Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The War of the North. An examination of the Northern Role in the War of the New Dawn – Maester Rickard Janal, Professor for Medieval Westeros at Oldtown University

Chapter 3: Tourney at Harrenhal

(...)

What truly did happen between Lady Lyanna Stark Baratheon and King Rhaegar at Harrenhal remains a mystery, lost in history and time. All information we do have access to come from either secondary or even tertiary accounts.

In “King Rhaegar, the Otherbane” a book written by Maester Flordian, a contemporary of Lady Baratheon and King Rhaegar whose writings are widely accepted as rather farfetched and outlandish, claimes the young Northern girl, at the time of Harrenhal only 14 years old, seduced the Prince to secure Northern Influences within the Court. Maester Flordian examines the claims of witnesses of the Tourney of Harrenhal, handmaidens and stablehands and squires from all over Westeros. The fact that Maester Flordian did not interview a single Northerner however lays great problem with Maester Flordian's writing. Nowhere in his book does he examine the statements of any person close to either the Starks or the Targaryens, resulting in such outlandish claims as the fact that Lyanna Stark seduced more than a dozen men from all corners of Westeros and even Essos during the Tourney at Harrenhal.

At the otherside of the extreme spectrum we find Maester Callinos examinations in “The Kingmaker”. The book examines the entirety of Lyanna Stark's life and a whole three chapters are dedicated to the Tourney of Harrenhal, including the year before and just after. In “The Kingmaker” Maester Callinos states the hypothesis that the Lyanna Stark was a innocent girl from Winterfell, who fell prey to the predetory nature of King Rhaegar, who was long bored of his Martell wife and needed to sate his Targaryen Madness. While Maester Callinos' “The Kingmaker” is surely a fantastic and true examination of Lyanna Stark's person, the Maester falls prey himself to the anti-Targaryen sentiment that was rampart during the sixth century.

Surely the truth of Harrenhal falls somewhere between these two extremes. As a sheltered 14 year old it is unlikely that Lyanna Stark was a true seductress at Harrenhal, however it is just as unlikely that King Rhaegar, who by all other accounts was a just and fair king for the time he lived, seduced a 14 year old when his wife was nearby and still heavily pregnant. However it is known that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen crowned Lyanna Stark at the Tourney of Harrenhal and they kept in contact with each other in the months afterwards, a story we will pick up in another chapter.

(Source: pg 50-52, The War of the North. Janal, R. Property of the Oldtown University Library)

***

Lyanna doesn't even pay attention as the moment that changes her life forever occurs. In retrospect it would have probably not even mattered if she had.

She jokes around with Brandon, both giggling about something she won't remember later when the crowds around them fall deadly quiet. Truthfully, she had stopped caring for the jousting as soon as Bran and Ben had been defeated early on. Not even she herself had the opportunity to compete today, not after the Prince had found her in the Godswood the night beforehand. They were all only still in the stands because Benjen was excited to see the victor of this tourney.

Lyanna was sure Robert would rather lick his wounds somewhere with a woman, after being defeated by the young Jaime Lannister earlier.

Brandon had never cared for jousting anyway, much preferring to hold a sword than a lance.

And Lyanna herself would rather be in the north, than sit another day in the stands at Harrenhal, sweating in the horribly unpractical southern fashion. If she had a choice, she would rather sit upon her horse racing along the countryside near Winterfell with Bran than spend another minute in Harrenhal.

She had been looking forward to the Tourney at Harrenhal. Kind, lovely Bethany Bolton had told her the South was wonderful, for she had been taken there by her husband after their marriage. Oh how Lyanna missed Bethany, her dearest friend in the north. What she would give to have her here now, a fellow woman of the north beside the stuffy women of the south, to keep her company.

Lyanna did not enjoy the South. Not the heat, not the people and especially not the Southerners with their stupid curtseys and strange customs.

She looked when Brandon hissed her name, staring at the crown of blue winter roses on the tip of the unbroken lance, the Crown Prince was holding out towards her.

The crowd tittered and Lyanna stared at the Prince in confusion. Nodding at her, he tipped his lance just enough the flowers fall onto her lap.

Why? Why would the Prince do this? Why would he name her – Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, betrothed to Robert Baratheon – his Queen of Love and Beauty. She gripped the roses tight, ignoring the pain that blossoms nearly instantly, and refused to look up at the crowd, who were still silent.

“How dare he.” Brandon hissed and his fingernails dig into her upper thigh as he holds her aplace. She looked over at him and inhaled sharply. She hasn't seen Brandon this enraged since, well, ever. He had not even been as enraged when their father had announced his betrothal to Catelyn Tully and that fury had ended with the destruction of much of the Trees near the Winter Garden in Winterfell.

