Hope

by elizacamille

Hope

2. Chapter 3

Chapter 20: Secrets of the Greats

Chapter Text

The knock at her chamber doors was as ominous as rolling thunderclouds over the sea; Lyanna sat up in her bed, glazed morning light streaming in through the Maidenvault's windows. She cleared her throat, breathed deeply, and called, "Come in!"

Lyanna's little riverland lady-in-waiting, Johanna Mallister, waltzed in, a sunshine smile on her freckled face.

The girl, a pretty flower at seventeen years old, was sent from House Mallister after Lyanna's wedding to service and accompany the new princess; House Mallister was sworn to House Tully - Hoster Tully, the high lord and father of Brandon's betrothed, Catelyn, had introduced the girl to Lyanna personally.

Lyanna liked Johanna well enough, but the girl was constantly smiling and singing, attempting to bring life to the dreary Maidenvault that Lyanna was a permanent figure of.

After their wedding, Rhaegar had offered Lyanna apartments within Maegor's Holdfast, only a corridor away from his own, but she steadfastly refused. She liked the Maidenvault, the grey tint that seemed to soak the walls so that if she squinted her eyes, she could pretend she was back at Winterfell - but most of all, she liked being away from the presence of the Mad King.

"Up, up!" Johanna insisted, tugging at Lyanna's blanket.

She huffed but sat up, groaning when Johanna lay a bright blue silk dress over the bed. "Johanna, I don't require a dress today. I'll be riding Smoke."

"I'm afraid not, Your Highness. The queen has requested your presence for the midday meal."

Lyanna's heart stuttered. "Just the queen?"

Johanna gave Lyanna a queer look, roving her keen green eyes all over the princess. "The prince will be there as well." Lyanna closed her eyes in defeat. "Viserys," Johanna clarified.

Lyanna's eyes shot open, relief replacing the dread that was heavy in her throat. Of all the royals, she liked Queen Rhaella the best; Rhaella was kind and lovely, with always a sweet word, and Viserys was a storm of energy, curious and blunt.

Johanna assisted Lyanna into the dress, lacing up the ties at her back with speedy fingers. Once her hair was braided down her back, they left the Maidenvault and were met with Ser Jonothor Darry, one of the seven Kingsguards.

Ser Jonothor was one of the few that she disliked; he was a stern man with an empty face and scraggly brown hair that looked perpetually unwashed.

Without a word, he walked off, and Lyanna was forced to run after him, his long legs a barely even match to her quickness. It had been a month since her wedding to Rhaegar and in that time, she hadn't been back to the castle-within-a-castle that was the Holdfast.

But the sight of those stone-walled corridors bleached tan in the daylight was enough to cause a shift in her stomach as she remembered being marched inside by Ser Jaime and Ser Lewyn.

Queen Rhaella's apartments were far off from Rhaegar's, set into a secluded little corner that seemed darker than the rest of the castle. The sight of her dark, cold rooms sent an eery chill through Lyanna's bones.

The queen was sitting at her small table below the window, her face settled on a screeching Viserys. Lyanna flinched, unused to the volume of the little prince.

"Lyanna!" Rhaella said brightly, standing to greet her with an embrace.

Lyanna allowed herself to be held, relishing in the spice of Rhaella's scent. She wondered if this is what it felt like to have a mother, that wonderful contentment that seemed to flood her system whenever Rhaella was around.

"Your Grace," Lyanna said back, still unused to using the queen's name so casually.

"Lya!" Viserys screamed, darting at Lyanna's legs with a startling speed. "Play with me!" He begged her, large purple eyes imploring her.

"After we eat," Rhaella said softly, bending down to scoop him up.

Viserys pouted, making grabbing-hands at Lyanna. She felt herself smile, a rare bloom of happiness unfurling in her heart. Lyanna took Viserys in her arms, muscles straining beneath his growing weight, and went to take the seat across the table from where Rhaella sat.

As soon as she was sat and still, though, Viserys squirmed and crawled away, preoccupied once more by the toys that scattered the floor. A servant immediately brought forth trays of fruits and small cakes, with a pitcher of watered-wine and lovely glass cups.

"How are you today, my dear?" Rhaella asked as Lyanna bit into a lemon cake.

"Well," Lyanna replied, distracted by Viserys' screeching as he pretended to be a dragon soaring over kingdoms.

Rhaella followed Lyanna's line of vision, smiling gently at her son. "Children are life's greatest joy," she informed her softly, lovingly. "There is nothing else that will bring you more happiness."

A dark shadow seemed to pass over the queen's face before it was once more replaced by light. "You will see though one day, when you and my son have your own family together."

Heat crawled over Lyanna's cheeks and she ducked her head to hide the evidence of discomfort. She'd not been alone with Rhaegar since their wedding night only a month before, let alone his chambers. He was always off doing something - receiving grievances in lieu of his father, attending meetings of the small council, writing to this lord and that one.

It was all well and fine with Lyanna, lending credence to her plan to remain a virgin and eventually have their marriage annulled. But as she sat with Queen Rhaella, basking in her gentle warmth, Lyanna couldn't bear to think ill of Rhaegar.

Rhaella continued, "Hopefully the gods will bless you with girls and boys both. I had a girl, several years after Rhaegar's birth. She died though, my sweet thing." The queen sighed and Lyanna frowned. "I pray that you never know the pain of seeing your child dead before it lived."

Something tight coiled around Lyanna's heart, squeezing until she felt an immense sadness for the pretty Targaryen queen. She studied her, the silver hair and sad purple eyes so like her son's, and wondered whether the queen had ever known true happiness.

She imagined not, being forced to marry your brother, a man so vile it was all Lyanna could do not to fold in on herself in his presence.

They ate in relative silence after that, content to eat and laugh as Viserys shot imaginary flames out of his mouth, conquering cities across the world. When they were done, Rhaella walked Lyanna to the door, pretending that Ser Jonothor wasn't standing there in his clean white armor.

"Thank you, sweet girl, for spending time with us today."

Lyanna smiled. "Thank you for inviting me."

"Lya!" Viserys screamed, a small, silver version of Benjen's own childish excitement. "Will you come play with me later?"

Lyanna chuckled, reaching down to smooth her palm over his feathery silver hair. "Tomorrow perhaps."

That seemed to placate the young prince for he grinned mischievously and ran away once more. Rhaella hugged Lyanna again and then Ser Jonothor was directing her out of the Holdfast, leaving her at the door that led to the rest of the castle.

Alone, she let out a breath that was full of relief. She was always anxious when she was within close distance of the king or Rhaegar's chambers, and it wasn't until she was a distance away did she feel safe.

Instead of going back to the Maidenvault where Johanna was surely waiting with Lyanna's other ladies, Lyanna decided to explore the quiet recesses of the castle where souls barely ventured. She allowed herself to run her hands over the walls, her feet guiding her blindly through the twists and turns of the Keep.

It wasn't until she reached a dark, dank cellar did she realize that she was utterly and completely lost. Lyanna whirled around, searching for any sign that could tell her where she was in the castle, but all that met her was stone and the hallway from which she'd come.

She stood still, listening for any pursuit of guards or ladies, but it was silent in this part of the Keep, blissfully free of any annoyances. Smiling, Lyanna snatched a torch from the wall and delved deeper into the cellar, hungry for adventure after weeks of boredom.

She'd barely seen Smoke, her new horse; except for the few times she'd tolerated the required retinue of guards that followed her on her rides, Lyanna mainly stayed in the Maidenvault, rotting from sheer ennui.

Johanna and her other ladies-in-waiting were always there, suggesting needlework or gossip, but even that Lyanna couldn't bear. She'd grown up a Stark, and a Stark with only a father, three brothers, and a castle of northerners to keep her company.

Needlework was not her idea of fun.

She walked for a long time through the dark grey of the hall that reached off the cellar, her eyes beginning to adjust to the shadows and such that loomed ahead. But as she continued, the darkness that shrouded her was so deep that it seemed light could not foster. Even her torch barely burned, a small trickle of flame that did her no favors.

Lyanna had just kicked away a shard of wood, the stone floor having turned to dirt and timber, when she heard voices. She swallowed a gasp and flattened herself against the wall, hurriedly blowing away the little flame of her torch. The darkness without her light was so black that she could not even see her hand in front of her.

The voices came closer and Lyanna knelt to the ground, crouching to make herself as small as possible.

"The dragon is frail," a deep voice said, the sound of a shoe scuffing the ground following his words.

"Yes," another voice agreed, soft and effeminate, "however a dragon with a clipped wing is still a mighty beast."

"Not," the deep voice said, "indestructable though."

Lyanna's heart hammered into her throat, so hard and loud she was scared the two men might hear it and discover her. They were obviously discussing the Targaryens, and though not outwardly menacing, their tones left her blood feeling cold.

"He must be put down. The blood is tainted and far past the point of return."

The soft voice said, "My birds tell me the Dragon Prince plans in secret."

The deep voice replied, "I would keep the dragons on the throne, but there is unrest in the Seven Kingdoms. The wolf allies with the trout and the falcon."

Lyanna squeezed her eyes shut. The wolf was her House, no doubt referring to her father. House Tully's sigil was a silver trout and House Arryn's a sky-blue falcon; Catelyn was marrying Brandon, and Jon Arryn was a close friend of her family's ever since Ned was fostered in the Eyrie. What was wrong with her father making connections with other Great Houses?

"The stag was to marry into the House of the North, but the she-wolf was stolen away before their union could be solidified," the soft voice murmured, sounding frighteningly near. "Stags do not take insult lightly."

Lyanna's fingers curled into the dirt, the muck of the floor getting all over her silk dress. But she didn't care. She wanted to run away, but to do so would give away her presence, and that could mean her death.

These two men were talking of the alliances of her House, and Robert Baratheon's anger at Lyanna having married Rhaegar. She didn't know who the two voices were, but whomever they were, they seemed to hold power and secrets.

Thankfully when the deep voice spoke again, he sounded farther away and Lyanna could breathe. "If we cannot put the dragon down, we'll have to accept..." And then they were walking away, words dying from the distance.

Lyanna waited in the dark, kneeling in the dirt and timber, until her heart slowed and she was sure that the men were far enough away that they wouldn't hear her move.

Blind and lost, she stood and pushed her shoulder against the wall for leverage as she went deeper through the black tunnel. Lyanna felt as if she had walked for miles when a rank smell suddenly hit her nose, an odor so pungent that it was all she could do not to retch right there. Ahead, the darkness seemed to lighten the slightest bit.

Something cold and wet washed against her feet, instantly wetting the bottom ten inches of her dress. The filthy water lapped at her as she pulled up the hem of her skirts, baring her legs. She continued through the muck until the circle of light ahead brightened enough so that she could see she was in the sewer.

Lip curled, she pulled her dress higher, determined to keep most of it dry. Eventually the sewer led out into a river and Lyanna took the opportunity to kick her legs through the water, cleaning the sewer filth off her skin.

When she emerged from the tunnel, free from the clutches of the sewers, Lyanna looked up, shocked. The Red Keep sat on Aegon's Hill, miles away.

Chapter 21: What Lies At the Bottom

Chapter Text

Making her way through Flea Bottom, the slums of King's Landing, was far easier than Lyanna would have guessed; clad in a dress patched with dungeon dirt and soggy with brown water from the sewers and river, her hair messy and falling out of its braid, Lyanna looked like just another poor beggar girl.

No one would expect Rhaegar Targaryen's little wife to be moseying around the worst part of King's Landing in dirty, waterlogged silks.

While that particular thought would have horrified any other noblewoman, let alone a princess, Lyanna found herself smiling. People didn't watch her here so much like those in the Red Keep, except for the grimy men whose eyes were on the curve of her backside as she made her way through the winding streets.

The only thing that could have made her day better was if she had Smoke, and Benjen was back with her.

Flea Bottom was the poorest area of the capital and she had no hard time believing it. Even away from the sewers, the air was permeated with the liquid stench of feces, brown sludge caked on the ground.

The unpaved streets twisted all the way up to Rhaenys' Hill, heavily laden with the dirty and downtrodden. Pot-shops were featured down every alley, stringy women and little children calling out, "Bowls o' brown! Come and get it!"

Lyanna wondered what the "brown" was.

On either side of the streets were tall, poorly-made buildings that hunched so badly, the roofs almost touched; she was tempted to climb to the top of one and see if she could touch across the way.

It was with her face upturned, squinting against the sun when she heard a voice sneer in her ear, "You're a pretty one."

She whipped around to find a gaunt man with a shock of grey-and-brown hair, his mouth crowded with yellowed, crooked teeth. His eyes were hungry with lust.

Lyanna flinched back but the hold he had on her arm was surprisingly strong. "Get off!"

The man smiled. "Never. You're a true catch. Come on, let's get that dress off'ya."

