Hope

by elizacamille

Hope

6. Chapter 7

Chapter 60: The Lioness of King's Landing

Chapter Text

As a little girl, Cersei Lannister had often dreamed of her wedding day, had loved to think of the way Prince Rhaegar would look as they wed in the Great Sept of Baelor, a sea of noblemen and women witnessing their union with pride. It was a recurring fantasy of hers, and a seed that had been planted in her head by her own lord father when she was young. In the land of Westeros, Lord Tywin's word was law, and he had promised she would one day marry the Dragon Prince.

Cersei had trusted her father's word, had kept faith in his promise to her even when the old mad king had refused the betrothal. After that, Lord Tywin resigned from his office and took them back west to Casterly Rock, but he'd remained steadfast in his vow to her. "You will be queen one day," he had said, smiling that secret smile that only she ever saw.

And she trusted him through it all, even when Rhaegar had been married off to the Stark girl, because who would dare defy the word of Lord Tywin Lannister?

The night of the opening feast for Princess Daenerys' tourney, Cersei wore a dress of pearly damask that was lined in flashing red silk and embellished with crimson scrollwork, the lion of Lannister stitched over her breast in thread of gold. She pinned rubies to her hair that was coiled atop her head in the Southron fashion, and fastened a choker of rubies and moonstones about her neck.

And she looked as beautiful as a queen on her wedding day.

The night air was brisk as it filtered through the open arches of the high-paned windows of the hall, chilling her even through her finery. The masses were congealed in a thick clot in the entrance of the newly renovated throne room, alive with a rainbow of colors and a circus of sigils.

The marble floors seemed to glitter like stardust beneath the light of the tall flaming candles, and the thick white pillars that were veined with black and grey loomed like winter giants. On the walls where once stone had been, melted from the Mad King's wildfire, now murals were done in jewels and gemstones, each panel depicting a famous scene of Targaryen history.

There was Aegon flying Balerion the Black Dread who was inlaid with onyx and rubies, King Baelor with his pious flower crown that was picked out in a myriad of gems, Aemon the Dragonknight worked over in silver and pearl, and a dozen more masterpieces that flashed like mad in the evening firelight.

From the rafters hung the skulls of the Targaryen dynasty's dragons, the smallest one the size of a small dog and the biggest, Balerion the Dread, large enough that Cersei could stand tall between its open jaws.

Each of the skulls was menacing in its own right, gleaming like obsidian, but Balerion's was the worst. Monstrous and fearsome with teeth as long as swords, the empty sockets where its eyes had been seemed to watch Cersei as she drifted inside on the arm of her lord father.

A chill shuddered through her, but she ignored it. I belong here, she knew, I will be the dragon's queen and then noble and smallfolk alike will fear me as much as those skulls. But when she chanced another look at the long-dead dragon, it felt more like foe than friend. Cersei looked away.

At the back of the room, situated below the high and mighty Iron Throne, was the dais. It stretched forty feet across and was draped with a black cloth emblazoned with the red three-headed dragon of the crown. One day, King Rhaegar will drape a cloak of his House over my shoulders, and our children will split their arms with a lion and the dragon.

Since she had planned the tourney and the feasts for every night, her seat was placed as close to Rhaegar on the dais as was appropriate without discounting his family and his Hand.

There were thirteen seats arranged at the dais, Rhaegar's set into the center with six chairs on either side of him. To the king's left would be his mother, then Prince Viserys, followed by Lord Tywin, Cersei herself, her uncle Kevan, and lastly, her aunt Genna.

On Rhaegar's right were six seats saved for his wife and those of House Stark, but those spots would stay empty all night and through the tourney.

Lyanna Stark's continued absence from King's Landing had proved as powerful gossip fodder for maids and ladies and men alike. The news of her barrenness had spread like wildfire and it was not so much speculation anymore that Lyanna's name was on their tongues as it was anticipation.

For if a queen could not bear children, was she really a queen at all? It was no great secret that King Rhaegar's council urged him to take another wife so he might produce heirs for his reign, and though it was meant to be hush hush, Cersei had known her name was on many of their lips as suggestion.

She smiled as she sat in her seat, Lord Tywin settling next to her. Father always promised I would be queen, and one day I will sit at Rhaegar's side, surrounded by our silver lion cubs.

Cersei looked out to the ocean of nobles before her, pretending as if she was Rhaegar's queen and they were her subjects.

She saw Princess Elia of Dorne, black-haired and copper of skin, on the arm of her new husband, Baelor Hightower. She spotted lean and fierce Robert Baratheon speaking animatedly with Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully. She saw the Queen of Thorns, small as a child and escorted by her bumbling son and two seven-foot guards, as they did their best to ignore the presence of Prince Oberyn the Red Viper.

Cersei watched him for a moment before curling her lip in disdain. She'd been close to being betrothed to the Dornish prince long ago when she was just a girl and her mother was still alive, but her father had better sense and higher ambitions than a speared sun. Cersei went back to people-watching.

She saw Aunt Genna's weak Frey husband in a crowd of his own, a group of Manderlys and Rowans mingling nearby. There were Blackwoods and Brackens, and the pale-haired Velaryons that looked so much like Targaryens. There were a thousand beasts in the Great Hall and yet the lion sat above them all.

It took well over an hour for the guests to enter and settle into their rightful places, each one placed just so by Cersei's hand. The four Kingsguards were posted at a corner of their own - Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold on opposing sides of the entrance, and Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell at the sides of the dais. Only Jaime was missing, off in the North guarding the barren queen, but Cersei didn't mind his absence so long as she had Rhaegar.

Servants skittered about the hall re-lighting the candles that had been blown out by the open windows, and six of them brought in two great draping banners that took three people apiece to hang on either side of the room: one was black and pocked with the red three-headed dragon of Targaryen, and the other was snow white, emblazoned with the snarling grey direwolf of Stark.

Cersei scowled. That had not been in her instructions to the servants. Lyanna Stark was gone, and perhaps never coming back if the gods were just, and she did not want to remind the realm's nobles that Rhaegar already had a queen.

The room suddenly quieted and the herald posted at the hall's great oak-and-bronze doors spoke up. "Entering. Prince Viserys of the House Targaryen and Arianne Nymeros Martell, Princess of Dorne."

In walked a small girl with bronzed skin and black hair that was oiled and bound behind her by rings of gold that matched her dress. She smiled as the sea of guests turned toward her and held tighter to her betrothed.

Prince Viserys was possibly the most wretched child Cersei had ever met, the silver boy always quick to scowl or turn his head when she was in his presence. No matter what she did, be it bribing him with sweets and toys or tempting him with play, Prince Viserys had never warmed to her, and in the end, she had given up trying.

He may be Rhaegar's heir now, but when we marry, I will give him many children. And Viserys will never sit that throne.

The two children walked down the carpet that stretched down the center of the Great Hall hand in hand, and the herald cleared his throat to speak again.

"Queen Dowager Rhaella and King Rhaegar of the House Targaryen."

Cersei felt her breath leave her chest. She did not even notice the queen mother on Rhaegar's arm because all she saw was him.

Tall and slim, his skin seemed paler than milkglass in the night, the candles throwing menacing shadows across his beautiful face. He wore black, as he always did, but made of finer stuff than his usual livery.

His doublet was glistening black leather, the collar of which was lined in bright red silk and folded over his heart. His breeches were black velvet, studded with black dragons down the side seams, and tucked into high boots of dark oiled leather. The cuff around his wrist gleamed as dark as the dragon skulls above.

Around his brow sat a circlet of spun gold that was inlaid with chunks of cut crystals; and whenever the candlelight caught them, they threw red and orange beams across the marble floors, painting his skin in the colors of fire and blood.

Rhaegar seemed too beautiful for this world, like some dragonlord of old come to life from a song. Cersei's heart beat furiously and tingles of lust slithered through her. I have only been with Jaime, but I want Rhaegar inside me. I would gladly give up my twin forevermore if only I could have this one dragon.

Rhaegar led his mother down the center carpet, head held high as his lords and ladies stood at their trestle tables in respect. The musicians were playing some song, but Cersei seemed blind, deaf, and dumb to it all. Her entire world consisted of and revolved around her king.

I will be your queen, she thought dazedly. She would need to spend the entire week following the tourney on her knees in the Great Sept to thank the Seven for keeping the Northern girl away. Making Rhaegar hers would be that much easier with Lyanna Stark gone.

If I had failed like she had, I would hide, too. But Cersei was better than that, and she never would lose a babe. A lion never loses to the wolf.

But what about a pride to a pack? a grim voice asked in her mind. She ignored that and smiled when she caught Rhaegar's eye.

He inclined his head to her, but his eyes were full of melancholy. When we are wed, I will heal his hurt and all he'll remember is my love.

The little princess, Arianne, was escorted to her uncle's table as Viserys and Rhaella went to sit in their places. Rhaegar though merely stood by his seat, looking out over the hall.

"I want to thank you all for joining us," he said, his iron tone reaching to every corner, "to celebrate the newest addition to the crown: my sister and Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen."

The applause was deafening and seemed to shake the very core of the Keep, leaving Cersei's skin prickled. Rhaegar waited until the applause had died and continued, "I hope you all will enjoy the tourney planned over the next three days, and I look forward to hearing your grievances and receiving your fealty before my coronation." He picked up his goblet of wine and raised it high. "To the realm, may the Seven bless us."

A roar erupted from the crowd as wine was drank and spilled, horns of ales slammed on tabletops to express excitement. It was obvious to Cersei how beloved Rhaegar was as king, and it only made her covet his love all the more.

When Rhaegar sat, the servants poured inside, their arms heavy with large silver platters so shined you could see your reflection. The first course was dispensed to the dais before all others, the Targaryens served, then the Lannisters. The empty seats to Rhaegar's right sat only wind.

After that, the food was brought to the tables on the floor, the clinking of utensils and plates and platters a loud song in tune with the conversation.

Seven courses were planned for and served that night, each one chosen by Cersei herself, as well as the musicians and songs they played throughout the evening.

The sky went from cobalt blue to Targaryen black as the night wore on, and by the time the food was finished and the plates cleared, Cersei was well and truly drunk.

She'd only picked at her food, not wanting to appear gluttonous in Rhaegar's presence, though he seemed not to notice much besides his own place. Instead, she'd sipped at the strongwine that had been filled and refilled in her cup, again and again until her head was swimming dizzily.

Drunk, she noticed that the noises seemed louder, the air smelled sweeter, the music was livelier. Cersei's blood swam like fire in her veins and her lust mounted inside her like some great dragon. The servants made to push back many of the tables, clearing the floor so that the king could lead his mother into the first dance of the evening.

Watching them with hooded eyes, Cersei imagined herself in Rhaegar's arms, just the two of them before the realm, all her lessers looking on in envy. The king and queen mother's song was a short one, and the next one played was Brave Danny Flint, some sad Northern song about a girl who'd wanted to be a boy. Cersei did not care for it, but it was slow and she wanted to feel her dragon's arms around her.

She strode to Rhaegar with purpose, placing her hand on his shoulder gently. He started and turned, and she had her breath stolen a second time that night. Rhaegar's eyes looked like black amythests in the low light, and his lips seemed as full and pink as a freshly bloomed rose. She wondered what it would feel like to rest her mouth on his, to have his hand touch her beneath her clothes as Jaime once had.

"Will you dance with me, Your Grace?" She asked breathlessly, melting under his eyes.

He clenched his jaw and stood silent, studying her for so long that Cersei thought for one sick moment he was going to deny her in front of a thousand guests. But then, he smiled gently, the authenticity of it questionable to her, but she cared not.

"Of course, my lady," he said in his deep voice. One day you will call me your queen and you will fill me with your seed. Cersei beamed beautifully at his acceptance, gathering her skirts in one hand. She could feel the eyes of their subjects crawling over her skin.

Rhaegar took her other hand in his, and when he did, he set her skin afire.

Chapter 61: A Red Sword

Notes:

This chapter takes place within the same night as last chapter; only now it's Rhaegar's POV. It picks up right where Cersei left off!

Chapter Text

"You should smile, Rhaegar," his mother said as they danced across the hall, weaving in and out of the line of twirling couples that surrounded them.

As they turned, Rhaegar's eyes caught Elia of Dorne, smiling and dancing with her new husband, Baelor Brightsmile of House Hightower. The gown she wore was done in Hightower colors, the dark grey silk clashing terribly with her copper complexion. Without the shimmering colors of her usual Dornish attire, Elia did not look so much like a princess as she did some random noblewoman.

As if she could feel his gaze, Elia looked over, that same admiration she'd always had for him shining bright. He looked away at once; it had been a thousand years since Harrenhal, the only time that their romance might have had a chance. He remembered once thinking she could have made a good queen for him. But that was before...

Rhaella and Rhaegar turned again, passing by Viserys as he twirled little Arianne around on an outstretched finger, both children giggling wildly as the hour grew later. The night was alive with the joy of the Westerosi noble, the throne room pulsing like some great heart as the musicians played louder and drunken words turned bolder. The wine and ale had flowed all night long and, judging by many of his lords and ladies' faces, there would be a generation of babes and bastards made tonight.

"There is naught to smile for," Rhaegar finally replied, melancholy darkening his tone to steel. He felt within him a soul-eating sadness and a poisonous fury, boiling together dangerously like the beat of two dragons' wings locked in battle. Both were Lyanna's fault.

"You are alive, you are a king, your realm loves you," Rhaella reminded him firmly. "Just because there are things to frown for does not cut down the things to smile for."

He felt chagrined at once, shamed by the mother who had suffered three lifetimes worth of hardships whilst still remaining good, but his black mood remained. He might have had his health, might be a king beloved, his kingdoms might be free of war...

...but what did any of that matter if he did not have his queen?

"Lady Cersei watches you," his mother murmured suddenly, raising a brow. Since that afternoon she had suggested he take the lioness to wife, they had not spoken of the subject again. He knew his mother misliked the Lannisters, whilst staying aware that without their help, Aerys might still be alive and in power. And yet, the problem of his dynasty persisted: Rhaegar was heirless but for Viserys and little infant Dany, and he had no wife able of child-rearing.

Rhaegar's eyes flashed up at her warning as they danced around, and locked immediately with glassy green ones that glistened like living wildfire. Cersei Lannister smiled at him softly, hungrily, her cheeks reddening even further. The strongwine she had been served with dinner had proved too powerful for her slender frame, and each time they had danced that evening (four times so far), it was painfully obvious how drunk she was. But it hadn't limited her loveliness - loveliness that burned like the rising sun.

Rhaegar couldn't help but think he had always enjoyed nights more, when the sky looked like black velvet glittering with crystal stars and the moon hung overhead like a fat silver coin. Nights were made for love and wolves, when nightfall descended and the air rang with howls that floated to the heavens in the old song. The sun...the sun just obliterated.

"Many people watch me," he said instead, flippantly, moving to kiss his mother's cheek when the song finally ended. The smatter of applause was light before the next song started up. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cersei Lannister approaching. "I think I shall retire to bed now."

Rhaella frowned, her eyes flicking left then back again. She seemed aware of the reason for his excuse. "Your lords will think it odd if you leave. One dance with her won't hurt."

"I have honored her with four," he mumbled darkly, as if he were ten years old again and had no need of women. He had only one woman he wanted and she was not here. "I'm tired of pretending, I just want to sleep." I want my wife back, I want my wolf...

His mother studied him for a long time, her face sad as if she bore the brunt of his own troubles alongside him. Then she ran the back of her hand down his cheekbone softly. "Dragons do not bow to gods, but the Seven love their kings. Pray, my son, for a blessing."

I don't need the Seven's help, if they even exist. The blessing I need can only be granted by pale-faced deities that weep red blood. "Perhaps," was all he could reply. Perhaps I will send a blood sacrifice to a weirwood and see what luck I can conjure. If Father were alive, he would be the first to go...

Rhaegar sighed and went to move away, but as he did the music ceased and the hall suddenly fell into silence. His ears burned with a faint buzzing, white noise blanketing the throne room after a long evening of harsh raucous. And just as quickly, the hall erupted into a static babble of confused murmurings like the hum of a beehive, the quiet broken as abruptly as it had fallen. Rhaegar frowned, as did a thousand others, and he twisted and turned, searching for the source of interruption of the night's celebration.

"Entering," the herald posted at the throne room's doors shouted, his voice echoing off the marble wildly. Court quieted once more as a thousand people turned toward the entrance, curious of the latecomer. "Her Grace." Rhaegar's heart picked up a beat, sputtered, then pounded. The herald continued, "Lyanna of the Houses Stark and Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"

His heart might have died in his chest, the very air in his lungs might have been stolen. Mountains could have crumbled, the sky could have fallen, hellfire could have descended on the earth. And Rhaegar would not have noticed a thing. All that mattered was her, her, that dark-haired vision descending the steps into the throne room with the fluidity and grace of a stalking wolf hunting for its dinner.

The last time he had seen his wife was the day she had left him to go North, that grim, grey day on the island of Dragonstone. He remembered it as vividly as if it had happened yesterday, and not nearly eight months earlier.

He recalled how the sky had wept, crying tears of hot rain, screaming with winds that had whipped at him violently. Lyanna had looked as pale and gaunt as a skeleton, clutching his dragon's cloak tight about her, but she'd tasted like forever when they shared their last kiss. His wife had sailed away a broken girl on The Dread, the black ship cutting through the Blackwater easily, faster and faster until she was not even a dot left on the horizon.

That broken girl was gone, and in her place was someone entirely new. Or someone entirely familiar. Lyanna drifted inside slowly, her face clear and calm as still water, but beneath those eyes, those cool Stark eyes, Rhaegar saw fire. Fire he had once admired about her in the early days of their marriage, before everything had been burned and destroyed like kindling on a bonfire.

Only a hundred feet away from him now, he saw that girl he had met at Harrenhal, the one who had ridden against seasoned knights in stolen armor. He glimpsed the girl who had crept through passageways and dungeons and tunnels to muck through the sewers and run around Flea Bottom. It was that girl, the one full of vibrant life, who had been borne in ice and had the blood of winter kings running through her veins.

In the throne room, she burned like a falling star. The dress she wore was cut of cherry red silk, one of the colors of House Targaryen, its bodice tight and cut low so as to display the swell of her pale cleavage. Behind her, the gown's train trailed like the great stream of a dragon's fire, and glittering up and around her long dagged sleeves were black diamonds, embellished to look like dark tongues of flame crawling up her arms.

Lyanna Stark Targaryen had the eyes of a wolf, but the bearing of a dragon queen.

She floated down the center of the room on the gliding feet of a ghost, holding her head high, keeping her eyes clear. A thousand of her subjects stood on either side of her, packed like two great walls of an alley, every pair of eyes branding her skin: with looks of lust, looks of surprise, ones of confusion and jealousy and interest, but all of respect, grudging or free.

When she walked, the hem of her dress swished like fire, and with that long unbound hair flowing like waves, there was no mistaking what she was or to whom she belonged. She was an achingly sweet sight to look upon, a sight for his sore eyes and sore heart, and Rhaegar found it hard to move, to breathe, to turn away or anything else. All that mattered, all that existed, was her.

"Lya!" The high, childish voice cut through the thick cloak of silence like a warhorn, and a moment later, Viserys darted from the crowd fast as a loosed arrow, running straight for Lyanna.

Her head whipped to the side and she bent down just quick enough to catch the little boy in her arms, holding him tight against her as her face blossomed into a smile. It was love Rhaegar saw in that smile, the same love that had kept her in King's Landing for the sakes of his brother and mother, and away from Dragonstone as he had ridden to the Rock.

When they pulled apart, there was joy writ plain on her lovely face. "You've gotten bigger!" She noted excitedly, running her eyes over Viserys' face and shaggy silver hair.

A thousand people watched on as Viserys laughed. "You've been gone a long time, Lya. Mother had another baby. Dany is a princess now, just like you used to be."

A few people chuckled, but only Lyanna's grin mattered. "So I've heard. I can't wait to meet her. I'm sure she's as fierce a dragon as you."

"And Rhaegar," Viserys added. "He's a dragon, too."

If he hadn't been standing so close to the two, Rhaegar might have missed the way Lyanna's jaw tightened, the way she very noticeably did not glance his way. She knew he was there, could feel him like he could feel her, but it was as if he were elsewhere, far and away in Essos instead of a stone's throw away.

"Yes," she murmured, "like King Rhaegar, too." The title stung worse than a slap. That toxic broth of sorrow and spleen bubbled up inside him again, nastier this time around, and he had to clench his fists so as not to rage like some wild winter storm.

"Come," Viserys pleaded suddenly, "dance! I learned how while you were at home. I'll show you!"

She wasn't home, Rhaegar wanted to scream, her home is with me. Wolves and dragons mate for life, and she is mine just as I am hers. Instead, he stood still and silent as a statue, watching frozen as Lyanna smiled and nodded and stood to her full height.

She ignored the sea of eyes staring back at her with grace, and lifted her chin. "Music please, for your prince." Lyanna's voice was soft as if she were speaking to Viserys, but a moment later, the instruments began playing with a noticeable hesitance, and as the queen and little prince started to twirl and giggle clumsily, the song grew sturdier, more confident.

It was several long moments before others began to join in, The Bear and the Maiden Fair provoking a playful atmosphere amongst the nobles. More and more couples joined them over the course of the song, and by the end, the floor had returned to its thick state, clogged with the highborn and sers of the realm.

Rhaegar didn't remember moving. One moment he was staring, paralyzed, at his wife and his little brother dancing together like children, and the next, he was stood by the Iron Throne, his hand grasping violently at a barb.

He came to. "Fuck!" He hissed, pulling his hand away. His blood had left a dark smear of crimson against the burnt blade and his pale palm was bloody and sliced open. From his periphery, he saw Ser Gerold step forward.

"Your Grace," a worried voice exclaimed. Jon Connington came into view, frowning, his pale pink face reddened from drink. "Should I fetch Maester Pycelle?"

"No," Rhaegar said at once. Since the reveal of Lyanna's barrenness, he could hardly stand to look at the Grand Maester, much less converse with him. Rationally, he knew he should not pin the blame on Pycelle, but it was more than difficult separating the old bent maester from the events that had torn his barely blossoming family apart. "I'll be fine in a moment." He sucked at the blood.

Jon looked unconvinced, but said nothing more of maesters. Instead, he brought up the subject of the small council that they'd been debating for months; every spot on the council had been filled but for one. Monford Velaryon was Master of Ships, Pycelle his Grand Maester, Ser Gerold the Lord Commander, Varys his Master of Whisperers. The two newest members appointed were Jon Connington himself, styled as Master of Coin, and Lord Tywin, Hand of the king.

The only position that was left was Master of Laws. None of the council members had seemed to agree on one strong candidate, and Rhaegar could not for the life of him think of someone lawful, raised in the face of true justice, to take the title of law master.

"Have you given any more thought to the Master of Laws?" Jon wondered, still glancing down at the king's bloody palm.

Rhaegar sighed, tired and irritated, wanting nothing more than to dive back into the crowd of dancers and take Lyanna away. But when he looked for that glimpse of bright flashing red, he saw nothing. "No," he said, distracted. Some of his blood dropped to the floor.

"Your Grace," Jon objected, "an unsturdy small council makes for an unsturdy reign. You must choose a final Master." More blood slipped to the floor, painting the pale marble red. "Please, Rhaegar, let me get Maester Pycelle."

But Rhaegar didn't hear a thing. His eyes searched the throne room desperately, looking for that flash of red, that long brown hair and pale skin of his wife. He looked and looked, searched and searched, but found nothing. She was gone.

Rhaegar snapped into action, as if a fire had been lit beneath his feet, and pushed through the king's door violently. Behind him, he heard Ser Gerold's footfalls and Jon's calls. He ignored those too, and all but ran through the Red Keep, desperate to find Lyanna, both men on his heels.

He checked the Maidenvault first, ripping through each of the empty rooms like a tornado, expecting to see Lyanna lounging defiantly in her former living space. The halls were dark and dusty, and the rooms just the same; there, he found not a trace of his wolf.

Next he went to Maegor's Holdfast, the drawbridge empty and unnatural. He'd only been left with four Kingsguards when he sent Ser Jaime north with Lyanna, and two spots were left empty from Ser Jonothor's and Prince Lewyn's deaths. It was something he and Ser Gerold had discussed at length, considering knights from all seven of the kingdoms, no matter birth or station.

Rhaegar started at the front of Maegor's where a few empty chambers still sat unused. Much of Maegor's Holdfast had been destroyed and built over the last eight months under Rhaegar's order; he'd wanted to completely erase the memory of Aerys' old apartments, and all the atrocities that had happened within, and create new living quarters free of his taint. While the builders and masons were at it, Rhaegar had instructed them to tear apart and rebuild a whole slew of apartments in the king's wing.

