Hope

by elizacamille

Hope

7. Chapter 8

Chapter 70: The Storm of Ice and Fire

Notes:

This chapter takes place right after Rhaegar leaves his small council in the previous chapter.

Chapter Text

In the warm amber haze of Maegor's Holdfast, the sapphires glittered like the star-crusted shroud of a winter midnight sky; every time a candle flickered or a torch sputtered, the jewels would wink and flash, as if coming alive.

Lyanna tried a small smile and reached her hand out slowly, shivering at the iron's cold bite against her fingertips. With tender care, she lifted the crown from its velvet-bedded box, silently marveling at its beauty after so many months tucked away in the deep recesses of her trunk.

Her princess crown, the one she had been gifted with on Rhaegar's and her wedding day - it was an incredible piece of artistry, black iron twisted like vines, dotted with thorns and morning dew diamonds, and flowered with winter roses of sparkling sapphires; a crown to match her long-dead Harrenhal laurel.

Gently, Lyanna raised the crown and settled it over the top of her head, pressing it down until the iron thorns bit into her scalp; it was a cold, yet welcome, pain - a pain that brought back rushing memories. Out of all the times she had worn this crown, only two days seemed significant.

The first was the last time she had ever worn it, on the day of her brother's wedding to Lady Catelyn. The morning had been cool and lovely at Riverrun; the flowers had bloomed in a rainbow of colors, the hearts had been light, the merriment overflowing as the river rushed in the background. It was also the day she had found out that she was pregnant with Rhaegar's heir.

The second time was her own wedding day, a bleak grey morning when the heavens had wept cold rain for the royal affair. She had bound herself to the dragon prince in the Southron way, shaking in her snow white gown as Rhaegar had taken away her maiden's cloak. Afterward, the High Septon had placed this crown on her head while she knelt.

Listening to the angry storm outside tonight, Lyanna could almost take herself back to that day; she remembered the hot golden light within the sept, the hundreds of faces staring back at her, the towering idols of the Mother and Father looking down upon them with the most glamoured, dull expressions.

Lyanna wondered if the Old Gods were laughing at her this very moment from the North.

How many times, in the early months of Rhaegar's and her marriage, had she wished and plotted for their union to be set aside? How many days and nights had she prayed for a way out? How many prayers had the Old Gods heard of her pleading for Rhaegar to take a second wife, or for a simple annulment?

It looked as if the gods worked in mysterious ways when it came to prayer, answering but never in the way or timely fashion that she had wanted. They had made her love him first before granting her childish hopes.

What a cruel, cruel world, Lyanna reflected numbly.

Sighing, she took the crown from her head and placed it back in its box, wondering when, if ever, she might see it again. Just as she was closing the wooden lid to its box, her own door creaked open.

Rhaegar strode in with hazy anger burning in his Valyrian eyes, slamming the door shut behind him with a cracking boom that sounded like thunder. Lyanna flinched and watched with wide eyes as he went to the rocking chair beside her window and slumped into it gracelessly; his fingers raked savagely through his silver hair, pulling it away from his face.

Lyanna frowned; she had only left him and Jaime half an hour ago, just after Maester Pycelle had been ordered to gather the small council. Her throat suddenly went bone dry; whatever had been discussed with the council was not going to bode well. For her or her heart.

They sat in complete silence for a very long time. So long, in fact, that she was able to hear the weather grow from a steady rain to a wrathful storm, lightning and thunder battling in turns. Every so often, the heavens would roar and, moments later, light up with a stunning silver brilliance.

Rhaegar's voice was quiet when he finally spoke, and rusty as the Stark swords in the crypts beneath Winterfell, but she was still able to make out his words over the din of the heavens. "I don't know what to do, Lyanna." He looked up, his expression torn.

The absolute hopelessness dripping from his lips made her chest tighten. "What," she murmured, getting to her feet, "do you mean?"

Rhaegar blew out a long, harsh breath and stared her straight in the eyes, but where once she had been mesmerized by such an action, now she only felt cold. "I am not just a husband, Lyanna, I am a king, too...and others might argue, a king first. I am at a point in my rule where children are absolutely vital, but you and I have just gotten to a better place in our marriage. I..."

"Need an heir," Lyanna finished with no emotion. It was what all their problems boiled down to, the place to where all roads lead back. My barren belly and our lost baby.

Rhaegar looked tortured as he nodded. His pale skin had lost its luster in the past day and a half, and where once his hair had gleamed like fresh steel, now it lay flat as an ancient blade.

She couldn't take the waiting. "Say it," she insisted in a low, icy voice, clenching her fists and rooting her feet to the floor. "Go ahead and tell me what they want you to do, what you're going to do. Go on, say it."

Rhaegar frowned. "Lyanna," he broached slowly, rising from the chair with a fluid care that was very much like a hunter approaching a wild animal. No sudden movements.

She raised her voice to a flaming cadence. "Say it, you coward!"

Her words broke a dam. "They want me to take a paramour," he blurted out with wide black eyes. "They want to find me a Lyseni noblewoman so I can take her as my paramour and legitimize the children I have with her."

All the air left Lyanna's lungs in one woosh, leaving her a dry carcass of meat, organs, and bones. Her head swam uneasily, blurring her eyes for a moment so that reality was willed away into a dark, flickering haze. She squeezed her fists until her fingernails drew blood at her palms, and only then could she see and breathe again.

Her mind went wild. She suddenly imagined some beautiful Lyseni paramour arrogantly traipsing around the Red Keep, with silver hair and pale purple eyes, or icy blue perhaps, smiling coyly at Rhaegar as she passed him by. It was bad enough with only Cersei Lannister to contend with; Lyanna could not imagine another woman around, a woman who would actually know what Rhaegar felt like.

"Lyanna," Rhaegar whispered her name desperately, taking a sure step forward, "say something. Anything. Please."

Lyanna looked up; the grey of her eyes had hardened to winter ice. "I have weathered Elia Martell and Cersei Lannister," she said quietly, "but I never would have guessed it was a faceless woman that would take what is lawfully mine."

Rhaegar grimaced as if hurt. "I don't want to do this, Lyanna, you have to know this. I would give almost anything not to do this, but..." He flicked his eyes up sharply. "This is the end of my House, my blood, my family. I cannot let that all fall into dust over a problem I can easily fix."

"By fucking another woman that isn't your wife," Lyanna finished icily.

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed into amethyst slits. "I need the children, you know this. If Viserys dies, I will have only Daenerys. She will be the only dragon left after me and my mother, and a female besides...there are many advantageous families in this realm that will chomp at the bit to overthrow her and our House. I cannot let that happen."

Her brain understood, but her heart did not. "Surely you haven't forgotten what the Blackfyres led to...bastards fighting over a dead king's crown," Lyanna threw back.

"These bastards of mine," Rhaegar rebutted carefully, watching her, "would have no trueborn children to contend with."

Somehow that stung worse than the thought of him fucking another woman. Lyanna thought of her little Rhaella, a pile of ashes beneath the Sept of Baelor, her ice and fire girl that had never lived. Knowing that Rhaegar would share his dragons with a woman that was not her made Lyanna both ache and seethe powerfully.

"This is true," she finally allowed, clenching her jaw hard enough to crack. What more could she say? It was no longer a viable option for Rhaegar to give up his quest for children; at this point, with Viserys dying down the hall, it was his only option.

The revelation did not, however, take the pain away.

"Lyanna," Rhaegar murmured with the sharpest pain in his voice, "I have never wanted to be with another woman the way I have been with you. Please know this isn't something I actually want. Even now, facing the death of my House, I still balk."

She could hardly hear his words. "At least there is rationale in this idea," she admitted absentmindedly, staring at the pattern in the floor, hoping this was all some fever dream.

It wasn't.

Rhaegar's eyes widened slightly, as in disbelief. "You understand?" He asked her quietly.

The room seemed to shake as a powerful bout of thunder suddenly rocked the earth. "I do," she answered. Rhaegar's face fell into a visage of relief, as if the burden of his conundrum had lifted a weight from his chest. Lyanna lifted her chin, resolved, but no less saddened. "When shall I leave?"

Rhaegar froze, and every bit of relief seemed to melt from his bones so that he was coiled tight. "Leave?" He repeated, not understanding, or perhaps not wanting to.

"For Winterfell," she finished, mustering strength to her voice. "When can I leave?"

"You...are not...leaving," Rhaegar replied in a disjointed string of words, as if talking was a task he had yet to learn.

"I will be," Lyanna said confidently. "If you take a paramour, I will be going home. For good."

Rhaegar's anger began to build from its embers slowly, kindling yellow then red. "Is this some sort of ultimatum?"

Lyanna shook her head, sincere in every way. "I am not trying to manipulate you, Rhaegar, or trying to get you to change your mind. I know this is what must be done, but...you are not the only person in this situation. And it would be cruel to force me to stay here and watch."

Rhaegar laughed in black disbelief. "If you think you are leaving me, you have another thing coming."

Lyanna bristled. "You can't be so cruel as to force me to stay here? I wouldn't begrudge you your heirs, but I also will not stay and play witness to you prancing your paramour around."

"I haven't made up my mind about what I'm going to do," Rhaegar argued with hysteria rising in his tone, "Viserys may yet live."

"Viserys is unconscious, Rhaegar," Lyanna tried with gentle practicality, "and getting sicker by the hour. Only the gods know what will become of him, but you and I both know you have no other choice but to take a paramour if you don't want a second wife."

When Rhaegar did not answer, Lyanna sighed. "That's what I thought." She turned to rummage through her chest once more, but Rhaegar took three long strides toward her and grabbed her arm, twisting her around.

"Don't even think about packing," he ground out through gritted teeth.

Lyanna wrenched her arm away, angrier now; the wolf's blood racing in her veins howled for a fight. "I am never going to be alright with my husband crawling between another woman's thighs, for the sake of a dynasty or not. I would never ask you not to preserve your House, you can have your heirs. But you can't have me. You can't have both."

Rhaegar's eyes flamed like purple fire. "I am going to have you no matter what." And when he leaned in, his sweet scent almost stunned her.

She took a self-preserving step back and scowled. "Don't be selfish, Rhaegar."

"Me?" He laughed with no humor. "That is rich coming from the woman who wants to leave her husband."

"Her philandering husband," she cut in. "If you're going to play this game, Rhaegar, at least put the name to the deed."

"I won't be philandering! I'm doing this for the longevity of my bloodline!" Rhaegar shouted.

"Adultery is adultery," Lyanna said coldly, "no matter the noble cause." She scowled and shook her head in frustration. "I can't look at your face right now." She whirled and went to the door, wrenching it open.

Rhaegar followed behind as she slipped from her chambers. "Well, you're going to have to keep looking at me, because I am not done with you, Lyanna."

"I am," she threw over her shoulder, hurrying through the empty corridors of the holdfast.

Rhaegar's long legs allowed him to keep pace with her, until finally he was fed up enough to grab her arm and slam her against the wall of an abandoned hallway in the newly renovated king's wing. "Stop," he yelled in her face, "just stop it already!"

Lyanna fought against his hold, but it was of no use. He was so strong, her dragon. "Let me go," she struggled wildly, uselessly, "why can't you just give me up?"

Rhaegar's grip got impossibly tighter, so tight that her wrists would wear bracelets of blue bruises by the morning. "There is no giving you up," he told her. "It's always going to be you. Get that through your skull!"

Lyanna jerked her hips against him, making her remember white-hot nights of passion, and shoved him away. "You don't want me," she hissed angrily, stepping back, "you just want to own me, have me, fuck me whenever you have a free moment away from your new whore's thighs."

Rhaegar looked enraged. "Shut up! Just. Shut. Up. Every bit of your beauty is absolutely wasted when you spew shit like that."

