Her sister-in-law reminded Lyanna of her late mother. Or perhaps, Lyanna revised her thoughts, it was more that Catelyn was acting like a mother towards her, fussing about the pregnancy, worrying about the journey back from King's Landing to Storm's End, wondering if perhaps Lyanna should take up her father's offer to send the maester from Winterfell to deliver her baby.
She has been like a mother to her younger sister and brother for years, since her own mother's death, Lyanna reminded herself. Perhaps she is missing them, living so far away from them now.
Catelyn also reminded Lyanna of Stannis, in a strange way, even though they seemed nothing alike from the outside. Her sister-in-law was excellent with all the common courtesies - unlike Lyanna's husband - greeting this lord and that lord, remembering who was just married, who was having a child, who had lost a child, who was having trouble with a rebellious bannerman or a troublesome neighboring lord. But now and then, Lyanna detected a glimpse of the stubborn and unyielding look she had often seen in her husband's eyes in Catelyn's own eyes.
This is the way it must be, that look seemed to be saying. Whether we like it or not.
Because it is our duty, Stannis would have added. Lyanna wondered if Catelyn would have said the same thing.
They had been talking about the strangeness of leaving their own home for another. For the home of a husband.
"I think I am still getting used to the way of the north," Catelyn said, with a smile.
"Our god, you mean?"
"That, and much more. Your father very kindly commanded a small sept to be built at Winterfell. Is there a godswood at Storm's End?"
"Yes. Robert had arranged it, after the betrothal," Lyanna replied.
"Robert? Not … Lord Stannis?"
In truth, Lyanna had not set foot in the godswood since the day she arrived at Storm's End, when Maester Cressen had shown it to her. She was not even certain Stannis knew of its existence. But then again, she did not think her husband would care which god she did or did not worship. He very rarely set foot in the sept to pray to the Seven himself.
They met Brandon on their way back to the pavilion. "Cat!" He shouted in excitement. Catelyn was smiling, a genuine smile that softened her features and made her look almost like a girl. Brandon wanted to show his wife a place he had spoken to her about, close to the Red Keep. Lyanna lost the thread of the conversation; it was as if the two of them were speaking in a secret language she was not privy to. She envied them.
But after they left, she thought of Brandon smiling, laughing and flirting with a succession of women, while his wife was out of sight. Was that the extent of it now? Looking and flirting? Or was there more? He was not looking at any other woman when Catelyn was in front of him. They had seemed to be truly enjoying each other's company, Catelyn laughing at Brandon's japes, Brandon listening attentively to Catelyn's news about this lord and that lord.
If you love someone, why would you take another person to bed? Why would you flirt with another person? Why would you even look at another person?
Because like she had told Ned once, love could not change a man's nature.
Her sister-in-law struck her as one of the least naïve women she had ever met. Catelyn could not be truly blind to Brandon's fault. Did she consider it her duty, as a wife, to endure it?
Her thoughts turned to the duel Brandon had fought with Lord Tully's ward. "Challenged by a green boy for Cat's hand in marriage," Brandon had told his brothers and sister, and laughed about it for days afterwards. He had spared the boy's life for Catelyn's sake. What would Robert have done, if she had gone with Rhaegar? Rhaegar was no green boy, no mere ward of anyone. He was the Crown Prince. Would Robert have dared to challenge a king's son and heir? He was impulsive enough, Lyanna thought, his fury simmering close to the surface often enough for him to do something foolish he might later regret.
And her brothers and father? What would they have done? And Dorne. The humiliation directed at Princess Elia. What would they have done? And the king, suspicious and paranoid of his own son. What would he have done?
"He thinks I want his throne."
"You will sit on the throne, after his death. You are his heir."
"He thinks I want his throne right now, that I wish to set him aside, that I am plotting with various lords to set him aside and steal his throne."
"Are you?"
He had laughed. "You are very bold, my lady."
"I do not know the way of kings and princes, but I have heard all the stories. Disturbing stories, about your father."
"Don't tell me you believe in mere stories."
