The Dragon's Cold War

by HouseLannister558

In an alternate ASOIAF world, Robert Baratheon dies at the Trident, slain by Arthur Dayne. Rhaegar Targaryen wins the rebellion and marries a resentful Lyanna Stark. The North, hating the Targaryen Dynasty, becomes a hotbed of espionage and assassination attempts, leading to a tense cold war between the North and South. Rhaegar's rule over the Iron Throne is fragile!

8. Lyanna III

LYANNA

The winds off the Narrow Sea tangled through Lyanna's hair, leaving it damp with salt and mist. The day was warm—warmer than any she had known in Winterfell, where snow fell as often as rain. She tugged absently at her braids, the intricate twists and loops woven by her handmaidens now loosening in the sea breeze. Strands of dark hair came free, whipping across her face like threads of silk. She brushed them aside, her fingers tracing the patterns of the plaits as though unraveling them might untangle her thoughts.

The gulls cried above, their sharp voices cutting through the rolling crash of waves below. Lyanna was faced toward the shore, her feet sinking slightly into the soft earth. The sea stretched endlessly before her, a rippling sheet of silver and blue that shimmered beneath the afternoon sun. It was beautiful, she supposed, in its own strange way—wild and restless, like the songs of the bards. Yet it felt foreign, too, like the heat that clung to her skin and the scents of salt and brine that hung heavy in the air.

Her loyal guards stood nearby, swords at their sides, eyes sharp as hounds on the hunt. Among them, Ser Arthur Dayne stood tallest, his presence as immovable as the pale stone of Starfall. Dawn hung at his hip, the fabled blade forged from the heart of a fallen star, and though its pommel remained bound in leather, Lyanna could feel the silent promise it carried.

Yet she hated his ever-watchful gaze, the way he hovered at the edge of every step she took, silent and unyielding. A shadow carved in steel.

"Must you stand so close?" she asked, her voice sharp as the salt air.

Ser Arthur did not flinch. "It is my duty, my lady."

Lyanna's lips pressed into a tight line, her frustration spilling over into her words. "And what do you fear, Ser Arthur? That the waves might rise up and drag me to sea? Or that I might grow wings and fly beyond your reach?"

It had been a month since Ned rode back to the Riverlands, a month since she had been trapped in this wretched, cursed city, surrounded by dragons and lions. Her only respite was the steady, reassuring presence of Jon Arryn.

"The sea is not the only danger," he said, his voice calm, though his eyes flicked past her shoulder toward the horizon. Ever vigilant. Always looking. Lyanna crossed her arms, stepping closer as if to test his resolve.

"I do not need a nursemaid," she said sharply, her voice low but pointed, like a blade sliding through silk.

"No, my lady," Arthur replied, unruffled, his gaze steady on hers. "You need a sword. And King's Landing is rife with thieves and bandits who would see you as easy prey."

She tugged again at her braid, more out of habit than frustration, though the latter was never far from her heart when it came to Ser Arthur. Rhaegar had assigned him as her sworn sword after Ned departed for the North, a gesture meant to honor her—or perhaps to cage her. The Sword of the Morning, they called him. The greatest swordsman to ever live, some said. Lyanna had no doubt of it. She had seen him spar with men twice his size and disarm them with the grace and precision of a dancer, their every strike turned aside as if it were nothing.

And yet, even with the greatest of swords at her side, Lyanna found no defense against the stares. They followed her wherever she walked—cold, watchful, and brimming with judgment. The men of the Crownlands eyed her as if she were a wolf set loose in their den, wild and dangerous. The dowager queen regarded her with distrust, her thin lips forever pressed into disapproval. Tywin Lannister's gaze was worse—calculating, sharp as a blade poised to strike. And Jon Connington's? His eyes held something darker, something unreadable, as if he weighed her worth and found it lacking.

It made no difference whose eyes they were. They all burned the same—full of suspicion, contempt, and promises unspoken but understood. She was a prisoner in all but name, and the walls of the Red Keep loomed taller with each passing day.

The corridors of the keep seemed narrower than when she first arrived, the shadows darker. The tapestries and banners of House Targaryen hung high above her, their crimson and black designs a constant reminder of the dragons that once ruled the skies.

The lions, golden and proud, prowled in every corner, their sigils stitched into the fabric of courtly life, as if the Lannisters themselves owned more than the gold they boasted.

Jon Arryn had cautioned her to keep her head down and her words measured. "These are still dangerous times," he had said, his voice low and grave. "You are a wolf among lions and dragons. Do not let them hear you howl."

Yet here she remained, a hostage in all but name, bound by duty and honor. And so she steeled herself, her heart as cold and unyielding as the winter winds that howled beyond the Wall. She would endure. She must.

"If only I had my sword returned to me, then I could protect myself. Who would dare face Lady Ravenclaw ?" Lyanna's voice was low, but there was a tinge of jest in it, though the fire in her eyes told another story.

"Not a chance, my lady," Arthur replied, his tone firm as ever.

Lyanna huffed and turned away, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her fingers twitched, aching for the familiar grip of a blade. The moniker had swept through King's Landing like wildfire— Lady Ravenclaw, the scourge of the Crownlands. Rumors of her exploits spread with eager tongues, whispered in markets and taverns, echoed in shadowed halls and dim alleys. They said she had been seen riding through the Kingswood, cutting down bandits and thieves with ruthless precision. A she-wolf cloaked in shadow, they called her.

Rhaegar had cursed when he first heard the tales. He had paced before the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes dark and brooding as he demanded to know how the stories had slipped beyond the Keep. No matter how he tried to quash the gossip, it clung to her like smoke—insidious, lingering, impossible to banish.

The smallfolk despised her, muttering about the wild she-wolf who defied their southern ways, even as the nobles sharpened their knives, their eyes gleaming with barely concealed malice. How could he marry her now? they whispered in shadowed corners. How could the newly crowned king take a bride who had become the scorn of the Crownlands, a wolf in a dragon's lair?

Lyanna flexed her wrist—the one Pycelle had once believed beyond saving—and felt a flicker of strength returning. She rotated it slowly, up and down, testing the muscles with cautious determination. The grand maester had since revised his grim pronouncements, now declaring she might fully regain its use in time.

Her shoulder wound was mending just as well. She brushed her fingers over the bandaged skin, feeling the faint tug of healing flesh beneath. No sharp pain answered her touch, only the tightness of recovery. Pycelle had assured her that only a scar would remain, a testament to what she had endured, with no lasting harm to her strength.

And yet, Rhaegar still treated her like a child—caged, guarded, watched. She could not even step beyond the gates without half the Gold Cloaks in tow. Her sword hand itched for a fight, her body for motion. Instead, she was left pacing within stone walls, simmering like a pot ready to boil over.

Their last argument had nearly shattered them both. She remembered the rage in his voice, the fire in his eyes when she confronted him in his chambers after a long, grueling small council meeting. She wanted freedom, but he demanded safety. They had shouted until the walls themselves seemed to tremble.

"You can't keep me locked away like some prize to be guarded!" Lyanna's voice rang out sharp and defiant, echoing off the stone walls of Rhaegar's chambers. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, trembling with fury. "I am not one of your soldiers, Rhaegar. You cannot order me to stay put!"

Rhaegar stood by the hearth, his hands braced against the mantel as though he might shatter it under his grip. The firelight danced across his sculpted face, casting sharp shadows that matched the ferocity in his eyes. "You think this is about locking you away?" he bit out, his voice low and taut. "Do you have any idea what would happen if something were to befall you? If you—"

"If I died?" Lyanna cut in, her voice cracking like splintered steel. "Is that it? Are you so afraid my death will cause the realm to splinter into two?!"

His head snapped up, and for a moment, the anger seemed to drain out of him, replaced by something raw and wounded. "Yes," he admitted. The word fell between them like a stone, heavy and unrelenting. "Yes, I am."

Lyanna let out a sharp, mirthless laugh, but it died as quickly as it came, leaving only bitterness in its wake. She turned away, pacing toward the narrow window that overlooked the courtyard below. The sea of banners there—dragons, lions, and wolves alike—seemed as distant as the North itself.

"Wake up, Rhaegar." Her voice was sharp with derision. "The realm is already shattered beyond repair. You're fighting to save a corpse and dressing it in silk to hide the rot."

And then—she flinched at the memory—Rhaegar had thrown his goblet across the room. It had shattered against the stone, red wine bleeding down the wall like spilled blood.

He had gone pale the moment it left his hand. Lyanna hadn't moved, but something in her face must have betrayed her, because his anger drained away as quickly as it had come. He looked as though he'd been struck himself, his mouth set in a thin, hard line.

Defeated, he'd turned away from her, shoulders slumping. "You may leave the Red Keep," he had said at last, the words hollow, "but not without guards."

It was a victory, but a bitter one. The full escort trailed her now wherever she went, and Arthur Dayne stood at its head like a living wall of steel. Lyanna glanced at him again, but the Sword of the Morning gave nothing away, his expression carved from stone.

She clenched her fists, resisting the urge to argue with him yet again. Her time would come. The itching in her palm told her so.

"It is time we return to the Red Keep, my lady," Arthur said, his voice calm but brooking no argument. "The Lannisters will be waiting. Cersei and Ser Kevan will surely want their future queen in attendance for this arrival."

Lyanna let out a huff, her fingers tightening briefly around the pendant at her throat—a slender wolf of black iron, hung upon a thin silver chain. It was a Stark's sigil, sharp and unyielding, yet small enough to be hidden beneath the high collar of her gown. She had worn it since leaving Winterfell, a talisman of home and all she had lost.

She cast one last, lingering look at the rising tides of the Narrow Sea, where the sunlight danced across the crests like shards of glass. The vibrant golden roses of House Tyrell and the burgundy grapes of House Redwyne flapped proudly on the masts of dozens of warships, their sails swelling in the breeze. They had arrived days ago, a show of strength and wealth that made the docks groan under their weight.

The journey back to the Red Keep had been uneventful, but even in the calm streets of King's Landing, Lyanna could feel the tension in the air, thick and electric, as if a storm was waiting to break. Once inside her chambers, maids hurried to attend to her, as she attempted to dismiss them with a curt word, determined not to show any sign of fragility. Still, she could not avoid what was coming. She allowed them to help her out of her riding breeches, the rough fabric quickly replaced by the soft silks of an elegant gown—a gown that seemed to mock her very soul. Black and crimson, the colors of House Targaryen, the house she had learned to despise.

When first presented with the crimson and black gown, Lyanna had protested vehemently, the sight of the fabric turning her stomach, as bile rose in her throat. But the maids were insistent, their eyes unwavering as they claimed there were no other gowns fit for court. Lyanna suspected their words were a lie, though she could not bring herself to question why. A part of her believed they were testing her, seeing how far they could push before she would break.

But Lyanna had never been one to break. Not even when her men turned their backs on her. She relented, though every moment spent in those colors felt like a betrayal. And since that day, the maids had made it their mission to ensure she wore the crimson and black of House Targaryen, as though to strip away the last remnants of her defiance.

Once dressed, she gathered her strength and walked with purpose to the throne room. Jon Arryn was there, waiting for her by the entrance. He had always been a man of few words, yet there was something in his eyes that Lyanna trusted—a quiet understanding, a bond forged through shared silence. He offered her a faint smile, and she returned it, though it was a smile tinged with sadness.

"Hope all is well, Lady Lyanna," Jon said softly, his voice carrying unspoken words.

She nodded, the smile fading from her lips. "The Blackwater Bay is teeming with life," she replied, her voice low, as though speaking too loudly would disturb the fragile peace she had glimpsed. "As if untouched by war."

Jon nodded in silence, his expression unreadable. There was little need for further words. Lyanna knew the dangers of speaking too much in the Red Keep—every utterance could be twisted, every glance weighed for meaning.

"How is your wife, Lysa, doing?" Lyanna asked, breaking the silence that hung between them.

Jon stiffened at the name, and a shadow of gloominess crossed his aging face. "She despises me, I suspect," he said quietly, his voice tinged with a weariness that betrayed his effort to remain composed. His hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing it in a manner that seemed more reflexive than conscious.

He spoke again, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Truth be told, we've only lain together once. I had hoped to fill her belly with a babe, but alas... it was to no avail." His face reddened at the admission, his shame evident, though his eyes remained guarded, betraying none of the deeper pain he felt.

"King Rhaegar wishes to bring her to King's Landing," Jon continued, his voice low and heavy with reluctance. "It may be for the best... for both of us. She was given the distance she needed, and now..." He trailed off, as if the words he sought had already slipped from him. "Perhaps it is better that way, after all."

Jon's gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers clenching around the fabric of his tunic. "I wanted... I wanted it to be different, Lyanna. I wanted her to bear me a child, to be something more than just a political alliance." He swallowed hard, as though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. "But it seems the gods have other plans."

Lyanna nodded slowly, her gaze distant as her thoughts wandered to the countless women she had known—those who had been wed for duty's sake, their hearts bound not by love, but by responsibilities. They had given themselves to causes, to crowns, to lands, and in return, they had seen their joy wither under the unrelenting demands of duty. She knew, too well, that her own marriage would be no different. Duty had claimed her heart long ago, and it would leave little room for anything else.