Lyanna ignored that. "Let me go, Rhaegar. It will do you all the more good if you let me go home."

Rhaegar was panting wildly, his chest heaving. "I made that mistake once already, letting you go off to Winterfell for seven months. I'll never let you go again."

"No," she began to argue, but Rhaegar cut her off.

"I am your husband and your king, and you will listen to me. I am done letting you go," he told her in a desperate mania, "that part of my life is over. I will not be without you ever again, do you understand me?"

Lyanna's eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened. "I am not staying in your presence so long as you are breaking your vows to me with another woman. Like I said earlier, you can have your heirs, but you can't have me."

Rhaegar stilled, looked deep into her eyes, and said in a voice like shards of glass, "I hate you so much."

The words were a hot knife to her stomach. "Oh?" She asked breathlessly, tears forming in her eyes and rage blooming in her chest, "well, I hate you, too." After all, love and hate were two flip sides of the same coin. For her, at least.

"Your Grace." The meek voice that called out belonged to neither Rhaegar or Lyanna. They both looked to the side, met with the sight of a little servant girl standing at the end of the hall, frightened and nearly shaking at the display of the dragon and the wolf.

The sudden intrusion only irritated Rhaegar that much more. "Say what you need," he called over in an iron tone with an undercurrent of black impatience waiting to explode.

The servant looked to Lyanna with eyes as wide as eggs. "Your Grace, a Maester Luwin has arrived and gone to meet your brother. Lord Brandon bid me to notify you."

Lyanna inclined her head, relieved but unable to fully care at the moment. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, willing away the nausea rising up in her throat. "Very good, thank you. You may go now."

So grateful, the servant girl raced away quickly, disappearing from the hall like a ghost. When the sounds of her footsteps had been drowned away by the thunder above, Lyanna looked at her husband's lovely face, and thought of what he'd said. I hate you so much.

When she spoke, her voice was sharper than a knife. "Everything is all your fault. The problems, the miscarriage..." As soon as she said it, she wanted to snatch the words right back; she hadn't meant them, but in her anger, she had let them out anyway.

Rhaegar looked up quickly, eyes flaring. "What did you just say?"

It was childish, she knew, and untrue, but she wanted to hurt him like he was hurting her. I hate you, he'd said, so much.

"The miscarriage," she repeated, "was your fault. You gave me that baby, and though I was scared at first, I ended up wanting her. I really, really wanted her."

There seemed two parts of Rhaegar that were battling: a morbid sadness and a flaring wrath. "How was I supposed to have prevented your miscarriage when you took every step to make sure you were in harm's way?"

Lyanna stiffened. "I stayed for your brother and your mother. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time, and I have regretted it ever since. Don't throw that in my face, Rhaegar."

Rhaegar shook his head. "Then tell me, Lyanna, how is the loss of our child my fault? Tell me, I'd appreciate the enlightenment."

Lyanna snorted and turned, heading for the staircase that lead to the battlement atop Maegor's Holdfast. Rhaegar's footsteps followed her, echoing against the stone walls.

"Tell me," he prodded, "tell me why it's my fault. I came home from Casterly Rock to watch you bleed in White Sword Tower. I saw what was left of our little girl all over that floor, and you tell me that was my fault. Why? How?"

Lyanna reached the door at the top of the stairs, feeling the power of the storm through the vibration of the handle. Through the wood, the rain, wind, and thunder howled. She turned and looked down on Rhaegar. "You should have told your father that you didn't want to marry me. You should have begged for another, you should have found another to wed, to make your princess."

Her voice turned acidic, into spewing white-hot vitriol. "Instead you married me, and made me stay with you, and inserted yourself into my life and put yourself between my thighs and gave me that little girl. And now she's gone! And I'm broken, and you're going to put yourself between another woman's thighs and make babies with her, and I cannot be here and watch as you do that."

Lyanna took a deep, steadying breath to quell the poisonous rage shaking inside her. "It's all your fault." Then she turned and opened the door, stepping out onto the battlement.

Immediately, the rain began to lash at her face and the wind ripped at her hair, but the cold wild weather felt so good, like a salve, that she relished it. Out, around, and below, King's Landing slept.

Rhaegar was behind her when she turned around, his silver hair limp and pale, the material of his tunic already soaked transparent and sticking obscenely to his chest and stomach. She felt her skin flame despite the cold.

"How dare you," he shouted over the storm, "you were not the only one that lost a child. She was mine, too, Lyanna. I wanted her, too!"

"It's different!" She yelled back. "You didn't have to carry her and bleed her. It's not the same. You can't know what I went through after I lost her. My heart was broken!"

Rhaegar shoved his hair from his face with incredible frustration, and when he raised his eyes, all she saw was pain. "You shouldn't have run away, Lyanna. That was our child, ours. You should have been here, with me, grieving with me. Not traipsing around Winterfell with Jaime fucking Lannister."

Lyanna blinked, taken aback by the fury in his voice. "Jaime is my friend. Does the idea of companionship really frighten you so much?"

"Yes," he cried out, "because you were healing with him, instead of here with me. I am your husband, Lyanna, and I was the father of your child. We lost that baby together, but another man healed your hurts."

She could hardly believe the jealousy in Rhaegar's voice, the anguish and the anger. Her stomach curdled uncomfortably. "Jaime wasn't the only one with me in the North," she explained, wiping away the rain from her cheeks, "I had my father, gods rest his soul, and my brothers, and my good-sisters and niece and nephew. Winterfell healed me, not a person."

"Whatever it was that healed you, it wasn't me," Rhaegar asserted with a certain sting of betrayal. "And now, in spite of everything that has happened, you mean to try and leave me, as if I would ever let you go again."

She felt ready to explode as every painful memory came back to her. "You shouldn't have let me go the first time!"

Rhaegar furrowed his brows. "What are you talking about, Lyanna?"

"Dragonstone!" She screamed. "It was you who cast the first stone. I had just lost our baby and you sent me away to an island to grieve and rot and be alone! You're so angry at me for running away?" She laughed without humor. "Well, it was you who gave me wings."

Rhaegar looked stricken. "I did that because I thought it would be best. I wanted to help you. I wanted to get you away from the Red Keep, where I knew only pain would greet you."

"Then let me go now!" She shouted in helpless frustration. "Because all I will get is pain if I stay here!" Rhaegar shook his head quickly; Lyanna made a noise of anger. "Why are you fighting me? I am giving you what you want, I am letting you have another woman. Why can't you just let me go, Rhaegar?"

There wasn't even a moment of hesitation. "Because," he roared, "you are the love of my life!"

Lyanna went absolutely, completely still. Lightning struck silver on the horizon and rainwater poured down her back, soaking her clothes and her shoes, pruning her skin, drowning her, but she couldn't even focus on any of that.

She stared at Rhaegar in utter shock, frozen to her core, as his words resonated. They echoed in her head, muting the song of the thunder and rain sounding around her. You are the love of my life, you are the love of my life, you are the love of my life.

Rhaegar looked at her with his soul turned inside out and his eyes ablaze. Lyanna took a shaky step forward and-

The door to the stairs swung open, revealing an arc of golden light. Lyanna blinked against the sudden brightness, squinting as Jaime stepped into the entrance. He glanced at her and her state in momentary confusion, then looked to Rhaegar.

"Your Grace!" He called out, bringing with him relieving tidings, "Prince Viserys has woken!"

Lyanna's heart jumped, and she and Rhaegar met eyes for the briefest second, grey on purple. His lips parted as if he were about to say something, but he stopped himself. Then, he looked away and headed toward Jaime, slipping through the door and back down into Maegor's Holdfast, leaving her standing in the rain alone.

Chapter 71: Inadvertent Feint

Chapter Text

The sun rose from its bed of black bay to beam liquid gold across the twisting cityscape of King's Landing. The morning was chilled, but bright, and seemed to wash the capital dry of its storm so that every alley, road, and rooftop gleamed fresh and golden.

When a shaft of blinding light hit the window, Rhaegar blinked back, genuinely surprised to see the day beginning after such a long night of worrying. Morning had crept up on him as sneakily as a thief, heralding in the blue of the sky, the song of the little birds, and the lull of the sea.

It was a perfect day, the heavens above cloudless and bright, the sun gleaming, the city coming to life slowly with shouts and laughter. Even the Red Keep seemed to shift from its sleepy, morose state, despite Rhaegar himself feeling exhausted down to his very bones.

He had spent the entire night in a state of wake and unwake, periodically falling asleep for an hour or perhaps even a few minutes only to be thrust back into consciousness when some unknown nightmare struck him again. Viserys seemed to hover in the same frame of being, waking every so often to whine for water or honey or to expel his sick into a bucket before resting once more.

Rhaegar had slept by his brother's bedside, with Rhaella on the other, and Maester Pycelle just outside. The Grand Maester had promised that if Viserys made it through the night, he would live.

Morning dawned beautifully as Viserys opened his eyes, two glittering lilac chips, and groaned, "Water."

Rhaegar poured the cup himself, bringing it to Viserys' lips and helping him drink. Afterward, he asked, "How do you feel?"

Viserys frowned and lay back against the pillows. "Hungry," he whispered in a croaky voice.

It was a good sign. "I'll tell Maester Pycelle," Rhaegar promised. He tucked a limp silver strand away from Viserys' eyes. "I'm glad you're awake. You gave us all quite a scare."

"Lya?" Viserys rasped in question.

It made sense for her to be on Viserys' mind, as she was the last face he saw before falling unconscious on his horse, but her name was still a knife in Rhaegar's heart. He tried not to recall every dirty, terrible thing he had said to her the night before, but failed.

"She'll be thrilled to know you've woken. You can see her later, but for now, Maester Pycelle needs to check you, alright?"

Viserys nodded drowsily and allowed his eyes to droop in response. How he could ever sleep another minute was beyond Rhaegar. Quietly, he crept to his sleeping mother and tapped her awake.

She came alive in a jerk. "What is it? What's wrong? Is he alright?"

Rhaegar shushed her quickly. "Vis is fine. He just woke for a moment and fell back asleep. I'm going to get the maester. If anything new happens, I'll be with Lyanna."

Rhaella nodded, coming fully awake, and touched his wrist with a gentle hand. "Make up with her."

Rhaegar frowned, ignoring his pulsing heart. "How did you...?"

"My dear," his mother smiled softly, "I always know when she is weighing on your heart. Go. Make things right."

Rhaegar closed his eyes, grateful, and squeezed her hand before leaving. Pycelle was milling about when he left the room, gathering salves and pots and other things.

"Viserys woke just a moment ago," Rhaegar told him. "He said he was hungry."

"Very good," Pycelle nodded, ghosting to the door. "This is most welcome news. I will make sure to gather your council later so that you may discuss plans."

Rhaegar thought of his and Lyanna's fight. "Midday." Then he turned and left, eager to embrace everything that had happened so they could put it all behind them.

But even as he strode through Maegor's Holdfast, purposeful and determined, Rhaegar knew this would not be easy. Or possible, even.

It would be no matter that Viserys was awake and talking and eating; it would only solidify what the council had suggested the previous night. Viserys' death scare had left the castle on edge, and more heirs, more Targaryens, were more important than ever.

And Lyanna would be just as angry, as was her right. Not only for the business of paramours, but for what had transpired in words between them as well.

When he went over in his head everything they had said to one another, everything he had said to her, he was ashamed. Ashamed of himself, of his words, of his aching black heart that couldn't help but sink hooks into her soul to keep her put.

For, by refusing her passage home, Rhaegar was essentially condemning Lyanna to a life of misery - a life where every waking moment would be a constant reminder of what she had lost, of what she could no longer do. It was a punishment more than a prize, her queendom, a punishment dealt out by his own selfish hand.