He went to Lyanna's chambers next, the ones she had used for just that little chunk of time after the siege and before she had gone to Dragonstone. His heart jumped; inside, candles were lit and her things had been moved in, trunks opened haphazardly and a gleaming black dragonbone bow propped against the foot of her bed, but there was no sign of her.

Frustration balled up inside him, threatening to burst. He was vaguely aware that his palm was warm and slick, the small patter of blood on the floor sounding out before Jon and Ser Gerold caught up to him.

"Your Grace," Jon said hurriedly, "you need to see Pycelle. You left a trail of blood all over the Keep."

Rhaegar looked down, surprised to see a collage of crimson painting the threshold of Lyanna's room. "Not now," he snapped, swiveling and striding to his own room instead. Only one set of footsteps followed him this time, Gerold's armor clinking in the night.

They marched like soldiers through the halls of Maegor's Holdfast, heading to the room he had used since he was only a child. The room he had grown up in, read in by firelight, slept side by side with Lyanna on their wedding night, the room within which he had taken her maidenhead and impregnated her with their little babe, Rhaella.

And there, just like all the others, he did not find her.

His hands itched to pick up the decanter of wine leftover from yesterday's supper and smash it against the wall. He wanted to break something, hit something, exhaust his poisonous frustration into a shower of glass shards and spilled sweet. He stood there, tired down to his soul and aching for her presence.

What he got, instead, was silent Ser Gerold and the fast-approaching Jon Connington and Maester Pycelle. Just seeing the old maester brought back the dark memory of Dragonstone, how Lyanna had sobbed and his whole world had been ripped apart. Rhaegar fought off an impolite grimace.

"Your Grace," Pycelle exclaimed in his rickety voice, "your hand! Let me see. Come, let's go inside so that I may look properly at your wound."

With no hope, fatigued and aching, Rhaegar drifted inside and sat as Pycelle bent over him, cleaning the wound, poking and prodding the torn flesh. "I will need to stitch it up," Pycelle said. Rhaegar only nodded, his mind drifting off as Pycelle gathered his sterilized needle and thread and went to bind his palm.

The Grand Maester was quick about it, and soon he was backing away, cleaning his bloodied instruments and materials from the desk. As he did, Jon broached a black topic, the most taboo of subjects there was, and the only reason Jon was brave enough, bold enough, stupid enough to do so, had to be the flowing wine of the night that loosened his tongue and wits.

"We must needs complete the small council," Jon said, "as well as the last two Kingsguards. And you need to take a second wife."

Rhaegar slammed his hand on the desk so quickly and so hard that his stitches broke immediately and his blood smeared across the desk. Jon and Pycelle jumped, but Ser Gerold seemed as if he'd expected it. "No."

But Jon was above all stubborn. "Rhaegar, stop avoiding this topic. You can't ignore it and hope the problem will go away. You need children, you need an heir, and you need a wife that can give you those."

"You're approaching dangerous territory," Rhaegar warned. Pycelle crept over, unfurling his maester's roll once again.

"You have more than her to worry about!" Jon nearly shouted, forgetting that Rhaegar was his king momentarily, lost in the heat of an argument with an old friend.

"That her you're speaking of is my wife, Jon!" Rhaegar gave back, wincing when Pycelle slid the old thread from his palm and began with the needle anew.

"Wake up, Rhaegar. Your wife is barren, and useless as your queen. You need someone healthy, someone like Cersei Lannister."

"He's right," a lovely voice agreed from the doorway. Rhaegar's head snapped up so fast his neck cracked, and he laid his eyes on her, leaning in the doorway - on Lyanna, dreamy and gorgeous in shocking red silk embroidered with glittering black diamond flames.

It took a moment for the four men to realize what she had said. "What?" Rhaegar murmured just as Jon said, "You agree?"

She addressed Jon as she drifted inside casually, running her fingers over Rhaegar's walls. "I do. I am not fit to be a queen, my womb is utterly broken. Cersei Lannister is as good a match as any."

No, Rhaegar thought helplessly, not her too.

"But," she added, flashing her eyes over at Rhaegar for the first time since she had arrived that night. "I'll only agree if you can do one thing for me."

Though she addressed him, it was Jon who answered. "And what is that?"

She kept staring at Rhaegar, the fire behind him reflecting in her grey eyes. "I want our marriage to be annulled by the High Septon, and then Cersei Lannister can be his only queen and wife." Blood rushed in his ears immediately and he felt fit to pass out. What had she said?

"Your marriage has been consummated," Jon replied hotly. "It cannot be set aside."

"It can," she assured him calmly, all the while Rhaegar's heart shattered. His anger put it back together in disjointed pieces, and then it shattered all over again, a painful, terrible cycle. "The High Septon would grant the king's request if it was for heirs, for the good of the realm. Besides, the Faith is much more likely to annul a royal marriage than allow two wives."

It was Pycelle's turn to cut in, his second stitching already finished. "A woman of such noble blood could not remain unmarried, barren or not, Your Grace," he told her in that ancient, wobbling voice. "His Grace would need to find you another husband, one with heirs already."

Rhaegar nearly spun around to backhand the old man, but Lyanna's next words stopped him dead. "I can marry Lord Robert Baratheon."

The silence was painful it was so deafening. "Robert Baratheon," Jon said slowly, "has no heirs."

"Yes, but he has two healthy brothers. And besides, we were set to be betrothed once. He was very wroth to have lost me to Rhaegar. I'm sure if the king inquired, Lord Robert would not object to our union."

Hope was bright on Jon's face. "We could bring him in to discuss it," Jon said to a nodding Pycelle.

Rhaegar felt a storm raging, his dragonblood flaring like never before. "Get. Out," he whispered dangerously.

The talk ceased as Jon and Lyanna, Pycelle and Ser Gerold turned to stare at him. "Your Grace," Pycelle went to object, but Rhaegar stopped him with one cold look.

"Don't make me repeat myself. Get out." Jon clenched his jaw, clearly angry, but he left as Ser Gerold's imposing form fell over him like a dark shadow. Pycelle gathered his tools meekly and followed the other two, closing the door behind him. And then, it was only Rhaegar and Lyanna.

He felt the anger from earlier that night rising in his throat like dragonfire. "Robert Baratheon?" He whispered, stalking closer to her. She took a step back for each one he took toward her; she didn't look scared though, she only looked thrilled.

She nodded. "Yes, we would make a good match, don't you agree?"

Her back knocked against the door and Rhaegar slapped both hands on either side of her head, the wood stinging his palms. "You've already spoken to him about this?" He asked lowly, darkly, as he flattened his body against hers, leaning dangerously close.

She didn't answer that. "Robert Baratheon would take me any way he could get me," she murmured as he bent down, their lips brushing in a flesh-searing kiss.

His tongue slid against hers as he whispered, "Stop talking."

Her mouth was warm and soft and slow beneath his, kindling the lust that had been buried deep for so long. He moaned into her mouth, nearly exploding right there like some green boy. She pushed him away suddenly, without warning, and he stumbled back a step.

"Cersei Lannister could be your Golden Queen," she snapped, an inferno raging in her eyes.

That was fine, he was angry too. "Fuck Cersei Lannister, you are mine." He was back on her in an instant, crushing their lips together in a spark that was as painful as lightning striking. She slipped her tongue past his lips, tasting him and firing him up.

"Then prove it," she said into his mouth hungrily, a wolf starving.

He needed no other invitation.

Rhaegar bent down, lifted her under the back of her thighs, and slammed her against the door - a little too hard, but he didn't care. He didn't want to be sweet or gentle, he wanted to fuck her into oblivion.

Her hands were in his hair, claws scraping against his scalp in exquisite torture. He kissed beneath her jaw, holding her between his body and the door, her legs wrapped around his waist. He bit and licked and sucked at her skin, a dragon keen on devourment.

"Be careful," Lyanna gasped, "you're going to leave a mark."

"Good," he replied, "I want people to see." He pinned her hard against the door, one arm holding her up, desperate for leverage as he pushed up her long skirts desperately. Her thighs were paler than he remembered, but just as soft beneath his palms.

She'd worn no smallclothes beneath her gown. He clenched his jaw tight and touched her cunt, slick and hot; his cock was straining in his velvet breeches, the friction of their desperate kissing turning him on, turning him mad.

Lyanna moaned as he slid a finger inside her, curling, stroking, feeling. She was so tight, he was sure that he wouldn't last a minute inside her, the slick heat around his finger mind-numbingly hot it was all he could do to stay upright.

"Take off your pants," Lyanna ordered breathlessly, eyes squeezed closed as his finger slipped in and out, in and out. "Now," she barked when he hadn't moved.

He wanted to yell at her, he wanted to hurt her. He wanted her to know how miserable she had made him, staying away so long. Instead, he looked down, fumbling clumsily at the laces of his pants until they loosened finally, and then he reached inside and pulled his cock free, hard as iron in his hand.

With a knee, he hoisted Lyanna higher up against the door, holding her still, chest against chest, and pushed into her so suddenly, he almost came inside her right then and there.

"Hold on," he said hoarsely, hot ecstasy racing through him, begging to be released. He waited several long moments, trying to abate his lust slightly. He wanted to fuck his wife hard and fast, so good that both of them would forget what it was like to be without the other. But he couldn't do that if he came before they started. He waited a few more moments.

Rhaegar moved his hips back hesitantly, looking down to watch himself slide out of her, cock wet with her arousal. He glanced up, meeting Lyanna's glassy, lusty gaze, and fell in love all over again. He thrusted back into her so quickly, the door rattled violently.

"Ugh, fuck," he groaned beneath his breath as he moved inside her, realizing there was no way for this to feel any less mind-blowing; he wasn't going to be long inside her, he knew, the fire burning low in his belly once more.

Rhaegar fucked her hard against the door, panting into her mouth, but not kissing, not speaking. He gripped the flesh of her hips hard as he thrusted inside of her, so hard he knew she would bear marks. That was fine as well. He'd wanted to fuck her into oblivion, wanted the whole castle to know what they were doing; he was going to leave handprints on her skin, in the shades of black and blue.

Lyanna kissed him suddenly, lips smashed together, moaning hard and long, the vibrations of it tickling his mouth. Her sex squeezed around his cock so good, so tight that the fire in his gut built to a burn and exploded, his seed filling her at the same time she tightened around him, their moans mingling in their own version of a wolfpack's night song.

As he came, stars burst behind his eyes, leaving his vision nothing but a maelstrom of glittering rainbows as the remaining tendrils of his pleasure shocked through him. He could feel his cock leaking the last bit of his seed inside her, some of it leaking out and down their skin. He didn't care.

He kept her pinned against the wall for another full minute, their chests heaving as they came down from their high. Rhaegar's throat felt dry as a bone, the moisture stolen by the fire that had raged within him. He drew back from where he had buried his face in her neck, and ever so gently, let her down to stand once more.

He let his eyes trail down her now-rumpled dress, her messy hair and flushed cheeks, and even though he had just finished inside her, he felt his cock growing hard again. Judging by the look in her eyes, hungry and glinting, she felt the same way.

He spun her around, hands gentle, wanting to touch her softly this time; his fingers made quick work of the laces down her back, her lovely pale skin painted silver in the moonlight as the gown sagged off her chest and shoulders. Rhaegar pulled it down all the way, letting it fall into a puddle of red silk on the ground.

When she turned around, Rhaegar was blown away by how different his wife looked. She was no longer gaunt or sickly, but shapely now, with a small, small waist, curved deeply, and full breasts that had come with her pregnancy. Lyanna was a woman now, a beautiful one, and his. Only mine, he thought. Mine.

She tugged at his doublet, hastily unfastening it and pushed it from his shoulders before ripping the tunic over his head. His breeches and smallclothes came down next, falling to the floor with the rest of their clothes, unwanted and sweat-soaked and forgotten.

Rhaegar bent forward and touched his lips to hers, mesmerized and more than a little in love, his hands slipping over her breasts and down her stomach. Naked, they stumbled to bed, kissing and touching each other desperately like lovers who had been separated for a lifetime, unaware that outside, the black night sky was lit hot by a red comet that soared overhead.

Chapter 62: A Golden Day

Chapter Text

The sun sat like a chunk of Lannister gold in the pale blue sky, shining its light over the vast expanse of King's Landing.

"I wish I was home," Lyanna sighed softly at Jaime's side, her eyes staring blindly over the crowd before her, going back to another time, another place.

The yard seemed packed with horses, knights, squires, and unused litters, ladies in silks and lords in leathers, a representative from every corner of the realm: a blue-eyed stag, a pack of wolves, a golden lioness that caught Jaime's eye, a swarm of dragons, four to be exact.

Jaime remembered when there once was five, each metallic of hair and purple of eye, but one. One whose hair lacked the luster of silver, whose eyes twitched black, whose heart was even blacker. Sometimes, Jaime could still feel in his hand the resistance of steel on bones from the night he'd slid his golden sword through the Mad King's back. His dreams were often colored with the murder of his king, but his nightmares were always full of her, wriggling like a fish out of water caught on a hook.

"You're Queen now, this is your home," Jaime reminded her, taking the reins of his white horse from a waiting stablehand. The buzz of anticipation in the yard was thick, the guests of the realm eager to begin the first day of Princess Daenerys' tourney.

Oddly enough, it made Jaime yearn for the quiet simplicity of Winterfell, where he couldn't feel Rhaegar's eyes crawling over him in suspicion, where he wasn't constantly reminded of the paramount oath he had broken to his previous king. Winterfell had been months of reprieve, of days swinging swords amongst the quiet of the godswood, riding across vast country, of recapturing an adolescence he'd been robbed of.

Lyanna snorted suddenly, unkindly, and gave Jaime a look he was all too familiar with, one that was tilted with teasing condescension and vague unhappiness. "I'm no queen," she told him, looking back out at the bumbling highborns. "I'm only the king's wife."

Jaime could feel Lyanna's displeasure like the wet heat of a golden day on the cliffs at the Rock, hanging over him and cloaking his skin; spending seven months alone with her in the frigid North had forced him to become attuned to her moods, just as he had once done for Cersei when they were children, and he could now sense even the tiniest change in Lyanna's feelings.

So, he did what he always had when Lyanna was upset. He teased her. "You may be the king's wife," he said with a self-satisfied smirk, "but you're still a huge pain in my ass."

Lyanna chuckled suddenly and turned to him, flashing him a fond smile that made the back of his throat burn. Beyond her, he could make out his golden sister, tall and slim, casting demure smiles at King Rhaegar. Jaime scowled and stared between Cersei and Lyanna with unfocused eyes, allowing his vision to blur so that they merged together momentarily, dark and light.

The lioness and the she-wolf, Jaime mused darkly. The only two women he had ever been close with, the only two people who had ever known his secrets. Though arguably, Lyanna knew far more about him than Cersei ever had.

Lyanna knew that he was a kingslayer and a lover of his kin, in the way that was seen as despicable to everyone but the Targaryens. And yet she had never brought up either to hurt him, had never thrown Cersei back in his face; the only time she had used the information had been to gain his sword lessons. And those lessons had started out as a chore, as a bother, long nights Jaime had spent wishing he were elsewhere.

Until he stopped counting the minutes, and started looking instead.

Jaime tore his eyes away from his sister, the lover who had yet to seek him out or speak to him since he'd arrived back last night. The jealous, dark gloom settling over him was a friend to Lyanna's own despondency. "Come, Your Grace," he said, using the title Lyanna loathed and frosting it with that Lannister arrogance she constantly accused him of, "the king awaits."

Jaime led his snow white horse to the front of the yard where his fellow Kingsguards were mounted, each man a replica of the next in armor as bright as Northern snows and long cloaks of pure white velvet. Behind him, he was keenly aware of Cersei greeting Lyanna, struggling with that faux sincerity she had never quite perfected. At home, Cersei was considered the highest of ladies, the most beautiful, the wealthiest, the Light of the West. Here, in the royal domain, Lyanna held dear all that Cersei craved.

Here, Jaime noticed, Cersei did not seem to shine so bright as usual. His twin was still classically lovely, as beautiful a girl as he had ever seen, but she was no longer the only one with beauty that drew eyes.

Dressed in grey velvet and white satin, it was hard not to stare at Lyanna, with that pale perfect skin and wild dark hair. She was fresh, different than what Southron customs usually dictated, a wild queen for the silver king.

She's his, Jaime reminded himself as he watched King Rhaegar settle his hand low on Lyanna's spine, bending over to whisper in her ear. Jaime looked away. She is his, just as I am Cersei's. Cersei was the point by which he had always defined himself; her and his hand, the hand that had won him knighthood, that had earned him his white cloak, and that had slain his king in cold blood.

I would kill Aerys a thousand times over for her, he thought idly as Lyanna swung an easy leg over Smoke. She was his queen, he was sworn to protect her too. But not at the expense of a king, a laughing voice reminded him. Jaime ignored it and kicked his heels into his horse.

The party of riders waiting in the yard finally mounted, pouring out the gates by matter of importance. The Kingsguards went first, the line of defense, and after came the royal procession: Rhaegar on his black destrier and Lyanna on Smoke, the horse's coat gleaming like fresh steel. Behind them came Prince Viserys, then the royal litter, filled with Dowager Queen Rhaella, the little princess babe, and Lyanna's ladies - Johanna Mallister, Cersei and Melara Hetherspoon, Ashara Dayne Stark, and the Crownlands twins, Ericka and Emma.

A majority of the tourney guests had already ridden to the grounds, but those who had not followed behind the royal party, bringing up the tail.

They rode down Aegon's High Hill in a long snaking line, the commons gathering at the sides of the streets to yell and cheer their names. Rhaegar's name was shrieked and shouted, and even Viserys a time or two, but it was Lyanna the commons loved most, calling her out, screaming for her.

"Queen Lyanna!" filled the air like a song, repeated and repeated again. Jaime looked over at his queen, catching the way she smiled and waved at the people; he was suddenly, randomly, reminded of a morning in Winterfell four months past when Lyanna had taken him to an abandoned tower within the castle, where only crows and the cold winds lived. The sun had been hidden away and the skies had snowed gently, and when they had lay across across the roof, looking up, Jaime could swear that nothing else in the world existed but the white of the North.

He wondered when the snows had become more preferable to him than the sun.

When they reached the tourney grounds, it was alive. The encampments were bright with colored pavilions, the air was ripe with the salt of the river and the earthy scent of horse. Squires rushed around, and mounts were readied, weapons were tested and last-minute adjustments were made to armor.

It was a morning of disarray that led into an entire day of roaring competition. The forty man-melee that was slotted to start out the tourney took most of the daylight, each man hungry to prove his strength and valor before the new king. Squires fought knights and lords fought hedge knights, and everyone fought everyone, each round leaving more than a few someones with cracked ribs or broken fingers or bruised egos or just plain unconscious.

And in the end, it was Lord Robert Baratheon who won, collecting the purse of five thousand gold dragons with a booming laugh and kissing the fingers of Queen Lyanna when coming to bow before the royal box.

After that came the short lists, for those who were not so experienced at riding the tilt as those who would compete over the next two days. Jaime was eager to ride, anxious to sit the saddle and point a lance at an opponent, ready to knock someone away as they rode. He would win back the glory that had been stolen away from him at Harrenhal by the Mad King; but that would be for tomorrow when his first match was against Ser Oswell.

Today there was Sandor Clegane who was tall and formidable for someone so young, but not quite as experienced with a lance as he was with a sword; there was Jon Arryn's nephew, and unnamed squires, heavy silvered knights looking to gain infamy and favor but ultimately failing. Benjen Stark brought up the last of the day, beating out his third opponent to the roar of the crowd and commons who'd gathered to watch the games.

Jaime suspected the love only came because he was the beloved queen's brother, but still he spared a smile for the excitable wolf pup whose grin was as wide as the half-moon sitting upon the sky.

And all through this, through every hour that passed by the day, as the sun arced over the sky like the swing of a golden sword, Jaime watched Rhaegar stare at Lyanna. The king's purple eyes would take in the games with thin interest, enough to remain polite, but in the end, he could never stop himself from straying back to his wife.

There was something intimate in Rhaegar's gaze, Jaime noticed, something hungry. Rhaegar looked at Lyanna as if he wanted to consume her, and all too late, Jaime realized it was the same look he and Cersei had once sent each other whilst living at Casterly Rock, their love new and forbidden, a dangerous game between twins. He wondered why his chest stung with the realization that the king lusted after his own wife.

The ride back through the city was slower going, the commons coming out in droves for the night. Prostitutes and tavern wenches, dirty naked children racing underfoot, daring one another to approach the Kingsguard. Jaime rode beside Cersei's litter and wondered if he would be able to get her alone before the feast, so he could purge himself of that odd sharp stinging by fucking the feelings away.

At the Red Keep, there were so many guests dismounting, going this way and that, gossiping and figuring out where to go, that it was all too easy to grab Cersei and pull her out of sight. He didn't look at her, didn't explain, he just pulled her along until he found a small storage room.

And he was on her just as quick. She tasted just as he remembered, of light and sunshine, of love and Cersei, their lips slanting together from memory just as they had done a thousand times before. He pressed his body closer to hers, his brain awash with the feeling of his twin so close. Her hands ran up his stomach, stopping at his chest, and she pushed.

"What are you doing?" She demanded, scandalized, bending to fuss at her skirts as he stumbled back from her shove. Her eyes were wide with faux innocence, the green sparkling like dark emeralds.

Jaime smirked, though confused, hating the narrowed glare she shot him. "What does it look like, sweet sister?" He strode forward and cupped her chin, intending to kiss her once more, but she slapped his hand away with a vicious cut that made his cock soften in his breeches.

"Stop it," she snapped, out of character and cruel. "You're acting like some whoring fool." Her full pink mouth puckered in irritation.

He was confused, met by this stranger girl who didn't want his touches. There had hardly ever been a time that Cersei hadn't wanted him, and now she slapped him off like a dog begging for scraps. "Sister," Jaime began slowly, "what's wrong with you? We've been apart for so long, it's been months. I need you."

Cersei scowled, the downturn of her mouth marring her golden beauty into something ugly. "Act like a man, brother. You're not a child and I'm not your plaything here to milk you like a cow. I'm here for King Rhaegar. Now I need to go get ready for the feast. I need to look my best." She went to leave but Jaime caught her by the elbow.

He was all too aware of the sound of voices getting louder beyond the room, but he could hardly focus for the stranger in front of him. "Stop this," he told her. "Don't act as if we don't belong together." He might have asked what had changed her so, but he had a knowledge of exactly what had transformed his sister into this stranger. Or better yet, who had changed her.

Cersei glared, angry now. "What would the king think if news of this got back to him, if someone were to see and he heard of us? Have you ever considered that? Or are you too busy guarding the stupid barren wolf bitch to think about anything else?"

Jaime felt fury rise in him suddenly, scarily. He released her elbow and clenched his fists. "What if the king heard of us?" He repeated in a cold chuckle, unbelieving at the pure irony of it all. "Are you so fucking blind?"

He never saw Cersei's slap, but he sure did feel it; it was as sharp as the ache in his chest, but only half as painful. "You," Cersei blazed, "are an idiot and a fool. Father was right to give up hope in you. I will be the one to bring our House pride. The king has no trueborn heirs of his own, and his wife is a cold useless dog. I need to be fit for his consort, and that won't happen if he finds out that you try to fuck me."

He could scarcely believe what he was hearing, and before he knew it his laughter was bubbling out of him without control, wild. He laughed for so long, so hard, that Cersei reared back to slap him again in indignation. But he caught her wrist in the air and pulled her hard against him, the lines of her body stirring his blood.

"Try to fuck you?" He laughed. "I've lost count of how many times I've been between your thighs. It's always been me and you, you and me. Us." He suddenly remembered the way Rhaegar had been looking at Lyanna all day, and wondered if he was between her thighs at that moment. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"There is no us," Cersei hissed. Her eyes flared as bright as the wildfire King Aerys had been so fond of, the same wildfire that had nearly killed him and Lyanna both that night. "You are nothing compared to Rhaegar," she spat, venomous as a snake.

"I am just as good as the dragon," Jaime promised angrily. "But it's no matter anyway. He will never want you and you will never have him." Only Cersei being denied the king could cure Jaime of the sting of this rejection. My sister, my twin, my lover, my mirror.

Cersei scowled, hatred boiling in her eyes, hatred the likes of which he had never seen before. She was still so lovely. "I will be his queen, and he will love me. Now, unhand me!" She yanked back her arm savagely and whirled.

But Jaime shouldered past her quickly, black with anger and green with envy, eager to be the first to leave. He could always hide his true feelings from everyone else with his golden arrogance, but there was no point in trying to hide from Cersei. She knew him, was him, they were one soul in two bodies.