Lyanna's eyes slid past his grip on her arm, over his shoulder where a man as big as Ser Arthur and Oswell combined stood eating a chicken leg happily, obliviously. A plan formed in her mind.

"That's my husband," she said, "and he'll kill you for touching me."

Her distraction worked and as the small man looked over his shoulder to her "husband", she yanked her arm free and ran off, zig-zagging her way through buildings and streets to throw off her trail.

Lyanna ran fast and hard, heart pumping furiously - half in fear, half in anxious excitement. She was free of the Keep, exploring the dregs of the capital and holding her own against leering lusters. She hadn't done anything so reckless since donning steel at Harrenhal's tourney.

When she finally chanced a look back, all she saw were slow-walking peasants minding their own business, not at all concerned about the speeding girl in the stained blue dress. Seemingly safe, rushed with adrenaline, Lyanna grinned and allowed her eyes to wander once more to take in her surroundings.

Small, dirty children were darting in and between carts, barefoot and barreling into strangers without so much as a greeting or apology. Their glee filled the air like a hundred songbirds.

Lyanna was suddenly reminded of her arrival into King's Landing with Rhaegar, Arthur, and Oswell, greeted by the populace's slums. She recalled the way a few had waved to her, eyes curious, while others seemed disinterested or distrustful.

A group of kids were running past Lyanna, screaming, when suddenly the smallest one of the bunch fell down, slamming her face into the street.

Lyanna stopped, hurrying over to help the little girl even as her friends bolted off. "Hey, are you alright?"

The little girl looked up, eyes such a clear blue that it was startling against the brown film of grime that stained her skin. Frightened, she nodded.

Lyanna helped lift the girl up, looking over the scrape on her cheek that was already beginning to well fresh blood. "You're hurt," she murmured. She went to touch her cheek but thought better of it, lest the girl start screaming bloody murder at a stranger's touch. "You'll live though."

"I'm tough!" The girl announced proudly, smiling with eight jagged teeth. "Beth says so!"

Lyanna couldn't help but chuckle. "You are," she agreed. "Is Beth one of your friends that ran off?"

The girl's brows knitted together in confusion. "No."

When Lyanna sensed the girl would not expound, she asked, "Where are your parents?"

At that question, the girl's eyes dimmed. "My mama died of fever and my pa didn't want me no more."

Lyanna immediately regretted asking, hot shame filling her so fiercely, her cheeks reddened with the heat of a dozen suns. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." The little girl was staring up at Lyanna like she was some hero though, eyes wide and bedazzled. "Where do you live then?"

"The orphanage on Eel Alley!"

Lyanna sighed, rubbing a comforting hand over the curve of the girl's shoulder before helping her up. "What's your name, little one?"

The girl smiled a small smile, eyes sparkling. "Kyra."

Lyanna grinned back. "Pleased to meet you, Lady Kyra. I'm Lyanna." Kyra giggled, obviously pleased at being called 'lady'. "Can I help you get home now?"

Kyra nodded quickly, smeared some blood across her cheek with the back of one hand, and with the other, grasped Lyanna's. Kyra tugged Lyanna through the maze of Flea Bottom, smiling as if she had no problems in the world.

Lyanna thought that perhaps it was too easy to get Kyra's trust, glad that it was her who helped the small girl rather than some man with eyes for youth.

Up the hill, they passed more pot-shops as well as tanner's sheds, taverns, and several whorehouses, though the business at those was scarce as it was midday.

Eventually they came to a decrepit stone building, nondescript and crumbling horribly. "In here," Kyra urged but held on to Lyanna's hand, pulling her through the entryway.

Many, many children were milling about inside, the air peaked with screams and squeals and laughter and crying. A team of women were doing their best to comfort everyone who needed them, but it was clear they were undermanned.

And judging by the children's skeletal bodies, undernourished as well.

Kyra took Lyanna to a red-haired woman, large in the belly but thin in the face; she must have been seven or eight months pregnant.

"What happened to you, child? Is that blood?!" The woman finally seemed to notice Kyra attached to Lyanna. "And who are you?" She demanded, a substitute mother cub protecting her young.

"Lyanna!" Kyra answered happily, suddenly distracted by a loaf of bread being passed around.

The girl darted off, but the woman stared at Lyanna, brown eyes trailing over her face and clothes. "What are you doing with Kyra?"

"I saw her fall on the street, so I offered to help her home."

The woman seemed deeply suspicious, studying Lyanna in a way that made her skin itch. After a long moment, the stranger's eyes widened, then narrowed. "You look familiar. Where are you from, m'lady?"

Lyanna gulped. "North."

The woman finally looked scared. Her cheeks were red, matching the shade of her bright hair. "Are you...Princess Lyanna?"

Lyanna's brows raised in surprise. Never in a thousand years did she expect anyone outside of the Red Keep to know who she was, let alone some woman who ran an orphanage in the slums of the capital.

"I saw you on the day you came to the city," the woman hurried to say, "riding with those Kingsguards and the young dragon. You're Prince Rhaegar's wife."

Lyanna sighed, caught. She wondered if the woman would tell on her, if she'd run and find a Gold Cloak who'd drag Lyanna back to the castle with her tail between her legs.

"I am married to the prince, yes."

The woman suddenly dropped to her knee, mindful of the stack of linens in her arms. "Forgive me for my rudeness earlier, Your Highness. If I had known- I would never have-"

Lyanna stopped the woman's stuttering, touching a hand to her elbow. "Stand up please. I don't blame you for not knowing who I was. My dress is filthy and my hair is a mess."

The woman smiled, the sight softening her features. "You are stunning," she said instead of commenting on Lyanna's current state of messiness. "Too stunning for the likes of this place. I am Beth, Your Highness."

"Thank you very much, but please, call me Lyanna."

Beth's brown eyes widened in shock. "No, I couldn't-"

"You can and you will," Lyanna asserted. Then she looked around the room, frowning at the state of the place. "How many children do you have here?"

Beth glanced around. "A little more than a hundred," she admitted, "and getting more every day."

Lyanna's lips parted in disbelief. More than a hundred children and caretakers in that little crumbling building. The bony figures made a little more sense.

"How many of you are here to watch over them?"

Beth smiled sadly. "Only twelve of us left now. We had fifteen, but they were caught stealing and were taken to the Keep for the king's justice."

Lyanna shivered violently. She knew what the king's justice meant. "No husbands?"

Beth said, "A few, but most of us are without men."

"How do you feed everyone then?"

At that, Beth lowered her eyes. "We have our ways, Your Highness."

Lyanna cocked her head. She may not have been terribly grown, but she was sixteen and knew the bare minimum of what went on in those whorehouses dotting the kingdoms.

Most she had learned from Brandon's proud exploits though she did her best to ignore what he boasted of. However, right in front of her, the proof was in Beth's round belly.

"Well," Lyanna sighed, looking out at the mass of dirty children, "would you care for some help?"

Beth was quick to refuse. "This is no job for a princess! I would never dishonor you by allowing your assistance."

Lyanna figured as much. "I can visit with them then. Tell them stories, read occasionally. I don't have any coin on me now, but I can bring some back for you. Perhaps some food as well..."

Beth's eyes narrowed, caution weighing out over the excitement of coin and food. "You plan on coming back?"

Lyanna looked around the dirty room teeming with life and sound. It may not have been jousting in a tourney or secretly swinging swords with Benjen in the woods, but it was better than needlework in the Maidenvault.

Lyanna turned her grin of excitement to Beth. "I do."

Chapter 22: Dinner for Two

Chapter Text

Getting back into the Red Keep was infinitely more difficult than getting out had been. By the time she had left Beth's, the afternoon sky had morphed into a lovely blend of red and gold, the sun dying on the horizon.

Lyanna scrambled her way back to the sewers, thanks to a personal escort from Beth. She'd briefly entertained just going up to Aegon's Hill, demanding to be let in through one of the gates, but that would breed questions and she didn't want those.

With a deep breath, she splashed back into the river water, her legs and dress soaked through once more. If anything, the sewers were even more rancid by night and she physically had to hold her breath as she attempted to navigate back into the castle.

Eventually, the water ended, the floor turning to the dirt where Lyanna had overheard the two men talking. She was without a torch, and eveningfall had only made everything so much darker.

She was forced to use her hands, feeling along the walls and floors, tripping several dozen times. Lyanna tried to calm her racing heart, pretending this was only another game with Benjen.

Yes, that was it. Benjen had blindfolded her and now she had to find him. This was hide and seek. She was safe in Winterfell, playing with her brother.

It felt like days that she was thrusted into darkness, blind and feeling her way through secret corridors. A few times she had to stop, frustrated tears welling up in her eyes before she took another deep breath and continued on.

I will not get stuck down here, she asserted to herself.

When the dirt floors eventually turned to dressed stone, and torchlight spilled from the entrance to the cellar where it all led from, Lyanna almost kissed the ground in thanks. She was sure it was far past dinner time.

With a spark of horror, she wondered if people had come looking for her while she was out. What if the entire castle was up in arms because she wasn't where she was supposed to be? She could just imagine having to be dragged before the prince and king to explain her whereabouts. But when she stepped foot into the castle, only the dust motes were there to greet her.

The halls were conspicuously empty, her footfalls echoing off the stone like the roar of a wolfpack. The torches that were sconced along each corner and plane threw ghostly shadows across the floor, black ghosts that were ten feet tall and ominous.

Lyanna's chest tingled with anxiety; something was off.

She'd never seen the castle so empty in her time there; there were always Kingsguards, knights garbed in red and black, squires and grooms, maidservants, and royals. On her way to the Maidenvault, she saw not a one.

The fire and shadows were her only companions; what a Targaryen she made.

She tried to feel grateful that the gods granted her easy passage back to her rooms, but the well of gratitude was overshadowed by the part of her brain that told her something wasn't right.

Still, she slipped into her room and immediately stripped off her dress, balling it into a bundle before shoving it beneath her bed. She'd take care of it later, burn it perhaps or just stuff it into a bath to wash away the grime. For now, it would stay hidden.

A handmaiden appeared soon after her arrival, her small face set into a mask of utter shock. The girl looked like she had been through the seven hells and back again.

"Are you alright?" Lyanna asked softly.

The handmaiden jumped as if Lyanna had screamed. Her eyes were wide and full of terror. "Princess, would you care for anything? Food, a bath...?"

Confused by the girl's state, but reeking of the city, Lyanna said, "A bath would be great, thank you."

The handmaiden nodded and flitted away to fetch water and a tub. It took a team of women an hour to get the copper tub hauled inside and then the warm water poured in after. Lyanna thought to reward them somehow for their help; it may have been their job but she was grateful all the same.

She soaked in the tub until her fingers wrinkled and the water turned as murky as the sewers. Afterward, she pulled on a thin robe, its fabric clinging to the wet patches on her body. A knock sounded out, and Lyanna drifted over to the door, swinging it open.

She was alarmed to see Rhaegar waiting outside her room, and from the look of it, he was surprised as well. His large indigo eyes, heavy and glossed with melancholy, flicked down to her feet, then trailed up every so slowly to cause a blush to heat her chest and neck.

"Hello," she said in a small voice.

Her voice seemed to startle him out of whatever trance he was pulled into. "May I come in?"

She looked down at her silk robe, realizing with a flush that it clung suggestively to her legs and stomach. She felt the sudden urge to fold in on herself, to hide away the lines of her body from the eyes of her husband. "No," she said quickly, "I, uh, just got out of the bath."

Rhaegar let out a breath. "I can see that." He swallowed and looked into her eyes. "Have you eaten yet?"

She hadn't, not since her small midday meal with Rhaella and Viserys. And then she'd been in Flea Bottom, playing with and reading to the orphans for a short time before returning to the Keep. "Not tonight," she admitted.

"I'm having a late dinner in my solar." He paused. "I came to ask you to join me."

Lyanna fought to keep the frown from her face. "Just you and me?"

"Just you and me," he confirmed.

The way he delivered his words made her heart flip in a queer way. Still, she couldn't very well deny him her company if all he wanted was companionship for supper. "Allow me to dress then."

"Of course," he said, "I'll wait just outside."

She dressed quickly in one of the gowns gifted to her from House Tully for her wedding; it was thick material of white and grey, and belted with leather that was studded with miniatures direwolves. It was as much a comfort to her as it was a reminder to her dragon.

I am a direwolf and I am not afraid.

She found Rhaegar in the same exact spot he'd been before, and he led her quietly from the Maidenvault, Ser Gerold Hightower trailing in their wake.

"And how are you feeling?" Rhaegar asked her suddenly as they strolled; he looked her in the eyes when he spoke, a disarming habit of his that always had Lyanna feeling flayed open when he set that indigo gaze upon her.