Martyn and Rodrik Cassel both grasped Brandon on the shoulder and held him down. Her father looked stricken, as if in his wildest dreams he could not have believed this, staring at the wreath on Lyanna's lap. Even Eddard, calm and quiet Ned, was fuming. He too watched Brandon warily, but the main focus of his wariness lay on Robert.

Robert's fair skin had turned bright red and he sat at the edge of his seat, glaring at the way the Prince had gone off to. He suddenly turned to Lyanna. “What did you do?” He hissed at her, spittle flying across their seats.

Lyanna's gut dropped. He think she? This was typical, Lyanna thought angrily. “Me?” She snarls back at him and Robert's face twists. Her heart races, in a mix of excitement, shock and anger.

Even Ned, sweet Ned, looks surprised. “Do you really think...” He trails off. He looks at her for a second. All he says is “no” and Lyanna frowns. Ned is her brother! He should believe her not some stupid boy from the stupid Stormlands.

“You are stupid, you stupid...” Lyanna trails off as Benjen grabbed her hand and pulls her up.

“Let's go Lya.” He says, shooting Robert and Ned a withering glare.

All together their party left the stands. Whispers and points guide their way away from the stands to their tents and Lyanna feels so helpless. She cannot drop the flowers – that would be an insult to the Prince and the royal family. She cannot keep the flowers – that would spur the rumors further.

Just before they turn the corner of where the stands can still see them, Lyanna looks at the flowers one last time and drops them on the floor. She couldn't care less about insulting the royal family. The Prince made a fool of her, her family and all of the north. Why would she care about his stupid feelings?

She catches Brandon look at them. They look at each other for a moment, but Bran nods and grabs her hand tightly. His thumb rubs across the ridge of her hand and Lyanna sighs. At least Bran and Ben stand by her side.

“Lyanna.” Her father says just before she wants to duck into her tent. “Lya. Keep your head down. We do not need you to shame us, our family and the north.”

Lyanna frowns. “I never -”

Rickard sighs. “I know that, little Lya.” He touches her hair where the curls escaped her braid and sighs. “You are so like your mother.”

Both Rickard and Lyanna flinch. Even Bran, who stands behind their father, looks surprised and Ben looks gutted as they all stay silent for a moment.

Lyanna had only been 7 years old when Lyarra Stark had died, Ben younger than that. Since that day Rickard Stark had scarsely even said her name, grief clouding his view, even of his children. He had sent Eddard and Brandon away, his two elder sons, and had left the raising of Lyanna and Benjen to his mother and grandmother.

“Lyanna. Southerners like to gossip. They talk and they judge and they are not like us.” Rickard said softly, still touching her hair. “They will call you his whore and a slut and perhaps even his mistress. You mustn’t let anything get to you. The prince made a mistake. You mustn’t let that defeat our family.” Rickard looked over at his sons and Robert, who stood a little offside. “That goes for you as well, boys.”

“But father, he...” Benjen started.

“Robert. Please join me in my tent.” Rickard interrupted and he disappeared into his tent.

Robert moved to follow him, but stopped in front of Lyanna. “Lya. I never meant … I trust you … Lya, I love you.”

Lyanna did not look at Robert in fear of striking him. No matter how much he claimed to love her, he had still thought the worst of her for a moment at least. With a sigh, Robert follows Rickard into his tent, realizing she would not speak with him. Lyanna lets out a breath she did not even know she was holding.

“Think of your honor, Lya.” Ned said quietly, running one hand over her hair. He looked at her for another moment and stepped away.

Lyanna frowned at him. Honor. What did honor have to do with anything? Damn Ned and Jon Arryn and their stupid “as High as Honor”. What use was honor now?

“Come on, little foal.” Bran grabbed Lyanna's hand again and tugged her away, off to the godswood. Benjen followed them at a slight distance.

People standing around the tents tittered at them as they walked past, but Lyanna gritted her teeth and kept her head high. Her father was right. Southerners were idiots, but that was no big surprise anymore.

Howland Reed was sitting in the Harrenhal Godswood, in front of the heart tree. He looked up as they entered and smiled at them. “Lya.” He said softly and touched his heart.

“Howland.” Lyanna smiles at her new friend. It was too rare Lyanna was able to meet new people and Howland was so kind and a truly great friend to her and the Starks. He reminded her of home, or at least of what she knew. He was a comfort in this strange south.