So why did he hate her so much in that moment?

Jaime went to the door and yanked it open, golden candlelight spilling in immediately. But before he left, he stopped, looked over his shoulder, and smiled. "What if the king were to find out about us?" He repeated to her once more, his voice lilting with grim satisfaction. "Queen Lyanna, the woman your precious king actually wants to fuck, knows about us."

Cersei's eyes went wide as eggs and she froze.

Jaime felt triumphant, but he didn't stop there. "Lyanna caught me fucking you from behind that night when you came to retrieve Rhaegar's battle plans for Father. She saw us and she knows." He tried to memorize every line of Cersei's face, every inch of outrage and utter fear painted on her golden skin in that moment. "Lyanna has kept our secret thus far, but it could easily slip out. Perhaps if you make her angry enough, trying to steal her king, she'll do it."

Jaime knew Lyanna would never, but it filled him with a sick satisfaction to see the confidence drain from his twin, to have her feel as dejected and lost as he did.

"You wouldn't have let her live if she'd seen us," Cersei whispered, eyes wide. "You would have killed her before she could betray us." Her faith in him seemed shaky, as if it was a declaration said aloud only to appease her rising panic.

"Oh, sweet sister," Jaime sighed, curling his lip in disdain. "There is no us...remember?"

Chapter 63: Silk and Petals

Notes:

I want to thank my friend, roboregs, for providing me with the song I listened to a hundred times over while writing this chapter!

Chapter Text

"Ser Jaime rode magnificently today," Lady Ericka crooned dreamily, turning her face up to the twilight sky briefly before casting a shy look over her shoulder at the group of Kingsguards dismounting in the yard.

Lyanna looked back as well. Jaime's hair shone like beaten gold beneath the light of the dying sun, his skin flushed and dewy; unlike Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan, Jaime's armor was clean and pure, no dirt or grass stains to be found streaked upon its white plate. He'd ridden against both of the senior Kingsguards that day, and had beaten them both to the roar of an approving crowd.

Lyanna suddenly smiled; Jaime's victories had won her twenty golden dragons from Benjen, who had proved an underwhelming bet, and another ten from Brandon who, despite desperately wishing to ride, had opted out of the lists on Ashara's suggestion.

"My brother is an excellent knight," Cersei Lannister agreed, stepping from the ornate crimson-and-gold litter that had been settled next to Lyanna's horse in the Red Keep's yard.

Lady Cersei looked just as beautiful as Jaime that day, with that curling golden hair and green, green eyes, clad in a white dress chased with gold that matched her brother's armor. She seemed the very picture of innocence and purity. Lyanna still remembered the way Cersei had looked being pounded from behind by her twin brother.

"Most gallant," Lyanna contributed, studying the way Lady Cersei whipped her head over before adopting the fakest of smiles; her eyes were green like emeralds, darker than Jaime's, but only slightly so. Jaime has cat eyes.

"It means so much that you think so, Your Grace," Cersei intoned politely. "After all, Jaime is one of the king's chosen seven. He mustn't be anything less than perfect."

Lyanna clenched her jaw, wondering what the hells Jaime saw in Cersei, besides his own reflection, to commit incest and present himself as an abomination to the heavens. Cersei was gorgeous, of course - she was Jaime's equal - but from what Lyanna had witnessed in just the two days' time she'd been back in King's Landing, Cersei Lannister had a soul as black as the midnight sky. Paranoid and quick to enflame, the golden girl was an irritating presence that Lyanna endured only for politeness' sake. Otherwise...

"Shall we get ready for the feast together?" Johanna suggested hopefully, ending all talk of Jaime.

It was the end of the second day of the tourney, and spirits would be high. For the morrow brought about the final matches, featuring Jaime, Ser Arthur, Oberyn Martell, Rhaegar, and Ser Brynden Tully, Catelyn's own uncle.

"Yes," Ericka agreed excitedly, bouncing on her toes. Lyanna's eyes met Ashara's instantly, grey on purple, and the two shared a secret smile, tucking away their laughter.

"Come," Lyanna said suddenly, playing the queen no one believed her to be, "we may use my chambers." She led them away.

They walked in a clutter from the yard and into the castle, drifting through the halls with their chatter echoing off the stone like the caws of crows. Cersei Lannister had taken a special liking to the Crownlands twins, but did not much care for Johanna or Ashara. Lyanna had more than an inkling the lioness' distaste extended to her, too.

She wants him, Lyanna knew, she wants my husband, and there's naught that I can do. My body is broken and he needs children. Trueborn children, for the realm and for his prophecy. He told me the dragon must have three heads. Her mind swam uneasily. Our baby girl.

Over the drawbridge, they swept into Maegor's, Lyanna and Ashara linked by their elbows, Johanna lingering beside them, and Cersei and the twins at their heels. Ashara leaned over and whispered something mean that made Lyanna smile through her pain, but she stopped when she saw one of her maids.

"Oh, Alys," Lyanna called her. "Would you mind drawing me a bath? Warm water please." She thought better of it. "On second note, make that scalding." She had a taste for fire tonight.

Alys froze and frowned. "Your Grace, I am afraid that is not possible."

Lyanna furrowed her brows. "Not possible?"

"No, no, Your Grace, there is no room in yo- your chambers," Alys stuttered, frightened. She'd always been a quiet thing, prone to speech impediment and not looking anyone directly in the eyes. "A tub will not fit."

Lyanna sighed. Without asking any more questions, she strode forward, pushed open her door, went to the cross the threshold, and stopped.

The smell was what hit her first, airy and fragrant, sweet and powerful, it seemed to bloom like a giant wave crashing over her. And they were everywhere, covering the floor, covering the bed, covering every flat surface available, from the writing desk to the armoire to every one of her trunks and chests.

There had to be at least a thousand flowers in her chambers, a dozen different kinds - bunched together with silken ribbons, stuck in watered vases. Some single-stemmed, their stems flimsy and green, some thorny and sharp. Some were thrown haphazardly on the stone floor and some were laid neatly on her pillows in a tight floral row.

They were alive in a rainbow of colors, too - vases of red roses, dark as blood, bound in black ribbon, and white roses fresh as the fallen snow wrapped up in strips of grey velvet; an entire band of sunflowers was thrown atop her chaise lounge, their wiry stems five feet long; there were wildflowers plucked in purples and yellows, that reminded her of the godswood of Riverrun; bright orange dragon flowers whose cores were red as a blood moon sat bunched in a brilliantly ornate crystal decanter, the candlelight bouncing off it magnificently. There were so many and much, much more to behold, but...

It was the bed, though, that really took Lyanna's breath away, that had made her stop dead. Across her blankets, these flowers had obviously been picked clean, meticulously shucked, so that her bed was showered with hundreds of petals. Petals that were as blue as frost, petals that made her remember warm days at Harrenhal and cold mornings at home. Winter roses.

"Do you like them?" A deep voice said behind her, breath fanning against her ear.

Lyanna swiveled instantly, taking in the sight of Rhaegar leaning in the doorway, one foot casually crossed in front of the other. Her ladies had gathered in close beside him to admire the room as well, all cooing in awe. All but for Cersei, who looked as if the gods themselves had struck her with silent rage.

"You did this?" Lyanna asked breathlessly, trying not to pass out from her pounding heart. It was the flowers causing her to feel lightheaded. And the sight of him, too; he'd ridden in the lists late that day as well, suited in gleaming black armor against Ser Barristan and Jon Connington, winning both his matches. Sweat still clung to his silvery hair and face, and his purple eyes were bright with...something she could not place.

"I did," his smile was a mere lift of a corner of his full mouth. "So...do you like them?"

Lyanna turned her back on him to take in the view of her room once more, seemingly struck dumb by the forest of flowers that had been placed in her room by him. There were so many, they were so beautiful. She'd always been fond of flowers. She swallowed against her dry throat, but could not find words.

"My ladies," she heard Rhaegar say suddenly, "if you could excuse us. My wife and I would like some privacy now."

There were nervous titters, and Ashara came to kiss Lyanna's cheek, but all she could focus on was the colors, the smell, the loud sound of her door being shut and the bar being slid into place to lock them in. Her heart jumped violently.

"I can't believe you did all this," she breathed out, jumping when he slid, sly as a snake, in front of her.

Rhaegar's eyes dropped to her lips quickly before flashing back up; they glittered like amythests in the low candlelight. "You had your name day while you were at Winterfell." He stepped closer. "I missed it and I wanted to make it up to you."

"You sent me a bow made of dragonbone, and a quiver of weirwood arrows," she pointed out, intoxicated by the heady smell of his skin so close to her.

"You deserve so much more than that," he whispered, bending to kiss her gently on the hollow of her throat. His hands came to grasp at her hips.

Her head rolled back and her fingers came to tangle in his damp hair. The feel of his lips was like being struck by lightning, even though they were soft as feathers. Her heart was pounding. Pounding hard. Hard enough that it seemed to rattle her bones and body.

Suddenly, she remembered. "Brandon told me you offered him the position of Master of Laws," she said as Rhaegar kissed across her jaw.

"I did," he said simply.

"He told me that he accepted." She'd been so happy when her brother had confirmed he would be staying in King's Landing to serve on Rhaegar's small council. She didn't know how much longer she would be here, with her barren body, but she was happy to know Brandon and Ashara would want for nothing.

"He did," Rhaegar said simply again, drawing back to look her in the eyes.

"He's going to live here now," she pointed out, dizzy from him.

"He will."

She smiled softly, so, so grateful. It was rare that Northerners were included with dealings of the crown, but Brandon would excel as Master of Laws; their father had instilled within them all a deep sense of justice. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," Rhaegar replied seriously. "But I don't want to talk about Brandon anymore."

Her throat went dry. "Me either."

Rhaegar did not smile, he did not show anything at all. "Good," he murmured, fisting her skirts in one hand. "Then let's stop talking and let me take off your clothes."

He tore off his own sweaty tunic first, throwing it blindly so it landed atop a group of wildflowers in a simple glass vase. Then, he plucked at the laces at the front of her dress with deft fingers that were accustomed to the silver strings of his harp, so that her breasts were exposed to him. He pushed the gown roughly off her hips and yanked her against him.

Their lips slanted together wildly, and his hands were everywhere. She didn't realize they had been walked backwards, through the maze of flowers, until her knees hit the bed and they fell back against winter petals and silk covers.

Rhaegar pulled back, fumbling frantically with his belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the room. When it was undone, he shoved everything off so that he was as naked as her. He was back on her quickly, mouth moving down her throat and chest.

"Robert Baratheon was staring at you today," he said suddenly into her skin before scraping his teeth across the peak of her breast.

She nearly choked on her breath from the feel of it, but she was still aware enough to know how to pull her husband's strings. "Perhaps Lord Robert wanted to admire what might soon be his."

Rhaegar's fury was as palpable as the smell of the winter rose petals beneath her naked skin. He scraped his fingers down her waist possessively. "You are mine, and only mine."

"Lord Robert wants me," she said shakily as Rhaegar's fingers came to tease between her legs.

"Fuck that stag. I want you," he bit out, curling two fingers inside her. He was panting against her lips, breath mingling. She challenged him with a simple oh?, and the fire in his eyes raged to hellish intensity. "I'll show you how badly I want you," he promised against her mouth, kissing her softly.

She couldn't do anything but lay there, panting heavily, as Rhaegar moved his mouth in a trail down her body. From her lips to her jaw, down her throat, over each breast, using his teeth to snag at the skin of her waist and hips, before finally spreading her legs with his calloused hands.

The heat of Rhaegar's breath washed over her like delicious dragonfire as he crawled back to settle in the cradle of her thighs. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, dragging his lips up the inside of her right thigh, and then closed his lips in an open kiss right over her sex.

A jolt of sharp pleasure shocked her instantly, and Lyanna sucked in a breath. She felt her eyes roll back, and her fingers knotted themselves through the roots of his hair, pulling on them painfully though Rhaegar made no objection. He just kissed her again before rolling his tongue against the nub at the top of her cunt.

She nearly came right then and there, her nerves frayed and flayed open, practically humming with ecstasy. She could hardly believe how good it felt to have his mouth on her, his tongue playing circles on her sensitive skin.

"Does that feel good?" He whispered on her skin suddenly, dragging his tongue upwards. His hands kneaded at the swell of her hips.

Lyanna's voice was raspy when she answered in a hoarse murmur, "So good."

They never talked about this when they lectured girls on pleasing their husbands. It was all about duty, letting the husband take their pleasures, laying there until he was finished. They never spoke of the way a dragon's tongue felt rolling over pink skin, of purple eyes glancing up, silver strands splayed wild, of the way a king owned a queen's body, its skin, bones, heart, and soul.

Rhaegar licked at her sex languidly, softly, all long strokes of his tongue and soft drags with his lips, the same way he might've kissed her mouth. She tried to hold off the pleasure mounting, rising sharp within her, wanting nothing more than to bask in that perpetual state of utterly pure, unadulterated, so good bliss.

And she might have been able to...if not for the way he stopped momentarily, sliding his tongue against that spot in a sinuous little circle, closed his lips around her, and then hummed.

The vibrations of his mouth rocked through her hard, and less than a second later her body erupted, on fire, with a feeling so amazing, an explosion so strong, her vision went black with spots. She squeezed her eyes against it, her nails coming to scratch red against the hard slopes of his warrior's shoulders. Her legs shook around his head as waves of pleasure washed over her, hard as a hurricane, and her back arched off the bed, winter petals shifting soft beneath her skin.

The ecstasy stretched on for years, for seconds, for minutes, for months, leaving Lyanna a shaking, limp mess on her rose-covered bed. She felt Rhaegar move over her suddenly, climbing up, his hands sinking into the blankets at her sides, and a moment later, his warm, swollen lips were pushing against her own and his cock was hard between her legs. He pushed into her easily, sliding through her wetness to sink wholly into her.

She moaned low and kissed Rhaegar back lazily, though hungrily, and canted her hips up to match his long, slow thrusts. She was so out of sorts and hazy-minded from the feelings he had given her with his mouth and the fullness he was making her feel with himself, that when the knock came at the door, she jumped beneath him. He pulled back instantly and their eyes met, his pupils blown wide. No purple remained.

"Who is that?" He asked quietly, though he couldn't have cared much because he stroked right back into her.

Lyanna moaned. "I don't know," she said, "but don't stop."

He bent to rest his forehead against hers, thrusting inside her. "I won't."

The knock at the door came again in a series, harder and more insistent this time, and then a voice. "Your Grace, Queen Lyanna." It was Ser Oswell.

"Ignore him," Lyanna said breathlessly, whimpering when Rhaegar dragged his thumb across the underside of one breast.

"Your Grace!" Oswell called through the door. "Is King Rhaegar in there with you? We cannot find him anywhere. The feast waits to begin."

Had it truly been so long already? Time seemed to disappear when she was with Rhaegar. All around her, the smell of flowers pressed down on her, mixing with Rhaegar's wonderful own scent of his skin.

"Your Grace," Ser Oswell tried again, a frantic tone taking his voice.

"He's not here," she shouted suddenly, irrationally, as Rhaegar rolled them over so that he was on his back and Lyanna was straddling him. She lifted up on her knees and rolled her hips in a spiral down his cock. He threw his head back into the bed, blue petals mixing with his silver hair.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Oswell called back as Lyanna rode her husband, "we'll keep searching."

"You're a little liar," Rhaegar chuckled breathlessly when Oswell left his silence behind. He grabbed her hips and thrusted up to meet her.

Lyanna leaned her hands over his hard chest, digging her nails into his skin. "I'll apologize later," she said without care.

Rhaegar's lips parted as she rolled her hips over him, and he sat up to kiss her hard on the mouth, grinding up into her needily. "Don't," he breathed into her mouth. "They can afford to search for a while."

"And your subjects waiting in the Great Hall?"

Rhaegar's tongue slipped into her mouth, tasting of him and her. "They can go to hell."

Cersei Lannister sat in the throne room amidst a thousand others, stewing at her place of honor on the dais. All around the music was lively, the floor littered with nobles dancing. The dinner portion of the feast had been long over, though it had started late from the king and queen's tardy arrival...

They had been still occupied from that romantic display Rhaegar had set up in Lyanna's chambers, Cersei was sure of it.

Her envy had been an ugly thing to rein in when she'd witnessed that room, the jealousy green and monstrous, as wild as wildfire. She'd wanted to take Lyanna by the neck when she had seen those flowers, had wanted to take Rhaegar by the mouth when he'd appeared, silver and sweaty from the joust.

He's supposed to be mine, she thought with poison in her heart, glaring at Lyanna as she laughed from her brother, Brandon's arms; he twirled her quickly and handed her off to a waiting Rhaegar. The king pulled his wife close. Too close. She can't give him what I can, she thought, he only uses her for what's between her legs.

Cersei felt tears fill her eyes. She had to do something, and soon, before Rhaegar chose someone else to be the bearer of his children. The Northern girl had some kind of hold on him obviously, but that hold would break once he tired of her barrenness. Of course Cersei had to be careful, now that Jaime had let it out that Lyanna Stark knew of their relations. But would she tell? Lyanna did seem to have some odd attachment to Jaime, much to Cersei's black anger.

She's weak, Cersei thought venomously. She bit her lip to keep from crying, to keep from raging. She has my dragon, and she presumes to steal my lion, too. Cersei no longer needed Jaime, but she didn't want anyone else to have him either.

Stupid little whore, ruining my life, my destiny...

But then, Cersei suddenly remembered something. Two nights ago, when the opening night feast had ended, when the dancing and music had faded, and everyone had dispersed to bed, their own or someone else's. Cersei had not. Instead of retiring to her rooms within the Tower of the Hand, she'd gone to Traitor's Walk, where only the quiet and the night greeted her.

She had been avoiding Jaime, knowing they'd needed to cut ties if she was going to be Rhaegar's soon. So she had pilfered a bottle of golden wine, sat on Traitor's Walk, leaning against a pillar, and looked up.

She still remembered vividly the color of the comet that had streaked across the heavens that night, red as blood, its tail smoking grey against the black velvet of the sky. That night, she had marveled at its beauty, only later on pondering its meaning, its promise. Lannister red, she had thought then, knowing it was good fortune for her House, but not realizing what specifically it foretold.

Now, watching Rhaegar dance with his temporary queen, she realized the comet had only one meaning. The gods sent that comet for us, for me, she realized with startling glee, her eyes bright and wide. To herald my coming as the dragon's queen.

Cersei watched Lyanna with a terrible smile, fire flaring in her soul. Soon I will give my king mighty dragons and roaring lions, she thought, and the wolf will feed the worms.

Chapter 64: A Crown of Blood Petals

Chapter Text

It's funny, Jaime thought as they strolled through the godswood arm in arm, how utterly bare and skeletal this place seems in comparison to Winterfell.

The godswood of the Red Keep was a bare bones, pathetic place of worship as compared to that of Lyanna's home, sprung with oaks and saplings, dragon's breath and brush, but no weirwood at which to kneel, no carved faces to witness prayer.

The godswood at Winterfell had been full - full of trees and plants, full of gods and life and chilling spirits that Jaime had felt used to watch Lyanna and him as they chased each other through the wood like children at play. Here, though, in King's Landing, the Old Gods had no place and it was never so apparent as it was in their wood.

Lyanna pulled him along until they found a small pond with a massive oak tree standing vigil; its trunk alone was twice the size of the Mountain that Rides' torso, and its roots were as big as legs jutting and twisting up out of the ground.

His queen plopped down very unqueen-like, and yanked Jaime down with her, his whites dirtied almost immediately with forest brush.

"The washerwomen will kill you," Jaime grumbled, impatiently brushing away grime from his breeches. He'd dressed haphazardly when Lyanna woke him from his chambers, hurriedly pulling on breeches and a tunic so they could go on their morning walk. It had been a ritual in their seven months at Winterfell to stroll the godswood in the morning light, though Jaime had never felt more like a stranger than amongst her trees and gods.

"I'm Queen," Lyanna said, grinning like a naughty child, "they cannot kill me."

"Fine," he conceded, quirking one brow, "they'll kill me."

Lyanna adopted a mask of faux outrage. "They'd never dare! And if they try, I'll raise up my sword against them." She paused, smiling. "I've heard I'm quite the swordsman."

"Whoever told you that must be a liar." Jaime hid his secret smile by looking out into the godswood. He'd never been here before, in the Red Keep's godswood, had never had the need to. For all intents and purposes, he worshipped the Seven, though he'd not said a prayer in so long.

They were quiet for a long time after that, he and Lyanna sitting together, side by side, listening to the wind and the birds, the rustle of leaves and the gentle lap of water. Her presence was a balm to his soul, a balm to the wrongs he'd committed that tore his heart and honor apart. When he was with Lyanna, he didn't feel so much like a kingslayer.

When her voice broke the silence, Jaime nearly flinched. "I prayed here, you know."

Jaime's brows furrowed. "I'm sure you have," he said slowly, not following. When she did not say anything else, he continued. "For what?"

Her eyes were somewhere far away when she looked at him. "I begged the Old Gods to let Rhaegar's plan work, to let him depose his father."

Perhaps all the gods do not care for our prayers. Perhaps they hear, they laugh, and they ignore us, Jaime thought, snorting.

"But then I prayed for something else," Lyanna cut in quickly, the grey of her eyes coming alive like fresh-forged Valyrian steel, sharp and deadly and the loveliest thing he'd ever seen. "I prayed to my gods that they would send me a hero...a hero to kill the Mad King."

Jaime's heart skipped a beat and died in his chest. She had prayed and the gods had answered her with him. Had the Old Gods forced him to kill his king? Had they sent their ancient powers to entrance his hand and mind, so that he would drive his sword through the Mad King's back?

No, probably not...and yet still, goosebumps erupted along his body. "I broke my most important vow," he finally said, though he never believed one vow was more important than the others. "I am no hero."

Lyanna grabbed his hand suddenly, hard, and shook it so that he would look at her. "You're my hero," she corrected him. "Whilst everyone else turned their heads at Aerys' madness, you and I were forced to see." She studied him for several long beats. "You are my hero."

The intensity of her words, the intensity of her stare had Jaime's throat dry and closing up. When she finally looked away and slumped back against the tree, he felt like he could breathe again. She did not let go of his hand.

"I'm scared," she said without preamble, looking out to the pond.

"Of Rhaegar?" Jaime asked, confused. As far as he had seen, the son did not follow in the father's footsteps, though a man could change his nature whilst naked in bed. Had Rhaegar hurt her? His free hand formed a fist.

"Of Rhaegar winning," Lyanna finished for him, clenching her jaw.

It was the final day of the tourney, the last of the champions' matches slated for midday. And by twilight, a winner would be announced for all to see.

"Don't you want him to win?" Jaime wondered. He was completely lost.

"Yes," she admitted, "but no. The winner of the tourney has the privelege of naming his Queen of Love and Beauty. I fear that he will shame me and name another today. I'm not stupid, no matter how much his advisors may like to think. I hear their talk, how they whisper in his ear of another wife, another queen." When Lyanna looked at him, there was a wolf in her eyes. "He will name your sister."

Jaime's heart thumped. He'd not spoken to Cersei since their fight, but it hadn't stopped him from seeing her everywhere. At the tourney, at the feasts, at the private breakfasts in their lord father's solar. And any time the king was around, her eyes never left him.

"He crowned you at Harrenhal," he started.

She finished, "Only because I was of some use to him then." She chuckled darkly. "I am but a dried husk now, of no use to anyone."

Jaime squeezed her hand. "You're stupid if you think that," he said sharply.

Lyanna closed her eyes and smiled that fond smile only ever meant for him. "You're stupid if you don't."

"I'm the dumbest fucker alive then."

Lyanna laughed then, shaking against him until Jaime joined in, and their laughter filled the trees like wind. He knew he would win for her today, would win her that crown so her king could not name another. Wolves are not shamed, Jaime thought wryly, even before the whims of dragons and kings. You could not shame a wild thing.

When they finally settled down, Lyanna spoke. "If he marries another, I won't stay."

Panic filled Jaime without warning, sharp and sickening, and his head swam. "You won't stay?"

"No," she answered. "And he will marry another, he has to. He needs true heirs. But I won't be shipped off to marry some other lord so they can have the prestige of my name either. I'll run away, to Essos maybe."

"And I'll come with you," Jaime played along instantly, hiding his desperation with a playful voice. She couldn't leave here, she couldn't leave.

Lyanna smiled over at him. "Oh? And what will we do?"

Jaime thought. "I'll become a sellsword, join some company." How many times had he offered the same thing to Cersei, only to have her throw it in his face that she would be a queen, and not some sellsword's girl?

