RHAEGAR
It was the hour of the bat, and the night cloaked the world in shadows as Prince Rhaegar urged his horse onward, flanked by his two sworn swords, Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. They had left the bulk of their army behind in their slow march toward King's Landing. Rhaegar's patience had run thin; he would not let the realm suffer another day under his father's madness.
They rode hard through the Crownlands, now mostly held by the Wolves of Winterfell and the Trout of Riverrun. The air was thick with the scent of spring grass and the distant smoke of sacked villages. It was here, amidst the broken lands, that the name "Lady Ravenclaw" haunted Rhaegar's ears like a whispered omen. He had dismissed it once, over a year ago, when word came that Maidenpool had been savagely sacked and its women and children put to the sword. But now, as he rode through lands scarred by her forces, the name was spoken more often, with equal measures of fear and admiration.
Rhaegar's mind flashed back to the conversation with Jon Arryn, just before the signing of the peace agreement. The cool evening air had carried the weight of unspoken words, as if both men knew the consequences of what was about to unfold, but neither dared to voice it aloud. Jon had been calm, ever the pragmatist, as he laid out his thoughts. "I do not trust you, Rhaegar," he'd said, his voice low, a touch of something unreadable in his eyes. "But the realm—" He paused, as if weighing each word carefully. "The realm needs peace. We can't afford to let it burn any longer. Robert's death has left a hole, and I fear the wrong hands may fill it."
Reluctantly, Jon had chosen to support Rhaegar, turning away from the rebellion and backing him to overthrow his father. "I am not interested in revenge," he had told Rhaegar. "I just want a peaceful realm ruled by a just king. Whether that had been you, Rhaegar, or Robert Baratheon." He paused, reflecting on the weight of the choice, his voice lowering as he continued, "Ned is a good man, and he will be a great lord of Winterfell, but he would never sit the Iron Throne. Robert was our choice for king, but now he's dead. Stannis... Stannis is too rigid. The realm would be divided under his reign." Rhaeger watched as the Lord of the Vale shuddered at the thought of what might come next, then whispered with quiet urgency, "If the rebellion were to succeed without Robert, Tywin Lannister and his children could very well seize the throne in the chaos. Their army, untouched by the bloodshed that has ravaged the realm, would be a force none could stand against. The Lions would be unchallenged."
Jon Arryn, his now secret conspirator, had promised to muster 10,000 knights of the Vale to bolster Rhaegar's forces in their hidden conspiracy to overthrow the Mad King. But Hoster Tully would not commit to the cause, and Eddard Stark... Eddard Stark was nowhere to be found. Rumors had reached Rhaegar through Ser Barristan that Stark had crossed swords with the King's Guard in a fit of fury. It had not ended well for the Stark.
Ser Barristan, ever honorable, recounted how he had faced Eddard in single combat, seeking only to wound and subdue. "The man fought like a wolf cornered," Barristan had said, his voice low and filled with a hint of regret. "I cut him lightly, hoping to force him to yield, but he would not relent. I had no choice but to leave him with a deep gash in his leg to save his life."
The wound had festered, or so Rhaegar had heard from the whispers of maesters and ravens. But it would not cause the Lord of Winterfell to lose his leg entirely. A permanent limp, yes, and perhaps a cane for the rest of his days, the maester had warned the crown prince. That was a bitter consequence, Rhaegar knew, one that would surely leave a stain on his hoped-for reign. A crippled Stark, one who would forever curse his name.
"Off to a peaceful start, indeed," Rhaegar thought bitterly, shaking off the creeping dread that clung to him like a shadow. The thought troubled Rhaegar as they galloped through the darkened fields. He respected Eddard Stark's honor, even if their paths had diverged. But now, all his thoughts turned to King's Landing and the throne that had poisoned his father's mind. Rhaegar's destiny was drawing closer, and he knew that to unseat the Mad King, he would need every ally—and every enemy subdued. He forced his mind away from thoughts of the North, away from the consequences of his actions. Eddard Stark was but one man; there were more pressing matters at hand.
As they galloped further down the King's Road, Rhaegar's eyes fell upon another charred town in the distance. It was yet another settlement reduced to rubble and ash, its once-bustling streets now eerily silent. The sigils of House Stark and House Tully fluttered on makeshift banners amidst the ruins.
Lady Ravenclaw. The name was whispered with both reverence and dread wherever he rode, as if it were a spell conjuring both admiration and fear. As they entered the smoldering remains of the town, Rhaegar Targaryen let out a sigh of relief. There were no bodies dangling from trees, no weeping mothers searching for lost children. Though the town had been looted and scorched, it was damage that time—and gold—could mend.
Perhaps, Rhaegar thought, this Lady Ravenclaw was not as monstrous as the tales suggested. He had seen firsthand the atrocities that lesser forces committed when given free rein: the pillaging, the unspeakable cruelty, the disregard for innocent lives. Yet this enigmatic hooded figure seemed to operate with a strange sort of honor, leaving behind ruined stone but not the bodies of the helpless.