"No, but now that I have seen him, and his conduct, with my own eyes …"
Enough! She admonished herself. Do not think of that conversation. Do not think of any of our conversations. Do not think of his fear or his sadness or his uncertainty. Do not think of his joy or his smile or his laughter. Do not think of him. She thought of the look on Princess Elia's face instead.
Delicate, Lyanna had heard some calling the princess. Weak, others had whispered. But there was nothing weak or delicate about the look on her face, the moment she saw Lyanna and Rhaegar holding hands. It was a look beyond anger and sadness, but what Lyanna remembered most was how dignified she had looked as she was walking away. I would not debase myself by making a scene, every fiber of her body seemed to be screaming, as she made her way quietly out of the tent.
Lyanna was too busy recalling the past, it took her a while to realize that she was actually standing face to face with the princess now. With Princess Elia and her ladies-in-waiting, who were making their way to the raised dais, where Queen Rhaella and her younger son Viserys were already seated.
I should not have come. I should not have come. I should not have come.
She should not have come, for the princess' sake. She had been thinking only of herself, and her own discomfort, and had not spared a thought for Elia Martell's discomfort.
"My princess," she curtsied, trying mightily to keep her expression normal.
The ladies-in-waiting were staring daggers at her. Could they know? Did she tell them, the princess? One look at the princess' face told her that she did not. But Lyanna was still the woman the Rhaegar Targaryen had crowned as Queen of Love and Beauty over his own wife. Even without … everything else, that was scandalous enough.
How dare she shows her face? The women were probably thinking. How dare she walks around in the presence of the princess as if nothing had happened?
I did not ask for the honor, she wanted to defend herself. I could not have refused it, not in front of everyone.
She could have refused to speak with him, later. She could have refused to open her heart to him, later. Her defense was incomplete, only partially true.
Princess Elia was smiling. "Lady Baratheon. I was sad to hear of the death of your betrothed, Lord Robert Baratheon."
"It was very sudden and unexpected, my princess."
"And you are now wed to his brother? Lord Stannis Baratheon? I have not had the honor of meeting him. I hope you are not finding living in the south too strange. It took me a while to get used to King's Landing too."
The smile and the kind words, even if they were meant only for the sake of appearance, were sharper than any knives could be, and cut deeper than any swords could have. Don't! Don't be kind to me. Don't give a warning glance to your ladies-in-waiting to stop their angry stares.
"We should go, my princess. The queen is waiting," one of the ladies-in-waiting spoke.
As she watched Princess Elia walking away, Lyanna's suddenly muddled thoughts turned to Robert and Brandon. And him. She had dreaded the thought of marrying Robert, knowing his predilections, expecting him to father a string of bastards all over the Seven Kingdoms even after their marriage. She had judged her own brother harshly, on the same ground. But she had not judged him, the married man who had contemplated running away with another woman.
Because judging him meant I would have to judge myself too. His folly was my folly too.
Was it folly? She would have called it love, once upon a time.
Her husband's words rang in her ears. You told him no. You were the one who decided.
Not him.
Why did I have to be the one who saved us from the brink? I was a girl. You were a man, a man with duties and responsibilities. To your people. To your kingdom. To your wife.
To your children.
Duty. The voice in her head sounded like her own, but the words could have come straight from her husband's mouth.
She was losing herself. Amidst her guilt and her grief and her uncertainties, she was losing herself.
Was this how she would see the world from here onwards? The way her husband did, as an endless series of duty?
Or perhaps she was merely regaining a semblance of her old self. Before him. Before she had let him in her heart.
She would not have called it duty, her old self. She would have called it "considering the consequences of your actions." She would have called it "not being reckless."
How do you know? She despaired. How can you tell for sure?
The self that she had truly been. The self that she thought she had been. The self that she thought she always was, and always would be.
How far could you blame love for losing yourself?
Her greatest fear, she finally admitted to herself, was that the recklessness had always been in her, from the very beginning. Love was merely the catalyst.
How far could you blame marriage for losing yourself?