"The Golden Company," Lyanna threw in with a chuckle.

"Why that one?"

Lyanna took her free hand and ran it through his curls. "For your golden hair of course."

Jaime smirked, his scalp tingling. "I'll join the Golden Company," he amended, "and you..."

"Will become a sorceress," she finished, giggling.

Jaime shook his head fondly, playing idly with the hilt of his sword. "The Sellsword and the Sorceress, what a song the bards will make of us." He felt like a boy child again, in that specific way only Lyanna could make him revert back to.

Lyanna quieted, her mirth stolen suddenly. "Life is no song," she sighed deeply. She raised her eyes to the sky. "Besides...you're the king's man, a White Knight, a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. You could not leave."

Jaime flipped his palm up and squeezed her hand where she still held his. "I killed a king for you once," he reminded her, looking into her eyes when she whipped her head over to see him. "I'm not scared to run away from another."

There was hero worship in her gaze, hero worship meant for him. "Brandon is staying at Court," she told him suddenly, "but Ned will go home soon, possibly Benjen, too." Her eyes were grey chalcedony. "Don't ever leave me in this place alone. You're my closest friend, I couldn't bear for you to be gone."

Jaime thought of Cersei and how she would look being wed to Rhaegar in the Great Sept, her golden hair shining beneath a crown as the crystal dome swept rainbows over her wedding gown.

"Like you said, my queen," Jaime said softly, all arrogance stolen, "I am a Kingsguard, I'm not going anywhere." He squeezed her hand before letting go. "Unless you mean to leave, too."

His heart raged. Raged wild as an autumn storm at sea, rattled and rampaged like some great monster roaring for release from its cage of bones. Its beat pulsed behind his eyes. His skin was slick with sweat beneath the cold bite of his mail, yet his arms were cropped with goosebumps, and his veins rushed with such great adrenaline that his knees felt like pudding around his horse.

All around, the furor of the stands crashed over Jaime with the strength of Northern storm waves, entrapping him and holding him frozen like Cannibal Bay in the Shivering Sea. His wild eyes searched the galleries, sweeping past a thousand pairs of noble eyes to land on one, just one. A pair of eyes that rippled like steel and cut through him easy as warm butter, eyes that were set into a face so lovely that even the gods would weep to behold her.

Jaime could sense her relief, could practically feel it like a caress on his skin. Lyanna's words rushed back to him in a dizzying reminder of their sit-in at the godswood that morning. I'm scared, she had admitted with iron in her eyes, of Rhaegar winning.

She feared for her shame, feared for her king husband's fidelity and actions should he win the tourney. She feared the advisors that whispered against her in Rhaegar's ear. Jaime had not promised Lyanna a thing that morning, had not quelled her doubts, but he owed her all the same. He owed her for knowing his secrets and keeping them held tight in her grasp, he owed her for her friendship and loyalty, he owed her because...she was Lyanna, and he had killed a king for her. He could stand to beat one as well.

Jaime lifted the visor on his helm as his squire rushed over with a fresh lance, the long wood of it painted white with whorls of gold down its length; at the tip, a lion was done in brass to roar its defiance. Eight lances had been shattered against Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully before Jaime had won the match that slotted him for the final, and his horse was riled and angry, blowing breath from its nostrils like some great, dreadful dragon.

Across the yard, King Rhaegar was entering, the black of his armor catching the afternoon light to gleam like dragonglass, the rubies in his plate shimmering like hot coals. His squire followed behind, carrying the thick lance painted red, as well as the dragon's helm that which had strips of red and yellow silk attached to its top like streaming fire. The king threw a leg over his black horse, donned his helm, took his lance, and nodded off to the side.

The trumpets blew their fanfare over the noise of the nobles, and the cheering of the commons who had come to see the final game, and Jaime's heart pounded furiously. Pounded so hard, it took him back to the day he fought with the royal forces against the Kingswood Brotherhood, his hands green and his soul just the same, but his arrogance and bravery Lannister gold.

He felt as if he were about to go to his death as he kicked his horse to a trot, felt like his breakfast was going to swim up his throat. His chest rattled so hard that his teeth chattered, and his hands twitched with adrenaline. If I do not go to battle, why do I feel like I ride for war?

He'd never felt so sick, so nervous before, though he did not doubt his prowess to win. He was Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin, a lion of the Rock, the youngest Kingsguard ever to be inducted, and Kingslayer besides. He was going to win a crown for his queen.

Rhaegar and Jaime's horses met in the middle of the yard, black and white, then trotted alongside one another to stop before the royal box. Rhaegar lifted the visor on his helm and inclined his head, murmuring, "My queen."

Lyanna looked to Jaime next. Her eyes were grey, grey like the stone of Winterfell, dark as the pool beneath the heart tree of her godswood, her face pale as the snows. He was tempted to betray their closeness by addressing her with her plain name, but he knew by the look in Rhaegar's eyes that would be pushing it too far. Instead, he said, "My queen," and nodded to her, attempting to convey through his gaze she had no need to worry.

He would play the Dragonknight today. For her.

Jaime rode to the end of the list then, as did Rhaegar, trying to shrug off the heavy weight of Cersei's eyes on him from her position at Lyanna's side. His horse shifted beneath him restlessly, snorting, and the lance seemed to make his wrist seize in pain. But he would not, could not let Lyanna down now. Not now, not with the very real chance of Rhaegar crowning Cersei looming over them both. He didn't think either could bear to watch that spectacle.

From his designated spot behind the rails at the sides, Viserys stood proud, his small body clad in child's mail and steel, his silvery hair shining like polished metal. In his hand was the ceremonial flag to commemorate the final joust, waving black and red for the crown's colors. Ser Willem Darry, master-at-arms, bent to whisper in his ear and gently pushed the prince forward.

The squires rushed back as Jaime and Rhaegar came to their marks, each man readying himself to ride. Jaime flipped down his visor and corrected his hold on the lance, gritting his teeth as he spared one last look at his sister, then his queen. He turned away before his heart could leave his body.

Viserys puffed up his chest as he stepped into the yard, raising his chin just before bringing the flag down in a short, blurred black arc. "Let the game begin!" He shouted right before he leapt back.

Jaime felt like the wind itself as his horse sped down the line, its galloping hooves thundering like a hellstorm over the roar of the crowds. Through his slitted visor, he saw Rhaegar speeding at him, fast as the beat of a dragon's wing, his long red lance aimed at Jaime's heart.

Closer and closer they came, white armor, black armor, white horse, black horse, until they clashed, both their lances shattering in a magnificent shower of red-and-white splintered wood. Jaime cursed, the word of his irritation lost as the stands roared. His name was shouted, and encouragements were called, the dragon exalted in cheer as they trotted off to their respective ends, gathering fresh lances from their squires before going back to their marks.

Jaime's heart was in his throat as the flag was waved, and his stomach at his feet as he rode to meet his king once more.

Over and over they met in the yard, clashing and clashing again. The flag was tired and lances were shattered, some gliding sweetly off steel, some landing solid though seats in the saddle were kept strong. Jaime's heart no longer seemed to work, his breath stolen, his scalp burning from the warmed steel, sweat pouring down his face. His breath was hot as fire in the confinement of his helm, and all he wished for was a swift end, a swift victory so that Lyanna could have her rightful crown.

So Cersei could know his pain. Their pain.

The king and Jaime had met ten times in the yard, each shattering three lances against the other, landing blows with the rest. Jaime panted hard, his chest heaving as he lifted his visor to drink from the skin of water his squire had brought him. He splashed the cool drink into his mouth, down his helm, let it soak into his skin as the white noise of the frantic audiences washed over him.

"Are you alright, Ser?" The squire shouted up at him, face crumpled with concern.

"Fine," he said back, glancing up. Lyanna's eyes were on him through the chaotic haze of anticipation, her faith in him strong. He could sense her fear, knew she would never forget the shame of being set aside publicly, especially in front of her family and the entire who's who of the realm. Beside her, Cersei wore a golden mask of smug assurance. Jaime scowled; he had to do this. Not only for his pride, but for Lyanna's as well.

"Get me my lance of Lannister," Jaime called to his squire, looking down the yard to Rhaegar. You may be my king, but she is my queen.

The squire came back quickly, producing the type of lance Jaime had always used before becoming a Kingsguard. Its length was painted crimson, with stripes of gold swirling about the wood, the words of his House done in harsh black. Hear me roar. And hear they would.

Jaime rode to his mark with a renewed fervor, his lion's blood screaming in his veins. A sort of sharp anticipation thrilled his body, making his skin tingle, making his wrist strong and his seat steady. Even kings were not invincible, and Rhaegar was no different.

When the flag was waved this time, Jaime was ready. He kicked his heels and his horse shot off, gliding over the yard with the otherworldly speed of a dragon's wing, hooves thundering into the dirt louder than any cry or cheer. He leaned forward in his seat, his thighs tight, with his lance poised at Rhaegar's chestplate in a morbid reminiscion of the former king's death.

Rhaegar's black plate was a blur across the list, steadily racing toward him, his own lance pointed at him with a promise. I am a lion, Jaime thought, hear me roar.

Jaime's arm exploded in piercing pain as his lance struck home, the impact reverberating through his shoulder, landing so solidly into Rhaegar's plate that the king was swept from his saddle like a ragdoll, landing in the dirt in a clatter of dark steel.

The stands hushed into pregnant silence and Jaime wheeled his horse around, plunged into a horror so strong he was paralyzed in his seat. Please, gods, no. Please don't let me have killed another. I only wanted to beat him...

Jaime jumped from his horse, shoving aside Jon Connington who knelt over Rhaegar. "Your Grace," Jaime called frantically, shaking his black plate. No, please no. Jaime's heart rushed to his throat. It was several long, terrifying moments before Rhaegar finally groaned and took Jaime's hand with strength, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

When the nobles and commons saw their king was fine, they cheered loudly, jumping to their feet with applause. At the top, Lyanna had rushed from her seat in the royal box to clutch at the lower rails, terror writ plain on her face. Rhaegar lifted his visor and blessed his wife with a smile so intimate, Jaime felt as if they were in a bedroom. He shivered under his mail and steel.

Rhaegar turned to Jaime slowly and clasped his arm hard, tugging him closer. The king's purple eyes were disturbing, alien, making Jaime's stomach curdle with their intensity. "Well ridden," Rhaegar allowed, nodding his head, though his jaw clenched and grinded.

Jaime bowed before his king. "You as well." Behind Rhaegar, a young boy approached quickly, his arms laden with a soft pillow, and on top of that, a wreath of roses. He bent a knee before the king, bowing his head.

Rhaegar took the crown of flowers and addressed the galleries. "Ser Jaime Lannister of my Kingsguard is the victor of this tourney!" The applause rang out, and under the lion banner, Lord Tywin studied his son with pale scrutiny. "He will now name his Queen of Love and Beauty!"

The laurel of roses was pressed into his hands and Jaime looked down; the crown itself was a dark and lovely thing, its bed twisted of thick vines cut of their thorns; the roses tucked throughout, though, were truly magnificent, the core of the petals white as the fallen snow, but crimson on the tips, as if they had been dipped in blood. White for Stark and crimson for Lannister, Jaime thought with dark amusement.

He spared his king one last look before setting off to the stands, the roses as heavy as steel in his hands. It was not unheard of for Kingsguards to name their queens as Queen of Love and Beauty, but for some reason, it felt wrong to approach Lyanna. You're doing nothing wrong, he told himself as he climbed the stairs to the royal box. Oftentimes he found if a man had to convince himself that he was innocent, he wasn't.

Cersei smiled as he approached, so different from the cutting storm she had been a few days prior. She seemed to think he was coming to crown her with those lovely roses, her green eyes glittering dark...

...but her smile died like water on flames when he went to his knee before Lyanna. "My queen." He offered up the crown of roses and waited.

Lyanna face was painted in shock, her jaw slack and her eyes wide with disbelief. She'd clearly also thought Jaime would crown his sister. Slowly, and with great reticence, she went to take the crown, her hands shaking all the while.

She inclined her head with the barest of movements, a secret show of gratitude for what Jaime had done for her, then carefully placed the rose crown over the top of her head, looking down into the yard. Jaime looked back, too, and met eyes with his king.

Do you love her? Rhaegar had asked him all those months ago at Dragonstone. Do you love her? The question rang in Jaime's head like a song as he wondered if this crown of snow-and-blood petals would provoke a new dragon's madness.

Chapter 65: Mad, Mad, Mad

Chapter Text

The night was blanketed in lilac and indigo, the moon a silver eye staring down upon the capital. The air was crisp and cool, but beneath that was the stink of the city pressing down on his nose, insistent and reeking of whores and shit.

Rhaegar looked out upon King's Landing from a dark alcove in a side corridor of the Red Keep, its high arched window long forgotten from the masses of Court. The torches sitting in sconces upon the wall were flickering and dim, dying, but the amber glow was enough to make out the white form standing ghostly silent around the corner.

Rhaegar took a deep breath and held the air in his chest until his lungs screamed in pain, literally dying for relief. The burning made him dizzy, but it also strengthened his resolve, made his anger blaze that much brighter, that much bolder. His sword hand jerked violently. Curiously calm, Rhaegar wondered if he'd left Fire on his bed...

...Young Jaime Lannister, the White Lion of the West. Would that Rhaegar could dispel the boy, disregard him and send him to the bowels of Casterly Rock with his little tail tucked between his legs all the way home.

It had been only hours since that spectacle at the tourney, Jaime on his knee before Lyanna, the ever gallant shining knight, offering up the crown of roses - roses that which Rhaegar had taken painstaking measures to find and procure. All for her, red and white. Red for Targaryen and white for Stark.

Of course no one else had found Lyanna being crowned out of the ordinary, or even an event to be remembered and analyzed. There was a precedent set over history, hundreds of years of Kingsguards crowning their queens and princesses with the prizes of tourneys - the laurel for Queen of Love and Beauty; after all, knights of the Kingsguards were forbidden to have wives or concubines or whores, and often served protecting the women of the royal family. But Rhaegar...he knew there was something off-putting about Jaime Lannister.

He'd once asked the little lion if he loved Lyanna, at Dragonstone, and though Jaime had never answered, Rhaegar suspected all the same.

And what had he done with those suspicions? He'd doused them in wildfire and set them ablaze by allowing Lyanna to go off to Winterfell and sending Ser Jaime with her. He'd fed the monster, and now he was reaping his own handiwork.

Seven months alone together in the frigid North, her healing from her sadness by the lion's side. It seemed all such a horribly twisted mummer's play, the princess and the knight. Rhaegar scowled. It's my fault, he reflected, I should have forced her to stay with me, heal with me. Instead of indulging her hurts, I should have made us face them together.

"Ser Gerold." Rhaegar's voice cut through the night air like a knife, rising above the cheerful bumble emanating from the feast in the throne room down the way.

Ser Gerold stepped forward, a stark white figure glowing in the dark alcove. "Your Grace?"

Rhaegar flexed his jaw, grinding his teeth together. A wreath of white-and-red roses suddenly flashed in his mind, nestled on a crown of brunette hair; Lyanna had worn the roses to dinner tonight, as was the custom of Queens of Love and Beauty.

An image of blue roses came to mind next; Lyanna had never worn her winter rose crown at Harrenhal, too angry at him for having crowned her at all, but she'd enjoyed it well enough when he'd made love to her on her bed of petals.

"Bring Ser Jaime to my chambers," Rhaegar said into the silence, his eyes fixed on the silver smattering of moonlight on the Blackwater in the distance. "Have him wait for me. I'll be there soon enough." The little Lannister could stand to steep himself in anticipation for a time.

Ser Gerold inclined his head and swept away in silence, his Kingsguard cloak swishing like a flash of starlight in his wake. When he went, only darkness remained, the candles having extinguished in the wind. Rhaegar molded his hands around the windowsill, briefly clenching his fingers into the stone as if they were claws.

Then he took the opportunity of isolation from his guard to rock back on his heels, rear back, and slam his fist into the wall. The impact was brutally painful, hardly satisfying, but there was an utter sense of relief immediately after. As if just the tiniest bit of aggression had been released. And yet still...

...there was enough rage coiling hot in his bones to make Rhaegar wonder if he'd inherited his father's madness after all. His rage was a black and red thing, sizzling like hot coals and smoking like the plumes of a dragon's nostrils.

He couldn't remember ever having been so potently angry before, not even when he'd found out what his father had done to Lyanna. At least then, his anger had been cut with the dark grief of losing his child. Now, there was nothing with which to water down his wrath.

He let it bubble in his veins, grip his bones, twist in his muscles, and ferment in his heart.

When enough time had passed that his legs began to ache and his knuckles had crusted over with thick, gummy blood, Rhaegar turned and made his way to Maegor's Holdfast, bypassing the feast altogether for the night and going straight to his chambers.

Outside his room Ser Gerold waited, tall and sternly-made, his face entirely impassive. That face had seen things, cruel things done by the Mad King. Rhaegar wondered how Gerold kept his heart from turning to stone and beating instead.

With the chamber doors open, Jaime was a beacon of gold and white, standing still as the Warrior with his hands clenched at his sides. Rhaegar stepped into the room lightly and kicked the door shut behind him, a glimmer of orange catching his eye. Fire lay on the bed, its naked blade glimmering hot; he went to it.

The room was immersed in utter silence, so heavy and tense that Rhaegar could see a bead of sweat forming on Jaime Lannister's golden brow. A fire roared in the hearth and a hundred candles had been lit so it was hot as a dragon's nest, warming Rhaegar's blood.

Rhaegar ran a single finger down Fire's steel, his veins thrumming with thrill. His voice sounded like iron. "You have woken the dragon, Ser Jaime."

Jaime made not a noise, raising those green eyes. With the firelight reflecting in them, they seemed like living wildfire. "I'm sorry, Your Grace?"

Rhaegar's head whipped toward the knight. "Don't play with me. Faux stupidity does not become you." He cracked his jaw. "You know to what I refer."

Jaime went completely still, not even his arms or legs shifting. The two men stared hard at one another for several long, discomfiting beats. Finally, Jaime said, "I thought you would be honored on your wife's behalf."

"Honored," Rhaegar chuckled breathlessly, the sound of it without humor. "You thought to honor me?" He brought Fire down so that the tip of the blade touched the floor. "You sought to honor Lyanna certainly, but I was not on your mind, I'm sure."

Jaime's brow lifted just enough to be counted insolent. "Is this because I won over you?"

Rhaegar whirled. "You little bastard," he seethed, "I am not angry that you beat me. In fact, I welcome the competition. But not when it comes to her."

Jaime said nothing.

Rhaegar began to pace, his long legs making harsh strides like a caged animal anxious to be free. Dragons had never been meant to be caged, that much had been proven by the history of the Dragonpit...but this cage was one of Rhaegar's own making, a cage built on mistrust and a gaping distance between him and his wife that he had no idea how to even begin filling.

"What are your goals here?" Rhaegar finally asked, looking over his shoulder.

Jaime frowned, genuinely confused. "Sire?"

"Your goals," Rhaegar repeated impatiently, "with Lyanna. You must want something of her."

Jaime blinked several times, his frown deepening. Slowly, he answered, "She is my closest friend, Your Grace."

"She is your queen," Rhaegar snapped instantly, enflamed. His jealousy was getting the best of him, he knew, manifesting itself into a little dark voice in his head that urged him to slice young Jaime Lannister up from head to heel.

Do it, it whispered. Rhaegar's eyes fell to Fire's blade, and for one wild moment, he could see blood and gore dripping down its steel before it went back to normal, clean and glimmering. He was going mad.

"I'm on to you," Rhaegar whispered darkly, twisting the hilt of his sword around in the palm of his hand. "I see what's in your eyes when they look on her."

Jaime's jaw moved furiously, whether in irritation or anxiety, Rhaegar did not know. And he did not care.

"I see my queen," Jaime finally answered.

"My queen," Rhaegar corrected, "she is mine. I'm not sure what it's going to take to get it through your head that Lyanna will never be available. To you or anyone else for that matter.

"I may indulge your friendship because I feel indebted to you for saving her, but do not think for one second I will allow any more than that." Rhaegar's lip curled and the knuckles where he had punched the wall earlier cracked open with fresh blood, spilling down Fire's pommel.

"You're playing with fire, Ser Jaime, and I will burn your entire world down before I let you take her from me." Rhaegar shook with bottled rage. "You gave your life to my father for that white cloak, and when you killed him, your life became mine to do with as I see fit." He looked Jaime straight in the eyes. "If I ever have to have a conversation with you like this again, it will be the last you ever have. I will paint this city red with your blood and build a castle on your bones." He paused, lowering his voice. "Do you understand me, Ser?"

Jaime's own anger reflected in his startling green eyes, that Lannister pride bubbling to the surface. "Yes," he gritted out, "Your Grace." The title sounded like a curse. "If that's all?"

Rhaegar smiled without the least bit of humor. "You may leave."

Jaime turned quickly and went to the door, wrenching it open. His white cape billowed but lay dead when he stopped suddenly. Ser Gerold turned out in the hallway, but made no other move.

Jaime's voice was quiet when he spoke, his back still to his king. "She was afraid you would shame her if you'd won. She thought you might give the crown to my sister, because she hears the rumors of you taking another wife." Jaime turned his head, one eye meeting Rhaegar's, sharp as a cat. "Your Grace." And then he swept out, boots stomping all the way until the sound of his departure vanished completely.

Rhaegar was frozen in place, his knuckles stinging and his heart pounding, but all that seemed a dream to what was in his head. Shame her? Shame Lyanna? How could she think that?

He let Fire clatter to the floor and he went to his bed, mind dizzy. Everything was so wrong, where to even begin to start fixing...life couldn't go on like this, in a suspended limbo of no finality, no conclusion. He had to do something...something...something.

"Ser Gerold, if you could close the door please," Rhaegar said, his voice echoing queerly in his head. I'm going mad...

When the door had been shut, Rhaegar shoved off his boots and lay his head on the pillow, his thoughts and fears jumbling together into a nearly unbreakable knot.

And for the first time since Lyanna had been back, he went to bed alone and fully clothed.

The sun woke on the horizon in a blaze of glory, rising like a ball of white-hot fire to dapple its light over the black waters of the bay. It was the day after the end of the tourney, the day before her coronation, and Lyanna was a wreck. Her hands shook harshly, her skin crawling, her very thoughts racing like a violent pack of wolves on the hunt.

It was also the first morning she hadn't woken in Rhaegar's bed, in Rhaegar's arms, their skin sliding together. Her husband had been conspicuously absent from the tourney's final feast the night before, gracing the hall with his presence only to officially start the feast and then leaving before the first course was even served.

She'd considered going to his room afterward, to coax him from his clothes perhaps, but she could never find the nerve, could never muster the courage. She realized that she couldn't fix his anger with her body, no matter how much she ached to. So instead, she went to sleep in her own chambers, woke up alone in her own chambers, and walked the Red Keep aimlessly this dawning morning. Alone.

Rhaegar had gone on a day hunt with an entourage of his important lords, and little baby Arra was running a fever so Ashara and Brandon were busy. Benjen and Ned were hunting with Rhaegar, and Lyanna wanted nothing to do with her other ladies-in-waiting this morning. Especially Cersei Lannister, the conniving little coveteur that she was.

And so, with no destination in mind and no one to report to, Lyanna roamed the castle freely, memories of her time there before leaving for Dragonstone rushing back to her in brief flashes - the fitting of her wedding dress, playing with Viserys, the Mad King's eyes crawling over her dress, Rhaegar taking her maidenhead in his bath, him making love to her before he left for the Rock...

She realized now that that was what they had done. Made love. She hadn't known it then, hadn't known it even in Winterfell, but she understood now, for all the pain that came with the realization. I love him, she thought to herself with tears blurring her eyes, it hurts my heart, but gods help me, I'm in love with him.

"Lyanna?"

The voice nearly stopped her heart. Lyanna whipped her head up in surprise, jerking to a stop. With no aim and blind eyes, her feet had taken her deep within the Maegor's, all the way to Rhaella's room.

The dowager queen's door was wide open this morning and Rhaella had stood from her table, little Dany nestled against her in a bundle of red blankets. The length of Rhaella's silver hair gleamed brighter than the fresh morning sun, stunning against the purple cloth of her dress, and her skin was glowing like a moonstone. Fresh motherhood certainly became her.

"My dear," she urged, "come in, come in." And when she smiled, it was like clouds parting. In her arms, Daenerys shifted and gurgled.

Lyanna's heart pounded furiously as she ghosted inside, her eyes taking in the room. The last time she had been in Rhaella's chambers had been the morning of that day...the day the Mad King had died and Lyanna had lost her little girl. She tried her very best to will her tears away, but a few spilled down her cheek.

