Hope

by elizacamille

Hope

5. Chapter 6

Chapter 50: Jade Ashes

Chapter Text

The first thing Jaime smelled was smoke.

But not the usual scent of it, thick and burning. No. He knew the smell of this at once, had been forced to inhale it a thousand and one times as Aerys burned lords and peasants alike.

This smell was wildfire. It was sharp and smelled like poison. Jaime took a deep breath and shifted in his armor; it glinted gold in the light that the sconced torch allowed. Lannister gold armor for the night that the Mad King would lose his throne.

It was almost poetic.

The king's door that led inside the throne room was seeping smoke like a dragon flaring its nostrils, fanning Jaime's face with little smoky tendrils of pyromancer's piss. He scowled.

He'd hoped that Court would have been over by the time he was finished "dealing with the armorer." Though that had been the lie he'd fed Ser Jonothor, in truth Jaime had snuck away to read the letter Grand Maester Pycelle received only hours ago.

Pycelle was a Lannister loyalist to the bones, and had been the first and only person Tywin Lannister trusted with his and Prince Rhaegar's whereabouts. Just as Jaime had been ready to attend the king at Court, Pycelle had drifted by, slipping a small fold of parchment into the opening of Jaime's scabbard.

Knowing the letter was important, and likely crucial to his own well-being, Jaime had made an excuse about his armor to Jonothor and slunk away to his and Lyanna's secret courtyard. There, he read.

Lord Tywin wrote to the Grand Maester that he, Prince Rhaegar, his Kingsguards, and a small host of Lannister soldiers were waiting outside the city limits. He commanded Pycelle to ensure the city gates were kept open no matter what, for they planned to storm the castle tonight.

Jaime had had adrenaline racing through his system ever since. Eventually he bedecked himself in the armor his father had bought him long ago, before he'd whored himself out for a white cloak, and strode to the throne room with purpose. He could serve Mad Aerys for one more evening.

Jaime now pushed through the king's door, slipping through quietly, even though his presence was overcome by the commotion inside. He was immediately bombarded with the rich medicinal scent of the wildfire's smoke, plumes of it wafting in his mouth and eyes.

He cast his eyes around the room in confusion - there was the entirety of Court, lords and ladies and knights and the like, there was Ser Jonothor and Ser Lewyn, a handful of Gold Cloaks, gaolers, and...two great contraptions that he had to squint to make sense of.

One was a classic stake not unlike the one used to burn the former Hand, Lord Qarlton; its wooden platform was aflame with jade, and its beam was heavy with the body of a small child who was screaming for his life. Green and orange flames licked at his bare feet hungrily as he shrieked and shrieked.

Several feet away, on view for everyone to see, was a large wooden device shaped like a hooked finger; at the point of the hook dangled several feet of rope, its end tied in a noose.

Struggling, her neck red and purple from her noose leash, was Lyanna. She was half-naked, her body barely concealed by the thin little shift she was left in. Her curved stomach seemed even more pronounced. At her feet was a pile of silk, her dress perhaps, cut into tatters...

A few feet in front of her - close enough to tease, but far enough that she could not reach - was a sword. A sword whose blade ran wild with the reflection of the growing wildfire.

It was like some sick, twisted version of a trial by combat.

Jaime felt his heart stop as Lyanna turned and made eye contact with him. Her little fingers grappled frantically at the noose squeezing her throat, but it seemed to do no good. She struggled wildly as the majority of Court turned their heads in revulsion, and the king watched in fascinated arousal.

Jaime registered absolutely no thought at all as he unsheathed his blade. Its hilt burned Lannister gold and ruby in the firelight. His eyes dazedly followed the gleam of naked steel, his mind conjuring two separate but coinciding memories.

First, his knee as it sunk into the brown earth of Harrenhal's tiltyard. Ser Gerold Hightower had smiled down at him, tall and proud as Jaime repeated the vow of the Kingsguard: to protect and serve the king above all else, from that day until the end of his days.

And then, the afternoon Prince Rhaegar had taken him riding through the kingswood. "I'm counting on you," Rhaegar had told him gravely. "Not only as a spoke in my wheel, but also to keep Lyanna safe."

Rhaegar had looked at him with those disturbing Targaryen eyes, holding Jaime to his promise. "Keep her safe, Ser Jaime, no matter what."

This was no matter what.

He knew he should have felt a deeper conflict within his soul when it came to making this decision. But it was clear as day. To obey his father, to obey his prince, to save his princess, he would have to slay the king he had vowed his sword to.

He would have to become a kingslayer.

Jaime took a step forward just as the main doors to the hall burst open and a man raced inside, flitting through the crowd of Court as he tried to reach the king. Jaime knew him for a pyromancer at once by the green rags he wore.

"Your Grace!" The man shouted. "The gates, your son." He sobbed.

"Spit it out!" Aerys roared over the shrillness of the little boy's dying screams. The stake he was tied to crumbled beneath the growing flames.

"It's your son, Prince Rhaegar," the pyromancer hurried to say. "He's ridden through the city gates with a Lannister host at his back, and Lord Tywin at his side, fully armored and no chains in sight. The Dragon Prince has lied, Your Grace!"

Jaime's heart stumbled. Aerys let out an inhuman roar, like the shriek of an avenging dragon. "Jonothor! Rouse our soldiers. Arm them with every weapon the armory has. They have a dragon to put down."

As do I, Jaime thought.

Jonothor cut through Court swiftly, one less obstacle from Jaime's blade to Aerys' back. The burning stake suddenly collapsed in a heap of splinters and ash, crashing as the little boy's bones and blackened muscle clattered to the floor. The air was heavy with the stench of his incinerated life. At once, the wildfire seemed to lash out like an angry beast, its green flames crawling over the marble.

The lords and ladies of Court screamed as the fire grew, licking toward their feet, hungry for more victims. In a giant wave, the crowd turned and clamored over one another in their attempt to flee the fire. Aerys screamed for them to halt, but his command fell on deaf ears. They seemed to congeal in a thick clog at the hall's door, each one in more of a hurry to escape the king's wrath and the wildfire than the last.

Over the marble floors, the little boy's body had turned to ash and bone, and Lyanna was struggling weakly, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her ears unhearing of the chaos that was growing as fast as Aerys' wildfire. Jaime needed to get to her. But to do so, he would need to slay the king.

"Rossart," Aerys called out, half fixated on the wildfire that seemed to grow ever larger with each passing second. Most of Court had cleared out, though their screams still rang out through the castle as the wildfire painted the throne room hellish green. Jaime had no idea if it could be stopped at all; all he knew was that he needed to get Lyanna.

"My son has betrayed me," Aerys growled, "and with the lion no less." No one seemed to notice Jaime or his gleaming golden armor. "Ignite the wildfire caches," the king ordered Rossart. "My son will learn what it is to wake the dragon."

He knew he needed to act now, before the Hand pyromancer could fulfill Aerys' command and level King's Landing to ash and bone. Jaime took long strides forward, his armor glinting like a midday sun. Rossart, so focused on fleeing through the room's side door, did not notice as Jaime approached from behind and slashed his blade through the man's neck.

Dark blood sprayed Jaime immediately, painting him and his armor in the colors of his House. The wildfire was spreading, making the hall unbearably hot, and the smoke was thick to inhale. Still, he forced himself to lift his sword and turn from Rossart's fresh corpse.

Aerys turned at the sound of his Hand's death, his anger giving way to the first sign of fear Jaime had seen him convey ever. He felt a sick pride triumph in his heart; Aerys had taken Jaime's life with a white cloak, and Jaime would repay that favor with his sword.

Aerys turned to run, but since he was frail from lack of eating, he did not make it far before Jaime was on his heels. Jaime reared his elbow back and pushed his blade between the king's shoulder blades, as easy as cutting a cake.

One would think kings were made of sturdier stuff, Jaime thought wildly, but they are just the same as the rest of us. Sacks of meat and blood and bone.

Suddenly, Jaime was struck with the memory of Aerys' manic obsession with being reborn a dragon. The king believed that once he died and his body was fed to the flames in the Targaryen funeral style, he would rise again, reborn a mighty dragon to sweep fire over his enemies.

Jaime would need to slit his throat to make certain that never happened.

He bent to do so, bringing his sword around to the king's throat, but before he could, Jaime's cheek exploded in pain and he collapsed to the floor.

Something heavy and sturdy collided into his side, and Jaime groaned, rolling quickly away. Blood was pouring into his left eye, blinding his vision with crimson. With the other, Jaime saw Ser Lewyn raising his blade above. He hadn't accounted for Lewyn.

Mustering every last ounce of strength he had, Jaime reared up and forward, barreling into Lewyn's knees. The Dornish prince stumbled and fell backward, smashing his head to the marble floor.

Jaime climbed to his feet unsteadily, reaching for his sword he'd dropped when Lewyn had taken him unaware. Jaime's head swam and pounded, and he coughed violently as the smoke choked him. Green flames were dancing dangerously close to Lyanna's unmoving body.

Don't be dead, he thought as his eyes welled burning tears, you can't die!

Lewyn was looking around in dazed confusion, touching his fingers to his temple. Jaime cut him from ear to ear before he could do anything else.

He didn't remember cutting Aerys' throat for good or stumbling over to Lyanna. One moment he was killing the Dornish Kingsguard and the next he was kneeling beside the princess, her body mostly laid upon the floor but for her neck, which was suspended at an odd angle by the noose.

Jaime slashed his blood-soaked sword across the length of rope, and Lyanna's skull smacked into the floor. The noose was still around her throat, as well as two feet of rope, so that she now wore a leash like some dog.

The throne room was awash in bright green flames, as green as bile and as hot as all seven hells; the wildfire was a monstrous thing now, devouring stone and marble and pillar alike. It had eaten away Rossart's body already and was making its way toward Lewyn and Aerys.

Jaime found it hard to see through the thick blanket of smoke, but if he left now, he'd still be able to find the king's door.

Though his head pounded and his eyes shifted uneasily, Jaime forced his hands beneath Lyanna's little body and pulled her against his chest as he rose. She was unconscious or dead in his arms, and though skinny, Jaime found it difficult to bear her weight as his energy was sapped.

He took a step, then another, blinking hard against the smoke and flame. His throat felt as if he had swallowed a thousand glass shards, and when he coughed, a fine sprinkling of blood sprayed into Lyanna's hair.

Jaime had no idea how long it took for him to make it to the king's door, to put one foot in front of the other. He passed the Iron Throne, and stumbled through the door, met with the shrill screams of fear and chaos throughout the Red Keep.

People were running around wildly, but Jaime did not see them. He walked and stumbled, put his left foot forward, then his right. A step, another, and another, another...

The next moment he was making his way into White Sword Tower. The Round Room was untouched by the late king's madness, its snow white walls pristine and forming a circle of the Tower's first floor. It was blessedly quiet.

At the sight of the weirwood table with its seven chairs, Jaime stumbled for the last time. He and Lyanna fell heavily beneath the Kingsguard table, their bones smashing against the stone floor.

Jaime's eyes seemed to want to close, hazy and dry, his throat raging for water and clean air. He wanted to sleep forevermore, but he forced himself to rip off his gauntlets and place two fingers beneath Lyanna's jaw.

He waited several long, horrifying moments and then, he felt it. A thin slow heartbeat, but a beat all the same. Jaime would have smiled if he weren't so damned tired, would have laughed if his skull weren't about to split right open.

Lyanna was alive and he could finally rest. As he lay his body down, his eyes swept over her. So much blood, he thought dazedly, why are her thighs wet with blood?

Jaime curled his body protectively around Lyanna's, his chest against her back, armored arms heavy around her, his legs bent beneath her own. And then, he slept.

Chapter 51: The Song of Death

Chapter Text

A song of death rang in Rhaegar's mind, high and thin and overwhelming in its power. The song was death and blood, treason and smoke, ice and fire, love and hate.

Time passed in strokes of dreamlike sequences, one moment fading into the next, until he couldn't remember day from night, the sun from the stars. All Rhaegar knew was battle - the way the edge of his Valyrian steel sword Fire drank blood like wine from the skins of his foes, the way he dealt justice with every blow.

His heart was going berserk in his chest, his blood racing, but Rhaegar could neither feel nor comprehend insignificant things like that. His concern was the enemy, and delivering fire and blood like a true dragon warrior.

Every way he turned, there was another dense soldier loyal to Aerys, uncomprehending of the better fate the Dragon Prince presented them; they were men bred to the mindless task of obeying orders sans question, and were blindly loyal to the Mad King up until their last moments of life.

Rhaegar offered peace and prosperity, but they begged for his fire and blood. And like any good king, he gave the people what they wanted.

His mind raced furiously, flashes of steel and lions one moments, thoughts of a grey-eyed girl the next. Ahead, a knight in white was coming right for him, his face crumpled in fury as he drew his blade.

Rhaegar's Fire met Ser Jonothor's own blade, their steel song ringing through his head and down his arm. Their blows were mighty, his strength mounting. He had never been one for Ser Jonothor's cold demeanor, his mean face, but it didn't make it any easier trying to kill him either.

The man was a Kingsguard, considered one of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms by all standards. But it was also said that the Dragon Prince was a peerless warrior, and each time their blades crossed, Rhaegar tried to be that knight of valor and might.

All around him the battle raged on, Lannister soldiers against Targaryen loyalists, Kingsguards against foes, Rhaegar against Jonothor.

As their blades met again, Rhaegar realized Ser Jonothor had gone too high. Quickly, before he lost his chance, he sliced Fire against the flat of Jonothor's sword, like a bow to an instrument, and ran it across the knight's belly.

Jonothor's entrails spilled immediately like stuffing, pink and red guts sliding to the ground in a sloppy heap. There was a moment of choked surprise, and then he was dead on the ground, his life snuffed out like an old flame.

Rhaegar's head swam uneasily, and the sounds around him seemed to melt together into one long chorus of death and destruction. How funny the gods forged the world in that to deliver an age of peace, there had to be a few moments of pure desecration.

It felt like hours later that the battling finally waned, the song of death dying out as those left decided to bend the knee to Rhaegar's cause. As he looked around, he realized with a start that there were less dead than he had originally imagined, more bending the knee than off to the seven hells.

But the floor was still littered with fallen soldiers, clogged like the filthy streets of Flea Bottom.

"Ser Amory," the prince called out. Amory Lorch was a knight loyal to House Lannister, and had split with Rhaegar's group when entering the Red Keep.

Amory came over immediately, his blade dripping with life's blood. He had a queer smile on his face that Rhaegar misliked. "Yes, Your Grace?"

Your Grace, Rhaegar thought, I am their king now. His eyes swept the bloody corridor. But where is my father?

"Gather your men and strip the soldiers who have surrendered of their weapons. Then escort them to the barracks to await food and a maester's care."

Ser Amory doubled over in his bow and marched off, barking orders at his fellow Lannister soldiers. Ser Arthur, Ser Gerold, and Ser Oswell drifted over, their eyes sweeping sadly over their fallen Kingsguard at Rhaegar's feet. Barristan had gone with Lord Tywin's group of fighters.

"Ser Gerold," Rhaegar said in a hollow voice, "check the throne room. The king is missing, and the sooner we find him, the better."

Before the siege of the castle, Rhaegar had told the host of Lannister soldiers that should they come upon the king, do nothing but arrest him and stow him away in a safe place. Rhaegar would not have kinslaying on his hands.

When Ser Gerold left, Rhaegar turned to Oswell. "I need you to check the Maidenvault and the lower bailey. My father could be hiding." Especially now that the Maidenvault is empty.

Rhaegar's mind couldn't help but return to Lyanna, just like it had every day he'd been apart from her.

What would she look like when he saw her again? He had been gone from her for two months. She would be almost four months pregnant now, her belly curved with the life they had made together. Oh, how sweet it would be to lay his eyes on her once again, to lay her down and show her just how much he had missed her.

With Oswell and Gerold deployed to the task of finding the king, Rhaegar led Arthur to Maegor's Holdfast. Along with his order about maintaining the king's life, Rhaegar had also told the Lannister host, in no uncertain terms, that should they run into Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys, they too were to remain unmolested.

Rhaegar had distrusted many a soldier Lord Tywin had brought with them from the West, namely Amory Lorch and a massive man they dubbed "the Mountain." Battle turned certain men into monsters.

At the drawbridge leading to Maegor's, no sentry was posted. Rhaegar and Arthur approached slowly, wary of the glaring absence of a Kingsguard. He wondered where Ser Lewyn was, the only other White Sword to remain with Aerys besides the slain Jonothor.

Arthur and Rhaegar wound their way through the royal apartments, coming upon Ser Kevan Lannister talking softly with the queen and the little prince outside her chambers.

When Rhaella heard their approaching footsteps, she looked up, and seeing it was her son, she broke into a sprint. Rhaegar caught her with two battle-tired arms, suddenly awash with the familiar scent of his mother. She wept into his neck, shaking and frightened.

"Oh, you beautiful boy," she cried, "my beautiful, beautiful boy."

Rhaegar squeezed her before drawing back. He nearly shuddered at the sight of her. Obviously woken from sleep, not having any time to pull anything on other than a robe, the bites and gouges and claw marks were on full display.

Rhaella lay both hands on his cheekbones, her eyes shining with tears. "You should have told me. You should have told me."

He hadn't told his mother of his plot to overthrow his father. It had felt too risky; if Aerys had found out Rhaegar's plans, he hadn't wanted his mother to be implicated alongside him, especially given she was forced to stay in King's Landing rather than sail off to Dragonstone with Lyanna.

Viserys had come up to clutch Rhaegar's bloody armor, sullying his perfect pale skin. Rhaegar knelt, sweeping a knuckle over his soft cheek.

And then Viserys said the two words that turned his blood to ice. "Where's Lya?"

All sound was sucked from the air, and all Rhaegar felt was his heart in his throat. "What?"

"Lya," Viserys insisted impatiently, "where is she?" The little prince craned his head around, as if Rhaegar were somehow hiding his far-off wife from view.

"She's at Dragonstone, Vis, you know this," Rhaegar responded, something heavy settling in his chest, something he did not want to face.

"No," Viserys said stubbornly, "she's here. We take walks together every morning, and sometimes she even lets me sleep in your room with her when Mother is busy."

Rhaegar's eyes flashed up to his mother's in alarm, hoping against hope the queen would laugh and hush the little prince from his wild stories.

But she didn't. Rhaella frowned at Rhaegar's expression. "She's here," she confirmed for him slowly. "She stayed in King's Landing. Ser Jaime, and her ladies, too."

Rhaegar felt suddenly faint, like he would drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes. No, this couldn't be happening. He'd arranged for her passage himself, had written a letter for the ship's captain and spoken to Ser Jaime. This was some terrible misunderstanding.

