Rhaegar plucked a chord, another woman swooned, and Robert Baratheon resigned himself to a slow death.

'Seven help me if another woman weeps.'

With his head propped on a bandaged hand, the heir of Storm's End fought to keep his eyes open, sharing commiserating looks with several young lords whose wives were eying the prince with impure intent.

Robert supposed he was fortunate in that regard.

Lyanna sat at his side, assessing the prince's performance with a critical eye. Unlike the vapid fools fawning over Rhaegar, his betrothed reminded Robert of a veteran knight spectating a spar. All the while, her hand drummed gently against the tabletop.

"What are you doing?" he asked, voice hushed for a Baratheon but far from a whisper.

"Memorizing the song," she hissed back, concentration lost. "It's a pretty tune, and I intend to make it mine."

She shot him a half-hearted glare. Were Robert more a fool, he would have thought Lyanna truly cross with him.

"Not that you seem to care much for music."

Her voice carried a hint of cheek that had Robert grinning despite himself.

"Perhaps I'd pay it more mind if you were the one playing."

The heir of Storm's End placed his hand over his betrothed's, a bold gesture and—if the sharp look from Brandon Stark were any indication—one he would pay for in the morrow. But Lyanna smiled and made no attempt to shake off his hand.

Robert considered that a resounding victory.


As the tourney of singers wore on, Robert's thoughts turned inwards. The young lord had never been one for contemplation, but the recent demands of his station had left him little recourse.

By and large, he was happy: Storm's End had prevailed against the long winter, House Baratheon stood healthy and whole, and Robert himself was betrothed to a spirited beauty with kind eyes and a lively wit. Better yet, her brothers were already his in all but blood, his future goodfather a man as impressive as the Old Lion and much better liked.

But all was not well.

Not blind to his faults, the young Baratheon freely admitted he had not been the best of wards. For years, he had made poor Ned an unwilling accomplice in innumerable acts of mischief while ignoring Jon's every lesson and reprimand. Only after returning to the stormlands did Robert realize how much the Old Falcon had coddled him.

In the months following his fosterage, the heir of Storm's End found himself saddled with its upkeep, a task Mother usually shared with Ser Harbert. It had been a test, and Robert had failed spectacularly: were it not for Stannis, the Baratheon heir doubted their home would still be standing. His performance had earned himself a permanent posting at Father's side, where he was tasked with relearning the finer points of lordship.

There were days when Robert seriously considered swimming across the Narrow Sea to start life anew as a sellsword, and though the plan still held considerable appeal, the young stag had upheld his duties, however poorly. To do any less was to risk Mother hounding him to the world's end, and the Baratheon heir would sooner court the King's Justice than test her anger. Moreover–loath though he was to admit it–Robert yearned to be a better man, well aware of how his failings shamed the lord who had raised him like a son.

There was another reason why he had taken his tasks to heart.

Cheers erupted throughout the hall as Rhaegar was announced the winner of the tournament, several ladies squealing as though the decision were ever in doubt.

Robert released Lyanna's hand and offered the victor a guarded applause, glaring all the while.

Rhaegar Targaryen. The Crown Prince. Cousin. Kin.

Though Robert had few memories of his silver-haired grandmother, he had grown up on Father's stories of the brave princess who had married for duty, saving the kingdoms from war after great-grandfather Lyonel's rebellion and Duncan Targaryen's folly. Time and again, the Lord of Storm's End had reminded his sons that the Targaryens were family and that it was House Baratheon's eternal duty to support the king and crown.

Then came the letter from King's Landing, not a week after his parents had returned without Rhaegar's promised bride. Robert had no chance to read the message, for Father had torn it asunder and flown into rage that even Mother struggled to appease. Never before had the young Baratheon seen his father so wroth, ready to repeat the deeds of the Laughing Storm.

Now, the Lord of Storm's End no longer spoke of the Targaryens as kin.

Robert watched as the spectators applauded Rhaegar as though he were the Conqueror reborn, but all Robert saw was a conflated minstrel and tourney knight, one who spent his days holed up at Dragonstone while the king mocked his Dornish wife and made a mess of the realm.