“I can punch him for you, if you'd like.” Brandon says suddenly. “The Prince.”

Lyanna rolls her eyes at him and punches his arm lightly. “You heard father. We do nothing. It doesn't matter anyways. We will go back home soon and no one will care anymore.”

***

Robert has calmed by the next morning, smiling at her with the same adoration as always.

Lyanna tries to smile back, but she fears it comes out as more of a grimace. Robert doesn't seem to care, turning back to Ned, chattering about something.

Lyanna rolled her eyes as soon as his back was turned, and Ben elbowed her in side while grinning. “You mustn't be unkind, Lya.” He said, though the humor in voice prevailed.

Lyanna resisted to urge to stick out her tongue and brushed past her brothers and betrothed to the breakfast table.

The rest of the day was spent packing. One more night was to be spent at Harrenhal, with a marvelous feast planned by Lord Whent, who had invited all the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms to dine with him, for the evening.

To say Lyanna was dreading it was an understatement. She had not seen any southerners today, but she did not believe they would not still be outraged by the events of the day before. She had no interest in spending a night with people who would judge her for something she had no control over, especially not if the Royal Family would also attend Lord Whent's feast.

Ben camped out in her room for most of the day, having packed most of his things before, and he watched as she fretted over a choice of gown for the evening.

Anything too expensive and well made would probably send the Lords and Ladies in attendance in yet another fit of outrage, but too simple and Lord Whent would take great offense.

“Just pick any one of them, Lya. You will look beautiful in them all.”, had been Ben's helpful advice. She had responded by throwing a slipper at her brother, who shrieked and chased her through the room.

In the end, Lyanna had chosen a pale gray gown, which the tailor had just finished a week before they left for Harrenhal. It was a simple dress made of the finest wool the North had to offer, fitted tight to her bodice, but loose enough at her arms and legs that she would be able to dance properly. The front and back of the bodice were embroidered with small, delicate witch holly in black thread, with tiny berries in red. It was a Northern Style dress, nothing elaborate, but Lyanna adored the dress.

She left her hair open, only braiding the front out of her face and fixing her curls into the most relaxed she could manage. Adding just a simple silver necklace with a wolf charm, Bran had given her at her last name day, Lyanna looked in the looking glass and had to stifle a laugh.

She looked more Northern than she had in years. The pale gray of her dress brought out the dark gray of her eyes, making them appear lighter than usual. Against her skin, that had been darkened by the weeks in the Southern Sun, and her wild dark hair, her eyes stood out more than usual.

“You look great, sister.” Ben had proclaimed when she had finished. He had picked the exact opposite colors she had, a black doublet with gray embroidery. She grinned at him and reached up to fix his long hair, which hung in his face.

“You as well, my brother.” She reached up to fix his long hair, which hung loosely in his face.

Together they made their way to where the rest of their family was waiting for them. To Lyanna's amusement, they had all picked some variation of their family colors.

Her father wore a dark gray satin doublet with white direwolves dancing around the neckline. Despite the graying hair at his temples, he made an impressive figure, standing twice as broad as Lyanna herself and still as strong as each of his sons. He smiled at her and Ben as they approached, nodding his approval.

Ned was wearing a gray leather doublet and he too smiled at Lyanna and Ben as they approached. “Robert will be stunned.” He promised and Lyanna rolled her eyes, unable to stop herself.

Brandon wore a black leather doublet, with a gray wolf stitched on above his heart, paired with fine leather boots. He stood even taller than their father and Lyanna grinned at her brother as she recognized the wolf on his doublet. She had made it the previous year, spending many moons on perfecting the delicate stitching. She had been so proud when she finished, as nothing she had embroidered before had looked as polished. Rather than keeping it for herself, Lyanna had given it to Brandon. Somehow the wolf she had stitched out of the delicate silver thread had reminded her of her brother, even with the sword she had planted between its teeth in a sudden strike of inspiration.

“I didn't know you made a doublet with my wolf!” She exclaimed, grinning up at Brandon. “It looks good.”

“I know.” Brandon said with a grin. “I had one of the women in Winter's Town make it after you gave it to me. After all no one had ever made something so beautiful for me before.”

Lyanna blushed and hit Brandon in the shoulder. “Shut up!” She exclaimed.

Before Brandon could respond, their father addressed all of his children. “Don't let yourself be provoked, no matter what or who.” He told them, looking each of them into the eyes separately. “And do not provoke anyone, no matter who or why. Promise me.”

“We promise.” They chorused together and even Father had to stifle a grin.

“Good.” He said. “Let's go.”