But his mother wouldn't lie, and Viserys wasn't tainted enough to deceive him. Why is she here? Why…why…why… He needed to find her, and soon, before something awful happened. And when he found her, he would rage like an autumn storm, and press his mouth to hers to wash away the panic she'd caused him.

Before he could do anything, Ser Oswell rounded the corner, panting and breathless, his face leached of color and his eyes wide. Rhaegar did not like that look.

"The princess," he murmured breathily, "Lyanna, she-" Oswell fumbled for words, horror writ plain on his face.

"Tell me," Rhaegar demanded, dread dulling his soul.

Oswell could not find his tongue, though, instead waving them over and running back from where he'd come. Rhaegar followed immediately, aware of the host of footsteps at his back. They raced out of Maegor's Holdfast and through the corridors to White Sword Tower, the apartments and living space of the Kingsguards.

Confusion and fear were ripe in him. What did White Sword Tower have to do with Lyanna? Soldiers garbed in crimson and gold milled outside, but inside there were a few blocking the door. Oswell shoved through them roughly, Rhaegar following.

The tower seemed untouched by the fighting, its walls and furniture still pale and pure, as befit the Kingsguard livery. Rhaegar's eyes swept around the room, searching for the source of the panic that had seemed to overcome Oswell, before coming to a startled stop at the weirwood meeting table in the center of the room.

Beneath the table, one wrapped around the other, were Lyanna and Ser Jaime Lannister. It took several long moments of sheer shock before Rhaegar came alive, his eyes cataloging every detail of the scene that had everyone so horrified and gaping.

Lyanna was only dressed in a small little shift dress that came to the top of her thighs, much like the one she'd worn the night he had taken her maidenhead in his bath. Her hair was wild and tangled, her skin red with scratches, her legs bloodied.

But the most horrifying thing was the necklace around her throat – a tight noose that bit into her skin and a severed length of rope that made it look like she was a dog on a leash. Around it her skin was purple, red, and raw.

Curled around her back was Jaime, clad in Lannister armor that was more crimson than gold, his plate painted with blood, old and new. His golden curls were limp with sweat and his skin was pale except for the gigantic green and blue bruise blooming across his cheek.

A wolf pup and a lion cub, burrowed in a white cave, both asleep. Not dead, not dead, she's unconscious, she can't be dead.

Rhaegar felt sick. "Someone find Maester Pycelle!" He barked.

As bodies moved around him, hurrying to fulfill his order, he kept his eyes on his wife. What had happened? Why had she stayed, why was that noose around her neck, why was there so much blood? He had so many questions. Not dead.

"I want to see her!" He heard Viserys screech somewhere behind him. "I want to see Lya!"

Rhaegar could not move, but he listened as Rhaella soothed the little prince, eventually convincing him away. Rhaegar was grateful.

His hands itched to touch her, but he wanted all the gawkers away. Arthur was a silent shadow by his side.

"Get everyone out, but for you and Oswell. Admit no one but Maester Pycelle."

Arthur nodded, immediately gathering the Lannister soldiers and pushing them out of White Sword Tower. When he was finished, only Oswell remained.

"I thought she was supposed to go to Dragonstone," Oswell said quietly. It was so disturbingly peaceful in the room, it felt queer to raise one's voice.

"She was," Rhaegar whispered back. His feet moved forward of their own accord and soon he was kneeling at Lyanna's side, his fingers brushing over her cheekbone. At once, his eyes were drawn to the small bulge of her stomach. He cried out without meaning to, a small moment of surprised happiness overtaking him.

And then, she moaned, the sound of it harsh and scratchy. Not dead.

"Lyanna," Rhaegar said aloud, his heart pounding in his chest. "Lyanna," he tried again.

Her lips parted, and a small sob escaped though she did not open her eyes. "I want Rhaegar," she cried, "please, please. I want my dragon."

Rhaegar had never felt a relief so palpable. He nearly fainted from the force of it, the tears slipping down his cheeks. "I'm here, it's Rhaegar."

"I want Rhaegar," she cried louder, her eyes opening but not seeing. Those grey eyes were glassy and unfocused, sweeping the immediate area. Crystal tears were staining the filth on her skin clear. "I want my dragon. Please make it stop hurting, Rhaegar, make it go away."

Her words were quick and sloppy, and it was as if her thoughts were bleeding out involuntarily.

Rhaegar let the tears wash down his face as he bent and placed a searing kiss against her cheekbone. "I'm right here," he whispered.

Behind him, Maester Pycelle came into the room. "Do not lift her," he warned, "she may have broken bones."

Rhaegar immediately drew aside to allow the Grand Maester room. Pycelle knelt, to be sure, but his eyes were focused on one thing and one thing only.

In a quiet voice, the old maester said, "Turn her on her back, if you would. Slowly and with great care."

Rhaegar furrowed his brows, but followed Pycelle's changed orders. He gently pulled Lyanna toward him and out of Ser Jaime's hold, then shifted her on her back.

Slightly away from her previous position, Rhaegar immediately saw the puddle of blood and gore she had left behind. "What is that?" He gasped, his heart flying to his throat. His eyes flashed to Lyanna, to the smears of blood between her exposed thighs.

Was she raped, stabbed, sliced open? Was she mutilated, was the blood even from her thighs at all? Did he know the answer in his heart, but refused to acknowledge it?

His soul didn't have room left for hurt at this point, after finding out she had stayed in the capital, after seeing her tied up like a dog and obviously brutalized, after hearing her cries of distress as she called for him.

"My prince." Rhaegar looked over to Pycelle in surprise, so lost in his own thoughts. The old maester looked tired and sad, wearing the same expression that Arthur and Oswell were giving him.

"What?" He snapped defensively. Don't say it, he thought. "Why is she bleeding like that?"

"My dragon," Lyanna whispered, as if in a fever dream, her eyes like grey glass. "Dragon…"

"My prince," Pycelle tried again, his eyes soft. "We must get her to a clean, empty room so that I may examine her."

Rhaegar nodded dazedly, his mind swimming once more. "Take her to my chambers."

Arthur tore off his white cloak and lay it over the princess' body, leaving her face free; then Arthur and Oswell gently lifted her from the ground and carried her away.

Rhaegar's eyes were stuck to the puddle of blood and pieces of gore that were left behind on the stone. He could not look away from one piece in particular.

Pycelle stood shakily, grunting with the effort of his movements. He moved to shuffle away, but stopped at once and half-turned back to the prince.

"I will find a casket for the babe."

Chapter 52: Grief in the Aftermath

Chapter Text

The evening sky was a purple-grey shroud, streaked with clouds of pale blue and periwinkle and blush-pink. From the clouds, veins of white-hot lightning struck the horizon and reflected their pale twins across the shimmering waters. It was a beautiful night. Too beautiful for the black sadness resting over a royal heart.

A cold wind raised a crop of goosebumps across Lyanna's skin, chilling her through her clothing. Winter is coming, and it means to root out this false spring.

She sat atop the battlement that crowned Maegor's Holdfast alone, staring out across the city. Flea Bottom was as lively as ever, untouched by Aerys' horrors and Rhaegar's siege. Their laughter and shouts were drowned out by the rumble of thunder in the distance.

Lyanna stared at the far-off striking lightning, wondering if the Old Gods had come to seek vengeance for her loss in the South. Was it they who employed the clouds to storm at the sea, to lash at the earth? Did they wish to rage on behalf of her lost child, to strike hell on earth for her little fallen wolf?

King's Landing was vast and stinking of shit before her. Had it ever seemed beautiful to her before? With King Aerys missing, she found that every corner, every wall, every room, every space seemed ugly. Lyanna wanted to take her hands around the city, wring it for all it was worth, and pluck the little rat king from his hiding spot.

He could be dead, she thought briefly. But no…life was not a song, and villains were not killed by the mighty heroes. In life, the villains won and the heroes fought for naught.

Another cold wind blew, this time bringing the faint scent of apples. She suddenly remembered the night Rhaegar had brought her up here, the way he had played and laughed with her, the way their lips had met hungrily in apple cake and wine-soaked kisses. She wondered if she would ever feel hunger again – hunger for life, hunger for wine, hunger for food, hunger for waking in the morning.

It was as if every organ in her body had been picked clean, and all that was left was an empty corpse. Lyanna felt half-dead, deaf to the struggles of the world around her. She felt nothing, nothing at all. There was a hole where her heart had been, and there was only emptiness where her babe had lived.

The cold wind served to chill her skin, and if she closed her eyes she could pretend it was a summer's day in Winterfell. But she wasn't home and it wasn't summer. Winter was coming for King's Landing, and the false spring was dying.

She shifted on the battlement, peering downward. It was a long fall, sure. She wondered what it would be like to drop, to have those few precious moments of flying before the sweet release of death embraced her. Her baby was dead, and it was her fault…so what was the point of anything anymore?

"…you will birth children. Three to be exact." Maggy's voice was clear as a bell in Lyanna's thoughts, and as incessant as the grey plague. How deft the fortune teller's words had been, how specifically chosen. Birth three, she had said, but Maggy had made no mentions of the blood spoils her womb would expel.

Lyanna's eyes narrowed against the wind. What did Maggy the Frog know anyway? She was a crone and a poor one at that, who sucked my blood to satisfy her fetish – nothing more, nothing less.

Lyanna's mind went back to her babe. She had fallen unconscious the previous night, struggling against the noose that threatened to take her life, and had woken in Rhaegar's chambers, old Maester Pycelle bent between her open thighs. She had screamed bloody murder.

Well, screamed as much as she could, anyway. The lining of her throat was damaged greatly, from both excessive smoke inhalation as well as the strangulation she had suffered from the noose. This had all been explained to her once Rhaegar had burst into the room at her scream.

And then, once she'd calmed, she noticed the blood staining her thighs. Her fingernails had raked savagely over the delicate skin, and she'd had to be held back from murdering Pycelle when he had announced she lost her baby.

My sweet baby… Hot tears ran down Lyanna's cheeks as she leaned over the battlement. She had never even gotten to feel it kick, and now she never would. I should have gone to Dragonstone, I should have left Viserys and Rhaella behind… Should have, should have, should have.

A funeral was to be had for her and Rhaegar's babe in the morning in the Great Sept of Baelor, with the High Septon presiding over the ceremony.

But for all the pomp of the Faith, Lyanna knew her child's soul had gone to rest with the Old Gods, at peace with the clouds and skies and snows. The great heart tree of Winterfell would keep her babe safe now. She only hoped her own soul would make it there one day, too.

"Your Grace." Ser Arthur appeared, looked up at the sky, then down at her. "Let us go inside now. It will rain soon."

Your Grace, Lyanna thought to herself darkly. I've lost a babe, but I've gained a title. I am their queen now, but all I am is a sack of skin and bones with no heart to make me feel.

She did not answer him. She had not spoken since she had woken that morning, screaming. She had not said a word when it was explained that Ser Jaime had dragged her from the Great Hall, did not shriek her grief when it was dropped that she had miscarried her child. She had only tried to wrap her hands around Maester Pycelle's throat. But she did not speak.

Ser Arthur frowned. "Your Grace, please, let me help you inside. You're not even supposed to be out of bed."

Lyanna would have chuckled had her heart not been ripped out. What is the point of staying in bed, when there is no life left within me to protect? All the same, she allowed him to pick her up and carry her back down the stairs into Maegor's Holdfast.

When they reached Rhaegar's bedchamber, she refused to enter. It had been her living space for two months, ever since Rhaegar had left for Casterly Rock, but it no longer felt like hers. Rhaegar was a king now and he would need to act like it. This was no time to play at summer; winter was almost upon them.

She leaned against the wall after Arthur put her down. "Would you like me to help you inside?" He asked softly.

Lyanna shook her head, allowing the tears to spill over her cheeks.

"Do you want me to find Rhaegar?" Arthur asked slowly.

She shook her head again, sucked in a breath and croaked, "Maidenvault."

Though he seemed confused, Arthur did not object. While he had had to carry her down from the battlement atop Maegor's, for everything else a wheeled chair had been found in the Keep's storage. Rhaegar had insisted she use it to get around so as not to overwork herself.

In all honesty, he would have rather she stay in bed. It had not even been a full day since Rhaegar had returned with his army and taken the castle, but Lyanna refused to stay abed any longer. Again, she couldn't help but wonder why all the precautions; she had already lost their babe and no wheeled chair could bring back the dead.

She hurriedly wiped away the fresh tears lest Ser Arthur witness more of her shame. Though, from rumor, she'd heard the white knight had been one of the two to carry her from White Sword Tower. He'd seen enough of her shame to last a lifetime…

Arthur pushed her along the floor, her wheeled chair creaking with the movements. Lyanna suspected it hadn't been used in a long time. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, so that all she could see were the feet of those they passed. The sounds of their talk made her temples pound with a sharp pain.

Once they were inside the Maidenvault, she flicked the hood back. And then she thought of her brother, Brandon. She briefly wondered if Ser Arthur knew that they shared a niece now, that their Houses were bound by blood.

Most likely he did, but did not wish to bring it up. After all, who in their sane mind would bring up a new child to the grief-stricken queen?

Lyanna cried silently. The dark gloom of the Maidenvault was almost welcoming, like the numb embrace of knee-deep snows in the godswood at Winterfell. She and Benjen had been wild things as children, and they played every moment that was not spent on learning, eating, or sleeping.

When they had played at hide-and-seek, Lyanna would climb the massive weirwood and hide amongst its blood-red leaves, watching in fascination as Benjen below tried to find her. He had never been tall enough to even think of climbing the heart tree, let alone look for her there.

She missed Benjen the most. She wondered if he would come if she summoned him.

"Here we are," Arthur said softly, wheeling her into her old room.

The bed within was just as she had remembered it, still massive, and topped with new bedding. It had been stripped bare in her haste to leave King's Landing for Dragonstone, but when she had lied to the old king and had her things brought back from the ship, her room had been made up once more. All her belongings were stacked exactly where she had left them.

Next to her window, a pair of chairs were situated to look outside. She pointed and Arthur helped her into one of them.

Sitting, she went to scratch at the linen plastered to her throat then stopped short. The little cuts Ser Lewyn had made on her skin, coupled with her struggle against the rope noose, had left her neck one giant open wound. Maester Pycelle had done what he could, slathering it with a special ointment and binding the gashes with strips of linen, but it did not stop the pain. Or the itching.

"Is there anything else, Your Grace?" Ser Arthur asked.

Outside the sky was darkening to a dreamy purple, and the rain was soft as a mother's kiss against the glass of her window. She shook her head in two small jerks.

Ser Arthur didn't say a word as he left, quiet as a ghost as he drifted from the room, pulling the door shut behind him. When she was finally alone, the bells began to toll.

Fire cannot kill a dragon, Rhaegar thought as he stared into the charred husk that was the Great Hall. It had been less than an hour since the Guild of Alchemists had finally stopped the wildfire, but still the room shimmered with heat, like standing in the mouth of an oven.

The only things that had survived the wildfire's wrath were the dragon skulls, massive and gleaming like onyx in the waning evening light, and the Balerion-forged Iron Throne, towering over the ruins of its former hall.

Everything else was blackened and burnt – the great oak-and-bronze doors that had opened to the Hall, the long stretch of carpet that had stretched the length of the room, the fat pillars which had been veined with white and sand, the gallery above, the high dyed glass windows.

There was much and more to be cleaned before the rebuilding began, but no one dared tread inside. The marble floors had largely withstood the wildfire, sagging only in choice places, but they now emitted a hellish type of heat that could burn right through any boots or slippers and eat your skin.

A few of the pyromancers had learned that to their detriment.

All through the night, the Guild of Alchemists had worked to tame and kill the green fire. Though eventually successful, after many long hours, the Guild had lost several of their brothers and suffered far too many burns.

It serves them right, Rhaegar thought darkly. Their beloved jade monster does not discriminate with its flames.

He was of a mind to completely demolish the Guild as his first official act as king, but Rhaegar had to wait. Varys had been privy to the knowledge that King Aerys had pots of wildfire placed all over the city and Red Keep, and was quick to ingratiate himself to the new ruler by readily giving up that information.

Rhaegar would need all the pyromancers to root out and destroy every last one of the remaining caches of wildfire, and then he would disassemble their group.

Coming out of his thoughts, Rhaegar studied the throne room once more. Ash and debris lay across the floor, some piles bigger than others. He wondered which was his father.

Rhaegar's life had been a whirlwind of chaos since the battle had begun the night before. After Lyanna was brought to his chambers, and Jaime was taken to his own, there had been a thousand things needing tending to.

The deceased and injured, the wildfire burning, keeping Rhaella and Viserys in Maegor's, trying to gather ravens so that he could send pleas for the maesters of the Crownlands. There were too many ill and injured for Pycelle and his acolytes to handle. It was a full first day of kingly duties.

He had assigned Ser Arthur to watch over Lyanna in his absence, while Oswell followed Rhaegar from place to place. And then, Ser Jaime had woken.

Rhaegar had visited with the Young Lion alone, Oswell left outside. Lord Tywin had sat at his son's bedside, and Pycelle had delivered a warning of Jaime's health before he departed.

Ser Jaime's jaw was broken, the entire left side of his face warped and blooming with a colorful bruise. His throat as well was damaged from inhaling too much smoke. He'd been given a considerable amount of milk of the poppy for his pain, and because of that, Jaime had confessed his sins.

"I killed him," Ser Jaime had rasped without provocation, his green eyes fluttering wildly, "I killed my king."

Lord Tywin had been quick to insert himself. "He does not know what he says, Your Grace," Tywin had tried, "he's not of his right mind. Aerys could be hiding."

"I put my sword in Aerys' back, then slit his throat," Jaime had murmured right after, closing his eyes. "I killed him for Lyanna."

Lord Tywin's eyes had shone in fury, but Rhaegar made no mention of it. Instead, he had silently stood and slipped from the room, and posted Ser Barristan outside Jaime's chambers. Then he had instructed the bells to be rung for seven days, as befit the passing of kings.

There would be a day that Ser Jaime was not laden with milk of the poppy, and only then would Rhaegar get the full truth and decide what he was going to do with him. My father is dead…

He might have interrogated one of the many that had fled from the throne room once the wildfire had grown temperamental, but Rhaegar did not want to hear of his wife's torture or Jaime's injuries from anyone but them personally. There would be more than enough gossip flying around once Lyanna showed her face at their child's funeral in the morning, and he would rather not have his perspective skewed by talk.

As the day came to a close and night fell over the capital, Rhaegar was ready to drop. He desperately wanted to sleep, to bury his face in his wife's hair as they lay in his bed. He wanted to run his fingers over her skin and press his mouth to every wound she bore.

He still did not know the story of how she and Jaime had been hurt, or what had sparked her miscarriage. Rhaegar was not ready to make Lyanna repeat the story for fear of her trauma, and he would have to wait until Jaime himself was sober for his side.