"Enough of these dour talks," Jon Arryn said, a kind smile breaking across his weathered face. His voice, though carried the strain of years of hardship, had a warmth to it that cut through the apprehension of the air. "Let us speak of something lighter, for a change. There is no use in dwelling on the shadows when the sun still shines." He motioned toward the sky, as if to beckon the light back into their conversation. And so, they spoke of their homes, of the passing seasons, of memories both sweet and joyous, as they made their way toward the throne room.

Together, they crossed the threshold, their footsteps echoing off the cold stone floor of the vast hall. The throne room, filled with the quiet hum of whispered ambitions and delicate power plays, seemed to close around them, the very air stiff with the presence of courtiers who saw themselves above all others. Yet, Lyanna had learned long ago not to fear them. The whispers and sidelong glances of the nobles were as insubstantial as the gowns they wore. Not even the Iron Throne, gleaming cold and sharp in the center of the room, could unseat her resolve. It might be a symbol of power, but it held no sway over her.

Jon and Lyanna stood near the edge of the hall, shrouded in the shadows where secrets were often whispered, their eyes drawn toward the Iron Throne. Lyanna's gaze, however, remained fixed on the throne, where the ever-beautiful Rhaegar sat regally, his presence commanding the throne room.

Then, the sound of trumpets filled the air, loud and proud, heralding the arrival of the Lannisters. The doors to the throne room jarred open, and in strode Tywin Lannister, his head held high with pride, his red and gold armor glowing in the torchlight. The banner of House Lannister fluttered behind him, casting a long shadow across the room.

Lyanna's sharp eyes caught sight of a man with golden hair, tentative in his movements, following closely behind Tywin. His armor and jewelry were fine, but it was the woman beside him who commanded Lyanna's full attention. Cersei Lannister—undeniably beautiful, so much so that Lyanna found herself unsure if she had ever seen a woman as striking. Perhaps only Ashara Dayne could rival her in beauty, but even that was a distant thought.

Cersei's long golden hair cascaded down her back, luminescent like threads of sunlight, her neck adorned with brilliant jewels. Her golden gown dipped low across her bosom, a subtle yet bold declaration of her allure. As she walked with the air of one accustomed to power, Lyanna caught a flash of something dark, something dangerous, hidden behind the woman's façade of piety. It was in her eyes—green as jade, cold and calculating, betraying a mind far more ruthless than her beauty suggested.

"May I present, Ser Kevan of House Lannister and Cersei of House Lannister," a voice boomed loudly, the announcer's words echoing through the hall as the golden retinue bowed before the throne.

Rhaegar's face remained passive, betraying nothing as he regarded the Lannisters, his gaze as cool and composed as ever. Lyanna's lips thinned slightly as she watched, knowing full well that the game was about to take an even more dangerous turn.

"I welcome you to King's Landing, Ser Kevan, Cersei Lannister," Rhaegar said, his voice smooth and composed. "We are forever thankful to House Lannister for helping rid the realm of madness. A feast shall be held to celebrate House Lannister," he continued, as the room broke into polite applause.

The Lannisters bowed, their reverence carefully practiced, false humility evident in their gestures. After a time spent discussing updates from across the Crownlands, including the gradual cleanup of Flea Bottom, Rhaegar allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

"I have two pieces of good news, my lords and ladies," Rhaegar declared, rising from the Iron Throne.

"The Dowager Queen has given birth to a daughter," he continued, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords and ladies. "She has named her Daenerys Targaryen. Stormborn, they call her!"

The room erupted in cheers at the news, but Lyanna's heart sank. Great, more Targaryens being born into this realm, she thought bitterly. Each time one is born, the gods flip a coin , the notion souring her mind. But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she felt a pang of remorse. This child's story had not yet been written, and she was blameless in its unfolding.

The second piece of news arrived with even greater excitement. "Some moons ago, I entrusted my children to Ser Gerold Hightower for their safety," Rhaegar announced, his voice rising with pride. "Now that the war has passed, my children—your future king and princess—have returned to us. They arrived early this very morning."

Rhaegar's face beamed with joy, his smile widening as the cheers in the hall grew louder.

As the assembly adjourned, the highborn departed the throne room in high spirits, their voices echoing with lighthearted chatter. Lyanna followed Jon Arryn toward the doors but could not shake the intensity of Rhaegar's stare on the back of her neck. She turned sharply, catching him in the act. He quickly looked away, adjusting the crown atop his silver hair and clearing his throat as if to cover his embarrassment. Rising from the throne, Rhaegar exited through a side passage, flanked by two members of the diminished Kingsguard.

"They say Rhaegar is seeking new Kingsguard knights," Jon Arryn murmured as they walked side by side.

Lyanna nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "It was always going to come to this," she said softly. "The rebellion cost us all dearly—no one more than the Kingsguard."

Jon glanced at her, his tone low. "The small council is urging Rhaegar to appoint men from the North and Riverlands. They think it will mend old wounds... and bind the realm together."

Lyanna said nothing, though the thought gnawed at her. Could Rhaegar's court truly mend the fractures carved by war? Unlikely , she mused, her thoughts dark and sour. Wounds like these fester—they do not heal with words and titles.

They lingered in the Maidenvault Gardens for a time, the warm sun spilling over the polished stone paths and vibrant blooms. The scent of lavender and roses filled the air, yet Lyanna found no comfort in it. Too warm, too noisy, she thought, tugging idly at the silver pendant around her neck. Even here, surrounded by beauty, she felt out of place.

Her gaze shifted, catching a flash of gold. Cersei Lannister. The Lioness of the Rock, her golden hair twinkling in the sunlight, moved with a practiced grace that commanded attention. Her golden gown trailing behind her like molten gold. She was flanked by a small retinue of Lannister guards, their armor polished to a high shine.

Cersei passed without so much as a glance in their direction, her head held high, eyes fixed forward. Lyanna's fingers curled into a fist at her side. Of course, she thought. A lion does not lower its gaze for wolves.

Lyanna frowned, irritation prickling at her.

Later, they returned to the Great Hall for the feast. Lyanna was seated beside Rhaegar, who offered her a small, warm smile. She ignored him, focusing instead on the grand spectacle unfolding before her. Across the hall, Tywin, Ser Kevan, and Cersei were seated, the Lannisters praised as heroes of the realm. The feast was lavish, with dishes from across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Entertainers from Essos performed fiery displays, their flames dancing in mesmerizing patterns, while bards filled the air with song.

But as the music shifted from The Rains of Castamere , Lyanna stiffened. The bards began to play "Brave Danny Flint," a northern ballad she had known since childhood. It was a beautiful melody, but the tragic tale it told felt painfully out of place amidst the revelry. Her chest tightened, a mix of anger and unease rising like a storm in her gut.

She pushed back her chair abruptly, the scraping of wood against stone drawing curious glances. "I need to be excused," she said, her voice tight, as if she were struggling to swallow a bitter grape.

Rhaegar frowned but nodded, motioning for Ser Barristan to escort her. Lyanna left the Great Hall, her footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors of the Red Keep as the sounds of feasting and laughter faded behind her.

Her thoughts churned as she walked. Why had the song unsettled her so? Was it the court's attempt to weave northern traditions into this southern tapestry—a hollow gesture of unity? Or worse, was it a calculated effort to make her feel welcome as their future queen? The very notion grated at her.

Lyanna didn't need their pity, and the pretense of inclusion only fueled her frustration. She pressed on through the dim halls, seeking solace in the quiet away from the pageantry of a realm she could not belong to.

Barristan Selmy walked in silence, the faint clink of his armor echoing through the quiet halls, yet he offered no words to fill the heavy stillness. Their solemn march through the winding corridors of the Red Keep was abruptly interrupted by the heavy, purposeful tread of soldiers. Around the corner came Cersei Lannister, her green eyes blazing with fury. The anger that radiated from her was palpable, and her voice rang out, sharp and unrestrained:

"It should have been me! I was meant to be his queen!"

Cersei spat, her words trembling with a mix of rage and desperation. "Father promised me!"

Lyanna halted in her tracks, startled by the raw venom in Cersei's tone. The lioness of the Rock was upon her in an instant, her men halting as she locked eyes with Lyanna. For a fleeting moment, fury blazed in Cersei's gaze, but it quickly melted away, replaced by a carefully practiced mask of humility. False piety cloaked the rage that had just moments before erupted.

"My lady," Cersei said, her head inclining ever so slightly, though her voice was as cold as ice.

Lyanna's mind swirled with a thousand thoughts, each one too sharp to hold, too dangerous to voice. But her lips could form only the simplest reply: "Lady Cersei." Her feet, as if guided by instinct, moved of their own accord, carrying her swiftly away from the lioness.

The farther Lyanna walked, the clearer the puzzle became in her mind. Tywin Lannister had not marched his banners south out of honor, nor out of any true desire to end Aerys's reign, as the tales had been told. No, a deal had been struck—one brokered between House Lannister and Rhaegar's forces. Cersei had likely been promised to Rhaegar in exchange for Lannister soldiers to secure victory in the final days of the war.

It explained so much: Jaime Lannister's unexplained pursuit through King's Landing, Tywin's barely concealed vexation whenever Lyanna crossed his path, the cold glances and the simmering resentment that had never fully hidden itself. And Cersei's sudden arrival in King's Landing, having left Casterly Rock well before news of Aerys's death could have even reached the Westerlands.

Lyanna let out a dry laugh, tinged with unpleasantness. Here she was, fated to marry a Targaryen King against her will, while Cersei Lannister would do anything—everything—to claim that same fate. The gods had a cruel sense of humor.

Lyanna did not have the energy to do anything else for the night. She walked to her chamber, her steps light against the cobblestone floor. She gave Ser Barristan Selmy a curt nod, her voice low but sincere as she thanked him for escorting her safely.

He returned the nod, his expression unchanged, ever the loyal knight. "It was my duty, my lady," he said quietly.

With that, she entered her chamber, the door closing softly behind her. The flickering candlelight cast long, trembling shadows across the stone walls. For a fleeting moment, the warmth of the room felt like an intrusion, a mockery of the stillness she sought. She had not come here to find comfort—only a moment of respite, though she doubted even that would be granted tonight.

The next morning, Lyanna was jolted awake by a sharp, raspy knock on her chamber door. Her heart raced as the sound broke through the lingering haze of her dream.

"Come in," she called, her voice still thick with sleep.

The door creaked open, and three maids bustled in, their faces alight with excitement.

"Lady Lyanna, we must get you ready! There is good news!" one of the maids gushed, her voice high with enthusiasm. "Ser Jaime Lannister has returned! He lives!" The others tittered, their laughter filling the air.

Lyanna's eyes widened in disbelief. "What?" she muttered, her thoughts racing. The very notion seemed impossible. She had seen the aftermath of Aerys's madness, the carnage wrought by his twisted mind. No one could have survived—no one, save for those few who had fled before the blast.

She felt a coldness settle over her, as if the very air in the room had shifted.

"Get me ready," she said, her voice firmer now. She stood quickly, the news both intriguing and frightening. This would be a day to remember. A day full of surprises, and perhaps even more questions than answers.

Once she was ready, Lyanna demanded to be escorted to the throne room where court was to be held. As she made her way through the corridors, the sounds of a cheering crowd grew louder. Flowers were tossed into the air, their petals drifting on the wind, and the people's cheers rang through the streets of King's Landing. Jaime Lannister had returned to a hero's welcome, having slain the traitors who killed Aerys the second of his name and saved countless souls in Flea Bottom. A highborn risking his neck for the wellbeing of the smallfolk—such deeds would surely ensure that Jaime's name was inscribed forever in the White Book.

So the stories were indeed true, Lyanna mused—at least, the smallfolk believed them to be. Jaime was their savior.

Inside the throne room, Lyanna's eyes fell upon him—the famed Jaime Lannister, kneeling before the Iron Throne. His golden hair, still damp from a recent bath, shimmered in the torchlight. He wore a fine garment that hung loosely about his form, his posture regal yet relaxed. He looked every bit the lion he was reputed to be, but there was something more in his eyes—something unreadable that tugged at Lyanna's curiosity.

Dangerous and sincere all at once, it was a combination that confused her, a conflict of dualities she couldn't quite unravel. There was a coldness, yes, but also a flicker of something else, a depth that seemed to hint at untold stories.

She walked beside Ser Brynden Tully, who gave her a warm smile, his eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "Curious times, indeed," he said with a wry smirk. "Tywin finally gets his heir back, after all this time."

Lyanna gave him a small nod, her gaze still lingering on Jaime. She could see the way the light seemed to catch in his eyes, the sharpness of his features, though they were as gaunt as any commoners. There was no denying the man's beauty, a beauty that mirrored his sister, Cersei, in the sharpness of his features and the cutting emerald eyes that seemed to pierce everything it gazed upon.

"Rise, Ser Jaime, welcome back to King's Landing," Rhaegar's voice rang out, deep and authoritative from the Iron Throne. "We are pleased to see you alive and well, and thank you…" His voice trailed off as he turned his gaze to the man standing beside Jaime.

