***Trigger warning for spousal abuse, if that is disturbing to you don't read the second half, also trigger warning for miscarriage, if that is disturbing to you don't read the first half***
Winter struck sooner than predicted, and with a ferocity that dumped snow as far south as the mountains of Dorne. With the snows and the howling winds, it seemed all of Westeros retreated to their holdfasts, and the capitol was strangely still and silent. The long summer before it meant they were in for an even longer winter, and the children would spend the first few years with the sight of King's Landing covered in snow.
Whereas before she had walked around the gardens with the children and entertained visitors, Cersei seemed to take a more avid role in Winter's simpler politics, though she still spent hours with their young children.
It was her first harsh winter in memory, for those before it had been mild. Or maybe it was the sea air near the Rock, but winter in King's Landing seemed a miserable affair. The Red Keep was never warm enough, and even in her rooms deep inside the palace she shivered. Her handmaidens took to keeping the fire stoked day and night, for the Queen constantly shivered and sneezed.
The children though seemed to love the snow, even the twins though they were just discovering walking. Since Cersei rarely went out of the castle walls, Rhaegar and Jaime would take them to play in the thick snows while Cersei watched as best she could from the Keep.
"Was the winter always this hard on her?" Rhaegar asked Jaime as they built castles in the snow for the twins to smash.
Jaime paused and shrugged. "I do not think so. But the winters in Casterly Rock were more wet than cold. She never liked to go out much in winter though." Rhaegar was tolerable, now. He'd been married to Cersei more than two years, and Jaime had never seen any cause to be alarmed by the King. He cared for Cersei, and he doted on her, even in moods that Jaime found taxing.
The King nodded and let out a sigh. "I'm worried. This will be a long winter, and if she's…"
"Cersei is stronger than she looks," Jaime shrugged.
"But still… if she should worsen…"
He stared at the King and shook his head. "There isn't a point to worrying over this. What can you do?" He laughed, rolling his green eyes. "Not even the King can change the weather, Rhaegar. And she's been fine. A little chill isn't anything to worry about for the winter."
The King sighed, watching his sons roll around in the thick snows gleefully. The snow didn't seem to bother the boys in bit, unlike their mother. And he did worry about her. She seemed to require sun and warmth to thrive, and though he knew that she hated to stay inside the Keep and to wrap herself in thick cloaks normally reserved for winters in the North, it was necessary. The last time she had joined him and Jaime in taking the children out in the snow her hands had turned an awful ashen grey after only minutes, and it had taken hours to warm her by the fire.
He tried to take his mind off her though, and scooped up Aegon. "Let's race your Uncle Jaime hmm? I bet we can beat him and your brother!"
"What is this?" The golden-haired man scoffed, lifting Aerion high into the air to a delighted laugh. The tiny boy already adored his uncle, and there were no doubts he would grow up to be a warrior. As the second son should, according to Tywin. "That's not true!" He tickled Aerion and then moved the boy to clutch the leather padding he wore beneath his golden armor.
Rhaegar rolled his eyes, and took off, stumbling through the snow with Aegon clutched tight to his chest. Jaime was letting him win, for he knew that the Lannister was terribly fast, and rather agile even through the snow. But his lead didn't last long, for Rhaegar tripped in the snow and fell into the mercifully soft layer of it onto his side. The flurries that went flying up didn't seem to bother Aegon though, and he laughed merrily, making excited mewling and cheering noise. At just six months, they weren't talking yet, but Aegon had mastered "mama" and "da" for Cersei and Rhaegar. Aerion was still babbling, and only his wet nurses pretended to understand him.
"You alright there, your grace?" Jaime teased, holding Aerion in one large hand as he offered the other to the King.
He took it, pulling himself up and nodding. "I'm fine. But we should take the twins in before they get too cold. Cersei would have my head if they got sick."
Both men laughed, bundling the children into their cloaks and carried them into the keep. It seemed they had perfect timing as well, for Aegon started to whimper, his little hands fisting in Rhaegar's doublet. "I think he's hungry," the king hummed, looking down at his son. "Shall we see if your mother is feeling well enough to feed you?"
