Hope

by elizacamille

Hope

8. Chapter 1

Hell Is Empty

Notes:

Rhaegar: 21 years old
Lyanna: 15 years old

The title is displaced from the Shakespeare quote: "Hell is empty and all the devils are here." A sinister line to fit the sinister players.

Chapter 1: The Beginning

Chapter Text

His first thought was, Had silver ever tarnished so quickly?

"You asked for me, Your Grace?" Prince Rhaegar Targaryen craned his neck to look up at his father, whose wild eyes seemed to scatter and twitch every which way.

At the foot of the Iron Throne stood four Kingsguards, gleaming in white armor, and the king's beloved pyromancer, dressed in green rags that would be befit a peasant.

Aerys sneered down at his son, the billowing arms of his red robe impaled with the tips of a dozen blades. "I did. Lord Whent has written that the tournament is prepared for, and will be held two months from today."

Rhaegar inclined his head, knowing another, secret raven was likely at his window at that very moment. His separate correspondence with Lord Whent had been private knowledge that only himself, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Oswell Whent, Lord Whent's brother, were privy to. "Very good."

Aerys eyed his son. "Heed my warning, boy, if you do not choose a bride by the end of this godsforsaken tournament, I will remove you from succession and sit Viserys here myself!" By the end his voice was shrill, his curling nails caught in the spiked throne their ancestor built for great rulers to come. Rhaegar wondered what Aegon the Conquerer would think of the brittle, decrepit monster that the realm now called "king."

"I understand, Father." There wouldn't need to be such drastic measures though. He'd find a bride at Harrenhal, and once he had an heir, he would remove his father as king.

It was the only way to avoid the Seven Kingdoms burning green to the ground. The king's fetish for wildfire had, at first, been scattered, pinpointed only to livestock and the trunks of rotting trees. As each day passed, the king's excitement for burning focused on the criminals that littered the dungeons, and after that, peasants that had committed only petty crimes. Rhaegar had nearly vomited the first time he saw a beggar child burn for stealing bread.

"Go now," Aerys barked. "Be out of my sight!"

Rhaegar bowed, striding from the room with his closest friend and confidant, Arthur Dayne, falling behind him like a shadow. Only when they were both inside the prince's private chambers did they speak.

"He's getting worse," Rhaegar murmured. He felt tired down to his bones, a weary ache that echoed through him. "Before long the entire realm will know of his madness."

Arthur grimaced, meeting the eyes of his worried friend. "What will you do?"

Rhaegar sighed, opening his window to allow in the raven that waited there. "First, I will find a wife." He unrolled the parchment that had been attached to the bird's leg; Arthur came forward to feed it corn from the small bowl at the desk.

Rhaegar quickly read the message. "Lord Whent writes that he has invited all seven of the Great Houses, as well as the important vassals." Something akin to relief bloomed in his chest. He'd been planning this for nearly a year, writing back and forth with the Lord of Harrenhal about gathering the nobility to discuss the overthrowing of his father's rule.

To the king and anyone dedicated to his reign, the tournament just appeared to be a grand way to boast the Whent wealth, a way for the crown prince to choose a suitable bride. To Rhaegar and his loyalists, it was the first step in becoming king and establishing his line.

"Two moons," Arthur muttered, staring out into the darkening sky. His Kingsguard vows forbade him to think ill of the king and to obey mindlessly, but as Rhaegar's closest friend, he was in full support of the prince overthrowing his father.

A few dark souls still remained obedient to the crown, however, and it was becoming more and more difficult for Rhaegar and his supportive Kingsguards to hide their true allegiances.

Two months, the prince thought to himself, two months til Harrenhal and the road to my reign will begin.

"Are we going?" Benjen jumped on his toes, excitement radiating from his every pore.

Lord Rickard Stark glanced down to the invitation, reading the middle paragraph again. "The royal family will be in attendance," he said aloud.

If anything, Benjen's excitement mounted. "The Kingsguard will be there then. And the prince. Please, Father, let us go!"

Rickard sighed. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

His son's demeanor deflated, eyes watering instantly. The boy was fourteen, a year younger than his only sister and nearly a man grown, but he had the heart of a child. "So I must stay here while everyone else goes South?"

Rickard allowed himself a small smile. "If Brandon agrees to keep you out of trouble while at the tourney, I will stay behind in Winterfell in your place." He rather preferred it anyway; it gave him time to solidify allies.

Catelyn Tully was already promised to Brandon, his eldest and heir, and Lord Robert Baratheon would either decline or agree to the betrothal once he met Lyanna. Rickard could trust his three sons to ensure that if his daughter and Lord Robert met at Harrenhal, nothing unseemly would happen. Even in Winterfell, rumors of Baratheon bastards flew rampant.

Benjen wrapped his father in a hug and ran from the room, taking his piercing energy with him. Alone, Rickard thought of the future of Westeros, and how it sagged beneath the king's rapidly declining mental stability. He and a few other lords of the Great Houses were in agreement that should it come to it, they would ready their banners and storm King's Landing.

If only the damned king would die and his son could take the throne. The Dragon Prince was revered across the lands, knighted and well read, a perfect specimen for rule. It seemed madness lengthened a man's life though, and Rickard wasn't sure if the realm would still be standing if they waited for King Aerys to pass away.

His mind drifted to his daughter, Lyanna - a wild child-woman of the North, growing infinitely more beautiful by the day. She had the Stark look: dark hair, silver-grey eyes, and a narrow face with high cheekbones. He'd rejected half a hundred marriage proposals for her, waiting for the right one that could further their strength and make Lyanna happy.

From Ned's stories of his fellow ward, Lord Robert was a joyful man of rugged build with the black hair and blue eyes characteristic of Baratheon blood. Ned had no doubt that his friend would love Lyanna upon meeting her, and then the Starks would be aligned with three Great Houses: the Tullys and Baratheons by marriage, and the Arryns by fostering. Should it ever come to war with the crown, the Starks would be ready.

Rickard pored over the letter once more, the words of his House pounding in his head. Winter was truly coming.

Chapter 2: A Lord and a Prince

Notes:

Just to clarify, adultery/extramarital affairs will not be factors in this story.

Chapter Text

Harrenhal was a charred ruin of epic proportions, each of its five main towers reaching into the sky like the fingers of a giant's grasping hand. The castle was alive with activity, servants rushing past with bolts of cloth and platters of food, squires sprinting back and forth with curved pieces of steel in their grip, lords and ladies languidly strolling the grounds.

A majority of the attendants had arrived the week leading up to the tournament, camping in the sigiled tents set up in the vast fields beyond the castle's walls. There was Baratheon yellow and black, the crimson of Lannister, a leaping trout of the Tullys, the sun sigil of the Martells.

The only Greats that were missing were the Arryns, high up in the Vale; the Greyjoys, sulking in their sea fortress; and the Starks, the ancient Lords of Winter who ruled lands that took up over half the realm.

Rhaegar would need the Northern lords' support if he was to take his father down. He had the allegiance of the Whents, the Daynes of Starfall, and House Martell if Ser Lewyn could convince his sister, the ruling Princess of Dorne, to pledge aid.

He was unsure of who Tywin Lannister would campaign for, but given the Lord Hand's most recent squabble with the king, Rhaegar was positive that he would have the support of Casterly Rock at his back soon enough.

That just left the Starks, who were soon to be allied with House Tully through marriage, and were already tied with House Arryn through the fostering of Lord Rickard's second son in the Vale. With Winterfell's fealty, Rhaegar could easily take the throne and put an end to the mad reign of his father.

"Do you think the Starks will come soon?" He found himself asking, rare impatience darkening his tone.

Lord Walter Whent, a man of rotund frame, stroked his short beard. "Lord Rickard wrote to me he would be sending his four children. His heir, Brandon, is expected to meet you on behalf of his father."

Rhaegar nodded. That was good, very good. Still, he was nervous. The tourney was only a day away, and the Starks were nowhere in sight. He needed every portion of his plan in play, or everything would fall apart at the seams.

"How is the king today?" Lord Whent dared to ask.

Rhaegar suppressed a grimace. His father had insisted on accompanying him to the tournament, paranoid beyond belief and needing to have some semblance of control. With nearly a majority of the realm gathered in one place, mad Aerys felt threatened. If only the king knew how right he was, Rhaegar thought to himself.

"The king is...as well as can be," he supplied vaguely, stopping to admire a lovely golden horse that was rearing against the hold of a frightened stableboy.

"Ah," Lord Whent hummed, "it looks like the Starks have arrived."

Fifty grey direwolves snarled across bolts of white banner cloth, rippling in the wind as the majority of the Northern party rode to the tent fields. A few Stark riders passed through the gatehouse.

"And there is Lord Brandon, heir of Winterfell," Lord Whent said quietly, pointing out a large man with wavy dark hair and a vulpine face. "His two brothers, Ned and Benjen, and their sister, Lady Lyanna."

It was straddling a black horse that he first saw her, grey dress hiked up around her pale thighs as she urged her horse across the grounds. Her face was lifted to the sky, awe spreading in her smile as she soaked in the ruinous magnificence of Harrenhal. Her fur-trimmed cloak of grey and white twisted around her as she dismounted, handing the reins of her destrier to a waiting stablehand.

The skirt of her dress swept the ground like a broom, gathering dust and dirt on its hem. She was assuredly of Northern blood - long dark hair tumbling down her back like a wild river, skin as pale as summer snows, dressed in the leather and furs of her home.

The youngest of the Stark boys grabbed at her arm suddenly, twisting around. "Race you to the tents!" He challenged excitedly.

Mischief bloomed in her expression. "You're on. Last one there is..." And then she shoved the boy, hard on the ground, and bolted. "Stupid!"

The boy quickly climbed to his feet, neglecting the large puffed stains of dirt across his ass, and scurried after her. They disappeared together beyond the castle walls, with nothing left to them but the dying echoes of their laughter. The other two Starks had likewise vanished.

"Your Highness," Lord Whent bent to catch his eye. "The feast will be starting in an hour."

Rhaegar nodded, turning back to the castle to prepare himself. He needed to be every ounce the readied prince for the lords to betray their king.

"It's too hot to wear stockings," Lyanna complained. The Southron handmaiden, Jeyne, sent to her by the Whents just shook her head and continued lacing up Lyanna's dress.

It was a pretty thing, she had to admit, one of the several her father had commissioned before she left. Despite his attempt at subtlety, Lyanna was no fool - her father wanted her to look her best and brightest for Robert Baratheon, the man to whom Lord Rickard was attempting to betroth her to.

The dress itself was of royal blue velvet, its bodice tight across the chest and exposing the curve of her shoulders, long skirt flowing delicately from her hips to the floor. Jeyne had insisted on forcing her feet into dainty little sandals of thin leather and gold silk, but Lyanna was persistent in donning her trusty black riding boots.

Relenting, the handmaiden had scowled at the dirty boots before rubbing them with an oiled rag until the leather shone like onyx. Then, she twisted a few strands of Lyanna's hair back and off her face, tucking tiny wildflowers through the small braids. Her work done, she stepped back.

"Beautiful," Jeyne announced sincerely. Lyanna smiled through a grimace; beauty wouldn't do her any good if she was to repel the likes of Robert Baratheon.

Benjen blinked a few too many times when he saw her, mouth opening and closing. "You- you look like a girl."

Lyanna scowled, shoving his arm. "I am a girl, stupid."

They walked together in Brandon and Ned's shadows into Harrenhal's dining hall, a positively massive room with dozens of hearths blazing their heat. Long trestle tables were set up around the edges of the room, leaving the center open for dancing and entertainment. Against one wall was a raised dais, where the Whents and the royal family sat.

The king was hunched over like a wizened wizard, clothed in robes of red. His golden crown did nothing to detract from the matted tangle of his white hair, nor did it gleam above his small, suspicious face. Every so often, he accepted morsels of food from a man Lyanna did not recognize to his left.

At the king's right was his son and heir, the crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. His hair was long and straight like beaten silver, his complexion like a mask of cold marble. His lips were full and pink, a spot of color on an otherwise pale image. The expression he wore was one of complete apathy, even as his father's long, gnarled fingernails grasped at his shoulder.

Lyanna shuddered, thanking the gods she wasn't born a Targaryen. She eyed the prince, wondering if he was just as mad as his father. As far as she was concerned, the apple didn't fall far from the tree, and for all the good looks the prince possessed, perhaps his mind was tainted. After all, his parents were brother and sister.

"Lya!" Benjen gasped, his grey eyes glowing. "It's Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning."