Still, he could hold his girl and they could grieve for their child together.

But when he got to his room, it was empty of presence. Frowning, Rhaegar went to his mother's chambers, but Lyanna was not there either. He might have checked Viserys' rooms next, but the little prince was with Rhaella.

Lacking in answers, Rhaegar wandered the castle before stopping two servants that were heading toward the Maidenvault, their arms heavy with food. "What are you doing?" No one lived within the Maidenvault except for Lyanna, and she had been sleeping in Maegor's Holdfast for quite some time, according to Viserys.

"Ser told us to bring the princess supper," one murmured quietly, keeping her eyes down.

"The queen," he corrected her immediately, and then, "My wife is inside?"

They both nodded, fearful.

"Very well then," Rhaegar allowed. Oswell went to open the massive doors to let the servers inside. Rhaegar followed, confused, wondering why his wife had hidden away in this gloomy place. He had assumed she would stay with him…

Posted outside the door, Ser Arthur stood in white armor. "My king," he said, bowing his head.

"Arthur," Rhaegar returned. "Why is she here?"

Arthur shook his head. "She would not speak, except to say 'Maidenvault', so I brought her here."

Inside her old room, Lyanna sat in the dark, her chair pulled up to look out the window. She did not even twitch or move a muscle as the four entered the room. The two servers began to lay out the food on the small table in the corner, and then lit ten fat candles before leaving.

"Oswell," Rhaegar said quietly, "could you wait outside with Arthur please?"

Oswell inclined his head and shut the door behind him.

Rhaegar approached Lyanna slowly, settling himself into the empty chair beside her own. She continued to look out the window, her cheeks slick with tears. The sight of her made his heart ache.

"Lyanna," he whispered, going to settle a hand atop hers. Though she twitched violently, she did not make to pull away.

Rhaegar studied the linen wrapped around her neck. Maester Pycelle had said her wounds were no ordinary wounds from a noose, but exacerbated somehow. He'd slathered a special salve around her throat and bound it with linen, but it was still splotched with fresh dots of blood.

"Why are you in the Maidenvault?" Rhaegar asked, hoping against hope she would answer him. She hadn't spoken a word since he had found her in White Sword Tower, since she had called out for him, for "her dragon."

"I thought you might like to come sleep with me tonight," Rhaegar tried again. "I could light a fire so you're not cold, just like our wedding night…"

Crystal tears ran down Lyanna's cheeks, but she did not make a sound. Her grief was silent, but it hit his soul all the same.

"Are you hungry?" He tried. "Arthur made sure you were brought food."

Lyanna did not respond. She continued to stare out the window, her tears streaming. Rhaegar felt tears and frustration well inside him. It was my baby, too, he wanted to say, let me mourn with you, so that we can rise from this together, stronger.

He was dying to ask her why she had stayed in King's Landing, why she had decided not to go to Dragonstone, but he did not want to risk hurling her into more inner turmoil. Her distance now scared him more than battle or blood.

"Do you want me to stay here with you tonight?"

Though she did not reply, she did shake her head left then right. No, the movement said.

And then, selfishly, just because he wanted her to show him something, anything, he blurted out, "Ser Jaime killed my father. That's why the bells are ringing."

Her grey eyes widened, but she did not move to look at him. Her jaw clenched and her tears came faster, her fingers curling around the arms of her chair. Rhaegar felt terrible immediately, and wished he could have taken that back, wished he could dry all her tears. To make up for his folly, he would let her have her night of solace without interruption.

Though he hated it, it couldn't hurt to let her stay in the Maidenvault one night alone. He would send Arthur to sleep soon, and have Ser Gerold watch over her instead. The White Bull would watch over his beloved wolf. Rhaegar could let her have this night of silence, and then he would move her into Maegor's, whether in his personal chambers or in new ones of her own.

"Ser Gerold will be just outside the door," Rhaegar promised, "and I will be in my rooms should you need me." He waited for a reply but did not receive one. "Sleep well, beautiful."

He had just gotten to the door when he heard her harsh, rasping voice. "It was a girl."

He turned quickly, his head spinning. "What did you say?"

Her infinitely sad eyes slid to his, glimmering in the candlelight. "Our child. Grand Maester Pycelle said it was a girl."

The breath wooshed out of Rhaegar's lungs, and tears spilled down his face. A girl, a precious girl… Could anything hurt worse than this? He blinked a dozen times quickly, trying to think of what he could say, what words he could offer, but…

"If you could shut the door on your way out," Lyanna whispered with her damaged voice, "I would like to sleep now."

Rhaegar did not argue, did not object; he only did what she asked, half-occupied by thoughts of a little baby girl with silver hair and purple eyes. Lyanna's tears continued to fall even after he closed the door behind him.

Chapter 53: Two Lives and One Lost

Chapter Text

Morning dawned cold, and the sun crept up from the horizon to wash the city in liquid gold from waters to commons to stone. Behind the sun, the sky began pale, turning as each hour passed so that by midday it seemed as bright as the field of House Arryn's arms.

And yet, despite the splendor of the gleaming golden sun and magnificent blue sky, the day remained bitingly cold. Winter is coming and it threatens to steal my heart, Rhaegar thought sadly as he looked over his kingdom from atop Maegor's Holdfast.

From his vantage point, he could see everything: the glittering bays of the Blackwater, the interweaving streets and alleyways that boasted steel and silk, the Dragonpit lonesome atop Rhaenys' Hill, and finally the Great Sept of Baelor, sprawling and resplendent.

The sun cast down its great light on the Sept's curved crystal dome, shedding rainbows down on the gods and crypts within. The same crypts in which he and Lyanna had buried their child's ashes only hours before. He had dressed in black pants and tunic and doublet and boots, and Lyanna had worn a high-necked black dress to hide her wounds from the throngs of city-dwellers that had come to see their new king and queen.

And the bells had tolled all morning long, and would continue to do so for six more days. May Aerys rest in peace, he thought, in all seven of the hells. Rhaegar may still not have known what had happened specifically to Lyanna to make Ser Jaime Lannister kill his king, but he knew Aerys was at fault…

"My king," a meek voice called from the doorway that led to the spiraling steps back into Maegor's.

Rhaegar turned. The voice belonged to an assistant of Maester Pycelle, a young thing no older than Lyanna or Jaime, with a strip of red peach fuzz adorning his face and a head as smooth as an egg.

"A raven came, Your Grace. Grand Maester told me to bring it to you."

Pycelle was seeing quite possibly one of the busiest times in his old life; with the ill and injured still piled high, and maesters from the Crownlands still working their way to the Red Keep, it fell to the Grand Maester and his acolytes to tend to those who needed care most.

Ser Jaime's jaw was broken, but was otherwise fine, kept unconscious with scheduled doses of milk of the poppy for the pain. Lyanna, as well, was unhurt past her neck, so she was not in dire need of Pycelle's help.

But the Targaryen guards that had knelt and surrendered suffered broken bones and slashed skins, and many of the Lannister soldiers were ailing from similar injuries. So the Grand Maester flitted through the barracks all day long, and retired well into the night. Rhaegar had not seen him since Ser Jaime had confessed his treason.

Pycelle's assistant handed over the raven's message to Rhaegar, bowing deeply before rushing past Ser Arthur and back down into Maegor's Holdfast. Rhaegar narrowed his eyes at the message, its seal white and embossed with a snarling direwolf – a message from Winterfell.

Odd, Rhaegar thought, I only sent a raven to Lord Rickard yesterday telling him of my and Lyanna's loss, and my father's death. There is no chance he's received my raven so soon…

As it turned out, Lord Rickard didn't, but oh how Rhaegar wished that was what the message entailed instead. After he'd picked apart the snow white wax and uncoiled the parchment, his eyes had read over every word with increasing dread.

This message had obviously been sent some time ago, addressed to Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna…and Lord Rickard wrote to share the good tidings that Eddard was expecting his first child by Lady Catelyn.

A sort of numb disbelief settled over Rhaegar, wondering not for the first time why they had been punished so to lose their first. He couldn't show this letter to Lyanna who, not only just miscarried in her first pregnancy, but had just also been forced to watch the tiny babe's body burn in its wooden casket before its ashes were piled into a small onyx box.

It was just another thing to weigh on his shoulders, to add another hole to his heart. Rhaegar was so unbelievably fatigued, so fed up with the black cloud that seemed to hang over everyone's heads. Frustrated, he coiled the letter back to its original shape and stuffed it into his pockets before going for the stairs. Arthur followed him silently.

The whole castle seemed to be quiet, except for the tolling bells. Even in death, his father was disrespectful. Rhaegar strode to his room, tired beyond belief and just wishing to hold Lyanna…

But she was praying in the godswood, as she had been since they had returned from their babe's funeral, and wasn't likely to finish until night fell. Instead Rhaegar made do alone. Inside his room, he stripped down to his smallclothes and slipped beneath the covers, tossing and turning until his head was nestled comfortably in his pillow.

He closed his eyes, and dreamt of a tall, slim boy that had a wolf's heart and the blood of the dragon.

"Your Grace. Your Grace, please, wake up. Your Grace!" The voice was hurried and cut into Rhaegar's slumber, its sound disrupting the dream he'd been having of a boy with a burning sword. "Your Grace, you have to wake."

Rhaegar's eyes opened slowly, the blurriness of his surroundings only exacerbated by the darkness of his room. It was night, the sky black velvet.

"Your Grace," the voice insisted once more, accompanied by three heavy-booted steps. "Please, it's the queen."

Rhaegar sat up quickly in bed, dread mixing through his racing blood. Adrenaline left a sick taste in his mouth. Or was that fear? "What is it? What's happened?"

Ser Barristan shone pale at his bedside, his eyes wide. "It's Queen Lyanna. Please, come."

Rhaegar climbed from bed confused and bleary-eyed, pulling on his unlaced pants and tunic from the funeral that morning. "Tell me," he demanded as he stepped into his boots and swept from the room.

Ser Barristan led Rhaegar through Maegor's as he explained, "The little queen, she slipped out of her new chambers and made it to Aerys' old rooms somehow without anyone seeing…"

Rhaegar had had Lyanna's things moved into new quarters within Maegor's Holdfast that morning while they had been gone. "What is she doing there?" He asked, coming more and more alive with each step. Outside the bells still tolled loudly through the night, but beneath that, he heard something else, something guttural.

"She somehow got her hands on Fire," Barristan said quickly, "but I do not know how. It was locked in the armory." His voice quivered.

They turned the corner and that faint guttural noise he'd heard erupted into a full-fledged stream of echoing screams. The screams were blood-curdling, full of anguish and despair, but most of all hate.

Outside his father's old room, his mother stood, peering inside the open doorway. Ser Oswell could be heard inside, trying to calm down Lyanna. Rhaegar ran as fast as his legs would take him, shouldering past his mother and Oswell inside Aerys' rooms.

The inside was completely destroyed.

The once-magnificent canopy bed of the king had been ripped to shreds of silk, their red scraps lying about like little wisps of flames. The posts of the bed were hacked away, chunks of wood scattering the floor like little islands. The pillows had been utterly demolished, their feathers floating languidly in the air.

The twin bedside tables had also been chopped at, as well as the chests, trunks, and wardrobes that held the king's clothes. Aerys' robes and breeches and tunics and doublets were torn and cut into thousands of rich strips, and an empty decanter of wine had obviously been dashed against the wall. The wall was dry, but the decanter lay shattered upon the floor, glass shards everywhere.

Lyanna swung Fire around mercilessly, its blade running rampant with the colors of living flame – orange and yellow and red. Horrible, gravelly shrieks tore from her throat as she sliced into the featherbed like it was some foe. Only the sobs were worse than the screams.

"Lyanna!" Rhaegar called out louder than Oswell, louder than the bells, louder than Lyanna herself.

Lyanna froze at once, spinning on her heel to face him. Her pale skin was splotched red from her efforts, and her cheeks glistened with the tears of her misery. The nightgown she wore was slashed in several places, most likely from her free-swinging hand.

Her lips parted as she whispered, "Rhaegar," and Fire slipped from her hand to clatter on the floor. And then she ran forward to jump into Rhaegar's arms, dissolving once more into sobs so deep and full of pain that it nearly broke his heart in two.

He hushed her as he went to his knees, smoothing a hand over her hair and down her back. Her arms wound tighter about his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing tight to him like a child would to their beloved toy.

"What are you doing in here?" He asked, having to raise his voice so she could hear over her own cries.

"I couldn't sleep," she sobbed sloppily, so obviously drunk. That explained the shattered wine decanter. "Those bells, they ring all day and all night. They seep into my sleep, so that all I dream is death and destruction and your father."

My father is gone, Rhaegar wanted to say, he can't hurt you…

"I hate him," she screamed. "I hate him with the passion of a thousand suns. I want to bring him back from the dead just so I can kill him myself. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him…"

"He's gone," Rhaegar promised with a frown, "he's not coming back."

"I don't care! He deserves the pain, he deserves to suffer for what he did. He took our baby, Rhaegar, he took our baby away."

Rhaegar's heart sped up in his chest as he clutched her tighter against him. Was she going to confess what happened? Would he finally know what she had been through the night he had taken the castle? He was entirely too aware of his mother, Ser Oswell, and Ser Barristan still standing as witnesses at the door.

"He killed our baby," she cried softly. "I tried to save that little boy, I really did. I didn't want him to burn."

Rhaegar was lost. "What little boy?"

"The one they accused of stealing," she said in her warped voice. "I demanded a trial by combat for him, but no one would help." She sobbed louder. "Aerys forced me to be the champion. He tied me up with rope and put a sword out of my reach and set the boy on fire while I strangled myself trying to help. I tried so hard…

"He made Ser Lewyn strip me, and then Ser Jonothor held me down while Lewyn cut up my neck. The noose, it hurt so bad."

Rhaegar felt bile rising in his throat, and it was all he could do not to rage in absolute frustration and black hate for his father. The image of Lyanna strung up like an animal, struggling for her and some child's life, was almost more than he could take. More than the image tattooed behind his eyelids of the blood she'd left behind in White Sword Tower.

"Jaime, Jaime," Lyanna chanted, "Jaime came-"

"Shh," he hushed quickly into her ear. He couldn't have anyone else knowing that Jaime had killed Aerys. That was a secret that only he, his mother, Lyanna, Ser Jaime, and Lord Tywin knew, and that was the way Rhaegar intended to keep it. He wouldn't have the boy labeled "kingslayer" before he even figured out what he was going to do with him.

"The king made me watch that little boy burn," she wept in a rasping voice like rocks, hiccupping wildly against his neck. "He touched me."

Rhaegar's eyes flashed up suddenly and met his mother's. Her purple eyes seemed full of dawning realization… No, no, no.

Lyanna began to sob harder, her nails digging into his skin with her impossible desperation to get closer. "He put his hand between my legs and touched me. He said he would make me carry his dragon next, and he felt me." Her tears melted through his shirt as her body shook. "No one's supposed to touch me there except for you."

Rhaegar squeezed his eyes close, the dragon's fury building at an alarming speed within him. He wanted to rage and curse and take Fire and swing it at any man that dared too close. He wanted to kill and maim and torture, and bring Aerys back from the dead so that he could flay every piece of his body so that he, too, could reap what pain he had caused.

He had tortured Lyanna, molested her, strangled her, and probably watched in fascination as the baby within her began to die.

The dragon inside him had never been woken so quickly before.

"I just want it to go away," she whimpered against him quietly, "I just want you to make the pain go away."

Tears slipped from the corners of Rhaegar's eyes, sadness that was completely at odds with the black fury he felt in his heart. He climbed to his feet, holding Lyanna against his body. "I'm going to take you to my room, alright?"

She nodded into his neck, her legs and arms tight about him. He carried her in a daze to his room, unseeing and unhearing, shutting and barring the door behind them both. Then he sat on the bed, still holding her against him like a child.

"I hate him so much," she whimpered. "I just want our baby back."

As did he, but it was best to leave the dead alone, no matter how broken your heart. "I know, I know. I do, too."

"I should have gone to Dragonstone like you wanted me to," she admitted dazedly, "but the king hit Viserys and was raping your mother, and I couldn't bear to leave them behind."

Everything clicked into place at once, information and images rushing his head all in a jumble. His brain was going wild, his heart pounding, his sadness and wrath mixing together dangerously, waiting to explode.

Lyanna sniffled pitifully as she drew back from his hold. Her grey eyes were shining with unshed tears, her skin flushed, and her lips swollen. She bent forward without warning and pressed her mouth to his in a desperate kiss.

And despite the hysterics of earlier, despite the battling sadness and rage within, Rhaegar kissed her back. It was the weeks and weeks of being without her, those months away, these past few days of such complete heartache and anguish piling up like ice and snow in his heart.

Her lips tasted like wine and salt, were hot like fire, and insistent against his. Her tongue was slick and sweet in his mouth, her hands tugging painfully at his hair. He couldn't help the moan that escaped him, couldn't help that he was already half-hard beneath her straddled legs.

Shame was building, shame for getting aroused when moments ago she had confessed his father's tortures, shame for enjoying the feel of his wife after two months away. "Lyanna," he said into her mouth, "we need to stop."

She slipped her hand into his unlaced pants, her skin warm against his cock. "No."

"Lyanna," he tried again, his eyes rolling back from pleasure. "You need to rest. We can't do this."

She stopped kissing him, pulling back so she could look into his eyes. Her hand was still wrapped inside his breeches, her skin achingly smooth. "You don't want me anymore?" New tears fell down her cheeks.

"What? Yes, of course I do," he said immediately, slipping one hand beneath her chin. I…I… No, he couldn't say that now. "You don't know how badly I want you, but…this isn't a good idea, not tonight."

"But…you're my king, my husband, you're meant to make children with me. Don't you want our baby back?"

He smiled sadly, rubbing a thumb over her bottom lip. "We cannot bring our baby back, sweetheart. But we will make new ones one day." The dragon has three heads…

Her hand withdrew from his pants, and went to thread with his own free fingers. "Then why not tonight? My heart is broken, and I need your hands to erase the feel of his on my skin. I'm yours and you are mine," she vowed quietly, her voice breaking with every word.

"Yes," he whispered, his heart hammering.

She bent forward to brush her lips against his and a tear touched his skin. "Then prove it."

Her tongue was sweet and soft in his mouth, her hands tugging desperately at his tunic. He allowed her to slip it off his chest and head, but stopped her when she went to his pants.

"It's too soon," he insisted, "you just lost…" He stopped his words short. Her face fell and she met his gaze. Looking into her eyes, Rhaegar suddenly realized just how drunk she truly was.

"It isn't too soon," she said carefully, glassy-eyed.

Rhaegar sighed, knowing her stubbornness was far greater than his. "Well, did Maester Pycelle say anything about laying together after-"

"I don't care what Pycelle says!" She snapped suddenly, fiercely, the force of her words louder than thunder, louder than the ringing of the death bells.