It had been an ongoing struggle between Cersei's desire to nurse her own children, the demands of two infants, and her sporadic illness. The twins had spent much more time with wet nurses than Daena had, and Rhaegar could tell it weighed heavy in Cersei's heart.
They walked up to the Queens chambers, but were directed to the library. At least that meant she was feeling well enough to move about. For the past week she'd been in bed with some sickness or another, and not the first in this winter. Though she did her best to push through the bouts for him and the children, he knew that she was ill almost constantly. Still, it afforded him the opportunity to keep her warm in the nights, and made it much easier to find his wife when he knew she would be inside the Keep and most likely near the fire at all hours of the day. She seemed if anything more willing towards him, though he was sure there were those around the keep that doubted the possibility of that. But, in an odd turn of events, it was Rhaegar who was refusing her now. He wasn't going to take his rights, no matter how much his queen wanted him to, when she was sickly and exhausted. In truth, the King had spent as many nights attending to his wife as he had inside of her.
"Cersei?" Rhaegar called, stepping into the vast library with a mewling Aegon in his arms. Aerion was on his way to full fledged bawling, and the King could see Jaime's discomfort as he held the boy.
They walked through the room to the back, where a chaise was drawn up the fire. Draped over it were several blankets, and under those, his Queen. She seemed asleep, and before Rhaegar could gently rouse her, Jaime stepped beside him and tapped her cheek lightly. "Wake up, sweet sister, your spawn are hungry." He teased, causing the King to roll his eyes, and Cersei to startled in her sleep.
"Rude," she huffed, blinking her eyes as she woke, and finally fixing her gaze on the men. "Both?" She murmured, holding out her arms for the boys. Jaime moved first, placing Aerion in her arms, though he was careful with the boy, and his gaze lingered slightly too long. With a cough, he straightened.
"I'll leave you," he murmured, turning away. If Rhaegar hadn't been there, he may have stayed, even just for a glimpse of those breasts he missed, those that he had once considered his. As she had been his. His steps carried him quickly from her, and he waited at the door of the library like the good little guard dog he was now. Had he known that Cersei would be so happy with Rhaegar, would he have come to the capitol? Had he not seen it in that first meeting, how she adored the man? And now, with three royal children, what hope did he have of winning her?
Rhaegar watched the man go with an odd look. "Your brother has been… peculiar lately." He murmured, rocking Aegon as Cersei loosened the bodice of her dress and guided Aerion to her breast. She hadn't yet mastered nursing both twins; since it was rare she had the strength or time to. "Though Aerion seems to adore him no less."
"It must be the cold,' She murmured, not looking at him. Of course it wasn't the cold, Jaime had always loved the winter. It was how cold she had been to him, and how she avoided him. But what was she to do? "And it's good, that Aerion loves him. I would hope he could be a knight like Jaime someday, since Aegon will wear the crown."
"Already planning their lives, and they are not yet a year," Rhaegar laughed, sitting at the edge of the chaise. "Careful, Cersei. Perchance he'll want to be a scholar hmm? Or a Maester."
She scoffed and rolled her eyes at him. "You wait, husband, our son will be a great warrior. Aegon as well, of course, but I expect you and father will keep him busy with learning the ways of ruling."
Rhaegar chuckled and smiled over at her, "I guarantee it. Though I wouldn't be so quick to disregard the second son, after all, if something were to happen, or Aegon does not want to rule, as second son Aerion would be expected to take the Iron Throne."
"And what of the third son?" She hummed, a small smirk on her face.
Rhaegar blinked. "Third son?"
Cersei stared at him a moment, still smirking, before she laughed. "Yes, third son. Your seed has flowered in my womb again, Rhaegar."
He paused for a moment and then grinned, the sort of goofy, crooked smile that she had first fallen for. He held Aegon in one hand and reached the other out to take Cersei's. "Truly?" He breathed, "Again?"
