Chapter Text
“I wasn't aware that the ladies had been asked to join the search party.”
His voice had startled her; she spun around on her heel, dropping whatever it was she had been carrying. “What search party?” she blurted out, visibly perplexed. She had already started scrambling for everything that had fallen to the mossy ground before she froze to stare. “Your Grace,” she added hastily, and when she lowered her grey eyes it wasn't demure and ladylike but purely for practical reasons – she had to retrieve her things after all.
“It isn't safe to be out here on your own, my lady.”
“Well, I'm hardly on my own now that you’re here, aren't I?”
Her brash attitude was certainly not something he expected from a young lady addressing the prince and heir to the throne. He didn't mind as much as he should have though, after having all the ladies in attendance simpering and swooning over him for the whole duration of the tourney he found it rather refreshing. Suppressing a smile, Rhaegar dropped to his knees next to her.
She was quick to protest, suddenly remembering her manners. “Your Grace is being very chivalrous indeed, but you really needn't trouble yourself ...”
“It's not a bother at all, my lady.”
She glanced at him nervously and continued to gather her belongings. She was behaving like a deer that had just picked up the hunters' scent, oddly enough not because the mere presence of royalty made her uneasy. Pale and skinny and dark of hair there was nothing remarkable about her but her spirited personality. Too poised to be a commoner and yet too unrefined to be an attendant to any highborn lady at the tournament she was probably a younger daughter of some minor Northern lord, judging by her strong accent and her plain attire. Curiously enough, something about her reminded him of his fiercely free-spirited little brother Viserys who didn't care about propriety and appearances and his septa's stern disapproval one iota either. Before he could further ponder upon who this queer young lady might be, he realised what it was that he had just handed over to her.
A gauntlet, well worn and badly cared for. He let out a surprised breath, quickly scanning the other objects scattered around them. A shin-protector. A dented visor. A pair of leather wrist-wraps. A wooden shield. All mis-matched. He cleared his throat awkwardly while rising to his feet again.
“You are acquainted with the mystery knight then, my lady?”
She attempted to hide the offending gauntlet by shoving it behind her back. She quickly seemed to understand the futility of her maneuver though, so she raised her chin with a defiant pout and dared to look him straight in the eye instead. “Erm … Not exactly, no.”
“You do realise that telling falsehoods to a member of the royal family is considered a crime?” Throughout all those years at court Rhaegar had schooled himself into wearing an impenetrable mask of stoicism and aloofness at all times. He was glad, for he could barely contain his amusement despite the sudden gravity of the situation. This mystery lady was intriguing and he rather enjoyed watching her blush while she was thinking.
“I'm not … I’m not lying ... Your Grace.”
“But you are attempting to hide mismatched pieces of armour in the shrubbery, barely out of sight of the tourney grounds, mere minutes after the king himself called for the mystery knight to be apprehended,” he stated matter-of-factly, “You do realise that I cannot let this go unnoticed, my lady.”
She nodded, biting her quivering lip, her face suddenly devoid of the defiant liveliness that had intrigued him so just a moment ago.
“Would you care to elaborate?”
As soon as she had noticed him noticing her hands tremble she had clutched them behind her back and now she faced him standing tall. The expression she wore on her face, much paler than before, was painfully familiar, one that he recognised as his own, the princeling facing the Mad King’s inevitable ire. She was terrified, he realised, terrified but brave enough. Feeling a pang of guilt, he relented.
“My lady, it is of utmost importance that we find an explanation for these unfortunate circumstances. Whatever your acquaintance with the mystery knight, I am sure we can find a way to keep you out of trouble. I implore you to trust me on that matter, my lady. I am not your enemy.”
“But ...”
“I am not the king,” he said with a sad smile that didn’t end up as reassuring as intended. Then he bowed down again to pick up the last of the offending objects. “We need to find a way to dispose of these. And then you need to tell me the truth.”
“If you say so, Your Grace.”