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes at her sudden anger. "I'm not going to have sex with you and end up hurting you worse."

"You won't hurt me worse," she said in a voice like a whipcrack.

"What if I did though, and you couldn't end up having children? What then?"

That had been the wrong thing to say. Her face crumpled, her chin quivering as a new fall of tears washed down her face. The linen around her throat suddenly bloomed with fresh dots of blood, her neck wounds weeping with her eyes.

As gently as possible, Rhaegar slid her from his lap and lay her down upon his pillows. "I'm going to get a maester," he murmured before going for the door. "You're bleeding."

"Not Maester Pycelle!" She gasped, half-sitting up, tears falling down her face, her eyes wild. "Please, not him, not Pycelle."

That was the second time she had reacted strongly to mention of the Grand Maester, and it only served to confuse him. "Alright, I won't, I'll get someone else."

Rhaegar slipped from his room and closed the door behind him. "Ser Barristan, could you fetch a maester for me? Not Maester Pycelle though, someone else…"

The White Knight nodded and went at once, arriving back quickly with a sleepy-eyed maester that Lord Tywin had brought along. "My wife's wounds are bleeding again," he informed the man. "They'll need to be cleaned and bound with fresh linen. And after, give her one small dose of sweetsleep to help her calm."

The maester nodded and went inside Rhaegar's room. "I'm going to see my mother," Rhaegar told Ser Barristan, "stay with Lyanna and don't let her leave. The sweetsleep should put her under, but in case it doesn't, do not leave her side."

Ser Barristan nodded gravely. "Of course, Your Grace."

Rhaegar found his mother in her rooms, still awake from Lyanna's earlier fit. She sat at her desk, bent over, writing a letter. Rhaella smiled sadly when Rhaegar approached, standing to envelope him in a hug.

"Oh, my boy," she sighed before stepping back and sitting once more. "How is she?"

Rhaegar let his tears fall freely. "I don't know what to do. She's hurting so badly, and I can't help."

"You can help," Rhaella assured him immediately, "but perhaps not in the way you're thinking."

He scrubbed his face with his hands and sighed deeply. "How can I help her? I lost a child as well, but she carried it. I cannot even begin to imagine her pain."

"Well, for a start, you can get her out of this castle."

His mother's words took his breath away. "What? Send her away?" He was incredulous. He couldn't send Lyanna away; they needed to heal together, be together, cry and laugh together, make more children together.

"Not away," Rhaella corrected him quickly, "send her with me."

Rhaegar furrowed his brows. "Where are you going?"

"Dragonstone, my love."

"Dragonstone? Why? I'm king now, and Father is no longer here to torment you. You can finally have the life you were meant to have."

Rhaella smiled sadly. "Your father is gone, yes, but he's still here, in part." Her hand came to rest over her stomach gently.

Rhaegar's heart went into his throat and his eyes were full of panic. "You're…"

"Pregnant," she finished. "Yes, I've been sick for weeks and I haven't known why. I'd thought I was done carrying children, but it seems I was wrong."

He could hardly catch a breath. "I can't believe it. I don't know what to say." First Lady Catelyn and now his mother…two new lives and one lost.

Rhaella said, "It was hard for me to take in, too. I'm probably two months along now. I never told your father. I was waiting for the right time, and…"

"Now he's dead," Rhaegar choked out.

"Slain," she whispered softly, "by Ser Jaime."

Rhaegar looked up. "I haven't decided what I'm going to do with him yet. I don't know what to do," he confessed.

Rhaella frowned. "A Kingsguard swears to his king his undying loyalty, and Ser Jaime broke that promise a thousandfold."

"Yes, I know," Rhaegar said sadly. In truth, he'd been hoping there would be a way to spare the boy's life, to keep him as a Kingsguard somehow…

"But," Rhaella continued on, "how many of your father's gallant Kingsguards stood by while he tortured me, stood by while he tortured others? A Kingsguard must be more than his blind obedience, he must be first a knight. And what is a knight if he does not protect those who need it most?"

Rhaegar suddenly remembered the conversation he'd had with Ser Jaime in the kingswood right before he had left for Casterly Rock. "I made Ser Jaime promise, before I left, that he would keep Lyanna safe no matter what."

Rhaella took a deep breath. "It seems to me then that Ser Jaime kept his oath. Only it was to a different king."

Rhaegar smiled with absolutely no humor. "He killed Father to save my wife."

"Your wife," Rhaella inserted, "and your queen. You should be thanking him."

Rhaegar suddenly realized that he would not punish the Young Lion, but rather offer him something…a way to give Lord Tywin the reward he so obviously expected and to make up for the white cloak Aerys had bestowed upon Jaime in order to spite his father.

"Let Lyanna come with me to Dragonstone," Rhaella tried again, "let her heart heal away from this broken and burnt place. Rebuild the damage and align yourself with your advisors, then bring her back so you can begin your family once more."

Chapter 54: A Pack and a Pride

Chapter Text

Rhaegar awoke to the sound of lapping water, gentle and smooth and calm as a lullaby. The air in his chambers was heavy from scented candles, and warm too. He rolled over in confusion, frowning, and climbed from his empty bed.

The floor was littered with black clothes, clothes he'd shed from his babe's funeral the day before, as well as a thin nightgown, a woman's smallclothes, and two pairs of boots. Water lapped again, followed by a hoarse, sad sigh. He looked over at the alcove set into one wall.

The curtain of his bathing pool was cast aside so that he could see every inch of Lyanna's naked body as she lounged back. Her feet shifted lightly so that the water swayed against the edge of the pool, then kicked back to glide across her skin like a lover's hand.

"Good morning," she whispered in her raspy voice, still broken from the abuse of smoke and noose. Rhaegar was reminded of the story she'd sobbed to him the night before, of Aerys' brutality and her torture, and he felt a cold fury rising in him once again.

"How," he said, stopping to lick his lips as he was distracted by the water running in crystal streams down her neck and between her full breasts. "How did you get a bath started?"

"You," she replied softly, "slept heavily."

And he had. After getting the maester to calm Lyanna down, and then speaking with his mother, Rhaegar had slunk to bed just as the sun was waking. But now, with the vision of her naked and wet before him, he'd never been more awake.

"Mind if I join you?"

She tilted her head back so that the water drenched her hair. "I don't mind."

He stripped off his smallclothes quickly and joined her in the water, its bite as hot as a dragon's breath. It made him think of Dragonstone and what his mother had suggested.

"Would you like me to wash you?" He grabbed the bar of soap from the side of the bath, lathering it in the water.

Lyanna looked as if she were about to reject his offer, but he was surprised to see her nod. She cut through the water and came to sit between his legs, her hair over one shoulder and her back to him. He was selfishly glad for that; the sight of the slight curve of her stomach sent knives through his heart, knowing that no life grew beneath anymore.

He glided the soap across her naked back, smoothing his hands in soaping circles over her skin. "I want to talk to you about something," he began.

"If it's about last night," she said slowly in that husky voice, "it won't happen again. I'm sorry."

He frowned and bent forward to press his lips against the back of her neck. "I never want you to apologize for that. My father can never be absolved for this sin."

He continued to wash her back, sliding his hands all over her in distracted fascination. Her skin was slick and hot, and he imagined what it would be like to slip inside her and make stars explode behind both of their eyes.

He shook his head clear of his lust. "I want to send you to Dragonstone with my mother."

Lyanna froze immediately, turning her head so that he could see one grey eye shining in confusion. "You want me away?"

"No," he said immediately, "I would love nothing more than to have you here with me, but my mother suggested that you might profit from some time away from the castle right now."

Lyanna's eyes dimmed, going to some far-off place that only she knew of. When she snapped out of it, she seemed full of unsettling serenity. "If that's what you think is best."

Her easy acceptance threw him off guard at once. Lyanna never conceded easily. "It won't be for long," he promised. "I'll get the Keep cleaned and I'll have the damage fixed and rebuilt. You'll only be gone for a few months."

She met his eyes and nodded, all calm and complacent. But beneath the grey of her stare, he read every single emotion churning in her soul. It nearly broke his heart.

"My mother," he said, this time very slowly and with incredible misplaced guilt, "has found out that she's pregnant."

The hurt was raw on her face and she didn't even try to hide it. "Pregnant?" She breathed. "I see. I assume the pregnancy was not reached out of love?"

The echoing memories of the first time he'd heard his father "visiting" his mother still haunted him. "No," he confirmed, "it was not."

Lyanna nodded and dropped her chin so that wet hair plastered to her cheek. She looked so small there, slender and pale and tiny. It made him want to wrap her in his hold forever so that no more pain could be dealt to her.

"You will only be gone for a few months," he promised again, pulling her body sideways into his lap so that he could rest his forehead against hers. "It will be hard to be without you," he admitted. "I might just have to come visit."

She didn't even seem to hear his words. "Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?"

Rhaegar's brow furrowed and he studied her stubborn-set jaw. "No...?"

"There is no news from Winterfell?" She pressed, working her jaw. Her eyes were grey as the direwolf of Stark.

His stomach seemed to drop to his feet. "Oh, that."

"Yes," she said, "that. I found the letter in the pocket of your breeches this morning when I woke."

Rhaegar closed his eyes, sighing. "It came yesterday. I was waiting to tell you."

Lyanna was quiet for a very long time, content to sit in his lap and think. Then, "I should not be envious." A single tear danced down her cheek. "It is not your mother's, nor my brother or Catelyn's fault that I lost ours."

His chest spasmed in pain. How many times can a heart break before it is completely gone?

She sighed heavily and swallowed, wincing from the pain in her throat. Rhaegar pulled back, lightly fingering the drenched linen wrapped around her throat. It was just another reminder of their loss.

"Can I see?" He murmured without thinking.

Lyanna blinked in surprise, then nodded after several moments of hesitance, allowing him to strip off the many layers of white binding. Free of the linen, her wounds were pink and puckered, gaping in some places, almost closed in others. It would scar if she didn't regularly apply Pycelle's ointment, and even then, it still might.

Rhaegar made a mental note to find Pycelle and commission more of the salve for her. He had not seen the Grand Maester at all, the old man busy from sunup to sundown with the ill and injured of the castle, his only help a group of acolytes and the one maester Lord Tywin had brought from the Westerlands.

With graceful care, Rhaegar bent forward and pressed a kiss into her throat, hoping to sear her with his warmth. He felt her sigh, her body relaxing into his as his lips moved beneath her chin, then up again.

When she kissed him, her mouth tasted like the salt of her tears and the sadness in her heart. Her little hand pressed into the skin over his heart as if to wrench his soul from his body from sheer will, her tongue coming to trace his bottom lip lightly.

He pulled away from her before nothing became something. The stirrings of desire already pooled warmth in his belly, and he was as hard as iron beneath her thighs.

Lyanna's face was flushed becomingly, cheeks pink and glowing, her grey eyes fevered as they drifted open. Her hair was dark and drenched, flowing down her back like a sleek waterfall.

"You're so beautiful," he sighed in worship.

"I'm nothing," she replied in a voice like shards of glass, "compared to you."

How many times can a heart break? He thought again.

White Sword Tower was just as quiet as it always seemed to be, a pure white world devoid of chaos. The heat of the afternoon had waned bit by bit until the air was cool against the skin.

Rhaegar climbed the stairs that led to the second floor where half of the Kingsguard stayed, finding Ser Jaime's door wide open. Within, Lord Tywin was tall and regal, dressed in Lannister crimson and gold, his pale green eyes sweeping to Rhaegar as he entered.

Ser Jaime's cat-green eyes were fresh and wide, his state obviously sober for the first time in days. His jaw was still swollen and warped, the entire left side of his face painted with a multi-colored bruise. He rose from his bed on sturdy legs.

"Your Grace," Jaime bowed reverently. His broken jaw made his words warbled, his mouth only opening an inch.

"Ser Jaime," Rhaegar said back, "Lord Tywin."

The Lannister Lord was as cool and cordial as ever. "My king."

"Ser," Rhaegar turned to the Young Lion, "I think it is high time we speak, don't you agree?"

Even in a weakened state, Ser Jaime would not show his fear. "Of course, Your Grace." He stayed standing even as Rhaegar sat in one of the empty chairs scattered about the room. Despite the lack of fear, there was tension corded in Jaime's figure, his muscles frozen harder than stone.

Rhaegar decided to be blunt. "Lyanna has told me what happened that night at Court." He would not repeat her story for the likes of Tywin Lannister. "And you admitted to murdering my father, albeit under the effect of milk of the poppy. Though I do not think you would deny your crime in the sober light of day, would you?"

Ser Jaime's jaw was clenched hard enough to break. "No, Your Grace, I freely admit my treason. I killed King Aerys. Ser Lewyn and Wisdom Rossart as well."

Rhaegar had suspected foul play of Lewyn's disappearance, but had yet to spare a thought for the pyromancer. "I've thought long and hard, and I've come to a decision as to what to offer you."

Jaime blinked, stunned. Lord Tywin as well, though usually clear of expression, seemed surprised. The room was utterly quiet.

"Offer me?" Jaime repeated skeptically. "You don't mean to have me executed?" His cat-green eyes narrowed, his body rigid, on guard in case Rhaegar was doling tricks.

"I'm not going to execute you," Rhaegar said mildly. "I do mean to give you a choice though. You may have killed your king, but you kept your promise to me and saved my wife. That debt needs to be repaid." A Targaryen can repay his debts, too. Good or bad.

"I had to save her," Jaime murmured, words as quiet as the sigh of a breeze.

Rhaegar ignored that and went on to say, "Ser Jaime, I'm going to offer you the option to shed the white cloak of the Kingsguard and return to Casterly Rock as your lord father's heir."

The room was still with stunned silence and, beneath that, victory. Lord Tywin was as straight and stony as a statue, but his eyes were pools of triumph; his eyes seemed to be laughing - perhaps at Aerys, his old friend, who had once taken his lion son away for the sake of spite, only to be murdered by that same boy in return.

"No," Jaime murmured.

Rhaegar frowned. "What?"

Jaime swallowed, his eyes coming alive. "No, thank you, Your Grace. I appreciate the choice, but I wish to remain with the Kingsguard, if you will allow it."

Cold fury suddenly replaced the eager triumph that had been in Tywin Lannister's eyes. "My king, would you please allow my son a few days to think this over? He has only just begun weaning himself from milk of the poppy."

Jaime threw an insolent look to his father. "I don't need a few days to think this over. I don't even need an hour. I will remain a part of His Grace's seven, and don the white cloak with honor."

Honor was a double-edged sword for Ser Jaime Lannister. You killed your king, but saved your queen.

Rhaegar stood, grasping Ser Jaime's hand. "Very well. I will not offer the chance again."

Jaime's chin lifted. "I understand, Your Grace."

Tywin radiated nothing but unadulterated fury and disappointment, though his face betrayed nothing. As always.

"Your treason will be kept a secret," Rhaegar informed them both. "Only us in this room, Lyanna, and my mother know of how my father died. I would like to keep it that way. Otherwise, your head will be called for, yes?"

Jaime nodded at once. "Yes, Your Grace."

Rhaegar continued on to his next order of business. "I'm sending Lyanna to Dragonstone for a few months with my mother and Viserys while I fix this castle and assemble my council. A few of Lyanna's ladies will come as well. Most have been given leave to return to their homes after the tragedy of Court and the siege.

"You will be going as well, to guard my wife. Your jaw may be broken, but I assume that has not left you bereft of skills with a sword?"

Jaime's bright eyes widened, vibrant life seeping into his gaze. "Of course not, Your Grace."

Others might have argued that it was unsafe to leave his wife and queen in the hands of an injured man, but Rhaegar knew better. If the glory-hungry Lannister boy would murder his king in cold blood for Lyanna, Rhaegar would never need doubt his devotion when it came to protecting her.

"Very good," he said, "I will make the arrangements and see to it myself that you all board the ship of my choosing." That had been a dig at the first passage to Dragonstone Rhaegar had arranged, though Lyanna had admitted it was her fault they'd stayed.

Jaime swallowed and nodded, chagrined.

"Lord Tywin, walk with me." Rhaegar turned abruptly and strode from the room, waiting until the Lord of Lannister caught up.

Together they walked through the lower bailey and up the serpentine steps that led past the Maidenvault and fed right into the middle bailey.

Without preamble Rhaegar said, "I would like you to be my Hand, Lord Tywin."

Tywin Lannister's pale eyes slid to Rhaegar's, not at all surprised. It was part of the debt he felt he was due, no doubt. With the utmost grace, he knelt before Rhaegar and bowed his head. "It would be my honor, Your Grace, to serve as your Hand."

Behind his gratitude, a mean displeasure still lingered at his son's refusal to reclaim his rights as heir to Casterly Rock. Tywin's dwarf son, Tyrion, came next in line for all the happiness it gave his father.

"The Tower of the Hand was left untouched by the fighting or the fire," Rhaegar informed Tywin as he climbed back to his feet. "You can send for your belongings, and move in as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Your Grace. I believe we can restore the realm to prosperity and peace." Tywin inclined his head, his eyes flaring. Power seemed to appease him, though he surely expected more for his part in Rhaegar's ascension to king. Rhaegar had one more thing to give him.

"As do I," Rhaegar replied, his mind drifting to Lyanna and how she would fare at Dragonstone. She would have Rhaella and Viserys, of course, and Jaime too...but only three of her ladies wished to remain after the catastrophe of the other night - Johanna Mallister and two twins from the Crownlands. It would not do. He could kill two birds with one stone.

"If that is all, Your Grace...?" Lord Tywin's voice drifted off, brows raised.

"Actually, there is one more thing." Rhaegar rubbed a hand over his jaw. "How would your daughter feel about moving to King's Landing?"

That had taken Tywin Lannister off guard, though only momentarily. Smoothly, he replied, "She would do whatever her king desired of her. Cersei knows her duty."

Rhaegar tried for a smile. "Very good. I have given many of my wife's ladies-in-waiting their leave to return to their families, and I think it would be good for her to have replacements when she returns from Dragonstone. Lady Cersei is noble and gracious. I think they will get along."

Tywin Lannister's eyes glittered like sea glass, and for a moment Rhaegar could swear the lion was smiling. "Of course, Your Grace, I agree. Cersei would be most thankful to attend the new queen."

Good, Rhaegar thought, then you can consider your debt repaid. "Lyanna will be very pleased to meet her when she returns."

Tywin's mouth held the ghost of a smile as he bowed. "I will send for my daughter at once."

Chapter 55: Firewyrm

Chapter Text

The Red Keep seemed to be a whirlwind of chaos the morning of Lyanna's departure. There were servants rushing around, gathering trunks and chests, ladies tittering about the journey to Dragonstone, squires readying the horses and wagons at the stables.