"Yes," she hummed, smirking again. "The Maesters said that my illness last week wasn't from the cold, but from the child-like with the twins. We will have another son, Rhaegar…" He could see the pride in her eyes as she eased Aerion from her breast, handing the babe to his father and taking Aegon. He had his three heads, his heir, his legacy, and still she was giving him children happily. In truth, he knew that their family mattered to her just as much as all of that, and that though it wasn't always clear; Lannisters prided their families and adored them. Cersei held her children close and protected them fiercely, even though she wielded no sword. He pitied any man foolish enough to threaten them.
"Another," he grinned, and leaned down to kiss her head. "Daena would be happy with a sister though, I think." He was just teasing her. She knew he would be happy with a son or a daughter, but it was the kingdom and lineage that often clouded his Queen's thoughts on the matter. With two sons though, what really was there for the third? Her father's lands at Casterly Rock possibly, though there was still her brother- the younger- to consider. Besides, Rhaegar was not particularly interested in involving himself anymore than he had to in Lannister family matters. But a daughter... There was the potential for alliances with daughters. Emissaries from the kingdoms and even across the narrow sea had already been visiting them in the summer months about Daena, though she was not yet three at the time.
Cersei, of course, abhorred the idea of treating their eldest child as a prized jewel to be owned by the most advantageously positioned lord. She had her fears for the fate of women, and she grasped the reality of it, a part of him knew that she would rather keep the girl in the capital than send her away. Would rather cater to Dornish custom on the matter and let her love and live a carefree life.
But this wasn't Dorne.
Still, the matter of Daena's betrothal was one to be settled at another moment, and not such a joyous one as this. Rhaegar kissed Cersei again, and then rested a hand behind her head to guide her to him. He rested his lips on her brow and smiled. "Another. A fourth child... Gods Cersei... You've no idea how happy you've made me."
"I do, my love," she breathed, "I'm just as delighted..."
When the twins had had their fill they carried them up to the nursery and then went to Cersei's rooms, the fire stoked high as they lay in front of it. The King wrapped an arm around the queen's waist. She was slim, for now, but he was well practiced in tracing the curve of her stomach. Cersei rested her head on his arm, nestled against his chest.
"We'll have a child in every of the kingdoms if we keep this up," he teased, caressing her side.
She rolled her eyes. "We will not. I don't plan to have nine children, Rhaegar. Let alone seven daughters."
He grinned. "Who knows? Nine isn't that many..." That got him a smack and he only laughed harder.
"You're not the one who births them!"
"Hmh..." He shrugged, "but you love them."
Cersei smiled, kissing his neck with a soft sigh. "I do. But we don't need nine children, that would be ridiculous. And I honestly don't think I'd enjoy it. Four, certainly, maybe five."
She'd been in bed a week, shaking and barely conscious and unable to keep anything down. The sickness built slowly, but the fever raged fast, and didn't seem to have any desire to break. No one could fathom where the queen had gotten it, some theorized poison, treachery, others blamed the stale winter air in the capital, or her evident predisposition to illness. But that didn't help them heal her of it.
"Maester Pycelle," the King sighed. Rhaegar hadn't slept for almost four days; he'd never left the Queens side except to tell the children what was going on. Thankfully they were too young to understand. "The child. What's- this can't be good for it."
"Probably not, no." The old man sighed, looking back at the bed where Cersei slept fitfully. "But she could make it through with the babe, Her Grace is a strong woman."
"Could make it through?" He frowned. The thought of her not making it, of losing either of them was beyond terrifying. Of course they already had three children, three healthy exuberant children. But after four moons they were rather attached to the fourth. But Cersei… he couldn't replace her. He couldn't even think of it.
"She's not sick enough yet for the fever to take her, your Grace.' Pycelle assured him. "But the babe…"
The babe didn't last the night. After another hour one of the handmaiden's screamed, and Pycelle left the king. There was a pool of blood between Cersei's thighs, soaking into the linens. The Queen herself wasn't screaming, but the tears rolling down her cheeks twisted on Rhaegar's heart. He walked to her side, reaching out for her hand, but she didn't respond.
"Cersei," He breathed, but she shook her head. Ignoring her, the king moved to kiss her cheeks, resting a hand against her head and guiding her to him. "I'm so sorry," he breathed, "I'm so, so sorry..."