Because it was selfish, he realized. Forcing Lyanna to watch as another woman took her place in his bed, having to don her crown, all the while knowing he was crawling between another woman's naked thighs and giving her a part of himself that only she was meant to have.

Rhaegar grimaced at the thought. Other men might have accepted it, rejoiced even, at the prospect of bringing another beautiful woman to bed. But just the thought of a stranger's legs wrapped around his hips, another girl's fingers in his hair, a moan of ecstasy in his ear...all he'd be able to think about was Lyanna and how sick it made him to break what they had.

If he forced her to stay, she would never forgive him - not even if forty years went by. She never would. She was as stubborn as she was fierce, and her forgiveness did not come cheap. Or easy.

But...the fear of losing her was far more terrifying to him than the possibility of her hating him forevermore. Rhaegar could deal with her storms and her rages and her hates, her jibes and silences and anger.

He could take it all, so long as he still had her, and that was the blackest part about him.

When he came upon her chambers, Benjen was sitting guard; he wore the Stark colors in grey breeches, white tunic, dark grey boots, and a striped grey-and-white doublet. His face was tired and sad.

"Your Grace," Benjen stood and took a step to the left. Right in front of Lyanna's door, blocking Rhaegar's way.

"Benjen," Rhaegar returned slowly, skeptically. Everything about Benjen's stance screamed obstacle: his stiff posture, the clenched fists, the coiled muscles. "Is Lyanna inside?"

Benjen nodded immediately. "She is." He made no move to step out of the way despite the confirmation.

Rhaegar frowned. "Well, I need to see her. I need to-" Apologize. Beg. Relent. "-speak with her."

"You can't," Benjen blurted, as if he wanted the words out of his mouth as quickly as possible.

"I can't?" Rhaegar repeated. He could feel hysteria rising in him like a wave. What if the fight had sent her over the edge? What if she never wanted to speak to him again? He couldn't bear it, wouldn't bear it, if she had posted Benjen as her guard, the wolf pup meant to ward off the dragon.

"No, Your Grace," Benjen returned. The boy seemed both in a mode of protection and trepidation, wanting to guard his sister but wary of angering his king. "She's sick."

Rhaegar froze, his blood, his veins, his brain, his heart. "Sick?" His head began to swim. All of Pycelle's warnings came rushing back, warnings of preventing Viserys' sickness from spreading. The old bent maester had told Lyanna to stay in her chambers, in case she had caught the sickness. No...

"Yes," Benjen breathed. "She came to Brandon's chambers late last night to see Maester Luwin and Arra. She wasn't there for a moment before she started vomiting."

A shiver went up Rhaegar's spine. He imagined her, upset and angry at him after their fight, after he left her, and going to her brother for comfort, but instead being struck with the little prince's malady. No, no, no... "Benjen, I need to see her. If she's sick-"

"The maester asked me not to allow anyone inside while he's helping her." Benjen's tone was apologetic and strong, yet childlike somehow, much like Lyanna's.

Rhaegar shook his head, every ounce of his fatigue sapped away by the frantic energy pulsing through him. "I- I need to see her, Benjen, you don't realize how important this is."

I hate you, he'd told her last night, so much.

You are the love of my life, he'd confessed with the night wind and the rain bearing down on them both, and only the sky and stars above.

He couldn't let her lay in her room, sick or, worse, dying, without confronting either of his statements. He needed to go down to his knees before her and grovel for his words. He needed to press his lips to hers and tell her his heart was hers.

"I realize you may want to speak with her, Your Grace, but I have strict orders from Brandon, Maester Luwin, and Lyanna herself, not to allow anyone in. That includes you, my king, no matter the consequences."

Rhaegar blew out a breath of frustration for his good-brother's iron will. "I'm not going to punish you, Benjen, but..." He needed the words. He looked into Benjen's grey eyes, Stark eyes, two chips of ice that were in the shade of his sister's.

"She is my wife," Rhaegar whispered in a broken breath, "I cannot lose her."

Benjen's face softened. "I know that. If..." He paused. "When the maester is finished checking her, I will come find you myself. No matter how angry she'll be at me."

Despite his sickening worry, Rhaegar found a small smile for his good-brother. "I'll be in a small council meeting soon," he said, "but you have my permission to interrupt. When the maester is done, you find me. No matter what."

Benjen nodded seriously. "Of course." He would be a most excellent Kingsguard one day.

But his affirmation was not enough for Rhaegar's sinking heart. If he strained his ears, he could almost hear her retching through the wooden door. The sound made him think of her first and only pregnancy, how she'd get sick at the slightest smell or even just upon waking, expelling any food she'd had in her stomach.

"Promise me," Rhaegar implored his good-brother desperately.

Benjen blinked, as if surprised by the intensity of his king's tone, and straightened up. "I promise."

Lyanna's stomach twisted violently as she heaved the final bits of last night's dinner into her chamber pot, the acid of her bile burning her throat and nose. She felt exhausted, well and truly, from her head down to her toes. Her arms were shaking from holding up her own weight and her knees were sore.

All she'd done after Rhaegar's and her fight was heave her stomach dry, while her brothers and Maester Luwin worried over her. Benjen had wanted to get Rhaegar almost instantly, but Lyanna had forced him to promise he wouldn't bother her husband. He was with his brother, where he needed to be, and besides that, she wasn't sure where they stood.

But as the hours went by, her throat and stomach equally sore, Lyanna wasn't completely certain she wasn't dying. It made her remember her morning sickness with her first and only pregnancy, only violently worse now.

She'd caught Viserys when he'd fallen from his horse unconscious, had worn his sick on her clothing. It was no wonder she had caught his ailment herself.

"Your Grace, do you think you could drink some water now?" Maester Luwin knelt beside her, placing a soothing hand between her shoulder blades.

Lyanna took a deep breath in and sat back, wiping her mouth with the rag in her hand. "Yes," she whispered. "I can drink."

Luwin reached for the pitcher of water and poured her a cup. When the first cool drops hit her ravaged throat, Lyanna could have sworn she was in heaven. She drank the entire thing down, and worked on a second.

Luwin laid the back of his hand against her forehead. "Your skin is burning," he noticed. "Have you been sweating or aching lately?"

Lyanna shook her head. She'd had a fever before, twice in Winterfell growing up, so she was familiar with the signs and symptoms of one. She did not have a fever.

"Odd," Luwin said quietly, getting to his feet. He helped Lyanna up and into a large stuffed chair. "Other than the nausea, how do you feel?"

Lyanna closed her eyes, fatigued. She was wary of admitting that, besides her vomiting, she felt perfectly fine; she didn't want to hope that Viserys' sickness would not affect her as it had him. "Sore," she supplied vaguely instead, feeling a painful twinge in her breast.

"Sore?" Maester Luwin repeated as he prepared a pot of honey for her throat.

"Yes," she said, "but that has more to do with my being a woman than being ill." She hoped he understood her meaning; he was a maester of the Citadel, had birthed Catelyn and Ned's son, but it still shamed Lyanna to speak of such things as impending bloods. Still, her breasts were so swollen and tender, it was worth mentioning.

"Ah," Luwin hummed knowingly, bringing her the little honeypot. "Anything else?"

Lyanna took the small wooden spoon and dribbled honey into her mouth, relishing the sweetness on her poor, raw throat. "Mainly the nausea, and a few times getting physically sick. Grand Maester Pycelle warned me of the dangers of having been so close to Viserys."

"Maester Pycelle," Luwin tested on his tongue softly. Luwin had a trusting face, a sweet, grandfatherly look, but in that moment he seemed too casual to truly be casual. "If I may, Your Grace - and forgive me if this is too forward - but the Grand Maester was the one to proclaim you barren, was he not?"

Lyanna's eyes flashed up, her chest squeezing in pain. Dragonstone was a tender spot on her heart, one that ached like a bruise when touched on; she could feel its beat behind her eyes, pulsing. "He was," she answered slowly.

"And the Grand Maester," Luwin said gently, "did he ever explain why he diagnosed you as unable to bear children again?"

Lyanna thought to the day he had told her; she remembered his soft voice, her cries, the way her fists had balled up, but not his reasoning. He'd never given her one, nor to Rhaegar at Dragonstone.

"No," she answered hesitantly. She watched Luwin pace the room, wary and confused. "Maester Pycelle only said that the miscarriage had caused my womb too much damage to ever quicken with child again." The words stung to repeat.

Luwin nodded absentmindedly, as if thinking. "How have you been eating lately?" He asked suddenly, stopping in his tracks and staring into her eyes.

Lyanna frowned and shrugged. "Just fine really." She remembered the way the swan had made bile bubble in her gut. "A few foods I cannot eat anymore for their smells, but other than that, I'm alright."

"And your hunger?" He pressed.

"Normal," she murmured. "I've been a bit hungrier than usual lately, but I daresay that has to do with playing with the children every day."

Luwin kept staring at her. There was something in his gaze that made the hairs on her arm stand on end, that made her want to fidget. "Have you and His Grace King Rhaegar," he lowered his voice to a gentle cadence, "lain together since your coming back?"

Lyanna swallowed heavily. She forgot her embarrassment, any shame of intimacy. "Nearly every day since the night I arrived to King's Landing," she replied breathlessly. Her head began to swim.

Luwin gave her a look of knowing, as if their minds had connected and come to the same conclusion. "Lyanna," he said in a very soft voice, ghosting forward a few steps, "when was your last moon blood?"

Lyanna went cold all over. It had been a long while, she knew, weeks and weeks ago. She hadn't yet bled in King's Landing or even on the trip to the capital. She vaguely remembered her blood coming while still home at Winterfell, and that had been even before Ned had received the invitation to the tourney and coronation.

Lyanna took ahold of her throat with a shaking hand. "It's been two months if I am remembering correctly," she answered quietly. Her heart beat so hard in her chest, she worried a tiny smith was hammering it like a forge.

"And they were regular before you came back to the capital?" Luwin pressed. "They came every month?"

Lyanna felt her throat go dry. "Every month, without fail," she breathed, afraid...afraid to hope. No, she thought to herself in rising parts of panic and ecstatic desperation, Pycelle told me I was broken, barren, damaged for eternity. He promised my body would never grow with Rhaegar's seed again, that I would never give him princes and princesses, his little dragons.

Luwin nodded as if he had expected such an answer. He came to her on silent feet, sitting beside her. "Your Grace, you are not ill."

Tears filled Lyanna's eyes as she looked up, both dreading and near ready to die to hear his words. Anticipation balled in her throat. "I'm not?"

Luwin smiled and shook his head. "No, my dear," he told her gently, "you are pregnant."

Chapter 72: The Royal Wing

Chapter Text

The bickering and verbal sparring of Rhaegar's small council was enough to make him want to drive an iron spike through his temple - if only for the sweet silence of death, to be free from the show of their lordly condescension over one another, the growls and threats, to be rid of the constant boasting of power and clout.

Out of the council, only Varys the Spider was quiet, sitting neatly in his chair: arms folded into the long sleeves of his robes, powdered face still and peaceful, an air of calm surrounding him. The only thing that belied Varys' interest was the set of his mouth, slanted just so, tilted. Varys was enjoying this. Quarrels and destruction seemed to be the vices of the man with no balls.

That's what they think of me, too, Rhaegar thought suddenly as he saw Jon Connington and Brandon Stark snap and snark at one another. They think I have no balls, to gripe and fight this way before me like children. He'd had enough.

The way his palms suddenly slammed against the tabletop made the worst, high noise Rhaegar had ever heard; the wood sent a stinging pain through his hands and arms, rattling his bones. It set his small council on edge, each and every one frozen in place, mouths open and watching him with wary eyes.

Rhaegar worked his jaw before glancing up, gracing each lord with a passing glare. "My lords," he said quietly, "can anyone tell me why the kingdoms in my land are now considered a realm as a whole? Why there are no more Storm Kings, or Kings of Winter, or Kings of the Rock?"