The man with dark hair, a devilish smirk playing on his lips, stepped forward. "The name is Bronn, your grace," he said, his voice full of irreverence. The smirk never left his face as he finally kneeled beside Jaime.

The crowd erupted into murmurs, shocked by Bronn's brass attitude towards the king. Yet Rhaegar, either not noticing or not caring about the display, nodded thoughtfully.

"You will be rewarded very handsomely, Bronn of…" Rhaegar's words faltered, his gaze briefly on the man who now knelt beside Jaime, as if trying to recall the right title. But Rhaeger seemed unsure, and Lyanna did not blame him. The man had no apparent title—he looked every bit the sellsword he likely was.

Rhaegar's eyes shifted to Tywin, who stood nearby, the shimmering Hand of the King pin on his breast catching the light. Tywin leaned in, speaking low into Rhaegar's ear, his voice too soft for anyone else to hear. The king nodded in acknowledgment, his face a mask of unreadable calm.

"Bronn, it seems unlikely you hold any lands to your name," Rhaegar said, his tone measured, but there was a hint of intrigue in his voice. "Nonetheless, that will change soon."

The man's smile grew wider at Rhaegar's words, and he bowed his head in acknowledgment, elation whirling in his eyes. Rhaegar's gaze then shifted to Jaime, his expression indecipherable, as if awaiting his next move.

"Ser Jaime will be allowed to return to Casterly Rock, where he will take up his position as Lord Tywin's heir. He will rule in his father's stead, as Tywin is now Hand of the King", the murmurs rippling through the throne room as Rhaeger delivered the edict.

Lord Tywin remained silent, but Lyanna could see it in his eyes—something rare. Gone was the cold, calculating gaze he usually wore. Instead, there was something akin to pride, though she couldn't be sure.

Ser Jaime, clearly caught off guard, straightened up, his expression wide with surprise. "I will be doing no such thing, Your Grace." His challenge hung in the air, cutting through the murmurs like an axe. The gasp that followed rippled through the room, even Lyanna's posture stiffening. Bold, she thought.

Tywin's gaze darkened, but he held his tongue. His eyes snapped to Rhaegar, but he refrained from speaking.

Rhaegar, unruffled, remained calm on the throne. He flexed his right hand, rubbing his thigh absently as though easing away his pain. "What do you mean, Ser Jaime?" he asked, his voice peaceful but edged with curiosity.

Jaime straightened, meeting the king's gaze with unwavering resolve. "Respectfully, Your Grace, I am a knight. Knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne himself. I defeated the Smiling Knight and earned my place on the Kingsguard. I will not leave your side, Your Grace, for this is my duty. I served your father, now let me serve you."

The throne room fell into a thick silence, save for the faint sound of a silent cough from Tywin. Whether it was one of shock or barely contained anger, Lyanna could not tell.

She snorted softly, her disdain for Jaime's words barely contained. Did he truly believe the Kingsguard was a position of honor? It was meant for the greatest swordsmen, not the most virtuous. All of the Kingsguard had stood by and watched as Aerys burned the realm. Not very honorable, in Lyanna's estimation.

Rhaegar pressed his lips together, the faintest furrow creasing his brow—not in anger, but in earnest confusion. "You speak of duty, Ser Jaime, yet you defy your king's decree. Explain yourself."

Jaime straightened, shoulders squared, his clipped golden hair catching the torchlight that illuminated the room. Across the throne room, Cersei lingered by a stone pillar, her face a mask of pride, but her eyes betrayed something darker—anger, perhaps, or something sharper still. Lyanna Stark stood farther back, watching Cersei with a carefully blank expression, though she did not miss the flicker of emotion in her gaze.

"My vows were to protect the realm—and its king. I mean to honor them," Jaime said, the edge in his voice cutting through the throne room.

Rhaegar regarded him in silence for a long moment before finally nodding. "Very well. We will speak of this further."

Tywin Lannister stood as still as a statue, but Lyanna saw the vein in his neck pulsing, taut and ready to burst. His emerald eyes burned, sharp as a lion's, and for a moment she thought he might unsheathe his word and strike Jaime dead with a crude swing. Twice now she had seen the Warden of the West crack beneath his polished veneer, and it unsettled her more than any cold glare ever could.

Jaime dipped his head in acknowledgment, though there was little humility in the gesture. He turned on his heel, the sound of his boots echoing as he strode toward the door.

Bronn paused just long enough to shoot Lyanna a grin, all sharp teeth and insolence. She met his gaze and held it, her face as cold and unyielding as the Wall. Men had looked at her like that before—hungry, bold, and careless—and she had learned long ago how to stare them down without a word.

When the Lannister heir left the throne room, limping heavily as he clutched his sides, the low murmur of the highborns who had been watching erupted once again into a flood of speculation and hushed conversations.

Ser Brynden Tully did not speak, but simply raised an eyebrow and gave Lyanna a knowing smirk. She hid her smile, but it tugged at the corner of her lips nonetheless. "Looks like Rhaegar's dreams of perpetual peace are not as clear-cut as he had hoped," she murmured under her breath, though she suspected the words were more for herself than for anyone else.

The room stilled when Stannis Baratheon entered, his arrival heralded by the fluttering of Baratheon banners, their dark colors defiant against the crimson standards of the Targaryens. The courtiers, who had been brimming with whispered gossip, fell silent as the new Lord of Storm's End walked towards the throne, his head held high, though his scraggly frame betrayed the hardship he had experienced.

Lyanna examined his figure, noting the sharpness of his features, the hollowness beneath his eyes. There were rumors that Stannis had been forced to eat rats within the walls of Storm's End, when the Reach had starved them out—whispers too grim to believe entirely, yet seeing the thinness of the man before her made her wonder. The truth of those rumors remained uncertain, but the coldness in his expression told a different story altogether.

Rhaegar stiffened atop the Iron Throne as Stannis approached, the two Kingsguard standing at the base of the dais, their posture rigid, their hands hovering near their swords as though anticipating trouble. It was to be expected, Lyanna thought. Rhaegar had slain Stannis's brother on the battlefield, and though the easing tensions between them had been known, it was still a raw wound.

But then, to Lyanna's surprise, Stannis bowed with little resistance, his voice ringing out in a tone of absolute honor. "It is my duty to protect the Stormlands now," he said with a firm, unwavering resolve. The Baratheon banners unfurled behind him, and it was hard to deny the strength in the man's words—even if his gaunt frame seemed to betray him.

Rhaegar stood from the throne and descended the steps, the Kingsguard following his every move with rigid precision, hands gripping the pommel of their swords. But when Rhaegar placed a hand on Stannis's shoulder, Lyanna could see the tension leave the Kingsguard, even if the moment still felt uneasy.

"Rise, Lord Stannis Baratheon, as the new Lord of Storm's End," Rhaegar commanded.

Stannis did so without hesitation, though his eyes remained hard—either with hatred or the promise of revenge, Lyanna couldn't say. His bow was brief, but his hardened gaze spoke volumes. The lords and ladies in attendance cheered, the sound of unity echoing through the hall. House Baratheon and House Targaryen, no longer enemies. The cheers filled the space, though Lyanna felt little of the joy that others seemed to find in the spectacle.

Beside her, Ser Brynden Tully clapped slowly, almost mockingly, his voice low as he leaned toward her. "Stannis is a hard man," he whispered, "He will rule the Stormlands with an iron fist. He never did care much for the way Robert sullied the name of House Baratheon. He'll stay loyal to the crown, I suspect."

Lyanna nodded, but a chill crawled down her spine as she looked at the thin, steely man who stood before them. He was handsome, in his own way, she could admit—though not nearly as dashing as Robert had been on first impression. Yet there was something about him, something cold and calculating, that unsettled her.

Rhaegar's voice rang out again, slicing through the cheers. He raised his left hand, his right still resting on Stannis's shoulder. "To further unite the realm, Stannis Baratheon will be betrothed to Lady Cersei of House Lannister," he announced, his words hanging in the air like a challenge. "A union that will unite two great houses."

If Rhaegar had expected a roar of approval, or even a murmur of excitement, he was sorely mistaken. The room fell into a heavy silence. Not a cough, not a breath was heard. The broad smile that had been gracing Rhaegar's face faltered, and his expression shifted—curiosity, confusion, perhaps even the faintest hint of annoyance, crept across his features as he surveyed the royal court.

Brynden Tully did not look taken aback—nor did Tywin Lannister or Jon Arryn. They remained composed, their expressions carefully schooled, as if the announcement had been expected all along.

"You knew," Lyanna said, her voice edged with quiet accusation.

Brynden shot her a sidelong glance and gave a slight nod, his smirk faint but unmistakable. "All of the small council knew days ago," he admitted, his tone carrying no apology. "Tywin was resistant, of course—for reasons that are his own—but he was eventually persuaded to see reason." Brynden leaned in slightly, lowering his voice though his words carried no real secrecy. "Marrying his daughter to the Lord of Storm's End isn't exactly a poor match for House Lannister. But knowing Tywin, I'd wager he had his sights set on something far more ambitious. Something that's no longer possible."

He smirked again, the hint of amusement in his eyes daring her to rise to the bait. Lyanna bit her lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Across the chamber, Cersei Lannister stood rigid, her emerald eyes ablaze with fury. Her perfectly sculpted features, so often the mask of composure, were marred by the faintest tremor in her jaw. A flush of red crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks like wildfire threatening to spread. Yet she did not speak. She did not move.

Lyanna watched her closely, noting the way her teeth worried at her lower lip—hard enough, it seemed, to draw blood. She knew. Of course, she knew. The daughter of Tywin Lannister would not be left ignorant of such schemes. No, Cersei had been told, perhaps even prepared for this moment, yet the look in her eyes betrayed the truth. Prepared or not, she had not accepted it.

Lyanna almost pitied her, almost . But she knew better than to pity a lioness. Cersei's silence was not submission—it was a Squall gathering strength. And when it broke, gods help them all.

Stannis bowed again, stiff and unyielding, yet there was no trace of joy in the gesture. Most men would have smiled at the prospect of wedding such a beautiful woman—and a Lannister, no less—but Stannis looked as though he had been handed a death sentence. His face was a mask of stone, hard and unreadable, but his eyes betrayed him. There was no hunger there, no triumph. Only cold resignation.

Lyanna studied him in silence, her thoughts dark. It will be a loveless marriage .

Rhaegar shifted away from Stannis, clearly unsettled by the lack of enthusiasm. His smile, so bright at the announcement, faltered. He stepped back, his movements rigid, and cleared his throat in the uneasy quiet. The king looked suddenly smaller beneath the watching stares.

Stannis left the audience hall without ceremony, his men trailing behind him like shadows. Their heavy boots echoed against the stone floor, fading as the doors groaned shut. Yet the silent chatters lingered, harsh and uneasy, as though the air itself had yet to recover.

Lyanna remained rooted in place, her hands clasped tightly before her to keep them from trembling. The lords and ladies around her whispered in low voices, their words too faint to catch but heavy with speculation. She felt their eyes, sharp as daggers, but it was Rhaegar's gaze that burned the most.

When he stepped toward her, she braced herself. He moved slowly, deliberately, with the grace of a man who had been born to rule. His silver hair shined beneath the torchlight, and his violet eyes never left hers.

Then, to her astonishment, he extended his hand.

Lyanna stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. For weeks, he had kept her at a distance, treating her presence as no more than a duty. And now, this—this sudden, public display of unity? Her fingers twitched at her side, and she had half a mind to scoff and turn her back on him.

But she didn't.

You promised Ned , she reminded herself bitterly. No trouble for the North.

She had clung to the hope that Rhaegar would tire of her after the bedding. Perhaps he'd grow angry when he realized she hadn't quickened with child. She would be careful, taking moon tea after his visits, though even that required caution. Grand Maester Pycelle's loyalties were clearly bound to Tywin Lannister, and she dared not trust him fully. She would need to find moon tea from another source, and the thought left a hollow pit in her stomach.

Even so, Lyanna knew better than to provoke Rhaegar here, in the sight of the court.

So she relented, placing her hand in his. Whether it was the plea she thought she glimpsed in his eyes or the way the torchlight cast shadows across his sculpted features, she couldn't say. But she let him draw her forward, looping her arm through his as the murmur of voices broke into open chatter.

Rhaegar smiled at her—a soft, disarming smile that might have melted a softer heart.

Lyanna did not smile back.

She stood rigid at his side, her arm a weight on his, and as the courtiers whispered and watched, she wondered not for the first time if she'd made a mistake coming here.

Her eyes flickered across the royal hall, examining faces she had already learned to be wary of. Varys, the Spider, lingered near the edge of the hall, his smile as soft and unreadable as silk. He knew too much already.

Varys had returned from whatever shadowed lands he had scurried off to after Aerys had demanded his head. His absence had been brief, yet long enough to stoke rumors—whispers of exile, of secret bargains, and darker still, of alliances forged in the dark corners of the Free Cities.

His return had not been met with cheers. There had been no horns sounded nor banners raised in welcome. He had slipped back into the Red Keep like a shadow, unnoticed by most but not by the men who mattered.