She let out a sob and rested her head on his shoulder, shaking her head. "Why?" She breathed, "why would the gods do this to us?"
"I do not know the will or reason of the gods," he whispered, "but you... You don't deserve this. We don't..."
It seemed the gods didn't care what they deserved. Cersei started to fade next to him, and the Grand Maester paled at the blood, and ushered the king away. "She may... If this does not pass..." Pycelle murmured, and the fear that settled in Rhaegar's heart made him almost sick, though he held back. "Tend to your children, Your Grace." The Grand Maester advised, "tell your daughter what's happening, and prepare them-"
"Prepare them for what?" He hissed, standing and glaring at the older man. "The loss of their mother? How do you prepare them for that!"
The Maester backed up, frowning. "You could at least tell them, My King. Tell them as much as you can so they know to pray for her."
The king shook his head, resting a heavy hand on the Maesters cheek. "If you let her die..." He shook his head, unable to finish the sentence. "Don't."
After that, Rhaegar didn't visit her. Jaime didn't visit her. The queen lived, she bled for another hour and then stopped, still crying softly but unwilling to speak. They asked her how she was feeling and she glared, they offered her food and she closed her eyes. After a week the Maester approached Rhaegar, who had taken to spending his days locked in his solar.
"Your grace..." He murmured, "excuse me, but..." He wrung his hands in his robes. "The queen survived, as you know... But she will not survive the winter like this, not eating, locked in her sickbed, refusing to speak."
The king didn't look up. "What would you have me do with her? She lost a child, I lost a child Pycelle."
"And you have done nothing but wallow in your sadness," The Grand Maester frowned, stepping back from the King. "All of the Seven Kingdoms know of your loss, Your Grace. And," He paused, seeming unsure of his words. "Doran Martell has offered an invitation to her Grace, should she wish to escape the cold, and the sorrow that has fallen over the Keep."
Rhaegar paused, halfway through the order he was signing. He hadn't slept, not since that night. He was forgoing food, unable to get her eyes, her blood, her tears, or his fear out of his head. Maester Pycelle claimed it could have been worse, that they were very lucky not to lose the queen. Intended to cheer him, it only made the kings dreams darken and sleep evade him. But the thought of letting her leave him… "No." He spoke with a firmness he didn't come close to feeling.
"Your Grace," The old man sighed, "It would be good for her. The Winter is not kind to our Queen… And it has yet to hit Dorne, the sun is still warm in the Water Gardens, the Prince writes…" Reaching into his robes he drew out a letter, pressing it onto the King's desk. "Think of her." He pleaded quietly.
As the Maester left, Rhaegar looked up, resting his hand over the letter. Through her tears Cersei had pleaded for the Rock, for her home, things he could give though he silently refused. Sending her away would only make it worse. They fell apart when separated. And yet there was a heaviness in his heart, for the thing she had truly begged for was her mother, and he could never give her that. He heard it first when the flood was still seeping from her body; the child freshly ripped from her and her sobs not yet words. His queen had never asked for anything he could not give, but when he heard her begging, praying even, for her mother and for home, something in the king broke.
"Seven Hells," He breathed, standing up from the desk and taking the letter, skimming it as he walked to the balcony of his solar. The wind bit into his skin and whipped his hair over his eyes, carrying ice with it. Cersei was the light of the sun, and this winter was killing her. She'd been nothing but sick even with the child, struck twice as hard by illness with the tax of the babe.
Doran wrote of warmth, of protection. Rhaegar didn't think there had ever been an invitation like this, to send a royal to Dorne for no other reason than the Prince pitied her plight. And he knew Cersei wouldn't last the winter if she refused to heal from this.
It was not an easy thing to send his beloved wife to the deserts of the south, letting her board a ship while their children stay with him in Kings Landing. They're but three and two, and don't yet know the pain that shrouds the castle.
She didn't understand. One minute she was peacefully lounging in bed, her thoughts adrift on the great sea of snow that had become her life as of late (silent, quaint, undisturbed) and the next her long forgotten handmaidens were sweeping into the rooms, throwing the blankets off her sore body and ushering her into a bath.