It was mere minutes before Lyanna would be hustled to her own horse to ride down from Aegon's High Hill to the ship awaiting her, and yet she was still in bed. Curled up, her knees to her chest, Rhaegar's blankets thrown over her, enveloping her with his smell. Tears sprang to her eyes, and the pinch in her chest grew more pronounced.

She could almost hear her heart splintering, the pain was so intense. Fear sat in a lump at the base of her throat, tasting like bile, tasting like regret. I should have gone to Dragonstone the first time, maybe then I... No.

She tried to convince herself to look around, to take it all in, to soak in every last inch of Rhaegar's chambers. What if I never see this room again? Her tears were warm on her cheeks, warm like fire, warm as the heat of the stake as that little boy had burned to death. Her heart cracked once more.

Rhaegar's door was constantly being opened and closed as the servants carried the belongings she kept there to the wagons, but she'd had the canopy curtains drawn so no one could see her within. It was like being safe in a dragon's wing, warm and dark and smelling of him.

The door opened again, closed, boots took several steps, and then the sound of silk sighing against silk. "Lyanna," Rhaegar whispered, settling a hand over her hip. "Lyanna, it's time to go."

Her heart squeezed and she bit her lip to stifle a sob so hard that she broke the skin immediately. Blood filled her mouth. It tasted like punishment, one she would take gladly if only...

Suddenly the covers were pulled from her face, sweeping her skin gently, and then Rhaegar was there - tall and slim, dressed in shades of grey and black for mourning. Over his shoulders was a long hooded cloak of black wool that was lined in flashing red silk. His hair was a spill of silver down his neck and shoulders.

"Lovely girl," he smiled sadly, "it's time to go."

She would not argue with Rhaegar, not when...

Lyanna sat up and slunk from the bed, bending to pull on her riding boots before going for the door. She felt like any fight she'd had in her before had been bled from her the day her babe died. My babe, blood, dead...I should have gone to Dragonstone before. My naïveté will have forever been my undoing.

Rhaegar's hand was calloused as it slipped through hers, their fingers threading together like latticework. Just the feel of his skin sent her heart racing and her blood simmering.

"Are you ready?" He asked, completely unaware of his effect on her.

Never, she knew. "Yes," she whispered.

She didn't remember walking to the yard, climbing atop Smoke, or even riding down Aegon's High Hill to where the ship waited. It was all a blur, of sights and sounds and smells. She wondered if somewhere out there Beth and her babe and her orphans had been watching. I should have told them bye, while I had the chance.

One moment she was striding from Rhaegar's chambers and the next she was atop the deck of Firewyrm, a small ship with big red sails that was supposedly faster than any warship afloat. The High Septon himself had even climbed aboard to offer her his blessing on her voyage, despite her lack of faith in the Faith.

No fight left in her, she allowed him to pray over her upturned face, all the while thinking how stupid a ritual it was. If I'm meant to die, the Old Gods will take me home, and no amount of muttered words from a bent old man in crystals will change that.

When the High Septon finished, he kissed her hands and walked back down the steep plank. Servants were still bringing chests aboard as she stood looking out over the bay. Rhaegar was speaking to the captain, his cloak snapping in the wind; on its back, a three-headed dragon was done in glossy red silk, the same material with which it was lined on the inside.

A hand at her elbow made Lyanna jump. Ser Jaime Lannister was still as beautiful as ever in the natural light, though the left side of his face was swollen and discolored, his skin blooming green and black and yellow. His jaw sat oddly, giving him an almost perpetual smirk.

Lyanna didn't have much to smile for these days, but she smiled for Jaime. She had not seen him since that night she was strangling herself with the noose, seeing him slip through the king's door in golden armor.

Jaime smiled back and said, "Your Grace." The title held the slightest edge of playful mocking to it.

"Ser," she returned. She might have made a jest at his expense, but flashes of the night the little boy died screaming ran in her mind. She didn't remember Jaime saving her, but she knew he did by Rhaegar's account.

Jaime had killed the Mad King for her as well, Ser Lewyn too. Lyanna remembered kneeling in the Red Keep's godswood that one day long ago, praying for a hero to kill Rhaegar's father. She recalled the way the leaves had rustled at her plea. The Old Gods answered my prayer, she realized in wonderment, and sent me Jaime.

"Thank you," she blurted out awkwardly.

Jaime blinked, suddenly raking a handful of curls away from his face; they caught the sun and turned to Lannister gold. "It was my duty." He seemed to know what she meant, but his answer was just as awkward, as his eyes flitted around.

"Jaime," she said quietly to get his attention. Her voice carried over the wind and his eyes flashed up; they looked like two jade stones in the sunlight. "Thank you," she tried again, injecting sincerity into her tone. "You saved me and could have died trying. So...thank you."

When Jaime smiled at her again, there was no more awkwardness, only the shade of her friend that taught her sword lessons and whispered jokes about the lords and ladies of Court.

"The captain says you're about to leave." Rhaegar approached, sending a small look to Ser Jaime, before trying a smile for her.

"Your Grace," Jaime bowed and made his way deeper into the ship, leaving them.

Alone with Rhaegar, Lyanna felt her heart pounding and her tears threatening to return. Don't send me away, she thought, you might never bring me back.

Rhaegar ghosted his knuckles down her cheek, unfazed by the crowd that had gathered above to watch the departure of the queen. "You won't be gone for long," he promised. This seemed to be said for his benefit as much as it was for hers; you won't be gone for long was a prayer repeated every day by his lips, as though if it was said more than once it would turn true.

Lyanna thought it just took away the meaning. She nodded anyway, shivering at the tingles his skin sent through hers.

"I will miss you," he confided, dropping his eyes in embarrassment.

Her heart ached fiercely. Will you? She couldn't speak or she would cry, but she wanted him to know she would miss him too.

Rhaegar frowned when he saw her tears, using the pads of his fingers to clear away her sadness. Then he drew her into his arms, pressing his warmth and his scent into her bones. It only made her sadder.

Then he drew back just enough to tilt her chin up with two fingers, and placed a warm chaste kiss to her mouth. Even in the shadow of death and loss and so much uncertainty, she couldn't deny the stirrings of raw desire in her belly.

Will I ever get to lay with him again?

"I will visit you soon," he whispered against her mouth.

"I look forward to it," she sighed, trying not to cringe at the sound of her own rasping voice. Her throat still ached to talk, to eat, to swallow, to cry. Rhaegar's father ruined everything.

Everything... The black anger she'd become so accustomed to reared its head, but she forced it down so that she could remember telling her husband goodbye.

Rhaegar smiled at her, the beauty of it so overwhelming she had to glance away. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw him fumbling with the ties at his neck before slipping his cloak off his shoulders. "Turn," he murmured, and she did.

The weight of his cloak being settled over her shoulders brought back memories of their wedding day, though this cloak was less extravagant than her bride's cloak had been.

And yet still, it was warm from his body and smelled like his skin and Lyanna thought she could hear her heart splinter again over the rush of the bay.

Rhaegar tied the ties loosely around her neck and then pulled her in for one last hug. "Soon," he promised one more time before he made his way down the steep plank to the quay, joining Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold and Lord Tywin and the rest.

The horns on Firewyrm blew their fanfare as the ship's lines were cast off, oars pushing out from shore and into the current. Lyanna's remaining ladies waved excitedly from the deck, Johanna and the twins, as did Viserys and Queen Rhaella, but Lyanna stood still as a statue, clutching Rhaegar's cloak around her shoulders.

Jaime came over to her, a twin to her own suffering of that night. What a pair we make for the songs, she thought wryly, a lion with its whiskers cut and a wolf leashed for all of Court to see. They'll sing about us in the years to come...

Lyanna turned finally, holding on to the ship's lip, her eyes searching for Rhaegar in the crowd. He was easy to find, all long legs and silver hair, a great beauty that only came around but for once in a lifetime. And he was mine, is mine, was mine, is...

In the wind, Jaime's white cloak was streaming like a peace banner and mixing with the tail of hers, black and white, the lion and the dragon-wolf.

Chapter 56: Of Salt and Smoke

Chapter Text

Seventeen days without his wolf was more than enough for Rhaegar Targaryen. Seventeen days, countless hours, each morning thrusting him into an instant gloom that hung over his head like a black cloud as he abided by his kingship.

Only his dreams were a reprieve from the struggles of rebuilding the damage of the Red Keep. Each night in his chambers, alone in an empty bed, Rhaegar dreamed of children - three to be exact.

A dark-haired boy filling the halls with screams of delighted laughter, a silver-haired child with an abundance of grace in gleaming silver eyes, and another silver dragon with eyes of purple and too much mischief in its veins.

Every dream was different, but the children stayed the same. And each one had a piece of himself and a piece of Lyanna in them, whether it was their boldness or solemnity or sharp wit.

But only that boy had Lyanna's look and Rhaegar's eyes...the prince that was promised, prophesied to be heralded in by the streak of a bleeding sky, born amidst salt and smoke. Salt and smoke...

The air was heavy with salt, the deep, dark waves of Blackwater Bay drinking hungrily at the ship's hull. The Dread was a swift and lean ship, painted black as obsidian with large sheets of black silk sails. A figurehead wrought of iron sat at the ship's prow, its shape a screaming dragon's head.

Ahead, the vision of Dragonstone on the horizon was becoming larger and larger as The Dread sailed forward, quick and mighty and ruthless as the dragon after which it was named. On deck, the captain was bellowing orders and the crew scrambled to follow, oars dipping into the water, lines slithering down like water snakes.

The Targaryen stronghold loomed ahead, beautiful and imposing in its grim shade.

Dragonstone was a fortress shaped in the likeness of dragons, erected by Valyrians of old. Each wall, tower, and corner was black stone and crowned by a grey gargoyle, every one a different creature of a thousand. It was a grim place, isolated in the great salt sea, with the hulking shadow of the volcano Dragonmont smoking at its back.

The Dread was surrounded by ships as it slipped into the anchorage, big-bellied carracks and squared cogs and fishing vessels, even The Pride of Driftmark, a silver-hulled warship that belonged to House Velaryon. The air was filled with the shouts of the fishing town nearby, and punctuated by the crew's bellows and the captain's bark.

The water lapped at the ship greedily, its dark waves deep and lovely as dragonglass. The salt and smoke of the isle was a most welcome smell compared to the constant cloud of feces and fish that hung over King's Landing.

Rhaegar had always loved Dragonstone, though he did not spend nearly enough time there. This is Viserys' seat now, Rhaegar realized, until Lyanna bears me another child, a son. Even thinking about that filled Rhaegar with joy, though the memory of his lost daughter still weighed heavy on his heart.

Rhaella, he remembered Lyanna had wanted to name the child if it was a girl, after his own queen mother. He wondered if Lyanna would want to keep the name should they have another princess, or if she would choose another, one that had not been steeped in tragedy and grief.

On the quay, a tall, slim man met them, dressed in silk of sea-green and a seahorse brooch of white gold. The man could easily have been mistaken for a Targaryen himself with his slender build and pale hair. Only the eyes were different.

Monford Velaryon, the Lord of Driftmark and the castellan Rhaegar had temporarily named to Dragonstone, had eyes of grey-green, like seawater.

"My king." Monford went down on one knee and bowed his head of pale hair.

"Rise," Rhaegar said.

Monford stood as tall as Rhaegar, six feet and a handful of inches. He grasped Rhaegar's hand firmly. "I am sorry for your loss."

Whether Monford meant his father or his child, Rhaegar did not know. "Thank you," was all he said. He turned to Arthur then. "Have Oswell make sure Maester Pycelle makes it to the castle. I want him to see my mother."

The Grand Maester was not a seaman and this voyage had proven so. Though still up to his ears with the injured at the Red Keep, Rhaegar had insisted on bringing Pycelle along to check on his mother's pregnancy. He did not want to fully entrust his mother's care to an untried maester like Dragonstone's new man of the Citadel.

And though she seemed to harbor an inexplicable aversion to him, Rhaegar also wanted Maester Pycelle to examine Lyanna once more, to see whether or not she was safe to lay with again. Gods help me, I want my prince, but I want to touch her as well. Kiss her, bury myself inside her...

Arthur's voice shook him from his mind. "Yes, Your Grace."

Rhaegar and Lord Monford made their way together to the castle of Dragonstone with Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan following, speaking of lighter things. Monford regaled Rhaegar with the tale of a nasty, quick storm that had shattered a few windows in Sea Dragon Tower, where the rookery was located and the new maester sent from the Citadel lived.

"Maester...Cole, was it?" Rhaegar remembered receiving a letter from the Citadel after Dragonstone's old maester had died, informing him of the fresh boy they were sending as replacement. Monford went first through the gates and led their way toward the main keep.

"Yes, Your Grace, his name is Maester Cole. Twenty-five years of age, but still flinches like a green boy when the thunder rattles Stone Drum." Monford laughed. "He's had quite a handful with the little prince."

Rhaegar smiled, imagining Viserys causing a ruckus with Dragonstone's new maester. The prince had no time for learning, his mind yearning instead for swords and adventures. The only time he liked to read a book was if it read of dragons and knights.

He itched to ask after his wife, but he knew that Lord Monford likely knew little of her. As castellan, he had many duties to tend to.

He found his mother abed in her chambers within the large keep that was Stone Drum, dark velvet blankets tucked around her waist as she read from a tome that was spread across her lap. She smiled magnificently when Rhaegar entered, her coloring bright and lovely.

"My son," she sighed, pushing aside the book and holding out her arms.

Rhaegar hugged her softly, then stood by her bedside. He might have sat, but he was anxious to see Lyanna. There would be time later to sit with his mother. "How are you?"

"Well," she replied with sincerity. "The babe agrees with Dragonstone." She settled a hand over her stomach.

Rhaegar smiled. "I'm glad for that. A Targaryen always knows its roots." He shifted. "And Lyanna?"

Rhaella's face fell. "I'm...not sure. Most days, I'm abed with sickness. This babe is strong and likes to prove it. I've supped with Lyanna many times, but often she skips dinner."

Rhaegar frowned. He didn't like the sound of his mother's words. "And Ser Jaime?"

Rhaella shook her head. "I must admit I don't see much of him either. My maids tell me he watches Lyanna though."

As he should, Rhaegar thought with faint relief. It was Ser Jaime's sole duty at the present to guard Lyanna.

"I'm going to see Lyanna now," Rhaegar said, "I'll come back to visit later."

Rhaella offered him another smile. "Tell her I said hello."

The disconnect between his mother and his wife confused Rhaegar. They'd forged a close relationship since the wedding, and he'd hoped that his mother's influence would encourage some happiness in Lyanna...

"Ser Barristan," Rhaegar turned to the Kingsguard, "I need you to search the grounds for my wife and Ser Jaime. I would li-"

"Are you looking for the queen, Your Grace?" A plain-faced guard stepped up from his post, his brown hair and eyes dull in the grey light of the castle. "She's down on the beach."

Rhaegar's heart jumped. "Thank you," he said to the man, before beckoning Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan to follow. Rhaegar knew all the twists and turns of Dragonstone, all the shortcuts and pathways to here, there, and everywhere.

He strode to the large stone archway that led into an even larger balcony overlooking the water and sand. On either side of the balcony was a set of curling stone stairs that descended right on the beach, the steps dusted with sand. The salt wind whipped at Rhaegar's face without mercy as he looked out to the horizon.

The water that met the shores was greyer than that of the port, thin and cold and frothing with sea foam. The beach was black sand, the same shade of obsidian that could be cut from Dragonmont. A square of white was spread out near the water.

Nestled on the oversized white blanket was a small body, curled up, dark hair splayed wild. Lyanna seemed little as a bird there, shrouded in the black cloak he'd given her the day she'd left King's Landing. Rhaegar was at once angered and confused.

"Where is Ser Jaime?" He demanded of no one, his skin flushing hot.

As if summoned by the gods themselves, Jaime Lannister rushed onto the balcony, his green eyes pricked by minuscule pupils. His golden hair was tousled as much as his white clothes, as if he'd just woken from sleep, and his cheek was a fading yellow.

Rhaegar felt the dragon within him awakening. "Pray tell, why is my wife alone on the beach right now? You dare to shirk your duties when-"

"Ser Jason guards her door by day," Jaime interrupted him swiftly. Rhaegar didn't even have time to question what that meant before Jaime murmured, "I'll get her." He swept across the balcony and down the stone stairs that fed right into the beach.

Each step Jaime took made him sink into the black sand, his white leather boots a stark contrast to the scenery. Rhaegar wanted to follow, to edge out the arrogant young lion, but he was frozen where he stood.

When Jaime made it to where Lyanna lay, he bent and scooped her up easily, holding her against his chest like she belonged there. When he turned and came back, it was easy to see that Lyanna was asleep, her face slack and vulnerable, paler than he'd ever seen her.

Jaime climbed the stairs back up easily, though he seemed thoroughly tired judging by the purple crescent moons beneath his eyes. Lyanna was dressed in black leathers and a black tunic dirtied with sand and spray, his dragon cloak wrapped around her. Plastered to her throat were soiled linen strips, blotted with old blood.

"Give her to me," Rhaegar's voice was a whip in the wind. Jaime shifted Lyanna's body to Rhaegar's cradled arms, so careful and so gentle. Lyanna's arms immediately wound about Rhaegar's neck though she was still asleep, her lips murmuring soft words and her eyes twitching beneath her lids.

He didn't say a word as he walked off, making his way toward the royal chambers where she was assigned. The chambers had once been his to have, but with his mother situated in the queen's apartments, he'd made sure that the rooms of the Prince of Dragonstone were made ready for Lyanna's stay.

Her room was high in Stone Drum, the highest of the bedchambers - only the Chamber of the Painted Table was above it - but it was easy to climb. Lyanna weighed little more than a child, her slight weight and sharp bones causing fear to ball in his throat.

Her chambers were grim inside, dark curtains pulled over the arched windows to block out light, the bed large and rumpled. The air was stale, and it smelled of sadness.

When Rhaegar kicked the door shut behind him, Lyanna flinched in his arms, but she did not wake. And then she whimpered, "Jaime."

Rhaegar's heart seemed to freeze in his chest. He stopped where he was, looking down at his wife. Her face was crumpled in distress and tears slithered down her face as she silently cried, her eyes squeezed shut.

"Kill him, Jaime, kill him. Please..."

Hers were the pleas of desperation, no doubt dreaming of Aerys. Rhaegar's chest was sharp with pain as he continued toward the bed, each of her whimpers a knife in his heart.

"Rhaegar," she murmured when he lay her down against the pillows.

He glanced up immediately, but Lyanna was still asleep, calling out to him through her slumber. "Dragon," she went on quietly, her fingers twitching violently, "Rhaegar."