Beaten loyalist soldiers, their eyes hollow with defeat, had spoken of her with a mix of awe and terror. They spun stories of a slender, fierce maid, no older than Rhaegar himself, who wielded her blade as if it were an extension of her will. They claimed she could slice through a ring of knights with ease, that she had bested the finest swordsmen of the Reach, the proud Tyrells, as though they were clumsy squires.
Some accounts seemed fanciful—tales of Lady Ravenclaw cutting down swathes of armored men, dancing through the battlefield with a grace no warrior could hope to match. But enough voices had repeated these stories to give Rhaegar pause. Perhaps she was not just a myth conjured by frightened soldiers. Perhaps she was a force to be reckoned with.
And that worried him.
As much as he loathed to admit it, Rhaegar was not eager to cross swords with this northern warrior. His forces were stretched thin, and every skirmish drained precious strength when they were so close to their true goal: King's Landing. He could not afford to waste lives and energy in pointless battles over the rubble of the Crownlands. No, he would let Ravenclaw have her fleeting victories.
"Let her run wild for now," Rhaegar mused, spurring his horse onward. "When the throne is mine, there will be a reckoning."
Someone, eventually, would answer for the sacking of Maidenpool.
"What do you think, Arthur?" Rhaegar asked as they listened to yet another grisly account of Lady Ravenclaw's deeds. A Targaryen soldier, trembling with the memory, described her as a monster—scarred beyond recognition, her face hideous, her lips cracked and pale, her hair black as night. The soldier claimed she chopped off her men's hands for disobedience and had an unholy rage that left no survivors in her wake.
Arthur Dayne, ever unflappable, smirked, his interest piqued. "Rubbish, my prince," he said, though there was a spark of something in his amethyst eyes. "But I'll admit, I'd love to cross swords with her. Let's see if this Northerner can stand against Dawn." His gaze flicked to his sheathed ancestral steel, his pride evident.
Barristan Selmy snorted, unimpressed. No doubt the older knight had heard more than his share of boasts and tales of splendid duels. Glory and sport had lost their appeal to Barristan the Bold, Rhaegar knew, replaced with the heavy weight of duty. Still, Barristan listened silently as they rode through the night, the stars overhead their only witnesses.
By the time dawn broke, they had reached the broken remnants of a Stark-Tully camp near The Antlers. The camp stood abandoned, its ashes cold and the silence heavy, save for the hushed whispers of peasants passing through, recounting the bloody deeds done just days before. Tales of Lady Ravenclaw and her men breaching the walls of The Antlers in the dead of night had spread far and wide. They spoke of blood spilled in sacrifice to the Old Gods, of fires lit as offerings. It was all so preposterous that Rhaegar couldn't suppress a small scoff as they left the ruin.
Rhaegar and his escort took a swift detour, riding toward The Antlers to verify the rumors that had been swirling like smoke in the air. "We will only survey the scene and leave," he had ordered his Kingsguard, "We will not engage the Stark forces manning the castle walls."
The truth of the smallfolk's raving proved less fantastical but no less unsettling. Stark and Tully's banners fluttered in the morning breeze, their vibrant sigils stark against the blackened remnants of what had once been House Buckwell's stronghold. The crimson dragon of House Targaryen's banner lay smoldering in the dirt outside the walls, its once proud colors reduced to ash, scattered across the stones like forgotten promises. Stark and Tully men lined the walls, grim-faced and silent, no more than nine, by Rhaegar's reckoning. It mattered not. He had no mind to halt and retake the castle, not this day. To breach those thick walls would be a slow and costly endeavor, and the Starks held the height, their advantage clear.
If human sacrifices had been made here, they were not to the Old Gods or any Gods for that matter. As Rhaegar dismounted, his gaze swept over the destruction outside the castle gates. The stories, with their half-truths and embellishments, mattered little now. One truth stood clear: Lady Ravenclaw had left her mark, a scar upon the land that would not be easily forgotten. Yet, as he studied the scene, there were no bodies—no men, women, or children mutilated upon the ground. No signs of human sacrifice or torture.
Yes, this Ravenclaw figure intrigued Rhaegar deeply. His sword hand twitched involuntarily, betraying a flicker of excitement. Still, he reminded himself sternly that he had no time for foolish duels against northern savages, however skilled or infamous they might be. The Antlers, stripped of all value and abandoned by their rightful occupants, was a haunting sight. He would pass judgment on the warlord once he took the crown, he was not seeking glory in a pointless duel with a woman.
Yet, something about the scene gnawed at him. Everywhere else they had passed on their march south still bore the unmistakable signs of Stark forces: Northmen patrolling the walls, Riverrun banners snapping in the wind, marketplaces teeming beneath northern rule. But here, at The Antlers, there was an unsettling emptiness. Rhaegar could not understand why Lady Ravenclaw had left such a prominent stronghold so poorly manned. Unless...
A sudden realization struck him. She means to take the majority of her forces south!To another castle, perhaps. Or worse, to King's Landing itself—marching her thousand men to burn Flea Bottom to the ground.