The surrounding lords and ladies continued to cheer as though Aerys Targaryen had not anointed Jaime Lannister to the Kingsguard mere days ago, depriving Tywin of his heir–the last in a long string of insults.

The Targaryens had forgotten themselves. Even with the last dragons long dead, they acted like dragonlords, too proud to accept that they had to walk the earth like everyone else.

There would be a reckoning. Robert could feel it in his bones. He only hoped he would be ready to lead when the kingdoms faced the coming storm.


Lyanna stood in her personal apartment, one of four reserved for her family. Tonight, Lord Arryn had invited his former wards to supper, Ned had dragged Brandon along, and Benjen had ventured out accompanied by Lord Reed. Lyanna relished the rare moment of privacy.

With her violin and bowstring tucked safely underarm, she hovered over a ream of paper with a feathered quill. Again and again, the young girl replayed the prince's song in her mind, dotting the manuscript with scratches and blotches of ink.

She added her own flourishes, altering the meter and ornaments to suit her tastes. Every so often, the young Stark would clean her hands, take up her violin, and allow the melody she envisioned to fill the room.

During the long winter, Lyanna had spent many nights seated beside Lady Evetta, learning musical theory by candlelight. Music was now a beautiful language that the young girl understood. The once impenetrable books in her teacher's study had become collections of wondrous tales Lyanna could recite and share.

Yet, despite learning so many beautiful stories, the young Stark struggled to craft her own. Realizing that music from the Lord Hunter's homeland had history–styles, intricacies, and trends that made the offerings of the Seven Kingdoms seem sparse by comparison–had left Lyanna with a hunger and yearning she found impossible to describe.

Though not a composer herself, Lady Evetta had been happy to nurture her student's pursuits, and Lyanna had treasured her encouragements as though they were gems. The tournament of singers had provided inspiration, and the young Stark was confident her work tonight would bring her closer to composing a song of her own.

The sky grew dark as Lyanna continued her task, leaving three sheets of manuscripts wet with ink. Every new measure felt like a triumph, and the young girl grew giddy at the thought of sharing her work with her brothers. She might even convince Robert to stay awake for the entire piece.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. It creaked ajar, revealing Lyanna's handmaiden, features tense with worry.

"It's the prince," she uttered, voice unsteady. "He's asked to see you, milady."

The young Stark almost stumbled in surprise.

"Thank you, Erena. Please see him in." The words did not feel entirely her own, even as she gave the command. The handmaiden left to do as instructed, leaving Lyanna alone with a hammering heart.

This was not a proper meeting, else Prince Rhaegar would have approached Brandon, Father's heir. Moreover, Ned would never have forgotten such an important appointment.

Lyanna laid her violin on the bed and fought the urge to wring her hands. Minding her nerves, the young Stark waited as the clink of armor and footsteps approached.

The door creaked open. The now-familiar figure of Arthur Dayne stepped through the entranceway, followed by his charge.

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was beautiful. Lyanna could not think of anyone more beautiful save Lady Evetta. The prince stood taller than the Sword of the Morning with lithe yet powerful limbs. His face was handsome without flaw, crowned with a diadem of silver hair and set with eyes like amethysts.

The young girl beheld the prince and bowed low.

"My prince."

Lyanna grew silent as a stutter caught in her throat. Perhaps there was more she should have said, but the young girl was unprepared to host a prince, never mind one that had arrived unannounced. She found herself thankful for the Stark servants and guards who had accompanied the prince into her room, though they could not speak in her stead.

"Please raise your head, Lady Lyanna." Rhaegar's voice flowed like a song. "It is Arthur and I who should apologize for the intrusion."

To the young girl's alarm, the prince dipped his head ever so slightly. Ser Arthur, who had made himself scarce in one of the far corners of the room, offered the same.

"I often pass these halls on my way to the royal apartments. More than once, I've heard the enchanting music that flowed from your door. Tonight, I had hoped to hear a performance in full."