Lyanna brushed past her brothers and stepped next to her father, who held out his arm for her to grab. He smiled and kissed her forehead. “My beautiful Lya.”

“My beautiful father.” Lyanna said, grinning up at her father. Brandon, standing behind them, snorted loudly. A great man their father was, a beautiful one he really was not. Too many wars had scarred his face and life.

They walked through the camp grounds, followed by an attache of other Northerners. Lyanna was sure they were not the only family to do so, and others probably looked more impressive in golden or red or green or blue family colors. Still Lyanna imagined they made a good figure as they walked through the grounds, a mass of grays and blacks.

“Lord Rickard Stark, his sons Brandon, Eddard and Benjen and his daughter Lyanna and the Northern Attache.” The Herald called out as they entered the great hall.

Lyanna looked around. Most had already arrived. As wasn't sure if she was imagining it, but it felt as though nearly everyone was staring at her. She stood up straighter and lifted her head, fighting a scowl. Father squeezed her arm lightly and she looked up at him and caught him gently smiling at her.

“Lord Stark.” Lord Whent arrived before them suddenly. The minor Lord was dressed in lavish yellow and black, nearly blinding Lyanna. His salt-and-pepper locks brushed his shoulder as he bowed slightly. “It is an honor to have hosted you these past days.”

“We thank you for your kind invitation, Lord Whent.” Her father said, his voice grumbling by Lyanna's side. “We have enjoyed the last weeks.”

Lord Whent led them towards their places, beside the Tyrells interestingly enough.

Robert, who sat beside his brother Stannis, was waving at them from his place beside Lord Luthor Tyrell, who glowered at the younger man. Lyanna waved back at her betrothed, whose grin nearly split his face.

“Thank you Lord Whent.” Father said as all sat in their seats and Lord Whent bowed before returning to the table beside his wife and daughter, the daughter whose title as Queen of Love and Beauty Lyanna had unwillingly usurped.

Lyanna looked at the girl from where she sat. Marisa Whent was a pretty girl, a bit older than Lyanna, with strawberry blonde hair and a round face. She wore a gown so fine Lyanna almost felt sorry for the other girl, as Marisa Whent barely dared to move in it. The girl wore more jewels and pearls than Lyanna had ever seen before. Not all of the jewelery in Winterfell amassed to the wealth Marisa Whent was wearing tonight.

Lyanna didn't turn away as Marina Whent turned to look at her and her gaze seemed to burn into Lyanna's face. The girl glared and Lyanna looked away, face burning.

Lyanna's eyes caught Cersei Lannister. The other girl was staring at her, an ugly scowl planted firmly on her face. They stared at each other for a few moment, before Cersei's attention was grabbed by her uncle Kevan Lannister.

“Princess Nymeria Martell, her sons Doran and Oberyn Martell, good-daughter Mellario of Norvos and granddaughter Arianne Martell and their Dornish Attache.” The herald called out and Lyanna watched as the Martell family entered the hall, dressed in all reds, yellows and oranges.

Suddenly aware of the seat still empty beside her, Lyanna felt a sense of trepidation as Lord Whent led the Dornish Party closer and closer to their side of the great hall. She stifled a groan as Princess Martell was sat only a few seats away from Lyanna. Lyanna didn't look up from her empty plate as someone took a seat next to her.

She was tense and it was obvious fairly quickly that whomever sat next to her was as tense as she was, as there was no movement and no sound from next to her. Lyanna looked up slightly and winced as she recognized Oberyn Martell, the Princess's brother.

She watched out of the corner of her eyes as he settled in his seat, jaw clenched.

“Lya.” Ben said suddenly from beside her and Lyanna looked up just in time to see the King enter the hall.

Everyone fell silent immediately, bowing their head as much as possible in the presence of the King. He was followed in by Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia, as well as a large bald man Lyanna did not recognize.

“Your Grace.” Lord Whent said quietly. “It is an Honor.”

“Yes.” the King said, looking at his side to the Bald Man, who leaned forward and whispered something in the King's ear. “A marvelous Tourney, Whent. And a well deserved winner.”

Lyanna suppressed a shudder at the King's voice, high and almost vibrating as he spoke. It grated in her ears and she reached below the table to grab at Ben's hand.

Lord Whent smiled and led the King to his seat, a place of Honor above the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms. To his right sat the Bald Man and to his left Prince Rhaegar.

Lyanna felt a rush run through her entire body as she saw the Princess take a seat next to Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna looked away quickly.