Rhaella's smile was gentle when she invited Lyanna to sit for breakfast, kindly ignoring her show of tears. "I feel like I've yet to spend any time with you at all since your return," she said, rocking Daenerys. "I've missed you, darling girl."

"I've missed you as well," Lyanna said softly, honestly. Rhaella had come to be like a mother to Lyanna in those early months of her marriage to Rhaegar, always offering support and kindness, but now...it felt like sitting with a stranger. Lyanna's heart longed for Rhaella's love once more.

"You were gone too long." Though Rhaella's voice was soft, her words were accusatory, and those purple eyes gleamed sharp.

"It was good to be home," was all Lyanna said back, feeling guilty. She looked down at her lap and fidgeted with her hands, restless. The energy that rushed through her was dying to be expelled, but there was no way to use it, as if it was destined to be bottled in her veins for a lifetime.

It was quiet for a long time after that, the silence so tense, Lyanna felt as if she would be sick all over the table. When Rhaella finally did say something, it made Lyanna flinch. "Would you like to hold her?"

Lyanna's eyes flashed up, meeting Rhaella's quickly before dropping to the little princess. Immediately, her mind filled with wondering thoughts about her own lost girl, Rhaella she had been named post-mortem in honor of her grandmother. She would have been silver-haired, too, Lyanna knew, with Rhaegar's eyes and Rhaegar's beauty. Her heart ached fiercely.

Lyanna didn't know if she could handle holding that little girl, didn't know if her heart could withstand it. And yet, she nodded slowly, scared out of her mind, keeping her eyes trained on the tiny babe even as Rhaella stood up and came over, gently shifting Daenerys from her own arms to Lyanna's.

The little babe was so slight in her hold, weighing hardly anything, but surprisingly warm, even through the blankets. Lyanna stared down at her lovely face in wonderment, completely transfixed by her beauty - soft silver hair and bright purple eyes... Whomever married this little dragon when she grew up was lucky.

"Stunning," Lyanna breathed.

Rhaella chuckled. "She is. I'm only glad she will never know her father."

Lyanna's heart lurched but she did not look up, too mesmerized by the little life in her arms. She rocked Dany gently, smiling when she yawned, those unnerving eyes glassy. My Rhaella would have looked like you, sweet thing, Lyanna thought to herself. Her tears returned.

It was as if every fear and insecurity had rushed to a head, waiting to burst from her heart in a rush of pain. She bit her lip to keep the sadness at bay.

...But she had never been good at keeping her mouth closed around Rhaella. "He's going to marry someone else," she blurted out without warning. Her chest stung just to say the words aloud.

When she glanced up, Rhaella was already staring back. She gave Lyanna a sad smile that had no happiness in its curve, nodding gently. "Maybe so, lovely girl. Though is not for me to decide."

Lyanna shuddered, shifting to hold Daenerys closer to her. The little babe had a calming presence, and the heat Lyanna gleaned from her blankets was as warm as the kitchens. Rhaella had given her the truth when all she wanted was a comforting lie. "I..." She swallowed tears. "I don't want him to."

Rhaella sighed and ghosted forward, coming to press a maternal kiss to Lyanna's forehead. "Sweetheart, do not let this tear your heart apart. Even if he does marry another, you will still be queen. You will still be his wife."

Lyanna's tears were warm on her cheeks, making tracks down her skin. "I don't care about being queen," she whispered honestly. "I just want him." I'm in love with him, she thought as a knife twisted in her heart.

"You would still have him," Rhaella pointed out, trying to calm her with a soothing hand through her dark hair.

Lyanna shook her head, face crumpled in pain. Daenerys looked up at her with eyes like two amethysts. Lyanna said, "I would never want to be with a man who was crawling between another woman's thighs when he was not with me." I am selfish, and I could not stand to see a child with his face that wasn't mine.

Rhaella was quiet after that, struck silent. How many mistresses had she dealt with in her time? How many women had the Mad King fucked behind her back? Rhaegar was not his father by any means, but he was a king and he had no heirs of his own seed.

Lyanna wished more than anything in the world that they could make another babe together, a boy perhaps. A boy with Rhaegar's stunning eyes and the spirit of ice and fire. I'm not his ice, she corrected her thoughts, looking out over the room.

The sun burned through the window pane, spilling golden light over the floors. Lyanna imagined that in Winterfell it was snowing, white blanketing the grounds and godswood. She ached for home. She ached for Rhaegar.

"I think I'm going to wake my brothers now," Lyanna murmured, smiling a watery smile at Rhaella before going to shift the little babe back to her mother's arms. The lie felt like poison in her throat, and she sent a prayer to the gods Rhaella did not find out Ned and Benjen were off in the kingswood with Rhaegar.

"Are you sure?" Rhaella asked, taking Dany carefully. "Breakfast should be arriving soon. And I'd love to see your coronation dress."

Although feeling absurdly guilty, Lyanna lied. "I'd like to spend time with Ned and Benjen before they leave for home once more. Perhaps I can show you my dress later, or in the morning before we leave for the Great Sept."

Rhaella smiled sadly. "Of course, dear. Whenever you want."

Lyanna nodded, grateful. She could hardly bear to look at Rhaella for another second; her son's beauty was writ all over her, and it was difficult to think on how beautiful Rhaegar was with the impending doom of a second bride hovering over her head.

She went forward to kiss Rhaella lightly on each cheek, then stepped back. With little Dany held safely by Rhaella's arms, Lyanna felt safe to run a single finger down the baby's pale, perfect cheek. "So beautiful," she said again.

"You can visit her any time you'd like," Rhaella offered with a hopeful smile. "Viserys, too. He missed you very much while you were away. He has an entire slew of new dragon stories to tell you."

Lyanna sniffed and gave her a small smile back, chuckling through her tears even though happiness was the last thing in her heart. "I should like that." She dipped her head in respect. "I shall see you in the morning."

And with that she swept away and out of Rhaella's chambers, letting the tears fall freely once she was alone.

The afternoon burned scarlet as the sun died on the horizon, casting its ruby light over King's Landing like a fall of blood. The air was cold and the wind had teeth, sinking its chill into Rhaegar's cheeks with an icy bite. Underneath his leathers, his skin prickled with goosebumps, and around him the yard was filled with the noise of the rest of the royal hunting party returning.

"Stark!" Lord Robert Baratheon called as he jumped down from his massive chestnut horse, pale cheeks blazing red. The Stormlord had nearly drowned himself in wine that day, drinking five skins all on his own, and yet still remaining on his steed. "Is this as bad as Winterfell?" He held his hands out to the brisk wind, raising his black beard to the sky.

Ned, who was handing off his reins to a stableboy, looked over and smiled. "Everything is harsher in the North," he called back.

Robert laughed boisterously, shaking his head. "I don't know how that prick of yours doesn't just fall right off." His laugh turned to a mischievous grin. "Though if I had your woman, I'm sure my cock would be well and fine, too."

And to think, my wife was almost yours. Rhaegar rolled his eyes and dismounted, leaving his horse and his men behind as he strode away to the peace of the stables.

The day had been so long, too long, the hunt beginning with the rising sun and ending only when all the wine had been exhausted and all the game chased away or killed. He'd taken with him Ned and Benjen, Lord Robert (against his wishes), Mace Tyrell, Ser Brynden Tully and his nephew, Edmure, and several other lords that would swear their fealty alongside the rest of the realm on the morrow. Rhaegar wasn't sure if he dreaded the coronation, or anticipated it.

At the stables, hands were rushing about, fetching food and hay and water, some being dispatched to the yard, others being ordered to the stalls. A passing stablehand stopped and knelt respectfully. "Your Grace, how may I serve you?"

Rhaegar bid the boy to stand and asked, "Could you point me to my wife's horse please? Smoke." He dug in his breeches pockets, feeling for the sugar cubes he'd left there.

"'Course, Your Grace," the boy said. "The last stall down this row," he pointed left, "but Her Grace is already there."

Rhaegar's heart jumped. He'd not seen his wife in almost a full day, and the effects of that on his heart and body were troublesome. He'd left her alone after the tourney's end like a jealous fool. "Queen Lyanna is here?"

The boy nodded vigorously, happy to apparently have sparked the king's interest. "Yes, Your Grace. She was talking 'bout going to the Sept, she was. She's been back with the horse for an hour or so now."

Rhaegar felt his breath come short, his mind dizzy. Why would Lyanna have need to go to the Great Sept? She did not practice the Faith of the Seven. Confused and with a great many questions, he went to his other pocket, fishing out a golden dragon and flicking the coin to the boy. "Thank you." When he went down the left row of stable halls, the boy's thanks rang after him excitedly.

With night falling fast, the stables were cast in an eerie crimson light, only a few torches glowing gold because the horses were skittish around fire. He walked and walked, past hands feeding the horses and hands brushing them, all the way down until the very end where the last stall was left open and red light spilled through the slats of wood. He approached it slowly, listening to the soft voice that came from within.

"Aren't you a beautiful boy," he could hear Lyanna coo, followed by the sound of harsh crunching. Lyanna laughed, the sound of it rising through the air. "Greedy thing."

Rhaegar crept closer. In the dimness, he could see that she had her hand to Smoke's mouth, the blue-grey horse nibbling apples right out of her palm, tickling her skin with its velvetine lips. Rhaegar chuckled without meaning to, watching in amused fascination as Lyanna jumped in fright, whirled, and dropped the rest of her apple slices to the ground.

Lyanna gasped, her eyes wide and strangely bright. "You scared me," she accused Rhaegar breathlessly, scowling angrily with a hand over her heart. Her throat contracted when she swallowed, the skin glimmering pale silver where her scars were, where a rope noose had bit her skin.

Rhaegar grinned, pleased with himself. "I am sorry for that." He wasn't. He raised a brow and came fully into the stall, approaching both her and Smoke slowly like the skittish animals they were.

Lyanna watched him warily, her eyes following his every move. "What are you doing here?" She murmured.

Rhaegar came even closer and brushed his hand over Smoke's wavy mane, plucking it through his fingers. "I just returned from my hunt." He dug into his pocket with his free hand and then held out his fingers. "And I wanted to give Smoke sugar cubes." The horse eagerly went for his treats, tickling Rhaegar's skin in the process.

"Oh," Lyanna mouthed, carefully avoiding eye contact with him. She went to Smoke's side, grabbed a brush, and began to run it over his coat.

Jaime's words from the night before suddenly came back to Rhaegar's mind like a punch to the gut, nearly taking away his breath with the force of the remembrance. She was afraid you would shame her if you'd won. She thought you might give the crown to my sister, because she hears the rumors of you taking another wife.

Rhaegar looked up sharply. He yearned to confront her, but feared that he had no idea how. How could he ease her mind, her fears? He was a man without answers.

So, lacking boldness in the moment, he offered instead, "You look beautiful." And she really did, in her silk tunic and brown leather leggings tucked into her riding boots. He loved her in riding gear.

Lyanna hid her smile by ducking her head, her cheeks blazing like the sunset. "I'm wearing riding leathers," she pointed out unhelpfully, as if that would somehow change his opinion.

"I know," he told her, grinning mischievously. "I quite enjoy looking at you in them." He came around to stand beside her where she was still brushing Smoke.

She stiffened at his proximity but made no effort to move away. "Well," she dragged the word out, "thank you then."

They had nothing else to say after that and so they stood in silence for a long time - long enough that Lyanna made Smoke's coat gleam like a mirror and the sky finally turned from red to black. The stables seemed so, so quiet, not even the sound of the stablehands reaching their ears. Rhaegar lifted his hand hesitantly and slid it across Lyanna's side, her heat burning his hand so good.

"Lyanna," he murmured, his voice pained. Just touching her through her shirt made him weak in the knees. He couldn't imagine what her naked skin would do to him.

Lyanna turned her head slowly, looking at him over her shoulder. "Yes?"

Rhaegar looked into her eyes, wanting to root out every sadness living there, every fear and insecurity she had until she was happier than she had ever been before. He wanted to go back in time, before they had lost their baby, before they had lost their budding happiness. "I wouldn't have shamed you," he said suddenly, without meaning to, the words spilling from his lips.

Lyanna froze and her eyes went wide as eggs. "Where did you-" She stopped, realization dawning. "What are you even talking about?" She demanded, her shaking hands belying her faked ignorance.

"The tourney," he said softly, stepping closer. "Ser Jaime told me what you feared. But you had no cause to worry. If I had won, I would have crowned you. No one else. Just you." He licked his lips. "Why-" He took a deep breath. "Have I ever given you a reason to think I would have humiliated you?"

Lyanna's chin began to quiver and she looked away quickly, going to caress Smoke once more, but Rhaegar grabbed her hands roughly, threw down the brush, and turned her to look at him.

She narrowed her eyes and pushed him back. Her words were whipcracks. "I know what your advisors say about me, I know what they call me. 'The Barren Queen.' I know that they urge you to take Cersei Lannister to wife so that you can fuck her and get your child on her. I hear everything., Rhaegar, everything.

"So, yes, I assumed you would shame me. Because you're a king and I'm not the only thing in your life anymore. This realm is your priority now, and you need children, and I can't give you those. No matter how much I wish I could, I can't." Tears began to spill down her cheeks. "I know what's coming, so I was preparing myself."

"What's coming," Rhaegar repeated, his chest pounding from his heartbeat.

"You're going to marry someone else."

Rhaegar shook his head violently. "I'm not going to, I won't." He took her face in between both of his hands, and kissed her roughly. "I said vows to you that I intend to keep. I will never marry another woman. You are my wife. Now and forever."

"You have no heirs, Rhaegar," Lyanna protested against his mouth. "A king must have heirs."

"Viserys is my heir." Rhaegar swallowed, the magnitude of his decision coming to rest on his shoulders. "I...don't need any children. I don't need another heir."

Lyanna jerked back, blinking. "But...your prophecy, your promised prince. The dragon must have three heads."

Rhaegar clenched his jaw, willing away how wrong it felt to give up his prince, his children, that dark-haired boy he had used to dream of...but nothing would be more wrong than marrying someone else.

"I don't care," he said. "I don't care about the prophecy if you are not a part of it." He looked deeply into her eyes, trying to convey how serious he was. "Perhaps the Promised Prince was not even of my seed. I will never think about that prophecy again. It's you and me, together. Viserys is my heir and you are my wife, do you understand?" He needed her to understand.

Lyanna's lips parted in disbelief, her chest heaving. "Truly?"

Rhaegar swallowed and brushed his lips against hers again, the heat of it rocking through him. "I am deadly serious." He kissed her one more time before releasing her chin from his grasp.

Lyanna stared up at him in equal parts awe and wariness, as if she were scared this was all an elaborate trick. "Why?" She expelled a breath. "Why would you give up your children? Your prophecy?"

Rhaegar's heart shattered and along with it, the image of that dark-haired boy with Lyanna's coloring and his eyes. "Because," he asserted, the cold realization of what he was giving up settling over him like a blanket of ice, "you are mine. And I," he took a shaky breath, "am forever yours."

Chapter 66: The Coronation

Chapter Text

Snow stretched from horizon to horizon, reaching farther than the eye could see in a vast blanket of glittering white. Above, the sun had gone to hide its face behind a veil of grey winter clouds, but every so often a ray of light would emerge to shine down upon the massive wall standing at Lyanna's back, turning the barrier of ice into miles and miles of glittering diamonds.

Lyanna, breathless, could scarcely believe its beauty after so many years. As a child of the North, she'd been fed on tales of the magnificent Wall of the Night's Watch, had been taught of its history and of the magic behind its making. She had even beheld its splendor once or twice, when she and Benjen had been allowed to ride with Father to visit the Night's Watch in their black castle at the Wall's base. So long ago those trips had been, she barely remembered them.

But the Wall...she remembered the Wall. Remembered the way it jutted up from the ground like a curtain of crystal, how it had wept sheets of rainbow tears when the sun deigned to bear down it. She remembered the cool, clean air that had nearly taken her breath away, and the frontline of forestry that stood beyond the Wall's reach.

It watched her now, the forest. Dark and foreboding, it was thick and wild and menacing in its secrets. Haunted. Lyanna's throat went dry and her heart set to drum like the beat of a thousand blacksmiths' hammers.

The trees of the forest thrust into the sky, skinny as spears and ten times as tall, with an ominous darkness beyond, but they did little to conceal the white shape stalking through their trunks.

The beast slunk with an unnatural predatory gait, the pale hue of its coat blending in with the winter world surrounding it. The wolf came slowly from the forest - no, that wasn't a wolf, Lyanna realized, it was much too small.

This creature was massive, larger than even a small horse, with jaws that could wrench her arms from her body as easily as she could chew meat. No, it wasn't a wolf. It was a direwolf, and yet, Lyanna did not fear.

The direwolf was the symbol of her House, as it had been for centuries; the direwolf had been sigil of the Starks and the Kings of Winter since the Age of Heroes - since Brandon the Builder and King Torrhen and King Jon. She was safe. Just as dragons were the monsters to the Targaryens, direwolves were for the Starks.

The direwolf stalked toward Lyanna on easy paws, padding in silence through the snow. Its nose ran along the ground, sniffing at the cold, but when it reached her, it stopped. Then it raised its head.

Lyanna went breathless. The wolf's eyes were red. Red as blood, red as hot coals, red as the dragon of Rhaegar's House, with fur as white as the field of Stark banners.

Lyanna sank to her knees in the snow, ignoring the way the cold soaked through her dress and bit her skin. She held a hand out. "Come here," she whispered in a stream of pale breath, studying the creature. "Here, boy."

The direwolf watched her, studied her, those hot red eyes both unnerving and comforting. Then, without a noise, it closed the short distance between them and knocked its head against her fingers. She smiled.

"That's a good boy," she murmured, tangling her fingers through its thick velvet fur. "Good boy."

The silk dress she wore was soaked completely through, making Lyanna shiver and shake, but the wolf butted against her, sharing its velvet warmth along her bare arms. And every so often, it would run its rasping tongue across her skin, making her giggle.

She was just scratching the wolf beneath its jaw when a voice came from behind her. "Mother?" It was somehow both soft and hard as iron, the tone of the word sweet and childlike.

Startled, Lyanna shot to her feet and whirled around to face the stranger that had approached; the wolf had left her to stand by the stranger's side, watching Lyanna's reaction with those hot red eyes.

For a moment the sun came out and blinded her, turning the stranger into a long shadow, but then it passed behind a cloud and her eyes cleared. She realized that the shadow was no shadow at all, but a boy. A boy whose mere image made her heart ache queerly in her chest.

The boy was taller than any average man, several inches over six feet if she had to guess. The shape of his face was narrow, thin, and long, the Stark look stamped all over him in that pale skin, dark hair, in the curve of his cheekbones and the thin line of his nose. He reminded her of all three of her brothers at once.

But...

It was his eyes that made Lyanna frown, that made her throat tight.

The boy had Rhaegar's eyes.

He stared at her right back, but where curiosity filled her gaze, only a comforting familiarity colored his. "Mother," he tried again, more insistent, pouting the tiniest bit.

Lyanna's frown deepened and she shook her head, strangely breathless. "N-no," she stuttered. "I'm no one's mother. I'm Lyanna, of House Stark."

The boy stood frozen, a melancholy passing over him. He opened his mouth again, but instead of 'mother' coming out, all he said was, "Your Grace?"

Lyanna blinked, taken aback. How did he know her title?

"Your Grace," the boy said again, "Your Grace, Your Grace, Your Grace, Your Grace..."

Lyanna opened her eyes, gripped with panic for three long moments as she stared into an abyss of black satin above her. As she woke, the dream slipped from her mind as easy as water through open fingers. Her heart slowed from its hammering, and as she slowly forgot the dream - it disappearing from her grasp - it still left her chest with a sad aching. What had she dreamed?

A boy! A white wolf. A boy...

"Your Grace?"

Lyanna sat up straight in bed, startled, Rhaegar's arm still banded around her naked torso. The blankets fell away with her sudden movement and exposed her breasts to the bedmaid that stood beside the bed.

The girl's eyes went as wide and white as eggs. "Your Grace," she said again, softly now, avoiding with all her might the sight of Lyanna's chest, "we must ready you for the ceremony."

For a moment, Lyanna did not understand. "Ceremony?"

The maid nodded. "The coronation, Your Grace."

"Ah," Lyanna sighed, exhausted suddenly. Just the prospect of the day tired her thoroughly. Nighttime and Rhaegar's bed would be far away once she climbed out, she knew. Through the windows, the sun spilled gold across the floors.

Lyanna turned to admire Rhaegar beside her, still sleeping soundly, bare from the waist up. The blankets covered the rest, but Lyanna knew that everything else was naked as well. After the stables the night before when Rhaegar told her there would never be a second queen for him, only her, he'd brought her back up to his chambers and fucked her slowly on his bed. Thrice they'd coupled before both succumbed to sleep.

Hesitantly, she lifted a shaking hand and ran it through his silver strands, reveling in the softness. Then, she climbed from bed fully nude, leaning into the silk robe the maid offered her. She knotted the flimsy belt around her waist and went to the door.

A second maid stood by, stiff and tiny and wide-eyed as the other. "Shall we wake the king now?" She murmured.

Lyanna looked back over at her shoulder, smiling softly at the peaceful expression on her husband's face. "Don't wake His Grace just yet," she said. "Let him sleep a little longer. He...worked hard last night."

The morning went by in a flash. First, the servants drew her a bath of the hottest water they could find, and scrubbed her until she glowed and her skin was pink. Then they trimmed her nails, dabbed her with scented oils, brushed out her hair, and brought out her smallclothes while her hair dried.

While she waited, Ashara came to keep her company, bringing with her fruits and cheese and a decanter of spiced Dornish red. Ashara looked utterly exhausted, her skin pale and purple crescent moons beneath her eyes.

Lyanna frowned. "Are you alright?"

Ashara nodded, climbing up on Lyanna's bed and lounging beside her. "Yes, but the baby is not well. She keeps Brandon and me up all night long with her coughing and crying. Her skin flames hot."

Lyanna sat up in alarm. "Will she be alright? Has a maester tended to her yet?" She couldn't bear for Brandon's babe to perish, too.

Ashara said, "Ned has given us leave to call Maester Luwin to the capital. Luwin traveled to the Citadel immediately after we left for King's Landing, to pick up more supplies, so he is not so far away. I thought that calling him to us was a bit extreme, but Brandon insists that he does not trust the Grand Maester, or any assistant of the man's. Ned sent the summons out to Oldtown this morning. Luwin should arrive very quickly."

That comforted Lyanna, though Arra's sickness still weighed on her mind. "Won't that be too late? What if she worsens before Luwin can make it here?"

"If she worsens, I will insist on a maester here. Brandon won't object, even if he's stubborn. Maester Luwin was who helped Arra in her first sickness at Winterfell, though. Brandon trusts the man."

Lyanna nodded, popping a grape into her mouth. "I understand." It would be good to see the quiet, kind maester of Winterfell again. Luwin had proved to be a worthy man, and a killer opponent at a Dornish game called cyvasse that he'd introduced her to. For one wild moment, she fantasized about stripping that idiot Pycelle of his office and giving the title of Grand Maester to Luwin instead. Just the thought of Pycelle's horror made Lyanna smile.

When her hair dried, the maids came back and one began to weave an intricate braid while the other attached the small stems of red rose heads to pins. Then, they pinned those through her braid, so that her long brown hair was alive with red.

She pulled on her stockings next and shed her robe, and waited as the maids brought her dress up from where the seamstresses had delivered it. Queen Rhaella had personally commissioned Lyanna's coronation gown, having had it started months ago while Lyanna was still in Winterfell. Rhaella had hired the same group of seamstresses that had done Lyanna's wedding gown, citing it was good luck.

After the maids came back and helped to dress her in it, Lyanna turned to see herself in the mirror and nearly crumpled to the ground.

The gown was ivory brocade, tight in the chest that ran off her shoulders and across the cleavage, flaring out into full bell-shaped skirts from her waist. The points of her dagged sleeves touched the floor when she lowered her arms, and were lined in scarlet silk that flashed like fire. The bodice was tight and boned, pushing up her breasts and baring her shoulders, and embellished with gems in the colors of her Houses: gold-casted rubies for Targaryen and ropes of freshwater pearls along the neckline for Stark.

For the first time in her marriage, Lyanna felt as if she belonged at the dragon's side.

Ashara squealed in delight, but before she could say anything, there was a pounding at the door. "Get that," Lyanna said absently, turning this way and that to appreciate the gown glittering in the mirror.

The maid rushed to the door and pulled it open, revealing Ser Arthur and Rhaegar. Not even a moment passed before Rhaegar stepped in and said in a voice like iron, "Give my wife and me the room."