The small council had restored him promptly to his role as Master of Whispers, as if his absence had been no more than a passing inconvenience. Yet Lyanna could see it clearly—the unease in the lords' eyes when they crossed his path, the way even the knights of the Kingsguard kept their distance, as though wary of what secrets might cling to his robes.

And now he stood there, as if he had never left at all, his hands folded and his gaze sharp despite the softness of his smile. Lyanna suppressed a shiver.

He always knew the darkest secrets of court. And that made him dangerous.

Once outside the throne room and free of lingering gazes, Lyanna yanked her arm away from Rhaegar as though burned by fire. A flash of hurt shimmered across his features, quick as summer lightning, but he said nothing. Instead, he averted his eyes, jaws tightening.

"Why?" Lyanna demanded, her voice sharp.

Rhaegar did not answer at first. He only closed his eyes, bracing himself, as if steeling for an explosive argument.

"We are to be wedded in the coming weeks, my lady," he said at last, his voice calm but strained. "It is only proper that we show unity before the court and put an end to whispers of our... mutual distaste." He paused, a shadow of irritation passing over him. "Already, tales of how you bested me at the siege of Sow's Horn are spreading. I suppose you find them amusing." He scoffed, as if the very notion of losing to her offended him.

Lyanna felt the black rage rise in her, hot and unbidden. "I do not wield a greatsword as well as I do two small daggers," she snapped, stepping closer. "Had I been armed properly, you'd be dead, and we would not be having this conversation."

Her words dripped venom, and Rhaegar's lips twitched—as though he meant to keep his composure but failed. The corner of his mouth curved into a smirk.

"You fight well," he admitted, though the words carried more mockery than praise. "But I was hardly trying. If you recall, my lady, you could scarcely land a blow."

The wolf blood stirred in her veins, too strong to be tamed. She moved before she could stop herself.

Rhaegar let out a sharp gasp and stumbled back, clutching his thigh where her knee had struck—precisely where her blade had bitten him weeks ago. He sagged against the wall, hair falling loose over his eyes as he swept it back with one hand.

"Are you a child?" he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice low but seething. Pain and anger flared in his violet eyes as he pushed himself upright.

Had he been another man, Lyanna thought, he might have struck her then and there. But Rhaegar's temper, sharp as it could be, never seemed to rule him.

Not yet, at least.

Lyanna clenched and unclenched her healing left hand, the faint throb a bitter reminder of Rhaegar's fury. Her right hand itched for the hilt of a blade, to feel steel and certainty and to purge the Targaryens from this realm.

Family. Duty. Honor. The words rang in her ears, sharp as bells, and she cursed them under her breath.

"Forgive me, Your Grace." Her voice came softer now, though her heart still burned hot. "I forgot myself. My savage northern blood took hold of me." She reached out, offering her arm to help him rise.

If the innocent look she summoned was meant to reassure him, it failed. Rhaegar took her hand but stood warily, his violet eyes flickering with doubt as if bracing for another strike.

"You're insane," he muttered, brushing off his doublet and running a hand through his silver hair. "Your moods shift like the tides of the Narrow Sea." His frown deepened, though it softened with a sigh. "And yet… you are no savage."

The kingly mask slid back into place, his composure smoothing out like beaten gold. Lyanna found herself almost regretting it—missing, just for a moment, the wild and unkempt man who had provoked her so easily.

"There will be a procession through King's Landing tomorrow," he said at last, avoiding her gaze. "I would very much like it if you attended, as the future queen of the realm."

"A procession?" Lyanna's voice cut sharp. "Flea Bottom is a pile of cinders, and you want a procession? Have you no shame?"

That earned his eyes again, hard and piercing.

"You think this was my idea?" Rhaegar's voice dipped low, tinged with frostiness. "I wanted no part of this charade. But the small council is convinced it will quell the unrest that grips the city." He shook his head, tension tightening his jaw. "Do they not remember what happened to Aerys when he rode through King's Landing? He was attacked!"

"But alas," Rhaegar continued, his tone resigned, "I will heed their counsel. They speak of hope—a new king, a new queen, a new direction for the realm." His voice hardened. "And we will announce the Seven-Year Plan to rebuild Flea Bottom. Brick by brick, we will mend this city's wounds."

He looked at her then, searching her face, but Lyanna said nothing. She held his gaze until he turned away, and only then did she let her shoulders loosen.

"I will do as my king commands," she said, bowing with a false reverence that dripped with insincerity. It was a poor imitation of courtly grace, and she knew it. The flicker of irritation that crossed Rhaegar's face was almost satisfying, but he mastered it quickly, his expression shifting into something indecipherable.

"Very well," he said at last, his voice cool but not unkind. "Good night, my lady."

"Good night, Your Grace," Lyanna replied, her tone measured but her pulse still pounding, her hand still itching for a blade—for another fight.

---

The ride through King's Landing was a dull affair. Lyanna found her mind wandering, the rhythmic movement of the horse lulling her into drowsiness despite the warnings of the King's guard and Rhaegar himself to remain vigilant. Her eyes fluttered, the heat of the day and the pitiless silence of the procession nearly overwhelming her.

At the head of the procession were three Kingsguard, their white cloaks fluttering behind them like banners of the old days. Jaime Lannister, the youngest of them, rode with an air of arrogance that seemed to taint the very breeze. He had somehow convinced his father, Tywin Lannister, to back off, and now, with the authority of the Kingsguard once again draped upon him, he rode proudly ahead of the king's retinue. Lyanna couldn't help but wonder how he'd managed to talk Tywin down—whether it had been through a silver tongue or threats, she would never know.

Jaime's appearance wasn't what she had expected under the protection of armor. Though his swordsmanship was renowned throughout the realm, the man before her seemed far from the paragon of the knightly ideal. His frame was too frail, his movements slightly unsteady, as if the rigors of the long journey on the King's Road had taken a toll. Yet despite this, his name alone—Jaime Lannister—seemed to cast a spell over the city. The golden lion's reputation ran so deep that no one dared question his reinstatement to the Kingsguard.

Rhaegar rode beside her in full Targaryen armor, the silver gleam of his chestplate reflecting the sunlight with an almost unsettling brilliance. The sword at his side seemed more like a symbol of conquest than a weapon of defense. The king looked every bit the conqueror—distant, unreachable, and swathed in the force of a thousand decisions.

Lyanna's own armor felt heavy beneath her gown. The breastplate chafed against her skin, the daggers sheathed at her sides reminding her of the precarious position she found herself in. There had been a bit of argument when the guards suggested she should not be armed at all, but Rhaegar had insisted, his voice final and unwavering.

They think me mad, Lyanna thought, the dark humor of it cutting through her thoughts . They think I would stab Rhaegar in the neck right here, in front of all to see. Though the idea was tempting—nothing more satisfying than ending it all with one clean strike—she knew better. She cared only for the safety of the North now, not for petty revenge or the penance she once sought. The days of personal grudges and anger had passed; the looming threat to her home overshadowed any lingering desires for retribution.

The Lannister forces trailed not far behind, a crimson tide of banners and polished steel. At their head rode Tywin Lannister, regal and unyielding atop his destrier, his golden armor catching the sunlight like a second crown. To his right loomed Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, a towering shadow of menace, while Ser Kevan Lannister kept a steadier, more measured presence at his brother's side. Together, they were an unspoken warning—wealth, power, and brute force united under the lion's banner.

Trailing the soldiers was a gilded carriage, resplendent in red and gold, its polished surface glowing in the unforgiving sunlight. Within it sat Cersei Lannister, draped in silk and jewels, the very image of regal beauty and cold ambition. Her golden hair cascaded down her shoulders in waves, her sharp green eyes peering through the small window at the city rising before them. Even confined to her carriage, Cersei commanded attention, her presence as striking as the lions emblazoned across her house sigil.

The royal procession wound its way through the twisting streets of King's Landing, the city's contradictions laid bare beneath the midday sun. The wealth and splendor of the noble districts gave way to shadows and soot as they neared the remnants of Flea Bottom—a place that no longer existed except as a graveyard of ash and ruin.

Beyond the devastation, the Dragonpit loomed in the distance—or what was left of it. Once a mighty symbol of Targaryen dominion, it now stood all but destroyed, its dome shattered, its pillars toppled and broken. The explosion that had consumed Flea Bottom had not spared the ancient structure. Its walls were blackened and scorched, entire sections reduced to rubble, leaving only jagged remnants clawing at the sky like the ribs of some long-dead beast.

No longer a fortress, it was a ruin—a grave for the dragons that once roared within its halls. Against the smoldering remains of Flea Bottom, it seemed less a monument to power and more a warning, a ghost of dragons mocking the dwindling might of House Targaryen. Where fire had once been a weapon of their dominion, now it was their undoing.

The streets were lined with thousands of silent faces, their glares heavy with resentment. It mattered little to them whether it was Aerys or Rhaegar who sat the Iron throne—a Targaryen was a Targaryen. Lyanna had overheard grim estimates: seventy thousand dead in Flea Bottom, with another ten thousand or so having fled, many saved by Jaime Lannister's desperate efforts.

Rhaegar sat stiffly in his saddle, his violet eyes flitting once toward the ruins. For a fleeting moment, shame flickered across his face before he forced his gaze back to the road ahead.

As the procession climbed toward the more affluent districts of Visenya's Hill, the mood shifted. The streets swelled with cheering crowds, their praises ringing out as flowers rained down upon the royal party. Yet Lyanna's sharp eyes caught the cracks beneath the gilded display. The smiles were strained, the shouts too eager. Beneath the garlands and finery, many faces bore grime and hatred, their eyes dark with something no spectacle could wash away.

The horses neighed, their nerves frayed by the press of bodies. The Gold Cloaks at the front unsheathed their swords, the first to feel the danger before Rhaegar's cry split the air. "They're encircling us!"

The streets descended into chaos. The Gold Cloaks and King's Guard dismounted in a flurry of steel, swords flashing as they tried to force their way through the clamoring throng. The air was filled with shouts and curses, the crowd pressing in like a living thing. A trumpet's blare cut through the confusion, sharp as a dagger's point, and the crowd parted—reluctantly, like a beast shaking off its skin. From the gap, a wave of armed men surged forward, their banner tattered but their resolve unbroken. Their cries for justice echoed like thunder, rattling the very stones beneath their feet.

"Not again!" a Gold Cloak lieutenant bellowed, his terror palpable as he rallied his men to encircle the king and queen-to-be. The Gold cloaks formed a protective ring around Rhaegar and Lyanna as the mob surged forward, weapons flashing in the sunlight.

The King's Guard held the line at the front, slashing and hacking with precision, but the threat was all-encompassing. Rhaegar seemed composed, even resolute, as he drew his greatsword. Lyanna caught his glance, his voice oddly steady amid the chaos. "I advise you arm yourself, my lady. You may get a chance to test that hand of yours afterall."

Lyanna's mind raced. Her shoulder and wrist still throbbed from old wounds, and she hadn't practiced in weeks, but there was no room for hesitation. This was survival. The mob didn't see her as an enemy of House Targaryen—they saw her as the future queen of the realm, a target for their wrath.

As Rhaegar donned his helmet, Lyanna unsheathed her daggers, her grip firm despite the ache in her hand. If she was to fight, she would fight like a Stark.

She cursed herself for the stifling gown that clung to her like a shroud. There was no time for regret. The press of bodies against the gold cloaks grew heavier, the clash of steel echoing off the stone walls as screams rang out. Blood slicked the cobblestones, and the scent of fire and fear mingled in the air.

The Kingsguard had fallen back, abandoning the vanguard to the gold cloaks. But the city watch, for all their numbers, lacked the swordsmanship of decorated knights. They buckled beneath the assault of the mob, their ranks crumbling like sand before a tide. The horde roared, surging forward, and Lyanna saw their eyes—wild and hungry, the eyes of men who had nothing left to lose.

"Your Grace," Ser Arthur Dayne said, his white cloak streaked with red, his blade dark with blood, "we must turn back. We cannot carve a path forward, but we can turn and flee. Let the gold cloaks hold the line."

Rhaegar's face was grim beneath the shadow of his helm. "The gold cloaks will not hold long enough for our entire retinue to turn and flee," he said. "And I will not cower behind stone walls. We fight here." He turned to Arthur Dayne, his voice harder. "Take Lady Lyanna and see her safely back. That is your charge."

Dayne hesitated, his sword still in hand, his eyes shifting toward the broken line ahead. He gave a curt nod but said nothing.

Jaime Lannister rode hard to join them, his golden hair damp with sweat and streaked with grime.

Jaime Lannister dismounted and raced up beside Ser Arthur Dayne, gasping for air, his golden hair matted with sweat. "These men," he shouted over the cries and clashing steel, "they've learned from last time. This isn't some half-baked skirmish—it's a full-scale assault! They're breaking the line in two!"

He paled as he spoke his next words. "They rally under the banner of the Kingswood Brotherhood. They claim they've come to smite the Targaryen tyrants."

Barristan Selmy cursed under his breath at the infamous name, his sword slick with blood. The procession buckled, driven farther back as Gold Cloaks crumpled to the ground, cut down like stalks of grain beneath a reaper's blade.