Gods. Why was she feeling guilty? She was not at fault that the Prince had named her Queen of Love and Beauty. It wasn't her fault.

“I thank you all for letting House Whent and Harrenhal host this Tourney for my daughter's name day.” Lord Whent stood in the middle of the room and raised his arms. He smiled benevolently and Lyanna fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Now, let the feasting begin!”

There were only a few bursts of conversation as the food was brought in by servants – rare, for a feast, and Lyanna wondered if this was all because of Prince Rhaegar's actions. Of course it was not helped by the fact Lord Whent had seated her beside Oberyn Martell, the brother of the woman slighted.

Lyanna felt Oberyn Martell stare at her back. She turned to look at him and they found themselves staring at each other. Lyanna realized it was stupid to be surprised, but she could see her surprised mirrored on his face. A surprise that turns into disgust quickly, as he scowls at her, his eyes burning into hers.

They have never spoken before? How can he hate her so?

It takes Ben grabbing her elbow for Lyanna to turn back around again, away from Oberyn Martell. The others have started eating by then and Lyanna starts eating methodically.

There is little conversation during the eating. Lyanna keeps her head done, eating slowly. Lord Whent serves a local dish from every Great Kingdom and Lyanna tried to not make a face at the unfamiliar tastes.

It was only much later the feast really started, Lyanna thought, when the dancing begun. The bards and musicians Lord Whent had hired were talented, knowing when to slow the music and when to perform songs everyone knew.

Lyanna was asked to dance by Robert first. He twirled her around the whole dance floor, laughing the entire time. They danced for about a dozen songs, until Lyanna pushed him in Lysa Tully's direction and collapsed beside Brandon.

“My lovely sister the dancing queen of Westeros.” Brandon teased her as she tried to catch her breath. Unable to speak, she stuck his tongue out at her brother, causing him to erupt in loud, boisterous laughter. Several people on the floor looked up at them and Lyanna watched as Brandon waved at a young girl with a Tyrell Rose on her dress.

“Bran.” She admonished quietly, looking over to where Catelyn Tully was dancing with her uncle. Brandon's betrothed seemed to stear clear of the whole Northern Party this night. She had looked upon them once when the feast began and Lyanna sensed the elder girls disapproval.

Brandon rolled his eyes at her. “Don't be a stick in the mud, Lya.” He said, reaching over and thumbing at her nose. “Come on then, dancing queen. Dance with your poor lonely brother.”

Groaning in jest, Lyanna let Bran pull her upright and they approached the dance floor together.

It was a slow song and Lyanna frowned at her brother as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Oh Brandon.” Lyanna whispered in his ears, affecting the high tones of a Southern Lady. “How truly improper. What would the Mother say?”

Bran laughed, resting his chin on the top of her head as they gently danced to the music. “Should we ask the Bard for a proper Northern Dance?”

“Would they know any?” Lyanna wondered. She adored dancing with Brandon. Whenever their father hosted a feast at Winterfell, dancing was always the most important part. Northern Songs and Dances had quick tempos and heavy beats and the Dances were fun, but truly exhausting. Ben was good for the softer Northern Dances and Ned was a considerate dancing partner, but Brandon was fiery and knew to dance so well.

“Let's ask.” Brandon decided.

The Bards looked surprised, but one of them offered the Summer Snow Sound – the most common of the Northern Dances, but a simple one. Lyanna and Brandon grinned at each other and hurried for the Northern Party that sat further down into the hall to fetch others. Nearly everyone, even Ned and Ben, joined them on the dance floor.

“My Lords and Ladies, the Summer Snow Sound.” The Bard announced, before the simple three note chord started.

Lyanna and Brandon looked at each other, grinned and nearly together, the men shouted: “Ay!”, leading into the quick upbeat song Lyanna knew so well.

They all stomped their feet twice, before the dancing really began, again the men shouting: “Ay!”, as Lyanna and other ladies approached their partner. Lyanna twirled around Brandon, and finally lost herself in the dance.

Between a couple of twirls she caught glimpses of their audience. Of the Royal Family watching, faces impassive and still. Of Catelyn and Lysa Tully, who were staring at them in confusion. Of the Tyrells watching. And of Robert with his eyes completely fixed on her.

She guessed this was an unusual type of dance of Southerners. Loud stomping and clapping was not typical in the South. It warmed Northern Blood in the Dead of Winter.

Old Nan said it was Queen Val, wife of King Jorah the Winterwarmer, so many thousand years ago, who had invented the Winter Dances with her daughters to keep Winterfell and Winter's Town from freezing during a dreadful winter. Old Nan said it was tradition to dance since then, to warm their blood and to shatter the ice that sometimes built on the floors during the death of winter with their stomping.