Confused at the question, she replied, "Fine..."

Rhaegar's eyes were on her, heavy and probing. "Lady Johanna mentioned you were ill, and that is why you did not attend Court this afternoon."

Lyanna immediately dropped her chin before he could read the deception written all over her face. She'd been irresponsible flitting off to Flea Bottom without creating an alibi for herself, and never would she have thought that Johanna would make an excuse on her behalf.

Why would the lady lie for her? It was not as if they were close; far from it really given Lyanna's cool responses to Johanna's every suggestion or request.

"Uh, yes, I was ill earlier but I'm better now."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said quietly.

"Prince Rhaegar!"

Lyanna looked up. Two men were approaching them just as they were about to enter the Holdfast.

Of the two, one was plump and short, wearing a billowy purple silk robe; his skin was powdered and stark white, and he smelled strongly of lilacs and perfume. Ser Oswell had pointed him out once a couple of weeks ago as Varys from the king's small council, but she hadn't personally met the man before.

The other man, a stranger she'd never yet seen, was taller and massively wide; his yellow beard was oiled, forked, and coiled with rings of gold. His bedrobe was probably bigger than Rhaegar's canopy, and was made of a rich gold damask. On each of his large fingers was a gemstone ring, made of emerald, ruby, jet and jade, pearls, diamonds.

"Lord Varys," Rhaegar greeted the shorter of the men. "I did not see you at Court today."

Varys smiled coyly. "I was busy, my prince. Gathering secrets is no small feat. Little birds need to be fed and flown."

As he spoke, a knot formed in Lyanna's stomach, coiling there until something akin to dread was swimming through her. She knew that voice; her eyes had been blind, but her ears had heard.

It was the effeminate voice that she'd overheard from the black secret corridors - the one who had whispered of her father's alignment with other Great Houses, that spoke of Robert Baratheon's anger over her wedding.

"And this is my friend, Illyrio Mopatis," Varys said. "Magister from Pentos."

Illyrio bowed. "Prince Rhaegar, pleased to make your acquaintance. And who is this lovely creature at your side?"

Lyanna's heart was beating furiously. Illyrio was the other voice, the deeper voice who'd been down in the dungeons with Varys. She tried not to let the transparency show on her face, fearing her fate if either of the men knew she'd heard their private words.

"This is my wife," Rhaegar answered, "Lyanna of House Stark."

Illyrio took her fingers in his meaty hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Very pleased to meet you, Princess Lyanna. Your beauty is unsurpassed, as only befits the wife of the Dragon Prince."

"You are too kind," she said with a clenched jaw. She jumped when Rhaegar's warm hand closed around hers gently.

"I heard the king's justice was admired by all this evening," Varys smirked heavily. There was something to his tone that was off-kilter. The king's justice could only mean one thing...but was the Mad King ill enough to subject his madness before his entire Court?

Rhaegar stiffened, announcing suddenly in a wooden voice, "If you'll excuse us, Lord Varys, my wife and I were just about to have dinner together." Then he tugged on her hand and walked off.

"Until next time, Your Highness," Varys intoned.

Even when they walked away, Rhaegar held onto her hand. It made tingles shoot up her arm and she was so focused on the realization of Varys being the voice from the dungeons, and then his remark of the king's "justice", that she didn't notice when they entered a room one hallway over from where Rhaegar's bedroom was.

The inside was just as large as his bedroom had been, but here there was only a long council table, a large slab of desk, and a small dining table set beneath a lovely red and black stained glass window depicting Balerion the Dread breathing hellfire over a castle. In one corner was an iron door, but she was unsure to where it led.

The door to the hallway was closed behind them and Ser Gerold took his post outside. She and her husband were completely alone.

"Lord Varys is a slippery man," Rhaegar said softly, going to the cart in the corner with heaps of food piled on top. "His trust is...fluid."

It was at the tip of her tongue to spill everything she'd overheard in the dark passages beneath the castle - to repeat every word they'd spoken of dragons and stags.

Only two things stopped her: the fear of being forced under lock and key for sneaking from the Keep, and the fact that she didn't trust her husband. His dragonblood and unfamiliarity ensured that.

But she yearned for an explanation of Varys' comment, for Rhaegar to speak the words that would confirm her fears of what had happened in Court while she was gone. Just as she was about to ask, Rhaegar spoke.

"My father asked about you today."

Her eyes flashed up, heart rate spiking violently. She didn't know how to respond to that. Lyanna wanted to be far out of King Aerys' mind, even without the knowledge that he freely burned people; she didn't like that his thoughts went to her. "Oh really?" She struggled for nonchalance.

Rhaegar nodded, looking conflicted as he brought over two plates of steaming meat and potatoes. "He's asked that we dine with him tomorrow evening."

Lyanna sounded like a mouse when she asked, "Do we have to?"

Rhaegar sat across from her, absentmindedly swirling the wine in his glass. "We do. A king's request is not ignored."

Her jaw jutted out. Fuck the king, she wanted to say, but she held her tongue lest she lose her head. Or worse.

They began to pick at their food quietly, the silence washing over them in tense waves. She struggled to think of something she could say to him, but Rhaegar was still a stranger to her.

"Why was Court held?" She decided to ask instead, hoping he'd mention the king's justice.

Rhaegar did not rise to the bait. "A new Hand was appointed since Lord Tywin no longer wishes to hold the title."

"He resigned?" She asked; Rhaegar nodded. "Why?" Too curious for her own good, her father had always said. If she wasn't allowed to deny a king's dinner request, how could a Hand leave his king's service?

The question seemed to discomfort Rhaegar. "Lord Tywin was unhappy with my father's refusal."

"Refusal?" She repeated stubbornly.

Rhaegar sighed, "His refusal to wed me to Tywin Lannister's daughter, Cersei."

"Oh." She wasn't really sure how that information was supposed to make her feel. Northerners didn't concern themselves with the games of Southerners, and yet she had heard all about House Lannister: they were an arrogant pride of lions with more gold than beauty. And they were quite beautiful.

Lyanna thought of Ser Jaime then, the young Kingsguard - his tumbling locks of curly gold hair, that smug, handsome face, eyes green as a cat's. She was sure many a woman had cried when he donned that white cloak.

"It seems that our marriage has caused more than one disappointment then," she blurted without thinking, a careless jest at their own expense.

Rhaegar frowned. "How do you mean?"

Myself for one, she thought unkindly. "Robert Baratheon," she said instead. "Ned boasted many things of Lord Robert, but selflessness was not one of them. And he intended to have me."

All of a sudden, Rhaegar's sad, beautiful face transformed into an amused smile. "Who wouldn't take it as an upset to lose you?"

Heat crawled up her neck. "You speak too highly when you barely know me."

"I'd like to," he said, "know you, that is."

She swallowed down her food uneasily. Unsure of what to say, she let his words hang there until the awkwardness seemed to threaten to swallow them both.

She was utterly thankful when someone knocked on the door. "Come in," Rhaegar called.

The door opened and a man she had never before seen stepped in. It was apparently a day for meeting strangers.

He was an imposing figure, this stranger man, his torso broad and legs thick. His skin was like leather, with a burst of lines bracketing his eyes. Atop his head was a short mop of bright red hair.

And when he looked at Rhaegar, his entire face lit up.

"Jon," Rhaegar said in mild surprise.

"My prince, I wanted to remind you of the small council meeting in the morning. Oh," he finally seemed to notice Lyanna sitting there.

She observed the man who had such keen eyes for her husband, the way they were trained on Rhaegar's face with a startling intensity. And now on her, with undeserved contempt.

"Jon," Rhaegar said lightly, "I don't believe you've had the chance to meet my wife yet."

Jon had a stern set to his jaw now, something stormy passing over his face. He strode forward dutifully and bowed. "Jon Connington, Your Highness."

She inclined her head. "Pleased to meet you, Lord Connington."

He seemed to judge her from where he stood, something akin to envy in the narrowing of his eyes.

"Jon was appointed the new Hand of the king today," Rhaegar explained.

Only then did she notice the shining badge over his chest, in the shape of a brassy hand. "Congratulations," she offered dryly. She didn't understand Southron ambitions; the North didn't support such fancies.

Jon thanked her and seemed to sway on his feet, clearly wishing she was gone so he could speak his mind. It was fine with her; she was done eating, and wanted to go visit with Smoke before it was entirely too late.

"I'm going to take my leave now," she announced into the loaded silence.

"Lyanna," Rhaegar went to object.

"I want to see Smoke," she explained, taking in the way Rhaegar softened at the mention of his wedding gift to her.

"Very well then." He stood from the table, coming to embrace her just as she scurried to the door.

Rhaegar stood there awkwardly, watching as her hand closed around the ring set into the door. But before she could slip away, Rhaegar spoke again.

"Dinner tomorrow with my father."

I hope he chokes. "Looking forward to it," she said.

Chapter 23: Five is a Crowd

Chapter Text

"Tywin Lannister is more a snake than a lion," Jon Connington said, wearily rubbing a weathered hand over his face. The man's short red hair stood on end, like a cat who sensed danger.

"House Lannister wields a formidable army of over fifty thousand. If I can get him to march on the capital, deposing my father will be swift." Rhaegar felt bone-tired, a heavy, aching fatigue that seemed to tie down his feet until he walked on stone legs.

"I do not doubt your acumen, my prince, but to trust House Lannister is to seal yourself to their will."

Rhaegar sighed. "I know I will have to reward them somehow for their help. And make no mistake, I do need their help."

"What about your support in the North? Dorne?" Oswell urged, standing tall in Jon's solar. Arthur was a silent force beside him.

"Lord Rickard promised his loyalty, but Winterfell is a month's ride with a large party. I needed their support for when I ascend the throne, not when I reach for it. Lannister's army will be my sword in the darkness. Father may hate Tywin right now, but he trusts Casterly Rock more than he does the North. Lannister troops will be received to King's Landing easily enough."

"And Dorne?" Jon repeated.

"The ruling princess of Dorne died a few weeks ago," Arthur said quietly. "Her son, Doran, now rules at Sunspear."

Sometimes it was easy for Rhaegar to forget that Arthur was a Dornishman at heart, even with his purple eyes clashing so brightly with his dark hair and Dawn glowing brightly across his back. Arthur always seemed to have been born a white knight, great from the womb.

"And?" Jon prompted with a brisk tone. Jon was not fond of Dorne as a whole, and even though he respected Arthur quite a bit, there was an underlying tension always present between him and Arthur Dayne.

"Father has decided to make a betrothal between Prince Doran's daughter, Arianne and Viserys," Rhaegar admitted to his father's freshly-forged plan to bring Dorne to their knees. "He is sending me to get contracts signed and dower discussed."

"Your father seeks to make connections in Dorne?" It was the first that Jon had heard of the plan, even with the privilege of his position as Hand of the King.

Rhaegar nodded. "He grows paranoid of Dorne's power and wishes to rein them in by tying their House to ours."

"Then perhaps you do not need the Lannisters' army at all. Perhaps you could speak to Prince Doran-"

Rhaegar cut that thought off. "I do plan on speaking to Doran about his loyalty to me, but he will not send his army past the reaches of Dornish soil. They've not managed to remain out of the fold all this time by acting rashly with their swords. No, I need Tywin Lannister."

Jon implored the prince with his eyes. "I will do whatever you need of me, my prince. I only wish there was another way."

Rhaegar frowned sadly. "As I wish that my father's mind was still sound. Unfortunately, the gods see fit to put us to tests that will make or break us." He closed his eyes. "And I do not intend to break."

At dinner, Lyanna looked positively stunning in a long dress of sea green, the sleeves of which were lined in gold, and her dark hair tumbled over her chest like a turbulent waterfall.

The Queen's Ballroom seemed to shine with the magnitude of a silver sun, the candles inside reflecting a thousand-fold off the beaten silver mirrors hung on the walls. Black sky outlined the high arched windows on the south wall.

The long wooden table was crowded with plates of rich swan, buttered turnips, salad, blackberry tarts, and hot apples. Crystal decanters of wine glinted magnificently.

The king sat at the head of the table, with Queen Rhaella and Viserys on the left side and Lyanna and Rhaegar on the right.

Aerys wore purple robes mottled with burn marks that seemed to swallow his thin frame. His dull silver hair, once a proud vestige of Valyrian ancestry, was matted in long ropes and constantly tangling through his clawed fingernails.

The king seemed to watch the room with suspicious glares, even as his taster successfully confirmed the food was clean of poison. Rhaegar wondered if it was the madness that stole the purple from his father's eyes.

"Girl," Aerys suddenly coughed, turning his attention to Lyanna. Grey eyes flashed up to meet the king's. "Where were you yesterday?" He demanded. "You were not present to witness Court."