"This is a pincer movement," Selmy growled, eyes frantically surveying the scene unfolding. "They're herding us into the alley to be slaughtered like cattle!"

Tywin Lannister arrived at the head of his household guard, his golden armor untarnished and his face set like carved stone. "Where is Cersei?" Jaime demanded, and for the first time, Lyanna saw fear crack through his arrogant facade.

"She is safe," Tywin said, though irritation was present in his voice upon hearing his daughter's name. "She was taken back to Aegon's High Hill with Ser Gregor. The Mountain will see her protected."

Jaime's jaw tightened, but it was Tywin who spoke again. "Lord Stannis will see her safely to the Red Keep from there."

Lyanna saw the relief in Jaime's eyes, quickly masked by discontentment. She ground her teeth as understanding dawned. Tywin had demanded to ride at the rear of the procession—he had known. King's Landing was a powder keg, and Tywin had likely expected this assault once news of the procession spread, just as it had when Aerys faced the mob.

An icy look passed between Jaime and Tywin, but no words were exchanged. Something had happened between them, Lyanna knew, and it went deeper than just Jaime's refusal to be heir of Casterly Rock.

Tywin's cold eyes swept the chaos before him, calculating. Then he turned sharply, raising his voice above the cries of battle. "To the king!" he shouted. "Cover our flanks! Protect the king!"

His knights answered with a thunderous bellow, the clash of spears against stone reverberating like the drumbeat of war as they fell into formation. Rhaegar's greatsword caught the dim light, its edge shimmering as he turned to Lyanna, his violet eyes shadowed with grim purpose.

Now, with two layers of defense—the Lannisters forming the outer ring and the Gold Cloaks reinforcing the core—they stood braced against the onslaught, ready to meet death or deliver it.

"Be prepared to fight to the death," Rhaegar said to her, his voice steady despite the frenzy that raged around them. "Ser Arthur Dayne will see you back to the Red Keep, but who knows what lies behind us." His eyes lingered on her for a moment, searching, before hardening with resolve. "Whatever happens, my lady, do not look back," Rhaegar said, his voice low but unyielding. "Ride hard for the Red Keep. Even if Ser Arthur falls behind, you do not stop. Do you understand?"

Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat a war drum echoing the dread that gnawed at her. She tightened her grip on the daggers and nodded, her injured wrist throbbing in protest, but she ignored the pain. This was no tourney, no game of honor bound by rules and chivalry.

The mob didn't care who she was or what she had done to bring the Targaryens low. To them, she was nothing but a symbol—a would-be dragon queen—and dragons were meant to burn.

"Come, my lady, let us—" Arthur Dayne could not finish his sentence as a whistling bolt struck him near the base of his collarbone, just below the gap where his helmet and armor exposed the skin. Blood sprayed across Lyanna's face as the famed knight staggered, a sharp gasp escaping him. He collapsed to his knees, clutching the wound as he choked on air, struggling to stay upright. The gurgling sound of his breath echoed through the cries as he fought to maintain consciousness, his strength waning.

Rhaegar cursed and leapt from his horse, as everything seemed to move in slow motion for Lyanna. One moment, she was atop her horse, and the next, she was pulled down by Rhaegar, her body hitting the dirt as more bolts whistled past them, their sharp heads cutting the air. The sounds of falling bodies filled the space, the cries of Lannister soldiers and gold cloaks echoing all around them.

"Stay behind your shields!" Rhaegar shouted as he wrenched a crimson shield from the lifeless grip of a fallen Lannister man, its lion sigil smeared with blood. "Prepare to run!"

"They've got crossbows!" Jaime yelled, his voice feverish with disbelief as his sword cut through the air, deflecting a whistling bolt that flew dangerously close. "Fucking crossbows!"

Lyanna wiped Arthur Dayne's blood from her face with her sleeve, her heart racing as she was dragged near the mouth of a narrow alley, away from the dozen or so men stationed on the rooftops. They had been lying in wait, and now the battle was upon them.

"Take Arthur, get him out of here!" Rhaegar shouted a command at Ser Barristan, his eyes fierce. "I will find another way out."

Selmy hesitated, his brow furrowing as if the very thought of leaving Rhaegar's side was a betrayal. His hand instinctively reached for his sword hilt, his loyalty to his king unshakable. But Rhaegar was swift. He seized the old knight by the collar of his armor, his grip unrelenting, and turned his violet eyes toward the struggling Arthur Dayne, still on the ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"That is an order from your king," Rhaegar growled, his voice fierce but controlled. He pointed toward Arthur, still writhing in pain, his helmet discarded beside him. "Take as many men as you need. Make sure he stays alive." Ser Barristan Selmy inclined his head, his expression grim, before turning to join the tumult. His boots clattered against the stone as he made his way back into the fray, the chaos unfolding around him.

Jaime's voice rang out, sharp and frantic amidst the deafening clash of steel. "What about Lady Lyanna, your grace?"

"I will keep her near me," Rhaegar said, his tone unwavering, despite the dire situation. "These bandits will think Ser Barristan is escorting me back to the Red Keep. They may follow after him. It's safer if we go unnoticed. You will come with me, Ser Jaime. This battle is lost."

Jaime nodded, the arrogance long gone from his face, replaced by absolute resolve. As he sheathed his sword, he pushed through the wounded men, sprinting out of the alleyway and toward the battle raging in the streets.

Lyanna could hear the sharp, deadly hum of the crossbow bolts as they whizzed past, finding their marks in men who were already buckling under the assault. The Gold Cloaks were disorganized, scattered by the overwhelming onslaught. Jaime's voice rang out, cutting through the noise with determination.

"Form up! Create a diversion!" he barked, his words biting through the confusion. "Give Ser Barristan the chance to get Arthur on that horse. Now!"

The remaining Gold Cloaks, though battered and wary, obeyed his command without question. They scattered, along with the Lannister forces as they rushed to form a makeshift line, their shields raised and weapons at the ready.

Lyanna couldn't say for certain if Ser Arthur Dayne would survive, but Ser Barristan remained unwavering. He secured the Sword of the Morning on the horse, and with a sharp flick of his reins, urged his steed around, galloping back the way they came. He cut through anyone who dared approach, his blade flashing in the luminescent light, while the remaining Gold Cloaks and Lannister men followed in their wake, a wall of iron and blood.

Jaime Lannister dashed back into the alley, his movements swift and erratic as he weaved through the deadly fire of crossbow bolts. The sharp hiss of the quarrels whizzing past him seemed almost to echo in the air as he skidded to a halt, breath ragged and uneven, one hand clutching his side. His armor, stained with the grime and blood of battle, creaked with each breath. He nodded sharply to Rhaegar, a silent acknowledgment. Rhaegar returned the gesture, his violet eyes sharp, but his expression unreadable.

The diversion worked flawlessly. The bolts from the rooftops ceased their relentless barrage, and the air grew quieter, save for the clatter of booted feet as men scrambled to follow Ser Barristan's retreating group. Shouts rang out through the smoke-choked streets, orders and commands to redirect the enemy's attention, to chase after the fleeing knights and their charge. The clamor of war shifted—suddenly, the streets were less crowded with enemies and more filled with the sounds of distant pursuit. The alley, once filled with the cries of battle, fell eerily quiet, save for the labored breathing of Rhaegar, Lyanna, Jaime, and the wounded men who had taken shelter in the shadows.

Rhaegar pressed a finger to Lyanna's lips, signaling for silence. She obeyed, watching as the enemy soldiers searched the area, looting the bodies of fallen gold cloaks and Targaryen men alike. The gold cloaks had been thoroughly embarrassed, shattered by the assault. The royal procession, once grand and regal, had become a symbol of retreat. A man, whom Lyanna assumed to be the commander of the brigands, passed by, his eyes scanning the fallen soldiers. He gave a slight nod to his men, who bowed in respect as he walked among them, slapping them on the back in approval.

Rhaegar and Jaime exchanged a glance—silent, but charged with unspoken meaning. The remnants of battle lingered around them, the smell of gore and dust mingling in the streets. It took some minutes for the last of the men to disappear down the road, leaving behind a field of bodies. The once-celebratory streets now felt like a graveyard.

As the men who had assailed them moved further into the city, securing the roads, the smallfolk who had earlier thrown flowers at their procession came crawling from their hiding places. They moved with a sense of apathy, as though the blood spilled in the streets was nothing more than a passing inconvenience. Lyanna could feel the sting of their indifference as Rhaegar's hand left her lips, though her heart was still thundering in her chest.

Rhaegar tugged her forward, pulling her through the alleyways. The pace was frantic now—each turn, each narrow passage a desperate attempt to flee. Jaime followed behind them, his eyes pacing back and forth, constantly on the lookout, as if expecting the enemy to spring up from every shadow.

A sharp voice cut through the silence as they passed another alleyway.

"Look what we 'ave 'ere," a man snickered from a darkened corner. His face was young, twisted with malice, and his teeth were yellowed and crooked. The smell of him—sour, rancid—filled the air. Lyanna's stomach turned "I'll be damned. This is the king 'imself, isn't it? No bastard in all o' King's Landing with hair as silver as his, or eyes as purple as that." The man's gaze shifted towards her, leering with hunger, his voice dripping with scorn. "An' this must be 'is lady wife—the Stark bitch."

Lyanna's heart skipped a beat as dread coiled around her like a noose. She instinctively gripped for her daggers, her wrist throbbing as she kneaded the hilts. The man's smile widened as his eyes flicked to her.

"Aye," he said, his grin stretchin' wide as he leered at her. "She's as pretty as they say. I'll 'ave some fun with this one. But someone's willin' to pay dearly for ye head, girl. Gold enough to fill a dozen coffers, just for yer pretty head."

"Men, they're here! The king an' his bitch!" he shouted. The shadows seemed to shift, and a handful of rough-looking figures appeared, creeping from doorways and crumbling buildings, some with swords, others with crude knives or pitchforks. Their eyes shined with a combination of hunger and madness. "Guess it's our luck, innit? The king an' the Stark bitch. Let's take his head an' give it to Godry! He'll reward us proper, he will! Give the Stark's head to whoever offers the most!"

Rhaegar's face tightened, and the grip on his greatsword hardened. His voice was a low growl, cold as the mountains of the Eyrie. "You do not have to die today." He twirled the greatsword in his hands, the blade catching a glimmer of light, before he pointed it at the man who had spoken. "But if you wish to, I am more than happy to oblige."

The bandit's grin faltered for a moment before returning, more vicious than before. "You think ye can take on twenty men with just one knight at yer side?" he sneered, his voice laced with contempt. "Yer bloody mad, Targaryen. Yield now, and maybe we won't have our fun with yer lady 'fore we finish with ye."

The man's words hung in the air like poison. Lyanna felt her stomach twist, but she stood firm, even as the bandits closed in. She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears, but she managed to force herself to speak, her voice wavering only slightly.

"Wait," she said, her voice steady, buying herself a moment. "Who is this Godry? And who are you men with? If someone is offering gold for my head, I can triple it! Winterfell has coin enough to make it worth your while."

Rhaegar's face was stone, but Jaime's hardening expression faltered for a moment. They both had already shifted into fighting stances, ready for the inevitable clash, but Lyanna needed to understand who these men were, what they sought.

The bandit gave her a lopsided smile, the sort of grin that made her skin crawl. "A curious one, aren't we?" he said with a low chuckle. "No worries, my lady, we'll be very acquainted soon enough. I'll tell ye then." He winked, and Lyanna sneered, disgusted by the threat that lingered behind his words.

"Enough talking," Rhaegar snapped, his voice a whip crack. In a single fluid motion, he swung his greatsword with lethal intent, aiming for the bandit's gut.

But the bandit was quicker than she'd expected. He sidestepped the blow, grinning as the blade missed by a hair. "Tsk, tsk, Your Grace," he mocked, his sword flicking toward Rhaegar in a counterstrike. "Not playing fair now, are we?"

"You think you can take on all o' us, Targaryen dog?" His face twisted with rage as he barely managed to parry Rhaegar's next advance. "You're just another dead king, and that Stark bitch will make a pretty corpse, too."

Lyanna's blood boiled. The man's voice grated against her nerves, and she felt the sting of his words like a slap. She was going to move toward him, to silence him with her daggers, but then she saw it—Rhaegar's eyes narrowing, his lip curling into a small, almost imperceptible smile.

The man was too busy gloating, too full of himself, too certain of his victory to notice. He side-stepped Rhaegar, laughing.

"Come on, Your Grace," he jeered. "What's a Targaryen without his dragons? Without his army? Just another man—no better than me. You won't be able to save yer little Stark bitch."

His words were barely out of his mouth when Rhaegar lunged forward, a single step forward and then— wham —his sword swung with deadly force. The man's mockery faltered as Rhaegar's greatsword sliced through the air like a striking serpent, catching the man across the chest. It was a move so swift, so precise, that the man did not have time to react. His eyes went wide with realization as Rhaegar's sword cleaved through his ribs, splitting his heart in two.