Brandon and Lyanna clapped their hands together with force and Brandon laced their fingers together. Recognizing the last chords and beats of the dance, Lyanna reluctantly pulled away. She was breathing hard when they all came to a stop.

The rest of the evening went by quickly as Lyanna danced some more with Bran and Ned and Ben and even their father. Eventually she was dizzy from dancing and wine both and Bran laughed at her as she stumbled.

It was late when they exited the great hall, the cool night a welcome reprieve to her sweaty face. Ben laughed with her as they made their way back to the Northern Tents, walking as steadily as they could. Martyn Cassel reached out twice to steady her as she slipped on the mud of the ground.

“Lady Stark.”

Lyanna, Ben and their guards froze and Lyanna turned towards the somewhat familiar tones of Prince Rhaegar.

The Crown Prince stood a couple of feet behind them. He was still dressed in parts of his black armor and a simple circlet of black gold rested on top his long silver hair. “Might I have a word?” He asked her, bowing slightly but never losing eye contact. He was smiling and Lyanna frowned at the man.

What in Planetos was the Prince doing?

Ben grabbed her arm before Lyanna could respond. “Lya.” He said sharply, but Lyanna raised a hand to stop her brother from talking more.

“No, your grace.” Lyanna said simply.

The Prince looked surprised and almost angry, snapping upright at her refusal. “Lady Stark?”

“My daughter is honored by her crowning as Queen of Love and Beauty, your grace.” Out of seemingly nowhere Father stepped before Lyanna and looked at the Prince, shielding her from view. “And the North is honored by the very same crowning as well.”

The Prince stepped back, surprise clear on his face. “Of course, Lord Stark.” He craned his head to look at Lyanna, who looked away immediately.

Father looked back at Lyanna, his eyes kind but his face hard and solemn. He spoke like the Lord of the Winterfell then and not her father. “Go on. Wait for me in my tent.”

Lyanna waited only for a split moment, before taking Ben by the arms and nearly pulled him back to their tents.

Even as they arrived, a scowling Benjen wouldn't leave her side as she made herself comfortable in her father's tent. The tent was littered with letters, papers, ink and quills, and a game of chess sat on the sturdy wooden desk. A Stark Banner hung over the desk.

It was as though her father had shrunken his solar back home and taken it with him.

Lyanna walked forward to pick up a golden coin that lay beside one of the letters. A coin of the Reach. From a time before the conquest, when the Gardener King still ruled the Reach. Lyanna recognized the print off of one of Maester Walys books. What was father doing with an old coin of the Reach?

Before she could ask Benjen, Father stepped into the tent, a deep frown on his face. “Benjen, leave us.” He commanded, in a tone he used only as Lord, a tone that was not to be disobeyed.

Ben shot her one last troubled look, before leaving Lyanna to face her father alone.

“Tell me when you met the Prince, Lyanna.” Father said without waiting for Lyanna to speak. His face was stormy now, but it did not seem his anger was against her. He sat down behind the desk and looked at her expectantly.

“I swear nothing happened, father! I swear it!” Lyanna said, voice rising louder with each word. Why was it that no one believed her that she did nothing wrong?

“Sit down!” Father snapped, pointing at the seat opposite him. She obeyed him instantly. “Lyanna, my darling daughter. I believe you, but you must tell me why the Prince has taken such an interest in you.”

Lyanna watched her father's face carefully. He didn't seem as though he was not telling her the truth. There was no lie or disapproval in his face, only concern as he looked at her wearily.

“The Prince found me two nights ago in the Godswood.” Lyanna started slowly. She watched her father's face. He frowned at her words and she hurried to clarify. “I was … They were … I was just trying to make the squires pay for hurting Howland! I swear it father!” Her voice rose in distress. “I never meant to disobey you! I was just trying to teach them a lesson! They were hurting Howland and the Reeds are a vessel of the Starks. What message would it send if the Starks could not protect one of their own!?!”

Father stayed silent as Lyanna grew more distressed. He had never allowed her to swing a sword, or joust, or do anything reserved for the men, but riding horses. She had not just not obeyed her father, she had actively lied to him and done what he always forbid her to do.

“Please, Father! I never meant to hurt anyone! I just … I did not think the King would take offense. The Prince let me go. Told me I was a brave girl, took my shield and sent me away. He swore he would not tell! I don't know why he is … what he is doing.”