Rhaegar offered his explanations, proving his words as well-practiced as his harp, and Lyanna knew the prince's request was, in fact, a demand.

With another deep bow, she rounded the room to retrieve her violin. Returning to her manuscripts, Lyanna found the prince seated on a chest beside her bed, mere steps away.

Silence reigned as the silver prince regarded the young girl with voiceless expectation.

When her bowstring trembled, Lyanna imagined herself back in Winterfell, performing for her family after a midwinter meal. Father would sit with Benjen on his lap while Brandon and Ned settled on the heated floor of her messy room, awaiting whatever piece Lyanna had learned the day before, divulged by Lady Evetta like a much-cherished secret.

Drawing courage from the memory, Lyanna pressed her bow against the strings.

Harsh, coarse, and all-consuming, the first note held the audience captive without warning. All else fell into place as Lyanna's left hand danced along the fingerboard at a pace few could follow while her right drew out a lively melody with every tug of her bow. She punctuated the last chord of the chorus with a resounding vibrato as a glimmer of shock overtook the prince's eyes.

Lyanna closed her own as the air within the room became a living thing, beckoned to life at her hands. Time slipped away as Lyanna lost herself abating the evening silence. The memory of the prince's performance played out within her mind all the while, and when she at last pictured Rhaegar withdrawing his hands from his harp, Lyanna realized she had done the same: the violin no longer rested against her chin, and the bow hung at her side.

The young girl opened her eyes to the sound of a lonely applause.

"Remarkable." Rhaegar's voice carried a breathless quality, conveying wonderment. "Were it not for the chorus, I would not have recognized the work as my own."

"I found your song beautiful," Lyanna returned, somewhat abashed. "I thought to play it myself."

"It is all the more beautiful for your performance."

Rhaegar's voice matched the warmth of his words, yet Lyanna struggled to form an apt reply.

"I am glad it was to your liking, my prince," she said at last.

Seemingly satisfied, the silver prince turned to the room's sole window, overlooking a dusky sky.

"You have my sincere thanks, Lady Lyanna. I confess this has been a welcome distraction from my thoughts, which have been dark of late."

A somberness reclaimed the prince's features as he discerned the confusion and concern that played across the young girl's face.

"Rhaenys' birth had left Elia ill. The Grand Maester has warned that Aegon's birth will likely be no less difficult, if not worse."

His words struck Lyanna like a blow, and she sensed this was a secret the prince should not have shared.

Princess Elia's pregnancy had been announced on the eve of the tourney. The joyous news was met with resounding applause, for the princess was again with child, and the swell beneath her dress proved she was many months along.

Recalling her beloved teacher, who had only ever known Lady Maria through paintings, and her own mother, who survived only through Father's stories, the young girl fought the urge to reach out and touch the prince.

"I will pray for Princess Elia's continued health and your son's safe birth."

She spoke with as much sincerity as she could muster, but Rhaegar did not quite acknowledge her words as he made to stand. Perhaps the prince realized he had shared overmuch with a stranger who was not yet a friend.

"In all my years, I've not met a musician of your talents, Lady Lyanna," he offered instead, voice reflecting the somber calm of a man seeking refuge within his thoughts. "Your tutor is most fortunate to have so gifted a student."

"I am nowhere near her equal," Lyanna replied, once more flustered by the prince's praise but grateful to leave discussions of Princess Elia and her children behind.

"She must be a singular woman for you to hold her in such regard," Rhaegar supplied in turn, and for a moment, Lyanna feared both she and the prince had shared overmuch. "Should she and I ever cross paths, I will speak well of you, my lady."

Unable to trust her voice, Lyanna sought refuge in a wordless nod, leaving the prince to interpret the gesture however he wished. Thankfully, Rhaegar made no note of her misstep.

With little else to say, the prince again expressed his gratitude before bidding Lyanna farewell. Arthur Dayne followed him, offering the young girl a look resembling an apology as he closed the door.

The moment they left, Lyanna stumbled to her bed and collapsed, feeling more tired than she could ever recall. As Erena and the others tended to her, the girl found herself lost in a myriad of thoughts, pleased that the prince had enjoyed her performance, yet sad that her family had not been the first to hear it.