Pushing the unease aside, Rhaegar turned his small party back to the King's Road. The bulk of his army, once trailing far behind during his frequent stops, was beginning to catch up. He vowed to ride hard to King's Landing without further delay. "No more stops," he muttered to himself. "We'll reach the capital by tomorrow."
The day passed uneventfully. There were no signs of Ravenclaw or her men—no looted towns, no burned banners. For a fleeting moment, Rhaegar allowed himself to hope she had heeded the peace parchment and withdrawn her forces back to Riverrun. That hope shattered as they approached the Ivy Inn, nestled along the King's Road.
Panic greeted them. Fleeing men and women raced past, shouting of attackers scaling the walls of the nearby castle.
"Ravenclaw," Rhaegar muttered, his jaw tightening as his violet eyes darted toward Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy. The two knights exchanged a grim glance before nodding solemnly. They all knew what had to be done.
For what kind of king would Rhaegar be if he allowed the castles of his own bannermen to fall while he rode past, pretending ignorance?
His stomach twisted. He hated the delay, hated the distraction. But this had to end. And it had to end now.
Arthur Dayne rode beside the crown prince, barely containing his excitement, his violet eyes bright with anticipation. His sword hand twitched, eager for a clash worthy of Dawn. "A fine day for a battle," he remarked, his voice carrying a rare edge of enthusiasm as they galloped from the Ivy Inn toward Sow's Horn.
"Sow's Horn won't fall," Barristan Selmy stated, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. Despite the noise of battle growing louder as they neared the castle, the legendary knight's confidence was unshaken.
Rhaegar wasn't so convinced. This Ravenclaw had taken every castle and town in her path with alarming ease, if the scattered witnesses were to be believed. He cursed under his breath. Had the ravens not reached this faction of the rebellion, or were they simply defying their liege lords and continuing the pillaging of the Crownlands unchecked?
The sight that greeted them in the surrounding farmland was, at least, a small relief. There were no smoldering ruins, no signs of looting or scorched fields. "It seems they're focused on taking the castle itself," Barristan observed, gesturing toward the formidable walls of Sow's Horn.
Rhaegar's sharp eyes followed the veteran knight's hand. Hundreds of men, carrying Stark and Tully banners, were assailing the walls of Sow's Horn with siege towers. The castle stood proud, its towering hundred-foot-high walls and eight-foot-thick stone bristling with defenders. Foolish, Rhaegar thought. Sow's Horn is one of the strongest keeps in the Crownlands. Cunning alone won't bring it down.
"We should wait," Rhaegar said, his voice tight with frustration. "Let our forces catch up before we engage. We can trap them against the castle walls and crush them." His words carried the weight of command, though his displeasure was evident.
This was not the battle he wanted. Every hour spent here was an hour lost on the road to King's Landing. His father's madness still festered on the Iron Throne, and Rhaegar's impatience gnawed at him like a wolf in his belly. Who knew what fresh horrors Aerys had wrought in his absence?
Rhaegar sighed, the weight of inevitability settling heavily on his shoulders. He knew he was about to lose men—men he would need for the greater battle at King's Landing. Yet there was no avoiding it.
After an hour, as a significant portion of the Targaryen infantry finally caught up, the heavy cavalrymen were still lagging behind. Their armor weighed them down, and their large horses struggled to maintain speed on the uneven terrain of the King's Road. Despite their impressive strength and imposing presence on the battlefield, the heavy cavalry was at a disadvantage in this scenario, where agility and speed were paramount. The infantry had managed to keep a steady pace, outdistancing their mounted counterparts. He resigned himself to the grim task ahead.
"Form ranks!" Rhaegar barked, his voice cutting through the clamor of the battlefield. "Bolster the lines! Shields and spears at the ready!" His commands were sharp and decisive. The soldiers scrambled into formation, their discipline hard-earned through months of service. They would break the rebel forces on the walls of Sow's Horn.
A single cry rose from the Targaryen infantry, and then a thousand voices roared in unison as they charged toward the castle walls, a wave of steel and fire intent on crushing the rebels where they stood.
But the crushing blow Rhaegar envisioned never came.
A horn sounded atop the siege towers, cutting through the thick of battle. The Stark banners above swayed defiantly in the breeze as their forces turned to face the oncoming charge. They braced themselves with grim determination, their lines holding firm against the Targaryen onslaught.
Rhaegar cursed under his breath. The rebels did not crumble as he had hoped. Instead, they met his soldiers head-on, fighting with a tenacity born of desperation and pride. Steel rang against steel, and blood stained the ground as the two armies clashed.
For every inch of ground Rhaegar's men gained, they paid in blood. The Stark loyalists fought like wolves cornered, their ferocity unmatched. They slashed, bit, and clawed at the Targaryen lines, their resilience unnerving.
Rhaegar's brow furrowed as he surveyed the chaos. For every two rebels that fell, one of his men died alongside them. The losses were unsustainable.