The man never even had the chance to finish his sentence. He dropped to his knees, his body convulsing for a brief moment before he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

The moment the lifeless body of the jeering brigand hit the ground, the chaos erupted. A guttural roar of rage swept through the group of men, their eyes alight with fury. The sound of weapons being raised was deafening, the metallic screech of blades leaving their scabbards sending a wave of dread through the street. They were coming for them now, a pack of wolves scenting blood, their faces twisted with rage and hate. Lyanna's heart pounded in her chest as the first man lunged toward Rhaegar, his weapon a crude, jagged sword, the type wielded by men with nothing to their name. Rhaegar barely moved, the greatsword in his hand flashing like lightning, slicing through the air with deadly accuracy. The man's sword was cleaved in two, his body following shortly after, collapsing in a heap as Rhaegar's blade carved a clean path through his ribs. Another man came at him from the left, but Rhaegar sidestepped, his eyes cold, his every movement fluid and exact. He swung his blade, and the man's scream was cut off as his head rolled across the cobblestones. Jaime, too, was a blur of motion, his sword flashing with lethal grace. He cut through one man after another, each strike faster and more brutal than the last. The Lannister heir's skills were no exaggeration, Lyanna realized—an unstoppable force paired with remarkable speed. His eyes, normally sharp with arrogance, were now wide with the desperation of survival. Every strike was born of pure instinct, each movement designed to kill. His armor was now stained with blood, but there was no slowing down. Another man fell before him, the sound of his blood spilling on the cobblestones almost lost in the cacophony of the battle. Lyanna's mind screamed at her to move, to fight, but the gown was a prison. The screams of men, the clash of steel—every sound felt like it was drowning her. She had to move.

Jaime, his back to her, was momentarily exposed. His sword, still lodged in the skull of a man he had just killed, was stuck fast, leaving him vulnerable. The next moment, a man, a grim-faced figure wielding a short blade, came rushing at Jaime from behind. His dagger gleamed with death in the dim light, poised to strike at the back of Jaime's head.

Lyanna's instincts snapped into place. She didn't think, didn't hesitate. She whirled, dagger already in her hand. Her body moved faster than she could process, the steel cutting through the air with a hiss, finding its mark in the man's back. He gasped, staggered, but before he could recover, Lyanna twisted her dagger, pulling it free in one swift motion. He collapsed, silent in his fall, before he could even scream.

Jaime looked at her with confusion, his mind still reeling from the moment, but his eyes shimmered with something between disbelief and gratitude. But the brief pause in the chaos had drawn the attention of the remaining men. One of them, a brutal-looking thug, turned on Lyanna, eyes full of venom. He let out a howl of fury, swinging his sword at her in an arc that was meant to split her in two.

But Lyanna was no novice. Years of training, of surviving the violent, unpredictable Crownlands, had honed her into something much sharper than the men before her. With a quick step to the side, she narrowly avoided the strike, feeling the wind of the blade as it passed. In the same motion, she drew another dagger, slashing it across the man's throat in a fluid arc. His eyes widened in surprise before he crumpled, clutching at the gaping wound.

The battle continued to rage around her, but Lyanna felt a strange calmness settle over her. She could feel the heaviness of the gown, dragging her down, restricting her movement. No longer willing to be encumbered by its silken threads, she yanked the dagger and began to slice at the fabric, the sharp blade tearing through the fine silk with ease. The gown fell away in tatters, exposing the hidden leather armor beneath. Now she was free—free to dance.

She didn't wait for anyone's approval, didn't need Jaime or Rhaegar's protection. The streets had become a blur of motion—men rushing at her, weapons raised, blood in the air. Lyanna moved like a shadow, a whisper of death in the madness. One man came at her with a club, but she was faster. Her dagger found his side in a heartbeat, and he fell, gurgling on his own blood.

Rhaegar shouted her name, but she was already lost in the heat of battle, the adrenaline surging through her veins. She fought without thinking, the years of training with her brothers, her experience with her own men, guiding her every move. A man tried to strike from her left, but she anticipated his move, stepping just outside his reach. She pivoted, driving her dagger into his ribs, feeling the warmth of his blood splatter against her hands.

"Keep moving!," she heard Rhaegar bark from across the street. "Ser Jaime, push forward!"

The alley was narrow, the walls pressing close, but Lyanna's moves were swift and lethal. Her daggers flashed in the light, twin streaks of silver as she drove them into the chest of the halfwitted men who came at her. He grunted, stumbling back, but she was already moving, pulling one blade free and raking it across his throat. Blood sprayed, hot and crimson, but she did not flinch.

Another man lunged, his blade slicing through the air with deadly intent. Lyanna ducked low, spinning beneath his wild strike. Her daggers flashed—a quick slice to the back of his knee, followed by a brutal thrust to his neck. The man crumpled with a strangled cry, blood pooling beneath him. But before she could turn, a third figure loomed out of the dust, faster than the rest, an axe raised high and aimed to split her skull.

Lyanna's daggers were still slick with blood, her stance unbalanced. She had no time to react.

A longsword arced into view, intercepting the axe mid-swing with a sharp, jarring clash. Sparks flew as steel met steel, the force of the impact sending the brigand staggering back. The axe slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground.

Rhaegar moved past her with the quiet confidence of a man who knew his skill. His blade sang as it cut through the air, striking with purpose.

Lyanna pushed herself to her feet, the daggers in her hands like a wolf's bared teeth. Her breath came hard and fast, but her stance was steady, the fire in her eyes matching the sparks flying from Rhaegar's sword.

For a moment, their eyes met—no words, only understanding. Then they moved as one.

Another man swung at Rhaegar, but Lyanna was already there, darting to his blind side. Her dagger slipped between the plates of his armor, finding the soft flesh beneath. He reeled, and Rhaegar finished him off, his sword taking his head off, clean.

Another assailant rushed forward, but Lyanna was faster. She parried his strike, knocking his blade aside as Rhaegar pivoted, trapping the man's arm with his own and leaving his ribs exposed. Lyanna did not hesitate. Her dagger plunged into the opening, and the man gasped, collapsing at their feet.

The alley fell silent, save for the ragged breathing of the fallen and the drip of blood on stone. Lyanna turned, her daggers slick with crimson blood. Rhaegar stood beside her, sword still raised, but his eyes lingered on her—piercing, assessing.

"You fight like a demon," he said, his voice short-winded.

Lyanna wiped one dagger clean on her sleeve, the other still gripped tight. "And you do not fight half bad for a King."

Something passed over his face—admiration, perhaps, or irritation at her jab. But then he stepped back, lowering his blade.

Jaime dispatched the last man with a fluid, practiced motion, his sword singing through the air before it sank into the thug's gut. With a heavy sigh, he lowered his blade, putting a hand on his knee as he caught his breath. His chest heaved, but the relief of victory washed over him like a tide, even as his mind still processed the carnage.

Rhaegar, too, wiped the sweat from his brow, his hand brushing across his face as he sheathed his sword. He stood for a moment, hands resting on his hips, catching his breath in the eerie quiet that had descended. Lyanna, in contrast, was entirely unaffected by the madness. The fight had sparked something inside her, a fire she hadn't felt in moons. Her breath came steady, her gaze sharp as ever. She was alive again, as if the battle had breathed new life into her very soul.

Jaime, still trying to make sense of the scene he had just witnessed, looked at her with a mixture of disbelief and awe. "What was that?" he said, his voice still rough from exertion, as his gaze moved between her and the bloodied corpses around them. "I'd heard rumors about Lady Ravenclaw and your swordsmanship, but I thought they were just exaggerations, tales to inspire fear." His eyes widened, a look of genuine shock. "Your speed... it's terrifying."

Lyanna wiped the blood from her blades, a small shrug of her shoulders the only response she gave. Her demeanor remained calm, as though the entire fight had been little more than a distraction.

Rhaegar, however, narrowed his eyes, his attention now solely on Lyanna. "I thought the maesters said you may never fight well again," he questioned, his voice tinged with something Lyanna couldn't quite read.

Another casual shrug from her. "This is the first time I've wielded blades since our duel, and it seems I am still able," she said, her voice even, as if she hadn't just been in the middle of a bloody fight for her life.

Rhaegar's expression softened as something flashing in his eyes, but it was gone before Lyanna could grasp it. He cleared his throat and nodded. "We should head to the Red Keep now," he said, his tone turning more pragmatic. "Stay disguised. It might be safer now."

With no more words, they moved quickly through the alleyways, covering their faces as they navigated the winding streets. The sounds of their clash had drawn attention, and as they escaped the gathering crowd, Lyanna could see curious eyes peeking from windows and doors. The whispers had begun.

Jaime had ditched his white cloak—too conspicuous in such a moment—and Rhaegar followed suit, shedding his red cloak as well. They moved in the shadows now, careful, each step calculated as they made their way through the maze of King's Landing's winding backstreets.

As they threaded their way through the labyrinth of alleys, Jaime moved ahead, sword bared, his steps quick but measured. Rhaegar and Lyanna followed close, their breaths shallow, each footfall swallowed by the hush of damp stone and rotting wood. Somewhere beyond the alleyways, the cries of the hunt carried—harsh voices barking orders, the scrape of boots against cobblestones.

They came to a fork where the alley split like a serpent's tongue, one path plunging deeper into shadow, the other veering toward the faint glimmer of torchlight. Jaime slowed, raising a hand to halt them. His gaze swept the narrowing paths before glancing back to Rhaegar.

"Four men on the prowl," Jaime said, his voice low but edged with urgency. "I'll draw them away."

"No," Rhaegar snapped, his brow knotted with defiance. "We stay together—"

"There's no time for that, Your Grace," Jaime cut in, voice steady. His eyes swept the alley, catching every movement in the shadows. "If we are clustered, they'll run us down. You take Lady Lyanna and head left to the Red Keep. I'll give them something to chase."

Lyanna opened her mouth to protest, but Rhaegar was already nodding, though reluctantly. "Don't get yourself killed, Ser Jaime."

Jaime smirked, the faintest trace of his usual arrogance penetrating through the tension. "I'll be fine. Just make you reach the Red Keep, your grace."

And with that, he turned and ran down the right alleyway, his footsteps echoing as he shouted, "Over here!" The voices of their pursuers erupted in response, followed by the clatter of boots giving chase.

Rhaegar wasted no time. He grabbed Lyanna's hand and pulled her down the left alley, their movements rapid yet silent. They weaved through the streets, ducking under broken beams and stepping over piles of rubble. The city around them felt like a labyrinth of smoke and death, the smell of fire still clinging to the air.

Finally, they found an abandoned cellar beneath what had once been a tavern, its entrance hidden behind a collapsed wooden cart. Rhaegar yanked open the door and ushered Lyanna inside before closing it behind them. The space was damp and smelled of mildew, but it was a shelter.

Lyanna leaned against the wall, her pulse slowing as the silence pressed in around them. Rhaegar stood near the door, sword still in hand, his eyes darting as he listened for any sounds outside.

"Do you think he made it?" she asked after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rhaegar's jaw tightened, but he didn't look at her. "Ser Jaime can handle himself, even frail, he's more than a match for most."

Lyanna stepped closer, her voice more firm now. "And what about you? You're bleeding."

Rhaegar finally turned to her, glancing down at the shallow cut along his forearm. She could tell he hadn't even noticed it until she pointed it out. "It's nothing," he said, brushing it off.

She frowned but let it go. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant shouts and clatter of boots above.

"You handled yourself well today, Lyanna," Rhaegar said, his voice steady but edged with something softer. "Dare I say your skills have even improved. Perhaps one day, we'll have our rematch. This time, I'll even let you choose the blade."

Lyanna scoffed, her eyes narrowing as she wiped the sweat from her brow. "Is now really the time for jests, your grace?" she shot back, though the faintest flicker of amusement danced across her face.

Lyanna studied him—the King of Westeros, though he no longer bore the regal aura of prophecy that had often surrounded him. The dirt streaking across his sharp features, the blood staining his armor, made him seem smaller, more human, more vulnerable. It was the weariness in his eyes, however, that unsettled her most.

"Do you ever regret it?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, sharper than she intended.

Rhaegar turned to her, his violet eyes dark in the dim light. "What?" His voice was low, expectant, as if unsure what to make of her question.

"Not stopping Aerys when his madness took hold," Lyanna pressed, her voice not relenting. "Not taking the crown by force when you had the chance."

Something passed through Rhaegar's gaze, but he didn't respond immediately. He ran a hand over his bloodied armor, clearly lost in thought.

"I did what I thought was right," he said finally, his voice distant. "I believed the crown was meant to pass on its own, not through bloodshed. I couldn't—"

Lyanna's lips curled into a thin, icy smile. "Couldn't what? Couldn't stop him before he burned the city to the ground, before the madness claimed everything? You could have saved countless lives. You could've stopped the war before it bled into every corner of this kingdom."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed, the tension in his posture tightening. "You think I didn't try? I wanted to save this realm. But sometimes, inaction is the only action."

"And you let the fire burn us all," Lyanna snapped back, her voice rising now. "You let your father kill the innocents in the name of peace, and for what? To try and restore some kind of broken order that never existed in the first place?"

Lyanna's eyes burned with frustration. "You let your family's madness reign longer than it should have. And now, here we are—after all the destruction, after all the pain, and you're still clinging to the hope that you can bring about peace!"