Indeed it was. Standing at the prince's shoulder, the tall man with chestnut hair and Valyrian purple eyes was most recognizable by the gleaming sword on his back, burning brighter than even the stark white of his Kingsguard armor.

She imagined holding Dawn, the greatsword of the Daynes, wielding it as she slayed the Mad King or some other villianous creature plaguing Westeros. The Kingsguard would bow down to her expertise, the realm showering her with flowers and thanks for setting them free of their insane monarch. The thought brought a pleased smile to her face.

She and Benjen could be the Northern Knights, the blood of the First Men and of the Winter Kings flowing through their veins, as they cut down enemy and evil alike across the Seven Kingdoms.

"Lyanna," Benjen hissed urgently, ruining her fantasy. "Lord Baratheon is coming this way!"

Lyanna looked up, taken aback by the sheer size of the man as he approached - he was six feet of pure power, muscles cording thickly over his arms and chest. His eyes, blue as the seas of his lands, were hidden beneath a crop of black hair.

"Ned," he boomed, leaning over the table to hug her brother. "Introduce me to your beautiful sister."

At her left, Ned smiled, turning. "Robert, this is Lyanna. Lyanna, this is Robert Baratheon."

She knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was; it wasn't in his personality to be forgettable, the Stormlord, and tales of his lusty conquests traveled to even the coldest corners of the North.

Still, she inclined her head respectfully, squeaking when he insistently pulled her hand in for a kiss. "Pleased to meet you...my lord."

Robert's eyes seemed to shine like the stars as he grinned down at her, trailing ever so low as to be counted inappropriate. "And you, my lady. I must say, if I'd known you were so beautiful, I would have insisted we met far sooner."

She fought her damndest not to roll her eyes. "That is very kind of you to say."

His chest puffed as he breathed in deeply. "Will you watch the melee tomorrow? I should think I am in favor to win."

She raised her brows, nonplussed by the cockiness coloring his every syllable. "Then I wish you favor to match your words."

"Might I have yours, my lady? Your favor, that is," he clarified, admiring the curve of her collarbone a little too boldly.

"No," she said automatically. "It is intended for another."

Ned's calm mask slipped, and only shock was left, but Robert Baratheon was determined. His blue eyes glistened with resolve, and if anything, he appeared enticed, infinitely pleased. Like she'd just joined a game he wanted to play.

"I will win the melee in your honor then, my lady," he vowed, mouth grinning wide. "But tonight, I would ask that you grace me with a dance after dinner?"

Ice slithered through her. She'd planned to be aloof and uninviting to her potential betrothed, and all it seemed to be getting her was deeper into his good graces. All Lyanna could manage was a weak nod, slumping in her seat when Robert walked back to his own table.

She was grateful when her brothers talked amongst themselves and to their fellow tablemates; she didn't think she had it in her not to be rude at the moment. With a sigh, she drank from her wine goblet, draining it quickly. Her eyes swept around the room lazily, over lords and ladies chattering incessantly, before freezing in alarm at a point across the floor.

From the dais, Prince Rhaegar watched her.

Chapter 3: Three Cravens and a Lord

Chapter Text

Lyanna walked beyond the shadow of the castle, acting every bit the ghost of Harrenhal as she absentmindedly ventured into its godswood. The trees surrounded her in thick clusters, tall as giants, but green, green, too green.

The words Ned had left her with the night before kept her stomach roiling painfully into the night and through the morning.

"Robert is going to accept the betrothal."

One night, one feast, one fucking dance, and the whoremongering Stormlord already fancied himself half in love with her. Or so Ned claimed.

Ned was a kind and gentle man, a mouse amongst wolves, but Lyanna wanted to wring his throat black and blue in that moment. If only he hadn't made such good friends with the Baratheon man, if only he had been fostered elsewhere, this alliance would never have been proposed in the first place.

Then she could have lived life as the Spinster of Winterfell in peace, spoiling Brandon's future children with sweets and swords.

Of course that wasn't true.

Somewhere, in the deep recesses of her mind, Lyanna had always known what her future would entail. She'd been taught, albeit clumsily by three brothers, a stern father, and Old Nan, that her duty consisted only of being a wife. It was her sole destiny from the very moment she was brought into the world.

But in that specifically childish way of hers, she'd hoped that perhaps if she never brought it up, the idea of her marrying would vanish from everyone's minds.

And look how far that got her. She already knew what would happen. Robert would accompany the Stark party back to Winterfell to accept the proposal, and her father would insist on marrying her to him as soon as possible. And just like that, she'd be plucked like a root from her home and deposited to the South.

She seethed silently, relishing in the way her fury boiled like poison. I should have been born a man, she thought angrily, the third Stark son. Then, instead of bearing the responsibilities of a lord or lady, she could have been a soldier or councilor to kings perhaps.

She was a better swordsman than Benjen by far, ten times more talented at the quintain than Ned, and on par with Brandon at riding, who was half a horse himself.

But all these dreams were dust in the wind because she didn't have a cock dangling between her legs.

The heart tree in Harrenhal's godswood was an ugly thing; thick and gnarled, its face watching her in a twist of hatred. More than a dozen marks pocked its surface, dripping red.

Still, she knelt before it like a subject worshipping its king. "Please," she begged it, tears slipping down her skin. "Don't let him have me. Please..."

Later, when the sun was at its highest, Lyanna returned to the tents, sweat and tears coating her face, neck, and chest. That was another thing she'd miss about the North - the obnoxious sun wasn't melting everything on the gods' green earth with its unholy vigor.

Ned and Brandon were gone, but Benjen waited inside her tent, a little wolf pup starved for her attention. "I'm sorry, Lya," he said sincerely when he saw her red face. If anyone knew how deep her unhappiness with Robert Baratheon really ran, it was Benjen.

She sat beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

Ever faithful, he declared, "We'll run away so Father can't marry you off."

Lyanna smiled. "Where will we go?" She asked, entertaining him.

"The Wall," he replied immediately. "We'll cut off your hair and dress you in breeches like Danny Flint, and we'll be the best Black Brothers the Night's Watch has ever seen."

She laughed aloud, eyes shining with a mix of fondness for her brother and a profound longing for his words. "What would I do without you?"

"You never have to find out," he promised. "Come on now. I've waited around for you all morning and haven't eaten yet."

They walked together through the empty tents, swinging the wooden practice swords Benjen had pilfered from Brandon. Empty horns and chicken bones littered the grounds, the air stinking of piss and meat and ale from the night before.

The fields were largely empty as most had gone to enjoy the melee. By proper standards, Lyanna should also have been in attendance to support who would soon be her official betrothed.

She'd die before she gave him that honor.

Because of the quiet, it was far easier to make out the animalistic shrieks coming from behind a large grey Frey pavilion. Grunts and taunts and cheers accompanied the cries of pain, a cluster of voices alternately mocking and laughing.

Benjen and Lyanna ran over, eyes widening upon the scene. Three boys, each representing a different House sigil upon their doublets, took turns kicking and spitting at a curled form moaning in the grass. Their faces were twisted in cruel mockery, mouths gaping and terrible like hyenas.

And just like that, rage ripped through Lyanna like a provoked wolf. "That's my father's man you're kicking!" She roared.

She lunged forward, the element of surprise her champion, and swung her wooden practice sword with all her might into the soft belly of one of the boys. He doubled over immediately, retching into the ground.

She turned on the balls of her feet, and brought the sword down in a magnificent arc across another's back, something cracking upon impact. That one fell onto his stomach, curling in on himself like a snake.

The third boy fell back without her ever touching him, ass landing hard in the grass with a thump. His eyes were glistening with coward's tears as she stalked closer.

She made to whip him across the face with the wooden blade, but he slithered away like a snake, stumbling to his feet. His fellow perpetrators groaned as they did the same, and in a cravenly trio, they bolted from sight.

Chest heaving and nostrils flared, Lyanna watched them go long after there was nothing to see but empty tents and vast green lands.

Someone behind her moaned. She turned and fell to her knees, watching as the victim sat slowly up, pale hands folded over his stomach. Benjen came to her side.

"I must thank you, my lady," the stranger whispered, looking up at her. His eyes were the most peculiar green, like the slime of a swamp, eery and beautiful all the same.

"No thanks is necessary," she assured him. Curious, she studied the bronze scales sewn into the shoulders of his clothes, the shabby material of his dirty green cloak, the three-pronged spear lying useless beyond reach. "Who are you?"

He sat up fully, clearing his throat. "Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch."

Benjen gasped, but Lyanna whispered in disbelief, "So you are my father's man then." She grinned, hardly believing it. "I'm glad you didn't make a liar out of me," she japed lightly.

Howland Reed smiled at her - in a way that made him seem infinitely old, ageless even, as if he knew every secret of the world, old and new, and she was but a child. "As am I, Lady Lyanna."

She blinked, taken aback. "You know my name."

Howland nodded, green eyes turning on her brother. "And yours as well, Benjen Stark. It's the duty of a lord to know the House he pledges loyalty to," he said, suddenly solemn.

Benjen, perpetually curious, always beguiled by the unknown, pressed their new friend. "Is it true that your castle is untraceable? Do you have the greensight? Is there-"

"Benjen," Lyanna said slowly. "Perhaps we should clean Lord Reed up before you pester him with your questions."

Together, they hauled Howland to his feet, wrapping each of his arms around their shoulders. They limped along slowly, just the three of them, but it was no chore. The wind was blowing a sweet reprieve from the hot sun, and there was no Robert Baratheon hassling for her attention.

Benjen's curiosity got the best of him once more. "If you don't mind me asking, why did you come to the tournament? I thought crannogmen didn't leave the Neck."

Howland chuckled, smiling in that all-knowing way. "I thought I might bear witness to a song."

Lyanna's face twisted. Of course the tournament, scheduled for a grand ten days, was rich with singers from every corner of the realm, but...wasn't the point of tourneys to feast your eyes upon the jousting, the warriors, the violent bloodshed? Who wanted to listen to some boring song that could be heard just the same at any tavern from here to Mole's Town?

"What song do you speak of?" She found herself asking, curious of the Lord of Greywater Watch.

He glanced at her, studying her face in a way that a king would assess his knight. "It's an ancient song, older than words themselves. A song that represents the Eternal Summer." His face broke out in a soft smile. "The song of ice and fire."

Chapter 4: Steel Wishes and Promises of the Mouth

Notes:

Lyanna: 15 years old
Rhaegar: 21 years old
Elia: 23 years old

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

Chapter Text

Lyanna frowned, watching Robert Baratheon holler and cheer as his friends encouraged horns of ale into his hands. He'd tossed at least a dozen back, and yet the man was still standing, an unmovable mountain in the sway of drink. She'd been made to dance with him twice over the course of the evening, and at least three times, she'd had to twist out of his far too comfortable grasp.

At his table, Robert's large hands playfully reached for the serving wench's waist, pulling her against him. The girl giggled, eyes glossy with lust as he pressed a sloppy kiss to her neck. Lyanna wondered if he would fuck the girl against the wall outside, or if he would have the decency to take her back to his tent.

Ned fidgeted uncomfortably beside her, every bit a spectator to his friend's debauchery. Lyanna could have laughed at the situation if it weren't so glaringly tragic that this would be her life at Storm's End - a drunk, incapable husband with hands that were always reaching, whether it be for her, a whore, or a kitchen girl.

"There, that one!" Benjen hissed suddenly, distracting her by pointing out one of the three boys that attacked Howland.

The boy he pointed to was large, soft in the face and body, and sitting with the table of House Frey. She remembered swinging her wooden sword into his belly first, the way he crumpled to the ground in splendid pain. They found the other two quickly after that, one in the service of House Blount and the other for House Haigh.

"You should challenge them in the jousting lists," Benjen suggested to their friend, excitement building at the prospect.

Howland frowned, considering it. Some part of him, where his pride resided, thirsted for revenge, but the more sensible part won out. "I cannot ride a horse with ease, and I've never practiced with a lance. I should not bring shame on my people."

Lyanna gave him a small, sad smile. For one wild moment, she fantasized about donning armor and enlisting as a mystery knight to defend Howland Reed's honor. The image of herself in shining silver, viewed as an equal among greats was almost too good to pass up.

The longer the fantasy played out in her mind, the more Lyanna wondered why not? She could ride, she could joust; all she needed was armor and a different horse.

She tugged at Benjen's collar, leaning in so he and Howland could hear. Then she whispered her idea, the smile on her face growing with every word. Benjen's face was a twin to her own, pure eagerness and exhiliration shining in his grey eyes. Howland was more hesitant, eyeing her strangely.