It was only hours later that Lyanna remembered that the royal apartments were in the Kingspyre Tower, far away on the opposite side of Harrenhal.

TBC

Chapter Summary:

Two days before the melee, Rhaegar Targaryen wins the tourney of singers, only to immediately commit a major faux pas.

Another Tuesday in Westeros.

Author's Notes:

Sorry for the delay. Life's been busy, nothing new there. This chapter marks the official introduction of Robert and Rhaegar. Interested to hear your guy's thoughts on their characterization.

Young Robert presented an interesting challenge. Canon Robert always struck me as a man who went off-roading, saw a cliff edge coming two miles off, and floored the gas: He had plenty of chances to change, but a combination of tragedy, untreated depression, and unchecked personal vice left him in a sorry state. Here, he's much better off, being guided through his responsibilities by people (i.e., dear old mom and dad) who are in a position to reprimand him when he fails.

That said, I didn't want to 'fix' him: Robert is a very flawed man, and I wanted to show that the seeds of those failures were always present. The defining difference here is that Robert feels compelled to change, something he'd long given up on by the first book.

Robert's POV also gives us a better window into Westeros' political climate prior to the rebellion. Needless to say, it's scuffed. Make no mistake, Robert's biased, but there's no denying that the Targaryens are a shadow of their former selves and really have no one to blame but themselves:

In order to marry Jenny of Oldstone, Duncan Targaryen, aka the Prince of Dragonflies (cool name, btw), broke off his betrothal to the daughter of Lyonel "The Laughing Storm" Baratheon, leading to a short-lived rebellion. After that, Aegon the Unlikely threw water at a grease fire and flambéed 90% of the family at Summerhall, leaving a paranoid schizophrenic on the throne to burn figurative bridges…and literal people.

Make no mistake, Westeros was a powder keg ready to blow. Were it not for Tywin ending the rebellion in such an ugly fashion and the kingdoms collapsing the moment Robert croaked, I doubt the Targaryen's would have been remembered with any measure of fondness.

That said, while Rhaegar is a man wrapped in mystery, most described him as a man of spectacular talent, and I hoped that reflected in the prose: his skill at singing and the harp impressed even Lyanna, who felt inspired enough to translate his song to the violin. Trying to give every character their due. (Note: Lyanna did not join the tournament because 1. It's a tourney of singers and 2. It's never a good idea to upstage royalty.)

Lastly, I wanted to revisit some of the themes from Chapter 10 (Of Music and Mothers), and showcase Lyanna's prodigious progress. Five years is barely any time at all to learn a musical instrument, and learning to not only perform but also compose (she's a cover artist right now, but she's getting there) in that timeframe is nothing short of remarkable. That said, Mozart composed his first piece at the age of 5 and was performing in imperial courts before he was 10, so the accomplishments of 14-year-old Lyanna are somewhat believable. Of course, that we're using Mozart as a metric should say everything.

On the topic of Mozart, this chapter also serves as a reminder that Lyanna as benefitted from a formal musical education unmatched in Westeros, covering everything from Baroque (c. 1600-c. 1750) to Late Romantic (c.1860-c.1920). Case in point, the vibrato and other musical ornaments Lyanna showed off weren't really popularized until the 18th century. For the Westerosi perspective, Lyanna's performance would have been nothing short of avant garde.)

Lastly, I wanted to point out the gravity of the last scene. Royals, on principle, don't make house calls. Their actions are bound by tradition and ceremony. Be it requesting a private audience or receiving a summons to court, any meeting with the king/crown prince is a matter of great importance usually scheduled well in advance. Moreover, in all these cases, it is the noble/courtier that approaches royalty, not the other way around. With all these things in mind, Lyanna really caught off guard, but managed the situation as best she could. There are certainly lords who would have fared far worse.

As always, many thanks to KnightStar for all his edits. Was a real big help for this chapter.

Anyways, that's all for now. Next time, part 1 of 2 of the melee. Stay tuned!