Ashara gave her a loaded look as she and the maids passed, and in just three heartbeats, the entire room was empty save for her and her husband.

Lyanna felt her heart stutter in her chest, felt the blood rushing to her ears like the crash of a great waterfall. Rhaegar stood ramrod straight against the door, a slim six-foot-something figure cut of kingly magnificence.

With that long fall of hair like liquid silver and eyes like two chips of glittering amythests, Rhaegar looked like some heavenly dragonking come back from lost Valyria in his coronation attire; he'd worn a long tunic of pearly silk tucked into breeches of wool that were as pale as a winter sky. His boots were white as well, high bleached leather with silver dragon studs stamped around the shining steeled toes.

The long-sleeved doublet he wore was of pale samite, white embossed with a silvery pattern, and over that lay a heavy chain Lyanna had never seen before, the only cut of color - besides his eyes - on him: pure gold inlaid with rubies and pearls, each link a roaring dragon that swallowed the tail of the monster before it.

"You," he said, pushing off the door and stalking toward her like the great white direwolf in her dream, "look like a queen."

"And you a king," she returned sincerely, strangely breathless.

When Rhaegar reached her, he took both her hands in his. His eyes seemed to roam over her wildly, taking everything in - from her skirts to her bodice to the bare column of her neck to the red roses pinned to her braid. His voice was a breath when he spoke again. "Your father would be proud of you, Lyanna."

Instantly, tears sprung to her eyes. Her throat began to burn and her hands shook as an image of her father came to mind, strong and bearded and dressed in furs. "Thank you."

Rhaegar's finger lifted her chin when she ducked her head. Even his frown was beautiful. "Are you nervous?"

Lyanna took a deep breath and nodded. "I am. It...feels like our wedding day all over again." Only then, her father was at her side and she hadn't wanted Rhaegar. Now, she was in love with him.

To her surprise, Rhaegar smiled. "No," he said, "I was far more nervous on our wedding day." He ran his teeth over his bottom lip quickly, grinning at some memory.

"You were?" She hadn't expected that answer. Rhaegar had seemed cold and strong on their wedding day, apathetic almost. But not nervous.

"I was. I felt sick all morning, I was shaking there in the sept, standing across from you beneath the Mother and Father. I," he paused, raising those deep purple eyes to hers. "But I knew I was supposed to be yours."

Lyanna's heart went berserk in her chest, raging. She swallowed and stepped forward to press a kiss to his jawbone. Last night's conversation came back to her in a rush as she pressed her nose to his throat, all the pretty words and promises.

But instead of feeling comforted, all she felt was unease. Unease because something was off, something wasn't right. But she kept that to herself. For now, she would revel in Rhaegar's presence and keep her black doubts to herself.

Rhaegar held her for a few moments before drawing back, sliding his hands up her neck to cradle her face. "When all this is done," he murmured, "when all the chaos has died down, I want to take you away. Just me and you."

"Away?" She repeated.

Rhaegar nodded. "I want to take you to the Isle of Faces. I want to marry you again before the Old Gods. I want to marry you again, your way. I want our lives to be as inextricably twined as possible." He bent forward to kiss her lips. "I want to marry you again."

"Truly?" She could hardly believe what she was hearing, an echoing answer to the insolent thoughts she'd had on the day of their wedding - how she hadn't considered herself to be truly married to him since they did not vow themselves before a heart tree.

"Truly," Rhaegar said. "I want to show you how much you mean to me, and if that means I have to get on my knees before a weirwood and swear myself to you, I'll do it. I will do that for you."

That moment - that beautiful moment - seemed as good a time as any to tell Rhaegar she loved him, to kiss him and admit that her heart was his for however long he wanted it, but...

...those black doubts came back in a terrifying rush and stole those three words from her tongue. It wasn't right, something wasn't right. Instead, she tried a smile and nodded her consent.

Rhaegar smiled back, none the wiser of the pandemonium being unleashed in her mind, and tangled their fingers together. "So...are you ready to become a queen?"

Half distracted by the doom settling over her, Lyanna nodded. "I'm ready."

Rhaegar raised his chin and looked down on her. "Then let us go so we can be crowned."

The carriage they rode from the yard in was ornate and fashioned special, used for years by kings and princes of old, with massive gilded wheels and no top so that the commons who gathered the streets could witness their royals.

The people came out in the hundreds, packed together on either side of the road like a wall of flesh. Eagerly, they elbowed each other out of the way, and hung from windows, and stood on rooftops to wave and cheer. Men and maidens called out their blessings, and children threw flower petals beneath the carriage wheels.

Lyanna and Rhaegar's names were called out in celebration, followed by proclamations of good fortune and good health and a long rule to follow. Lyanna could hardly believe it all, sitting next to her dragon, a company of Gold Cloaks and Kingsguards surrounding them, escorting them through the maze of King's Landing to that magnificent crystal dome of the Seven.

When they reached the marble plaza of the Great Sept, the Gold Cloaks spread out to keep back the pulsing crowds. The Kingsguards encircled the carriage and flanked Rhaegar and Lyanna as they stepped out onto the plaza, turning to wave at the people. Lyanna took it all in, her heart pounding, wondering if somewhere out there was her old friend, Beth, and her baby and her orphans.

Rhaegar came to put a hand on the small of her back and leaned close. "Are you alright?" Behind him, Jaime had noticed her expression, and frowned, studying her.

She nodded with wide eyes, panting, trying to get her breathing under control. There were so many people, so much noise, and she was in love with her husband, and he wanted to marry her again before her gods, but it didn't feel right. Something was wrong.

"If you start to feel nervous at any time," Rhaegar murmured into her ear, "just look at me."

She did, she looked at him. He stared right back, intense, unwavering. "I won't let you falter. I won't let you fall." He took her hand in his. "Do you trust me?"

The cheering of the commons were waves of white noise, crashing over her until all she knew was buzzing ears and hammering hearts. "I trust you."

He smiled and sent one last wave to the crowd. "Come, Your Grace, it is time for us to be crowned."

Lyanna didn't remember leaving the marble plaza, didn't remember entering the sept or gliding through the Hall of Lamps. She didn't remember Rhaegar reminding her of when to walk, she didn't remember the great doors opening to reveal the sept within and the hundreds of nobles that had come to see them crowned.

One moment the commons were shouting, and the next she was walking into the Great Sept's seven-sided room, each wall adorned with a different figure of the Faith. Stranger, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, Mother, Father.

The room was awash in light - red yellow green blue purple - streaming through the crystal dome to paint rainbows on the floor. Rhaegar walked ahead of her through the two sides of noblemen and women, as was the tradition, and made it first to the altar where the High Septon stood, garbed in white and gold and crystal.

Lyanna searched desperately for her father, only to remember that he was gone, he was dead. Her eyes filled with tears. The last time she had been in this place had been for the funeral and burning of her baby girl, Rhaella. So long ago, it had been so long...she'd meant to visit her babe last night, but Rhaegar had caught her in the stables before she could and carried her off to make love to her.

Brandon and Ned and Benjen, though, they were there. Ashara, too, but Arra was in the care of her caretaker. Across the aisle, there was Rhaella, beaming proudly at Lyanna when they met eyes, and in her arms, little Daenerys. Viserys was at their sides, dressed in red and black and wearing a circlet of silver. He waved excitedly to Lyanna, jumping on his toes.

His happiness made Lyanna's heart lighter, if only for a moment. Then she reached Rhaegar and the High Septon, and she went deaf to the world.

She couldn't have repeated what words the High Septon said, didn't hear a thing, she only saw. Saw him speaking over the room, dipping his hands into a bowl of water before sprinkling it over Rhaegar's downturned head. Lyanna was beckoned forth and made to kneel beside her husband, and then the same was done to her, the water as warm as Rhaegar's hands as it dripped onto her scalp.

Then the High Septon turned away, going to grab something from a pillow before coming back to where they knelt. Light burst from his hands as a ray of sun bore down through the dome overhead, nearly blinding Lyanna from her spot on her knees. "Remain kneeling," the High Septon told Rhaegar as he approached.

Up close, she saw what was in the septon's hands, beheld its magnificence as he spoke again, louder now, and placed it over Rhaegar's bowed head. Then Rhaegar stood and faced his subjects, and the sun above dappled him and his crown in splendor. His was a new crown never before worn by his ancestors, commissioned from Essos by the finest jeweler in all the world - it was a hard crown cut completely and utterly of crystal, with seven spikes, and faceted so that every time he turned his head, a thousand rainbows turned with him.

"Behold," the High Septon boomed, "Rhaegar Targaryen the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

The nobles answered back, "Long live the king!"

Lyanna raised her eyes at the exact time Rhaegar looked down on her. In his pale livery and crystal crown, he seemed too beautiful for this world, too beautiful to be hers. He graced her with a smile as a young boy in a white-and-gold robe knelt at Rhaegar's side, holding up the velvet pillow in his hands.

Nestled atop the pillow was a second crown. A crown made of mother of pearl, surmounted by nine spikes that were rimmed with rose gold; adorning each of those spikes was a five-pointed leaf inlaid with rubies, the crown wrought in the likeness of a weirwood tree's pale white trunk and bloody leaves. A piece of home...

Lyanna choked back her tears and watched with bated breath as Rhaegar took her crown and came before her. "Lyanna of the Houses Stark and Targaryen," he said, boiling her alive with those indigo eyes, "I, King Rhaegar of the House Targaryen, do so name you Queen of the Seven Kingdoms." He bent forward, smiling brilliantly and triumphantly all the way, and set her Northern crown over the top of her hair.

And as the cold, heavy weight of her pearl-and-ruby circlet settled over the crown of Lyanna's head, a cold sense of doom settled deep in her heart.

Chapter 67: A Cold, Dreadful Miracle

Chapter Text

For ten days after the royal coronation, Ned lingered in the capital. He rode horses around the kingswood with Lyanna and Benjen, he sparred in the training yard with Brandon, he spent afternoons with his good-sister and playing with his niece. He soaked in the presence of the family he'd known his entire life. But on the tenth day, he realized it was time to go home to his new family - his lady wife and little son.

It was raining when Ned and his riding party - a significantly smaller group than what he had initially arrived with - loaded up and mounted in the Red Keep's yard, the grey morning sky weeping hot rain for Lyanna's breaking heart.

She loathed change. Brandon was her wild wolf, her strength and her boldness; Benjen was her pup, her lifelong playmate and confidant; but Ned...Ned was her quiet wolf, the sense of calm in her chaos, her touchstone when all the world seemed askew. And he was leaving her.

She did not know what she would do without Ned and his silent grace, his kind grey eyes and the sweet embraces. She had spent every day of the last eight months seeing Ned's face, whether at Winterfell or on the road or at the Red Keep. And now, she wasn't sure when next they'd meet again.

The few tears that slid from her eyes were instantly washed away by the rain. Rhaegar had begged her not to go out into the muddy, rainy yard, to stay beneath the protective awning instead, lest she catch sickness from the pouring sky. But Lyanna was determined to see Ned off properly.

And so, she stood next to her brothers while the rain fell down, her boots sinking into the mud while Rhaegar and Ashara and little Arra huddled beneath the awning. Ned checked his saddle one last time and turned to her.

"I will miss you," Ned said over the soothing noise of the rain. His smile was sad, his grey eyes even sadder. It reminded her of the day he left home for the Eyrie, though he had never complained a word aloud; Ned always knew his duty.

The rain was spraying against her face, warm as blood and stinging her eyes, but Lyanna impatiently wiped it away, only to have it wash down her skin once more. "Will you write?" Her voice was hopeful.

Ned's smile turned genuine, amused. "I'm no poet, but for you, I will write every few months." In a sudden movement, he pulled her into his arms, the embrace strong yet gentle. "I love with you all my heart, little sister."

Lyanna nodded into his chest, remembering the last time she had hugged her father after Ned's wedding, the sky over Riverrun an angry grey though no rain had spilled. Her father had smelled like home and snow and every good thing in her life. Ned smelled much the same.

"I love you, too," she said back in the voice of a girl that was not a queen, not a royal, not even a woman grown. Just a girl who would miss her big brother.

When they finally stepped apart, Brandon was next to hug Ned, roughly pulling him in and slapping him thrice on the back for emphasis; ever the eldest of their clan, Brandon always had a way of asserting his dominance, no matter the mood. Benjen stepped up next.

Unlike Ned, Benjen was staying behind in King's Landing. He'd been given his very own chambers in the Red Keep, near to where Brandon, Ashara, and Arra had been situated; as relatives of the queen, her brothers and Ashara and Arra now lived in Maegor's Holdfast, closer to the entrance and farthest away from the nearly finished reconstruction of the king's wing. Benjen was just ecstatic to have his own apartments.

It had been three days after the coronation when Rhaegar named Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully as the sixth sword of his Kingsguard, watching on in solemnity as Lord Commander Ser Gerold cloaked him in white in a private ceremony before Lord Hoster Tully, men of and loyal to Riverrun, the five other White Swords, and of course the royal family. Afterward, the Kingsguard was left with one final space.

Rhaegar had bestowed Benjen with a gift. Though not a knight nor a follower of the Faith, Benjen was offered a permanent place in the castle, the full capacity of training under Willem Darry, as well as the tutelage of Ser Gerold and Arthur and Oswell and Barristan the Bold...all so that one day, Benjen could be named the seventh and final sword of Rhaegar's Kingsguard.

That future offer had sent the small council into a tizzy, Brandon excluded. Jon Connington had declared nepotism, Lord Monford complained of others overlooked, Grand Maester Pycelle had argued for the tradition of only sworn knights serving in the Kingsguard, that no boy or man without the blessing of the Seven had ever been graced with a cloak of white.

Rhaegar had only to fix the old man with a look to assert his seriousness. And then he'd said that in the Age of Heroes, Symeon Star-Eyes and Serwyn of the Mirror Shield were men of great renown and prowess, and also without the blessing of the Faith of the Seven. If they were good enough to be heroes without a knightship, Rhaegar argued, so was Benjen of House Stark.

And so, knighted or not, Benjen would one day don the cloak of white as well, and serve his life protecting his good-brother, the king.

Ned was the only Stark returning to Winterfell.

"Send my clothes, will you?" Benjen shouted up as Ned put one foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over his horse. "My practice swords, too!"

Ned shook his head, but smiled fondly. "You'd have finer stuff here, but I'll send them anyway."

The rain was cutting harder now, but that was no obstacle for a Northerner; snows and ice were worse than a little bit of water. Ned shouted out a command to his party of riders and watched as they gathered up in the exit. Then he turned in the saddle and looked back at Lyanna. "Little sister," he called, "we shall see each other again soon!"

Then they were gone, pouring from the gates of the dragon's nest fifteen-strong as the heavens shed their woes. At some point, she walked back to Maegor's Holdfast alone, absentmindedly shedding her wet clothes and changing into dry breeches and a velvet tunic, her mind preoccupied. Shaded. Focused entirely on months and months in the past, on a single black tent amongst a field of brightly colored silk.

"And you will only ever go home to Winterfell once more in your life." It was as if Maggy was in the room with her, the voice in her thoughts was so strong. The fortune's words had not come to Lyanna in so long that she had nearly convinced herself it never happened. But there in her room, Maggy's voice echoing, the thought was a blade between her shoulders.

How many times after the loss of her baby had she cursed that woman to every hell in every afterlife? How many times had she condemned Maggy the Frog for her deceit and her mummer's show? How many times had Lyanna disparaged the batty crone as a liar and a blood-thief?

Far too many times to count.

And yet, remembering Ned's parting words in the yard, Lyanna couldn't help but wonder if she would ever see the grey walls of her home again, if those seven months in Winterfell had been the last she would ever know of the North.

It was a discomfiting prospect at best. She thought about that - and the rest of the fortune - even as the rain cleared and the sun came out for a bit. She thought about it when she passed Brandon and Rhaegar going off to the small council chamber for their meeting, she thought about it as she took Arra away to let Ashara rest properly, Ser Arthur trailing behind them all the way back to her own chambers.

On her floor, the servants had spread out a thick velvet blanket with several pillows thrown on top. Next to the pallet, there was a tray of mashed food and warm broth for Arra, as well as fruits, water, and summerwine for Lyanna.

Lyanna ignored the wine (and her thoughts of fortunes and prophecies) and entertained Arra by throwing grapes into the air and catching them between her teeth. And when the babe's rasping cough had her exhausted, those pale eyelids fluttering sleepily over her dazzling purple eyes, Lyanna lay on her side and admired her niece's beauty.

Arra was the image of her mother - Valyrian eyes like chips of amythest and unblemished skin like strawberries and cream - but she had Stark hair, Brandon's hair, a smattering of chestnut over her pale skin that, coupled with her eyes, promised stunning beauty in her future.

Dark hair and purple eyes...like the boy in Lyanna's dream the night before her coronation, ten days ago. She could hardly remember what had happened in the dream, but she remembered him - dark curling hair and dark purple eyes. Lyanna frowned, willing the boy's image away; it would do no good to wish for impossible things, no matter how much her heart ached for him.

But the boy's image would not go away, nor would that cold sense of unease that had draped her like a cloak every day since her coronation ceremony. Something is wrong, she thought for the hundredth time, something will be wrong. Despite the fire roaring in the hearth, Lyanna shivered, wishing idly for a scalding hot bath to wash away her cold doom. That could come later though; right now, her time belonged to her niece.

Lyanna watched the little babe, and wondered if there would ever be a time when her heart didn't ache at the sight of a baby. She wondered if there would ever be a day as Dany grew up where she didn't want to cry for her own lost silver girl, or when she would look at Arra and not see the boy in her dreams. Would her barren wasteland of a womb be a constant reminder to not only herself, but to others as well? Her beacon of failure.

Lyanna, the Barren Queen the people will remember me by, she thought angrily, Lyanna the Broken.

"Did you ever wish for children, Ser Arthur?" Lyanna wondered. The room had been so quiet that when she finally spoke, the baby jumped in fright, her eyelids falling immediately again after; Arra coughed wetly.

Arthur, who had been watching their niece with a faint, fond smile, darted his eyes to Lyanna. His mouth thinned out and his eyes grew solemn. "No, Your Grace. I always wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard."

"Call me Lyanna," she said under her breath, a habit she had retained since childhood - she and Benjen had loved nothing more than to greet their father's bannermen when they rode into Winterfell's yard, high and mighty on their horses and in their furs. The men had called her m'lady and Benjen little lord until she had insisted they stop; then she was known as Lyanna the Lord and he Benjen the Bold after Ser Barristan.

It wasn't very queenly, but then again, she had never been meant to be a queen. Only by kismet, a chance encounter in the woods and a crowning of blue roses, did she come into Rhaegar's world, and therefore his marriage bed.

"Lyanna," Arthur tested on his tongue. He smiled suddenly and, for an instance, his eyes blazed as brilliantly as Arra's...as brilliant as her little Rhaella's might have been if things had gone differently.

"I never wanted children," Lyanna blurted out, unsure of why she was admitting this at all. And to Arthur no less. It felt like a confession of sorts, one that had been weighing on her chest, a guilt.

"Never?" Arthur asked.

Lyanna shook her head. "I never dreamed of my wedding like other little girls, or thought of what to name my children. My mother died when I was very young and I was surrounded by boys and men..." She trailed off, momentarily going to Winterfell in her mind, replaying a thousand memories of her youth.

"Benjen and I," she smiled fondly, "we wanted to join the Night's Watch. We had this plan of cutting off all my hair and dressing me in his clothes so I could pass as a boy. We figured that as long as I peed elsewhere, I'd never be caught. And he would tell my father I ran away to be a wildling." Arthur chuckled and she joined him. "It wasn't a very smart plan."

"No," Arthur allowed with a handsome smile, "but a child's dreams are rarely grounded in reality. And you are Queen now. Surely that has to be better than freezing at the Wall."

Lyanna snorted softly. "In some ways. In others, no." She thought of her lost babe, the dragon that had never been able to spread its wings. "I always knew I would be a lord's wife though, no matter what dreams filled my head. Robert Baratheon was meant to be mine, until the old king decided otherwise and gave me to his prince.

"I have never been blind to a lady's duties, but children were never something that I longed for. I knew I would have them, of course, but I didn't yearn for them like most girls do." She smiled down at Arra who was peacefully asleep on the blanket, her chubby fingers curled into fists.

"I didn't want my babe at the beginning. Rhaegar's and my little girl...those first two months, I barely thought of the life thriving in my belly. I just wanted Aerys to be taken down.

"Until one day, Viserys read me a story from one of his books - a story of the ice dragons. It made me wonder if that's what I was carrying, if that's what I was giving Rhaegar. I was proud. According to legend, ice dragons are mightier than normal dragons." Ice and fire come together, she thought.

"I am sorry for what happened, Your Grace," Arthur said. "Lyanna," he amended then, quieter, in reprimand to himself.

Lyanna nodded her acknowledgment. She was sick of feeling sad. She was sick of flinching every time she saw the throne room, of remembering wildfire every time she saw a scorch mark that the servants hadn't been able to scrub or clean out. She was so sick of people looking at her with either pity or disdain - both for losing the royal heir for the new king.

She was sick of her unease. All she wanted was a shred of happiness not undercut by grief or loss.

"Do you think Benjen will become a Kingsguard?" She asked suddenly, changing the subject. "Truly?"

Arthur straightened up. "Yes. He shows great promise with sword and lance, and no doubt will excel in the rest. If His Grace wants Benjen, he will have Benjen."

Lyanna grinned. Benjen all in white was a queer image to conjure, but it was right. It fit somehow. "Good. I'm glad. We could use a few Northern swords around here." She stroked Arra's cheek.

Arthur watched her curiously, dark and purple, an echoing vision of his sister and niece...and that boy, the one who had called her Mother in her dream.

"I would be proud to have Benjen as my sworn brother," Arthur said, "though he may still need a couple more years of training. Kingsguards must be ready at a moment's notice to risk their lives for their kings. It is no safe business."

Lyanna smiled and let out a short breath of laughter. "You may just be right, ser. The North is hard and cold and has no mercy, but the South likes to play its game of thrones." She looked up at him with eyes that shone like polished steel. "I'm not sure which is harder."

The small council meeting seemed to go on forever, each Master droning on and on about grievances and business and politics and problems. It was enough for Rhaegar to wish he was a peasant. Momentarily.

Lord Tywin said that the start of a new era of a new king was always the busiest time in the Red Keep, and Rhaegar had no hard time believing such.

When the meeting began, the sky had been grey and falling, and the servants had brought in platters of eggs and bacon and fish, and toasted bread to slap it on, as well as butter and decanters of water and summerwine.

As the day went on, fruits and cheeses were prepared for the midday meal, as well as thick soups of chicken and vegetables. The meeting went on.

By the time the last member had spoken, the sky was dark and a hundred candles had been lit around the small council chambers, casting an amber glow to every lord's face that crowded his table. Rhaegar felt drained completely, his heartbeat pounding in his temples and his ass aching from sitting on it the entire day with no reprieve.

"I believe that was all we had planned to discuss," Lord Tywin finally said from down the table, raising his golden brows in question. Behind him, Ser Jaime was still and lifeless as a statue, but Rhaegar caught him flinch every time his lord father spoke.

It made him wonder what rifts had been created between the lion and his cub when his offer of taking Jaime's white cloak had been rejected.

"There's one more thing," Rhaegar announced, standing finally. At each of his shoulders was a Valyrian sphinx, stately and gleaming of black marble with hard, piercing eyes of polished garnets. Red and black and Valyrian, like him.

"Your Grace?" Jon Connington said, though it was Lord Tywin that Rhaegar studied.

Lord Tywin was calm and still, showing no sign of discomfort though he, too, had been sitting for eight or more hours discussing the kingdoms and lords of Westeros. Tywin's eyes were pale green, flecked with gold, cold and calculating - nothing like the warm summer grass shade of his daughter's, nor the hue of cat in his son's.

Rhaegar wondered how Tywin would feel knowing his daughter would never wear a crown.

"I don't want to open a discussion," Rhaegar began, "I only wanted to inform you all personally that I will not be taking a second queen."

The room was immersed in dead silence. Even the flames of the candles seemed to cease their dance for a moment or two, before continuing to sway and burn.

"Your Grace," Maester Pycelle said slowly, his voice ancient and croaking, "Queen Lyanna is barren. I checked her personally after the incident of the miscarriage. She will never carry another child, I told you on Dragonstone."

Rhaegar cut him a fiery look. Even the reminder of that time on Dragonstone was enough to incense him, and Pycelle's position at Court was shaky at best anymore; Rhaegar could barely stand to look at the man, let alone speak to him.