"My lady-"

"Lyanna," she corrected for the twentieth time.

"Lyanna," Howland amended, "what if you get injured? I couldn't bear it if you were hurt while defending my honor."

Benjen chuckled. "Lyanna won't get hurt. Or lose," he said with complete confidence.

She smirked, imagining herself clad in steel, knocking the knights of Houses Frey, Haigh, and Blount to the dirt. "I need armor," she murmured softly, "and a horse. Not my own."

Benjen's eyes wandered in thought. "We'll scavenge for armor tonight, once everyone's in their cups or passed out in the tents. As for the horse...leave that to me and Howland."

Under the cover of darkness, it was far too easy to thieve from the surrounding House tents. Benjen snagged a rusted helm, a dented but sturdy chestplate, and matching gauntlets. Howland had managed to find a plain wooden shield not yet emblazoned, and a hauberk that would hang from her shoulders to her knees. Lyanna found the rest.

They shut themselves in Lyanna's tent afterward, both boys assisting her in trying on the armor. The chestplate was far too large on her, and the mail could possibly hinder her seat on the horse, but the steel would work. And that's all that mattered.

Benjen brought her looking glass over. "Wow," Lyanna breathed. Each piece of armor was mismatched, a different shade of silver or grey than the next, but the effect of seeing herself in true steel was enough to take her breath away.

"A true knight," Benjen announced, bowing deeply like a fool.

She laughed, glancing at Howland. "I'll need a favor to win," she japed.

But Howland just nodded seriously, reaching into the pocket of the pants he borrowed from Benjen. In his hand was one of the bronze scales that had been sewn into the shirt he arrived with, a shiny triangle dangling from a piece of thread. Howland reached forward, tying it securely to the wrist of her gauntlet.

"There you are, Ser Lyanna. A favor from the Neck."

Benjen smiled. "You won't find anything luckier than a crannogmen's token," he promised.

She grinned, all teeth and no mirth. Fire filled her, licking at her veins, and she already wished for the morrow - for the next day would see if Houses Blount, Frey, and Haigh would be advancing past their first matches. And if so, she would ride against them.

And win.

Elia Martell had skin like copper, with eyes as deep and lovely as liquid onyx, and curly hair just as dark. She was a sweet girl, the Dornish princess, with kind words and a glistening smile.

"Will you sign up in the lists, my prince?" She wondered, looking into his eyes as they danced together. Beneath Rhaegar's hand, her ribs were as sharp as knives.

"I plan to," he admitted. His famed black armor had been packed along, and polished by his squire to a brilliance so that it gleamed like dragonglass.

She smiled, soft and gentle. "You will win," she assured him, squeezing his shoulder. Her skin held the notes of Dornish spices and sour oranges, and her Southern dress swished against him.

Rhaegar chuckled. "That is kind of you to say, my lady, but there are many great jousters here. Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan, the Young Lion..."

"And they all pale in comparison to the Dragon Prince," she retorted, something akin to desire shining in her black eyes.

Rhaegar admired her lovely face, imagining Elia Martell as a Targaryen princess. She would be a kind wife, regal and gracious, a true benefit to the royal family. She would love him, that much was certain - what with how she insisted on pressing her chest to his, and looked up at him with the utmost of adoration.

It didn't matter if he would love her; he'd been brought up knowing his marriage would be politically-geared, and he would have no issue wedding her...if it weren't for the fact that she felt so entirely fragile in his hands. Her bones were protruding, the skin stretched thinly over them as they jutted at sharp angles. There were purple crescent moons beneath her eyes, and many whispered of the princess' health.

Elia was certainly old enough to marry, two years older than even him; she was a woman, of an age to bear children, but could her body handle pregnancy? Could it handle three like Rhaegar needed?

He felt a press of guilt slice through his stomach. He hated to think of his future wife like that, in numbers and fertility, but the prophecy demanded it. Mayhaps if he was lucky, he would be blessed with both the children he needed and fondness that so few marriages reaped.

When their dance ended, Rhaegar bowed and kissed her knuckles, stepping away. Elia's shimmering golden gown did beautiful things in the candlelight, and her smile was gentle.

"My prince," she said, "I feel I must retire for the night. Perhaps," she looked down at her feet demurely, before glancing back up, "you could escort me to my room." As Dornish royalty, Elia and her brother, Oberyn, were afforded rooms inside the castle rather than in the tents.

Rhaegar offered her his arm immediately. "Certainly, Princess."

They walked arm in arm from the dining hall, Ser Arthur trailing silently and subtly behind, to the main part of the castle that housed select tourney guests. The corridors were long and dark, and the Dornish princess took that opportunity to hold tighter to the prince's arm. When they arrived at her room, Rhaegar made to step back, but Elia urged him closer.

With both hands laying softly upon his cheeks, she stood on her toes and brushed a light, barely there kiss to his lips. Surprise flitted through him, rendering him momentarily speechless. Elia grinned. "Good night, Your Highness."

And then she was slipping through her door, gone.

Notes:

For Lyanna/Rhaegar shippers, do not fret. Elia and Rhaegar will not be a huge portion of this story, just a mild flirtation at the beginning.

Chapter 5: Three Times the Victor

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The air shimmered with anticipation as the mystery knight rode out onto the grounds, his image one that warranted both wariness and excitement for the commons and nobility alike.

The knight wore a patchwork of ill-matched armor, no two pieces forged of the same steel, that sagged crudely over his slight frame. On his arm was a freshly-painted shield, bright with the image of a red-and-white weirwood, its face curved with bleeding laughter.

With a chipped lance, the knight boldly pointed to three champion knights: those of Houses Frey, Haigh, and Blount. Cheers rang sharp in the stands, the people hungry for the mystery knight's challenge.

Rhaegar sat up straight, leaning forward with a small bit of eagerness. The mismatched armor of the mystery knight hardly put him off; if anything, it seemed a deliberate move on the knight's part.

He contemplated who was underneath: surely not the slight but strong Ser Jaime Lannister, as his cruel mockery of an induction to the Kingsguard was committed yesterday evening, and he'd been promptly sent to King's Landing afterward.

Perhaps it is some lord's third son, Rhaegar thought as the knight kicked his heels into the horse, urging it to the end of the tilt.

At Rhaegar's side, the king was bending his nails into the arms of his chair, eyes wide and wild with distrust. His mouth moved quickly and quietly, muttering dark words to himself.

The flag was waved and the knights rode at each other, dust flying up from the ground in plumes of red-brown. The tip of the mystery knight's lance forced its way into Ser Frey's chest, sending him flying backward in a swift moment.

The stands were grumbling unhappily. That match had been almost too easy to garner true applause, the knight of Frey an easily proved weak opponent.

When the Frey horse was brought forth for ransom, however, the stands hushed, the mystery knight's given moniker dying on their lips: the Knight of the Laughing Tree.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree cleared his throat, affecting his voice in a parody of deep tones and announced, "I do not want your ransom. All I ask is that you teach your squire honor!"

Ser Frey frowned in distaste, but he took his horse all the same, rounding on his frightened, beady-eyed squire.

The match against Ser Haigh was largely the same, although the Knight of the Laughing Tree broke three lances against him before Ser Haigh finally fell. When presented with his ransom, the Knight of the Laughing Tree declined once more, requesting only that he teach his squire honor.

Aerys was murmuring loudly now, speaking of treason and plots and laughing red eyes. His mouth was pinched in anger, hands shaking violently as the Knight of the Laughing Tree readied himself to go against his final challenge, Ser Blount.

The lords and ladies in attendance were itching in anticipation as they kept their eyes upon the mystery knight. Rhaegar frowned doubtfully.

Ser Blount was of an impressive size, at least six feet tall and large in the shoulders and stomach. His armor was made to fit, to protect, and would serve him all the better for it.

Next to him, the Knight of the Laughing Tree looked concerningly small, an imp amongst giants. They bowed before the royal box, then galloped their separate ways, each readying themselves at their respective tilt ends.

The flag waved, and the knights approached each other in a speed of dust, the Knight of the Laughing Tree's lance skimming off the expanse of Ser Blount's chest. King Aerys chuckled hysterically.

The knights went back to their ends, waiting for the signal. This time, the Laughing Tree knight was half a heartbeat slower in thrusting his lance forward, and paid for it dearly when Ser Blount's lance swayed downward and slammed firmly into the ribs of the mystery knight, the lance shattering in a rain of wooden shards from the force of impact.

A gasp sounded out from the audience, followed then by wild cheers when the Knight of the Laughing Tree remained seated on his horse, though now considerably less straight. He trotted to his end of the tilt yard, slipping into position, as Blount was given a new lance.

This time when the flag was waved, the mystery knight surged forth on his horse, thighs tight around its body as they approached Ser Blount. The hooves were as loud as thunder, and when the Knight of the Laughing Tree guided his lance into the chest plate of his opponent, he emerged victorious.

Ser Blount lay in the dirt, red marring the shining silver of his armor. The Knight of the Laughing Tree hunched over painfully on his horse as he took his victory lap, coming to a stop in front of the royal box. Aerys shot to his feet, face set into a glare.

"Will you show your face, mystery knight, so that the realm may witness your victory and ransom?" Aerys asked, lips sneering over every word. His yellowed hands gripped the railing with startling force, vibrating with his fury.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree shook his head, refusing to remove his helm. His shield seemed to be staring up at them, laughing, laughing, laughing.

When he spoke, his voice was far less affected, tinged with higher notes than his previous baritone that echoed through the steel. "I only ask that Ser Blount teach his squire honor."

Then the mystery knight bowed, shield smiling, and rode off from sight. Aerys' hand shot out and gripped Rhaegar's forearm with surprising force.

"Bring me that knight, or I will burn this place to the ground," he hissed. "Now!"

Rhaegar blinked, his heart rate spiking. He nodded, bowing, motioning for Arthur and Oswell to follow him. They retreated from the stands, quickly approaching the stables. The stableboy, upon seeing them, immediately brought out their horses.

"Have you seen a knight?" Rhaegar asked the boy, suddenly feeling stupid. "On a white horse, in mismatched armor," he clarified.

The boy, whose face had been crumpled in confusion, beamed in recognition. "He was riding toward the godswood, Your Highness."

Rhaegar and the two Kingguards jumped atop their horses, flying hard toward Harrenhal's godswood. It was a largely unused placed, as the Seven were worshipped in the South, but Rhaegar was unsurprised, remembering the joyful face of the weirwood painted upon the knight's shield.

They rode quickly through the trees, eyes keen on their surroundings for a flash of silver or a blur of white horse. They rode hard for nearly twenty minutes, their search fruitless, and stopped at Harrenhal's heart tree. Its ghastly face was a sneering echo of Rhaegar's father, eyes rimmed in red just the same.

Rhaegar dismounted, Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell following his example. Rhaegar approached the heart tree, laying his hand flat upon its face. Come on, old gods, he thought, deliver me this knight to appease my mad father.

He sighed, knowing the old gods were as likely to answer his prayers as dragons were likely to come back from the dead, and walked back over to his horse. He opened his mouth to tell his Kingsguards to go back to the castle when the small thunder of another horse's galloping filled the silence.

Rhaegar looked around wildly, searching for the culprit, when a white horse burst into view. Atop it was a knight, bearing the weight of mismatched, ill-fitting armor.

Suddenly, the Knight of the Laughing Tree jumped down from his still-galloping horse clumsily - a stark contrast to the showing of his superior riding skills earlier - and fell to his hands and knees before the heart tree.

The knight violently ripped off his helm, a shower of dark hair falling over his shoulders as he threw the helm a distance away. It took one long moment for Rhaegar to see that the knight was no small man. Or a man at all.

It was Lady Lyanna of House Stark, the very one Rhaegar had seen riding into Harrenhal's Keep the afternoon before the tourney, with her pale thighs straddling a magnificent black destrier.

She was gasping for air beneath the heart tree, moaning in pain, prompting to Rhaegar the memory of Ser Blount's lance shattering against the Knight of the Laughing Tree's ribs.

"My lady," he said, starting forward.

Her silver-grey eyes flashed up and she breathed in a strangled gasp. "Fuck."

Notes:

I changed the timeline of when Aerys tells Rhaegar to go find the knight so that Rhaegar, Ser Arthur, and Ser Oswell could find her still in her armor.