"King's orders, your Grace," one of the girls explained, her voice hushed. All their voices were hushed, as if the Queen would startle at a moment's notice, or a loud noise could send her into dust, like a wave on the sand. Ridiculous, and annoying, but Cersei had no words.
Not even the words to ask why, or what the orders were, what feast or visit she was being readied for when she was still not strong enough to walk. The child had left her, but the sickness had not, and her head swam with fatigue as she was bathed, dressed, brushed and braided and laced into her corset and skirts. The girls wasted no time and no breath on speaking to her, and before she could wrap her head around all of it their soft hands and careful steps were replaced by the chill of armor and the clang of metal, Jaime's strong arms lifting her and guiding her gods knew where. At least, she thought it was Jaime, but all she recognized was the armor and the white cloak.
Truly, what most noticeably stuck in her mind was that none of these people were Rhaegar.
He must hate me now, she thought, for losing the babe. Three heads were not enough; three children in two years would never be enough for any man, let alone the king. He could say all the pretty words and sing her all the songs he wanted, but words were empty and music ephemeral. His actions spoke for him. Not once in the week had she heard from him, or seen him. Not even the children.
And now she was being hidden away, sent away out of sight where he could forget about his broken bride, not yet five years his wife. Lioness or not, Cersei was no match for the Winter, and she barely had the strength left to be saddened by the turnabout.
Leaning against the chest of metal of the man that held her, the Queen let them carry her, only sitting up when she was ushered to her feet, vision blurred by the sudden movement. Someone slipped one of the thick fur cloaks over her shoulders, the kind lined with soft beaver against her bare skin and thick bear fur on the outside. She recalled, fleetingly, that the northmen said no one would wear that cloak in the north, that even by their standards it was excessive. But it barred the cold from her skin and kept her as warm as the fire inside had.
Cersei found herself in a litter without so much as a word, the kingsguard that had been carrying her seated across from her. Though she could make out his armor, her energy did not extend to giving her a clear view of his face. "Jaime?" She assumed, but was only rewarded with a warm laugh.
"No, your grace. Ser Arthur Dayne, at your service." The man spoke, and Cersei recalled his face, though she did not see it.
About to reply, a cough took her, and she nearly jolted off the bench of the carriage they had laid her on, barely breathing with how the coughs wracked her. After a moment she found herself in Ser Arthur's arms, his hands running over her back. "Breathe, your grace," He murmured, "We'll be in Dorne soon, and the heat should heal what ails you."
"Dorne?" She coughed, nearly choking on the word.
Ser Arthur nodded; Cersei could feel it against her hair. "Yes. The King and Prince Doran agreed the sun would do you good."
Dorne. Out of sight, out of mind. He's rid of me now.
Ser Arthur Dayne had promised to keep the Queen alive on the trip. Since the woman seemed to be a wisp of a thing now, barely able to walk on her own, he knew it would be no easy task, but they had forgotten to mention the seasickness. In Winter the swells rose higher, and he thought he would lose her then and there. The ship was damp and dank despite the Lannister gold that bought it, and that only aided the Queen's illness. He did what he could, but knights were not Maesters, and he was easily twice as relieved as she was when they neared land.
"My Queen," He murmured, before resting a hand on the woman's bony shoulder. She couldn't keep a scrap of food down now, and was wasting away. All he received in reply was an exhausted groan, so he scooped her and her cloak up once more. The thing weighed more than she, he was sure, and it was no wonder she rarely stood when it was placed over her shoulders.
Despite his delight at being back in Dorne, finally, a fear gripped his heart for the woman in his arms. Rhaegar should never have sent her away so early, not when she was struck so hard by illness. But the man was not the same that had taken the throne years prior, nor the same that had wed the proud daughter of House Lannister in the Sept. Nor was she the same.
They were taken to the Palace, and from there she was taken from him.
"Ser Arthur?" He turned to face the younger Prince of Dorne, bowing slightly.
"Prince Oberyn, how may I help you?"
