, only waking when he had left the room.
Ashara knock when she is not yet out of bed, calling her name. Lyanna allows her entry, slipping into her silken robe. "Had people been here the other night they would have taken this to be the chamber of the newlyweds," the Dornish woman teases.
Embarrassment burns in her cheeks. "You ought not to have listened then," she chides softly, but with a smile.
"I didn't have much of a choice." Ashara blinks against the light.
Neither laughs now. "Hardly anyone ever does," Lyanna offers. It is poor consolation but it is the truth. "But I have found that it does get better." Mayhap not in the way of songs, but good enough for her to be happy with. Lyanna takes Ashara's hand after she's changed into one of her gowns and together they go to break their fast. Catelyn is shortly after drawn into their conversation. This is life, the Queen reflects, barely catching Rhaegar's eye over the pastries.