Rhaegar frowned and brushed the hair from her sticky skin. She smelled of salt and smoke, of sweat and sadness, and looked like she could use a meal or ten. He remembered how his mother had said Lyanna often skipped suppers. He could believe it too, looking at the extreme hollows beneath her cheekbones, the collarbones that protruded like knives.

He covered Lyanna with her blanket before slipping out of the room. Ser Gerold and Barristan waited for his orders.

"Ser Gerold, find Ser Jaime and tell him I'll want to speak with him. He'll dine with me tonight."

Gerold nodded and went away to perform his duty. Barristan followed Rhaegar deeper into Stone Drum where Rhaella was. When they reached her room, Pycelle was speaking to her and a young maester gently.

But when Rhaegar entered, the Grand Maester turned and bowed. The green pallor of his seasickness had seemed to wane, leaving him pink-faced once more.

Pycelle fingered his long white beard when he greeted Rhaegar. "Your Grace."

It was queer, Rhaegar realized, that this was one of the only times Rhaegar had spoken to Pycelle since finding Lyanna and Jaime in White Sword Tower, broken and bloody. Pycelle had more than enough maester's duties to perform around the Red Keep, and being a king was difficult business.

He'd not spoken to Pycelle much, if at all, except through messengers and acolytes when necessary. And on the journey to Dragonstone, Pycelle had stayed within the ship's belly, green with violent seasickness.

"How is my mother?" Rhaegar asked, sparing a smile for Rhaella.

"Healthy as can be," Pycelle declared with great spirit. "Healthier than I've seen her since she was pregnant with you."

"Good," Rhaegar, "I'm glad to hear it."

Pycelle gathered his roll of maester's tools and powders, then hobbled away from Rhaella's bed.

"You'll have another healthy heir for your dynasty," Pycelle announced to Rhaegar.

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, put off by the choice of words. "Yes...," he said slowly. "I'd like you to see to Lyanna tomorrow. She's sleeping now, but perhaps in the morning."

Pycelle gave Rhaegar an odd look brimming with puzzlement, but nodded nonetheless. "Of course, Your Grace." And then he shuffled away, out of the room.

Though perplexed, Rhaegar shook off his ill feelings, and dismissed Maester Cole and Ser Barristan from the room. He stayed and talked with his mother about anything but his wife until it was time for dinner. With the sky glistening black overhead, Ser Gerold walked Rhaegar through the castle to the Great Hall where his supper was being served.

Ser Jaime was already seated at one of the trestle tables within, but he stood when Rhaegar approached. The shadows of the candlelight did crazy things to Jaime's bone structure, painting him as thin and hollow as Lyanna.

"Sit," Rhaegar said shortly.

The food was served to them in quiet, the servants shifting every which way to make their plates and pour the wine. When they were finished, Rhaegar dismissed them to the kitchens and Ser Gerold at the doors.

In the awkward silence, Jaime asked, "Did my father come with you?"

Rhaegar clenched his jaw. "No, he has stayed behind in King's Landing. Lady Cersei will be arriving to the capital in just a few days, and he wanted to be there to receive her."

"My sister," Jaime murmured in an odd breath.

"Yes, Lady Cersei will be moving into the Red Keep as one of Lyanna's new ladies." He momentarily wondered where Johanna and the twins from the Crownlands were, but he shook the thought away, his anger returning from earlier. He would find out about her ladies later.

Jaime nodded and went to eat, but before his fork could pierce the meat, Rhaegar demanded coldly, "Why was it that Lyanna was left alone on the beach?"

Jaime went to answer, "I-"

Rhaegar did not let him. "I sent you with her to guard her, to keep her safe. And instead, I find you half-asleep having been gods know where, bleary-eyed and out of sorts." He lowered his voice. "I saved your head, Ser, when others might have taken it. And you repay me by abandoning my wife? Your queen?"

Jaime's pride seemed to flare. "I did not abandon her, Your Grace, quite the opposite."

Rhaegar did not understand. "Yes, it seemed quite the opposite when I had to find her passed out on the beach, by herself."

"Maester Cole gave her milk of the poppy," Jaime explained quickly. "Lyanna had another nightmare yesterday and clawed her throat open in her sleep."

"Another nightmare?" Rhaegar repeated softly, his heart pounding.

"Yes," Jaime replied. "That's why I was asleep today when you came. I sleep during the days and stay awake at nights. Queen Lyanna has vicious nightmares and often wakes sobbing. She's attempting to train herself to sleep when the sun is up, so she is awake with the moon. I've done the same so if she falls asleep to her nightmares, she can find me easily.

"We've had problems before where she has woken upset and could not find me. She woke half the castle one such night."

What have I done? Rhaegar thought uneasily. I sent her away to deal with her nightmares alone. His head swam. No, not alone, the lion prowls and comforts.

"The milk of the poppy must have messed with her sleeping schedule," Jaime went on. "Ser Jason is supposed to guard her door in the days when she rests, but I don't know where he is."

Rhaegar would have to find this guard. "Her nightmares..."

"Are of that night," Jaime finished in a low voice. "King Aerys' name is often on her lips with a scream or a sob. I hear her crying Ser Jonothor and Ser Lewyn's names as well."

"I slew Jonothor," Rhaegar whispered suddenly.

Jaime did not seem surprised. "And I Ser Lewyn."

Yes, and my father and Wisdom Rossart too. You avenged her abuse with three heads, and I gave her one.

Rhaegar scrubbed his face with his hands, every ounce of joy he'd had earlier completely gone. He'd thought he was doing a good thing, sending her away from the broken mess of the Red Keep, but it seemed he was mistaken.

"Was I wrong to send her here?" He blurted out, heavy with fatigue and doubt.

Jaime eyed him warily, his cat-green eyes glittering in the low candlelight. "It...is not for me to question kings, Your Grace."

No, Rhaegar thought darkly, you dare not question them. Only kill them.

Chapter 57: The Woes and Sorrows

Chapter Text

Dragonstone is a grim, grey place where only dragons may thrive, Ser Barristan Selmy thought to himself that morning in the Great Hall, the cold wind whipping at the glass windows. Breaking their fasts with the king at a long table were Grand Maester Pycelle, bent-backed and unassuming, and Dowager Queen Rhaella, lovely and lively in the wake of her husband's death.

Posted at the doors was Lord Commander Ser Gerold, and at opposing corners Ser Arthur and Barristan. Ser Jaime was within Stone Drum guarding Queen Lyanna's chambers, and Oswell was sleeping off his night duty.

Though the windows were high and arched in the Great Hall, the light was pale and grey, giving little life to the place. The walls were made of black stone that glistened like obsidian, and everywhere stone dragons were chiseled to menace above. A dark day for a dark place.

In the distance, the clink of armor was distinctive, shifting steel against steel, coming closer and becoming louder, until the white of a Kingsguard came around the corner. Ser Jaime Lannister seemed even younger here than he had in King's Landing, a surprising feat.

Barristan had always thought the lion boy too young for the white cloak, untried and untested but for the battle against the Kingswood Brotherhood. But now, knowing he'd thrown himself in the literal line of fire to save Rhaegar's wife the night of the siege, Barristan thought that perhaps the white cloak did rest fine on his shoulders after all.

Behind Ser Jaime was Lyanna herself, impossibly slender, her face hollow, her eyes strangely large. She was dressed in the same rumpled clothing she'd been found in on the beach the day before, riding leathers and tunic and a cloak that belonged to her husband.

She'd been wild once, Barristan recalled, a she-wolf if there ever was one. The memory of the night he'd snuck out with her and Rhaegar to Flea Bottom came back to him - he remembered the secret passages through the Red Keep, the way Rhaegar had sang to his wife's surprise, the way Lyanna's eyes had lit up.

Now, Lyanna Stark seemed hollow and lifeless.

Rhaegar's smile was breathtaking when he saw her. "Lyanna." He stood from his table and took a few steps forward, but stopped short at her words.

"What's he doing here?"

Her voice was rough as glass shards on silk, and her tone could cut steel. Those grey eyes, Stark eyes, seemed alive with fire as they settled on Grand Maester Pycelle.

Rhaegar seemed as confused as everyone felt. "I've brought the Grand Maester to ensure Mother's pregnancy is still healthy." He stopped, studied his wife, swallowed. "And to examine you as well, to see if we can start laying together again."

A king had no secrets from his Kingsguards, and Rhaella was well aware of what happened between kings and queens, but Rhaegar flushed all the same.

But not Lyanna. Barristan might have guessed her to blush, stammer, avert her eyes, something to belie her youth...but she did nothing of the sort.

Instead, she gritted her teeth, those fiery eyes turning from stone, to steel, to ice - so cold that it made Ser Barristan shiver in his armor - and then they slid to a point over Rhaegar's shoulder.

"You haven't told him?" Lyanna asked in a low, icy voice, her thin brow arching.

Every head turned to look at Maester Pycelle, who had been quiet as a mouse up until that point. Barristan thought he saw a spasm of fear in the old maester's eyes, but with the dim Dragonstone light, he could not be sure.

"Tell me what?" Rhaegar asked, swiveling to face Pycelle. He looked back over his shoulder at his wife. "What are you talking about?"

It was Pycelle who answered, so Rhaegar turned back. "Your Grace," Pycelle began softly, "my deepest apologies, I thought Her Grace had told you already."

Lyanna bristled, her eyes sharp and her fists clenched. She seemed ready to sob or stab the man.

"Told me what?" Rhaegar demanded impatiently. Barristan thought he could see a shade of Aerys in him - not the mad, cruel man he had become after Duskendale, but the charming boy Aerys had once been, the one that had stolen women's hearts and struck envy into men.

"Go on," Lyanna challenged coldly, "tell him. Tell your king what you told me before I left King's Landing."

The malice in her voice was palpable enough to make the hairs on Barristan's arms stand on end. The air seemed to shift in the hall, heavy and crackling, like that before a lightning storm raged.

"I thought Your Grace already knew," Pycelle tried again, fidgeting in his heavy maester's robes. "I examined Queen Lyanna fully the day of the babe's funeral, to see if the bleeding continued..."

In the silence, Rhaegar scowled. "And?"

"I- I am sorry, my king, but she will never bear another child."

The world seemed to quiet, like all the sound was sucked from the air and sky. No birds cawed outside, no armor clinked, no breath was drawn, no life even stirred.

Barristan had served three kings now, had been a Kingsguard for a handful of decades, and that experience had lent him an acute power: the power to sense a king's moods.

Rhaegar was all at once confused, shocked, disbelieving, and angry.

"What," he whispered, "did you just say?"

Pycelle also seemed to pick up on the mood. "Her Grace, Queen Lyanna, will never bear another child." Barristan was surprised the maester could get the words out through his fearful stuttering.

Rhaegar scowled, the dragon within him rising. "How is that possible?" He demanded in a booming voice.

Pycelle's eyes were as wide as saucers. "The severity of the miscarriage was too great. The trauma of its late month, the trauma of the hanging and the smoke, it wreaked havoc on her body."

"No," Rhaegar murmured, paralyzed.

"Yes," Pycelle treaded lightly, "Her Grace's body and womb were damaged irreparably."

"Irreparably," Rhaegar repeated numbly, as if he did not understand the word.

"Unfortunately, my king. The damage is done. No seed will ever take root in her body again."

"I am right here!" Lyanna exploded suddenly, tears streaming down her face. Barristan imagined it must have been just as hard to hear her fate the second time around, and with an audience no less.

Rhaegar whirled, his eyes taking her in; they shimmered purple, the king's tears unshed but brimming. Panic was easy to read in every line of his body - the clenched muscles, the hard spine, the shaking hands.

"You didn't tell me," he said breathlessly, as if he had taken a punch to the gut.

Ribbons of crystal grief fell from Lyanna's watery stare, her chin quivering. It reminded Barristan that she was sixteen, just a little girl weighed down by the burdens of a woman. "Some part of me thought you knew." She ducked her head. "I assumed it was part of the reason you sent me here."

Rhaegar shook his head. "I sent you here to heal, not to rot. I...I..." He could not seem to get his words out.

"I'm sorry," Lyanna whispered.

Rhaegar turned faster than the crack of a whip, pinning Pycelle with his hard dragon's stare. "How are you certain of her...condition? How do you know that my seed will never quicken in her womb?"

In this reply, Pycelle was confident, which bode well for the bent maester. Sniveling uncertainty would never be favored in Rhaegar's Court.

"I have seen this in women before, Your Grace, have examined such conditions since I was only an acolyte at the Citadel, studying under greater maesters. They teach us what to look for. I have been Grand Maester for almost forty years, have served your House since the reign of King Aegon V.

"I have cared for your own queen mother when she lost her babes, but none so damaged her like this. Miscarriage so traumatic and late in pregnancy is detrimental to a woman's body, Your Grace, and that is especially true in Queen Lyanna's case. The stress, the trauma, it has left her womb unable of ever quickening another babe."

Lyanna was crying freely now, but did her utmost to bear her grief silently. Rhaegar, however, seemed stuck in the limbo between outrage and utter shock.

"The baby that we burned and buried was the last we'll ever have," Lyanna said. "The only I'll have ever carried."

Something bloomed in Rhaegar's face then, an epiphany, a realization. "The prophecy," he said, straightening. "The dragon must have three heads."

Lyanna grimaced. "The prophecy? That's what you choose to bring up right now? An ancient prophecy with no legitimacy?"

"A true prophecy," Rhaegar corrected her angrily. "A prophecy whose legitimacy is lent by your fortune. Maggy the Frog-"

"Is a conniving, lying bitch," she finished in a hiss. "Nothing more. All she wanted to do was sell a young girl lies."

"But-"

"But nothing, Rhaegar," Lyanna cried. "These are real problems! Not obstacles to stand in the way of dreams."

"The prince that was promised," Rhaegar blurted, "the song of ice and fire."

Lyanna's tears left her face glistening. "I am not your ice, Rhaegar, no matter how much you want me to be. I'm just a girl, a girl who will never bear another child for the rest of her days."

"You are my ice," Rhaegar insisted. "You are a Stark of Winterfell."

"Your ice is just symbolism," she threw back, "and I am not the only girl in this world with winter in her veins. You're reaching, Rhaegar, but you need to face facts." She roughly wiped at her face with a small hand.

Rhaegar's tears were beautiful on his cheeks. "Is there nothing we can do? Nothing we can send for to help my seed quicken in her?" He asked aloud, turning to face Pycelle. "Some herbs from Essos, a brew, a potion, anything?"

Pycelle shook his head, the chains around his neck clinking. "No, Your Grace. The Citadel can help many things, but a barren woman is not one of them. There are no herbs on this earth that can reverse this affliction. The gods have made their decision, and it is for us to bear."

"Me to bear, you mean," Lyanna spat venomously. "I'm the one who bore and bled that child, and I'm the one who is damaged."

The dragon in Rhaegar's eyes was itching to come alive as he turned back to his wife slowly. "If only you had listened," he snapped, sharper than Barristan had ever heard him before, "if you had only gone to Dragonstone the first time, like I wanted you to, then maybe, just maybe, our child would still thrive in your belly."

His words were cruel and cold, but they might as well have been a hot whip for all the anguish they caused Lyanna. Her face crumpled and a fresh round of sobs tore from her throat, sobs that were heartbreaking and difficult to hear. At her side, Ser Jaime flinched.

Rhaegar's face dimmed and he looked as if he wished he could have taken his harsh words right back. Behind him, Queen Rhaella sat in shock, her hands covering her mouth, incredulous at her son's casual malice.

"I was stupid," Lyanna cried, looking up defiantly, "I was naive, and I should have gone like you wanted me to. I should have listened to you. But I loved your family, and I couldn't leave them to their tortures alone.

"But I have paid for that stupid decision a hundred times over, leaving myself with an everlasting punishment that can never be reversed. You could not know how sorry I am for what I've done. Not only to myself, but to you and our daughter as well. I have a hole in my heart that will never be filled."

"I'm sorry." Rhaegar strode forward quickly, taking Lyanna in his arms before she could object or meet him halfway. His hold on her was perhaps too strong for such a slender girl, but she took it in stride. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chanted into her hair, again and again and again.

The whole room watched in heavy silence as the king and queen embraced. No one wanted to address the elephant in the room - for what was a queen if she could not give children?

"I'm so sorry," Rhaegar repeated, "I didn't mean what I said." He choked on his grief. "What do you want me to do? Name it, and I'll do it. I'll do anything, anything."

Lyanna whispered, but her words echoed. "Let me go home."

Rhaegar stiffened around her, fire turning to ice. He looked up and met Barristan's eyes briefly over Lyanna's shoulder before drawing back from her. "What?"

"Let me go home," she said again.

Rhaegar stumbled back two steps. "Home."

"Winterfell," she whimpered as he stepped back a few more paces.

"But," Rhaegar murmured, "your place is with me. Your home is with me."

Lyanna gave her husband the saddest look Ser Barristan had ever seen, one that seemed to say we both know a queen has no place if a king has no children.

"Let me see my family again," she whispered. When Rhaegar stood stiff in shock, she ghosted forward until she was right in front of him, and then she went to her knees at his feet, sitting on her heels like some lowly subject.

"Please," she pled with tears running down her face and neck, "let me go to Winterfell. Let me see my father and brothers again, let me be there when my brother's child is born. Let me see the sky snow and feel the cold winds blow."

She whimpered in the back of her throat before continuing, "Let me see my godswood again, let me kneel at a real heart tree and pray to my gods, the Old Gods."

She turned her face up, small and lovely and sad on the floor. "Please, Your Grace, let me go home."

Rhaegar blinked, taken by shock at the title, staring down at his little queen with heartbroken confusion. Barristan could tell it had been difficult for her to call her husband Your Grace, but she forced herself through it in order to appeal to her king.

Barristan admired her for that.

"Don't ask me for that," Rhaegar breathed. "Not that."

"You said anything," she reminded him in a low voice. "Please..."

Rhaegar's face was raw with anguish as he stared down at her for two full minutes, never saying a word. And then it was as if something snapped within him before he jerked out of Lyanna's way and made a fast path out of the Great Hall, leaving her behind him, crying. Rhaella immediately went to her, crouching and pulling the girl against her chest.

It took Barristan only a second to follow his king from the room, alongside Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur, through the castle and all the way to Rhaegar's chambers where he locked himself within.

He did not emerge for three days.

It was as if days and nights held no meaning anymore, one bleeding into the next, every second a miserable moment of existence for Rhaegar Targaryen. He sat in his chambers for gods knew how long, alone and quiet, never answering the knocks at his door, not taking meals or indulging in baths. Baths reminded him too much of her...

The only times he moved were to drink from his pitcher of water, to use the privy, and to sleep. But sleep was just as sorrowful as the waking hours, his head empty of those dreams, the ones that used to be filled with his and Lyanna's children, dark and silver and silver. He'd dreamed of them every day for months, but the day he'd found out about Lyanna's...affliction was the day the dreams stopped.