Lyanna swallowed audibly, pulling her spine straight. She looked like a wolf reacting to a threat. "Excuse my absence, Your Grace, I was feeling ill."

"Ill?" Aerys repeated gruffly. "I do hope that doesn't impede your ability to carry a child."

Lyanna's cheekbones bloomed with a stripe of pink. Rhaegar tightened his fingers into the material of his pants, suddenly tense at the steer of conversation. His father's moods were like the turn of the sea, gentle one moment and violent the next.

"Wait," Viserys screeched, "Lya's pregnant?!" His lilac eyes were upturned and large with glee.

Rhaegar could have smiled at the nickname his brother had adopted for his wife, but Lyanna's shrinking stance made him bite down on his mouth. "No, Viserys, she is not pregnant."

If she was, it wasn't by Rhaegar's seed. Lyanna spent all her time in the Maidenvault or with Smoke and a group of guards, so there was no chance for her belly to swell.

Lyanna dropped her chin to her collarbones, clenching her jaw so hard, Rhaegar feared she might break. Like iron, he thought.

"Oh," the little prince frowned, obviously disappointed. The small boy was in the constant presence of his mother and wanted for young companionship no doubt.

"When then?" The king demanded, spittle flying from his mouth like cannons. "It's been long enough since the wedding. Over a month."

Rhaella flinched at the king's side, glancing up with a face full of sympathy. Before Aerys had a chance to further Lyanna's humiliation, Rhaegar distracted him. "When would you like me to leave for Dorne, Father?" He prayed for it to work.

Aerys blinked, mind wandering. "Oh, yes yes. You'll leave within a fortnight." He coughed. "And take Viserys as well."

"But, Aerys!" Rhaella exclaimed.

The king whirled on his sister-queen, black eyes flaring with cruel delight. "You dare to speak against me?" Rhaella froze in his shadow, entranced by his fire. "The boy will meet his betrothed. Viserys will go with Rhaegar to Dorne, and you will stay here. With me."

Dread shivered through Rhaegar; he suddenly was dizzy with the urge to lash his father, to bestow upon him every single mark Aerys had ever inflicted upon his sweet mother. He'd never personally been struck by Aerys, too old by the time the king's mind had started to blacken, but he wasn't ignorant to the shadows on his mother's lily skin, or the hesitance in his little brother's gaze.

And when it seemed that Aerys was close to beating Rhaella with an audience of royals, a Stark, and a few Kingsguards, Lyanna jumped in, her voice shaky. "I like the dragon skulls in the throne room," she offered with a forced smile. "I've never seen anything like them."

Like a balm, her words soothed Aerys' temper. He slackened in his seat, turning his eyes on the little Northern girl. And then something queer happened, a feat so rare that it made Rhaegar's blood go cold.

Aerys smiled. "They are magnificent," he agreed. His beady eyes seemed to study Lyanna, painting her skin with his gaze. "You remind me of someone I used to know many years past."

"Oh?" Lyanna murmured, taut with anxiety but unwilling to let his madness return to the queen.

"Joanna Lannister," Aerys said, and Rhaella stiffened in her seat, her fork freezing mid-air as she waited on a cliff's edge for the king to finish.

"She had blonde hair and green eyes of course," Aerys continued, "but she had the loveliest face, fashioned right from the stars. The gods saw fit to grace her with a beauty that was almost unbearable. You're like her in that sense."

Lyanna's eyes widened and her smile could crack glass. She seemed to sense the meaning beneath his words, as did Rhaegar, and it made him wholly uncomfortable.

The rumors of his father's infatuation with Joanna Lannister was common knowledge, and the beginning of the end for Tywin and Aerys' friendship. Even time could not abate the sting, could not erase the dragon's lust or the lion's insult.

"That is very kind, Your Grace," Lyanna allowed with stiff graciousness, "thank you."

When empty plates were cleared, some of the tension seemed to leave with them. Though the air still crackled with an intense energy, like a wave building and building until it stood tall as a mountain, threatening to drown everything in its sight.

Rhaegar was poxed with the need to shield Lyanna from his father's probing view, to erase her vision in the king's mind so that he never thought on her again. Much less in the terms of her irrefutable beauty.

Into the quiet, Rhaegar said, "I will make the preparations to leave for Sunspear in a week's time then."

"Yes," Aerys replied dazedly. "You'll bring Viserys as discussed, three Kingsguards, and fifty Gold Cloaks."

There was a glaring omission that he felt almost ill at ease to remind the king of. "And the princess of course," Rhaegar added.

Aerys looked up quickly, eyes settling on his son. "No, I think Princess Lyanna can stay behind in King's Landing."

Rhaegar paused, struggling to think up an excuse. He couldn't leave his wife behind, not when his father seemed so...interested in her all of a sudden. The bruises on his mother was proof enough of what came of a king's attention.

"I would rather my wife accompany me," Rhaegar insisted. His muscles were tight with adrenaline, and his heart pumped furiously.

"She'll be perfectly fine here," Aerys promised with a sneer. "The princess stays."

"It's not about safety, Your Grace," Rhaegar argued, realizing what he'd need to do in order to bring her. "I need a child, therefore her presence is needed at Sunspear."

The room settled into a brief, but terribly awkward, silence. He could feel Lyanna vibrating in apprehension and upset beside him, but he paid her no mind. He was locked into a stare with his father, his blood singing.

Aerys was grinding his teeth angrily, and one of his fingernails snapped clean in half as his hands dug into the table's edge. "Very well," he allowed woodenly. "Get her with child and quickly. If you know how, that is."

Rhaegar smiled tightly. "Yes, Father. With your permission, I would like to escort my wife to bed now."

Aerys waved his hand impatiently, and Lyanna sprouted from the table, scurrying off while Rhaegar strode after her. She all but ran from the ballroom to the Maidenvault, and it was everything he could do not to yell after her and attract more attention.

He did manage to stop her before she could slip into her room and bar the door. He closed his fingers around her wrist and she yanked herself away. "What was that?" She demanded hotly.

"Which part?" Rhaegar wondered sarcastically. The entire dinner had been a terrible jest.

"Let's start with the part about taking me with you to Dorne - which I didn't even know you were going by the way - so that you can impregnate me."

Rhaegar clenched his teeth together before speaking. "I was saving you the punishment of staying behind with no one around to protect you from my father's whims."

"I don't need your protection," she hissed. "And I definitely don't need you implying that we are having sex."

Rhaegar's face crumpled in confusion. "Why is that the part you're focusing on? Why does that matter to you? We're married, they already assume I bed you."

She growled. "Only because you allow them to assume!"

"You want me to tell them I haven't touched you? Is that it? For what possible reason could that benefit anyone?" A true curiosity was piqued now and he studied her face to catch any reactions.

Lyanna stood in rigid silence, her body still as stone. Her jaw was hard and her eyes harder, but it was the innocence about her that told Rhaegar everything he needed to know. He wanted to laugh and cry at her naïveté.

"You think that if the king knows you to be a virgin still," Rhaegar said softly, "that he might set aside our marriage...?"

Lyanna's lack of response was all the answer he needed.

He chuckled unkindly. "Make no mistake, wife, my father will never cast you aside. You are young and come from a powerful family. He will not lose this alliance." Alliance was putting it delicately; paranoia was more like it.

At the breaking of this news, Lyanna went to her knees, tears spilling over her cheeks. "I thought..."

Rhaegar couldn't help the black bud of hurt that bloomed in his chest; he knew Lyanna wasn't terribly fond of him, but he also didn't assume she hated him so.

Perhaps part of the blame fell on his shoulders. He'd just assumed that with the promise of Maggy's fortune coupled with the prophecy, Lyanna was insured to come around one day. Was it possible that if he didn't work for it, work for her, the prophecy would never come to fruition?

He smoothed a finger over the trail of her tears. "Calm down," he soothed.

She turned her thundercloud eyes up at him. "He said I remind him of Lady Joanna."

Rhaegar nodded. "He did."

"He'll never let me go..." She breathed out with horrible realization.

"He won't."

Shock had seemed to settle in Lyanna's spirit and she climbed to her legs like a shaky foal. "I'd like to sleep now." Rhaegar sighed and wiped the remainder of tears from her face. She pulled from his touch and slipped through the door of her room, closing it behind her.

Rhaegar sat in the shadow of her entryway for a long time, before Ser Arthur came looking for him. They walked together to Maegor's, though the Kingsguard didn't say a thing.

Rhaegar didn't offer anything up either, his mind racing manically, dark thoughts and brilliant color images fighting for dominance. There was a war of ideas and notions and theories clouding his headspace.

But one thought in particular plagued him with incessant ferocity.

If looking like Joanna Lannister was meant as a compliment, why did it feel like a threat?

Chapter 24: Choppy Seas Ahead

Chapter Text

The voyage from King's Landing to Sunspear was an arduous one, filled with days and nights of choppy seas and other times smooth waters. Sometimes the sky was a perfect, cloudless blue, while other days it rained and poured like the gods sought vengeance on their journey.

Many of the Gold Cloaks that had accompanied them had shaky sea legs, though, and spent each day emptying their stomachs over the side of Dragon's Wing, the massive war galley they were sailing to Dorne.

Even Viserys was sick after the first few days of traveling, wailing and screaming for Rhaella, and only settling down when Lyanna came to smooth his hair. He'd become helplessly dependent upon her in the short time they'd been alone and never failed to reach for her or ask after her.

"Where's Lya?" were the two most common words out of Viserys' mouth, no matter who approached him, be it a maidservant, Oswell, Rhaegar, or a Gold Cloak. He always wanted her.

Much to her credit, Lyanna was perfect with him. She was always serving to his childish whims, allowing him to play at dragons and knights and heroes and villains. Oftentimes, Rhaegar would sit back and watch, observing the way his wife handled his brother with such care and devotion.

Eventually, Lyanna succumbed to seasickness as well, and took to her cabin for a few days while Viserys roamed aimlessly, caught between wanting to play and wishing to annoy Lyanna from her rest. The boy finally settled for following Rhaegar to and fro, chattering away happily.

The days at sea seemed to blend together, one water swaying into another until Rhaegar could no longer tell if the waves were sapphire or emerald. Dragon's Wing had sailed past Blackwater Bay and Tarth, past Shipbreaker Bay, and along the coast of Estermont.

Before long, the ship's captain informed Rhaegar that they were sailing through the part of the narrow sea that encompassed the Stepstones, and would arrive at Sunspear within a day's travel.

The air was hot and heavy, even more so than King's Landing, forcing Lyanna to don her summer silks and Rhaegar to wear his silk breeches and his linen tunic alone.

The Dornish breeze felt good over his skin, warming his dragonblood, but Lyanna's cheeks were tinged pink from the sun and she took to looking over the ship's side; saltwater was constantly rushing over the edge of the galley, splashing her or Viserys any time they got too close.

It was at the front of the ship that he found them on the last day.

"Viserys, hold on to the ropes." Lyanna pulled the little prince securely against her chest, locking one arm around his stomach and her other hand around his ankle. Viserys stood on the lip's edge of Dragon's Wing with his arms outstretched.

He squealed as a large spray of saltwater rained onto his face, immediately falling back into Lyanna who struggled to support the weight of the little prince. Rhaegar felt a small smile lift his lips.

Viserys twisted around in Lyanna's hold, his face brightening when he caught view of his older brother. "Rhaegar! Guess what!"

Rhaegar and Arthur approached, the former of the two halting when Viserys came barreling into his legs. "I'm bad at guessing. Tell me," he coaxed.

Lyanna hesitantly lifted her eyes to Rhaegar's, and he physically had to tamp down the urge to smile. Ever since that wretched dinner when Lyanna's delusions of being set aside had been put to rest, things had been...progressively less aggressive between them. It was a game of sorts, the way they danced around each other in some awkward limbo, avoiding the inevitable but still pursuing the future.

He knew that for anything to happen, there would need to be compromise and he would need to work. Hard. He hadn't earned her trust, and it still seemed a long while off until she would agree to bear his first child, let alone all three. He was trying though.

But time was thinning and his father worsening, and he needed to take action to procure an heir before his hand was forced and chaos ensued over the throne.

"Lyanna and I are getting married!" Viserys announced with pure glee, staring up at Rhaegar with startling lilac eyes.

Arthur sputtered a laugh, but Rhaegar adopted a serious countenance, no matter how much he wanted to smile. "Well, I'm afraid that's not possible. You see, I'm already married to her."

Viserys frowned, twisting to look back at Lyanna. "But Lyanna, you promised!"

Lyanna smiled softly, coming to kneel next to him so that her eyes and his were leveled; she nodded seriously, pushing a lock of platinum hair from the boy's forehead. "I did promise. And I stand by it."

"Two husbands?" Rhaegar asked, amusement coloring his tone.