He clenched his fists in frustration. This battle needed to end swiftly, yet the rebels showed no signs of breaking. His soldiers might force them against the castle walls eventually, but at what cost? Every man lost here weakened his strength for the looming confrontation at King's Landing—a confrontation where his father's abdication might hinge on a show of unyielding power.
Rhaegar's violet eyes burned with determination. The Mad King's reign would end, but first, this field of death had to be won.
The battle teetered on a knife's edge for several minutes. The battle was slowly turning in favor of the Targaryen loyalists. Their forces had nearly achieved victory, his men pressing the rebels hard against the castle walls, when the unthinkable happened. The portcullis of Sow's Horn groaned and began to rise.
Rhaegar's brow furrowed in confusion. Why would Lord Hogg, a loyal bannerman, order the gates opened when victory was so near? His answer came swiftly. It was not Lord Hogg's doing. Stark and Tully infiltrators had breached the castle's defenses, overpowering the house guards and seizing control of the gates.
The tide of battle shifted back in favor of the Stark-Tully forces. Rebel forces surged into the courtyard, reinforcements pouring through the open gates. If the rebels took the castle entirely, they could fortify its defenses, forcing Rhaegar into a protracted siege he could ill afford. The hundreds of loyalist lives already lost would be for nothing.
Rhaegar's teeth clenched in frustration. He would not lose this battle.
"With me!" he barked to Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne. For the first time in this battle, Rhaegar charged into the thick of the fray, his short silver hair gleaming like a banner in the sun. Axes and swords swung wildly around him, but he pressed on, weaving through the chaos with the precision of a trained knight.
The castle gates loomed ahead, rebels swarming through and cutting down the last defenders within. Rhaegar drove his horse hard, barely slowing as he dismounted inside the courtyard, his sword flashing in the afternoon light. Ser Barristan and Arthur followed, forming a protective circle around their prince.
"I can handle these men," Rhaegar growled over the cacophony of battle, his voice firm and unyielding. "Go secure the portcullis and lower it. Seal this castle. The rebels will be crushed on the castle walls without an escape route. I will find Ravenclaw and end this madness myself."
Ser Barristan hesitated, his eyes narrowing with concern. The Kingsguard's oath bound him to protect Rhaegar, and abandoning his post felt like a betrayal. But Arthur, knowing Rhaegar well and accustomed to him fighting his own battles, did not hesitate. With a swift motion, he unsheathed Dawn, its blade catching the light, and readied himself to charge forward. While Barristan wrestled with his duty, Arthur's eyes remained on the fight ahead—his loyalty unwavering, trusting in Rhaegar's ability to handle what came next.
"With me!" Arthur called to Barristan as he sprinted toward the chains that controlled the portcullis, his sword cutting through any rebel foolish enough to bar his path. After a tense moment, Barristan nodded and followed, his blade carving a path through the chaos.
Rhaegar watched them go, his grip tightening on his sword. The rebels still flooded into the courtyard, but he felt no fear.
"I am no stranger to blood," Rhaegar muttered, slashing deeper into the courtyard where the chaos raged hottest. His violet eyes searched for a glimpse of the figure who had so thoroughly upended his plans—Lady Ravenclaw.
The clash of steel and the shrieks of dying men began to fade as Rhaegar sprinted toward the sept of House Hogg, his every sense honed on the shadow ahead. He had faced death many times before, yet this—this elusive figure cloaked in defiance—stirred something dark within him. It was not merely her brutality that called to him, but the strange magnetism of her rebellion, a challenge unlike any he had ever known.
Inside the sept, he found several Tully and Northern men forcing themselves upon a weeping woman. So, Lady Ravenclaw is losing control of her men, Rhaegar thought with bitterness, his gaze hardening.
"It's the dragon spawn!" One of the men shouted, pointing a gloved finger at Rhaegar after the crown prince made his presence known by crashing through the sept's dark oak doors.
The men, for a moment distracted by the sight of him, forgot the lady they had intended to dishonor. They turned instead, their growls echoing like wolves on a hunt, charging toward Rhaegar with bloodlust in their eyes. "Die!" they howled, but they were no match for him. The first two, reckless in their fury, fell to his blade with swift precision.
The remaining Rivermen and the last Northerner hesitated, eyes darting for an escape that never came. They charged, axes and spears raised, but Rhaegar danced through their attacks like a feline, sidestepping, slashing, parrying with the deadly rhythm of a knight. He even used his fist to crush the nose of one who had foolishly tried to flee behind Rhaeger, the banner of House Manderly etched on his armor.
The fight was over in moments. The sept floor, once holy, now soaked with blood, the stone greedily drinking it in as if a babe at its mother's teats.
"Hide, my lady. Find shelter. Stay hidden," Rhaegar urged the woman, helping her to her feet. She was too shaken to speak, her eyes wide with terror. A nasty gash marred her thigh, the wound surely a foreshadowing of the men's cruel intentions. Rhaegar's stomach twisted in revulsion. She nodded mutely, her only thought to flee, and she scurried away, disappearing into the shadows of the sept.