The man smirked at him and led him down the breezeway. "I simply wish to know how our Queen is faring. You travelled with her, did you not?" He paused, both men standing, backs lit by the warm sun. Even Arthur had to admit that this weather would be good for anyone, but particularly Cersei.
"She's ill," he shrugged. "She's been ill for almost the whole winter, but it was much, much worse with the babe. We were all surprised she made it, really. But you can't say that, because of Ser Jaime."
Oberyn hummed in thought. "If her illness is so terrible, why would the King send her away?"
Ser Arthur frowned. "The Prince sent for her. Why would she have not come?"
"On their last visit the King seemed very attached to his lovely wife, is all…" He began to walk away, and Ser Arthur chose not to follow. It was an odd thing, what had happened with the King and Queen. He'd seen her refuse her husband through the open doors as the babe left her, but in the following days he'd seen her ask for Rhaegar and only Jaime visit her. And even he stopped.
On his way up to the sunrooms, where they were placing the Queen, he dragged his feet. Visiting Cersei was no easy task, though after so long spent with her on the ship and the journey he was at least less of an affront to her. No one but the King and her own family regularly wanted to see her when she was sick, but he pitied the woman. His had been the only kind face she'd seen in weeks, even before they left.
"...You should come visit us, your grace," he heard a girls voice, and when he walked through the archway saw all of Oberyn's bastards surrounding the queen. She barely looked awake, but had not sent them away.
Stepping into the room further, he knocked on the door. "I think it would perhaps be better if you girls left her grace until she feels a bit better."
The girls seemed to startle at his voice, but the queen merely sighed. "They're fine, Ser Arthur," she drawled. "I will admit being visited is a welcome change." The look she gave him made him stop, lowering his gaze in a respectful nod. It would do her good, this place. The heat, children who adored her and comfortable days lounging by the water gardens. He could hardly fathom she'd want to leave.
"As you wish, your grace." He hummed. The girls grinned, the littler ones re-joining her on the bed. In Kings Landing it was easy to forget that the queen was but a woman of 21 years, but here with the girls she seemed younger, lighter.
Upon his leave he wrote a letter to the King, informing him that they'd arrived, and that Cersei already seemed improved.
Storms End was being battered by the worst storm in fifty years when Lyanna brought her third child into the world. Lyanna labored twelve hours to birth the babe, another son just to be dragged about by his father. If it were a boy like the last two Robert would expect it to be just like him.
"My Lady," came the Maesters voice, "you have a girl."
Lyanna opened her eyes, allowing herself to feel happy. She held out her arms to take the babe. Unlike her two older brothers the little girl wasn't wailing anymore. Instead she merely stared at Lyanna with big blue eyes.
"Would you like me to send for Lord Baratheon so you can name the child?" Asked the Maester.
Lyanna shook her head, "No, tell him her name is Meera." She would not let Robert claim this child; she would have this babe, this girl, all to herself.
Robert paid no attention to his daughter. He barely acknowledged her except for the first night after her birth. He raged for hours about Lyanna giving her daughter a northern name, reminding her that his child was a Baratheon.
Lyanna cowered in the corner, trying not to cry, it only got worse if she cried.
She took to hiding herself in the nursery everyday, partly to escape Robert, and partly to protect Meera.
Within a week of his sister's birth Joffrey hated his sister. He pushed her about and called her slow and stupid, Gendry did his best to stand up for his little sister but he was a year younger than his brother. Both were large boys, but Joffrey was larger.
Lyanna had grown to hate Storms End and everything about it. She couldn't stand the constant rains battering the walls and the way the wind howled outside the walls. To her it was never warm. Not like Winterfell, where even on the harshest winter nights the laughter and joy of children carried through the halls and the family ate by a roaring fire.
At night she dreamed of Winterfell, of her childhood, of days past. She wanted to ride through the snow with a crown of blue winter roses atop her head. She wanted to spar against Benjen in the Godswood. She wanted to pray in front of the heart tree with Ned. She wanted the freedom that her father had given her, and the joy that each of her brothers had brought her in turn. But all that was gone and she would never get it back.