His lords exchanged confused glances, muttering, all but Varys. Lord Monford cocked his head, "Your Grace?"

Rhaegar met his eyes. "I asked you all a question. Someone needs to answer me."

Lord Monford swallowed heavily, unsure, but it was Grand Maester Pycelle who spoke next. "Aegon the Conquerer and his sisters conquered the kingdoms, Your Grace, and united them as a whole. The kings were vanquished and then became merely lords."

Rhaegar looked over the old bent maester, feeling that same irrational hate bubbling up inside him just like every other time he spoke. "And from what House did Aegon the Conquerer hail?" He turned to look at his Master of Coin. "Jon?"

Jon Connington stared him down brazenly, clenching his jaw like he was biting down on a leathern strap. "House Targaryen," he bit out, "Your Grace."

Rhaegar knocked one fist casually against the top of the table. "Targaryen," he said, "the same surname that I was born to, the same blood which flows through my veins. Isn't that right, Lord Stark?"

Brandon's cool grey eyes landed on his good-brother. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Your Grace," Rhaegar mused in dark delight, "do you know why they call me that, Lord Tywin?"

Tywin Lannister lifted his chin haughtily, gripping the rests of his chair with faux calm. His pale green eyes hid some dark glint, the same glint that had once met King Aerys. "Because you are the king."

Rhaegar's expression darkened as he looked to each and every one of his council members then, searing them in place with the heat of his dragon eyes. "Because," he said slowly, "I am king. It is a statement that should never need to be uttered by a king, and yet you all seem to need to be reminded that you work at my behest. Not the other way around."

"Your Grace," Jon began, but stopped at Rhaegar's cutting glare.

"I have heard enough of your squabbling, peddling your slander about my wife, the words, the looks. Your insolence goes beyond sanity, my lord." Rhaegar stood tall and raised his chin. "This council needs a rebuild, and I am prepared to give it one. I-"

The door slammed open so hard, a torch fell from its sconce, spreading little flames across the corner of the Myrish carpet blanketing the floor. Lord Tywin jumped back in surprise and Jon cried out. A servant in the corner rushed to throw the decanter of water in his hand over the fire, dousing it quickly, but Lyanna stood uncaring in the doorway.

She was still as a ghost, dressed in a pretty white dress, staring him down with the loveliest, widest pair of grey, grey eyes. They were full of fear, those eyes, but more potent than that, shock and awe and excitement and happiness. Pure, unadulterated happiness.

Rhaegar frowned at her entrance, caught off guard by the slamming of the door, the silence, the elderly man in maester's robes behind her. But above all that, it was the tears forming in her eyes, turning them to grey glass, and the smile spreading on her face that truly shocked him still.

He saw something there in her that made his heart begin to pound. Hard. Painful, hammering so that his chest vibrated with the force of its beat. His lips parted against that queer feeling that suddenly overtook him, a tingling that overcame every nerve and vein and bone in his body.

Off to the right, Brandon stood up, leaning against the table with both hands. "Lya," he murmured in concern.

But it was as if she hadn't heard her brother at all. Lyanna only had eyes for Rhaegar; they looked at one another with the intensity of a thousand suns, silently communicating, though Rhaegar could not decipher the thoughts between himself and her.

And then...

...Lyanna's left hand, which had been hanging limp at her side, slowly rose, sliding up and over her hip to smooth across and lay against her stomach. The way she clenched her fingers into her belly, the breathless set of her mouth, and the loaded look she gave him made something coil in Rhaegar's chest: the hope he had put to bed on Dragonstone.

"Lyanna," he whispered, fear, hope, and anticipation quivering in his voice.

She laughed without sound, a genuine smile lighting up her every feature, as tears slid down her cheeks. It was as if the gods themselves had put the sudden thought into his head, a thought that would break his heart if it was wrong. Please, he prayed. No, he thought.

"Lyanna," he repeated shakily, taking a step forward.

Her grin split. "I'm pregnant."

The room went silent for five full seconds before Maester Pycelle stood from his chair with surprising strength. "It's not possible!" He gasped.

Lyanna and Rhaegar stared into each other's eyes. "How," he whispered, tears clouding his vision, "how?"

She shook her head, but ended up bursting into laughter. "Maester Luwin," she waved a hand to the elderly maester with the grandfatherly smile. "I was throwing up, feverish, but I had no fever. Rhaegar," she stepped forward, "I've been nauseated, sick, my skin is hot. I'm sore and tired." Her smile grew. "My moon blood hasn't come in nearly two months."

His heart went berserk in its cage.

And though it was ludicrous, impossible, out of this world, Rhaegar knew. There wasn't an ounce of doubt or disbelief in him as she had said those words. I'm pregnant.

He suddenly remembered sleeping at Viserys' side the night before. Restless, awful sleep it had been, riddled with nightmares. Except for once. The very last time he had fallen asleep, he'd had that dream again; the one with that boy, dark-haired and lean and tall, with Lyanna's face and his eyes. It was a sign.

"Maester Luwin?" Rhaegar asked, looking to the man.

Luwin inclined his head. "It is true, Your Grace. I've helped many carrying women. The queen was misdiagnosed at Dragonstone."

Rhaegar's eyes fell to Lyanna's belly. He blinked as the overwhelming realization shot through him. Lyanna was carrying that boy, the one he had dreamt of; the prince that was promised was growing inside her right this moment, a little seed blooming.

Rhaegar went to her in three long strides and kissed her hard on the mouth, completely drowning out every voice that sounded out around them in protest, in wonderment. He did not care; all that mattered was her belly pressed against him, her lips warm on his mouth, her hands in his hair.

When he drew back from her, her eyes were dazed but her smile was still there. His own grin ached. He wanted to do so many things at that moment: kiss her again, love her, laugh, cry, pray thanks for his little miracle babe.

"I have something for you," he realized suddenly instead, remembering. It was as perfect a time as any.

"Your Grace," Pycelle called out in disbelief, interrupting.

Rhaegar froze, locking eyes with Lyanna. If she was with child, then... Dragonstone, all the months apart, his council forcing the idea of second wives and paramours on him. It had all been for nothing, torture for one man's incompetence. Or deception.

"Ser Gerold," Rhaegar called in a voice like iron, "escort the Grand Maester to the dungeons and lock him up."

"Your Grace," Pycelle screeched, "for what am I being imprisoned? Please! My king!"

Rhaegar half-turned and gave the man he hated a long, chilling look. "Treason," he said. "Lying to your king is one of the highest offenses. You will have a trial soon. I suggest you use your imprisonment as time to prepare for your defense. That is, if you even have one." He turned back to Lyanna then. "My lords, you can return to your chambers if you like. I will not be bothered further. For the rest of the day, I will be occupied."

He grabbed Lyanna's hand and pulled her from the room before anyone else could object. Her laughter filled the halls as he ran from the small council chambers, nearly dragging her through the Red Keep in his excited haste.

But it was all too much. The pregnancy, the babe, his son, his prince. He stopped and pushed her up against the wall before he knew what he was doing, pressing his mouth to her throat hungrily.

His mind was racing. He had so many questions, he wanted to do so many things. To quell the chaos in his head, he tattooed kisses on her skin and ran his hands up her chest while she chuckled breathlessly.

"You're sure?" He murmured against her jaw suddenly. He wanted - no, needed - to hear her say it again. It had been an entire year of torture for the both of them: broken down, separated, and nearly forced to procreate outside his marriage bonds. "Say it," he urged.

Lyanna sighed happily as he kissed the hollow of her throat. "I'm carrying your baby," she whispered, dragging her nails across his scalp. He smiled into her skin.

She continued. "Maester Luwin says more signs will follow soon, and in a few months, my belly will grow. And this time, you'll be here to see it."

The thought of Lyanna with a swelling stomach and glowing skin made every part of him ready to explode in sheer happiness. He gripped her hip and pulled her harder against him, letting his other hand snake up her thigh.

Someone gasped nearby. "My king!"

Lyanna jumped in surprise; Rhaegar pulled back, slightly dazed and running on exhilaration, and turned to meet eyes with Lady Cersei Lannister. She wore a lovely gown of emerald green, her golden hair cascading down her torso, and the most scandalized expression Rhaegar had ever seen on her face.

He tried to find some semblance of shame, but could not; he tried to fight his smile and lost. "My apologies, Lady Cersei," he said with absolutely no remorse. He stepped back and put a few inches of space between himself and Lyanna. "You caught us in a moment of excitement."

Cersei tried a smile back, but it looked as if she was biting into a poisoned apple. At her sides, her arms were tensed. "Excitement, Your Grace?" She ground out formally, looking between her king and queen.

Rhaegar grinned despite Cersei's discomfort and looked to Lyanna, ghosting his hand over her flat stomach. "Your queen is with child."

Cersei's smile died as suddenly as it came, her lips parting. "H-how?" She stuttered in disbelief. Her eyes were glittering emeralds full of anger. "You were barren."

Lyanna frowned at Cersei's insolence, but still raised her chin and looked into her eyes, grey on green. "It was a mistaken diagnosis by Maester Pycelle," she said evenly. "But I thank you for your congratulations, my lady." Cersei had given none.

Cersei looked ready to fall into ashes, her fair skin reddening. No doubt she still held a candle for him, still held onto the belief she would one day be his queen. Rhaegar could not care less; he had a pregnant wife to worship, and a surprise to bestow.

"My lady, please excuse us." He threaded his fingers through Lyanna's own, and ran away a second time that afternoon.

He took her at a hurried pace through the castle and toward Maegor's, racing over the drawbridge and past Ser Brynden Tully, and deep into the royal holdfast. They passed Lyanna's chambers first, Rhaegar's own, went by Viserys' rooms and then Rhaella's.

They went as deep into Maegor's as possible, so far that the stones in the floors and on the walls turned a different color: newer, cleaner, unbleached from the sun.

"What are we doing here?" Lyanna asked, furrowing her brows as she took in the sight of the empty, mint corridor.

Rhaegar smiled over his shoulder, leading her down the hall. "This is the king's wing," he explained. All of the builders had finished their work entirely and cleaned their tools and materials so it was eerily empty, quiet and echoing as they moved within.

"It was being renovated," Lyanna remembered quietly, looking around at the doors on either side.

He pulled her around the last corner, quietly, and stopped. Not thirty feet ahead was the end of the hallway, where a set of gilded double doors stood tall and shining gold. Lyanna's hand tightened into his. "What's that?"

Rhaegar smiled down at her. "Go on and see."

Lyanna frowned, glancing quickly up at him, before moving forward with a ghost's grace. He followed behind her, watching as she approached the double doors with trepidation.

When she touched one of the handles, she paused in hesitation. Rhaegar came up behind her, snaking one hand around her, and put his hand atop hers to push open the door.

The golden door fell open without a sound, revealing the room within. Rhaegar pushed Lyanna lightly inside.

It was not the first time he had seen the apartment in its finished state; Tom, his main builder, had pulled him away the day he and Lyanna were supposed to visit Rhaella's crypt in the sept, the day Viserys fell, to show the finished work.

Yet its splendor still took his breath away a second time. The first room was the reception room, decorated with white marble floors veined with silver and red velvet furnishings made for calling guests. On the walls hung tapestries of Targaryen history and black iron sconces with unlit torches. Into the far door, an oak-and-iron door was set.

Lyanna spun around, taking it in. "Is this a meeting room?" She wondered, trailing her fingers down the low wooden table between the couches.

Rhaegar grinned. "Of sorts." He went to the oak-and-iron door and waited. "Perhaps you should check the next room."

Lyanna watched the door in equal parts fear and excitement. "What's in there?"

Rhaegar tsked playfully. "No more questions, Your Grace."