Lyanna shrugged, looking up at him. "Viserys made a proposal I couldn't refuse. Besides," she smirked and tickled Viserys, "I could be the first princess with two brother-husbands. How special would that be?"

"Yeah!" Viserys shouted, squirming from her clawed hands with screaming giggles.

But Rhaegar continued watching her.

A part of his heart ached to see Lyanna with a child, even if it was not theirs. He could pretend easily enough though, wondering if their own true children would have silver hair or brown hair or both; if they would have eyes like their mother, like rolling thunderclouds, or his eyes, a twilight indigo.

Would they have fiery blood but cool heads, or blood like ice and a heart on fire?

"I'm sorry, Viserys," Rhaegar finally said after a moment, "but we're on the way to meet the girl who will be your true wife one day." The boy pouted instantly. Rhaegar looked at Lyanna. "Besides, I'm not so good at sharing."

That night after dinner, after entertaining Viserys with cyvasse, and then putting him to bed in his own cabin, Rhaegar sought out his wife. Most of the crew and guards were in their cups or on their way there, chugging a good portion of their supply of Arbor Gold on the upper decks.

Oswell and Arthur were sleeping, but Lewyn was wide awake, trailing after Rhaegar like a white shadow until he'd been released to sleep as well. The Dornish Kingsguard had been a husk of his former self ever since the news came of his sister's passing, and was more likely to scowl than smile. Lewyn's accompaniment to Dorne was as much for him as it was for Rhaegar, a chance for Lewyn to pay respects to his family and late sister.

Rhaegar walked up and down the galley, but found no trace of Lyanna. He checked her cabin, but it was empty, and then he checked Viserys', but he was asleep and alone except for the Gold Cloak that was posted outside his door.

Finally, Rhaegar made his way back to where Lyanna and Viserys had played that morning, at the front lip of the boat that sliced through the sapphire waters of the sea. There, he found her laying on her back, staring upwards.

"Princess," he said softly, trying not to scare her.

Lyanna's head twitched up for a moment, and then she pushed herself up to her elbows. The position made the curve of her body unfairly pronounced, the silk of her dress straining over her chest and dipping low at her stomach.

"Prince," she replied mockingly. An empty bottle of Arbor Gold lay at her side. There was a glazed look to her eyes, like lightning in a thundercloud. He wondered if their promised prince would have her eyes.

"Would you mind if I kept you company?"

She shrugged sloppily, laying back down and resting her arms over her ribs. "Go right ahead."

Rhaegar bent to his knees, and then reclined to his back, gracefully positioning himself at her side so that their heads were next to each other. Upwards, the sky was black velvet picked with a million diamond dust stars; they seemed to sparkle even brighter than they ever had in the stink of King's Landing.

"What were you doing out here alone?" Rhaegar finally asked, cutting through the silence. A hot breeze caressed his skin and hair, mingling his silver locks with hers.

"Just thinking," she replied.

"About what?" He urged.

Her head fell to the side and her eyes bore into him as she smiled and said, "Home. My family." She was quiet for a moment. "My brother, Brandon, is getting married soon."

"To Catelyn Tully, I know."

She nodded, studying him with a fierceness that took his breath away. "Could I- could we-" Lyanna sighed. "Never mind."

Rhaegar frowned, turning so that he was propped up on one elbow and staring down at her face. "No, what were you going to say?"

Lyanna bit her lip, working it over with her teeth. The sight sent a swift rush of heat through him. "I was wondering if we could go. To the wedding, that is. It's at Riverrun. And I know your father probably won't let us, but I really want to and-"

Rhaegar hushed her gently, stopping her rambling twist of words. "We can go to Brandon's wedding."

She looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, like he had just promised her the world. "Really? You promise?"

"I promise you, on my honor as your husband, that we can go to your brother's wedding." He would give anything to gain her trust, her allegiance. But he felt sick about it, like he was bribing her in exchange for children.

And then she smiled, something so rare and beautiful it broke his heart to see. "Thank you," she breathed, eager and grateful.

"You're welcome," he said softly, running his eyes over the curve of her mouth, the thin angle of her jaw. "I will always give you whatever I can."

And he meant it; if she was to give him an heir so he could finally depose his father, and two more children to complete the prophecy, Rhaegar would grant her whatever her heart desired.

At that, she seemed to pull back a bit, her invisible shield up once more. But for all her efforts, the golden wine had loosened her wariness and before long she was randomly bursting with laughter, clutching at her belly as she sobbed tears into the wooden deck.

The sight of her happy had Rhaegar grinning, and he couldn't help but ask, "What are you laughing about?"

She continued to giggle as she answered, "I was just thinking about my brother, Benjen, and this trick we used to pull on Brandon."

"Trick?" He prompted, thoroughly amused at her childish laugh that was full of warmth and happiness. He was aware that the only reason she was being so free with her thoughts, with him, was due to the wine, but he refused to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Yes," she agreed, "well, whenever important lords from around the North used to come feast with us at Winterfell, Brandon always acted very high and mighty. He'd put on his 'lord's face' and try to boss me and Benjen around to impress this lord and that one. He thought he was something else.

"Well, at the feasts, Brandon never failed to get drunk. Beyond drunk, really. Father always said that I had a touch of wolf's blood, and Brandon more than a touch. Neither of us was ever very good with controlling our impulses.

"Anyway," she shook her head violently, "Benjen and I would wait until Brandon was well and truly in his cups, and then we would switch out his cup for something else, a drink as horrid as we could make it. Sometimes it was rain from the muddy puddles outside mixed in with Dornish red. Other times it was dirty dish water and brown ale, with chunks of old food floating about.

"There was always just enough alcohol in it to cover the stench of whatever else we'd thrown in, but not enough to mask the taste. After a while, Brandon would become suspicious of his drink, and he'd scowl or cuss a bit, but he never caught on.

"Benjen and I kept the game going for years without Brandon knowing. Last time we played was...the tourney at Harrenhal."

Rhaegar chuckled, positively enamored with the image of Lyanna full and bright, alive with the stories of her family; for a moment she had come out of her shell and it was glorious.

Fumbling for something to add, Rhaegar said, "I liked Benjen." He'd only spoken to the boy a few times in his stay at the Keep, but he was bright and eager to please, always watching after Arthur with hope in his eyes.

Lyanna's smile died. "I miss my family."

"You'll see them at the wedding," Rhaegar pointed out.

"Not Benjen," she corrected. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and Benjen will be left behind."

Rhaegar frowned, confused at the notion, but wisely not commenting. "He can come visit you at the capital, or Dragonstone one day."

Lyanna scowled instantly. "I'd sooner go home."

Sensing the black turn of her mood, Rhaegar urged, "Tell me about Winterfell."

For a moment he worried she would prickle again, rise against him with that dark fire of hers that came out from time to time. But instead, one corner of her mouth lifted and she launched into a monologue of her childhood, her tongue once more lightened by the drink.

She recounted tales of the godswood and the wolfswood, stories of the Winter Kings in the crypts below Winterfell. She regaled him of Old Nan and Ned Stark and what little she remembered of her mother. She spoke of the Broken Tower and the way she and Benjen would try to climb to the top, always unsuccessful.

By the time she was finished, she was still drunk and smiling and lovely and alive.

Rhaegar thought that perhaps they had taken a step in the right direction, a step that would bring them closer to a child, closer to bringing his father down, closer to the Eternal Summer.

"I've never been before, to Winterfell," he admitted. "I'd like to see it."

Lyanna looked up. "I'm not sure you'd like it." He cocked his head in confusion. "Dragons do not fare well so far North."

He smirked, rising to her challenge. "My dragon's blood will keep me warm."

She shrugged, amused, and lifted her face to the sky. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Chapter 25: The Sun and the Wolf

Chapter Text

The Water Gardens dawned in a bright blaze, everything across the Dornish capital bathed in a golden luster unparalleled by heaven and earth. The air was sticky with the salt breeze blowing in from the Summer Sea, and ripe with the scent of bursting blood oranges.

The day roared with life - from children squealing in the pools to the wind whistling through the halls to a hidden chorus of cicadas chittering in the limbs of the orange trees.

Elia rolled over in bed, careful to avoid Ashara's still form, and got to her feet. Arching her back, the cracks of her spine punctuated with three little pops!, Elia opened her window, inviting in the sounds of the day.

Ashara instantly groaned, rubbing her fingers over her sleepy violet eyes. "Draw the curtains," she rasped, stuffing her face into the pillow.

Elia frowned, ghosting over to run her hand through Ashara's dark hair. "You should see the maester today."

In the months after Harrenhal, Ashara had become increasingly ill: sleeping constantly, nauseated half the time and vomiting the rest, with a tender body that begged for rest even upon waking.

"I don't want to," Ashara whined. "I'll get over it soon."

Elia sighed. "If you're not better within the week, you're seeing the maester."

"Fine."

Elia walked over to throw open her chamber doors, preparing to call for her handmaidens, when she gasped. Oberyn lounged in her antechamber, casually picking his nails with his favorite jeweled dagger. The dirty bottoms of his boots mucked up the velvet of her chaise.

"You slept late," he said, the tilt of his voice mocking.

"Ashara was tired," she said by way of explanation, coming to sit beside her brother.

"Ashara's always tired now," he retorted. "I'm just grateful you're sleeping off this newly found manic energy of yours."

Elia sighed a long breath, resting her head against the sheen of his black hair. Elia had been restless, antsy, and an absolute nightmare to live with in the weeks since the announcement that Prince Rhaegar would be coming to Dorne.

She'd not seen the prince since Harrenhal, nor had any contact with him, but the memories of his lips against hers warmed her through the nights. Oftentimes, she thought on their last meeting, her parting words.

She felt equal parts black shame and potent excitement at the possibility of her offer to him; she doubted that the prince's marriage had seeded any love in so little time with Lyanna Stark, which only meant good things for her.

And Dornish culture was widely liberated, accepting of lovers and bastards and everything else the rest of Westeros deemed taboo.

While others saw a prince's mistress as something to turn a cheek to, in Dorne, not an eye would be batted, by peer, husband, or wife. Elia was a highborn of royal blood, a second child, and had a definitive say in her future.

Her future was Rhaegar, and Elia was determined to make it so.

"Oh!" Oberyn started, schooling his face into a mask of thought, positively reeking of insincerity. "I forgot to tell you. The royal party arrived at Sunspear several hours ago."

Elia jumped to her feet, heart stuttering. "You're kidding...they weren't due until tomorrow."

Maddeningly, Oberyn shrugged. "I suppose the gods of the seas were on the dragon's side. Doran received them at Sunspear, and escorted them here, to the Water Gardens."

She could hardly believe it. She'd been waiting so long to see Rhaegar again, having had to miss his wedding as her mother's frailty worsened; she passed away in the dead of night two weeks after the royal wedding.

Elia had been prepared for such a thing though and it came with no surprise; her mother had always been a fragile thing, passing her questionable health on to Elia herself. They both had bones like birds, unable to eat full meals, with a tendency to wake at all hours in the night.

"They're here then? In the palace?"

Oberyn grinned, his black eyes flashing with cruel humor. "That is what I said, lovely sister."

Elia turned, rushing back into her rooms. She went straight for her trunks, tearing through folds of silks and chiffons, reds and blues and greens and yellows.

"Wear the yellow!" Oberyn called over his shoulder as he strutted out of her room. Her hand closed over light golden silk; if there was anything Oberyn knew, it was spears, poison, and beauty.

"What are you doing?" Ashara wondered groggily, sitting up in bed.

Elia stopped and grinned up at her friend. "Getting ready to catch a dragon of course."

Elia linked her arm through Ashara Dayne's, partly to appear calm and collected, partly to assist her tired friend. They strolled through the halls of the Water Gardens, shadowed by the sounds of the crash and retreat of the nearby sea that resounded against pale pink stone like a wispy lover's sigh.

Areo Hotah, captain of her eldest brother's guards, stood post at the entrance of Doran's private terrace; Areo was a thick man with an unhappy look and a massive longaxe to wield should he ever be afflicted with a murderous urge. Three men in white armor stood with him: Ser Oswell, Ser Arthur, Ashara's brother, and Ser Lewyn, her uncle.

She immediately went to hug her uncle, the edges of his armor biting into her thin ribs. "Uncle, I've missed you."

Lewyn clucked her under the chin with a sad smile. "I've missed you as well, my dear. I hope you are doing okay..."

She nodded with a watery smile. "I am. Promise."

"Good," he breathed. "Well, go on in then. We'll catch up later."

Elia left Ashara behind to catch up with Arthur as she came before Areo. He stepped aside for Elia, and she swallowed down the lump of anxiety in her throat when she stepped through. There, overlooking the maze of gardens and pools, was Doran, resting comfortably in his wheeled chair, and Prince Rhaegar, sipping wine from a golden cup as he sat next to her brother.