Rhaegar burst through the sept's arched doorway, his blade already in motion. Three men stood before him—two with the sigils of House Frey etched onto their steel armor, and one bearing the sun of winter, the sigil of House Karstark. With a single, fluid motion, Rhaegar cut through them. The first man, a Frey, felt the bite of Rhaegar's sword as it cleaved through his midsection, spilling his entrails onto the cold stone floor. The second Frey barely had time to react before Rhaegar's sword took his head clean off. The Karstark man, too slow to defend, met the same fate—his lifeless body collapsing as his head tumbled from his shoulders. Rhaegar wiped his blade, ready to sheath it, but before he could, the high-pitched cry of a young girl echoed through the air. His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the sound, his heart racing.
Rhaegar's breath caught as Lady Ravenclaw's form shifted in the midst of the carnage. Her hooded figure, draped in dark green, stood as an ominous silhouette against the blood-soaked ground. The courtyard, a sea of red, reflected the faint, dying light of the day, casting the scene in a chilling, almost otherworldly glow. She made no move at first, her back still turned to him, her cloak stirring lightly in the breeze. For a fleeting moment, Rhaegar considered that she might surrender—that the war had drained even her resolve. Then, with a swift motion, she turned, and the gleam of steel caught his eye.
Rhaegar froze as the woman's dagger pressed tightly against the throat of a sobbing young girl. The child, no older than ten, trembled in her captor's grasp, her round, tear-streaked face pale with terror. Blood beaded where the dagger bit into her throat.
"So, you've come for my head," the woman said, her voice low and venomous, laced with an icy calm that belied the chaos around them.
Rhaegar slowly lowered his longsword, holding it loosely in his hand to show he meant no immediate harm. Blood dripped from its tip, staining the earth beneath him.
"This is madness," he said, his voice ringing out with authority and frustration. "Leave the girl be. This does not have to end in innocent blood."
The woman's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Doesn't it? You and your kind have done it before."
She adjusted her grip on the girl, the dagger pressing slightly deeper. The child whimpered, tears wetting her cheeks. Her small hands clutched at the woman's arm, too weak to resist.
Rhaegar's violet eyes locked onto the woman's face, or what little of it he could see beneath her dark green hood. She was young—far younger than he had imagined for someone commanding such fear—and her lips, though shadowed, twisted with fury and defiance.
"You call yourself a liberator," Rhaegar began, his voice softening as he sought to diffuse the tension. "Yet here you are, hiding behind the life of an innocent. Is this the honor you claim to fight with?"
The words struck a chord; he saw it in the faint flicker of hesitation in her grip. But it passed as quickly as it came.
"Honor?" she spat, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Honor died the day the Mad King roasted Lord Rickard Stark and his son alive in the throne room. The flames that consumed them were the final death knell of any noble cause in this land. You speak of honor as if it still means something, but all that remains is ash and blood."
Rhaegar's jaw tightened. He took a cautious step forward, his sword still lowered. "I am not my father. I fight to end this madness, not perpetuate it. Let the girl go, and I will hear your grievances. You have my word."
The woman laughed bitterly. "Your word? The word of a dragon? Forgive me if I do not place much faith in it."
Despite her words, her grip on the girl seemed to falter slightly. Rhaegar saw his chance. He took another step forward, careful not to startle her.
"Let her go," he said, his voice low and steady. "Whatever vengeance you seek, it is with me. Not her."
"I should slit her throat now and paint the stonewalls with her blood. Would that bring your father to me? Would it make him wet with desire?"
"Stop!" Rhaegar's voice rang out, firmer now, the shock beginning to ebb. "The girl is innocent. She is no part of your quarrel."
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The woman's grip flickered again, this time with something that might have been doubt. But the dagger remained poised, the girl's life hanging by a thread.
Ravenclaw eventually discarded the young girl to the floor, tossing her out of harm's way with a swift, careless motion before reaching down to grasp a loose blade on the ground. Her fingers curled around the hilt, and with a flick of her wrist, she brandished it like an extension of herself. Now armed with two weapons—a slender dagger and a true longsword—she stood poised and ready, a force to be reckoned with.
She had discarded her hood entirely, the fabric tumbled away like a dark shadow retreating before the sunlight. Beneath, she wore only a chestplate emblazoned with the Stark sigil, the plain blue shirt underneath visible at the neckline. Her leather riding breeches clung to her legs, sturdy and practical for the battlefield. Her narrow, sharp features were now fully exposed, illuminated in the flickering shadows, and her steel-blue eyes burned with a ferocity that matched the flames licking at the walls. In that moment, she was no longer just a shadow of legend; she was a living tempest, fierce and untamed, ready to claim the battlefield as her own.
Rhaegar stood frozen, the weight of the revelation crashing over him like a storm. The figure before him—Lady Ravenclaw, the scourge of the Crownlands, the terror of Targaryen forces—was none other than Lyanna Stark! The woman who had once haunted him, not in nightmares, but in fleeting dreams of peace and beauty amidst the chaos.