Lyanna smiled, bit her lip, and came forward, sliding past him and through the next door. He heard her gasp before he followed behind, his eyes taking in the magnificence of the bedroom.

The bedroom was the crown jewel of the apartment: it was a massive room with gleaming black marble floors carpeted with ornate Myrish rugs, walls of dark stone that were dotted with mirrored torch sconces, and enameled black velvet furnishings.

Into the western wall was a generous alcove, with a deep bathing pool set into the floor; the bath was forged of black marble and chipped with squares of silver, with a white sheet of silk to hang in the entrance for privacy.

Pushed against the northern wall was a massive canopy bed, each of its four posters carved into the shape of twisting rose vines, complete with wooden thorns and winter roses painted blue. It was a deep and lovely featherbed, covered with snowy satin and velvet coverlings, and shrouded with white canopy silks. Above the headboard hung the bone-white shield that Lyanna's father had gifted them for their wedding, made of weirwood, rimmed with red, and carved with a face in the likeness of a heart tree.

The eastern wall was more window than wall, a splendid stained glass and jewel mosaic made to look like a direwolf racing across a field of winter roses as a great dragon soared overhead. The direwolf was stained grey glass, the roses were of sapphire chips, the sky was clear glass, and the dragon was onyx with flecks of garnet. The sunlight was a rainbow glowing in.

"This is beautiful," Lyanna breathed with wide eyes, spinning around like a child.

He thought of the nursery he would need to add to the wing. "This," he smiled, "is yours."

Lyanna stopped and looked to him in surprise. "Mine?"

"Well," Rhaegar came forward, unable to keep his eyes off her stomach, "in truth, it is one half yours." He reached out to touch her hair. "I built it for us."

Lyanna's lips parted. "You did?"

He nodded. "The man who came to find me the day you and Viserys rode through the city - Tom - he has been overseeing the wing's construction. I didn't want to live in separate chambers anymore, so I had this built for us to be together."

Her grey eyes widened into stormy crystal chips. "You-" She stopped and shook her head, smiling softly. "I can't believe you did this."

"Believe it," he murmured. He bent to place his lips against hers, relishing her sweetness. "Come on." He took her by the hand then, and pulled her across the room. When they reached the bed, he toed off his boots, she did the same, and they climbed atop the bed.

Their knees sank into the mattress like a cloud, and the sheets were cool against their skin. Lyanna lay back against the pillows, her hair splayed like a burst of chestnut. Rhaegar slid in beside her, propping himself up on one elbow and looked down on her.

He was struck stupid with happiness, eager to bask in it, but there was one thing he had to do before he could. "Forgive me, Lyanna," he said suddenly.

Lyanna blinked up at him, frowning. "For what?"

Rhaegar took a deep, shamed breath. "For everything I put you through since you lost the baby. I sent you away, and let you go, and nearly forced you to stay here against your will because I'm cruel and selfish and don't know how to be without you anymore."

Lyanna's eyes got glassy and she turned her head. "I understood, I hope you know." She sighed. "I knew you needed heirs but I couldn't stand to watch you be with someone else."

He put two fingers to her jaw and turned her face back to him. "I don't ever want to be with anyone but you," he bent and said the words against her lips. "Ever. And I am sorry for ever suggesting it."

"You are a king, Rhaegar, I understood, but still...you are forgiven." She pressed a kiss into his mouth.

When Rhaegar drew back, he ghosted his hands down her body and molded them to her stomach. He wondered if the life beneath could feel the heat of his hands, the cadence of his voice. "I'm so deliriously happy," he said quietly.

Lyanna smiled. "As am I."

His mood turned grey. "I am going to kill Pycelle," he whispered darkly.

Lyanna made no expression to his declaration. "You must hear his words before you make your decision. If you cannot bear to do that, perhaps he does not deserve to die. My father taught us that."

Rhaegar scowled. "Pycelle nearly tore our marriage apart. That will not be without consequences."

"I agree," she murmured, raking her fingers through his silvery hair. "Let us talk of other things than death and punishments now, happier things." She looked down. "Like the babe growing inside me."

The mention of his prince brought an instant grin to his face, brought softness to his anger. He slid down the bed so that he was eye-level with her stomach and began to press soft words and kisses there, hoping his dragon could feel its father's warmth.

He stayed there for a while, alternating between pressing his ear to her belly and ghosting his lips between her hips. Lyanna stroked his scalp as he showered her with adoration, and for the first time in a year, he felt truly at peace.

Her words were a sword blade through his throat when they sounded out.

"I love you," she whispered into the silence of the room.

Rhaegar froze for a moment, and pulled slowly back from kissing her stomach to look into her eyes. There was no fear there in the grey, only peace and calm and...

"What?" He asked stupidly.

"I am in love with you," Lyanna answered without hesitation. She regarded him thoughtfully. "Last night, you told me I was the love of your life...and I wanted you to know that you're mine, too."

Rhaegar's smile spread across his face and he slid up his wife's body, going to hover over her. "Say it again," he ordered in a breath.

Lyanna smiled, biting her lip before meeting his gaze boldly. "I love you," and then for insolence, "Your Grace."

He forgave that bit of amusement, and instead thought of months and months past - a tourney to find his bride, a girl in mismatched armor, a crown of winter roses. A raining wedding day, a cold wedding night, and an early marriage built on mistrust and misunderstanding.

Mad days, a mad father, mad lust for the girl he knew was his ice. A battle, blood, an island fortress of stone dragons and a separation that created a chasm in his heart only she could mend.

Rhaegar looked deep into her eyes, remembering every terrible, wonderful moment of their marriage so far - lack of trust, a timid understanding, lust, anger, jealousy, reconciliation. And now, an ice prince in her belly. Rhaegar kissed her one more time and gave her his heart. "I love you, Lyanna Stark."

Chapter 73: The Trial

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He found his mother that morning breaking her fast beneath the golden arch of a high, open window, nibbling on fruits and little roasted fish in the quiet of Viserys' sickroom. She'd already dressed for the day in lilac silks and silver jewelry, her own metallic hair pulled back into a severe bun. When Rhaegar stepped over the threshold, she looked up and smiled.

"My dear," she said lightly, "come in, come in. Eat. The cooks surely made enough."

And they had. Besides the fish and fruits, there was fried bread, bacon, a yellow custard, an assortment of cheeses and crackers, and a steaming plate of eggs. Rhaegar sat across the table from her and piled together bacon and eggs on a thick slab of fried bread.

"Did you make things right?" was the first thing she decided to ask.

Rhaegar's heart stuttered. "With Lyanna?" A wide smile grew on his face. "Yes." The soreness in his muscles, after all, was not only from lack of sleep.

Rhaella gave him a confused smile back. "I am glad to hear it." Viserys suddenly sputtered from his bed, still asleep, the mucus in his throat rattling as he breathed and turned on his side. "Maester Pycelle should be here soon to check on Vis. He slept well through the night. Only woke once."

At the mention of the Grand Maester, Rhaegar's mood darkened. "About that, Mother..."

His pause, the hesitance, his dark cadence, all put his mother on edge. "What is it?"

He decided not to make her wait. He came straight out with it. "Lyanna is pregnant."

Rhaella blinked, as if she had misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"Lyanna is pregnant," he repeated, grinning despite himself. "I left her sleeping this morning, otherwise she would be here as well." He still wasn't sure if she would be angry at his haste in telling of the news without her, but his willpower had been overcome by his sheer joy.

"You're sure she's carrying?" When he nodded, Rhaella breathed out a laugh. "How did you come to find this out? Maester Pycelle swore she was barren from the trauma of the miscarriage."

Rhaegar nodded gravely. "That he did," he muttered darkly. "The maester from Winterfell came to King's Landing by Brandon Stark's summons. His daughter was sick and he does not trust the Grand Maester." Rightfully so, he thought privately.

"After our fight, Lyanna became sick with signs that mirrored Viserys' illness. She was burning up and vomiting, but she ran no fever. She confided to Maester Luwin that her moon blood hasn't come in a couple of months, and that her appetite has drastically changed."

Rhaella's eyes got wider. "The swan," she whispered. Some memory dawned on her, making her eyes glassy with remembrance.

"What was that, Mother?"

Rhaella shook her head, in both response and to clear her mind. "Nothing, nothing." She closed her eyes for one moment, smiling with the light of the sun, then reached out to lay her hand over his. Her eyes sparkled when she opened them again. "This is wonderful, wonderful news."

Rhaegar agreed. "I'll have to bring Tom back to build a nursery in the new wing now." Just the thought of a babe's cradle wrought in iron and wood and velvets made his heart squeeze.

His mother came to a different thought. "Maester Pycelle lied then," she murmured quietly, realization coming to shroud her like a black cape.

"Or so he denies," Rhaegar bit out angrily. "I imprisoned him yesterday. Ser Gerold took him to the dungeons personally."

"There will be a trial?"

Rhaegar nodded. "There must be, though I fear nothing in heaven or earth could sway me from seeing him swing. I hate him, Mother, for what he nearly destroyed. No punishment could be too severe for his deception."

Rhaella seemed troubled, her eyes distant almost. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. "You cannot allow your fire to cloud your sense, my boy."

She was right, he knew, but it did not temper the flames roaring in his chest. Pycelle needed to pay for his sin. "My sense is clear," he said, though he was uncertain of its clarity.

His mother nodded, but as if she did not believe a word he said. She cleared her throat, raising her eyes; in them, he saw a faint ghost of what she used to be. That scared, broken woman Aerys had tortured. Rhaegar did not like it.

"When is it?" She finally asked. "The trial?"

After leaving Lyanna that morning, her naked and tantalizing and sleeping in bed, Rhaegar had gathered the rest of his small council in the council chambers. Together, they had decreed the trial would take place in a week's time with all of Court in attendance for the severity of the accused crime.

"Seven days," Rhaegar replied, biting into his breakfast finally. Seven days and he would get his justice. Both for Lyanna and himself.

It was a week later that the trial was held in the Great Hall. Lyanna, miserable with morning sickness, was left behind in their chambers as Rhaegar left with his Kingsguards. On one hand, he yearned for her steady presence, but on the other, he worried what seeing Pycelle would do to her.

Court had already amassed when he arrived. The double doors were held open by heralds. His guards went before him, all but Ser Gerold who stood at his shoulder; he entered the throne hall last, as custom dictated. He was somberly dressed for the occasion, in head to toe black, and donned the crystal-cut crown he'd been blessed with at his coronation.

The whole of the hall quieted and went to their knees before him as he strode inside, staying down with their heads bowed even as he climbed the high steps to his iron seat.

Only when he was seated did they rise. There was a sea of faces before him on his throne: his good-brothers Benjen and Lord Brandon, his wife Lady Ashara, and their babe Arra; there was Lord Tywin, his brother Kevan, their sister Genna, and of course, Lady Cersei; Varys and Jon Connington, Lord Monford with his pale blonde wife. A vast crew of Gold Cloaks crusted the perimeter of the room, as well as the entourage of Casterly Rock soldiers and a smattering of Northerners that stayed with Brandon and Benjen. Countless others he did not care to remember were also there.

At the base of Rhaegar's throne was a semi-circle of his White Swords, the very leftmost Ser Brynden, then Ser Jaime, Lord Commander Ser Gerold, Arthur, Barristan the Bold, and lastly, Oswell.

Rhaegar looked to the side door where a burly gaoler waited for his command. "Bring in the accused."

The gaoler nodded and disappeared through the door, only to reappear a minute later. Another gaoler came with him this time, and between them was a sickly looking man.

Rhaegar almost couldn't believe it was Pycelle. Leaning heavily on a cane, as much as his fetters would allow, the bent maester seemed more a spring chicken that seasoned man of the Citadel. His magnificent white beard had been shaved clean off, as well as the few sprigs of hair that had once graced his head, so he was left bald and exposed of liver-spotted jowls and quivering chins.