It was a heartwrenching, painful sign.

"Her Grace, Queen Lyanna, will never bear another child." Pycelle's voice was a piercing agitation in his brain, though his anger was misplaced. It was not the Grand Maester's fault that Lyanna's body had suffered so, that she had lost their babe. That death lay at his father's door. It all led back to Aerys.

Rhaegar clenched his jaw through the tears that fell, his eyes unfocused as he stared out the window to the dismal sky. If Lyanna could not bear children, she was not his ice, and if she was not his ice, where did that leave them?

Her being his ice, and him her fire, was everything their union had been built on, torn away by the horrors of one night. It took one night to tear down absolutely every stone they had built in their relationship, and all that was left was a pile of confusion and rubble.

Where do we go from here? He feared the answer that he could not bring himself to say out loud.

It was on the third day of his isolation that Rhaegar stood, legs shaking, to open the door. Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur were posted outside. "Get me my mother."

Rhaella came a few minutes later, lovely and slight in purple silk, her eyes full of compassion and sadness. She took her son in her arms immediately, holding him against her as she had when he was young. "My sweet love," she sighed, "I am so sorry."

"Everything is wrong," he whispered. "I can't let her go, Mother, I can't."

Rhaella stepped back to hold his face between her hands. Her thumbs swiped at his cheeks. "I've lost many of my babes through the years, but you were my first...and if I had lost you, I would have been mad with grief. Lyanna is...suffering. And now, to know she will never give you another child, will never hold her babe in her arms, will never see it grow..."

"I wish I could go back," he said sadly. "I wish I would have killed Father myself, sooner."

Rhaella frowned. "Don't say that. You may wish for Lyanna's body to be healed, but no man should be a kinslayer. There is no one more accursed."

Though he knew she was right, Rhaegar could not help the dark, violent fantasies of killing his father that filled his head. In the absence of his good dreams, he fantasized of killing his father a thousand and one times, every which way, slow and fast, with knives and poison, his own bare hands...

"What should I do?" He just wanted to be young again, before the world had turned dark and dirty, before he was a man, when he was just a boy with a father whose mind was still sound and a mother who had not suffered tragedies.

Rhaella seemed to struggle to find the right words to give her son. "I would not speak ill of Lyanna."

"I don't want you to," Rhaegar replied. "It's just...I am a new king, and she a new queen, and we have no children. I have no heirs but for Viserys, and the babe in your belly. If something were to happen, gods forbid, and we were swept from the world, the throne would pass to Robert Baratheon. I can't let that happen, and the prophecy...the kingdoms..."

His mother grimaced. "It is a queen's duty to give her king sons and heirs, children to forge a dynasty. A queen that cannot bear children cannot do her duty by you or the realm." He could tell it hurt her to say the words.

"Duty," Rhaegar repeated, lowering his voice. "And what of love?" His heart squeezed around the knife lodged inside it.

Rhaella blew out a breath. "Love is sweet, my boy, but it comes second for kings and queens, and is a rare feat besides." She swept her palm over his cheek. "That young girl has suffered more than enough for one lifetime."

Rhaegar hung his head, grimacing against the spasm of pain in his chest. "I need to speak to my ship's captain."

Rhaella nodded, going to leave, but turned at the last second. She produced a scrolled message, sliding it into his hands. "A raven came from King's Landing. Ser Arthur would not let Maester Pycelle disturb you with it."

Rhaegar took it, studying the seal that represented the Hand of the king. His mother came to kiss his cheek before she swept from the room, leaving the door open behind her. "Arthur," Rhaegar called out.

Arthur appeared in the doorway instantly, his amythest eyes dim in the daylight. "Your Grace?"

"Bring Ser Jaime to me."

When Arthur left, Rhaegar picked apart the letter's seal, unfurling the parchment to read the words from Tywin Lannister. Lady Cersei had apparently arrived to the capital earlier than expected, with a host from House Lannister's personal household, and a train of belongings from the Rock. She awaited her duty as Lyanna's lady.

Rhaegar squeezed the letter in his fist, dropping it in a crumpled ball to the floor. He didn't have time to think of Cersei Lannister waiting in King's Landing. It was hard though, to put it out of his mind, when Ser Jaime Lannister, twin to Cersei, appeared.

He was tall and slim, golden-haired and green-eyed, every bit as beautiful as his sister. The yellow and green of his fading bruise only brought out his coloring, bright coloring that was stark against his white armor. Two golden lions clasped the white cloak to his shoulders.

Rhaegar turned away from him and went to sit in his desk's chair, steepling his hands. Jaime closed the door, then drifted closer.

"Lyanna has asked to go North," Rhaegar began unnecessarily. It had not escaped his notice who had been privy to his and Lyanna's fight in the Great Hall days ago.

"Yes, Your Grace," Jaime whispered.

"If she goes, you go," Rhaegar said without preamble. Jaime said not a word, nor moved a muscle. Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. "No matter what was revealed days ago, she and I still pledged vows to one another before gods and men. Her life is important, and would be in your hands in the North."

Jaime nodded seriously, his green eyes strangely bright in the dark room, like a spot of life in an otherwise barren wasteland. "Of course, Your Grace, I would do anything to protect her."

Rhaegar clenched his jaw. "You've proven that to be true," he said quietly.

The spark in Jaime's eyes flamed, but he said nothing. He stood straight and narrow, staring down his king, his very core rigid as Valyrian steel. The lion was young and arrogant, self-assured and full of false chivalry at times, but if there was one thing he was good for, it was Lyanna.

Rhaegar looked away. "Leave me."

Jaime swiveled on one foot, and strode to the door, but just as he had reached for the handle, Rhaegar's voice sounded out, cold and curious. "Do you love her?"

Rhaegar watched Jaime's armored back, watching the way it stiffened and straightened. Jaime stood frozen for a few long moments before turning back, his eyes wide and his jaw clamped shut. He did not say a thing, but he absolutely did not have to.

Rhaegar could read the answer to his question in every line of the lion's face and body - from the fear glinting in Jaime's eyes, to the way his lips pressed together tightly, to the hand shaking on the handle of the door, to the stiff posture. The answer was written all over Jaime Lannister.

"Go. Now," Rhaegar said slowly with burning ice in his voice, the dragon inside him awakening.

Ser Jaime tucked his tail and obeyed.

It was two more days of thinking before Rhaegar went to see his wife, high in Stone Drum. Her three ladies were gathered around her, chattering and giggling, but Lyanna sat staring at the wall, unaware of their conversation.

When Rhaegar appeared in her doorway, the talk ceased. The three ladies stood and curtsied, but Lyanna sat and stared, her eyes just as red and sad as they had been five days before. It made the ache in his chest even more pronounced.

"My ladies, if I could speak with my wife alone."

They bowed their heads and all but ran from the room, leaving behind a broken marriage and more than enough tension to choke on. Rhaegar strode to one of the chairs left unoccupied and lowered himself into it, looking at Lyanna.

She was so alarmingly thin, he guessed he could wrap his hands around her waist and overlap fingers. Her face was gaunt and pallid and tired, her eyes a deep, dark grey. My son's eyes would have been that color, he thought sadly.

His voice cut through the silence like a sword. "I will let you go to Winterfell."

Her eyes flashed up, tears welling over the grey. "What?"

Rhaegar worked his jaw, his breath coming harder to draw. He knew it would be difficult to make this decision, and it wasn't any easier afterward. "I will let you go see your family. I've already sent a raven to Winterfell informing them of your arrival."

Lyanna's lips parted in disbelief and her hands curled around the rests of the chair. "Truly? This is not some trick?"

He scowled, dropping his eyes. "I would never trick you, Lyanna."

Her cry was a shudder of breath, broken by her rasping throat. "Thank you." He could tell by the sound that her chin was quivering, that tears once again marked her skin. Would there ever be another day where her heart would not be broken? Would it ever heal?

"You will leave on the morrow, on The Dread. It will take you all the way to White Harbor, where you will obtain horses and provisions for the rest of the journey to Winterfell." Tears sent tendrils of aching pain through his throat, threatening to reveal his hate for the entire plan.

The anguish rising within him was as quick and powerful as a tidal wave, so he stood from his chair and went to leave before he could change his mind and break her heart one more time.

"Rhaegar," she called after him softly. He froze and turned to look over his shoulder. She was beautiful and broken and sad curled up in that chair. "I'm sorry."

He nodded, frowning. How had everything gone to shit so quickly? "As am I." He turned and left.

That night he dreamed that they were back at Harrenhal, back at their beginning. His dream was full of her - Lyanna in mismatched armor, and her bruised ribs, her dancing in his arms at the feast, her stubborn face as he set a crown of winter roses on her lap. It was the first good night's sleep he'd had in almost a week, and when he woke, it was all shattered.

The morning she left was cold and bleak, a light rain falling from the heavens as the last of Lyanna's and Ser Jaime's things were loaded onto the black ship. The sky was a pale grey, streaked with smoke and clouds, the colors of her House. It was a sign from her gods.

Rhaegar could not discern what Lyanna was wearing for the dragon cloak wrapped tight around her body, the hood thrown over her head, the red three-headed dragon flashing on her back. She was saying her goodbyes to Rhaella and Viserys, the latter of which was crying into her legs, begging her not to go.

Viserys' cries only served to upset Lyanna further, and soon, Rhaella had to pull the boy away. The captain came up to Rhaegar, tipping his head so that rainwater fell down the smooth surface. "We're ready to depart, Your Grace."

Panic rose hard in him, and the urge to call the entire thing off was strong, but he swallowed it down. "Very good. Get her to White Harbor safely and there will be a significant amount of gold in your future."

The captain nodded. "Of course, of course." He spun to bark orders at the crew assembling on deck.

Across the way, Lyanna stared at him, looking miserable and mournful, hopeful and broken all in one. She clutched the edges of his cloak tight around her as a cold wind swept around them.

It was time.

He walked to her like a man walking to his death, dread and sorrow rooted strong in him. He was painfully aware of all those watching their exchange, of the eyes crawling over their skin. And it seemed Lyanna was, too, her eyes flicking back and forth, back and forth.

He grasped her chin between his thumb and index finger, gently forcing her to look into his eyes. Hers were clear and grey like ice and steel, wide and innocent on her thin face. Rhaegar pushed back the awkward feeling of uncertainty threatening to freeze him and bent forward to kiss her lips. They had lain together twice, had touched each other slick and naked, had kissed and fought and traveled the realm together.

If she's not supposed to be mine, then why does she set me on fire? He thought with intense resentment.

When they pulled apart, Lyanna dropped her eyes, a flush spreading over her pale skin. Rhaegar squeezed his eyes closed. "Have a safe trip."

Lyanna looked up, giving him a small nod. "And you, too." She bit her lip uncertainly. "When you go back to King's Landing." He was leaving Dragonstone in a few days' time on The Pride of Driftmark to go back to the capital, back to his throne.

The ship's horn blew suddenly in a loud cry, making them flinch. This is it, he realized, she's about to leave. Hysteria was a terrifying thing within him, sending his heart pounding in his chest, making his breath short and thin. Heat swam to his cheeks and neck.

Lyanna gave him a small, sad smile before stepping back and walking down the plank to the deck. It was a disturbing echo of the last time she had departed from him, though that time had been a hopeful destination for healing and recovery, and this...

Rhaegar's anxious panic caused him to go numb and blind for a few moments, and when his mind came to once more, The Dread was floating out of Dragonstone's port, cutting through the Blackwater. Though the ship was painted all black, it wasn't hard for him to see Lyanna running to the edge, grasping on as she searched him out.

He could feel the exact moment her eyes found him, could feel them like the cold kiss of a knife to the throat. The ship was gaining speed now, going faster with the wind, and it seemed as small as his thumb in the distance.

He struggled to fight down the ever-rising panic once more, his senses tingling like this was all wrong. The wind whipped at him hard from all sides, swirling his silver hair into his eyes and mouth, making him flick it away impatiently. From the periphery of his vision, he saw his mother and brother and Kingsguards watching him, waiting...

He felt paralyzed, frozen there, the rain pelting his skin and his feet rooted in the ground of his ancestors. All around was the sharp smell of smoke and salt and rain. Bile was poisonous in his throat and his hands shook violently. The ship was so small now, he could barely see the white of Ser Jaime's armor in the distance.

A single tear slid hot down Rhaegar's cheek to land on his neck, mixing with the rain, as he remembered the first time he met Lyanna, a wild young thing with fire in her soul, clad in steel and honor. Inside his chest, his heart tore clean in half.

I'm in love with you, he thought desperately, just as The Dread disappeared completely off the grey-and-black horizon. The rain continued to fall.

Chapter 58: Voices

Chapter Text

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

The sky was a sheet of gold and the sun a blazing ruby as the day died over Winterfell.

Twilight was bitter cold, the evening winds rising like the swift hand of some frozen demon. All around, thin sheets of snow covered the ground white, but here and there were bare patches where shafts of golden light were thrown across the forest floor by the hue of a dying sun. It was eerily still, all the animals either hiding or gone, save for the murder of ravens that perched above on tree limbs, peering down with their curious black eyes.

Lyanna clutched her cloak tighter about her, stalking through the godswood with quick, quiet feet, her breath streaming like a pale banner. Her surroundings were filled with towering trees, snow-crusted floor, the chill of twilight, the sharp smell of home. But there was no sound.

The godswood was still in the dying light, the very picture of serenity with only the birds and the trees about to stand sentinel. Lyanna knew better.

Somewhere behind her a twig snapped, loud as a warhorn. Her heart jolted in her chest and she whirled, her eyes searching for the intruder. Though all she saw were trees and snow and more trees, she could feel him like a wolf would prey. Only this time, she was not the hunter.

He's close, she thought with a sudden rush of exhilarating terror.

"Lyanna!" The voice was sickly sweet, mockingly playful, tinged with something dangerous that made her pulse go mad. "Come out, come out wherever you are!"

Her blood chilled in her veins at the closeness of his voice. She knew these woods like the back of her hand, but there was only so far she could run, could hide. His steps were loud somewhere in the distance, crunching leaves and snow like they were the bones of his enemies.

Lyanna ran.

The wind slapped her face as she sped through the forest, her boots cracking the spines of the fallen leaves that littered the forest floor. She stopped at a clearing, looked around wildly, and went left on the worn path.

"Lyanna!" Her heart nearly stopped; his voice echoed queerly off the trees that closed around her. "Oh, Lyanna, come out before I find you."

The thrill of the chase had her heart pounding dangerously in her chest, made fear dance up her throat, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She spared a look behind her and saw nothing.

But she knew he was nearby.

"I know you're close," he sang out, a smile in his voice.

Raw anticipation crawled up her skin, making her cheeks blaze. Up ahead, Winterfell's heart tree was a safe haven in the shades of ruby and pearl. She made a mad dash for it, edging around the large black pool at its base before shimmying up the bone white trunk to hide amongst its leaves.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Jaime Lannister sang again, too close now. His voice rang out from below. Lyanna's heart double-thumped as he crept closer.

She gripped tight to the bone white branch she was straddling and leaned forward to look down. Ten or so feet below her dangling legs was Jaime himself, stalking across the godswood, unaware that she hid straight above.

He was a beacon in white - boots and breeches and doublet, a velvet cloak falling down his back; his hair and eyes were the only colors about him, hair as golden as the dying sun, eyes as green as a rose stem.

"Lyanna," Jaime called out again in a mischievous voice, the top of his golden head turning as he searched.

Very quietly, Lyanna began to scrape off the snow that was piled atop the weirwood branches, gathering it in her hands to form a monstrous snowball as big as her head. It kept falling apart, the snow too thin, but she packed it hard enough that it would perform its duty without problems. She just had to wait for Jaime to circle back, right below her feet so she could drop it on his golden head.

Jaime made a circuit of the area, calling out for her, searching, before stalking back beneath the tree, unwittingly placing himself in her line of fire. When he finally drifted below her, his head right there, Lyanna dropped her snowball, gasping in delight when it smashed and spattered all over his head and face.

Jaime jumped and cursed, the snow falling into his eyes. Grasping the opportunity at his distraction, Lyanna jumped the ten feet down from the heart tree's limb to the godswood's ground, a sharp pain shooting up her right ankle.

She ignored it. Quick as a cat, she raced away from the heart tree, fleeing through the godswood as fast as she could, the wind tearing at her hair, the exhilaration filling her with adrenaline. It wasn't long though before she heard him behind her, calling out, cursing, growling.

Her laughter echoed through the forest, filling the air with her joy. She dodged a tree, raced around a bend, and found the foot-worn path that led back to the castle.

Lyanna spared a look over her shoulder and immediately regretted it. Jaime was gaining on her, his face fierce, his legs pumping. Terror spiked her heart rate. She turned back around, too late to dodge the thick root jutting up from the ground, and sprawled to the ground in a painful heap.

"Oh shit," Jaime cursed, stopping. "Lyanna, are you alright?"

She grimaced and sat up, examining her palms which were scraped raw and welling up. "Fine," she grumbled, wiping her bloody hands across the snow until it was dark with crimson and her wounds were cleaned and cold. The ankle she'd hurt dropping from the tree throbbed worse.

"You're sure?" He asked again, crouching by her and taking one of her hands in his own to twist and turn.

"Yes," she answered, pulling her hand back and circling her ankle around. It stung, but it'd be fine as long as she kept off it for a day or two. "I twisted my ankle though."

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Come on," he pulled her up with one strong arm. "Get on my back, I'll carry you to the castle."

Jaime crouched before her and allowed her to wrap her legs around his waist, her arms coiled lazily around his collarbones as he took her about the thighs. He smelled of sunshine and woods.

Their trek back to the castle was easier going than their game had been. They always played too rough, someone inevitably ending up with a bruise or a cut, and even once a black eye where Benjen had thrown a snowball with a rock core at Jaime's face.

A sudden wind lashed at their cheeks. "Fuck, it's cold," Jaime grumbled, hiking Lyanna higher up on his back.

She chuckled, taking a deep breath of the clean air. "You've lived at Winterfell for nearly seven months now, you big baby."

"It's brutal out here," he griped, clutching her leather-clad legs tighter. "I don't know how you can stand it."

She smiled. "I was made for it."

And it was true. No matter who she had married, what babe she had carried and bled, where she had been, she was first and foremost a Stark. And like wolves, Starks thrived in grim times when all the other beasts and creatures littered the land like dead. Winter was always coming one way or another, and Starks were built to endure.

The bustling of Winterfell beckoned them inside the thick castle walls. The sounds of life were music to Lyanna's ears - the steel song of the smithy, the steady hum of conversation, the clattering deep from within the kitchens. The air was filled with the smell of roasting meat, making her mouth water for supper.

In the yard, Benjen was practicing shooting arrows at a faraway target. The bow he used was impressively made, wrought of a gleaming black substance that caught the fading sunlight magnificently.