Her face, now unhidden, was a mask of fury, framed by dark-brown locks that spilled unevenly around her collarbone. Her striking blue-grey eyes, once capable of disarming even the hardest of hearts, burned with madness. Yet, beneath the fire, Rhaegar saw something else—pain, loss, a wounded spirit driven to the brink.
She was a woman now. No longer could Rhaegar find in her face the youthful innocence of the girl who had sat at the Tourney of Harrenhal, unimpressed by the spectacle, her eyes scanning the knights as though they were mere distractions. The fire in her eyes now was something far fiercer. Lyanna Stark had changed, and Rhaegar was keenly aware of it.
Even with soot and blood smeared across her face, there was no denying the woman she had become. Rhager's thoughts betrayed him, flickering momentarily to something he knew was dangerous to entertain. She was beautiful—more so than he remembered. Her face was heart-shaped, with plump, red lips and high cheekbones that cut through the grimness of the battlefield like a delicate sculpture. Her hair, tangled and wild, framed her face like a crown of chaos, a perfect, untamed chaos.
The softness of her arms, once delicate and slender, had been replaced by the subtle yet undeniable lines of corded muscle, the mark of a warrior. Every movement she made now carried the quiet strength of someone who had fought, bled, and survived. It only added to the allure, something raw and captivating.
Rhaegar could almost hear the whispers in the halls of court, the awe in men's voices as they spoke of her. She would drive them mad, he knew. No man could stand in her presence without feeling that pull, that intoxicating blend of grace and defiance. And as she stood before him now, ready to strike, Rhaegar realized that Lyanna Stark was no longer just a figure of legend—she was a force in her own right, one that even a crown prince might find difficult to resist.
"Lyanna Stark…" he whispered, almost to himself, the name a bitter taste on his tongue. His grip tightened on his sword, though it still pointed harmlessly toward the ground. How had it come to this? How had the spirited girl of Winterfell become this vengeful specter, a force of nature more dangerous than any knight or bandit?
Rhaegar could not deny the atrocities committed in his family's name, could not erase the bloodshed that had driven Lyanna to this point. But he could not let her madness consume them, nor could he let her leave this castle.
"I am not my father," Rhaegar said firmly, his voice steady now. "I fight to stop his madness, Lyanna. I fight for a better realm, for a realm where no child must suffer. But that world cannot be built on more bloodshed."
The courtyard stood frozen, the air thick with anticipation. The distant clash of steel and shouts from the ongoing battle outside seemed like a world away, leaving only the charged silence between Rhaegar and Lyanna.
Her gaze locked with his, burning with a fury that seemed to cut deeper than any blade could. For a fleeting moment, Rhaegar thought that his flowery words, his attempt to sway her, might be enough to make her reconsider. Perhaps he could reach her, quell her thirst for vengeance with the right argument, the right appeal to reason.
But no. Her defiance burned hotter. The vengeance that had stirred in his chest turned to ice as she spoke, her voice low and cold, yet full of venom.
"Only one of us leaves this alley alive, Dragon."
And in that instant, Rhaegar knew her choice.
Her words cut through the heavy air, sharper than the dagger and sword she gripped in both hands, the two blades gleaming with deadly promise. There was no trace of hesitation in her stance—Lyanna Stark was ready to fight to the death.
The last of Rhaegar's resolve hardened. There would be no negotiation, not today. Only the clash of steel and the test of wills between two warriors who could not, and would not, back down.
He readied his own blade, the weight of it familiar in his hand, the fiery determination in his heart mirroring the storm raging in hers. He would not yield. Not to the past that haunted them both.
With a sharp breath, Lyanna lunged first. She would be the one to start their dance.
Rhaegar barely had time to adjust his blade before Lyanna was upon him, her speed startling him. She moved with the grace and deadly precision of a demon unleashed. Her blade came at him like a flash of lightning, a thrust aimed at his chest, fury and desperation fuelling the strike. The speed behind it was overwhelming, and for a moment, Rhaegar thought he might not be fast enough to react.
But instincts honed from years of combat kicked in. He sidestepped just in time, the edge of Lyanna's blade grazing the air where his ribs had been a heartbeat ago. The force of the thrust carried her forward, but Lyanna was already spinning, her second blade a blur of motion as she adjusted, seeking another opening.
Her speed was unnerving, unlike any fighter Rhaegar had faced before. It was as if she had become the embodiment of lightning itself—unpredictable, relentless, and unyielding. The comparison to Jaime Lannister, renowned for his quickness and deadly precision, flashed through his mind. Though Lyanna lacked the physical strength and technical mastery of the young Lion, her speed was every bit as lethal. Rhaegar quickly shoved the thought aside. This was no time for distractions.
Lyanna's eyes never left his, a wild intensity in her gaze that only sharpened with each failed attempt to land a blow. She was relentless, a flurry of motion, her blades cutting through the air in a deadly dance.
Rhaegar silently gave thanks to the Gods that he had cast aside his leg armor, wearing only his riding breeches and his castle-forged chestplate. He could scarcely imagine how he would have kept pace with her fury had he been fully encased in armor. As it was, he wore nothing but his chestplate and steel boots, the weight of them a mere fraction of the burden a full suit would have been.