His eyes were so bloodshot, Rhaegar could make out the color from atop his throne, and his claw-like hand was shivering violently. He'd been given roughspun garb to wear in lieu of his maester's robes, the scratchy, shapeless tunic reaching down to his slippered feet.

He was brought to the center of the room and unshackled. The room erupted into murmurs. The arrival of the High Septon, pure and glittering in his cloth-of-silver and crystal accessories, silenced them.

Before the trial could begin, the High Septon said a prayer to the Father for a truthful revelation. After, he turned to Pycelle. "Grand Maester Pycelle, you stand accused of high treason by way of deceiving your king and queen for unknown gains." He paused a moment. "How do you answer to this?"

"I did not lie," the maester asserted immediately. He shook his head violently. "No."

"Admit your guilt, Grand Maester, and I might withhold my sword," Rhaegar sounded out. This piece of justice he would do himself, as the First Men once had, like the Starks still did. It would grant him immense satisfaction to see off the last roach in his bed.

"I have no guilt to lay down, Your Grace, I swear to the gods!" Pycelle leaned heavily on the cane as he stared upward.

Rhaegar sighed deeply, frustrated. He had hoped, however wildly, that the maester would freely admit to his wrongdoings so that the trial would not last all morning and night. He would be damned before it lasted more than a day.

Rhaegar tore his eyes away from the bent maester and looked to Lord Tywin. "Did the Grand Maester produce any names in his confinement?"

His Hand shook his head ruefully, the golden hue of his whiskers catching the light. "No, Your Grace, none."

Rhaegar grew angrier. He looked back at Pycelle. "You have had an entire week to summon any witness that may share your blame. You were given parchment, quill, and time, and yet you wrote not a name. Why is that?"

"Your Grace," Pycelle's voice quivered, "I had no names to give because I am innocent of this crime."

"Innocent," Rhaegar's tone turned from iron to ice. "You falsely labeled my wife - your queen - barren, leaving me to believe I was to have no heirs from our marital union.

"Since then, there has been serious talk of outsourcing to second wives and paramours from the suggestion of my small council. Your misdiagnosis was a poisonous root that nearly stopped the tree from bearing."

"It was a mistake," Pycelle said desperately. "It was not premeditated. Were I attempting to thwart Her Grace the Queen, would I not have put actions into play that would have kept her from laying with you? And clearly I did not do that."

The insolence was hot oil poured into his flayed nerves. "You dare to admit that you would have taken measures to act against me and my queen to serve your own ends?"

"No," Pycelle cried, "I only mean to point out the stupidity of the crime, had I committed it, which I did not. To lie about Her Grace's condition would require further action, and I took none. I truly believed Queen Lyanna was barren, her womb ruined from the trauma of her miscarriage. It was an accident."

"An oversight," Rhaegar said dully.

He shook his head and turned his eyes to his sea of Court, catching all their eyes boring into him. Morbid curiosity was a mask they all wore, as if this were a simple show and not a knife's edge that nearly toppled his marriage and reign.

His skull was pounding. Down below, Pycelle trembled like a leaf, barely holding up but for the twisted cane he'd walked in with. Without his beard or meek mummer's farce, he seemed just a man. A stupid, stupid man, yes, but just a man still.

But Rhaegar was unsure about his cry of innocence.

"Would you have a trial by combat then?" His voice echoed and played against the marble so that it seemed bigger than it was. "You are, of course, entitled to one. Granted that you have sufficient faith in the Seven and whosoever should represent you. I needn't remind you of what your penalty will be should your champion fail to win against mine."

Rhaegar waved forward his own champion. Ser Arthur took slow steps to stand slightly ahead of his Kingsguard brethren. Beneath the golden light spilling in through the windows, Arthur's accoutrements gleamed like crystalline snowfall from its mother of pearl and silver chasings. The most formidable knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, no sane man would be raring for a chance against the Sword of the Morning on any day, let alone a trial by combat.

Pycelle seemed to come to the same conclusion. Whatever weak man that might dare to champion the accused maester for insanity or glory would be reduced to a mere green boy before Arthur's Dawn. The light went out of Pycelle's eyes.

"What say you?" Rhaegar urged. "Do you wish for a trial by combat?"

Pycelle shook his head, shaking. "No, Your Grace."

"Will you admit your guilt then?"

"I am innocent," Pycelle maintained.

"But you have no witnesses to testify to this fact. When you examined Queen Lyanna after her miscarriage, you were alone with her. No other maester attended her in that time, acolyte or seasoned, but for you. Is that correct?" The memories of Lyanna's tears on Dragonstone hardened his heart.

"No, Your Grace, there was no one else. Only myself."

Rhaegar sighed through his nostrils. "Very well then. You have willingly submitted yourself to the king's justice. Your punishment will be chosen by my own discretion. Do you understand that?"

Pycelle scowled. "That is grossly unfair! I am an innocent man."

"You claim innocence, yet you have no explanation for your false labeling of the queen, you had no second opinion of her body following her miscarriage. You refuse a trial by combat and offer no rebuttal for your cause." Rhaegar stared coldly down. "There is no other choice but to deliberate solely on the price you must pay."

Pycelle stood still, shocked, not even trembling for the sudden levity of his situation.

Rhaegar stood from his seat and looked out to the hall. "We will reconvene in an hour's time." He marched down the hard steps of his throne and walked out of his hall, his Kingsguard forming behind him.

From the throne room, he went to the king's wing of Maegor's Holdfast. He left all six of his knights outside his apartments and slipped through the reception room, then into the chambers.

The stained glass window threw colored light across Lyanna's face as she lounged beneath it in a black velvet chaise. She looked up when Rhaegar entered and smiled. "You're back already."

"I took a recess," he explained, coming to sit beside her. He lay his cheek on her belly. "How's the baby treating you?"

Lyanna snorted softly, running her fingers through his hair. "Just fine. I had some broth earlier, so I feel better now." She touched his forehead and drew a line down his cheekbone. "How is the trial going?"

Rhaegar grimaced despite her sweet touch, remembering Pycelle's spotted, lying face. "Maester Pycelle maintains his innocence with truly remarkable fervor. He, however, has no witnesses to attest to that claim."

Lyanna hummed in the back of her throat. "It's to be combat then?"

Rhaegar lifted from her stomach and propped himself up with one elbow. "No. Pycelle denies his right to a trial by combat. He knows no man will vouch for his cause."

Lyanna's brows furrowed as she frowned. "Then what will happen?"

"Justice belongs to the throne," he told her. "I will decide his innocence or guilt, and the punishment for the latter."

She was quiet then. Lyanna stared at him for a long time, looking at every part of his face with intense scrutiny. Her eyes took on that glassy quality his mother's had a week ago. He suppressed a shiver and asked, "What is it?"

Lyanna took a deep breath. "Rhaegar, you are not your father."

Despite what she said, it felt like an insult. He pulled back. "No," he said, "I'm not..."

She fixed him with those icy, grey eyes. "You should grant mercy to Maester Pycelle."

Rhaegar nearly choked on his own air. "Mercy? You want me to pardon the man who almost destroyed what is mine? No." He shook his head and stood, beginning to pace over their rugs.

"There is a difference between mercy and pardoning," Lyanna said patiently, but sternly. "You don't want to build your reign on blood, do you? Do you truly wish your first act as king to be the order of murder?"

"Murder," he seethed, "is no less than what that man deserves, Lyanna. After what he did to you, to me, he should see my sword."

Lyanna narrowed her eyes. "I love your fire, Rhaegar, I really do. But if you don't reign it back, control it, that fire I love will blacken to madness and you will become your father reborn. Aerys was bloodthirsty and paved his reign with the ashes of his friends and opposers alike. Don't become him."

Rhaegar stood frozen in place, watching her. She was right. The dragonfire in him howled for vengeance, but the boy in him that had grown up witnessing his father's madness overpowered whatever wrath was boiling in his veins.

He could not become, would not become, his father. He would rather be Aegon the Dragonlord than Aerys the Scab King any day. "You're right," he whispered, feeling defeated almost. He came back to Lyanna's side and kissed her lightly. "You are right. I will not execute him. I will think of another punishment."

Lyanna nodded. "Good. Besides, whatever he has or has not done, death by Fire is too clean an end for Pycelle. The Wall would sooner suit him."

Rhaegar sighed and dragged a finger across her jaw. "Or exile," he murmured. "Come back with me to Court. I would have you by my side as I grant this weasel mercy." He smiled. "After all, ice tempers fire."

After she dressed in silks and her queen's crown, he and Lyanna walked hand in hand to the Great Hall where Court was once again assembled. The people went to their knees before the royals, though many still craned their heads for a peek at their queen.

At the base of his high iron throne, a silver chair had been placed for Lyanna. She took a seat and stared straight ahead as Rhaegar climbed up the steep steps at her back. When he, too, sat, Pycelle was brought back out.

When he stopped in the center of the room and the room quieted, Rhaegar spoke. "Grand Maester Pycelle, I have come to a conclusion regarding your punishment." He glanced down to see the light catch on the mother of pearl and rubies of Lyanna's crown.

When he looked at Pycelle, all he saw was fear. "I will offer you two options to choose from in lieu of death.

"The first is lifelong exile. You will board a ship of my choosing and be taken to Essos; you will be allowed to take your earthly possessions, but only those not acquired from the Citadel or the crown. You shall never be allowed back on Westerosi soil on threat of death.

"Your second option is the Wall. I will permit you to travel North to take the black and man the Wall for the good of the realm. You may even find honor there amongst those you would vow as brothers.

"Either way, you will be stripped of your office and chain, and be officially shunned by the Citadel. So," he took a breath, "what will you choose?"

Pycelle stared upward in disbelief. Decades he had been a man of the Citadel and the highest maester in the land, and with one word, he would be robbed of it all. Still, all of Court knew he must make a decision or pay with his life's blood.

Pycelle cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I shall take the black, Your Grace." His voice wobbled. "Thank you for your mercy."

Rhaegar clenched his jaw and said, "Do not thank me, thank your queen. She is the one who advocated for your mercy."

Pycelle's eyes went wide as eggs. He looked at Lyanna and bowed slightly. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Rhaegar only saw the dip of Lyanna's crown.

"Take Pycelle to his chambers, Ser Arthur," Rhaegar called down. "Allow him to gather his things. The party to go North will leave before nightfall." Arthur nodded and escorted Pycelle from the throne hall.

"The last item of business," Rhaegar said as Court rustled restlessly, "is assigning a new Grand Maester." A few shocked faces stared back at him. "Maester Luwin, please come forward."

Luwin emerged from the section where Brandon and Benjen stood, kindly and grandfatherly in his white-and-grey maester's robe. He would need to change them out for red and black. He went to his knees and looked up. "Your Grace."

"Luwin, I would name you new Grand Maester of the realm and an official part of my small council."

Luwin blinked several times. "Your Grace, it is an honor, but I serve Lord Eddard of Winterfell. My duty is to obey my lord."

Rhaegar had known the man would object; he had an air of wisdom and loyalty about him. "I have already corresponded with my good-brother, Lord Eddard, as well as with the Citadel. A new maester has been sent to serve Winterfell so that you may be here. With me and mine."

"Your Grace," Luwin breathed, "I am forever grateful for the honor you bestow on me."

"The honor," Rhaegar objected with good nature, "is all mine. I need a man that I can trust with my House." Luwin bowed his head in respect. "Your belongings will be sent North by riders of Lord Eddard's choosing. Officers of the Citadel will travel to King's Landing to perform your officiation."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Luwin repeated.

Rhaegar stood and looked out to his subjects. "Court and trial are now over. You all may leave." There was a murmuring of respect and thanks as lords, ladies, and knights bowed once more, and then they were ushered out by the heralds and Gold Cloaks.