"Oh, spare me your self-righteousness, Stark!" Rhaegar's voice rang out, sharp as a whip. "Do you think yourself any better than me?" His words echoed off the damp stone walls, daring a retort.

Lyanna's breath quickened, her chest tight with anger. Her grey eyes, cold and storm-dark, locked with his amethyst stare. "You burned the Crownlands to ash—for what? Revenge?" His voice rose, reverberating off the stone fixature. "Do not speak to me of peace, Stark. Not when your men looted and butchered innocents in your house's name."

Rhaegar opened his mouth to continue the verbal assault, but Lyanna cut him off with an embittered laugh, low and withdrawn.

"You," she spat, stepping closer, her finger stabbing hard against his armored chest. "You stood and watched while my father and brother burned! You let Aerys torment your wife, let his madness fester and spread like rot. And you—." Her breath hitched, but she pushed on, her words as cutting as blades. "You did nothing."

Rhaegar flinched as though struck, but Lyanna pressed on, relentless.

"You're no king, Rhaegar. If the gods had any mercy, Robert would have taken your head at the Trident and mounted it on a spike."

The words lashed at him. He staggered as though she had drawn blood, but when he spoke, his voice was low and venomous.

Rhaegar's voice turned to a low snarl, each word dripping with scorn. "If Robert was the man you claim, why did you not accept the offered hand? Your gallant stag. Was he too drunk for your liking? Too busy rutting in brothels? Or did you simply prefer stringing him along like all the others?"

Lyanna's pulse roared in her ears, deafening.

Rhaegar stepped even closer, his violet eyes hard as cut amethyst. His voice was low, heavy with scorn. "Perhaps if you weren't so proud, so childish, you would have wed Robert." He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek. "My father would not have set his sights on the wolf maid."

His lips curled, and the next words fell like poisoned knives. "Perhaps your kin would still be breathing."

Blood pounded in Lyanna's head. Her vision swam red. Her fingers found the dagger at her hip, curling tight around its hilt.

"I hate you," she spat, her voice raw and trembling with fury. "I should have opened your throat on the Kingsroad and left you bleeding in the dust."

Rhaegar's laugh came sharp and hollow, like the scrape of steel on stone. "You?" His violet eyes gleamed with disdain. "You couldn't even hold your blade steady, remember?"

The dagger flashed between them, its edge kissing his throat. A single bead of blood bloomed red against pale skin.

Rhaegar did not flinch. He only stared at her, unblinking.

"Go on, then," he whispered, his voice like smoke curling through the air. "Do it, Lyanna. Put an end to this. Unleash that wolf's blood of yours." His lips curled into a frosty smile. "Do us both a favor."

Her breath came fast. Her grip on the dagger tightened as her thoughts raced. She could kill him here and now, leave his body in the cellar, blame it on the bandits. No one would ever know. But her hand faltered.

She lowered the blade slowly, it was a risk she was not willing to take.

Rhaegar grunted, but his eyes never left hers. "That's what I thought," he murmured.

Lyanna stepped back, her pulse still thundering in her ears. She would not give him the satisfaction of a reply.

A sudden, sharp knock on the cellar door shattered the tension. The sound was followed by a hoarse, quavering voice. "Who's down there? Bandits, is it? I'll fetch the City Watch—they'll see you get the King's justice!"

Rhaegar's hand shot out, covering Lyanna's mouth before she could shout. His breath was hot against her ear as he whispered, "We do not know who we can trust. On my count, we run. North, and don't look back."

Lyanna begrudgingly gave a tight nod, her pulse pounding in her ears.

"One...two...three!"

With a grunt, Rhaegar drove his shoulder into the door. It splintered open, sending the old man on the other side sprawling. His yelp of surprise quickly turned into a bellow. "Osfryd ! Osfryd ! They're here!"

The two bolted, swallowed by the chaos of the city. The waning afternoon light cast long shadows as they wove through narrow alleys, dodging carts and sidestepping startled townsfolk.

They stumbled upon a knot of grubby boys crouched near a crumbling wall, their dice clattering against the stones. Rhaegar's hand dipped into his belt, and two golden dragons flashed in the fading light before clinking onto the cobblestones.

"You didn't see us," he said, low and sharp. His eyes snapped to their cloaks. "Your hoods—now."

The boys' eyes darted between the coin and the strangers. Recognition dawned, and one of them mumbled, "Your Grace," before snatching up the gold and shoving their ragged cloaks forward with trembling hands.

Lyanna yanked one over her armor. It hung tight across her shoulders, but it would do. Rhaegar scowled as he pulled the tattered hood low, the cloth too short to mask his height.

"Seven hells," he muttered, shoving errant strands beneath the hood. "It'll have to do."

Lyanna's gaze snapped over her shoulder. The shouts of guards rang closer now, echoing through the alleyways like hunting horns.

"We need to move," she hissed, already stepping past him. "Now."

They melted into the crowded streets, the shadow of the Red Keep looming above like a vulture over its prey. Dodging patrols and wary of prying eyes, they slipped into a noisy tavern. The air was filled with the scent of sour ale, roasting meat, and the sweat of too many bodies crammed into too small a space. Refuge came in the anonymity of the throng, a brief reprieve before the danger resumed.

By dusk, they reached the Red Keep without further interruption. The city, alive with restless energy, seemed to watch them from every shadow. Torches flared in the alleys, their light casting twisted shapes on the cobblestones. Still, no words passed between them. The silence was heavy, colder than the evening air.

At the gate, the guards moved to block their path, hands on sword hilts. Their shouts rang out, demanding names and intentions. Rhaegar answered with action, sweeping back his cloak to reveal his unmistakable silver hair. Recognition dawned on their faces like the rising sun; they fell to one knee, their voices a trembling chorus: "Your Grace."

Lyanna, standing just behind him, cast off her own hood. Her fingers combed through her unkempt hair as her sharp gaze met theirs. The guards hesitated, their deference shifting to unease under the intensity of her glare. One man, who had risen at Rhaegar's gesture, faltered as his eyes met hers.

The pair was swiftly escorted through the Red Keep. Servants scrambled to bow as they passed, their words a frantic mixture of relief and inquisitions: "Your Grace, do you need anything? Are you hurt?" Lyanna ignored them, her jaw tight, her eyes fixed forward.

Jon Connington met them in the corridor, his face flushed and damp with sweat. "Your Grace," he began, his voice catching as he bowed deeply. "We feared something had happened. Word reached us… bandits, they said."

Rhaegar dismissed the concern with a flick of his hand. "Where is Ser Arthur Dayne? Is he alive?"

Connington's lips pressed into a thin line. "Barely," he admitted, his voice low. "But breathing. The small council has convened. The city is on full lock down. Those who dared to attack you will be brought to justice, I swear it."

"And Ser Jaime?" Lyanna's voice cut through the exchange, sharp and demanding. She stepped forward, her brow furrowed with concern.

Rhaegar did not acknowledge her, his gaze fixed elsewhere, but Jon Connington stole a glance her way. His expression was a mask of formality, yet his eyes betrayed his disdain. "A retinue of men has been sent to search for him. Lord Tywin has ordered a hundred Lannister soldiers to comb the streets. He refuses to lose his son again."

"See that Lady Lyanna is escorted to her chambers," Rhaegar ordered abruptly. His tone was icy, his gaze fixed beyond her. "Ensure she has everything she needs."

Lyanna's nostrils flared at the dismissal, but she held her tongue. Turning on her heel, she strode away, the guards and servants trailing behind her, struggling to match her furious pace.

Once within the confines of her chamber, she let out a bitter laugh. Not only was she doomed to wed a man whose name she despised, but one who clearly despised her in turn.

The irony of it all was too sharp to ignore. The city alight with chaos, but all Lyanna Stark wanted was rest—to let time bleed away like water through her fingers.

---

King's Landing was alive beneath her, golden in the morning light, as false and treacherous as pyrite. From this height, King's Landing seemed almost tranquil, its rooftops awash in dawn's pale glow. Yet Lyanna Stark knew better. Beneath the stillness, the city seethed. Shadows pooled in alleyways, and daggers whispered against whetstones.

It had been more than a moon since the royal procession had been set upon. The attackers called themselves the Kingwood Brotherhood—rebels, outlaws, risen from the ashes of old names and forgotten loyalties. Their leader, Godfry, was a name spoken in Varys's silken tones, but little else was known. Rumors bred like rats in the gutters.

Lyanna was not certain why Rhaegar still allowed her to attend the small council meetings. They had not spoken since their quarrel—vicious words that had cut deeper than any blade. And yet, he had not sent her away. Perhaps he feared what the court would whisper if he cast her aside too soon. Or perhaps he simply did not care.

Jon Connington wanted blood. "Root them out," he had said, voice as hard as iron. "Door to door, tavern to tavern. Burn out the rot before it spreads." Tywin Lannister had inclined his head in approval, his sharp green eyes glittering in the torchlight, but Rhaegar refused. "No," the king had said, his voice calm but unyielding. " I will not turn my city into a battlefield."

It was Jon Arryn who swayed the others in the end, his measured words carrying more reason than Connington's fury or Tywin's cold pragmatism. Scouting measures would continue, but no blood would be spilled—yet.

Jaime Lannister had returned the day after Lyanna and Rhaegar found their way back to the Red Keep, his armor stained red. He had demanded to see the King and Lady Stark at once, and only when his sharp eyes fell upon them in the courtyard did he seem to breathe again. If Tywin Lannister felt relief at his son's safety, he did not show it.

Jaime had demanded to know where Cersei was, only to be informed that she would not return to King's Landing. She was bound for Storm's End, to wed Stannis Baratheon. She had raged against it, but Tywin's will was as unyielding as stone.

Then Ashara Dayne had come, trailing behind the royal children like a champion. She was beautiful, dark-haired and violet-eyed, with a grace that drew every gaze in the hall. Yet it was the child at her side who set tongues wagging. A bastard.

The girl could not have been more than two, all dark curls and eyes like amethysts. No husband had come with Ashara, and the whispers followed her as surely as her shadow. Whore. Mistress. Dornish filth.

Lyanna might have pitied her, once. Instead, she felt only shameful relief that, for once, the scorn of the court had found another target.

Ashara was kind—too kind. They often walked the gardens together, speaking of home and family, though it was Lyanna who offered comfort when Ashara wept for her brother, Arthur, still clinging to life.

Once, Lyanna had almost asked her the name of the father, but the words had died in her throat. Bastards might be no great shame in Dorne, but the other kingdoms had long memories and sharp tongues.

A sharp knock broke the silence, pulling her from her thoughts. "Lady Lyanna?"

It was one of the guards, his voice muffled but insistent. She turned toward the sound, and the motion caught her reflection in the glass of the window.

"The seamstress has arrived," the guard said, bowing low. "The final fitting, as ordered." The words rang hollow, like the toll of a bell at a funeral.

"Tell her to wait," Lyanna said. Her voice was steady, but her nails dug into the wood of the windowsill. "I'll send for her when I'm ready."

The guard hesitated. She did not look at him, but when she spoke again—sharper this time—he bowed and left her to the quiet.

Today, she would stand before gods and men, bound by vows she had not chosen and duty she could not escape. Today, she would be made queen of the seven Kingdoms.

Her gaze lingered on the tinted window, where the banners of House Stark emerged, grey and white against the gold of the rising sun. Wolves, riding south. Ned would be with them. Lyanna pressed her hand to the glass, as though she could somehow bridge the distance and feel his presence.

The room behind her was too grand, too gilded. Silks and gold, candles and jewels—it all felt foreign, like a dream she did not belong to. She had shed her cloak and furs, but still, the North clung to her skin like frost, cold and unyielding.

Lyanna called for the guards to inform the servants she was ready to be dressed. She would be late on purpose. A small, deliberate act of defiance to irritate Rhaegar. He had not risen to her provocations in the past month—only offering cold frowns. Let him stew in his impatience; it was the least she could do in the midst of this gilded cage.

The gown they placed her in was a delicate thing, crafted of the finest silks, its pale blue fabric echoing the colors of House Stark. For the first time, a crown—heavy, jeweled, and foreign—was placed upon her head. The jewels glittered as they were fastened to her, but it felt as if they were shackles. She looked every bit the queen they wished to shape her into, her beauty heightened by the opulence, but inside she remained nothing more than a captive, a piece in a game she had not chosen. Her wild hair had been tamed, now falling just past her shoulders. It was braided in the intricate southern fashion, with jewelry woven between the strands, sparkling like a reminder of the chains that bound her.

Once she was dressed, Jaime Lannister entered the room, his appearance improved—flesh filled out, color returning to his cheeks. He gave her a nod of acknowledgment as he came to escort her. Ever since she had saved his life, his arrogance had melted away, replaced with something else, something earnest. He was a different man around her, and though he said little, his knowing smile seemed to speak volumes.

The procession to the Sept of Baelor was a spectacle in itself, the halls echoing with the sound of armor and boots. Lyanna walked with a firm stride, though the hateful and curious glares that followed her made her feel as though the walls were closing in. When they entered the sept, she took her place next to Rhaegar, who was clearly irritated by her late arrival. His teeth ground together, his jaw tight with suppressed fury, and she could not suppress the small smile that tugged at her lips. His anger was a balm to the ache in her chest, a small victory, and she allowed herself the moment of satisfaction.