Rhaegar raised his sword, parrying her strike with a heavy clang of steel against steel. The force of it sent a tremor through his arm, but he held his ground. She was wickedly quick, but lacked the raw strength of a man forged for war. He had faced foes twice his size before; this would be no different.
Yet, as the fight raged on, Rhaegar began to realize that this was more than just a duel. This was a reckoning. A clash not just of steel, but of wills. And he was starting to understand the true depth of the woman who stood before him—Lyanna Stark, a force of nature, with a heart as fierce and untamed as the land she came from.
She was not holding back. Her movements were a blur, her dual blades weaving a deadly dance of strikes and feints, each one aimed with purpose. To kill him! This wasn't the reckless fury of a common soldier—this was trained skill, honed by someone who had been fighting in the yard for far too long.
"Lyanna, stop this madness!" Rhaegar shouted, deflecting another rapid series of strikes. His voice carried a mix of urgency and fear. "You do not have to die here. Winterfell will need your guidance—your family needs you alive!"
"My family?" Lyanna hissed, her voice dripping with venom. Her blades clashed against his, the sound echoing in the narrow alley. "My family would have lived if your father hadn't burned them alive! And how does the crown prince respond to our cries for justice? He marches his banners into the Riverlands, slaughtering anyone who dares defy him!" Lyanna roared, redoubling her offensive onslaught, her fury fueling each strike.
Her words struck harder than her blades, but Rhaegar steadied himself. He had to end this, not with violence but with reason. Yet, she gave him no time, her blades flashing like silver lightning.
"You think I'm blind to the past, Lyanna?" Rhaegar snarled, his voice a mix of regret and steel. "I did not march into the Riverlands for conquest. I did it to secure the realm, to stop the flames of war that Robert Baratheon and his allies were spreading. You think I wanted this?" He parried another strike, his muscles straining against the force of her blows. "Your family is not the only one that suffered."
"Lies again!" Lyanna snapped, sidestepping his strike and spinning into a slash that grazed his exposed shoulder. "Do you think I haven't heard promises before? You want peace, dragonspawn? Earn it!"
Her relentless attacks were taking their toll, but Rhaegar's resolve hardened. He could not kill her, the North would never bend the knee if he did. He needed to disarm her, to stop her without taking her life.
They exchanged blows, the clash of steel and the rhythm of the duel filling the air, the kind of combat that would be sung of by bards for generations to come. For a brief moment, their faces were inches apart, her ragged breath mingling with his.
Rhaegar's sword came down in a calculated arc, his eyes searching for an opening. Lyanna, crouched low and quick, attempted to slash at his legs, but Rhaegar anticipated the move. He adjusted his strike, not aiming for her head, but instead driving the blade into her left shoulder muscle with a sickening squelch. The sound of metal meeting flesh rang out, and he expected her to yield, as most knights would have in the face of such a brutal wound.
But Lyanna was no knight.
She refused to scream as the blade cut deep into her shoulder. Instead, she gritted her teeth, her face contorted with fierce resolve, and in a fluid motion, she slipped away from the sword's dangerous bite. Rhaegar was caught off guard, his mind racing to adjust.
Her eyes, burning with defiance and danger, locked with his, a silent acknowledgment that she had gained the upper hand for a fleeting moment. Seizing the opportunity, Lyanna swung the small blade she carried with terrifying precision, slashing deep into Rhaegar's thigh. The blood gushed from the wound, and for a brief second, his balance faltered.
But Rhaegar was no green boy. He dodged Lyanna's follow-up strike—a blow meant to end his life—and staggered back, now coated in mud, his anger igniting. His grip tightened around the hilt of his great sword, and the warrior within him stirred. The hesitation he had once shown in this battle was gone. He would no longer hold back.
If Lyanna noticed the change in his demeanor, she gave no sign of it. Her blades were already in position, poised for another assault.
Rhaegar didn't counterattack immediately, and this only seemed to fuel her resolve. She pressed forward, her movements swift and deadly, striking with the ferocity of vengeance itself—one last push to break him.
Focusing on her rhythm, Rhaegar bided his time, parrying each strike with precision. Lyanna's speed was extraordinary, but speed could be countered. When she lunged for his throat, her movements fueled by unyielding rage, Rhaegar pivoted and brought his hilt crashing down on her wrist.
Her blade clattered to the ground, and before she could recover, Rhaegar swept her legs out from under her. Lyanna hit the ground hard, but even then, she didn't surrender. She reached for her second blade, but Rhaegar's boot came down on her hand, pinning it to the dirt.
"Enough!" Rhaegar shouted, his voice firm but pained. "This ends now, Lyanna."
She glared up at him, her eyes still aflame. "Kill me," she spat. "Or I'll come for you again. You'll never know peace, Targaryen."
Rhaegar shook his head, his expression softening. "I won't kill you, Lyanna. I won't become the monster you think I am."
For the first time, her expression faltered. The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by confusion and, perhaps, a flicker of something else—exhaustion, despair.