It took more than a few minutes for the room to clear, but when it did, only himself, Lyanna, and his guards were left. "Give us the hall," he said to his swords. They dispersed immediately and Rhaegar went down his throne, coming to sit on the fifth step from the bottom.

"Lyanna," he called softly, watching as she unclenched her fingers from around the chair's rests. "Come here."

Her still face softened as she drifted over to him. She broke into a smile when he pulled her on his lap. He put his mouth against her neck and breathed deeply.

Her voice was soft as the wind when she spoke. "That was harder than I thought it would be."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Watching Pycelle get punished. I know he was not perfect, but seeing him ragged and torn down...it wasn't easy to take."

Rhaegar kissed her. "I'm quite sure justice isn't meant to be easy." Lyanna nodded, distracted. "Look at me."

When she did, he was nearly taken away by her loveliness. Those big grey eyes, the pale, perfect skin, the full mouth. "Let us speak of other things that do not make you sad."

Her mouth twisted wryly. "Like what?"

"Like," he dragged his mouth across her neck, "how I am taking you to the Isle of Faces once Maester Luwin has been officiated, and marrying you beneath a weirwood."

That brought a real smile to her face. "You'll get to see a true heart tree," she murmured, "not some oak with no face and no gods to watch over us. And perhaps one day you will get to see Winterfell's godswood, too."

"Perhaps one day." He chuckled softly and shook his head fondly. "But in a few weeks' time, we will swear ourselves before a hundred true heart trees at the Isle of Faces, and then we will go to Dragonstone so you can deliver our prince."

Lyanna sat up straight, amused. "What makes you think it's a boy?" She lay her hand over her stomach.

Rhaegar thought of his dreams, of that boy, the one who had haunted him day and night for months. The dark-haired, lean youth with his eyes and Lyanna's face.

Rhaegar hid a smile and pressed another kiss to her jaw. She smelled of winter. "I just have a feeling."

Notes:

I have a new Rhaegar/Lyanna story that is going up this weekend; the first chapter will go up this Saturday!

Little tease: the initials of the title are WHCBB ;)

Chapter 74: The Prince That Was Promised

Chapter Text

EIGHT MONTHS LATER

Lyanna was on fire.

She felt as if her entire body was being ripped apart from the inside out, with claws and teeth, wings and fangs spreading her skin and bones until she thought she would pass out from the sheer pain of it all.

Lyanna whimpered, too exhausted from the torture to properly scream anymore. She felt hot and cold at the same time, craving both heat and ice to soothe her flesh. Chilled to the core, her entire body was covered in goosebumps, but her face was flushed as if she had bared it to an oven.

"It's almost time, Your Grace," Grand Maester Luwin soothed her in a soft voice, "just a little bit longer."

Lyanna's cries bubbled inside her chest, but only a few hot tears leaked from her eyes. She felt her hands begin to shake as she balled them to fists. "You have to get Rhaegar," she whispered, "I can't do this without him." She wasn't sure if she could this at all.

Luwin frowned from where he sat between her splayed legs, but it was Dragonstone's maester, Cole, that spoke up. "The birthing room is no place for men, let alone kings."

Lyanna gritted her teeth against a sudden rush of agonizing pain, but the fire Maester Cole's words ignited forced her to open her eyes and stare him down.

"You are about to witness the birth of my child." She thought of her dream, the one with the Wall glistening behind her, and that dark-haired boy with the wolf. "The birth of a future king. Do not tell me they have no place here." She swallowed, sweat running down her skin. "You find my husband or so help me, I will ensure you receive the same fate as Pycelle."

Maester Cole froze at the threat, then raced away with not another word. No doubt, the looming reality of serving the Wall for the rest of his days encouraged haste beneath his feet.

When he was gone, Luwin chuckled lightly. "This babe inspires fire, Your Grace, if I may be so bold."

Lyanna could have laughed, but everything was too sore, too tired, too leaden with attempting to bring forth life. "I just want my husband," she whispered finally.

"Well," Luwin murmured, looking close between her legs, "it seems like it is time." She felt a pressure at her loins, but it seemed light as a feather compared to the ripping heat in her belly.

Lyanna opened her eyes. "Truly?"

Luwin gave her a soft smile. "Yes, Your Grace. It is time."

The scent of salt and smoke was heavy as a curtain within the halls of Dragonstone, leaving Rhaegar lightheaded, but buzzing with certainty, as he waited.

His prince, the Prince That Was Promised, was coming, heralded by his signs: born amidst salt and smoke, his blood of ice and fire.

A fresh scream echoed eerily through the castle, sending a chilling tingle up Rhaegar's spine. He'd been kept out of the birthing room as soon as Lyanna had started shrieking in pain early that morning; Luwin had suggested Rhaegar wait within the halls, for he'd need all the space and peace possible to calm Lyanna enough so that she could begin to birth.

It was torture to leave, torture to watch as her body contorted in agony, her throat being torn apart by the screams. But Rhaegar waited like he should, hoping and praying nothing would go wrong. For his love or his son.

Because he knew it was a boy, knew it right down to the very core of his bones and blood in his veins. Prince Jon Targaryen was coming, and his mother was fighting tooth and nail to bring him into this world.

Around the corner, Dragonstone's lanky maester came rushing forward. Cole was sweating and wild-eyed, panting from the exertion of his pace. "Her Grace has requested you," he choked out. "I tried to tell her the birthing room was no place for men, but she insists. I'm sorry, Your Grace, I tried-"

Rhaegar held up a hand. "I will be there for the birth of my child. Take me to her."

Maester Luwin had insisted on moving Lyanna to a bigger room, the room with the largest window so as to allow in the fresh air from outside. But when Maester Cole escorted Rhaegar inside, all he could smell was the salt of the sea and the smoke from the volcano.

Rhaegar's heart thrummed violently.

Lyanna was laying slack in bed, her face both red from exertion and pale from exhaustion. Her hair was limp with sweat and her hands shook from where they lay at her sides.

Rhaegar went right to her and kissed her cheek, coming away with the salt of her sweat and tears. "How are you feeling?"

Lyanna sniffled and croaked with a hoarse voice, "Like death."

"Don't say that," he tried to say lightly. But in the back of his mind, his thoughts warred an epic battle; he thought of the signs of salt and smoke, the heralding of their prince. On the opposing side was the memory of Lyanna laying limp and pale in a pool of her own blood in White Sword Tower, their first little one having been killed before it could ever live.

Rhaella, their little girl, the princess that never was. She had died, and her mother nearly close behind, and now he was staring the gods right in the face as his promised prince sucked every ounce of life and force from Lyanna.

He was not sure what he would do if he lost her in exchange for his son.

"Your Grace," Luwin suddenly murmured, coming to once again sit between Lyanna's open knees. "It is time to start pushing now."

Lyanna made not a sound. Rhaegar bent and put his mouth at her ear. "Do you think you can do this?"

She nodded weakly, as if the act of talking would drain her of her last bit of energy.

"I love you," Rhaegar told her fiercely, pulling back to look into her eyes. "You can do this."

"Your Grace," Luwin said, "you'll need to start pushing. On my count..."

On his count, Lyanna filled the air with terrible, hair-raising screams that seemed loud enough to wake the stone dragons from their eternal slumber. Her throat was ravaged as she shrieked in pain, sitting forward slightly as she tried with all her might to push and push and push.

Rhaegar did not know how long the pushing went on. Time was a blur that turned one moment into the next with a warped, piecey style.

Lyanna held on to one of his hands with a mighty force, sharing the pain she bore with him. She screamed so hard, so loud, that eventually her voice seemed to give out, and all that was left was a hoarse croak reminiscent of the time Aerys had nearly choked her to death.

"I see the head," Luwin announced seriously, "Lyanna dear, I'm going to need you to give everything you have with these final pushes. Do you understand?"

Lyanna squeezed her eyes closed, heaving with the force of her ragged breathing. But she nodded all the same, albeit weakly. "Yes," she rasped.

"Good," Luwin murmured, "on my count, push."

On his count, she pushed. She pushed with everything she had, her face turning red as a cherry, sweat dripping down her neck, her hands balled and white-knuckled. And she did it all in complete and utter silence - not a moan, not a cry, not even a whisper.

It was until a baby broke its cry that there was any noise at all. Maester Cole rushed forward with blankets, coming to clean the babe that had been taken from Lyanna's body as Luwin severed the cord.

Rhaegar stood in utter fascination, staring at the life that he and the love of his life, his ice, had made together. Squalling and dark-haired and small, he yearned to hold his prince.

"It is a boy," Cole told him, though unnecessarily. He took another pile of clean blankets and began to swaddle the babe. "What is his name, Your Grace?"

Rhaegar smiled, filled with a joy the likes of which he had never known. "Jon," he murmured. "Prince Jon Targaryen." He turned his joy to Lyanna, eager to share in the wealth of excitement, but stopped cold.

She looked peaceful there in her bed, pale and lovely, completely serene and relaxed, her eyes closed to the world. Not even her chest moved, as if just the act of breathing would disturb her. "Maester Luwin," Rhaegar called out shakily as he rushed to her side.

Luwin had never left his spot between her legs, now splayed jankily. He observed her quietly, ignoring Rhaegar's impending hysteria. He poked and prodded, his frown turning into a grimace.

"Lyanna," Rhaegar nearly shouted, touching her face, her hands, her neck. She was ice cold. "Lyanna, wake up, please wake up." He lifted one of her eyelids, hoping to disturb her from her...rest...but all he saw was a glassy grey eye, unseeing.

"Your Grace," Luwin said in a voice like iron, all kindness and propriety gone from his demeanor, "you will need to wait outside now."

"No," Rhaegar asserted immediately, with a fierce denial. "I won't. What's wrong with her? What happened?"

"Your Grace," Luwin seemed to snap, his ever-present patience finally breaking under stress. "Please. Wait outside. I need the peace and quiet to help her now. Cole! Give your king his son!"

It all happened so fast.

Maester Cole came forward, shifting the tiny little baby from his arms into Rhaegar's, then led him outside and away from his wife and queen who lay deaf to the world on her birthing bed.

Her blankets were stained with crimson.

It was the last thing he saw before Cole crept back inside and closed the door. Rhaegar just stood silent and still in shock, unbelieving that had truly just been done to him.

Had he not had a fragile babe in his arms, he would have fought like every hell on earth to stay with Lyanna. It was not right to leave her alone. But she would be fine...Luwin would surely not deprive Rhaegar of his last moments with his wife if she wasn't going to be just fine...

Jon cried out sharply.

Rhaegar looked down. And saw the boy from his dreams. The air was stolen from his chest, his palms grew clammy. Jon was just a little thing, just a breath of life really. But...he would have recognized that boy anywhere.

"Jon," he breathed in wonder, momentarily distracted from the plight of his wife. The baby ceased its cries immediately, by some source of magic. He opened his eyes, dark eyes, and looked up at his father.

Rhaegar laughed in amazement. "You're here," he whispered, shifting him tighter to his body. The realization of the prophecy hit him like a warhammer to the chest. "Finally."

The babe lay still and quiet, just staring. Uncomprehending of what lay ahead for him.

"Your name is Jon," Rhaegar told him quietly. "Your mother chose it. She wanted you named after the King of Winter, Jon Stark. I had meant to name you Aegon after the Dragonlord, but..." That dark hair, those eyes, that face. "Jon is perfect."

He listened for a sign that Lyanna was awake, but heard nothing. He closed his eyes, trying to keep hope. Luwin would not make him wait outside while Lyanna died within. He wouldn't.

In his arms, Jon gurgled.

Rhaegar distracted himself by talking again. "Your mother has been waiting a long time for you. She's been so eager to meet you. We both have." Jon scrunched up his face, as if to cry, but made no noise. Rhaegar's heart stung painfully. A child without a mother was a tragedy, and fire without ice was just destruction.