"I am well aware of what you said, and know of my wife's...condition. I need no refresher. Nevertheless, I will not be taking another queen."

"Your children," Jon nearly shouted then, accusatory somehow, "your prophecy!"

"Has been put to bed," Rhaegar finished, his patience thinning. Jaime watched his king warily, ever aware and loosening his sword in its scabbard in case he had to cut down the small council one man shorter; Jaime's eyes went to Jon Connington and stayed, a coldness icing his green eyes.

"What of your heir?" Lord Monford interjected, stroking his chin. "You need a son."

"I have Viserys," Rhaegar said. "I want to make it known that Viserys is my official heir, and will be trained in the studies of such from this point forward."

Lord Tywin's eyes narrowed infinitesimally, but Rhaegar caught it all the same.

"Your lords will question your strength," Jon objected, shoving his chair back and getting to his feet. "They will wonder about your throne and its safety if you have no children of your body. Your reign, your rule, your House will be called into question and thrust into danger."

"I said that there will be no discussion of this," Rhaegar seethed, blood rushing to his face. A fire roared in his chest, begging for release, like the scream of a dragon's breath. His knuckles itched to hit something.

"Even Aegon the Conquerer had two queens," Jon said loudly in defiance. "You may be fond of the girl, but Lyanna Stark is no queen!"

Brandon, already fuming, pushed his chair back with a high screeching noise and took two strides to Jon Connington. Jaime stepped between them at one look from Rhaegar and stopped the wild wolf from wrenching the head from the griffin's shoulders.

"Get out of my way, Jaime," Brandon warned. Every line of his body radiated with rage, a mirror image to Rhaegar's own fury.

Jaime's eyes found Rhaegar's over Brandon's shoulders. Rhaegar frowned and said, "Brandon, please sit."

Brandon whirled, his grey eyes glittering with fight. "I won't suffer ill talk of my sister, and nor should you!"

"I won't," Rhaegar promised, wanting to rein in his good-brother, but Brandon went on.

"Your father stole her away from Robert Baratheon," Brandon seethed, "and our father did not fight it. She became your princess and left her family. She gave you her innocence, and bore and bled your child. You should have more respect for her!"

Rhaegar squeezed his eyes closed, willing away the rush of fire that razed his veins. His fingernails dug into the wood of the table where he supported his weight, nearly cracking from the pressure. It would do no good to fight Lyanna's brother, his good-brother; it was Jon's feet that his anger lay at.

Rhaegar opened his eyes and fixed Jon Connington with a look as hot and cold as fire and winter. "I will not listen as you cut down my wife, your queen, ever again. I will not allow you to speak poorly of her, or to speak of her at all from this day on. Lyanna is, and will forever be, your queen and my wife. Do you understand?"

Though Rhaegar's voice had been low and even, Jon understood the barely concealed wrath brimming beneath the words. Jaw ticking and eyes narrowed, Jon nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Good," Rhaegar said, sweeping to the door before he became his father and summoned a pyre. At the last second, he stopped to look over his shoulder. "The next time that you speak out against Lyanna, whether in my presence or in the company of others," he promised with clenched teeth and curled fists, "will be the last time you have a tongue."

Cersei gasped quietly and sank deeper into the alcove outside the small council chambers, shrinking farther into the darkness as King Rhaegar and Jaime swept from the room. Her veins swam with adrenaline and her hands shook with anger, but she willed silence and stillness as the rest of the small council, her father included, poured from the chambers, muttering under their breaths.

No one had known she was there, eavesdropping the entire day of the council's meeting, aching and wishing to move though she couldn't. Ser Barristan had been utterly unaware of her hidden presence, and Ser Oswell, too. It made her feel mighty, but the end of the meeting had cut her legs.

Rhaegar was staying with his she-wolf and not taking a second wife. The very declaration had made Cersei seethe in rage, made her bite down on her lip to conceal the screech of fury she had wanted to unleash as he told his masters of his wishes.

No second queen, no children for Rhaegar, Viserys as the heir and future king. Rhaegar couldn't be serious. He had to change his mind. Cersei had to change his mind, though so far he did not seem to respond to beauty nor grace, both of which she had in abundance.

No, Cersei needed a miracle and now. This waiting was doing her no good. While she stood idly by, waiting for her chance to be the queen, Lyanna had fucked her way into the king's good graces. Cersei had heard the servants gossiping excitedly about the moans constantly coming from the king's bedchamber at night. The servants had stopped talking soon enough when she sent them to her father for punishment.

But it didn't stop what was happening in the king's bed. The Stark's cunt was gold and had bought her a crown, but the fucking wouldn't last forever. Couldn't last forever. Sooner or later, Rhaegar would tire of what was between Lyanna Stark's legs, and he would yearn for a son. And when that time came, Cersei would be there, ready and waiting.

But she needed a plan. Or, better yet...a miracle.

Chapter 68: Red

Chapter Text

The day was crisp and golden and beautiful, a day for love and fire, a day where nothing could go wrong.

"I want to leave for the Isle of Faces in a few days," Rhaegar whispered along the column of Lyanna's throat, stroking into her as he gripped the soft swell of her hips.

"A few days?" She repeated dazedly. "Yes, yes."

He didn't know whether she was saying yes to the Isle of Faces or yes to the thing he did with his hips, but either way he took it as an agreement. "You can wear one of your Northern gowns, and I'll bring the cloak I gave you on our wedding day." He moaned against her skin. "Gods, I can't wait to marry you again."

Lyanna drew in a sudden, sharp breath and balled it in her throat. "I'm so close," she whispered as she curled her fingers through the tangles of his silver hair, canting her hips up desperately to match his lazy thrusts.

Her pale eyelids fluttered wildly as her peak skirted her reach, her breath stuttering in a staccato pattern. So in love and so turned on by her, Rhaegar couldn't help but bend down and press an open-mouthed kiss to her lips, tasting their sex and sweat mingling on her tongue.

Then he drew back, took her at the back of one knee, and hooked her leg over his shoulder before quickening his rhythm; the new position, the back of her thigh pressed against his chest, her calf dangling at his shoulder blades, made her gasp in delight. Her moan was so loud that Rhaegar was sure whomever stood guard at his door was getting an earful of their love.

But the blood rushing through him, the adoration he felt for her, was enough to make him forget about whatever white knight that was likely listening outside. With her leg over his shoulder, he stroked even deeper inside of her, sheathing every bit of himself in her slick heat until he felt like his eyes might roll right out of his head.

"Yes," Lyanna whispered, her eyes closed and her nails raking lines down his neck, "right there. Don't stop."

Rhaegar bit his lip, trying to hold off his own pleasure so that she could reach her peak first, and tasted blood. He quickened his hips, intentionally grinding into her hard, hitting that place that she always liked touched, over and over, harder and faster...

...until she gasped, froze, and melted all around him. Her cunt tightened hot and wet, pulsing around him until he was sure they shared a heartbeat, bringing him to the edge of some great cliff, and then pushed him over it with her.

The sheer force of his ecstasy took him by shock, as it always did, bearing down on him like a great tidal wave that had crashed across the world. It was so strong and so good that it hurt, rocking his body with a power that rendered him both paralyzed and mute.

Rhaegar spilled himself inside her, choking on his own breath, his head and heart in battle. While the pleasure he felt was enough to shatter glass, he couldn't help the twinge in his chest - the twinge he always got when he finished inside her, that sharp pain in his heart when he gave her body his seed, the nagging shard that was twenty-two years in the making that put hooks into his soul and reminded him of his duty.

He could not help it.

He was completely, helplessly in love with Lyanna and had readily given up the pursuit of his promised prince, but...that hadn't stopped the dreams, it hadn't killed his belief. He had not stopped believing. He knew, with every ounce of his being, that the savior of the world was meant to be one half of his body, one half of his seed, one half fire. The other half was meant to take root in ice, in her.

But, just as the gods had created it, man destroyed. One terrible day, one horrifying night, and twenty-two years of searching and research and dreams and beliefs had been washed away, bringing the world to a point of no return.

Perhaps it was not today, nor maybe the next or the next, but there would come a time when summer faded, and autumn turned, and winter would rule the earth with an icy grip until there was nothing left of life but darkness and cold.

All because of one night, one mad king, and one girl's decision not to go to Dragonstone.

Rhaegar pushed away the blame, pushed away the morose thoughts trying to build a wall in his head, and rode out the remainder of his high, spilling the very last bit of his seed in Lyanna's sex. Then he rolled off of her and pulled her into his side.

Her hair was limp with sweat against his skin, her cheeks flushed bright red. Rhaegar ran the back of his hand down her face and frowned. "You're on fire," he murmured in concern, "do you feel alright?"

Lyanna propped up on one elbow and furrowed her brows. "I feel fine." Those cool, grey eyes studied him. "Better than fine actually."

The corners of his mouth quirked up. "Better than fine," he repeated in amusement.

Lyanna rolled her eyes and sat up to straddle him, every bit of her naked form backlit by the golden morning light spilling in through the window behind her. "My feeling better than fine has nothing to do with you, Your Grace," she said in a faux-haughtily way.

He grinned, molding his hands to her bare hips. The mixture of his seed and her arousal and their sweat was slick on her sex. "Nothing?"

Lyanna bit her lip and circled her hips, meeting his eyes boldly. "Absolutely nothing."

He rolled his eyes playfully. "Fine. Well, back to what I was saying earlier...the Isle of Faces. We'll leave within the week?"

Lyanna looked down on him, that soft smile and sex haze mixing beautifully with her flushed skin. "That sounds perfect."

With her absolutely bare and the morning sunshine creating a golden halo around her head, Rhaegar thought perhaps it was the perfect time to tell her his heart. But before he could, Lyanna climbed off him and slid off the bed.

Rhaegar sat up. "Where are you going?"

She found his tunic on the floor and slipped it over her head. "I told your mother I would eat with her at noon. I need to bathe. I can't sit with her, smelling of morning sex with her son."

Rhaegar smiled and sat back against the bed, folding his hands behind his head as he watched Lyanna dress. "And after that? Do you have any plans after that?"

Lyanna shrugged. "Maybe I'll go riding. I promised Viserys a few days ago that I would take him out soon."

"I don't want you to leave," he pouted playfully, reaching for her. She smiled and sank into his embrace. "We're supposed to spend the day together."

She pulled away and raised her brows. "Really? You don't have anything to do?"

Chuckling, he said, "There's always something I could be doing, but I won't. Not today. I want to spend my day with you."

"Truly?" Her eyes narrowed doubtfully.

Rhaegar scoffed. "You could act less surprised that I want to be with you."

Her eyes lowered and her cheeks flamed brighter. "So," she murmured as he traced a path down her cheek, "what did you want to do?"

He sat forward and brushed a quick kiss on her mouth. "Would you like to visit Rhaella?"

Lyanna pulled away and frowned. "I already told you I'm eating with your mother soon. Didn't you hear me?"

"Not," he said, "my mother. I meant...our baby. In the sept."

Lyanna blinked and her grey eyes turned to marble, overcome by a sad sheen that reminded Rhaegar of the aftermath of their loss, of the tears and the grief and the misery. Of Dragonstone.

But Lyanna spilled no tears. "I'd...like that." She dropped her chin briefly, twisting her mouth. "I feel guilty."

Rhaegar frowned. "Why?"

"I haven't been to see her since her funeral," Lyanna admitted, meeting his eyes. "It's been almost a year since...since we lost her, and I haven't been back to see her. I'm a terrible person."

Rhaegar tugged her forward, ignoring that twinge that came back in his chest. "You are not terrible. It's okay to still be hurt. There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about her. When you were gone, at Winterfell, I used to bring her flowers every week, a different kind every time. I would spend hours at her place in the sept."

He swallowed heavily and continued. "I haven't been back since you returned, so let's go together. Today. Go and eat with my mother, and then we'll ride to the sept. Perhaps we can even visit Beth's orphanage after."

Lyanna smiled softly and nodded, kissing him one more time. "That sounds wonderful. I'll come find you when we're finished."

I love you, Rhaegar thought as she swept away, flashing a smile over her shoulder before she slipped out the door. He kept his thought to himself.

After her bath, Lyanna found Rhaella in her solar, fussing and frowning over a scowling Viserys. He squirmed in his seat as she touched his face, making noises of irritation in the back of his throat. When he saw Lyanna, he jumped and smiled.

"Lya!"

Lyanna smiled and strode forward, accepting Rhaella's hug before bending to crouch before Viserys. "Hello, little one."

"Are we going riding today?" Viserys asked, nearly vibrating in his seat. Despite his excitement, Lyanna was acutely aware of the sallow shade to his skin, as well as the shadows beneath his purple eyes. He looked unwell.

"We are," she replied, slipping into the seat next to him. "That is, if it's alright with your mother."

Viserys looked to Rhaella, pouting out his bottom lip. It was the sweetest face Lyanna had ever seen. "Can we, Mother, please?"

Rhaella frowned. "Viserys, sweetheart, you haven't been feeling well all day. Perhaps you should rest after we eat."

Viserys made a sharp noise of sudden anger. "No, that's unfair! I never get to do anything fun anymore. All I do is sit inside and learn how to be a king. I don't want to rest and I don't want to learn. I want to ride with Lya!" Tears instantly filled his pretty purple eyes.

"Vis," Lyanna soothed, reaching over to grab his hand. His skin was flaming hot. "Your mother just wants you to be healthy. You're Rhaegar's heir now, we can't have anything happen to you."

A single tear slid down his cheek. "I'm fine." He turned those large purple eyes on his mother. "Please, Mother, please let me go."

Rhaella frowned, and thought it over, studying her son, but eventually nodded. "As long as you try to eat before you go. And you promise to be good for Lyanna."

Viserys nodded desperately. "I promise."

"You're sure you don't mind?" Rhaella asked, looking to Lyanna.

Lyanna smiled. "Of course not." It was odd, a punishment in a way, now that she was destined never to have a babe of her own, she was surrounded by beautiful little children whom she loved with all her heart. Viserys, Robb, Arra, and Dany, reminders of what could have been.

We're going to see Rhaella later, Lyanna reminded herself, trying to find some cheer in the situation. But no matter how many times she visited those ashes, her girl was never coming back, would never grow.

"My stomach hurts," Viserys complained suddenly, sliding from his seat. "I'm going to the privy."

"Hurry, sweetheart," Rhaella said as he went out of the room. She frowned after him, even once he was gone.

"Is he truly alright?" Lyanna finally asked. There was a cold ball of unease in her chest that she couldn't shake away.

Rhaella sighed. "He woke late last night complaining of stomach pains, but once I got him to go back to sleep, he was fine. I thought he was sick, but he's insisted he feels better."

"Hopefully it was just a simple stomachache and nothing more," Lyanna added. "My brother, Brandon's little girl is sick with a fever and a cough. She has been since the coronation, so for two weeks now. It had to have been something brought in from the many guests."

"How sad," Rhaella said softly. "A babe sick for so long is an ill thing." Something bloomed in her face suddenly, a realization. "Has she not been checked by the Grand Maester?"

Lyanna shook her head. "Brandon summoned in the maester of Winterfell. Maester Luwin was in Oldtown at the time, so he should be here any day now." Any hour, really, she thought.

Rhaella's brows furrowed deeply. "The Grand Maester is at your brother's disposal. Surely he knows that."

Lyanna was struck with the awkwardness of the situation, fidgeting uncomfortably with a seam of her hunting greens; she did not want to say the truth, but she could not lie to Rhaella. "My brother...has a difficult time trusting new people," she tried instead. It wasn't completely a lie, but it wasn't the truth. "Maester Luwin has treated Arra before."

Despite the diplomatic excuse, Rhaella seemed to understand all the same. "Ah," she hummed shortly, twisting her mouth. She looked down at her lap for a moment before meeting Lyanna's eyes head-on. "Lord Brandon does not care for Maester Pycelle."

Does not care for was putting it lightly, but Lyanna didn't need to go that far. She did not wish to disparage Pycelle in case Rhaella had a care for the man, but she also would not exalt him. "They...have their differences."

Rhaella gave her a soft smile. "You don't need to lie, sweet girl. Pycelle has no great standing in my book."

Lyanna was so surprised that she blurted out, "He doesn't?"

Rhaella shook her head. "It's difficult to feel love for a man that has been privy to every one of your failings. It's not easy to separate him from my many miscarriages, no matter how unfair it might be to him. Besides," she took a careful sip of her water, "I've never trusted Pycelle. He may have served my House for many, many years, but I know it's not to dragons that his true loyalty belongs."

Lyanna let out a breathless laugh of disbelief. It was as if Rhaella put her every feeling into words; how many times had she pictured Pycelle in her mind and raged, or seen him in the halls and scowled and turned away? There was something off about the man, something she misliked.

Before she could reply, the servants came in, bearing plates of food and decanters of wine: rolls and potatoes, corn and turnips and beets, Arbor Gold and sweet summerwine. "Oh, good," Rhaella chirped before flashing a smile at Lyanna. "I ordered the swan. I know how much you enjoyed it at the coronation feast."

Lyanna had. But as soon as the platter of swan was placed before her, the steam of its smell wafting up into her face, nausea gripped her. Hard. Lyanna froze and grabbed the table, swallowing back the tangy taste of vomit swimming up her throat.

Rhaella frowned and leaned forward, reaching for her. "Lyanna dear, are you alright?" There was concern in her purple eyes and fear in her voice. "You look green."

Lyanna shook her head desperately, willing the nausea away. "The swan," she choked out, "I can't." She cupped her hand over her mouth and tears sprang to her eyes. Her belly roiled painfully.

Rhaella waved the servant over. "Please take the swan away. All of it." She handed her plate over as well. "Just bring some bacon, perhaps. And more fruit."

"I'm sorry," Lyanna whispered when the swan was completely cleared. "I don't know why, but as soon as I smelled it, I felt sick." Even thinking about it brought sickness to her throat. "I loved it so much at the feast, I don't..." She shook her head in confusion.

Rhaella nodded gently in understanding but studied Lyanna with a critical eye. She stared so hard for so long that Lyanna felt her heart pound in her chest. "Have you been feeling well lately?" Rhaella finally asked, dropping her eyes casually to her cup of wine.

"Completely fine," Lyanna answered honestly, smiling at Viserys as he came back into the room. Rhaella's question was an echo of Rhaegar's own concern earlier that morning, when he'd felt her skin.

Rhaella caught sight of her son and smiled. The motherly slant to it made Lyanna's heart ache. "Sweetheart," she asked, "do you feel any better now?"

Viserys shrugged, unnaturally sullen, and slipped into his seat. "I suppose."

"Perhaps you should not go riding with Lyanna today if you are unwell," Rhaella began, watching him, waiting.

"I promise I'm fine, Mother," Viserys said seriously, immediately going for the fruit bowl. "Look, I'm eating." Lyanna noticed he took only the smallest bites and ate very little, but Rhaella seemed pleased anyway.

When the bacon was brought out, Lyanna turned ravenous, eating every strip that had been placed on her platter; she ate the fruit as well, as well as several buttered rolls, her stomach healed completely from the incident with the swan. She might have wondered at her desperate hunger if it weren't for how many times Rhaegar had made love to her over the course of the night and morning. She needed every bit of sustenance.

When their meal was over, Viserys happily changed into his riding clothes, and followed her to Rhaegar's chambers. They found him sitting on his bed, lacing up his boots. Beside him was a bouquet of white roses bound in red ribbon.

Rhaegar stood and pulled a cloak over his shoulders before gathering the bouquet. He handed them to Lyanna. "These are for Rhaella."

"Pretty," she admired, half distracted by the small, fiery hand fit into hers; Lyanna spared a quick glance at Viserys, looking him over before he could catch her. There was still a sick, yellow shade to his pallor, but high on his cheekbones, there were spots of red. She contemplated laying the back of her hand on his skin to gauge his heat.

Jaime's voice took her out of her thoughts. He stood in the doorway, bright and golden, ready in his armor for the day. He gave her a small nod before addressing Rhaegar. "Your Grace, you have a visitor."

Rhaegar sighed and said with a tinge of impatience, "Send them in." He leaned over to her and whispered, "this won't take long. I promise." But, as Jaime stepped aside, a small, squat man stepped forth and Rhaegar's face changed completely. "Tom," he said.

The man named Tom bowed deeply, once for Rhaegar and once for Lyanna. His skin was dark and ashy, and his hands were spliced with an array of cuts. He seemed familiar. "My queen," he said to her respectfully before looking back at Rhaegar. "My work is finished, Your Grace. I-"

"Wonderful," Rhaegar butted in suddenly, his voice unnaturally loud. Lyanna frowned, taken aback by his interruption. "I'll see it now," he said to Tom. Then, to Lyanna, "Go on without me, I'll meet you at the sept."

"We can wait until you're finished," Lyanna insisted, struck with an odd feeling. What was he hiding? Why did Tom look so familiar to her?

"No," Rhaegar said immediately, "go on without me. You and Vis. Ser Jaime, Ser Arthur, and Ser Gerold will ride with you." He dug into the inside pocket of his cloak and produced a bag that jingled. He handed it to Viserys. "You can throw pennies to the smallfolk, how does that sound?"

Viserys grinned, but Lyanna wasn't as easily placated. "Are you sure you don't want us to wait? Surely you won't be that long."

Rhaegar bent forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek, before ushering her out the door. "It's fine, go on. I'll meet you there. I have to go now so I can get this done. I'll see you both soon."

And with that, he strode away with the man named Tom, leaving her behind. Lyanna stood there dumbly, staring off into the length of the corridor, wondering what the hells had just happened. She blinked several times, thoroughly confused.

Viserys tugged impatiently on her hand. "Lya, come on."

She tried a smile for him, tucking away her irritation and bewilderment. "Let's go."

They walked hand in hand to the yard, where their horses were already saddled and waiting. Jaime, Arthur, and Gerold mounted up on their white steeds, and formed an arrow around Lyanna and Viserys: Jaime at their backs, with Ser Gerold flanking Viserys' right and Arthur at Lyanna's left.

Viserys fidgeted mercilessly on his own small horse, scowling and grumbling. "Vis," Lyanna called as the gates were opened. He looked over. "Is that horse okay? We can get you another if you're uncomfortable."

Viserys shook his head. "This one is fine."

"Alright," she said slowly, doubtfully, kicking her heels into Smoke. "Get your pennies ready."

They rode down from Aegon's High Hill with the fresh crisp breeze on their faces and the sun glowing down from its sky of blue. The day was lovely and golden, and even the smell of the city couldn't take away from its beauty.

It had been so long since Lyanna had roamed the dregs of the capital, exploring and playing at a peasant. The memory of her night with Rhaegar and Ser Barristan still brought a fond smile to her face, even to this day.

They continued to ride at a slow, leisurely pace. At the sight of the knights in white, the smallfolk began to stop and stare, murmuring to one another, before clumping in groups and calling out in excitement. "Queen Lyanna!" a little girl called out, jumping on her toes. A boy only a few years older than Viserys called out his name.

Viserys, though, seemed strangely distracted, the complete opposite of the boy who had been so eager to ride and throw pennies. Lyanna frowned and urged her horse closer to his. "Vis!"

It was as if he was in another world. He did not flinch or make any move to acknowledge or belie he had heard her. "Viserys," she tried again, louder, leaning over to touch his arm.

Viserys flinched and looked to her; his eyes were unnaturally large and glassy, and his skin had an odd sheen to it. It had only been a matter of minutes from their leaving the Red Keep. He mouthed something to her, but the excited cheer of the smallfolk made it difficult for Lyanna to hear his words.

She urged Smoke to go as close as possible to Viserys and his horse, the animals' sides nearly flush. "What did you say?" She asked.

"I feel dizzy," Viserys complained in a wobbly voice, his eyes focusing and unfocusing. The bag of pennies Rhaegar had given him was clutched tight in his hand.

"Do you want to go back?" Lyanna asked in concern. "We can go home. I don't mind." Perhaps Rhaella had been right to question his health.

Viserys grimaced, as if in pain, and swayed in his saddle. At his side, Ser Gerold was alert and frowning. "I," Viserys groaned, "don't feel good. I feel-" But before he could finish his sentence, he froze, convulsed, and spit up the fruit he'd eaten earlier all over his horse's mane in a mess of green chunks.

Lyanna's eyes went wide and for some reason, that cold feeling of dread that had cloaked her since the coronation came back with a hard and ugly vengeance. It took hold of her with claws and took root in her soul. She was suddenly scared. "Ser Gerold," she called over, "we're going back. The prince is sick."

Ser Gerold bellowed out an order, and as he did, Viserys' eyes rolled white and he slumped sideways in his saddle; luckily, Lyanna had reigned up next to him, so as he slipped out of his saddle, she caught him in her arms.