They were standing upon a clearing where a small stream meandered its merry way around a copse of lean birch trees, just a couple of steps away from the main road that led through the forest away from Harrenhal. She looked around cautiously before pointing in the rough direction of the stream.
“I was going to toss everything into the river.” She bit her lip again, sinewy fingers tightening the grip on the shin-protectors she was carrying. “Well, not exactly into the river, but into the shrubbery on the far side of the riverbank maybe? It looks overgrown enough from here I guess.”
He gave a curt nod. “We should consider not disposing of everything in the same place. Makes it harder to find.”
“One stray gauntlet in some random bush will not raise suspicion, whereas ...” Her eyes lit up in understanding. Distressed as she might be she certainly wasn’t stupid or helpless, he had to give her that.
“Indeed, my lady.” He couldn’t help but smile.
Without further ado she strode into the clearing and towards the stream, determined to begin her clandestine task. He followed suit and easily fell into step at her side. “If I’m not mistaken we have not yet been formally introduced. If we are to be partners in crime, my lady, I believe I should at least know your name.”
She faltered, clearly considering her options, maybe even thinking about a fake name to claim as her own. Then she sighed as if to admit defeat. “It’s Lyanna.”
“Lyanna,” he repeated, the unsaid question clear.
“Lyanna Stark, Your Grace,” she mumbled, “daughter of Rickard Stark of Winterfell.”
He had been right about her Northern origin then, though he found it hard to believe that the daughter of one of the oldest highborn families in Westeros would choose, let alone be allowed to, dress like a horsemaster’s wife. But then again, he mused, there was a certain royal prince who preferred to don the plainest of cloaks and roam the streets of the capital disguised as a commoner whenever he got the chance.
“Well met, Lady Lyanna. I’m Rhaegar Targaryen.”
“I know.” She laughed out openly, shaking her head. “And I’ll have you know that I don’t usually go around calling every fair-haired chap in Westeros ‘Your Grace’ … Your Grace.” She briskly turned away and squatted down, placing a gauntlet in a thick patch of brambles by the riverbank.
Rhaegar chuckled and gallantly offered his outstretched hand to help her up again. “Fair enough, Lady Lyanna.” Once again, she effortlessly matched her steps to his as they continued walking over the clearing, balancing the bits and pieces of knights’ equipment on the shield. “Now pray tell me more about this whole mystery knight business ...”
He was genuinely curious, an admiration for her spirit starting to creep upon him. She took a deep breath and launched into a wild and totally unrelated tale about some battered crannogman who’d caught her eye in the early days of the tourney. He was just meaning to interrupt and ask her to get to the point when she held up her hand and made a cut-throat motion right before he could utter the first word. Rhaegar stood bewildered, mouth ajar, once again taken aback by her lack of manners.
“Shush, you!”
He might not be as distant and humourless as people believed him to be, he might not care for formality and etiquette as much as a royal prince should, he might even have enjoyed her brazenness before, but … Enough! Pull yourself together, Rhaegar, and put her into her place! How dare she shush him, this poor excuse for a Northern noblewoman? Then he heard, and not a moment too late. Heavy footsteps cracking upon dry leaves and twigs, faint voices becoming more audible by the minute. He hurried to meet her eye, nodded in understanding. “White cloaks.”
The search party of course, he had sent them out himself in pursuit of the mystery knight. Disagreeing with his lord father’s irate decision he had been wary about whom to appoint to the search party. Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell he trusted well enough, them being his sworn swords and loyal friends after all, and by extension he trusted whomever they had seen fit to join the search party. But then again, they were at a tourney, an occasion as public as can be with everyone of import in attendance. He was certain that some random lords would have their men join of their own accord, desperately trying to garner a favour with the king and improve their standing at court, inevitably turning Rhaegar’s halfhearted search into a manhunt.
Wordlessly grabbing Lyanna’s arm he pulled her with him as he dove behind a very low and very prickly hedge that fenced the stream.