Chapter 6: A Lady's Secret and a Prince's Honor

Chapter Text

Lyanna Stark cursed, swaying like grass in the wind as she climbed to her feet. One gloved hand sought out the heart tree for support, but Rhaegar could clearly see her arm shaking. Whether it was in pain or fear, he didn't know.

His eyes shifted down to the shield that lay in the grass, glaring evidence against her. Its front was painted a soft grey, the weirwood stark white and topped with bleeding leaves, and a joyful red smile.

Lyanna spared her shield a glance, internally cursing the old gods for allowing this ill luck to befall her. Why was a stupid Southron prince in the godswood anyhow?

"So," Rhaegar intoned, watching her try to pull her height taller, "you are the avenging mystery knight."

Her jaw worked, grey eyes swirling with apprehension and the kind of fear akin to an animal caught in a trap. She swallowed audibly, her throat contracting, but she made no move to reply, no move to dignify his statement.

"My father - the king - has found himself quite wary of this Knight of the Laughing Tree." Rhaegar threw a pointed look to her weirwood shield. "He's ordered me to find this knight, and bring him to await the king's justice."

At that, Lyanna's eyes finally widened. So quickly Rhaegar had no time to react, she bent over and unsheathed a glinting sword from her boot. Arm outstretched, she held it protectively in front of her, its blade staring Rhaegar in the face.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she growled, eyes intense, yet glazed.

Although she was still a stone's throw away from him, Ser Arthur and Oswell started forward. Rhaegar held a hand up, signifying their halt.

"My lady, you may put your sword down," he said.

Her mouth twisted sardonically. "You think me so stupid? If I put this sword down, I'm as good as dead."

He tilted his head, curious. "How so?"

She snorted, wholly unladylike and wholly amused. "I've heard what your father does to those he deems traitor," she spat. Rhaegar stilled. "You think the entire realm doesn't know how mad the king is? You thought it was a secret? If so, you're dumber than you look."

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, her words ringing true. He had assumed the realm was still blind to his father's increasingly disturbed nature, with only the Kingsguards and Court privy to such knowledge. He'd figured that he had more than enough time to remove him as king before the kingdoms learned about Aerys' fire obsession and his neverending cruel streak.

Sensing his hesitation, Lyanna continued. "You cannot fool me, Prince. Your father is a madman, and you are his spawn!"

Rhaegar sniffed once, meeting her eyes. "I am not my father," he declared, overcome with the inexplicable need to distance himself from any talk of the Mad King.

She laughed, short and horrible like the crack of a whip against bare skin. "All dragons are the same," she hissed. "You're just prettier to look at."

He knew better than to be flattered by the words coated with venom. Her entire form was vibrating in passionate anger, face flushed with the exertion of her declarations. At the corner of her mouth, a thin stream of blood was dripping down her pale skin, a startling mirror image to the heart tree at her back, both faces contorted in a hateful sneer.

"Despite what you may think," he maintained, "I am not my father. And I do not intend to take you to him."

Her eyes slitted suspiciously. "Why should I believe that?" She challenged him.

"You don't have to believe me," he conceded eventually. "Either way, I will not take you to him. I don't particularly relish in feeding my father's...nature."

Her lips parted, part in relief, part in aiding her heavy breathing. "You'll let me go then?" She spared the two Kingsguards at his back a quick glance. "Truly?"

Rhaeger nodded. "On my honor as a Targaryen, I swear you can go." She scoffed, showing just how much those words meant to her. "However, my lady, I think you'll find it hard to venture back to the castle on your own. Unless, you intend to walk the entire way..."

Her face froze and she whipped around, searching for the white beast that had run off as soon as she had jumped from its saddle. All she found were trees, the prince, his Kingsguards, and their three horses.

Her heart sank and she felt like screaming. "Well," she muttered.

Rhaegar studied her, realizing with a start just how lovely she was, even under the sheen of sweat and blood and visage of skepticism. She was a wolf aflame, a dark reincarnation of Queen Visenya herself, clad in junky armor and wielding a castle-forged sword.

"You may ride back with us, my lady, and I swear no harm will come to you."

Lyanna's face was crumpled with indecision, brain and heart warring. She looked out into the thick of the godswood, wondering if she could make the ten-mile trek back to the castle. At that train of thought, her ribs pulsed in horrific pain once more, a reminder of Ser Blount's ferocity in their match.

She fell back against the heart tree, groaning in agony. Rhaegar began to approach, but stopped when her eyes flashed up in a warning.

"My lady-"

"Lyanna," she hissed instantly, an old habit from childhood.

Rhaegar's purple eyes softened infinitesimally. "Lyanna, may I see your wound?"

She reared back, head knocking into the tree's trunk. "You may not!" She exclaimed hotly. "I'm not some capital whore you can put your hands on in exchange for a pretty smile."

That was the second backhanded compliment he'd received in a matter of minutes, but he pressed on. "I do not intend to dishonor you," he assured her, "I only wish to ensure your ribs aren't broken before you get on a horse."

"How would you know anything about that?" She countered.

"I've studied healing," he said. "Among many things. I will be able to tell."

Her jaw was jutted out in childlike defiance, and her eyes were glossed over in pain, but she eventually gave him a small, short nod, looking like she wished to be anywhere but in the godswood with him. He approached her slowly, signalling for Arthur and Oswell to follow.

Rhaegar and Arthur made quick work of dismantling the medley of steel armor, while Oswell made trips to and fro to hide each piece amongst the trees. When each curve of steel was stripped and hidden, Lyanna was left only in a pair of boy's breeches and a sweat-soaked tunic.

She eyed Rhaegar warily as he approached her, sliding her back down the length of the weirwood's trunk, before plopping down at its roots.

With shaking hands, she peeled the hem of her tunic up just enough to reveal where the lance had connected with her body. Rhaegar knelt before her. Her ribs were stained a myriad of colors - yellow, blue, brown, and purple. The bruise from the impact was an angry, massive thing, spanning over the expanse from her ribs to her hip.

Rhaegar prodded the ridges of her ribcage gently, her skin achingly smooth beneath his touch. The bones were even and curved, nothing seeming out of sort.

"Nothing seems to be broken," he told her, looking up. Her face was mere inches from his, and in the proximity, he noticed that her eyes were more silver than grey after all. "You'll need to be careful not to furthur damage them, but your ribs are only bruised."

She cleared her throat uncomfortably, and pushed her shirt back down, before climbing awkwardly to her feet. Her shield still lay in the grass, its face laughing to the sky. She picked it up, running a finger over its front, sighing.

"I'll take that to my father." He reached for it.

Her eyes flashed up in alarm, and she hugged the shield tighter to her chest. "Why?"

"It will serve as evidence that I searched for the mystery knight." He gently pried it from her hold. "I'll tell him I found no other trace." He walked over to his horse and tied the shield to its hip.

She drifted over, eyes switching from Rhaegar to Arthur to Oswell. "Who will I ride with?" Her voice was almost void of emotion, save for the tiny sliver of indignation at having to share a horse.

"With me, my lady," Rhaegar said, stepping back to assist her.

"Lyanna," she corrected him immediately, weary and tired. She wanted to brush his hands away, but her ribs were aching something fierce, and even lifting her leg was largely painful.

Once she was securely straddling the horse, Rhaegar jumped on behind her. Almost instinctively, his hands sought out her hips and pulled her against him in the saddle. Although far too close for comfort with his chest pressed firmly into her back and his thighs warm around hers, she grudgingly accepted that it was preferable to falling from the horse and actually breaking something this time.

Rhaegar kicked his heels into the horse and they bolted off. Her hair was a shining brown banner, and though the wind whipped his face, his nose was burning with the smell of winter.

Chapter 7: A Dance of Pride

Chapter Text

The breeze soothed Elia's skin like a lover's caress, smooth and soft and sensual. Her eyes immediately sought out Prince Rhaegar.

He stood tall, like some angel warrior, on the dusty grounds of the tilt yard, donning the gleaming black armor he was famous for. Across the chest plate, the three-headed dragon of his House was wrought in shimmering rubies. With his helm tucked beneath his arm, and his pale hair shining like silver against the black steel of his armor, he was a magnificent sight to behold.

And next to him, no one else could compare.

"Wow," her friend, Ashara Dayne, blurted next to her. "Look at him."

"The prince?" Elia furrowed her brows. "Your brother is his Kingsguard. Haven't you seen him before?"

Ashara rolled her eyes. "Not Prince Rhaegar. Him!" And then she pointed a thin finger a few spaces down from Rhaegar, where a tall, pale man stood, bulked in silver armor whose front was embossed with a snarling direwolf.

"That's Brandon Stark," her brother, Oberyn, cut in. "And he's already promised to another. Her." He jerked his head up, looking to where two girls sat several rows above them. "The prettier one," he clarified.

The girl was pretty, with spiraling hair the color of a sunset, pale skin, and mouth like a rose. But she didn't say that aloud, with her lovesick friend sulking beside her.

"Who is she?" Ashara wondered, dark purple eyes narrowing.

"Catelyn Tully," Oberyn replied, amused.

Elia gave her friend a sad smile. Lady Catelyn Tully was one of the prettiest girls she'd ever seen, and to make matters worse, she was the daughter of a Great House, probably stocked with a dowry so fine even the prince would profit from an alliance.

Ashara rolled her eyes again, though this time the disappointment was palpable, and turned back in her seat to admire Brandon Stark. He was a handsome man, admittedly, with shaggy brown hair and a face that was slanted with mischief. Then again, it was always surprising to any Southerner to see something pretty come out of the harsh North.

Elia's eyes drifted back to Rhaegar as the trumpets called. The previous day's champions drifted into view, but where there should have been three, only two stepped forth.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree was conspicuously missing, and there was a collective groan from the crowd as he missed the second trumpet call.

Elia had enjoyed the mystery knight, even in his mismatched armor and honor-bound ways. She found herself sighing along. The king was on his feet, eyes wide and twitching, when it was announced the Knight of the Laughing Tree had not come to defend his victories.

"This craven does not wish to show himself?" The king barked, silencing the stands. A stout bald man drifted forward, whispering in the king's ear until he calmed and returned to his seat.

The stands began to talk once more, hesitant at first, then growing in volume. Elia looked back at the prince, but found his eyes elsewhere, at a point above her head and to the right somewhat.

She turned and saw that he was staring where Lady Catelyn and her homely sister were sat, though now the two Tully girls were accompanied by four other bodies.

Beside Catelyn was a man that looked much like Brandon Stark, though shorter, more solemn somehow. Next to him was a small man, thin in the extreme, with sandy brown hair and eyes so bright, Elia could see the green even from afar.

The last two were leaning together, whispering furiously to one another. The boy was young, fifteen at the most, and the girl probably not much older. They both had dark hair, but where the boy's was cut above his shoulders, the girl's hair was long and messy.

She was pretty, Elia had to admit, possessing a wild sort of beauty that was rare to appear - pale skin and dark hair, red lips and steel eyes. She was slender, but young, much younger than Elia, who was twenty-three and a woman grown.

She wondered which of the girls the prince had been staring at.

"Did you give the prince your favor?" Ashara whispered in her ear, twining their arms.

Elia shook her head sadly. "He did not ask for it." But perhaps, she thought to herself, it wouldn't be seemly for a prince to show favoritism when still unmarried.

"I heard this tourney was a ploy for Rhaegar to find a bride," Ashara said quietly, eyes still fixed on Brandon Stark, who was readying himself for his match.

Elia had heard the same, but in its place a dozen more reasons: the Whents wanted to boast their wealth, Rhaegar wanted to meet with the high lords, the prince needed a princess. She was unsure about any of them, except for one.

If the prince needed a bride, who better than a woman that was a princess already in her own right?

Robert grinned, throwing back his wine, as Lyanna walked into the dining hall that night on the arm of her youngest brother, Benjen.

She was staggeringly beautiful in her long gown, a lovely thing of black summer silk whose bodice was chased with silver filigree. The neckline was low enough to bare the swell of her cleavage, and it hugged the deep curve of her waist so that every man, woman, and child could see she was on the cusp of womanhood.

Benjen led her to her seat, right next to Robert. He smiled upon her, taken aback by her wild beauty, all dark colors and pale milkglass skin and ruby red lips stained with wine.

"You look pretty," he told her as she slipped into her seat, grimacing the whole time.

"Thank you," she murmured, adding, "my lord."

The meal was blackened rabbit cooked in a broth of butter and mushrooms, with bowls of fresh vegetables and fruits. Platters of lemon cakes came after, and Robert was stuffed.