If it was possible, Rhaegar was even more beautiful than she could have remembered - bits of silver hair braided off his face, pale collarbones bared from an untied tunic, long legs kicked out casually before him.

"Elia," Doran said softly in surprise, "I wasn't expecting you."

Elia smiled, sweeping her eyes over Rhaegar. "I couldn't very well leave our royal guest without a greeting, could I? Prince Rhaegar," she intoned, "so good to see you again."

Rhaegar stood from his chair, taking her proffered hand to kiss. Her heart hammered furiously. "You as well, Princess Elia." She noticed that he didn't leave his eyes too long on her, choosing to focus on other things instead.

The servant that had been standing dormant in the corner ghosted forward. "Princess, would you like me to fetch you some food? Wine, perhaps?"

"Blood oranges," Elia ordered, thinking of Ashara's tender stomach. "A plate of them. And summerwine as well." The servant scurried off.

Elia took the empty chair next to Rhaegar, sitting primly so as to show off her diaphanous gown of yellow silk. There was a glaring absence.

"Where is your new wife, Your Highness?"

Rhaegar immediately leaned forward from his seat, pointing a long, thin finger over the terrace. "Down there. She's the one playing with my little brother, Viserys."

Elia scooted forward, leaning to look at the scene below. Legions of children splashed through the pools, mothers and caretakers standing off to the side.

Two people in particular caught Elia's eye - a small boy about Arianne's age with Rhaegar's coloring, pale and silver-haired with a smile just for the young woman he played with.

The woman wore a sleeveless dress of lilac silk, the skirts of which were splotchy with water stains; she happily kicked her feet through the water, her dark hair mussed by the hot Dornish wind as she chased the boy out of the pools and toward the palace.

"How charming," she murmured with a gritted smile. "I can't wait to meet her."

It only took a few moments before Viserys burst into Doran's terrace, Lyanna close behind, breathless with laughter. The lilac silk hugged her body, clinging to the places that were wet from the pools. She had a wild beauty, Rhaegar's wife, the type that made you stop and take notice.

"Lyanna, Viserys," Rhaegar said, "come meet Doran's sister, Princess Elia."

Viserys stumbled forward, frowning with a pursed mouth. "Princess Elia...? But Lya's your princess."

"They're both princesses," Rhaegar chuckled, "Elia is a princess of Dorne, and Lyanna is our princess."

Elia's frown deepened with a distinct hurt. She didn't want to hear or even think about Lyanna being Rhaegar's, no matter the innocence with which it was delivered, or the irrationality of her feelings. It tore at her heart with beastly claws; Elia was meant to be his, just as a dragon belonged to fire.

"I'm no princess," Lyanna sang, jumping forward to playfully nip at Viserys. "I'm a wolf."

The boy giggled, growling back at her. "Well, I'm a dragon!"

"Yes, little dragon, yes you are." Lyanna stood and nodded her head at Elia, no recognition in those grey eyes to suggest that the girl even knew of Elia's brief dalliance with her husband at Harrenhal. "Princess Elia, I am very sorry for your loss."

Elia's heart sank at the mention of her mother. "Thank you. It is nice to finally meet you, Your Highness." She hoped the utter envy wasn't too terribly obvious in her voice.

"Call me Lyanna," the girl said immediately, winding her hand around Viserys'.

"Lya, Lya," he interjected, hopping from one foot to the other. "I want to play again!"

Lyanna's face transformed when she looked upon his little face, brightening like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Let's go then."

And without a word or passing smile for her royal husband, Lyanna spirited away, following the squeals of a happy child-prince. As Elia watched her go, jealous contempt heavy in her heart, she wondered the outcome of a match between a wolf and the sun.

Chapter 26: Dry Ice

Chapter Text

Lyanna had never felt less like a princess than when she wilted beneath the glowing orange sun like a winter rose far from home. Waves of heat beat upon her, the sun's rays dragging along her skin like a thousand licking tongues of fire.

The flimsy material of her gown hung uncomfortably on her skin, feeling more like a bundle of furs than capital silk. Lyanna wished for leggings or breeches, but the ladies of Dorne opted for gowns, and revealing ones at that; and their trip to visit with the Martells was primarily for business and not pleasure.

Lyanna may have been willful and stubborn, but she knew when not to test the limits. So she donned her gowns in silence, fantasizing about racing through the godswood with Benjen.

For the millionth time, she cursed the sky. In what world did people actually enjoy the unforgiving heat, the sun sitting high on its throne in the blue sky, glaring down at people like they were mere ants on the scale? Where were the assuaging breezes, the lovely shading clouds?

She'd never missed Winterfell more. Wolves were not made for hellfire.

The sole thing that kept her from dying of boredom, or heatstroke, was Ser Oswell Whent. With Viserys gone with Rhaegar to discuss dower with the Prince of Dorne, Ser Oswell was assigned to watch Lyanna for the day.

She might have been mildly insulted if she didn't like Oswell so much. Ser Arthur was a good man but he was quiet and introspective, a close personality to her husband. And Ser Lewyn was a deeply melancholic man, something dangerous at his surface just waiting to break; in truth, she did not like the Dornish prince-Kingsguard at all, and thanked the gods every time he was far away.

But Oswell, he was lively and fun and full of humor. He reminded her of Brandon sometimes, with his bawdy jokes and flagrant tales. It made being apart from her brothers just a little less terrible.

So while Viserys and Rhaegar sat discussing politics and dower and whatever else with Doran, Lyanna and Ser Oswell explored the grounds of the Water Gardens.

It was a sprawling manse, full of open hallways and pale pink terraces and mazes of greenery, dotted with large, shallow pools of crystal water. An abundance of children splashed around, squealing with joy, borne of a myriad of stations.

They explored well through the morning, eventually making their way to the armory where Oswell handled a few knives and daggers. It was utterly empty there, but stocked with an array of weapons and bows, arrows flocked into a deep barrel.

Along one wall was a line of eight feet tall shafts, their heads shining with steel. Lyanna had never seen so many spears in her life; Northmen fought with swords and maces, lances and rough hands.

But spears...they seemed somehow graceful and deadly, even when stocked. Their steel tips gleamed at her enticingly, blue playing through their metal.

Touch me, they seemed to say, do it.

"I wouldn't touch those," an accented voice said from behind her.

She whirled. It was Oberyn Martell, the rogue brother of Doran and Elia she'd been introduced to several days after arriving in Dorne.

He was a sinewy man, tight muscles coiling around his bones like a snake, with skin like beaten copper. His black hair was glossy, and as oiled as those viper's eyes. He looked every inch a dangerous man.

"And why not?" She retorted, rising to a challenge in her trademark nature.

Oberyn smirked, sauntering close. Ser Oswell seemed to stiffen near her, hand hovering dangerously close to the hilt of his sword.

But Oberyn ignored him, leaning close to Lyanna so that he could whisper near her ear, "Because I poisoned them."

She reared back, frowning. "Really?" Her eyes roved over the steel-tipped spears, searching for any sign of alchemy.

And then Oberyn smiled, his copper complexion brightening considerably. "No! Of course not. But the spear is my weapon of choice."

She raised her brows, turning to admire them again. She couldn't imagine fighting with a spear; the shafts were much too long, the spearheads much too small. Lyanna didn't imagine they could do much damage before a sword finished the wielder to the gut.

"What's your weapon of choice?" Oberyn then asked, his eyes glittering in the sun. He reminded her so much of a snake then, she half-expected him to shed his skin and sink his poison fangs into her.

"I'm a girl," Lyanna answered evasively, running her fingers down the wooden shaft of one spear.

"And?" He probed, leaning casually against the wall of the armory. "I'm sure the calluses on those dainty hands didn't come from sewing all day."

Lyanna smirked. The last time someone had mentioned her ruined palms, it was Brandon joking she'd never win Robert over. In fact, Lyanna's small hands had been roughened by the hilts of her brothers' swords, but mostly Benjen's. She'd never cared though, having invested more stock in being able to hold a blade than a needle.

"I prefer the sword," she finally said. "Far easier to finish a man off with."

Oberyn smirked. "And do you? Finish many men off, that is..."

Heat flooded her cheeks. "You should watch your tongue before I prove why a sword is superior to your spear."

He seemed pleased suddenly, satisfaction flaring in his gaze. "Forgive my insolence, Your Highness," Oberyn said, sounding anything but sorry. Then, "Would you like to learn how to use a spear?"

Lyanna thought it over. Tongue sharp, she replied, "I don't see the use to be honest. They're long and ungainly with hardly a blade to injure or kill."

"Oh, sweet princess. A spear is one of the most underrated weapons."

"Is that so? I might have said overrated. Men do so love to exaggerate," she taunted, quirking a brow. Ser Oswell's discomfort was a tangible thing at her side.

Oberyn bit a smile back. "Perhaps, Your Highness. Though, I could prove you wrong...?" His offer was as subtle as the heat.

"Maybe another time," she said airily, drifting away. "I'd rather go see the beaches now."

"Then allow me to escort you," he insisted, "I know the best hidden coves. Tell me, Princess Lyanna, do you like to ride?"

She stopped, and looked over her shoulder, smiling genuinely. "As a matter of fact, I do."

Lyanna, Oswell, and Oberyn rode along the beaches of the Summer Sea for hours. Oberyn had lent her his own personal steed, a horse as black as his hair, with a tail as red as fire. It had felt powerful between her thighs as it stomped across the shore.

The Summer Sea was a vivid turquoise, its waves swaying and folding over themselves to the rhythm of an ancient song. The sands were a bright red, and sifted through her fingers as easily as water, small shells and rocks dotting the shore line like a thousand thousand little islands.

As touted, Oberyn showed her looming dunes where sand had formed humps in the beach as tall as giants, and hidden coves where old starfish had washed up and dried. She found shells as creamy as pearls streaked with amethyst veins, and kicked her feet through schools of fish to send them scattering. All the while, palm trees danced high over them, their leaves waving in the breeze the ocean blew in, gulls squalling overhead.

She peeled off her little leather sandals, and dug her feet into the sand, letting the wet mush of it squish between her toes. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend like it was snow.

By the time they made it back to the palace, it was past time for dinner. Her hair was wild and wavy from the saltwater, her skin kissed with color. She felt alive, the blood racing through her as fast as Oberyn's Sand Steed.

A servant jittered impatiently at the stables as they rode in. "Your Highness!" He called to her manically. He ran over. "Your Highness, Prince Rhaegar has requested you come to the dining hall immediately upon your return."

She looked down at her white dress, the hem dusty with sand and wrinkled from riding and salt. "I'll need to change," she said, dropping down from the horse.

"If it please you, the prince insisted you come as soon as possible. Dinner was to start an hour ago."

Lyanna groaned, but nodded her acquiescence. She'd all but forgotten about the dinner that night; they were to dine with the entire Martell family to symbolize the union of House Targaryen to Dorne before they returned for King's Landing in a few days.

Ser Oswell walked impatiently ahead with the servant while Oberyn hung back. "So, Your Highness, did you enjoy our ride today?"

One corner of her mouth lifted. "I did. I didn't expect the horses to handle the sand so well."

"Yes, well they were born to ride the sands." He paused. "And what about the scenery? I imagine that must have been your first time on sand and saltwater."

"It was beautiful," she admitted. "And yes, my very first time on sand. Winterfell isn't exactly beaches and palm trees. It's a cold and unforgiving land, hungry for cutting down soft men." She added the last part just for his ego.

"No," he agreed, "and yet, our dainty Targaryen princess came from that frozen hellhole."

Her temper flared easily and she cut him a wolfish scowl. "Careful, I might be bound to a dragon, but my blood is Stark. I'm ice made flesh," she warned, "and ice can burn just as easily as fire."

Chapter 27: Envy Green and Passion Red

Chapter Text

Rhaegar stood as still as a statue of the Stranger, dark and foreboding, a simmering effigy of blood, muscle, and bones. Two warriors in armor of white steel flanked post at his shoulders, wary of what fumed beneath the prince's surface.

At the window, Rhaegar's eyes were trained on the expanse of the greenery maze below, but he saw nothing, felt nothing - nothing besides his dragon's blood positively boiling with a jealousy so green, it may as well have been wildfire.

His jaw was clenched hard enough to crack, and his knuckles were white from the force of his fist. His hand itched for Fire, his Valyrian steel sword that glinted the shades of dragonfire; he wanted to angle it across a throat of scales and wrench the head off a black-eyed snake.

Prince Oberyn the Viper, he thought disdainfully. The Non-Prince of Bastardy was more like it.

Oberyn Martell was a swaggering, smirking fool that liked to spread his seed across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. With four bastard daughters of his own already, each by a different mother source, the Dornish prince was a pillar of lust.