"Hey," Lyanna shouted angrily, "Ben, that's mine!" She slid down from Jaime's back and left him behind, marching toward her younger brother.

Benjen ignored her cry, loosing the arrow he'd nocked so that it whizzed forward, embedding itself deep within the target. "Your bow shoots better than mine!" He whined.

As well it should. The gleaming black longbow had been a gift from Rhaegar for her seventeenth name day, sent with its own special entourage of riders from King's Landing to Winterfell several months ago.

The gift had arrived three days after her name day, and when she'd opened it, she had almost ridden back with the knights to the capital. The longbow was beautiful and expertly made, equipped with a back quiver made of bleached white leather and a dozen weirwood arrows that were tipped with obsidian heads.

But it was the bow itself that wrenched her heart, curved, slim, and gleaming black, it was made of dragonbone and shot arrows far faster than crossbow and bow alike. It was so beautiful and deadly, just like her dragon, she nearly rode across the realm just to see him again.

Instead, she'd tried composing a dozen different letters expressing her gratitude to Rhaegar, some formal, some not, but none had ever come out the way she wanted, and in the end, she'd never sent a message to him at all. The day she left Dragonstone seven months earlier was the last time she had seen or heard from him.

It was easy not to think about her dragon when she was deep in the North, immersed in home and family and snows and Stark. Here there were no silver-haired beauties, no little dragons, no haunting purple eyes, no fiery reds. Each day she found herself thinking on her life in King's Landing less and less, the months fading into one another, until finally all she knew was home.

Nights, though, were different. When the skies turned black, and she was alone in her chambers, her mind always went back to Rhaegar, no matter how hard she tried to think on other things. It was inevitable and though at first she tried to fight it, now she accepted it, easing into her dreams of him with something akin to eagerness.

"Lya!" A different voice called, deeper and more authoritative. Brandon leaned in the doorway to the main keep, clad in dark leather and furs, his smirk tilted and arrogant. He twirled a dagger through his fingers with menacing effortlessness. "Your lord sends for you."

Lyanna rolled her eyes at his theatrics and limped past her oldest brother, starting for the stairs within that led up to Ned's solar. Brandon was quick to follow, a dark shadow at her back.

"Playing with your lion again?" He teased, chuckling to himself, tilting his dagger so that the tip of his blade scraped annoyingly against the stone wall.

"Shut up, you stupid," she snapped, climbing the stairs faster despite the twang of pain in her ankle. She almost wished she'd had Jaime carry her up the stairs; she might have asked Brandon to do so, but that would lead to questions which would lead to ridicule or a scolding, neither of which she wanted.

"Touchy, touchy," he laughed, digging his fingers into the ticklish spot at the back of her ribs.

She flinched and giggled hysterically, pulling away. "Go annoy your wife," she yelled as she bolted for the lord's solar at the top of the landing. "And give the baby a kiss for me."

His laughter was a sound she never wanted to forget.

Brandon, Ashara, and their little infant daughter had come to Winterfell from Starfall months ago at Ned's behest after the death of their lord father. Rickard Stark had died not three weeks after Lyanna's return home, his heart having failed one glum afternoon. Ned had immediately written to their lost brother after Lyanna had given up Brandon's whereabouts, and a month later they were riding in, bearing the purple standards of House Dayne.

Her father's death had wrenched her heart wide open, like pouring oil on fire, and if not for the presence of all three of her brothers, she likely would have withered away into a shell of nothing.

Having Ashara and Brandon around had been awkward at first, their presence a constant reminder of the wrongs and shame that had been dealt to everyone. Lady Catelyn had been nothing but kind and courteous, even going so far as to allow her new baby boy Robb to sleep in the same room as Arra, Brandon's girl.

But Catelyn and Ashara had never become close, even though Lyanna had formed deep friendships with both ladies. Catelyn, Lyanna learned, was deeply loyal and was always there to listen and talk, becoming the sister that she had never had. And Ashara was a wild spirit, akin to Lyanna's own, a twin soul if there ever was one and fiercely devoted to those she loved. Lyanna could scarcely think of her life without either woman anymore.

At the end of the hall, inside her father's solar, Ned was sat reading letters, his eyes narrowed as he pored over a curling parchment. Maester Luwin was busy writing in one corner, his head of pale hair bent over. When she entered though, both men stopped.

"My queen," Luwin said courteously, giving her one of his gentle smiles as he stood and bowed.

"Maester Luwin," she returned warmly. Lyanna had learned quickly that there was no changing how the new maester of Winterfell addressed her, no matter how familiar they became over the course of her time home.

Ned, though, didn't stand or speak. Without saying a word, he picked up an opened letter with a cracked black seal and handed it over the desk.

Lyanna frowned at his behavior, sat in one of the chairs, and took the letter from him with shaky hands. Her eyes scanned the words quickly, her heart thumping in her chest oddly as she processed the news.

Dowager Queen Rhaella had given birth to her babe at Dragonstone, a girl named Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen. The babe was healthy and beautiful, and in honor of her birth, there would be a three day tourney held in King's Landing, following which would be the official coronation ceremony of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark as king and queen of Westeros.

"They wrote my name," Lyanna whispered aloud in puzzled wonderment, her eyes glued to the letters.

"You are his wife," Ned pointed out with a frown, studying her.

She glanced up, giving him a dull look. "Yes, what a wife I am with my broken womb."

"Lya," Ned began softly, his grey eyes sad. He always gave her that same look when her "condition" was mentioned, one of heartbroken disbelief.

"Don't," she said sharply, looking back down at the letter. "It says you must come to the coronation to swear your fealty to the new king."

Ned nodded. "I must. Shall I swear my fealty to my queen right here, right now?"

Lyanna snorted. "You're so stupid." She squeezed her eyes shut, her mind conjuring a silver image almost instantly. "Seven months," she murmured. Seven months...I can't believe it's been so long since I've seen his face.

"We'll have to leave within the week," Ned told her, shuffling through his letters absentmindedly. "The tourney is in three weeks. We can make it to the capital in two if we don't ride with a large party."

Lyanna did not answer, so focused on what it would be like to set foot in the Red Keep once more, to smell the stinking city air, to see him again.

"Lya," Ned prompted gently.

Her eyes flashed open and she looked at her brother, so kind and caring, a gentle soul. "I'm taking Benjen with me," she said suddenly. She couldn't bear to ever leave him behind again. "Brandon and Ashara, too." Brandon, her wild wolf, would keep her heart safe in King's Landing, and Ashara would be her companion.

Ned nodded as if he'd expected no less. "I have an heir now. Little Robb can be the Stark in Winterfell for the time being. Catelyn will stay with him here. And after the tourney and coronation, home once more."

And will I be coming back home with you?

Despite the dread sinking in her soul, Lyanna smiled at the mention of Ned's new son. Robb was a vivacious babe, full of laughter and smiles, even quicker to scream or cry; he was like Brandon in that way with his mirth and his rages.

Brandon's daughter, Arra, on the other hand was a peaceful babe, dark-haired and purple-eyed, the very image of her mother, but with Ned's soft soul.

Lyanna was full of nothing but love for the two little Starkling babes, but there was a hole in her chest, a bruise where her heart used to be that pulsed painfully every time the little ones kicked happily or gurgled or showed her a smile.

It made her soul ache for her own lost daughter. Rhaegar and I made that baby together, the night I gave him my maidenhood. I was going to name it Rhaella if it was a girl. Rhaella for its grandmother...

"I'll be sure to tell Jaime we're leaving soon," Lyanna blurted abruptly, standing so quick the chair skidded back. Luwin flinched at the noise. She walked fast to the door but Ned's voice stopped her.

"Everything will work out the way it's meant to, Lya."

She squeezed her eyes closed, tears running down her cheeks. She hadn't cried in several months, not since her father had passed and they'd put his bones in the crypts beneath Winterfell where a statue in his likeness stood guard.

"Lya," Ned whispered, softer this time. She could hear the pity in his voice, pity for the plight Aerys had given her with his noose.

She could almost hear Maggy the Frog croaking in her head then, like it was some demon's voice conjured to torture her. "Your three children will be the greatest that the world has ever seen, your firstborn the Promised One. And their blood will freeze and flame with that of ice and fire."

If Lyanna ever saw the lying bitch crone again, she would ravage her so thoroughly, they would think it was the wolves that got her.

"Everything will be alright," Ned promised again, his voice stronger at her back.

Lyanna scowled. Don't make promises, dearest Ned, she thought as she strode away from the room, that only the gods may keep.

Chapter 59: A King's Plight

Chapter Text

The midday sun burned through the crystalline dome, throwing shafts of rainbow light across the glittering marble floors. The Great Sept of Baelor was awash in screaming color, painting every single worshiper within in one of the seven colors of light. But none more so beautifully than King Rhaegar Targaryen, who knelt at his babe's resting place silently, the rainbows playing off his silvery hair so that he seemed the Warrior reborn in shades of ruby and amythest, yellow diamond and topaz, sapphire and emeralds.

He ducked his head one final time then climbed to his feet, bone-tired and aching for sleep. Rhaegar looked down sadly at the onyx box lying beneath the iron-latticed vent, frowning. Rest in peace, my little girl, he prayed internally, may you be reborn a dragon in the heavens and soar above us all for eternity.

"My king," a voice called gently.

Rhaegar's head snapped up and his eyes found Cersei Lannister, glowing and staring straight at him from several feet away. "My lady," he returned breathlessly, caught off guard.

Cersei shifted and put herself beneath a beam of color. The crystal sept did magnificent things for her beauty, transforming her hair into a shrine of gold and rainbows, setting her emerald necklace to sparkling like living wildfire. The gown she wore was of pale green silk, sprinkled with glittering sunlight and edged with golden lace.

"I hope I did not disturb you," she said hesitantly, ghosting forward a step, "or your prayers."

Rhaegar shook his head lightly, shaking off the morose cloud that seemed to hang above him. "I was just finished actually."

Cersei nodded and dropped her eyes to the floor. "Is that where your babe lay?"

Rhaegar's heart pounded as if he were about to share some secret. He loathed speaking about his lost babe with anyone who was not his family. "Yes it is," he replied slowly, dragging out his words.

Cersei drifted closer so that she stood next to him, bringing with her a cloud of intoxicating perfume. "It was a girl, was it not? A little princess."

Rhaegar gritted his teeth. "Yes," he murmured. He cast his eyes down once more, a sick combination of gloom and misery twisting in his gut.

"Did she have a name?" Cersei wondered, looking up at him with soft eyes that shimmered like the emeralds around her throat.

"Rhaella," he answered back with a tone like iron. He still remembered the day Lyanna had told him she wanted to name their babe after his queen mother should it be a girl, the clarity of the memory so strong he could swear he smelled Lyanna's skin.

Or was that Cersei?

"A beautiful name," Cersei allowed, the corners of her lips quirking up. "You must love your mother greatly."

It was Lyanna's idea, he thought, she wanted to honor my mother. Instead he said, "I do, of course. I was just going to visit her actually." He shifted away a few inches.

"Oh," Cersei intoned, "I meant to visit with her earlier, but I was held up speaking with the cooks about the foods that will be served at the tourney feasts and, of course, after your coronation."

As the Hand's daughter, Cersei was often delegated certain tasks about the Red Keep, mainly focusing on rallying the ladies of Court, planning feasts, sometimes even sitting on small council meetings. And now that his mother had come back from Dragonstone with little Daenerys, Cersei served as a companion to her as well.

"I'm sure whatever you have planned will be lovely," Rhaegar said absently, his mind focused on the coronation. Lyanna will be crowned beside me, so help me gods.

Cersei's eyes glittered and her lips curved upward, smiling a smile so golden it could have been carved from sunshine. "You are most kind, my king. I do so hope you will enjoy what I have organized. Your coronation ball shall be grand, as befits your blood." She hesitated a moment before asking, "If I may ask, are you alright, Your Grace?"

Rhaegar blinked, taken by surprise at her boldness. "I am well, Lady Cersei, only tired," he answered honestly. "The days are too long and the nights are too short."

Cersei chuckled softly, casting her eyes down briefly. "That is the true tragedy then, Your Grace, for the days should be short and the nights too long." She looked back up and smiled coyly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must pay my respects to the Maiden."

And what do you pray for, my lady?

"I'll not keep you from your prayers." He took her hand in his own and pressed his lips to her knuckles briefly, trying to ignore the way she clutched at his fingers. "My lady," he said before turning.

And when he walked away, he could swear his lips were burning cold.

He found his mother in the gardens with Daenerys, the little violet-eyed baby girl quiet as a mouse as Rhaella cooed at her. His sister was a silent thing, never crying or screaming, hardly ever making a noise except to giggle breathlessly when Viserys did something particularly amusing.

She was disconcerting as far as babes went, her intense quiet a most confusing characteristic as compared to when Viserys was still an infant - he had been a violent sea storm bottled up in a baby boy's body, filling the halls with the screeches of his discomfort, the squeals of his joy, the wails of his misery.

"Stop staring," Rhaella called out playfully, "she'll think you a stranger instead of her brother."

Rhaegar chuckled to himself and drifted closer, bending to sit on the grass next to his mother. Daenerys looked up at him from where she lay with great wonder, her little hands reaching to tug at a lock of his silver hair.

"That's mine, little one," he murmured, trying to tamp down the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him. Would my and Lyanna's daughter have looked like this? Silver hair and purple eyes... Daenerys smiled.

"How are you?" Rhaella asked suddenly, her brows furrowing.

Rhaegar squeezed his eyes shut and blew out a breath. "How did you know something was wrong?"

She gave him a dry look. "You are my son. I always know when something is bothering you."

He lifted one corner of his mouth in an attempted smile. "I visited the babe in the sept today."

"Ah. I see." She laid a comforting hand over his own. "I wish I could say that it will get better in time, but I will not lie to you. Every babe I lost lives on in my heart. The pain never goes away, but you will become accustomed to it. And one day, when you have more babes, the pain won't hurt as bad as before."

"More babes," he whispered in paralyzing terror. Her Grace, Queen Lyanna, will never bear another child, Pycelle's ancient voice echoed in his mind.

"Yes," Rhaella said slowly. "You are a new king, and the realm will expect you to have heirs that are not your young brother and infant sister."

"Lyanna," he mumbled in agony. His heartbeat seemed to pulse behind his eyes. Has it really been seven months without her? Dragonstone seemed like a long lost memory to him now, the day she left him nothing more than a repression buried deep in his mind.

They were quiet for several moments before Rhaella asked, "Have you heard anything from Winterfell?"

Rhaegar shook his head. "The ravens should have reached every House by now. I'll check the rookery again tonight though." His heart did a flip just thinking of seeing Lyanna again. I could join the lists at the tourney...

"My dear," Rhaella started slowly, looking down at little Dany, "I heard my maids gossiping this morning. They said some interesting things about Cersei Lannister."

"What about her?" He asked immediately.

Rhaella studied him closely, the way she did Viserys when she suspected him of a lie. "They spoke of you taking a second wife and courting Lady Cersei."

Rhaegar grimaced. "That's untrue. I've not spoken at all about taking another wife."

But that hadn't stopped his small council from discussing it behind his back; Rhaegar was well aware of the council's desperation for him to produce more heirs, princes and princesses to fill the Red Keep and to expand his dynasty.

He was also painfully aware that a majority of his council championed Lady Cersei to be his second queen, praising her noble bloodlines, her good hips and beauty, but most of all, her status as daughter of the Hand, Lord Tywin, one of the richest men in Westeros.

Varys liked to report on what all was said from each and every council member, giving Rhaegar a rundown of the whispers he had collected each day.

"I've dined with Lady Cersei from time to time," he explained, "and she accompanied me to visit an orphanage in Flea Bottom once, but I am not courting her."

Rhaella raised her brows. "I may have been isolated at Dragonstone for some time, dear, but even I can recognize the looks that girl sends you," she said. "She's half in love with you already."

Rhaegar sighed, thinking of the way Cersei had looked dappled in sunlight beneath the crystal dome of the Great Sept. She was a beauty not to be forgotten, he had to admit. And she was gracious and charming, but...

"I have a wife," he reminded his mother. "You may remember attending our wedding."

"Don't take that tone with me." She dropped her eyes, allowing Dany to clutch at her finger. "I love Lyanna as if she were my own, but a queen must give heirs, Rhaegar. You don't have to give her up, but you need children to succeed you."

"I have Viserys," he said quickly, "and this little one." He smiled at Daenerys, running a finger down her cheek. But the dragon must have three heads, a dark voice reminded him.

"You do," Rhaella agreed, "but your lords will expect you to have babes of your own line. Otherwise, your reign will be vulnerable to rebellion. I know you do not want bastards, and I commend you for that, so that is why you must take another wife."

Rhaegar scowled deeply. "The Faith frowns upon having multiple wives."

"The Faith," Rhaella said softly, "will permit another union for the sake of heirs. You could get a child or two on Lady Cersei, and spend the rest of your time with Lyanna."

"Lyanna's not my pleasure slave," he snapped.

His mother's frown deepened. "I did not mean her to be one. I know how much you love that girl. I love her, too, and that's why I'm trying to help you wade through this problem. I know this is not easy and you do not wish to betray Lyanna, but you are a king now, my boy, and kings have to make difficult choices for the good of others."

"What about what I want?" He whispered without thinking.

Rhaella gave him a heartbreaking smile, one that reminded him of the days when Aerys would put his hands on her and leave behind bruises and marks. "My love, kings and queens do not get what they want. Such is the lot of a ruler. Your life will be full of hardships down the road, and you'll be forced to make difficult decisions. Decisions much more difficult than whether or not to take a beautiful girl to bride so that she may bear you children."

Hearing her words was the equivalent of being stabbed in the belly, but Rhaegar listened all the same. I could run away, he thought suddenly, wildly. I could give up my crown and flee to Essos, live in a manse by the sea and take Lyanna with me. Except...

Except Lyanna was gone, living in Winterfell and safeguarded by a golden boy that loved her, surrounded by home and family and not thinking of her royal husband across the realm. He wondered what she was doing right at that moment. Are you shooting the bow I sent you? Praying in your godswood? Riding Smoke and letting the wind rip at your hair? He would have given anything to be with her right then.

"You don't have to love Lady Cersei," Rhaella whispered gently, her eyes strangely far off. "I may not like her father or the ambition that seems to cloud every Lannister, but even I can recognize the merit of letting the girl bear your children if Lyanna cannot."

"I don't have to love her," he repeated dizzily. He felt like crying, he felt like laughing.

"No," Rhaella agreed. "A marriage does not have to equal love."

Tell that to my head, he thought as his mind drowned in images of three children that were half-dragon, half-direwolf, each one as sharp and fierce as the Kings of Winter and dragonlords of old. Tell that to my heart.