"I do not want your death," Rhaegar continued, his voice steady. "I want your strength. I want you to help me end this madness, to help me build a better realm."
Lyanna's lips parted, but no words came. The weight of his words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken truths. For a moment, neither of them moved, the chaos of the battle beyond the alleyway fading into a distant hum.
Rhaegar removed his boot from her hand and extended his own. "Please," he said, his violet eyes meeting hers. "Let us forge a new Westeros."
Lyanna would never yield. The way her eyes danced with barely contained madness told Rhaegar all he needed to know. She was a force of nature, unstoppable, relentless.
With what little strength she had left, Lyanna lunged at his leg, grabbing hold of it with a ferocity that caught the crown prince off guard. The sudden pull threw him off balance, and before he could react, he found himself crashing down on top of her. The weight of the fall momentarily stunned them both, but Lyanna wasted no time, her hand already reaching for her blade, aiming to bury it deep into Rhaegar's neck.
But Rhaegar was quick. He knew exactly what she would do.
As her hand gripped the hilt of the blade, he was faster. In one swift motion, he grabbed her wrist and yanked the weapon from her grasp before she could strike. With a surge of strength, he threw the blade as far away as possible, sending it skittering across the muddy ground.
For a moment, they lay there, breathless and tangled, both of them aware that the battle was nearing its end. With Lyanna's weapon out of reach, Rhaegar's chances of ending the duel without bloodshed had grown infinitely better.
She was a sight to behold pinned under him—beautiful and terrifying, like a snowstorm made flesh.
Rhaegar felt the sheer wildness of Lyanna Stark beneath him as she thrashed, screaming with a feral rage that seemed more animal than human. Her teeth snapped at the air, her body twisting and writhing as if she were a cornered wolf determined to fight to the bitter end.
"Stop this madness!" Rhaegar growled, his own strength waning as he struggled to hold her down. His bloodied thigh throbbed, and the sharp sting on his shoulder from the earlier stab wound made every movement excruciating.
As Rhaegar's forearm pressed down on Lyanna's throat, choking her into submission with every ounce of his strength, she struggled beneath him, her body writhing in desperation. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the pressure on her windpipe making every second feel like an eternity. Her eyes were wild with fury, but there was a glimmer of something else too—something primal, something that told Rhaegar she was not going to go down without one last, brutal attempt.
With a quick, frantic motion, Lyanna's hand shot out to the ground, her fingers scraping through the mud, searching for anything she could use to strike back. She had found it: a jagged glass shard, its edges glinting in the dim light, covered in dirt and blood from the chaos of the battlefield.
In a flash, she drove it up with all her remaining strength, stabbing the shard deep into Rhaegar's exposed belly, just beneath his chestplate. The sudden shock of pain hit him like a hammer, and Rhaegar's breath caught in his throat as the glass twisted inside him. He grunted, his grip faltering for a moment as he felt the sting of the shard tear through his flesh. Blood surged from the wound, warm and thick, coating Lyanna's exposed stomach.
Rhaegar's vision blurred with pain, his head swimming as the blood loss quickly took its toll. But he wasn't about to be taken down by the Stark woman—not now, not after everything. Fury mixed with agony as he roared, his anger and frustration boiling over.
With a primal cry, he wrenched her hand away from the glass, his strength taking hold as he pinned her wrist to the ground. His anger surged as he slammed her arm down, over and over, until he heard the sickening crack of bone breaking. Lyanna's face twisted in pain, but she still refused to scream, her jaw clenched tight as blood seeped from the corners of her mouth. Her eyes burned with hatred, but Rhaegar could see the desperation behind them. She had nothing left.
But he did.
Weak and dizzy from the blood loss, Rhaegar knew he had to end this. If he didn't, Lyanna would find another way to finish him off. With his free hand, he grabbed the hilt of his sword, raising it high. The weight of the weapon felt distant in his hands, his vision swimming. He could barely stay conscious, but there was no time to falter. He brought the base of the hilt down with all his remaining strength, slamming it against Lyanna's head with a sickening crack.
Her body went limp beneath him, the fire in her eyes extinguished. Rhaegar could feel his own strength failing, the world spinning wildly as his head grew heavier. He rolled off of her, his breathing shallow and labored, his own wounds starting to take their toll. He didn't care about the battle anymore. His body was giving out, his mind slipping from his grasp.
Lyanna lay motionless beside him, unconscious, blood trickling from the wound in her head. Rhaegar's chest heaved with exhaustion, and he closed his eyes, unable to keep the world around him from fading to black.
Unbeknownst to the prince, the battle outside had reached its end. The castle's portcullis, once raised in defiance, was lowered by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne, their swords still bloodied from the clash. The rebels, no longer able to fight or flee, had surrendered. The white banner was raised, signaling the end of the battle—though for Rhaegar, the true war had just begun.
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Author's note: This fight was heavily inspired by the Renfri vs. Geralt duel in The Witcher Season 1. To get a clearer mental image of how the fight played out, I recommend checking out that clip on YouTube. Renfri is who I imagine Lyanna would look like in my story.