Richard Lonmouth drifted over, challenging Robert to a drinking match. Robert laughed, eyeing Lyanna who was deep into her own wine and whispers with her brother and Howland Reed.

Ser Lonmouth was going on and on about the Knight of the Laughing Tree, how the knight was a coward and a craven and not half as good as he thought he was.

Robert bellowed, "Hear, hear!" He slammed his cup on the table twice, grinning. "I'll unmask the Knight of the Laughing Tree before the tourney is over!"

Robert hadn't noticed the king's attention until the man was standing, face distraught and disturbed. He was wearing robes of crimson that fell off his body unnaturally, like cloth over bones.

"Hear me," the king roared, "any man who brings me this mystery knight who bears the sigil of a laughing tree will earn a royal award. Landships and gold beyond your dreams. I declare the Knight of the Laughing Tree a traitor to the realm and the crown!"

The room erupted in cheers and uneasy laughs, Robert's among them. He'd only wished for competition, for glory, not to irritate the Mad King.

The king fell back to his chair awkwardly and motioned for his wine goblet to be tasted by the thin man at his left. Robert found himself wondering for the first time ever, what it was about dragon's blood that crazed men so.

Lyanna drank her wine greedily, happy for the moment that it had dulled the pain in her ribs and dulled her dislike for Robert Baratheon.

What it hadn't done was dull her shock at the king's reaction to the mystery knight. Her skin was flushed cold by the time his screeching was over, and the word traitor echoed through her mind again and again and again.

Catelyn Tully and her sister, Lysa, were also sitting with them that night. Brandon was still sulky from his loss against the prince in the joust, but he was charming enough with Catelyn, making her smile, making her blush, making her giggle. She was the epitome of a lady, and her sister couldn't stop glaring.

That is, until Lysa's attention was pulled elsewhere.

"He's so handsome," Lysa sighed. Their dinner plates were being taken away, and musicians were setting up their instruments in the corners.

"Who?" Robert asked with a laugh. "I'm sitting right here."

Lyanna snorted, but Lysa scowled. "Prince Rhaegar of course."

Everyone at the Stark table looked at the Targaryen prince. He was sat with his father on the dais, speaking to the Kingsguard that had hidden her armor in the forest. Oswell, she thought she remembered the prince calling him.

Brandon scoffed. "Yeah, he's alright. If you like that whole silver hair, purple-eyed prince thing."

Lysa arched one brow and laughed incredulously. "And all girls do," she promised. Even Catelyn blushed, though she hid it well from her betrothed.

"Not all girls," Brandon countered, turning to his sister. "Lya, what do you think about the prince?"

Her entire table was staring at her, expectant, but Benjen and Howland looked uncomfortable, knowing just how acquainted she was with the crown prince.

"Oh, shut up," she snapped. "You're just sore because you lost today."

Brandon grimaced. "And you're just angry that you're not allowed to joust!"

Lyanna smirked, knowing just how wrong her oldest brother was. Benjen even chuckled behind a hand.

"He's coming over here!" Lysa hissed suddenly, hurriedly.

Lyanna glanced up, met with the image of an approaching Prince Rhaegar.

"What the-" Robert muttered into his cup.

Rhaegar stopped before her, standing with a jut to his hips so that the pommel of his sword thrusted forward from its scabbard. He was tall, taller even than she remembered, so that to look in his eyes she had to crane her neck. Silver strands clashed against the deep sheen of his long-sleeved black leather doublet, one side of the collar folded over his chest and embroidered in red a swirling sigil of a three-headed dragon.

"My lady," he said expectantly, voice rolling over the words like silk, "would you dance with me?"

She had to physically grind her teeth together to keep from snapping at him like she wanted. How dare he approach her in front of her brothers, her peers?

Lyanna fought the urge to decline, sensing her brothers and the Tully girls and Robert and Howland awaiting her reply.

"Of course," she accepted with gritted teeth. She stood, scowling in pain, a look that the prince noticed. He took her hand, folding it fully into his own, and led her out onto the floor.

She dutifully molded her fingers against his shoulder, jamming the tips hard into his leather doublet. But where she was harsh, Rhaegar was soft, wrapping his arm gently around her hurt ribs so that she was pulled close against his chest.

They began to dance, and Rhaegar wilted his torso over hers so that he could murmur in her ear.

"Does anyone else know that you're the mystery knight?" He asked, pulling back just enough so that he could see her reaction.

"My little brother," she answered quietly. "And Howland Reed."

"And they won't let it slip?"

She shook her head. "They're loyal to me."

Rhaegar leaned back into her, his chin swiping across her hair. "May I ask why Robert Baratheon is glaring at us? Well," he amended, "at me, more specifically."

Lyanna stilled momentarily, tucking her head against his collarbone. "He's probably jealous. My lord father plans to marry us."

Rhaegar's brows rose. "You are betrothed?"

"No," she replied immediately. "My father offered my hand to Lord Robert though, and he will accompany us back to Winterfell to accept."

The prince hummed in acknowledgement, trying to imagine the pretty Northern girl with the Stormlord. Somehow he couldn't.

"How are your ribs?" He asked instead.

"Fine," she answered primly.

Rhaegar chuckled. "It is considered treason to lie to your prince."

He could feel the fire racing through her as she snapped, "You are not my anything!" Then she lowered her voice. "And my ribs feel fine."

He tightened his hold on her briefly, just enough so that she flinched in his arms. "That's what I thought," he sighed. "How much pain are you in?"

She was quiet for so long, Rhaegar thought she would just ignore him. Until finally, she spoke, voice low and full of hurt pride. "A tremendous amount."

"I can get you milk of the poppy."

"No," she declined, "milk of the poppy makes me act strange, and my brothers would notice. I can't have Ned and Brandon asking questions."

"You'll just suffer then?"

"Yes," she said simply.

Rhaegar admired her in that moment, a small flame of a girl willing to bear horrid pain to keep her own glorious victories a secret. Then a thought came to him, one he had been mulling over since he discovered her.

"Why did you do it?" He asked. "Compete against those knights only to demand they teach their squires honor?"

She sniffed, a nerve having been touched. "I found the three squires beating up a friend of mine, my father's bannerman, Howland Reed. He was defenseless and small and the fight was outmatched. Howland can't ride a horse, nor joust, so I defended his honor for him."

Something foreign and sharp suddenly filled Rhaegar's heart, and he smiled softly, pulling her closer by accident. Holding her against his chest, with the scent of winter invading his senses, he could almost forget that his father was mad for blood and soon a prince would don a king's crown.

Chapter 8: Ice and Fire

Chapter Text

Twilight settled over the tourney grounds like a pastel blanket, the sky stained lilac and pale pink and periwinkle and deep purple like some lovely pulsing bruise. The towers of Harrenhal reached into the sky like a multitude of black candles that had been used time and time again, left only as thin sticks of melted wax.

Lyanna walked around the castle grounds alone, having skipped watching the jousts for the day. After her brief dance with the prince at the feast the night before, it was all Lyanna could do to stay away from Robert Baratheon.

He'd been seething by the time she sat back down in her seat, face red and angry and the epitome of his House words, "Ours is the fury." He was a jealous, lecherous fool who had a hard time keeping his mouth shut and eyes down.

He got raging drunk, followed them back to the Stark encampment, and proceeded to rage for hours about Targaryens and silver sisterfuckers. It didn't help that Brandon had pointed out that Rhaegar had no sister to fuck.

So Lyanna holed up in her tent, didn't rouse when Benjen came to wake her for the beginning of the jousting, and played the ghost of Harrenhal for the rest of the day. It was quite nice, in all honesty, discovering the dark nooks of the haunted castle, running her hands over the blackened stone.

Eventually, she ventured into the godswood to find the heart tree, as if she was pulled there by some old force. She prayed for the old gods to send her a sign, send her something, to give her hope for her future. Anything.

Afterward, she'd gone hunting for the pieces to her armor, but Ser Oswell the Kingsguard had hid them too well and Lyanna wasn't able to climb high enough into the trees. Her ribs still ached like they were being battered every moment of every day. She almost wished she'd taken the prince up on his offer of milk of the poppy.

Night gathered and she left the godswood, her stomach empty but full somehow. She walked past the encampments, past the curve of the castle's curtain walls, and over to where the mummers and singers had set up their tents and pavilions. They were bright silks, oranges and yellows and greens, and the air was sweet with music and laughter.

With the knowledge that her brothers were surely occupied at the feast within the castle's dining hall, Lyanna walked closer to the singers, who warbled filthy lyrics between their cups of ale. She smiled, walking past a particularly rowdy group, before she stopped, a chill curling up her spine.

Her eyes were stuck on a small tent, hardly any taller than Lyanna herself, made of plain black material that billowed hard in the night wind. The sight of it amid the bright colors of the other tents made her uneasy, like a lone demon out in the world.

A cold hand caught her elbow, and Lyanna whirled. A hunched woman smiled up at her, her mouth toothless and gummy, and her skin powdered and sagging. The woman wore a large robe of black atop her short frame, and kept the hood pulled over her dull red hair.

"Want to hear your fortune, girl?" The woman sneered, pale yellow eyes dancing.

Lyanna scowled, shaking her arm free. "No, thank you." She turned to leave.

"I can give you the answer you seek - the answer to the question you gave your old gods just this morning."

Lyanna bristled, looking back over her shoulder. "How do you know I prayed this morning? Did you...did you follow me?!"

The woman chuckled darkly. "I did not follow you, lovely girl." Lyanna froze. "I am Maggy the Frog of Lannisport, and I know things. I know that you fear your betrothal to the Stormlord, that you fear he will be a poor husband."

Lyanna's eyes widened and her breath came shallow. How could she knows these details, this perfect stranger...everything the woman said Lyanna had felt in her heart at one point. In the godswood, she'd prayed to the heart tree about Robert. If the crone wasn't lying about following her, then what kind of dark magic did she possess?

In her silence, Maggy the Frog persisted. "I can give you the answers you seek," she repeated, "follow me to my tent and you will know."

Despite her will to run away, to slap on a dress and feast with her brothers instead, she walked behind the woman, one foot in front of the other until they slithered through the small flaps of the lone black tent.

Inside, candles blazed, tall new ones with flames that were as big as Lyanna's arms. A small circular table sat at the center, and a dirty cot was pushed off to the side. It smelled heavily of spices and smokes and something foreign, something primal and foreboding.

"Sit," Maggy commanded, pointing to one of the two chairs at her table. Lyanna sat, shivering despite the warmth.

Maggy busied herself, throwing a cloth over her bed, filling a cup with wine for herself, grabbing something wrapped in black silk. She brought it to the table, sitting before she unwrapped it. Inside lay a sharp, glinting needle.

"Prick your finger with that," Maggy told her.

Lyanna laughed breathlessly. "Are you kidding me? That'll take my finger clean off!"

Maggy snorted, pulling back her hood to reveal a mostly bald head with a few scrags of red hair. "It won't."

Despite her reservation, Lyanna took the needle in hand, swallowing back fear, and touched the point of it to one finger. Dark blood welled immediately, but before it had time to drip, Maggy grabbed her wrist and brought Lyanna's bleeding finger into her mouth.

Lyanna sat in shock as Maggy sucked at her fingertip, whose face was screwed up in concentration before she let it go with a distinct "pop." When the woman opened her eyes, Lyanna reared back; where Maggy once had two pale yellow orbs set into her sockets, now there were only gaping black holes like misshapen onyx gems.

"Wha-" Lyanna whispered in horror.

But then Maggy began to speak, her voice cold and deep like the crashing of boulders. "Lyanna of House Stark." Lyanna froze, remembering she had never divulged her name to the woman. "You wish to know what will become of your impending marriage."

Lyanna could only sit very, very still. Outside, the wind was howling something fierce like a pack of wolves on the prowl, raging and screaming and threatening. The candles' flames seemed to flicker and dance, growing larger and larger until she feared they would burn the tent down.

Maggy continued. "You will despise your husband as you bind your hand to his, with gods and men as your witnesses. Women will spit your name with venom and lust for your husband, even as he vows himself to you.

"The Seven gods of the South will watch as you curse them in their sept, and a grey cloak will be replaced by black."

Yellow and black were the colors of House Baratheon, Lyanna knew - a dark stag prancing across a bright yellow field.

"Your maidenhead will stay intact long after your wedding night," Maggy promised with an emotionless chuckle, "but you will birth children. Three to be exact."

The holes where the woman's eyes once were seemed to glisten, as if wet with blood, glinting like obsidian in the flickering candlelight.