"Nothing is going to happen to your mother," he told Jon fiercely, "she will live a long and happy life, and together we will give you siblings to grow up with. Siblings to help you fulfill your destiny.

"You'll grow up with them; maybe two sisters or two brothers. Or perhaps one of each. And you'll have Dany to play alongside, a companion for the good times and a light for the bad.

"And your mother and I, we will be there too. To help guide you, to help you become the man you're fated to be." He studied his son's face, so small and pale, beautiful, in the likeness of his mother already. "Your coming was foreseen hundreds of years ago. You're going to be the king one day..."

Rhaegar sighed. "A great one. Being king is not easy, but you were meant for it. Born for it." Jon blinked. "It is a heavy burden for just a small little thing, but it's supposed to be." Rhaegar smiled. "You were the prince that was promised."

When the door suddenly swung open behind them, it took everything in him not to shove Maester Cole aside and race to Lyanna's side. "How is she?" He asked instead, impatiently, restless to be with her again.

"Awake," was all Cole had to say for Rhaegar to slip past him and stride inside.

He nearly cried out in relief when Lyanna turned her head to smile weakly at him. Luwin, blood-soaked from his wrists to elbows, bowed. "Forgive me for my harsh words earlier, Your Grace, I was under stress."

The bundle in Rhaegar's arms was a comforting weight. "No need to apologize, Maester Luwin. I am only grateful that you helped Lyanna and my son." He smiled at Lyanna. "How is she?"

"Well, Your Grace, I managed to stop the bleeding. She passed out from the pain and stress of the birth. I will need to watch her closely over the next few days, but I do not anticipate any more problems."

Rhaegar breathed a sigh of relief, eager to finally be alone with his family. "I am eternally thankful, Maester. You may leave now to clean up and rest."

Luwin bowed once more and said, "Congratulations on your prince, Your Graces." And then he left.

Alone, Lyanna's eyes locked in on the little babe in Rhaegar's arms. "Jon," she whispered, lips parting.

Rhaegar came to sit at the side of her bed, noticing the bedding had been stripped of its soil. "Prince Jon Targaryen," he said quietly.

"He's so beautiful," Lyanna rasped in wonder, holding her arms out for him. Rhaegar shifted Jon to her, ever so carefully, then wrapped his arm around the beginning of his family.

"He looks like his mother," he murmured, smiling down at the child they had made together. Just the first in a trio, he knew. The dragon has three heads.

Every second of his life had led up to this moment, to the birth of his prince. The good times, the bad, the ugly, the glittering. The tourney, the wedding, those months of solitude and distrust and darkness. The fire, the miscarriage, their sweet little Rhaella clipped of her wings.

The seven months apart and the fiery passion ignited of their reunion. Every second had brought him to Lyanna, and Lyanna had led him to Jon.

Lyanna seemed utterly, irrevocably enamored with Jon, stroking a finger down his cheek. She glanced up briefly, meeting Rhaegar's eyes. "Will you write him a song?" she asked.

His heart fluttered violently, nearly expanding to burst from the sheer completeness of his life. "No, he already has a song," he murmured, smiling softly. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire."

Chapter 75: The End to a Beginning

Notes:

IMPORTANT: this epilogue takes place many years into the future, and thus takes place years after the sequel.

Yes, I will be doing a sequel that focuses on their rule, and Jon growing up.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

EPILOGUE

They were lucky, Rhaegar knew in the end, to have lived such long and wonderful lives together. To experience both a long summer and the rebirth of dragons to House Targaryen, to see magic in the world once more of wide-spanning wings soaring overhead and a dreadful army of the dead that marched through ice and snow.

All of it: the laughs, the tears, the dragons, the dead, ice and fire clashing in a battle of dawn, it had all been realized of an ancient prophecy that demanded Rhaegar meet Lyanna, to create the lives that which would bring about the Eternal Summer, driving away winter once and for all. And for that, he was forever grateful for the life he had been given.

The years of Rhaegar's reign were steeped in love and compassion, happiness and prosperity, the likes of which had not been seen since the age of King Jaehaerys I and his Good Queen Alyssane. Rhaegar sat a firm, steady seat upon the Iron Throne, and meted out good graces and wealth, freedom and safety to those who served and subjected him well.

It was often rejoiced that King Rhaegar and his queen had brought about the long summer of magic's birth, keeping his people fed and their love and loyalty to his feet under the veil of blue skies and soaring dragons. His reign was one of many changes, shifting council and prospering vassals and smallfolk, and the reemergence of all that had been lost to the world.

And later, much later, the long summer drifted and winter came and, with it, an army of death, only to be staved off and destroyed by the heads of an ancient prophecy . . .

. . . But that was another story for another time.

King Rhaegar's administration saw two Hands.

Lord Tywin died only two years after the start of Rhaegar's reign, found fallen and broken from a hard fall from a secret tunnel discovered to lead to Chataya's, an infamous brothel on the Street of Silk. His death was a scandal and an embarrassment to House Lannister, clouding their once mighty prestige, and as such, his daughter Cersei was seen as lesser stock.

As all of the Great Lords were married off or sufficient with heirs, Cersei was matched and married to Lord Jon Connington, formerly of the small council, by firm suggestion of the king. The two married at Casterly Rock and retired to Griffin's Roost for the rest of their days, without children or clout, merely humbled subjects to the royals evermore.

Tyrion Lannister, as young as he was, rose to lordship over Casterly Rock and, over the years, built back the power once lost to his family's name, as well as forging a longstanding friendship with the crown that, much later on, resulted in the dwarf lord being named Master of Coin.

Immediately following the death of Lord Tywin, Brandon Stark was made Hand of the King, promoted from his office as Master of Laws, which eventually was given to Stannis of the House Baratheon, who was a firm and just man with a cutting general's mind.

But it was always said that the People's Queen, Lyanna, was King Rhaegar's most trusted advisor. He sought her council above all others, and kept her at his side through all. She was a well-loved queen, a magnificent and influential politician, and mother to three healthy dragonwolves of the king's beloved prophecy.

Their first was Jon Targaryen, the First of His Name and future King of Westeros.

Jon was a quiet boy, more eager to listen than speak . . . but when provoked, he had his mother's tongue. And his mother's face as well, narrow and pale, with bone structure that was chipped from ice, but with Rhaegar's dark eyes, somewhere in the realm of almost-black until the light hit them and turned them into a brilliant indigo.

Jon grew to be a peerless swordsman, his skills surpassing even those of Ser Arthur and Jaime Lannister and Barristan the Bold. On his twenty-fifth name day, he was gifted by his father the Valyrian steel sword Fire, and entered the tourney lists in gleaming black armor encrusted with gemstones and jewels, just as Rhaegar had before him.

Lyanna and Rhaegar's second child, a daughter, came two years later. They named her Rhae, for her father. The girl was the exact opposite of her elder brother: long, spiraling white-gold hair, a heart-shaped face, and eyes like molten silver. And she was lively as well, a beguiling little princess from the days she could walk and talk and charm.

Rhae was often seen reading by day and running by night, her spirited laugh filling the halls of the Red Keep like music. She had her father's beauty and his mind as well, but her cunning was all her own. She studied laws and wisdoms, archery and waterdancing, and often sat with her brother Jon at their father's council meetings. The king's second prince, her uncle Benjen of the Kingsguard often jested, for her prowess and intellect.

Their third child came six years after Jon, four years after Rhae. Valarr, they named him, for his mess of silver hair and pale eyes like the petals of violet flowers. The most troublesome of the three children, Valarr had the wolf's blood, but the dragon's looks.

Tall and slim as a spear, he had wavy silver hair, pale purple eyes like a lilac morning, and a tongue that could cut like a knife. Valarr was a trial worth twenty children. Prone to deception and truancy, he often snuck out to Flea Bottom with blue dye in his hair, neglecting his studies to mingle amongst the smallfolk and unsavory, like his mother in her youth.

He was a natural at evading his guards, and more than once had slipped from Ser Jaime and Ser Arthur's watchful eyes. A wolf in dragon's clothing, Valarr tried his parents' patience, until it came time for him to be fostered.

They sent him to Winterfell, to foster with his uncle and aunt and their five children, in the hopes that the merciless North would freeze out the wolf's blood.

They should have known better.

Valarr fell in love with his cousin Arya, and the two secretly married in the godswood of Winterfell. Though initially furious, Rhaegar and Lyanna accepted the marriage, funding the couple's travels as they explored the Seven Kingdoms and beyond.

Rhaegar and Lyanna lived long enough to see each of their children to fully grow, to see each of them wed and happy.

On his eighteenth name day, Jon was married to Daenerys in the Sept of Baelor, as the sun shone through the crystal towers like a million rainbowbeams. Afterward, they'd ridden through the city, the Dark Prince and the Silver Princess, and received the love of their common folk, and danced the night away with merriment at their ceremony.

Rhae married Willas Tyrell before the High Septon just after her seventeenth name day, resplendent in ivory as she wed her young groom. She retired to Highgarden afterward, spending her future advising her lord husband and taking up many hobbies with her new good sister and cousins.

After a long bout of fever in her fifty-eighth year, Queen Lyanna died.

Heartbroken and lost, King Rhaegar rode North to bring her bones to Winterfell; it was the first and only time he had ever seen her home. He rode with a guard of sixty men, wary of protecting his wife's remains.

She was buried in a tomb within a mausoleum Ned Stark had erected near the heart tree in the godswood. The mausoleum was forged of stone, carved with runes of the First Men, and protected by a glass dome ceiling with the sun and the snow and the clouds above her.

Rhaegar had knelt at her tomb and statue all day and night, the likeness of which was so uncanny, he spent his tears within the first hour just staring at it. After, when his legs ached too much to kneel any longer, he went outside to the heart tree, placing his hand over its melancholy face.

He imagined Lyanna, somewhere in the heavens of her gods, could hear him as he spoke.

"Oh, my love," he'd sighed with his throat tightening, "I am so sorry I never married you in this godswood, at your home. It is my only regret in our life together." He ran his fingers over the etchings in the tree's bark, tears burning down his cheeks.

He'd gripped the tree tightly, his heart aching so fiercely, he thought he might pass out from the sheer pain of it. "If only you were here," he whispered, chest burning, "I would marry you every single day for the rest of my life . . ."

Rhaegar Targaryen died less than a year later. In the comfort of his bed, the king was found with the breath gone from his chest, the light absent from his amethyst eyes. His skin was cold and life no longer thrived in his veins.

Some speculated foul play, grasping for desperate answers at the death of their beloved dragon. Others whispered of dark sorcery used to fell Rhaegar, spreading black tales to make sense of the tragedy.

In truth, with Lyanna's bones entombed within the mausoleum in the godswood of Winterfell and her soul resting in the heavens, Rhaegar's heart no longer had use to beat, to go on.

He went to bed one night, their bed, and felt a peace so deep that he immediately fell asleep, his dreams full of Lyanna and mismatched armor and blue roses and the Isle of Faces.

Between one moment and the next, Rhaegar's heart stopped and his soul departed, finally, blissfully departed to once more meet his lady love in the sky.

King Jon Targaryen himself stood vigil at his father's body, wearing the same archived armor Rhaegar had worn all those years ago. The same armor worn when his mother had been presented with a wreath of roses blue as frost.

And though it was not the custom, Rhaegar's ashes were taken north to Winterfell, where Ned Stark had prepared a second tomb for his good-brother - the tomb that sat right next to Lyanna's in her mausoleum beneath the canopy of the heart tree, so that his sister and her love could rest in peace, side by side for all of eternity.

And so was the tale of King Rhaegar, the Silver Dragon, and Queen Lyanna, his Winter Rose.