And the black-haired, black-eyed snake wished to sink his fangs into Rhaegar's princess next. He couldn't erase the scenes from his mind; Oberyn waltzing into dinner an hour late, Lyanna at his side, beautiful and beach-swept.

Oberyn had sat across from Lyanna at dinner, his eyes trained on her with a ferocity that was almost frightening. Watching her, goading her, tongue thick with deft entendres and a gaze rich with want. Every word that rolled off his tongue was cloying with coquetry, and rife with sensuality.

Rhaegar might have been able to brush off another man lusting after his wife; he'd done it before, ignored the lustful looks from those in the capital that watched after his little Northern girl. Her rare, wild beauty begged for attention.

But one thing kept him from sweeping this particular instance under the rug. Where usually Lyanna was oblivious to the male gaze, she seemed overly aware of Oberyn's attentions. And she matched him word for word, their banter full of teeth and cheek, more humoring than Rhaegar had ever seen her.

It had made the entire world fall away, shatter into a cloud of dust. All Rhaegar saw was his gorgeous, brilliant wife laughing and japing with another man, and it bothered him. It had filled him with a madness akin to his father's, something deep and dark that both frightened and thrilled him.

He'd never experienced anything so intoxicatingly vengeful before, and he wanted to wield it for its full power.

The knock at his door was louder than a clap of thunder, and the air in the room seemed to jump. Rhaegar waved his hand in permission, and Oswell opened the door.

In the height of the entrance stood Princess Elia, still wearing the wavy silk gown from dinner. Her black hair was unbound and curling, the gold of her bracelets glittering in the candlelight.

"My prince," she intoned with a significant smile reminiscent of a snake about to devour a mouse. The entire dinner, she'd been overly attentive, laughing and smiling and welcoming, her eyes always trailing over him suggestively though no one else besides himself seemed to notice.

"Princess Elia," he said in low surprise.

She smirked and swayed inside. "I was coming to see if you would grace me with a walk through the Gardens. They're truly magnificent at night."

Rhaegar swallowed a deep breath. The envy beneath his skin burned with the heat of a dragon's breath and he was choking on it. The longer he stood still, swimming in his anger, the more his ire rose, higher and higher until it stood as tall as the Titan of Braavos.

"Of course," he allowed, unclenching his jaw with a crack. He felt like a puppet with its strings cut, disjointed and off-kilter as they made their way outside.

He released Oswell and Arthur from their duties and followed Elia down the stone staircase and out into the garden. The night air was heavy and hot, spiced with a salt breeze carried in from the Summer Sea.

A million and one tea lights were lit along the pathway, each one sitting in its own glass jar. It had the illusion of a blanket of fireflies, filling the darkness with an amber glow.

"Your visit to Dorne has been hectic," Elia began, smiling over at him. The candlelight played shadows over her face. "I've been wishing to speak with you."

"We've spoken," he pointed out unhelpfully. His mind was split in two: trying to engage with Elia and thinking on the laughs Lyanna afforded Oberyn.

"Alone," she clarified. The look she gave him was heavy, and he understood where things were going.

His mouth formed a silent O, and the memory of her proposition from Harrenhal rushed back to him. Lips and tongue and proffers of passion. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

"Have you forgotten me so easily, Your Highness?" She asked in a low voice. Her dark eyes were full of jest and insult.

He rushed to rectify the tense air. "No, of course not. I just-" He broke off, unsure of where to steer the conversation.

"I thought that we had the start of something at the tourney," she admitted, going to sit on a bench beneath a low-hanging orange tree. "I kissed your mouth and you mine. I offered my love to you, even though you were promised to another."

The thought of Oberyn fled his mind and only Lyanna was left. "I would not dishonor you or my wife with an affair." He sat on the opposite side of the bench, a respectful distance between them.

"It would be no dishonor to me," she said boldly. "Dorne is full of paramours and the offspring of their passions. As for your wife...is there any love lost between the two of you?"

He had no answer for her. What more could he say? Pretend that there was no space blocking their marriage? Spin the tale of his promised ice, his three children that which would emerge from his wife's womb? No, somehow he doubted Elia would appreciate that.

"I see a distance between you and your princess. Not every marriage breeds passion or love, my prince. You have to take love where you can find it. And I am right here."

Rhaegar felt breathless and riddled with doubts. Was Elia right? Would there ever be anything but barbs between him and Lyanna, or were they destined for cold sheets for the rest of their days?

Elia slid closer to him, so close he could see his face reflected in the glassy pools of her eyes. "Tell me honestly, did you feel nothing for me in those days at Harrenhal?"

He couldn't deny that. At first, hadn't he entertained the thought of Elia as a Targaryen princess, as a gracious addition to the royal family? He'd readily accepted her kisses, only hesitating once Lyanna had been betrothed to him.

"You are Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon," she breathed, "and you deserve fire to warm your blood." Her breath fanned over his face.

"Rhaegar?"

His heart stopped and he whipped his head around so quickly, his neck snapped. Lyanna's salt-swept hair ruffled in the warm breeze, and her face was narrowed in confused suspicion. Her pale arms were crossed over her chest, the skirts of her gown snapping like a whip.

He jerked away from Elia immediately and got to his feet, bogged down by inexplicable guilt. "Lyanna," he murmured, imploring her with his eyes. For what, he didn't know. "What are you doing out here?" He didn't like that his words came out breathy and nervous, like he was deflecting from some misdeed.

Lyanna took two steps back. "I was just walking back from telling Viserys a bedtime story." Three more steps back.

"We were just taking a walk," he blurted out, keenly aware that they had been sitting together and were far too close for any semblance of innocence.

Lyanna quirked a brow, unimpressed. "I'm going to bed now. Enjoy the rest of your night." And then she turned and walked off.

Adrenaline kicked in and Rhaegar chased after her without a moment's thought. The path was darker now and more difficult to see whilst running, but Rhaegar easily caught up to Lyanna before she was able to climb the stairs to her chambers.

He caught her by the arm and yanked her back. She was scowling deeply and one of the nearby fire pits reflected dangerously in her eyes, orange flames on thundercloud disks.

"Yes?" She hissed, jerking her arm out of his grip. Up close he could see how angry she was and it filled him with an odd satisfaction.

"I- I just wanted...to tell you good night," he stuttered.

She raised her brows. "Good night then." She went to leave but he wrapped his hand around her elbow, gently so as not to hurt her.

"Lyanna," he murmured. She looked back at him. "Nothing happened."

She understood the silent "with Princess Elia..."

"You do not owe me any explanations," she assured him with a raised chin and blazing eyes. "I'm only your wife."

"Yes!" He declared. "You are my wife, and I swear I did nothing to sully our vows."

She studied his face, conflicting, foreign emotions battling for her expression. "It's not my business if you did."

Rhaegar released a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Lyanna..." For some reason, it stung to hear her say that, as if she would be unaffected by his affairs. But he knew her well enough to realize nothing would come of repeating himself or probing her. Instead, he asked, "May I walk you to your room?"

She clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes, and for a moment, he thought she would refuse him. But then, she begrudgingly gave him a nod. He was relieved at his small victory and stepped away to walk by her side as they climbed the stairs.

The halls were silent save for the whistling wind skating against the stone. The torches embedded in the wall sconces flickered and danced, casting serpentine shadows over the floors.

Lyanna went to her door, preparing to push through, when Rhaegar said, "Wait."

She paused where she was and looked over her shoulder but otherwise made no move. He ran his teeth over his bottom lip, suddenly tense with nerves and indecision. He didn't know what her stance would be on his affection, but he wanted to try anyway. Steeling himself, he stepped forward and slowly bent to press a searing kiss against the slope of her cheekbone.

"Good night, Lyanna," he murmured. Snakes are nothing to wolves and dragons.

Chapter 28: The Lone Wolf

Chapter Text

Her paws padded silently through the wet forest, sinking into green and dirt, rocks and snow. The smell of meat was strong on the horizon, and it made her jowls salivate. Her fangs dripped with hunger, and her nose picked up the scent of a deer nearby.

She ran quickly, her senses guiding her for the kill. The night was deep and dark, a cold wind blowing over her spine. A woodpecker pecked incessantly somewhere above, itching at her ears.

Irritated, she stopped and howled up to the sky, her cries echoing through the wood. But if anything, it made the pecks even louder, even more frequent. Low in her throat, she growled. Muffled, she heard a human voice calling out.

She looked around, sniffing the air, but all she smelled was the earth and the deer, nothing human around. The woodpecker was still at it, like a hammer on steel. More knocking. Knock, knock, knock, knock.

Lyanna sucked in a strangled breath and sat up straight in bed. Harsh golden light filtered in through the window, blinding her as she came to consciousness. She was no longer in a Northern forest, but in a fluffy featherbed far South.

At the door, someone knocked repeatedly, their knuckles battering the wood. She shook her head, dizzy from the wolf dream. "Come in!"

The door swung open and a servant appeared, curtsying. "Your Highness, Princess Elia sent me to invite you to break your fast with her this morning."

A black cloud immediately settled over Lyanna's heart. Instantly a picture of the copper-skinned princess mere inches from her silver husband appeared in her mind; the same red blurred her vision now as it did when she first happened upon them.

The pure disrespect had sent her reeling. She'd found herself wondering if all the royal Dornish were such scheming little snakes; at least Doran had seemed unassuming and kind, if nothing else. But Elia and Oberyn were two sides of the same coin, disrespectful and cutting.

And despite Rhaegar's assurances, she found herself wondering if something had happened between him and the Dornish princess. He'd looked too guilty for absolutely nothing to have happened, though Rhaegar didn't strike her as a Robert Baratheon type.

Lyanna would have loved nothing more than to refuse Elia's offer and seek Viserys' company instead on their final day in Dorne. But one thing kept her from doing so: she wouldn't give Elia Martell the satisfaction of thinking she'd sent the wolf running with its tail between its legs.

"Tell Princess Elia I accept," she ordered, voice scratchy as if she'd howled for hours.

The servant nodded, retreating. "I will be back in an hour to retrieve you, Your Highness."

Left alone, Lyanna padded out of bed, dropping her robe to the floor. The morning heat sent a flush over her skin, like the kiss of hot bath water on her naked body.

She dressed herself in a gown of lovely yellow which splayed like a morning star beneath her dark hair. She itched to don her crown of iron thorns and sapphire roses, just to flaunt an actual crown to the Dornish princess, but she ultimately decided against it.

She'd have to face Rhaegar to retrieve it, and even after the burning imprint of his lips on her cheek had faded the night before, she couldn't get him out of her head until wolves and fangs filled her sleep.

True to word, the maidservant returned within an hour, and escorted her to another wing of the palace where the sun seemed to shine its brightest. The scent of oranges was strong and hit her like a headache.

A small table of food was set up on an open terrace. Sat in one of the three chairs was Princess Elia, glowing in a thin gown of indigo silk, a shade eerily close to Rhaegar's eyes in the light. A thin gold chain sat on the crown of her black hair, which was curly and oiled.

Beside her was Ser Arthur's sister, of an age with Elia, with dark hair and eyes like two chips of amethyst. Her beauty seemed to have been stolen by a sickness, her pallor green and skin lined.

Princess Elia Martell put on the brightest smile she could muster and stood as Lyanna approached. "Your Highness!" She chirped. "I am so happy you could come."

Lyanna raised her brows. "I could think of nothing better with which to bide my time." She took the empty seat to Elia's right, immediately drinking from her glass of wine; it was sour and tart and made her tongue sting.

"I am Ashara Dayne of Starfall," Ashara introduced herself weakly, sitting down from her curtsy. "I've not had the pleasure of meeting you personally, Your Highness, though I do know your brother."

The mention of her family brightened Lyanna's dark mood. "Really?" She asked quickly, leaning forward so as to ignore Elia's presence. "Which one?"

"Brandon," Ashara smiled.

Lyanna knew that smile, had seen it on Barbrey Dustin's face when the girl came to visit Winterfell with her father; it was a smile that spoke of both intimacy and disappointment.

"We met at the tourney of Harrenhal," explained Ashara.

"Ah," Lyanna hummed. Catelyn Tully had also been at Harrenhal, and even Brandon wasn't so stupid to dishonor his betrothal with Catelyn right there. No, Ashara's smile must have been borne of fondness, just as most were fond of Brandon.

"Today is your last day in Dorne, is that correct?" Elia cut in, biting into an orange slice. The juice burst onto her thin lips, streaming down her chin.

Lyanna swept her eyes over begrudgingly. "Yes, that's correct. Rhaegar wants to leave as soon as day breaks." At the mention of the prince, Elia's face both softened and hardened.

Before she could retort though, Ashara gasped, fitting a hand over her mouth. Her purple eyes were wide in alarm, and shining with tears. Her other hand was clutched over her stomach, as if in pain.