"Your children will be the winged wolves," Maggy kept on, "and as they fly, they will bring about the Eternal Summer that will melt the darkness once and for all."

Lyanna's face furrowed in confusion. Robert was a stag of Storm's End; if anything, her children would be the horned wolves.

"Your husband's parents will hail from conquerors great," Maggy promised, "but you will be loyal to his mother while you curse the father." Lyanna stilled; Robert Baratheon's parents had been dead since he was a child. "And you will only ever go home to Winterfell once more in your life."

The breath left Lyanna's chest instantly; surely Robert Baratheon didn't mean to keep her from her family, from Ned his best friend, forever? She wanted to rage, but her body was so cold, Lyanna wasn't sure if she could walk on her own. What sort of lies did this woman dare poison her with? Who was she to blacken Lyanna's future with a few drops of some spilled blood?

"Your three children will be the greatest that the world has ever seen, your firstborn the Promised One," Maggy rasped, her chest rattling. Lyanna's heart beat furiously, threatening to leave her chest of its own volition. "And their blood will freeze and flame with that of ice and fire."

"Your Highness, would you like to go on a walk?"

Elia Martell was a fragile sort of beauty in a shimmering green gown, the neckline of which plunged deeply below her copper-skinned chest. She bore a lovely smile, that which was directed solely at the Targaryen prince.

Rhaegar smiled up at her, thankful his father was too tired to attend the feast. He had neither the want nor patience to deal with Aerys. "Of course, my lady."

He stood and took her arm, passing Ashara Dayne, Ser Arthur's sister, as she danced with Lyanna Stark's oldest brother. Lady Ashara's face was full of laughter as the Stark boy spun her around and around.

Ser Arthur made to follow him, but Elia put a hand on Rhaegar's arm. "I thought we could be alone." She smiled with false innocence. "It is only a walk, Your Highness, and I don't bite."

Rhaegar allowed a small grin, then shook his head at Arthur - a silent command for privacy.

Alone, Rhaegar and Elia ventured beyond the dining hall and into the castle grounds, aimlessly walking against the strong breeze.

"I must say, my prince, you rode excellently today against Ser Yohn Royce."

"Thank you, my lady," Rhaegar smiled. The next morning would bring about his final matches against Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur.

"I daresay I was correct in predicting your victory," she murmured, like it was a secret between only them.

Chuckling, he said, "Are the Dornish known for their fortune telling?"

Playing along, the corners of her mouth curled upward and her eyes sparkled darkly. "We've been known to tell certain futures."

Rhaegar raised a brow. "Tell me something then about my future. I'd like to test this skill of yours."

Elia smiled wide, tapping her chin in mock thought. "You'll be married of course," she let go of his arm and looked at him over her shoulder, "to a beautiful bride. She'll love you, and bear you a whole army of healthy children."

I don't need an army, he thought to himself as the wind roared against him, I only need three. The dragon must have three heads.

"Your Highness," Elia intoned, turning around so that she faced him. They'd walked aimlessly into some darkened, empty courtyard, a place that even the moon could not find.

"Yes?"

"Why are you not married yet? You're young, a prince, extraordinarily handsome...everything a woman would want."

He raised his brows, surprised by her sudden boldness. "My father has vacillated between choices of my bride for some time now. Only recently has he allowed me the privilege to choose my own."

Elia's lips parted as she stared up at him. "Oh?"

Rhaegar nodded silently, taking a guess as to where this was heading.

"Have you given any thought to whom you might choose?" She asked hopefully.

In truth, he hadn't given it as much thought as he should have. With helping the Stark girl, jousting himself, and planning to meet with the high lords on the morrow, marriage had been the furthest thing from Rhaegar's mind.

But as Elia asked him, an unbidden, brief image flashed in his mind - dark hair, eyes the color of winter's ice, and a temper on fire.

Rhaegar froze. Where had that come from?

Elia touched his arm. "My prince..." She said doubtfully, looking strangely into his eyes.

"Truthfully," he answered, "I haven't given as much thought as I should have to the matter. There's been a lot on my mind."

Elia hummed. "Such is the burden of the Dragon Prince." She pressed her back into the dark stone of one wall, and smirked, crooking one finger at him.

He approached slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "Yes, my lady?"

She twisted her hands into the fabric of his doublet and yanked him against her. "I think I want to feel your lips on mine again."

Rhaegar exhaled nervously. "I believe it was you who kissed me before..."

Desire flared in her dark eyes and she pulled him closer, their bodies fitting together. "Then let me take what I want once more." And she pressed her mouth to his, hot and insistent - all fire, and no ice.

Chapter 9: A Crown of Winter Roses

Chapter Text

Rhaegar's skull was ringing from the force of Ser Arthur's lance, nausea swimming up his throat. The tip of Rhaegar's lance forced the Kingsguard from his horse and the roar of the crowd was deafening.

Rhaegar walked his horse in a victory lap, clutching tightly to its neck. His head swam uneasily, and he blinked his eyes to rid the blurriness. His squire, a hyper young boy from House Velaryon, came running over, grabbing for the helm Rhaegar had yanked off.

The waning afternoon sun nearly blinded him, and he gasped greedily for air. Sweat ran in rivers down his skin, his hair plastered wetly to his neck. Lord Whent waddled over, the crown for his Queen of Love and Beauty in his hands. It was a beautiful thing, a twisted wreath of dark vines with winter roses, blue as frost, braided in.

Rhaegar took it, flinching at the bite of thorns in his palm. Atop his horse, he surveyed the stands, nervous and almost unwilling to choose. He hadn't put any thought into this part, didn't care about the tradition at all really.

If only he was married, Rhaegar could have just handed it off to his wife, as formality dictated. At the bottom of the centermost stand were the Starks, cold and stone-faced, chipped from the ice that sheeted the entirety of the North.

Lyanna Stark sat straight as rod, her expression completely devoid of emotion. She wore a simple dress of grey and white, the Stark colors, and her hair was a wild brown tangle. But it was her face that turned heads and eyes, pale and austere with a full, obscene mouth.

Vivid images flashed unbidden in his mind: Lyanna's ribs painted with brown and yellow bruises, the sneer of her mouth as she unsheathed a sword from her armored boot, small hips pulled tightly against his on the saddle, her chest pressed to his as they danced.

She was brave and bold and larger than life. A slender young girl playing at mystery knight, bold as she challenged three experienced knights, all to defend her victimized friend's honor. Lyanna Stark was a rare breed, the kind of girl that never came around but for once in a lifetime.

She deserved the glory of a tourney victory, to hear the people shout her name as they shouted his. "Prince Rhaegar, the Dragon Prince!" But because his father was mad with paranoia and seethed at the mention of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, she was forced to keep her courage a secret.

And because of that, Rhaegar urged his horse forth, trotting until he stopped before her and her brothers. Only at the last moment did he notice that beside Brandon Stark were two bronze-skinned girls: Ashara Dayne and Elia Martell.

Elia's face was shining with pride and adoration, her dark eyes seeking his. After their brief, but heavy, kiss the night before, Rhaegar knew Elia expected the crown. How could she not? They'd kissed twice, far more than he'd ever done with little Lyanna Stark.

Still, he forced his eyes to the Northern girl. Lyanna's jaw was set in angry defiance, her eyes ablaze. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, practically daring him to gift the crown to someone, anyone else.

And so, from atop his saddle, he leaned forward and gently placed the blue rose crown over her head. Pulling back, he realized it suited her, the frosty-colored roses complementing her Stark coloring.

He nodded his head at her, ignoring the look of pure fury she sent in return, and steered his horse away and off to the stables.

Lyanna shot to her feet, and bounded away. Brandon's shouts and Robert's curses were drowned out by the offers of congratulations as she pushed away from the grounds. She had to shove and sidestep, but she was able to escape from the yard.

Finally free, she wondered how well Brandon could wield a sword against a Southerner. Hopefully damn well, because she'd need a champion for a trial by combat once she murdered the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

How could he? Why did he do it? She seethed, stalking toward the stables. She wanted her horse and she wanted it now. A stableboy lounged against the wall, but popped up as she approached.

"Lyanna Stark," she identified herself. "I need my horse."

The boy raced off and Lyanna paced the dirt, growing angrier by the second. A whinny at her back surprised her, and she whirled, fists clenching. Rhaegar sat like a king atop his destrier, every inch of a lady's dream.

She strode forward and yanked on the reins of his black horse, holding them tight so he'd be forced to answer her questions.

His silver-gold hair was lank with sweat and his eyes, a dreamy shade of indigo like twilight at its deepest point, were glazed. She knew that look, remembered it from when she'd jousted against Ser Blount.

"How could you?" She screeched. The horse nickered angrily.

"Excuse me?" The prince asked politely, dismounting. He took the reins from her hand and gave them to his squire. His squire and horse walked quietly into the stables.

"Why did you do it?" She demanded. "Did you mean to make a fool of me in front of everyone? Is that funny to you?"

Rhaegar clenched his jaw and ground his teeth. He grabbed her elbow and pulled her away, off to the side of the stables where no one was. "What is your problem?"

She wrenched her arm free of his hold. "My problem?" She repeated. "You gave me this ridiculous crown. That's my problem! Here, take it." She tore the crown from her head, its thorns and petals ripping through her hair painfully.

Rhaegar sighed, grimacing. "I gave it to you to have. Not to give away."

"I don't want it. I'm not your little joke to be had."

"It wasn't a joke," he whispered heatedly. "I gave it to you because I admire your courage. I like that you donned steel just to defend your friend's honor. I like that you had enough gall to raise a blade to me. I wanted to name you the Queen of Love and Beauty because you deserve some prize, even if it's not the one you wanted."

Lyanna blinked, never having expected that answer. Though her heart was still pounding and her ire very much alive, she whispered, "You embarrassed me."

"Your Highness!" Rhaegar's squire came bounding around the corner, breathless and red-faced. Ser Barristan Selmy followed, face schooled into an emotionless mask.

"The king requests an audience with you," Ser Barristan said solemnly. "Now."

Rhaegar nodded, looking back at Lyanna briefly, before stalking off. His squire and the Kingsguard followed immediately.

The three gone, Lyanna shrieked in frustration, throwing the rose laurel to the ground. Swiveling on her foot, she stomped away, intending for the Stark encampment.

However, before she could disappear from sight, she stopped, looking over her shoulder. The pretty crown of winter roses lay on the ground, and Lyanna felt suddenly sad. Winter roses grew at Winterfell; they didn't deserve to wilt in the Southern dirt.

She glanced left and right, ensuring no one was watching, and ran over, snatching up her crown before running off.

Ser Gerold Hightower was standing watch as Rhaegar approached his father's chambers, pushing the door open silently so the prince could enter. The king sat at his desk, hunched over sheets of parchment bleeding ink, clutching a quill in his twisted fingers.

"Father," Rhaegar bowed. "You asked for me." The room was cloudy with smoke and the smell of it.

Aerys faced him, a queer smile twisting his mouth. "Congratulations on your victory, son."

Rhaegar balked; he didn't know the last time he'd seen his father smile without genuine malice, couldn't remember when last he'd been called son.

"You will marry that girl," his father declared suddenly, without warning, and turned back to his papers.

Rhaegar frowned, confused. It was like his father was continuing some conversation Rhaegar had not been privy to. "Excuse me?"

"The Stark bitch you crowned," Aerys huffed impatiently.

"Wait," Rhaegar said, stepping closer, his blood pumping fast. "You said I could choose my own bride."

He'd been too preoccupied with other things to properly entertain as a suitor, but who could he have named in that split second his father paused. Elia? He didn't know if her body could produce the children he needed. Cersei Lannister was far too like her scheming father for either Rhaegar or Aerys to agree. Lyanna Stark though...no, no, no.

Aerys sneered terribly, standing from his chair. "Why else would you crown the girl if not for your inclination towards her?"

Rhaegar stilled. He couldn't very well tell his father that he crowned Lyanna Stark for her valor as the Knight of the Laughing Tree - not when Aerys was still sullen over the fact that the mystery knight hadn't been located. Lyanna's painted shield had been fed to the fireplace as soon as Rhaegar had presented it to his father as evidence of his search.

"She's beautiful," Rhaegar offered instead.

"Yes, yes," Aerys drawled mockingly. "Beauty and a tight cunt are all that matter in women. But those Starks, they're planning something in their distant Northern fortress. I can feel it in my bones!"

His father drew in a deep breath to aid his lungs before continuing. "You'll marry her in two months, and then those treasonous Starks may never rise against us. Or else they'll have a dead pup on their hands."

