Chapter Text
There was a clear admiration in Lyanna Stark's eyes as she watches the beautiful Princess of Dorne in the royal box. Her eyes follow her facial expression and her hands as she claps. She could only sigh wistfully as she watches the Princess speak with another beautiful Dornish woman (not quite as pretty as Princess Elia, though).
She wishes that she can hear the Princess’s voice speak directly at her.
It is not the way a woman ought to think about another, she can hear Southrons sneer. Improper northern barbarian, she hears them.
But oh, she is of the North. She is her mother's little Wildling.
Wildlings have no such laws that a woman cannot look at another woman with such naked adoration, she remembers stories told by a Wildling who fled South.
Ah. What beauty, the Princess of Dorne is.
She strikes out with her dark complexion and red lips amongst the sea of Targaryen albino.
She looks like a beautiful fairy surrounded by snow.
Beautiful.
Enchanting.
Lyanna wants to don her armor and join in the melee under her banner. She wants to win and crown the woman the Queen of Love and Beauty, for none in all the seven kingdoms can compare to her.
And it’s not just that the Princess is beautiful, her mind whispers. She is kind and gentle, the picturesque image of a Southron lady, but hiding the ferocity of a Northern woman.
Had Lyanna been a man, she would’ve asked for her hand.
But, oh, Princess Elia is a married woman.
Not just married to anyone, but to the Heir of the Iron Throne.
How could Lyanna ever compare? She was just the wild and freedom-craving daughter of the Wolf Pack of the North. The Prince, though she loathes to admit it, fits perfectly with Princess Elia.
The two of them together fit like any of the so-called good Southron stories. The Charming Princess and the Dashing Prince.
Except, it’s the Dashing Princess and the Charming Prince.
Prince Rhaegar is the opposite of what a Northern man ought to be. He was soft. He prefers the company of books over men. He picks up a harp rather than a sword. He sings tales of forlorn lovers rather than victorious warriors.
He is like ice - beautiful but easy to brake upon impact.
A part of her wants to challenge him to a sword fight while another part of him growls that she wants to nest him beside Princess Elia and protect them.
But, as her eyes falls from Princess Elia in the Royal Box down to the field where the Prince stands tall and firm with a sword in hand, she knows that she has to reassess him. He may be ice, but he is not the thin ice that they break at the North. He’s the Ice that her father holds, beautiful and deadly in its own way.
Lyanna Stark sat on her seat with her family at the Tourney at Harrenhall and alternately watched with adoration the beautiful Princess Elia cheer for the knights from the box above and the sensitive Prince Rhaegar wielding a sword with grace down the field below.
What a beautiful couple they were.
The kind of people she could only admire from afar.