A month after Meera's birth Robert finally asked to meet the child. Lyanna carried her up the swirling steps of the central tower to her husbands solar. He was sitting before the fire, drinking.
"Bring her here," Robert said without any feeling.
Lyanna walked over to Robert, passing over the delicate bundle that was her daughter. Robert took the girl awkwardly in his arms. He squinted at her, as if trying to find something to prove she wasn't his.
After what felt and eternity he finally spoke, "She's pretty enough I guess."
Lyanna nodded, not wanting to speak.
"We had better get on finding her a husband." Said Robert, at that Lyanna found her voice.
"Rhaegar wrote me of a good match for her in Pentos. I had him arrange it for Meera."
Robert glared at his wife; "You're marrying her off to some foreign scum?"
Lyanna glared at her husband, she had asked for the match because she wanted her daughter as far from Storms End and Joffrey's cruelty as possible, but she couldn't tell her husband that.
"Rhaegar wants us to have good relations with the free cities. He thought that if their most wealthy were tied to us then trade would be easier."
Robert shrugged, "Well it saves me the trouble of finding her a bride."
Then he handed the babe back and dismissed his wife.
Robert went back to ignoring his daughter after that, but he didn't ignore his wife. He grew increasingly angry at her for not giving him a third son, insisting that a Baratheon would never have less than three sons.
Every day he stomped off to his whores and Lyanna hated him. She wrote Cersei constantly of her life, telling her of her husband, but she never let herself cry. She told herself she would be strong, she told herself she could hold it in.
That was until he hit her.
She had gone out for a ride without his permission. He had told her that she must stay in during the winter to avoid getting hurt but Lyanna couldn't take the cramped walls of the castle. She was a Northern wolf and a little rain and wind was not enough to scare her.
When she returned from a ride drenched and breathless with joy Robert was waiting for her in her chambers.
He raged at her for almost half an hour telling her that she was endangering herself, and if she was so reckless maybe she shouldn't spend time with the children. Lyanna stood there and took it, and then he said something she would never forgive.
"I will not have you damaging the Baratheon name so!" He roared. At that Lyanna couldn't control herself, she laughed.
"You have already hurt the Baratheon name beyond repair with all your drinking and whoring!" She would not let him tell her that she was the un-honorable one; she was a Stark of Winterfell.
Robert struck her then. His hand connected firmly with her cheek and sent her to the floor. Lyanna didn't let herself cry out, she bit her cheek and she held back her tears.
Rising to her feet she glared at her husband and spat, "I shall remember this, the North never forgets."
Then she left the room while behind her Robert told her he was sorry and that he loved her, but Lyanna knew better, and she knew that she would hate her husband forever for this.
She found her way to the nursery where Gendry and Meera were playing. Unable to control herself any longer Lyanna collapsed on the floor and cried. Meera and Gendry crawled over to her wrapping their little arms around her, and Lyanna vowed that her husband would never hurt her children, and they would never be under his control.
He hit her again a week later. He came into her rooms that night stinking of wine and some whore's perfume. Lyanna was sleeping in her chambers dreaming of Winterfell when the door banged open startling her from her sleep.
Her first thought was that the castle was under attack and she must protect her children. She was about to rise from the bed when a drunken voice spoke.
"Lyanna," he murmured.
Lyanna's whole body tensed, Robert was back in her chambers most likely after another child. He claimed to love her yet nothing he had ever done showed this. He preferred his whores who would do exactly what he wanted.
Robert climbed on top of her smelling of strong wine, he tried to kiss her bit Lyanna forced his face away with her hand.
"Robert, no." She pleaded.
"Lyanna," he murmured trying once more to kiss her.
Lyanna rolled away from him, standing quickly when she reached the edge of the bed, "Not tonight, you're drunk." She said backing towards the door.
Robert growled from the bed, "Get back here, woman."
Lyanna shook her head. Finding the door she pushes it open and went sprinting down the hall. Her feet took her to the nursery. She barred the door and curled up on the floor, her body shaking with sobs. She lay there until the aim rose through the window and at last her tears dried.