He felt sick. What treason have they committed?! Rhaegar wanted to scream, but he was speechless. Until a thought niggled his brain. "Lady Stark is set to be betrothed to Robert Baratheon. I cannot very well take away my second cousin's intended."

Aerys chuckled. "We'll offer him a better prize in lieu of losing that frozen cunt." He met Rhaegar's eyes, smiling a sad, mocking smile. "I'm sure your dragon's blood will heat her right up."

Rhaegar stood calmly, but inside, there was a storm. The girl had been livid that he'd crowned her as Queen of Love and Beauty. What would she do when he told her she was betrothed to him, no choice in the matter, taken from the very man that was already close to her family? He couldn't even imagine trying to bed her.

One thing was for certain, Lyanna Stark would be furious.

"I leave for King's Landing tonight," Aerys told him, gathering papers. "To begin the preparations for your wedding. You'll bring the girl with you when you leave on the morrow."

"She must go home," Rhaegar insisted. "She has her life to pack up."

"Let her father do it," Aerys said flippantly.

Rhaegar's throat was tight. Everything was happening so fast, so sudden. In only a few hours he was supposed to meet with the high lords to discuss deposing his father. He would lose Storm's End's support, that much was certain; Rhaegar thought of Robert Baratheon's jealous, angry face as he had danced with Lyanna.

He couldn't afford to lose the North's pledge either. Would they be angry as well? Surely a match with a prince was better than a lord, but he was unsure of where their loyalties lay. Certainly with Lyanna.

"You'll announce the union at tonight's feast. I'd do it myself, but I leave within the hour." Aerys pulled on a heavy cloak.

Rhaegar bowed and turned to leave but stopped at the door when his father spoke again.

"Smile, my son, perhaps the she-wolf will birth you an ice dragon."

Chapter 10: A Winter Storm

Notes:

I was asked what I personally think Rhaegar looks like, so I thought I'd share the picture I reference to when writing. This is the Rhaegar Targaryen of "Hell is Empty."

Chapter Text

Elia's heart squeezed painfully, like a sour orange caught in the grasp of an angry giant, clenching until it would burst. A lone, hot tear burned a trail down her cheek, and she flicked it away impatiently.

Ashara Dayne gave her a small, pitious smile, while her brother, Oberyn, looked both unconcerned and ready to raise the ire of Dorne. "The prince is an ugly man anyways," he said suddenly, twirling a dagger between his fingers.

Elia sat at the vanity in her room at Harrenhal, combing her ghost-thin fingers through long black hair. "No, he's not," she sighed.

"No," Oberyn agreed begrudgingly, "he's not."

Elia squeezed her eyes shut, but it did nothing to stave off the images of the afternoon. All she could see was Rhaegar, beautiful and gallant and victorious, urging his horse forth, close close so close to her. And then, at the last moment, his eyes strayed.

To the little Stark girl no less. A pretty thing she was, slim and pale with eyes like smoke. But she was just a girl, a child even! Elia was twenty-three, far past the time to wed, and already a princess. What was it about the Northern lady that caught Rhaegar's eye?

It has to be her name, Elia decided. House Stark was an ancient and powerful house, with the blood of the First Men running through their veins, once the Kings of Winter before they knelt to a Targaryen.

I wonder if little Lyanna Stark has knelt for the prince, Elia thought maliciously. A lewd picture of the Stark girl on her knees for Rhaegar made Elia taste blood.

"You can find someone better," Oberyn promised, "a Dornishman that appreciates your value."

Elia frowned. "I do not want some Dornishman. I want Prince Rhaegar." I was meant for him, I can feel it in my bones.

She stood suddenly from her chair and strode to her trunk where dozens of thin silk dresses lay pretty and waiting. She rummaged through them, growing more frustrated and angry by the second, until she found what she was looking for.

It was a little risque to wear outside of Sunspear, an orange gown with a neckline that plunged far below her breasts, and left her arms bare. But it was more than perfect to make men's eyes stray. The prince would not be immune to Elia, even if Lady Lyanna walked into the feast hall stark naked.

It was just a flower crown, Elia thought to herself, calming finally. It's not like they're getting married. She would dress herself up, charm the pants off Prince Rhaegar if need be, and then, someday soon, she would be his queen.

Every step closer he found himself to the Stark encampment left Rhaegar feeling like he was walking to his death rather than his betrothed. Even Ser Arthur's presence at his shoulder did nothing to appease the nausea swimming up his throat.

Rhaegar could only imagine how confused and upset Lyanna would be over the news of their forced betrothal; she was not fond of him, that was certain - every look she sent him was full of contempt or judgement, and her mouth had never smiled for him, let alone flirted.

No, this wasn't going to be good.

And there was the issue of Robert Baratheon to handle. It was widely known that his temper was the epitome of his House words: "Ours is the fury." That was one more thing Rhaegar did not want to deal with, and yet, with his father gone to King's Landing, it was all left to him.

The grey tents emblazoned with snarling direwolves sent a chill down Rhaegar's body. Outside, Benjen Stark was dancing about with a wooden tourney sword, swiping and slicing at some invisible foe. Seated in a chair near the largest tent's entrance was Ned Stark, running a whetstone down his sword's blade. Brandon Stark was lounging about, drinking from a wineskin.

Benjen was the first to notice the prince and his Kingsguard, dropping his wooden sword immediately. His face drooped in awe, his eyes set on Ser Arthur. Ned stiffened, bowing his head, but Brandon remained defiant, meeting Rhaegar's eyes boldly.

"Ben, where's my-" Lyanna came out of the smallest tent, her words dying on her lips; she wore skin-tight leggings and an oversized tunic that almost reached her knees. It made her seem childlike somehow, innocent...and yet, the slender curve of her legs made Rhaegar's mouth dry.

"What are you doing here?" She demanded, hands molding to her hips. A frost blue petal was stuck to her shoulder.

"Lya!" Ned hissed chidingly.

Rhaegar attempted a smile. "I came to speak with you," he told her. "Actually," he met the eyes of each of her brothers, "I would like to speak with all of you together. If we could," he motioned to the large Stark pavilion.

Ned stood, folding back a tent flap. Brandon eyed the prince distrustfully, trading wary glances with his sister and youngest brother.

Inside, Ned offered Rhaegar a chair to sit upon, but the prince declined. He clenched his jaw, anxious and worried.

He finally decided it was best to get everything out, quickly and simply. "I've come to ask for your hand in marriage." He met eyes with Lyanna.

The air seemed to still, no one making a move. Lyanna's eyes widened, her pupils dark and dilated; she stared at him, through him, as time crept on.

Ned was the first to speak. "I'm afraid Lyanna has already been offered to another. To Robert Baratheon."

Rhaegar nodded, dropping his eyes. Here we go, he thought. "I am aware of that. However, my father insists on joining our Houses, and finding a different bride for Lord Baratheon."

"Why?" Brandon demanded, jumping to his feet. His eyes, usually full of mischief and mirth, were ice cold.

Sighing, Rhaegar explained, "The king believes an alliance with the North could be beneficial for both our families. He thinks your sister to be a suitable match for me." Lies, blatant lies. The king is terrified of what your father plans behind his back.

In the quiet, Rhaegar persisted. "House Stark is an old and powerful bloodline; our marriage would merge the blood of the First Men and of the Old Valyrian dragonlords. Your sister would be queen once I ascend the throne."

At that, Lyanna burst. "I don't want to be queen! I don't even want to be your wife!"

"My lady," Rhaegar murmured, stepping closer.

She took one step back. "My name is Lyanna. How could you marry me if you can't even remember my name?" She demanded hotly, eyes flaring.

He narrowed his eyes in irritation; this wasn't what he wanted either, forcing a betrothal on a girl that would rather bury him than bed him, but it was what he had to do. Perhaps his marriage to Lyanna Stark would secure his power to depose his king father.

"I know your name," he assured her, frustration creeping into his tone. He clenched his jaw, taking a moment to compose himself. "Lyanna," he amended, "I am truly sorry for breaking your betrothal to Robert Barath-"

She scoffed, laughing meanly. "I did not want to marry that whoring oaf. Seven hells, it wasn't even official yet. But I also don't want to marry some Targaryen prince whose blood is so tainted that our children will be half-mad out of the womb."

"Lyanna!" Ned shouted, eyes circled in shock. "Forgive her, Your Highness. She does not know what she says."

"Yes, I do," Lyanna insisted. She ground her teeth together painfully, a thought coming to her. "Is this about the mystery knight? Did you tell the king ab-"

But before she could continue, a deep voice boomed outside the tent. A moment later, Robert Baratheon pushed through the tent flaps; his smile died quickly upon seeing Rhaegar in Lyanna's presence. He scowled deeply. "What's he doing here?!"

Ned hurried to his friend's side, placing an iron hand on Robert's shoulder. "Robert..." He said warningly.

Rhaegar faced his second cousin fully, knowing that to get it through to Robert, he'd have to be firm. "I've come to ask for Lyanna's hand in marriage."

Instantly, Robert roared; from behind Rhaegar, Arthur unsheathed Dawn, coming to stand before him. "I am to marry her!" Robert shouted in fury; Brandon and Ned molded themselves to one arm each, holding back the Stormlord.

"I realize that it was set in motion for you to one day marry her, and my father fully intends to make up your loss with another bride." A thought popped into Rhaegar's head. "Cersei Lannister perhaps."

Robert scowled. "I don't want some Southern girl who thinks she shits gold. Lord Rickard himself offered me Lyanna. Does he know about the Mad King's plan?"

Blood rushed to Rhaegar's cheeks, and the famous Targaryen temper doused in his dragon's blood flared. He approached Robert until he stood a foot away; the tent quieted as Rhaegar stared the Stormlord down.

"You will watch your mouth when you speak of my father. He is still monarch of the Seven Kingdoms, and one day, I will be king. A raven has already been sent to Winterfell informing Lord Rickard of the situation. And despite your feelings on the matter, which are of no importance whatsoever, Lyanna will be my wife. This was not an offer; this is a royal command."

Rhaegar looked over his shoulder at Lyanna, who seemed shocked silent. "Lyanna," he said quietly, resisting the urge to use the proper my lady, "I will announce the betrothal at tonight's feast. I would like for you to sit with me on the dais."

She turned her eyes to him, large and glossy, full of anger and hurt and fear. "Must I?"

He frowned, nodding. "You must." He paused, sending a side glance to Robert Baratheon who was vibrating in anger. "The realm will want to see their future princess."

Chapter 11: A Fortune's Confrontation

Chapter Text

Brandon's voice was sharper than a whip crack. "Where do you think you're going?"

Lyanna stopped, hunching further into her cloak. The fur that trimmed her hood tickled her skin where it lay against her forehead, the smell of Winterfell so deep in its hair that tears blurred her eyes with every breath.

"None of your business," she snapped, meaning to walk away.

Brandon caught her arm before she could escape, an iron grasp that might as well have been a chain. "The prince specifically requested you to sit by him at the feast. I may hold no love for the Targaryens, but we needn't anger them."

The prince can shove his anger straight up his ass for all I care, she seethed. But she kept her dark words locked up, saying instead, "I want to go for a walk. I'll be back before dinner." She turned her face to him, forcing innocence into her look. "Promise."

Brandon eyed her, seeing through her act, but nodded anyway; he bent forward to kiss her cheek and gently pushed her away. She smiled something small and jetted off, away from the sigiled tents and camps, around the curve of the castle's curtain walls, and over to the sea of bright silk pavilions of the singers and mummers.

At the sight of the lone black tent, Lyanna's irritation returned, festering like poison in a rotted wound. How stupid she had been to believe the fortune teller; Maggy the Frog was a bloodsucker and a deceitful crone, nothing more!

But she deserved words, and Lyanna was more than happy to offer those up. Instead of calling out Maggy's name as would have been appropriate, she stormed through the dark tent flaps, blinking her eyes hard to adjust to the dim candlelight within.

Maggy sat in the same chair she had been in when she first told Lyanna the lies of her future, like she was waiting for her. Her grimy black cloak was on again, the dark cowl of the hood hiding her eyes from view - but her mouth, that gummy, horrible mouth was smiling.

"How dare you!" Lyanna yelled, slamming her hands against the tabletop. "You lied to me!"

Maggy's mouth stretched, infinitely entertained. "How is that, Lady Stark?"

Lyanna scowled deeply, her wolf's blood howling in her veins. "You said you would tell me what would become of my impending marriage. Well, guess what? I'm not even marrying Robert Baratheon! I'm betrothed to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen on the king's orders!"