After a few moments of silence Father took a deep breath. “So you were the Knight of the Laughing Tree?” He said finally and Lyanna nodded, not looking up from her hands intertwined with her dress. To her surprise Father laughed and as she looked up she saw him shaking his head, smiling. “Oh my Lya. You are so like your mother. My little wild wolf.”

“Are you not angry?” Lyanna asked, confused. She would have sworn her lord father would be enraged at her, not only for disobeying his order, but also for fighting in the Tourney.

“No Lya, I am not angry.” Father said with a sigh. “You are young and there is so much wolves blood in you. I wish I knew what to do with you.”

“Let me learn proper sword fighting?” Lyanna asked hopefully.

Father laughed. “From what I saw of your fighting against those squires, I would say one or all of my sons have already taught you much.”

“Not enough.” Lyanna pouted.

“No swordsman will ever have learned enough, Lyanna. That is the first lesson every fighter learns.” Father said softly. He stood up abruptly. “Get some rest, Lya. We will leave early tomorrow. I believe everyone is anxious to return back home.”

Chapter Text

Following the Tourney of Harrenhal we know that the Great Lords and Ladies of Westeros all went in opposite directions, returning home, calling for a brief period of non-action in the eyes of historians today. There were no recorded weddings, or important deaths – the only exception being Prince Aegon's birth in the early months of the real Spring of 282.

We also know, from fragments recovered in a secret chamber within the Ruins of Dragonstone that Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark stayed in touch, sending at least half a dozen letters between Dragonstone and Winterfell. Of their correspondance we only know what Lyanna Stark wrote the Prince, as his letters were presumably either turned to the fire by Lyanna Stark herself or lost during the Sack of Winterfell. It is commonly accepted that Prince Rhaegar was the one to begin their correspondance as there is in no letter a indication that it was Lyanna Stark who started the correspondance.

Within these letters we find valuable goldmines to determine what Lyanna Stark's character was, before her marriage, being widowed and playing regent for the two following lords of Storm's End. As such one of the fragments read: “My mother taught me when I was very young that it was a burden if you knew you had to marry for duty and not out of love”, supporting the claim of those Maester's who suggested long ago that perhaps Lyanna Stark and Lord Robert Baratheon's marriage was not a harmonious union as it does at times seem.

Lyanna Stark's mother, Lyarra Stark of Winterfell, married her cousin once removed, Lord Rickard Stark, who would lead the Alliance of the Three, when the death of Lord Rickard's father sent the Starks into a deep succession crisis. Lord Rickard, a boy merely 12 years old when his father died, was wed to his cousin, Lyarra Stark to secure the succession and bind two branches of the Stark Family tree together despite Lyarra being half a decade older than her husband. Despite all this all evidence speak to the fact that Lord and Lady Stark had a happy marriage.

Another letter retells the anecdote of Lyanna Stark riding out into the wolfswood surrounding Winterfell without a guard by her side.

“If you believe in the Gods, you might say that they were watching over me that day, but it was not them. It was the fact that my father and all the Lords and Kings of Winter before him inspired a fear and loyalty and longing in the hearts of the people of the North.”

It was this passage of the letters that baffled historians most when the letters were recovered from Dragonstone. Every account of the War for the New Dawn depicts Lyanna Stark as a devotedly pious woman, dedicated to the Old Gods of the North, as they were known then. Lyanna Stark's piousity is facet of her personality included in all portraits and painting picturing the Lady.

What we can surmise from this is either that Lyanna Stark reached her piousness late in life or it was a ploy meant to inspire fear in the Southerners, as Maester Flordian claims in “King Rhaegar, the Othersbane”. Most historians adhere to the former idea, myself included.

Interestingly none of the rest of the letter fragments seem to be any more personal. The Lyanna Stark writes about everyday anecdotes but does not particularily add anything person to those facts than the two passages I have quoted above. Some historians such as Maester Hurol or Maester Callinos to name a few believe this to be because of Lyanna Stark's non-interest in Prince Rhaegar after the Tourney of Harrenhal, but this begs the questions why the lady responded at all. Again many historians take the middle ground believing both Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar were ultimately interested in a relationship.

However it was a relationship that ended abruptly at the end of 282 AL, after Spring had truly come in the South and Winter had let go of its firm grip on the North. It would make sense to believe that the abrupt end in the correspondance coincided with Lyanna Stark's marriage to Lord Robert Baratheon, however upon closer examination the evidence shows that there is a two months pause between Lyanna Stark's last dated letter and her marriage to Robert Baratheon. Mayhaps Lyanna Stark no longer had any interest in writing the married Crown Prince of Westeros, or Prince Rhaegar was no longer interested in writing Lyanna Stark. Whatever the case, the last letter of Lyanna Stark marks the end of the correspondance between Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, a correspondance that they would not take up again, as the evidence suggests that the meetings from then on out were tainted with cool indifference from that point on until King Rhaegar's death.