"Are you alright?" Elia asked, reaching over the table.

It was a few long moments before Ashara nodded, finally dropping her hand. Her face was sickly and gaunt, and she seemed on the verge of vomiting. "I'm fine," she whispered.

"You're sure?" Elia insisted.

Ashara nodded, flashing her eyes up. "I do apologize, Your Highness," she said to Lyanna quietly. "I've been sick now for weeks."

"Weeks?" Lyanna repeated skeptically. That explained her sickly green color and the tiredness that seemed to live in her skin.

"Yes," Ashara confirmed. "I can't seem to keep food down any more." She sighed deeply. "I cannot eat, I sleep constantly, and I'm ill every day."

At Winterfell, one of the maidservants had come down with the same sickness; they called it the cook's seed. Without thinking, Lyanna blurted carelessly, "Maybe you're pregnant."

Though Ashara's face had been downturned, Lyanna spotted the moment her body froze and her eyes lifted the tiniest bit. There seemed to be a dangerous dawning in the depths of her purple eyes, like a horrible realization had just shattered her world.

With more strength than Lyanna had yet witnessed from the woman, Ashara stood and pushed back her chair. "Excuse me please." And then she ran off, scurrying like hell itself was on her heels.

Elia stuttered an excuse for her friend. "She's probably getting sick again." She grimaced. "Yes, she's...just sick."

Lyanna cleared her throat awkwardly, putting Ashara Dayne out of her mind; it was not her business who Lady Dayne bedded down with and whose bastard she likely carried.

Instead she focused on stabbing her eggs with the prongs of her fork, tearing them to shreds. In Ashara's absence, there was only silence. Elia had likely assumed Lyanna would not have come, too humiliated or angry or both, and as such not prepared for actual hosting.

In truth, the longer Lyanna sat there with the Dornish princess, the more powerful her anger from the previous night returned and grew. She let it fester in her chest like some old battle wound, aching and sore, until finally it became too much to just sit there and not say anything.

"So," Lyanna began, "about last night..."

Elia's dark eyes flashed up immediately. Discomfort was clear on her face, but there was a challenge there as well, as if she had some claim to Rhaegar Targaryen to justify her actions.

"You seemed very close to my husband," Lyanna noted nonchalantly, although she felt her mouth water, just like in her wolf dreams right before a fresh kill.

"Rhaegar and I are friends," Elia returned lightly.

"Friends," Lyanna repeated. How in so little time could they have forged such a...close friendship when Rhaegar was constantly in meetings with Prince Doran, or entertaining Viserys?

"We got to know each other at Harrenhal." Though it was delivered airily, Elia seemed positively loaded, like a crossbow on a hunt.

"Isn't Harrenhal just the breeding ground for new friendships?" Lyanna bit out sarcastically, throwing back some wine.

Elia laughed. "Oh, Princess, you are too funny. Though I do admit, the lines were blurred a bit at the tourney. It's hard to know what is friendship and what is not anymore."

Lyanna didn't want to rise to the bait, she truly didn't. But impulse control, like Brandon, was not her forte, and her wolf's blood sang for the truth. "Oh?"

"Yes," Elia sighed, drinking from her cup. "I confess I thought that I would be the one leaving that tourney betrothed to Rhaegar. He certainly made it seem that was the case."

Hearing his name so casually from her lips made Lyanna want to tear into her bronze throat, to sip her lifeblood like it was Dornish red. "And what, pray tell, did he do to have given you that idea?"

Elia snorted gently. "I may look frail, Princess Lyanna, but I still have passion in my blood. And it seems that your husband does as well. Though I probably don't have to tell you that."

Lyanna's jaw popped like a break when she ground her teeth together. She could feel blood where her nails dug into her palms, and sweat from her adrenaline running down her collarbone. "What exactly are you trying to imply?"

Elia adopted a look of faux remorse, as she brought a hand to her mouth in a gesture of shock. "Oh, you didn't know? I'm so embarrassed. I thought Rhaegar would have told you."

Lyanna narrowed her eyes. "Told me what?"

Elia shook her head. "No, it's not my place. I don't want to cause problems in your marriage."

Before she could help it, Lyanna asked, "Don't you?"

Some steel came alive in Elia's expression. "Pardon me, Your Highness?"

"You're quite transparent, Elia Martell. I see your game, but see no end for you but disappointment and shame." The disrespect chipped away at any civility Lyanna had had coming in, and had all but disappeared the longer she was in Elia's presence.

"Shame," Elia repeated thoughtfully. "Here in Dorne, we do not frown or judge on affairs of the heart. Here, Prince Rhaegar may seek what he likes without disapproval."

"And are you what he seeks?" He'd convinced her well enough Elia was not an interest, or at least a threat. Lyanna wondered if there was a glaring difference she'd missed.

Elia shrugged. "Perhaps. Even the sun would not refuse the dragon. Fire for fire, after all."

"The sun," Lyanna laughed. A snake is more like it; perhaps the Martells should change their sigil.

"Yes," Elia agreed stonily. "It's always good to remember who is what in these kingdoms. It can be so very hard to remember."

"Oh, I remember," Lyanna murmured lowly, pushing back from the table. "And so should you. I am a wolf of the North and a Stark of Winterfell, a descendant of the Kings of Winter, and blood of the First Men." She stood and looked down upon the other woman.

Elia grinned up at her with a reptilian smile. "And I am the sun, Princess, fire made flesh. Keep that in mind when your dragon gets cold."

"Keep this in mind," Lyanna said, bending over the table before she walked away. "Even fire dies when the ice wind blows." She lifted her chin. "And wolves do not howl at the sun."

Chapter 29: Shadows at Sea

Chapter Text

The night sky was a velvet blanket crushed with crystal stars and a silver-crusted moon. The waves were the rocking arms of a mother, gently swaying the ship Dragon's Wing through the sea. The war galley sailed for King's Landing, having left Dorne at its rear several days past.

The wind brushed Lyanna's hair back as she crept to her cabin, the salt in the air heavy on her skin. A few sailors gave her passing glances as she walked on, but she persisted, climbing down the stairs to the private cabins.

At her room, Ser Lewyn waited, all stony silence in snowy armor. His dark face was utterly devoid of emotion, and it sent a shiver down her that had nothing to do with the wind.

Sliding past him, she pushed open her door, its creaking lost in the shush of the sea, and slipped inside. The darkness of her room was slashed by stripes of moonlight filtering in through the two small circle windows set into the wall.

But where her bed was sat a deeper patch of shadow, long and lean and hunched over.

Lyanna gasped, jumping back so that her back slammed against the door. Rhaegar got to his feet, his full height of six feet and some odd inches a towering darkness over her. There was an energy to him that was tangible, radiating off him in waves as dark as the Blackwater and as powerful as a gust of high wind.

"What are you doing here?" She demanded in a thin voice. She didn't believe he'd hurt her, but her hand closed around an unlit candlestick all the same.

"You've been avoiding me." His voice was deep and inexplicably husky, and it sent sharp tingles through her. Two heavy steps later, and he was close enough that half of his face was bathed in silver, a mere foot away from her.

In truth, she had been avoiding him. Ever since Princess Elia's taunting confession, Lyanna had made it her life's mission to keep a distance from her husband. Even more so than usual.

She was confused and angry, and felt entirely disrespected. Lyanna felt lied to; he'd done a good job at convincing her nothing had happened with Elia, and when the tables turned, the Dornish woman had an entirely different story.

Irritated, she made to step around him, but one strong arm shot out; his right arm was an immovable barrier at her side. Lyanna clenched her jaw and went to her right, but his left arm came quickly, and then she was in a prison cell with four walls: his chest before her, his arms on either side of her head, and the door at her back.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" He asked quietly, dangerously. She felt a thrill go through her.

In the entirety of her marriage, Rhaegar Targaryen had been neutral, never unkind nor forward. He was a gentle man, and seemed no more a danger than Ned Stark a direwolf.

But this Rhaegar, cornering her in the dark of her room...he was a dragon, all silver scales and purple eyes and sleek limbs. If she touched his skin, she was sure she would melt.

"I haven't," she lied.

"You're lying," he accused, leaning closer, intoxicating her with that heady scent of his. She briefly wondered if he did that on purpose, or if he was entirely unaware of his own seductions.

Lyanna lifted her chin, wolf's blood howling out for justice. How dare he accuse her of anything, when all he cared about was putting his prick in that little Dornish tart.

"Oh, yeah?" She murmured darkly. "Prove it."

Rhaegar studied her for so long she was scared they would petrify, the two of them frozen forever in time for all to admire. But eventually, his eyes flicked down and he took one hand off the door and trailed a long finger down the curve of her jaw. Her belly quivered.

"Lyanna," he whispered, voice suddenly sad. He tilted his head, roving those purple eyes over her. "Tell me why."

A shiver ripped through her, and she closed her teeth over her bottom lip. Her trademark stubbornness reared its head, but that part of her that was too curious for her own good was winning out. She wanted to know, had to have answers.

"Elia," was all she said.

Rhaegar frowned instantly. "I told you that nothing happened."

She challenged instantly, "No? Not even at Harrenhal?"

Awareness slipped into his eyes, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. "She mentioned the tourney?"

Lyanna nodded, dizzy with his scent surrounding her. Rhaegar withdrew his arms and went to sit on the edge of her bed, roughly combing a hand through his hair.

Lyanna stayed at the door, watching him. He sat hunched over, burdened by her admission. Frustration seeped out of his every pore, as well as something else, something foreign.

"She kissed me," he said suddenly, raising his face to her. He looked utterly uncomfortable. "We kissed several times at Harrenhal, in fact."

Lyanna waited, pushing down the ugly blackness settling in her heart. They may have been married by law, but she had no claim to his heart, to his desires.

"She also..." He swallowed. "Offered herself to me as a mistress."

Her teeth ground together so hard she was sure they would become dust. Lyanna's fingers itched to reach out across the sea and wrap around Elia's bronze throat. She wondered how long fire could burn when presented with true winter...

"Twice she offered," he admitted. "Once at Harrenhal and then again at the Water Gardens. But I promise," he said with strong conviction, "I never accepted."

She was quick to retort, "And did you deny her?"

Rhaegar's face fell, and that was answer enough.

"Go to bed," she sighed. Her mind felt muddled. The disrespect was making her see green and she wanted nothing more than to stew in her upset. Alone.

His hand reached out for hers and he tugged her down to the bed where she landed clumsily at his side. He grasped the point of her chin between his pointer finger and thumb, turning her face toward his; they were so close, she tasted his breath on her mouth.

"I know you didn't choose me, and I know I didn't choose you," he said quietly, "but we are bound together for life. You are mine, as I am yours for the rest of our days."

Something akin to nausea swam in her belly. She looked into his eyes, caught there. Just barely a shred of indigo was seen through the dark but it was enough to remind her of his heritage, of the strange blood that ran through him.

Oh, he was beautiful. Though usually neutral to his presence, Lyanna enjoyed looking at him. There was just something so magnificent about Rhaegar, and she understood why so many lost their eyes to him.

His hair was a tumble of liquid silver and his skin was unblemished milk glass, his eyes like glinting black amethysts, a deep true purple by daylight. She thought back to their wedding day, when his every feature had been lit by the crystal crown of the High Septon.

Maggy the Frog had been right; almost every woman in that sept cursed her in envy when she wed her prince, no doubt about it.

And he was hers.

Rhaegar was watching her as well, his eyes like hooks in her skin, tugging and pulling at her until she was flayed open for the viewing.

"You," he murmured, "are by and far the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my entire life." His words were delivered with the mightiest of faith and it made her feel hot beneath her skin.

She blinked, swallowed, stuttered a breath. It was odd hearing that come from him, this silver dragon beloved by so many. His hook eyes scraped down to her mouth for a beat, then flicked back up so that he stared at her beneath a lowered brow.

Lyanna felt herself move forward unconsciously, as if the boat's sway moved her there. Rhaegar cocked his head, painting her face with his dragon's stare. He bent forward so slowly, it was almost as if he wasn't moving at all.

But he was. He didn't have to move far for his lips to find her skin, just outside the corner of her mouth like the day of their wedding. Except this time it was Rhaegar who chose to not kiss her mouth.

It stung where he kissed her, small tendrils of pleasure clawing through her cheek. She wanted to scratch at her skin, root out that feeling he put inside of her.

Without warning, she pulled away, scared of the sudden red want inside of her. His eyes popped open, glassy and dazed. His lips were parted and soft like the inside of a new winter rose. He rose to his feet shakily and blinked down at her, frozen for half a moment.

"Sweet dreams, Lyanna," he breathed suddenly, running his tongue over his lips before turning to the door.

And when he walked away, she almost reached after him.