Maggy laughed, deep and long and loud; the sound of it chilled Lyanna to the bone, worse than any winter or summer snow that stormed through Winterfell. The woman was enjoying this.

"I did promise I would tell you what would become of your impending marriage," Maggy agreed, then paused, sneering. "But I never said which one." Two ghostly hands pushed back her hood. Where Maggy's eyes should have been were deep caves of the darkest black, as if Lyanna could reach her hand through the holes and grasp endlessly.

Despite her fear, Lyanna raged. "You tricked me then! You knew I wasn't going to marry Robert; why didn't you tell me?!"

Maggy looked on with her blind, black holes. "Why would I have?"

Lyanna was breathing harder than a bull, her heart racing and her chest heaving. Adrenaline was rushing through her so quickly, she was concerned she might pass out.

Her mind went back to her first meeting with Maggy, the words so deeply ingrained in Lyanna's mind, it took less than a second to conjure them.

"...and a grey cloak will be replaced by black." How foolish she had been to think of Robert's House colors of yellow and black when Maggy knew along what her words meant, phrasing them just deftly enough so that they could mean many things.

Red and black were the colors of House Targaryen, and Rhaegar would throw his dragon's cloak over her shoulders in the Sept of Baelor in King's Landing before hundreds of onlookers.

"You will despise your husband as you bind your hand to his, with gods and men as your witnesses. Women will spit your name with venom and lust for your husband, even as he vows himself to you."

How many times had she had to endure stupid Lysa Tully rambling on and on about the "beautiful Dragon Prince"? Far, far too many. And the Tully girl wasn't the only one; every lady, married or maiden, stared after Rhaegar with poorly concealed want in their eyes. All except Lyanna.

She felt her breathing shallow and her eyesight narrowed to pinpoints.

"Your children will be the winged wolves..." Lyanna exhaled a shuddering breath; when a wolf mated with a dragon, what did you get?

"Why me?" She whispered aloud, hunching over. Her arms and legs felt like a hundred pounds each, like they were weighed down with the burden of truly unraveling a fortune.

Maggy chuckled, and when Lyanna looked up, the woman's eyes were hers again, pale and awful and yellow. "Because, my sweet, you are one half of the greatest song that ever was or ever will be. You are the ice to his fire."

It was so dark outside when she left Maggy's tent that she rammed straight into a hard steel wall. Instantly, she grabbed her head, groaning.

"My lady, are you alright?"

Her eyes flashed up and Ser Oswell Whent was standing before her, a small, almost imperceptible, smile on his face. He was alone, clad in the white steel of his Kingsguard armor.

"I'm fine," she muttered, stepping away. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to escort you to the feast."

"Oh, kill me." She looked down to her clothes, breeches she stole from Benjen and the same large tunic she'd been wearing earlier, a Northern cloak thrown overtop her shoulders. She ought to wear this, show the prince what he was in for, then maybe he could convince his father to end the betrothal.

But her brothers would be so disappointed, and as she imagined their faces frowning down at her, she caved, walking away from the bright silk tents of the mummers and singers.

She stalked across the fields, feeling Ser Oswell's presence at her back like the weight of an extra cloak, thick and heavy. Once or twice, she stole a look back at him, but his face remained impassive, ever cool.

When she came to her tent, Ser Oswell went to stand a distance away as Lyanna went inside. She dressed quickly, roughing a hand through her hair, then pulled on her boots.

As she came out, Ser Oswell looked her over once, quickly, and then said, "You are late, my lady."

"My name is Lyanna," she sighed. She studied him. "Tell me, Ser, if I marry the prince, will you be my guard as well?"

"When you marry Prince Rhaegar, I will be one of seven that guards you." He let his eyes trail over her, judging. "A good choice of dress."

She dropped her head down, scowling at the gown of gauzy red silk she wore. Yes, the prince would be pleased to see his betrothed donning his colors. Damn it, Lya, think.

She had half a mind to go back to her tent and change into dirty breeches and Brandon's tunic, but something about Ser Oswell made her think the Kingsguard would not allow her to embarrass the prince.

Instead, she pressed her lips together and made her way toward the castle's dining hall, Ser Oswell trailing her every step. His steps were so light, his movements so calculated, she couldn't even hear him behind her, though she felt him there.

Is this my future? She thought to herself unhappily, stomping through the grass like a soldier prepared to die. Devils at my face and ghosts at my back?

Chapter 12: Power of Copper

Notes:

I had a few readers ask me if there was going to be cheating/adultery/extramarital affairs, and I just want to assure you that NO, there will no cheating within the confines of Rhaegar and Lyanna's marriage - though that will not stop the offers of such from outside sources. Just an ironic little promise before this chapter.

Chapter Text

Lyanna Stark in red is obscenely captivating, Rhaegar decided when she stomped into the room, lip curled and eyes narrowed in annoyance.

Ser Oswell was steering her in the direction of the dais where Rhaegar sat, and as she approached, he was struck by a thought. She has all the presence of a true winter's blizzard - beautiful, but cold.

Her dress swished like fire when she danced with him after the announcement of their betrothal, swaying against him, lovely and dangerous. Men watched her with curiosity and desire, the lovely Northern girl that caught a dragon - and women watched him with lust and greed, a Targaryen prince soon to be in bed with the wolves.

What a pair they made.

When she was able to escape the hold of Rhaegar's arms, she went immediately to her brothers and Howland Reed, the curious little crannogman from the Neck that seemed to see everything with a particular knowledgeability.

He'd heard things about the people of Greywater Watch, strange creatures that saw green dreams of the future, of the past, of the present. He wondered if Howland Reed could see the future, the end of the world in ice. That is, if he didn't get his three children, his Promised Prince.

The way Lyanna tried very hard not to look at him more than necessary made Rhaegar wonder if he would ever get a child on her.

Rhaegar watched his betrothed as she flitted from brother to brother, sharing genuine smiles and laughs with them as they twirled her about the floor. Even Ser Oswell Whent was permitted a dance with her, holding her chastely as she attempted to get him to laugh.

But not for Rhaegar, not a second time. It was better off though; in only a few short minutes, he would be meeting with several lords to gain their support for his ascension and he needn't be distracted by an icy hot temper and a fair face.

Macy Tyrell, Eon Hunter, Lord Whent, and Jon Connington were going to meet with him, as well as the vastly influential Leyton Hightower, the nephew of Ser Gerold, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Ser Lewyn was still attempting to persuade his sister, the ruling princess of Dorne, to assist Rhaegar in his need.

If it came to a fight, if it came to war, when the time came to take his father's crown, Rhaegar would need as much help as he could get.

He stood from his chair, drifting over to where Lyanna danced with Howland Reed in a clumsy twirl. "May I cut in?" He asked.

Lord Reed's eyes, green as summer grass, flashed up as he stepped back, seeming to probe into Rhaegar's soul. Lyanna hid an eye roll when Rhaegar took her into his arms.

"I am to retire for bed soon," he lied.

If Brandon Stark didn't show at the meeting, he'd gladly speak with Lord Rickard personally when he came to King's Landing for the wedding. That is, if the lord wasn't past the point of fury at having his betrothal broken.

And if that proved fruitful, with the North came House Tully and House Arryn.

"Then you should go now," Lyanna suggested with saccharine kindness.

Rhaegar said, "You should rest well tonight. We ride for the capital at first light."

Her teeth clacked together audibly. "You truly won't let me go back to Winterfell then?"

He sighed deeply. "My father wishes for you to come to King's Landing immediately, and Lord Rickard has agreed by raven."

As if he could simply deny the king's wishes, no matter how mad.

"Am I to be your wife or your prisoner?" She snapped, breathing deeply through her nose.

He looked into her eyes. "My wife," he answered. "But I must warn you that the king does not take kindly to insolence, and his paranoia is legendary. And growing. Not even I am immune to his sufferings."

At that, some of her fight seemed to chill. Her mouth parted and genuine fear shined in her eyes. "What kind of place am I going to?" She whispered.

Rhaegar frowned and stepped back from her as the dance ended, bending to kiss her knuckles. "Court."

In Lord Walter Whent's private solar, Leyton Hightower unsheathed the sword at his hip and knelt before Rhaegar, holding the length of his blade over his knee. "House Hightower is at your call, Your Highness." He looked up. "Though I do hope to call you 'Your Grace' soon enough, if you will excuse my boldness."

Rhaegar nodded, infinitely thankful. "I do as well, Lord Leyton."

Mace Tyrell cut in. "My prince, if I may, when do you plan on taking your father's throne? Why haven't you done so sooner?"

Rhaegar ignored the way the plump lord eyed him boldly, as if his presence in the solar permitted him as a close friend to the crown prince. "I had hoped that my father would improve. And now I see that I have been terribly wrong. As for the when...I need a child first, an heir, before I take action."

"With the Lady Lyanna," Eon Hunter said. "House Stark is powerful. Why is Lord Rickard, or even Brandon, not here?"

Embarrassment flooded Rhaegar's veins. He clenched a gloved fist. "I'm handling the support of House Stark privately." In other words, I don't know if they want to embrace me or betray me, he thought with frustration.

Only Jon Connington, the prince's close friend, saw through that excuse, giving him a stern look. Jon was wary of an alliance with House Stark, hesitant of the ice lords that lived on their vast lands so far from Court, from true civilization.

"I urge you to keep the words from this room secret," Rhaegar continued. "In time, I will reach out to other Houses, but for now I would rather my plan be of the utmost secrecy."

Each man nodded solemnly, fully aware of the implications of their actions. Even speaking to the prince about this was considered an act of high treason, punishable by any death the king saw fit.

And they didn't call him the Mad King for nothing.

Each lord left with a bow, striding quietly from the room. Lord Whent sat in the chair in his solar, stroking his beard. "This is good," he mused.

Rhaegar agreed. "Very good."

"Now all you must do is marry and get a child on that girl as soon as possible."

A vivid image of Lyanna's slender waist curved with pregnancy came to his mind. "Yes..." He took a deep breath, changing direction. "I hope to take the throne with as little bloodshed as possible," he sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

Lord Whent watched him curiously. "I wouldn't let my heart hope for that, my prince. If bloodshed is what you fear, I would suggest renouncing the crown."

A tired smile plucked at Rhaegar's mouth. "Thank you for all of your help, Lord Whent. I hope to see you again seen...my wedding perhaps?"

Lord Whent escorted him to the door where Ser Arthur stood guard. "I will be there."

Walking back to his chambers, Rhaegar noticed just how tired he was, his fatigue mounting considerably. That is, until be barreled straight into a body of bones.

"Princess Elia," he said, surprised.

Elia gasped, furiously wiping away tears that slicked her cheeks. "Your Highness, I did not see you. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," he replied softly.

"Of course," she murmured distractedly before blinking hard. A fire seemed to burn out the sadness in her eyes. "Why?" She demanded suddenly. "Why her?"

"Excuse me?"

"Lady Stark," she answered.

Lyanna, he corrected her mentally, out of habit at having been admonished by Lyanna so many times already.

He inhaled sharply. "The king chose her for me."

Elia scowled, breaking up the loveliness in her face. "You told me you were able to choose...?"

"I was supposed to," he admitted, "but my father believes an alliance with the North will prove powerful for both Lyanna and myself." My father is a madman with no control over his thoughts, fetishes, or actions.

"Lady Lyanna," Elia mused with a mirthless smirk. "Just a child really."

"She will turn sixteen before our wedding," he pointed out.

"Yes," Elia chuckled, looking up at him. Her head fell to the side as she assessed him, dark eyes boiling with desire. "I'd be yours...if you asked."

He jerked in shock more than anything. "My lady-"

"In Dorne," she interrupted, "paramours are not such a scandalous thing." She trailed a thin finger down his chest. "I do not have to be your wife, but I could be your lover." She smiled wickedly, a stark contrast to the tears that had trailed down her cheeks only moments ago. "And I assure you, I am a very good lover."

In his silence, she continued. "Marriages do not always equal love, equal passion." Her eyes suddenly seemed not so terribly different from the scheming green hue of Cersei Lannister's. "What is a wife if nothing more than a womb to quicken your heirs? Ours could be a relationship borne of fire, the sun and the dragon. And let us not forget that Dorne has never kneeled to a dragon before. I wouldn't mind making that exception."

Rhaegar cleared his throat uncomfortably and Elia giggled, tipping forward to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Think about it, my prince." And then she was gone, nothing more than a copper wisp in the wind.