She struggled with his dead weight as she tried to pull him against her. "Viserys," she called his name desperately. Over and over and over, overwhelmed by the shouting of the smallfolk, the Kingsguards yelling orders, and the sudden terror gripping her chest as she looked down and saw nothing but the whites of Viserys' eyes as he lay limp in her arms.

Arthur and Oswell closed in at their sides, shouting words that Lyanna couldn't comprehend. All she could focus on was helping Viserys and getting him home. With all the strength in her body, she hoisted him up and against her, pulling his leg over one side so that he was in her lap, safe against her. The white noise surrounding her made Lyanna feel like she was drowning.

"What happened?" Ser Arthur shouted in her ear, loosening his blade in case of threat.

Lyanna made to reply but Viserys jerked in her hold suddenly; relieved, she pulled back an inch from him, desperate for him to be awake again, for this all to be some trick or play.

It wasn't. His head lolled to the side sickeningly and his face flamed red, his eyes rolling. "Vis," Lyanna bent to say near his ear. He jerked again, still unconscious, convulsed, then heaved.

At first, all she registered was wet. Then came the smell. Chunks of vomit covered Lyanna's tunic, dripping down her chest and onto Viserys' clothes, the odor making her stomach churn as it seeped everywhere, brown with hunks of muted remnants of their midday meal.

Lyanna felt her dread explode. It wasn't the bile or the slimy chunks of fruit sliding down her clothes that made her freeze in terror.

It was the red that dripped off his lips and mixed with his sick. Blood.

Chapter 69: Kings and Dragons

Chapter Text

The heavens raged. Dark as steel with thick black clouds that shot veins of white-hot lightning to the earth, the sky wept upon every inch of King's Landing. It turned the crooked alleys of Flea Bottom to sludge, kept the commons and nobles alike away hiding, painted every wall of the Red Keep to blood.

On Visenya's Hill, the rain washed over the Great Sept of Baelor in such a way that it seemed to turn the gold-and-crystal dome into some great, starry eye that wept cold tears of agony; through the dome's faceted surface, the rainfall's reflection threw warped, quivering shadows upon the pale marble floors, bringing every idol of the Faith stirring to life.

Each upon their own wall, the Seven seemed to tremble awake with a seance of rain and fire. The Mother and Maiden were awash in warm amber light, each commanding a small army of flaming candlesticks that, when coupled with the rain, turned their chalcedony and sapphire eyes to flickering.

The Warrior's altar shimmered with several handful of dancing candles, the Father's little more than a handful, while the Crone and Smith garnered only a few; with her pearly eyes, the Crone stared unseeing upon the sept-proper, holding up her lightless lamp for blind guidance as the Warrior beside reared back his silver hammer.

The Stranger seemed to stand apart from its godly counterparts, though every broad aisle of the sept was measured equally and alike. Done up in polished black marble with chips of gleaming onyx, the Stranger's towering, twisted form seemed more animal than human. It had no face, nor any discernible features really, and yet Cersei Lannister felt its stare as if Lord Tywin himself was looking down upon her.

Cersei went to her knees before the towering idol, ignoring the pulse of pain that spasmed through her bones. In deference to the Stranger, she had worn a sweeping, high-necked gown of black silk and a hooded cloak of midnight velvet; neither did much in the way of cushioning her knees, but Cersei could endure, even appreciate, the pain in this instance.

Because she had gotten her wish. She had received her miracle, in the form of a dying heir. Cersei couldn't help the smile blooming on her face; just the thought of the previous afternoon, golden and crisp, the Red Keep filled to the music of cries and shouts and breathless explanations, brought giddy excitement to her heart.

Her miracle... The little wretched prince had fallen gravely ill the day before, and ever since, had been in a deep, unshakable sleep. Cersei had been walking the bailey when the Stark girl and Jaime had burst through the doors, headed by Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur. In the Lord Commander's arms had been the little prince, limp and dirty with blood coating his lips. But best of all, he'd been unconscious.

Maegor's Holdfast had been locked up the entire night and morning, but talk had leaked anyway. Viserys was sick, very sick, and there was a very good chance of death.

Cersei had donned her blacks as soon as the day began and rode to the Great Sept to give her thanks and encouragement.

She raised her eyes once more, studying the towering gilded idol. So many feared the Stranger, cast it as evil, though in the end, everyone was visited by it. One day, when she was Rhaegar's queen, the people would fear her even more than this twisted death god.

Cersei smiled and lit a candle at the Stranger's altar, watching in fascination as the flame reached into the air like some grasping golden hand desperate for the gift of death. Fire and gold, like dragons and lions, Targaryen and Lannister. Cersei's smile grew impossibly wider; she bowed her head and prayed.

"Please," Cersei implored with as much pious sincerity as she had in her, "please take the boy away from this world. Take his heavenly soul and destroy his body. Leave King Rhaegar without his heir. Kill the prince."

Her lone candle flickered wildly, as if the Stranger itself was answering her prayer.

"What are you doing here?"

It was a voice she had not heard in weeks. Smooth as syrup with a golden tone, just the sound of Jaime's voice sent a shiver down her spine. But the sight of him made her scowl.

"Did you follow me here?" She demanded, narrowing her eyes. The rain had made Jaime's curls go limp, and his white cloak sodden, but he still burned like Rock gold.

Her twin gave her a smile that was brimming with insolence. "I just wanted to make sure my sweet sister was safe and well."

Cersei got to her feet and dusted off her knees, angry as a swatted hornet. The accusation in his words had dripped with condescension, and that was something she would not accept. From anyone. "Why would I be anything but?"

Jaime snorted unkindly. "You are many things," he said in amusement, "prickly, pretty, and paranoid to all hell...but pious?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "No. Father did not raise us to be gods-fearing."

That much was true; Tywin Lannister had raised his children to fear only him, excluding kings and gods alike. And yet still, Jaime's insolence made her hackles rise and set her blood to boiling. "How dare you insinuate I am not a child of the Faith," she started, playing for the part of a godly lady.

Jaime interrupted her lines before they even began. "The only child you are is of Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna. No other." He stepped closer and for a moment, she was rendered paralyzed by his familiar scent - the same scent she had loved all her life, the one that had cloaked her skin every time he was in her. But Jaime couldn't leave well enough alone. "Now tell me, sister, what are you doing kneeling before the Stranger?"

Cersei shook herself from her spell, and shoved Jaime away roughly. "Perhaps I am praying for the kiss of death so I never have to see your face again."

A group of Most Devout suddenly drifted by, pale and shimmering in their cloth-of-silver vestments and crystal pendants, but Jaime paid them as much mind as a pack of fleas. "Are you sure you're not praying for a certain prince's demise?"

The smack she dealt him echoed like a wail in the silent sept, bouncing off the walls. Jaime's head whipped to the side from the blow and a thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. The look he gave her was equal parts lust and loathing.

At the sound of the slap, the group of Most Devout had frozen, staring with wide eyes at the fuming twins.

"Don't worry," Jaime called over arrogantly, "I think my sweet sister's hand just slipped." He added a disarming smile and fingered the hilt of his golden sword, watching as they went on their way. Then he looked back at her.

Cersei sneered at this stranger before her. This wasn't Jaime; this was some soft soldier molded into a dragon's pet by the white cloak on his back and the sworn brothers that constantly surrounded him. Father had been right; when Jaime accepted that cloak, he had denounced every part of himself that was Lannister.

All that was left was a callow boy with no future.

"The audacity you have to accuse me of wishing for the prince's death," she hissed, "is astounding."

"Not wishing," Jaime corrected, casually wiping away the blood from his mouth with a thumb, "praying. There is a meaningful difference between the two. I saw you light a candle to the Stranger. Don't even try to deny it."

Cersei smiled sweetly, boiling at his gall, but leaning in all the same. She remembered a time when she would moan his name in the throes of ecstasy; lately, his name held only contempt. "I don't have to divulge my prayers to you, Jaime. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm finished speaking to the gods today." With that, she flicked her hair and strode past him, eager to get back to the Keep. Perhaps the Stranger had granted her prayer already.

But as in birth, Jaime was never far behind. He caught up to her easily, jerking her into the Hall of Lamps with none of the tenderness he usually possessed when handling her. Beneath a leaded globe, Jaime's skin was glowing red. "Are you really that confident or did your head turn to pudding while I was in Winterfell? Prince Viserys sick is just the thing you need to wheedle your way into King Rhaegar's life."

Cersei clenched her jaw, casually looking left, then right to ensure no ears were around to hear. "My wits are in check, brother, thank you for inquiring. And yes," she murmured, "I do pray the prince dies mercifully in his sleep. The gods saw fit to strike him ill. Why should I curse their doing? I can only hope for expediency."

Jaime gave her look of utter scorn, those lips that which had loved her so often now turned down. "You are reaching for a star, Cersei, and you will fail. The king will never marry another."

Cersei chuckled breathlessly and laid the back of her knuckles gently on Jaime's cheek, like a mother would her child. "Oh, my brother," she sighed, glancing up with large wildfire eyes. "The king doesn't really have a choice anymore, does he?"

Cersei's arrogance took Jaime's breath away. Her words echoed in his head like a scream in a tunnel, constantly reupping and reverberating through the folds of his brain until all he knew was the sly cadence of her parting words.

"Oh, brother," she had said with the most patronizing tone - the same tone their lord father used when dealing with his subjects. "The king doesn't really have a choice anymore, does he?"

Jaime had to force himself to clench his jaw shut just so he wouldn't scream. King Rhaegar would surely notice that, no matter how distracted he was. Doubled over at his desk, the king had been awake ever since they had returned from riding to the Great Sept the afternoon before, Prince Viserys limp and unconscious in the Lord Commander's great arms.

Maester Pycelle had been with the little prince all night and morning on the king's orders, charged with finding a cure for the unknowable flux that had befallen his heir.

Lyanna sighed from where she sat across from the king's desk, and lifted her head; her eyes were rimmed in red, making her pale skin seem even paler, sickly somehow, but her voice was strong and full of poison. "When will that wretched maester be done?"

Rhaegar sat up slowly and looked at his wife with the saddest look Jaime had ever seen. He opened his mouth to speak, but a throat cleared at the open door, cutting whatever he'd been about to say dead.

Maester Pycelle shuffled into the room, back bent unnaturally beneath the dark red of his billowing robes. His long beard was snow white and magnificent to behold, but the filmy eyes set into his sagging face were bright with knowing. Ever a creature of the lion, Maester Pycelle was a Lannister soldier through and through, only garbed in cowled robes instead of gilded armor.

Rhaegar stood so quickly from his chair that it toppled backwards. "Tell me," he demanded, those purple eyes large and dark and afraid.

"The prince," Pycelle croaked, "remains unconscious. No hand nor substance will shake him from this sleep."

Rhaegar scowled. "Do you have any idea of what this sickness is?"

Pycelle shook his head in a great show of regret. "I am afraid not, Your Grace. The signs are very like the bloody flux, but Queen Rhaella informed me that the prince began with a cough, after which fever and stomach problems followed."

"But he'll live?" Rhaegar insisted impatiently.

"If he can make through another night, the boy should live. The first days are critical in such severe illnesses," said Pycelle. "Isolation is imperative though, so I must ask you to keep away from the prince's room."

"Does my mother show any sign of this illness?" Rhaegar wanted to know.

"No," Pycelle said, "but I did give her something to sleep. She was making herself sick with grief. She rests now in her own chambers."

Rhaegar closed his eyes and allowed his head to drop. "Good," he murmured.

"The prince is alone?" Lyanna asked sharply, stepping forward. Every line of her body was coiled and tense, like a snake waiting to kill its prey.

Pycelle shook his head. "He is being watched over by one of my acolytes."

Lyanna rolled her eyes and went for the door, stomping her feet all the way. "I'll sit with him. Should he wake, he should see a familiar face."

"Your Grace," Pycelle rasped, "it is not a good idea to be in the prince's presence for long. I do not know much of his illness, and it could be very contagious. You were already around him long enough yesterday to have caught it. We must be careful. In fact," Pycelle raised his brows, "you should stay in your own chambers for now. At least until this malady has passed."

Lyanna looked outraged. "I have to be locked up now? Am I a prisoner? Rhaegar," she looked to her husband, imploring him for her side.

But if anything, the maester's words had only steeled the king's resolve. "You can't be around Vis right now. When he's better, but...not now. And," he softened his eyes and words, "I think it's best if you stay in your room."

Lyanna's eyes went wide as eggs. "You can't be serious?"

Rhaegar clenched his jaw. "Deadly. Even if you don't have it, the servants could be a carrier. I am not going to lose you."

Lyanna blew out a disbelieving breath and shook her head angrily before going to storm out, but Rhaegar's voice stopped her. "Where are you going?"

Lyanna looked over her shoulder, her grey eyes dark and stormy. "To sit in my cage."

Rhaegar frowned. "Wait a moment, and I'll come with you."

"Mm, Your Grace, perhaps you should let the queen go alone," Pycelle butted in.

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed in suspicion, a mirror to his wife's own visage by the door. "Why?"

Pycelle seemed distinctly uncomfortable, as if the weight of their eyes was too much to handle. "It is not wise to put yourself in peril, should Her Grace become ill."

Rhaegar took a deep breath and stared the maester in the eyes. "My wife and I have lain together many times this past week. If she has it, I surely will, too."

Pycelle blinked, taken aback by the king's candor; Jaime shifted uncomfortably. "Her Grace was with Prince Viserys yesterday when he fell unconscious. He spilled his sick on her. Besides," Pycelle cleared his throat, "I thought Your Grace would like to speak with the small council as soon as possible."

At the door, Lyanna stiffened. Jaime already knew what was coming before it was said. Cersei's words in the sept came rushing back with the force of a wild river. "Oh, brother. The king doesn't really have a choice anymore, does he?"

Rhaegar's stare on Maester Pycelle was sharper than steel. "Why would I need to call the council?"

Pycelle frowned, ringing his hands nervously. "My king, when the prince dies, you will have no heir."

The room grew still. "I thought," Rhaegar pronounced slowly, keeping his alien eyes fixed on Pycelle's quivering jowls, "you said there was a chance Viserys would live. Why do you say when the prince dies, instead of if?"

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Pycelle said in his ancient rasp, "it was a misuse of tense."

"Misuse of tense," Lyanna cut in sharply, "sounds an awful lot like treason."

Pycelle gasped and grabbed ahold of his long white beard for safety. "I would never! I have implored the Mother herself to save the prince so that no more tragedy can strike King Rhaegar's reign."

"I'm sure," Lyanna spat. "Have you no faith in the prince himself? Do you not believe in your skills as a maester?"

Pycelle said, "The prince's caretaker, Lanna, passed away last night." The air stilled once more. "She caught this sickness as well, and perished in a pool of her own blood and sick. The kitchens have reported one of their cooks died two days ago." The Grand Maester turned his eyes on the king. "This illness holds no prejudice, even for the heirs of kings."

Rhaegar grabbed ahold of the desk and seemed to vibrate in his rage. The contour of his body quivered, his cheeks turned from pale marble to Targaryen red, and his purple eyes blazed with the glory of two falling stars.

"Your Grace," Pycelle said timidly.

A shower of crystal shards suddenly exploded near the far wall, falling to the floor in a tinkling song. Rhaegar had taken and thrown the wine decanter so quickly, all Jaime had seen was an iridescent blur before it had crashed against stone. Pycelle jumped nearly a foot into the air, Jaime had flinched, but Lyanna had moved not a muscle. She seemed frozen, unseeing.

"Get me my council," Rhaegar said in the darkest iron tone Jaime had ever witnessed before. He looked up. "Now!"

Pycelle jumped again and fled the room quickly, leaving behind only Jaime, Lyanna, and Rhaegar.

Lyanna broke the silence. "I can't believe this," she laughed in disbelief. Tears formed in her eyes. "Of course, of course, of course."

Rhaegar grimaced. "Lya-"

"Don't," she bit sharply. "Just...don't." She swiveled before her husband could stop her and ran out of the room, the sound of her boots echoing off the walls until they faded completely.

"Would that I could throw Pycelle against my wall just as easily as that crystal," Rhaegar said aloud, staring at the spot Lyanna had disappeared from. He turned to Jaime. "Would it be unfit for a king to murder his Grand Maester?"

Jaime thought of nine-inch nails and wild green flames and dead purple eyes. "It is not for me to say, Your Grace."

Rhaegar snorted, amused almost. "Of course it isn't." He angrily kicked the chair that had fallen over earlier, knocking loose one of its armrests. "Whomever said that kings were blessed was a fucking fool."

Jaime stayed silent. He'd never thought a king's life was so great anyhow; he'd seen enough of Aerys to last him a lifetime of kings and dragons.

"They're going to try to make me take another wife," Rhaegar said coldly, looking to Jaime with wild eyes. "They'll want me to marry someone else - your sister, most likely. And before, it was fine for me not to. I had Viserys, a perfectly healthy heir who shared my blood. But now, Vis is sick and who knows if he'll live, and they'll want me to take another wife. And..." He ran his hands through his hair so viciously, Jaime saw a chunk of silver fall to the ground. "Lyanna is going to hate me forever."

Jaime might have offered a rebuttal, but he did not think his words would be welcome.

Rhaegar's eyes fell over the room, straying briefly to the pile of what remained of the wine decanter, and finally came to Jaime. "What would you do? If you were me...what would you do?"

Jaime took a breath and shook his head. "I don't think I-"

"I command you," Rhaegar cut in, "as your king. Tell me what you think."

The king was in rare form tonight, and Jaime knew he should tread lightly with whatever came out of his mouth. But still, the hairs on his arm stood on end at the prospect of speaking his mind and provoking Rhaegar's fury.

As if the king could read his mind, he spit, "Now."

Well, if his king commanded it. "Should Prince Viserys fall to his illness, and something were to happen to the little princess, your throne would pass to House Baratheon. Your line would be extinguished and Lord Robert would succeed you, would he not?"

"Yes," Rhaegar said, jaw clenched and teeth gritted.

"Well," Jaime murmured, unsure of what else to say. The king was between a rock and a hard place, facing the death of his House, but risking the destruction of his marriage.

Jaime was taken back to that morning in the godswood, the morning before he unseated King Rhaegar in the final tilt. Lyanna had fretted over her husband's fidelity, had spoken childish fancies of running away to Essos should Rhaegar decide to set her aside or marry another. And Jaime, the fool with one friend, had agreed to go with her.

But would Lyanna ever even make it, should she decide to leave? Would Rhaegar let her get away? Jaime snuck a look at his king, who was doubled over again with his hands shoved into his hair, dark purple eyes crazed and torn. Somehow, he thought not.

"I don't hate you, Ser Jaime," Rhaegar said suddenly, lifting those strange eyes to land on him. "Not truly."

Jaime frowned. "Your Grace?" But he knew where this was going, saw it clear as day; all roads lead back to Lyanna.

"I envy you," Rhaegar admitted with a breathless, disbelieving chuckle. He shook his head. "I envy your relationship with my wife."

Jaime's heart lurched; he was not eager to be chewed out a second time by his king. The sting of the first time, the night he crowned Lyanna with the laurel of roses, was still ever-present. "There is no relationship, Your Grace," he objected.

Rhaegar stared in silence, weighing him almost as he sat back against one of the unbroken chairs. "I was referring to your friendship," he finally said, "I was not implying anything inappropriate."

Jaime held back a snort. It may have been the first time the king had ever not implied something inappropriate between Lyanna and him.

"Everything is so uncomplicated for you," Rhaegar barreled on, eyes hard as stone. "You're able to have her trust, her companionship, without all seven of the kingdoms hanging over your head like a guillotine."

"Queen Lyanna," Jaime treaded slowly, "is very fond of you, Your Grace." And didn't Jaime know it; how many times had he guarded her door at Dragonstone, the golden knight warding off her nightmares, only to hear the dragon's name called over and over and over again? Lyanna had been a mess before she had gone home.

"She may want me, and I her, but it seems that everything I do ensures I cannot have her," Rhaegar said tiredly. All at once, the fight in him had faded to barely more than a glimmer, leaving the dragon weak and vulnerable.

The small council arrived after that, with the exceptions of Brandon Stark and Lord Monford, and filed into the king's room - Varys, the Grand Maester, Jon Connington, and Lord Tywin, barely affording his son a passing glance. It angered his father to see him all in white.

No one spoke for a very long time, leaving the room a stuffy, silent tomb that which made Jaime sweat uncomfortably beneath his armor. It seemed hours had passed before Rhaegar finally spoke. "Who will be the first to say it?" His words were a challenge just as much as a question. His eyes went to the red-haired Master of Coin. "Jon?"

Jon Connington clenched his jaw. "I do not wish to disparage the queen, Your Grace."

"You need to disparage my wife in order to suggest what I know is on the tip of your tongue?" Rhaegar snarked.

Jon closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "You already know my stance, Your Grace. I pleaded for you to take a second wife as soon as Her Grace's condition was found out. Anything I say now is only repetition, and if I remember our last meeting correctly, unwelcome as well."

"True," Rhaegar allowed coldly, "and yet you all still agree. Except for Lord Brandon, of course, but my good-brother is with his daughter at the moment." He turned his eyes on Jaime's father. "Lord Tywin, what are your thoughts on the matter? As my Hand, I demand your counsel."

Tywin's pale green eyes fixed on the king, as haughty as Cersei's had been that morning in the sept. "I think that taking a second wife would be the wisest choice in your current dilemma. The Faith will initially rebel against the institution, but I have every confidence that their minds can be changed. There are many a noble lady who would die for the chance to become your queen."

My daughter included and above all, was the missing rest.

Rhaegar seemed to hear the same. "I'm sure..." He looked at each of his lords in turn, burning them with his fiery eyes. "And yet, I employed you each on my small council for a reason. I will not take another wife, so you'll need to retire that argument on my orders."

"Rhaegar," Jon stepped forward, "there's been enough stalling. You need to consider heirs seriously now. Prince Viserys is dying."

Rhaegar snapped his eyes over. "Do you think I'm enduring your presence for fun?" His scowl deepened as he turned his gaze over the gathered council. "The next man who dares to propose another wife will need to find a new head. Because he will be short one."

Instead of threatened, Jon seemed angered. "Where is your mind, Rhaegar? Your heir is sick, you have no other brothers, and all that's left to you is an infant girl. Should the prince die of his illness, that leaves Princess Daenerys as your heir.

"What if something were to happen to her before she could succeed you and bear children of her own? What if she was murdered, or fell ill, or was found to be barren?" The word echoed off the wall like a curse, but Jon continued.

"Your House is dwindled, and you are facing the final threads of your bloodline. Unless you wish to force your mother into another marriage, you producing children is the only option.

"Fine, you don't want to take another wife. I'll sail to Essos and find you a beautiful Lyseni noblewoman with Valyrian blood; she'll have silver hair and purple eyes. You can lay with her and legitimize whatever children come from your coupling." Jaime swallowed back his shock; it was a lucky thing Brandon Stark was otherwise occupied, or else Jon Connington would have a few less teeth.

As it was, it seemed still a viable option, only from the queen's husband instead of her brother. "Bastards?" Rhaegar choked out in disbelief. "Are you mad? Have you forgotten what the Blackfyres did to the realm? The smallfolk and lords alike would revolt."

Jon scowled. "If you don't wish the realm to know of your children's bastardy, you could send your paramour to Dragonstone once pregnant, and Lyanna as well for appearance's sake, and when the children are born, present them to the world as Queen Lyanna's."

Rhaegar seemed to shake in rage. "You want me to beg my barren wife to play the part of miracle mother? You want me to fuck another woman and force my queen to take my bastards in as her own blood? Is that what you're telling me?"

The room grew deathly still. Jon met the king's eyes brazenly. "As your wife, she must do whatever you command of her."

"Jon," Rhaegar said slowly, "I think you have been alone for far too long." He stood to his full height and gave the griffin a cool, long stare. "Remind me to find you a wife soon. That is, if I haven't given your head leave of your shoulders." He turned then, a swivel on his foot, and looked at Jaime. "Ser Jaime, if you would do me the kindness of escorting my lords back to their respective chambers, I wouldn't want them to wander."

The king went in three long strides to the door, but Maester Pycelle's voice sounded out, quivering. "Your Grace, what shall we do about the business of your heir? I can begin the writing in case the little princess becomes next in line. Or...I can arrange passage to Essos, to search for your paramour."

Rhaegar's back tensed and for several long moments he stood still as the Stranger. Jaime worried that the king would snap, wild and without warning like his father before him, and kill one or all of his council in a blind rage.

But he simply looked back over his shoulder, one purple eye that gleamed like a black amethyst fixed on Jaime. "Ser," Rhaegar murmured deadly quiet, "use force if necessary."