They both bowed before the High Septon, who began reciting scriptures about union and duty, words that felt more like shackles than blessings. As the High Septon spoke, Lyanna allowed the slight smirk to tug at her lips when she glanced sideways at Rhaegar. His displeasure radiated from him, like heat from a forge.

Once the High Septon finished his speech, they rose. Rhaegar leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, his voice low and sharp. "You did that on purpose," he murmured, a note of indignation in his tone. "You care nothing for jewels or fine clothing, for looking the part. Yet you know well enough that your tardiness reflects poorly on the crown—and still, you choose to vex me."

Lyanna ignored his whispered words, her gaze unwavering, fixed firmly on the High Septon as he rambled on. Her expression remained neutral, but the faintest of smirks lingered at the corners of her mouth. She would not give him the satisfaction of a response. If he wished to play this game, she was more than capable of matching his frost with her own.

Then came the cloaking. Rhaegar, his hands cold and firm, removed her direwolf cloak and draped the three-headed Targaryen cloak over her shoulders. Their hands were bound together by cloth, the union sealed not by love, but by duty. With that, the ceremony was over.

A loud, raucous applause filled the sept, and Lyanna's heart sank. This was it. She had been wed. As she turned to face the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Ned and Catelyn Stark among the onlookers. The sight of them stirred something deep inside her, a bittersweet emotion that threatened to break through the cold exterior she had built around herself. Her smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she caught sight of Catelyn's rounded belly—proof that Ned had indeed consummated their union, despite the distance and the silence.

Ned had not written to her in King's Landing. She knew it was out of fear of being watched. She forgave him that; she had always known the price of love in this realm of politics and power.

Once the ceremony ended, the wedded pair was escorted to the grand hall for the feast. The hall was alive with music and laughter, filled with nobles drinking and dancing, but for Lyanna, it might as well have been a tomb.

The feast stretched late into the night, a blur of dancing and endless courses of food. Rhaegar sat beside her, cold and silent, their words as sparse as the space between them. He raised his goblet when required, smiled faintly when eyes were on him, but there was no warmth in it. Lyanna matched his icy demeanor, offering only what was expected and nothing more.

When the opportunity arose, Lyanna excused herself, stepping down the dais where Ned and Lady Catelyn waited. Catelyn curtsied gracefully, lowering her head.

"Your Grace," she said softly.

Lyanna sighed at the title. It felt foreign, suffocating, yet she forced a smile.

"No need for such formality," she replied, her voice gentler than expected. "You are my Good-sister."

Catelyn straightened, beaming at the words, and Lyanna found herself oddly comforted by the sincerity in her expression. It was Ned she turned to next, and without hesitation, she threw her arms around him, traditions and propriety be damned.

Ned stiffened at first, then held her just as tightly, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I have missed you, dear sister."

A lump rose in her throat, but Lyanna swallowed it down, forcing the tears to retreat. "I missed you too," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the din of the hall.

When Ned drew back, his eyes darkened, cutting a sharp glance toward the dais where Rhaegar sat, cold and rigid. Beneath his calm, anger simmered like a forge's fire.

"Has he harmed you?" Ned's voice was low, tight with fury. "Despoiled you?"

Lyanna's jaw set, her chin lifting just a fraction. "No," she said, firm and unflinching. "He has done no such thing." Her tone softened, but the chagrin remained. "We argue, and we despise each other, but he would not lay a hand on me."

Ned studied her, searching for cracks, for hidden wounds. When he found none, he gave a curt nod, though his shoulders did not lose their tension. "Good." He held out his hand, rough and steady as always. "Shall we dance, then?"

A small smile touched Lyanna's lips as she took his hand. "Always."

They stepped into the dance, moving to the lively tune of The Bear and the Maiden Fair . For the first time that night, Lyanna laughed—truly laughed—as the music carried her, her worries momentarily forgotten. Her cheeks flushed, her brow damp with sweat, but the joy was fleeting.

Her smile faded when she turned and saw Rhaegar standing by the table, watching her. He was a statue carved from marble—perfect and cold. The sight of him stirred the anger she had buried beneath the layers of silk and jewels.

"Your Grace," Ned said stiffly as they approached, offering no bow.

"Lord Stark," Rhaegar replied, his voice cool, polished like Valyrian drawn from its sheath.

Ned turned back to Lyanna, his words dropping to a hush meant only for her ears. "I leave at first light. The North needs me. We're building something stronger—strong enough that no one will ever dare harm a Stark again." His voice was low, but there was a fire beneath it, quiet and ruthless.

Lyanna's heart sank, "so soon?"

Ned nodded, the sadness plain in his eyes, though he tried to hide it.

"I've a gift from Benjen," he said, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'll leave it with you before I go."

Lyanna's fingers tightened around his hand, desperate to hold him there, to freeze this moment before it slipped away. "I will keep my promise, Lyanna," he murmured, voice rough with feeling. "I'll speak to him. I'll ask Rhaegar to grant you leave to visit Winterfell."

It was a hollow comfort, but she nodded, forcing herself to let go as Ned stepped away. She watched him until he disappeared through the doors, fearing this might be the last time she saw him for years.

"It is time to retire, my lady." Lyanna turned to find Rhaegar standing beside her, his voice low and unreadable. The words struck her like a vicious gust. It was time. Her throat felt tight, her limbs heavy. She knew what awaited her tonight—a duty she could not escape. He would take his pleasure, cold and carnal, and she would endure it for the North.

His words startled her, but she masked it quickly, schooling her face into calm indifference. Instead, she tilted her chin up, nodding stiffly.

"Very well," she said, her voice steady.

As they turned and began their procession toward the chambers, Lyanna's heart pounded in her chest. The cold she had felt all night seeped deeper into her bones. She would face this night as she had faced every battle before it—with steel in her spine and fire in her veins.

Rhaella stood nearby, regal and distant, as though she had never left the Red Keep. She had returned from Dragonstone only days ago, bringing with her the babe Daenerys and the young, sharp-eyed Viserys, whose energy filled every hall he stepped into. Lyanna had taken care to avoid the dowager queen since her arrival, and she intended to continue doing so. Their last exchange had been barbed with veiled threats and words as cold as beyond The Wall.

Now Rhaella offered her son a faint, practiced smile, but when her gaze drifted to Lyanna, her lips thinned into a frown before she turned away.

Once inside the king's chambers, Lyanna stilled, her eyes sweeping the space. The room was larger than any she had ever seen, draped in rich velvets of crimson and black, the Targaryen colors woven into every corner—dragon motifs carved into the woodwork, their scaled bodies twisting across the bedposts. Candles burned low, casting golden shadows that flickered like dancing flames. A dragon's skull hung high above the hearth, hollow eyes staring down at them.

Rhaegar said nothing at first. He only sighed, a sound heavy with weariness, before stepping toward the bed. He sank onto the edge of the bed, his fingers working with practiced ease to unlace his woolen doublet. One by one, the layers of his fine garments fell away, revealing the pale, sculpted planes of his chest.

Lyanna stiffened, unlike any other woman who might have admired the beauty before her, she felt only a cold distance between them. His form was as flawless as the stories told, muscles honed by years of battle, skin luminescent, yet marked with scars.

Her fingers brushed the hilt of the small dagger strapped to her thigh, the cool steel a reminder of her promise. It was there, hidden beneath her gown, just as she had planned. One of her handmaidens, a Dornish girl with eyes sharp as a serpent's, had delivered it to her quietly, her loyalty unquestionable. The blade had slipped into the maid's hands days before, and now, it was with Lyanna—silent and steady—waiting for its moment, should it ever come.

She would let Rhaegar take what he wanted—let him claim her as his wife in truth, as was expected of her. But she would not be harmed. She would not be made a victim in the bedding. She had heard the dark tales from the North, whispered around the fires—foul stories from the Dreadfort, of men who reveled in drawing blood and tears from their brides, taking pleasure in their pain. Lyanna would not be one of them. If Rhaegar tried to harm her, if he crossed that line, she would plunge the dagger into his neck, and damn the consequences. She would not be cowed by titles or bloodlines. She would not be broken.

Rhaegar's voice broke the silence. "We will share these chambers from now on." His tone was flat, dispassionate, as though he were speaking of politics or treaties. He met her eyes briefly before looking away.

"They will expect the marriage to be consummated," he said, his words deliberate but lacking any trace of desire. "The realm is in a fragile state. Appearances of unity must be upheld."

He removed his last boot and turned his back to her, aware of the tension that clung to the air between them. Lyanna's gaze remained fixed on his form, but her hand stayed near the dagger hidden beneath her gown. She said nothing. Her eyes, cold and unwavering, never left him, her expression as unreadable and distant as the dragon's skull hanging above them.

Only his breeches remained as he ran a frustrated hand through his cropped silver hair, the strands catching the dim candlelight. He stared at her then—silent, expectant. This was it. He meant for her to undress. No man had ever seen her bare before, and prior to the rebellion, she had intended to keep it that way.

His eyes, cold and unfeeling, held no trace of hunger or desire—only an emotionless detachment, as if she were nothing more than another obligation to endure. He grunted as he stripped off his breeches without ceremony, his movements mechanical, before stepping away from the bed. The candlelight casted shadows on the pale scars that crisscrossed his body, the most striking being a deep, purple gash marring the muscle of his thigh—the mark of her blade. Once, she might have felt a twisted sense of pride in leaving it. Now, all she felt was a deep, unsettling terror, stealing the moment's sting of triumph.

Without a word, he turned and disappeared into the bathing chamber. Lyanna stood frozen, her pulse loud in her ears. Duty . This was duty, and she would not cower from it.

Her fingers worked quickly but shakily, loosening her braids and placing her jewelry down piece by piece until her hair hung loose and plain. Her gown came next, her trembling hands struggling with the laces and stays that her maid had already loosened. The silks pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but her shift, thin as gauze. The cold crept over her skin, and she hugged her arms around her body, willing herself to stand tall.

When Rhaegar returned, he stopped short at the sight of her. His eyes darkened, sweeping over her form before snapping back to her face. He said nothing. Instead, he snorted softly, the sound tinged with irritation, before striding past her and dropping heavily onto the edge of the bed, then lying down. His back to her, bare and taut, as though she were no more than air.

Lyanna's lips parted in disbelief. Her pulse quickened as heat bloomed in her chest. She stepped closer, her bare feet brushing against the cold stone floor before she reached the edge of the bed. One hand braced lightly on the feathered coverlet as she leaned in, tapping his shoulder.

Rhaegar stirred but did not turn, his broad back rising and falling with measured breaths. He lay stretched across the bed, the fine linens tangled at his waist, his body tense despite the pretense of sleep.

She tapped him again, harder this time, her fingertips pressing into the bare muscle of his shoulder.

Rhaegar turned swiftly, displeasure evident across his face. His eyes drifted downward—quick as a hunting falcon—to the neckline of her shift, lingering for a moment on her chest through the thin fabric before snapping back to her face.

"What?" he hissed, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "Do you care nothing for sleep?"

Lyanna's fury flared, cutting through her fear. "What do you think you are doing?" she hissed back, her voice a fierce whisper.

Confusion clouded his violet eyes, and for the first time, Rhaegar Targaryen looked uncertain.

"Did you expect me to bed you?" he asked, his tone laced with mockery, or perhaps disbelief, as though the very idea was foreign to him.

Lyanna's brows furrowed. "Did you not say we must consummate the marriage? You yourself spoke of the need to maintain the appearance of unity," she said, her voice steady despite the tight knot forming in her stomach.

"I will do no such thing," his tone was quiet yet firm, catching her off guard. "I am the king. Damn the customs—I will not lay a hand on you if you do not wish it." His eyes wandered briefly to the dagger hidden in her garter, then back to her face, his gaze unwavering. "And I value my head where it is, thank you very much." His expression remained impassive, as though his words were simple facts, not even a hint of jest in them.

Despite his honeyed words, Lyanna did not trust him. Her hand slid to the dagger strapped at her garter, drawing it free. She placed it on the bedside table with deliberate care, her movements slow, never once breaking his gaze.

Then, tentatively, she sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers curling against the sheets, before lying back stiffly. Her eyes fixed on the carved canopy overhead, her breath shallow, her body tense.

She lay like that for what felt like hours, every nerve taut, bracing for the moment his resolve might shatter—for the shift of the mattress, the press of his weight, the inevitability of desire overcoming his restraint.

But it never came.

Instead, she heard the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint sound of it deepening until it softened into sleep.

She turned her head just enough to glimpse him in the faint light. The strain that always seemed to coil within him had eased, leaving his features softer, almost unguarded. He looked younger like this—less a king and more a gallant knight.

Even as sleep tugged at her, she fought it, her thoughts tangled and restless. But exhaustion won out, and sometime before dawn, her eyes slipped shut.

Her dreams were restless, filled with wolves and dragons locked in an endless struggle. And through the chaos of fire and shadow, she saw a boy—his raven-black hair wild, his dark eyes glowing with a strange, somber light.