(pg. 59-62. The War of the North. Janal, R. Property of the Oldtown University Library)

*

The journey back to Winterfell went quicker as most of the snows by the King's Road had melted in the mild spring sun. As they road through Winter's Town, Lyanna noticed many of the commoners had returned back to their villages across the North. The Town was sheltering not even half of the people it had two months ago when they had left for Harrenhal.

Time passed as it had before the Tourney, life returning to Winterfell quickly.

Lyanna attended her lessons with Maester Walys, worked on her needlework with her grandmothers, aunts and cousins, spent her time with the daughters of Rodrik Cassel, rode out with Brandon, sparred with Benjen, visited the Godswood and prayed before the Gods. All in all nothing had changed.

A month after the Tourney Lyanna woke up early in the morning with a sticky feeling between her legs. Heart racing in her chest, she jumped out of the bed and threw back the furs, staring at the bright red blood soaked in the sheets.

Father sent a letter south on the day itself, and the response came a fortnight later. “You are a woman now, Lya. And will soon be the Lady of Storm's End.” He told her then and that Robert was to come North for a wedding.

Lyanna spent the week between the arrival of Robert's letter and the end of the False Spring hiding out in her rooms or in the stables. She had no desire to speak with Father or Benjen or even Brandon and it did not disturb the stable hand in his work when she sat in the stall of her filly, reading a book or practicing her sword fighting.

To the end of the moons turn the weather turned bad again and ravens from all over the North came flying to Winterfell, asking for assistance and shelter against the Winter Storms. It seemed as though Winter had returned, aptly mirroring Lyanna's moods.

Winter's Town returned to life, but the snow storms kept everyone locked inside their houses. Even in Winterfell Father had forbidden them to leave the Keep, even to go to the Godswood, as the winds were strong enough to move even a grown man.

With the return of Winter however also came the delay of her wedding as the storms had made the Kingsroad untravable. Robert sent a letter explaining and asking for her forgiveness, a forgiveness Lyanna gave readily and wholeheartedly.

The next two moons Lyanna spent cooped up in the castle. While the storms had ceased, snow stood taller than Lyanna's head and so Father had told Lyanna to stay within the castle gates.

Nothing exciting happened until one day Maester Walys approached her cautiously one evening. “Lady Lyanna, a letter came for you this morning.”

Lyanna frowned and looked at the letter in the Maester's hand. It did not look like it was from the North, as the paper was heavy and creamy and stanced finely. The letters of her name were written in a loopy, cursive and beautiful handwriting.

“I have not read the contents of the letter, my lady.” Maester Walys continued. “That is not my place, nor have I gone to your lord father. But might I ask whose correspondence you are receiving?”

“I do not know, Maester.” Lyanna said quietly, turning the letter over and tracing the deep blue seal. It was not a motive she recognized and neither it seemed did the Maester.

“Then might I propose you show this letter to your father.” The Maester said. He watched Lyanna with dark eyes and Lyanna nodded.

“I will, Maester.” Lyanna promised.

The Maester smiled at her and left the letter in her hands. She watched him go, watched the dark gray of his robes brush along the stone floors. Maester Walys had always been a part of her family as much as her aunts and uncles. The man had taught her everything she knew and he was a kind and loyal man.

If he had not read this letter, then Lyanna believed him. And if he thought it best she showed the letter to her father, then Lyanna would – after reading it for herself first.

Hurrying back to her own chambers, Lyanna opened the seal as soon as she was alone. The letter was long, that much she had assumed by the paper's weight, and written in small, tight cursive.

Lady Stark,

as now a few moons have gone by and a little distance has put my actions at Harrenhal into perspective for me, I wish to now explain my actions to you also.

Lyanna stopped reading and shook her head, incredulously. Her heart raced in her chest and she looked around senselessly, trying to see if someone was nearby.

How could the Prince write to her? After all he had done? Lyanna was well aware of the gossip around her. She had been at Harrenhal and she was at Winterfell. Even her father's servants seemed to believe she had a more meaningful relationship with the Prince than exchanging a few words over a shield and a sword.

It was never my intention to shame you, your family or my wife and her family. My crowning of you as Queen of Love and Beauty at the Tourney of Harrenhal was merely a sign of recognition for your talents in the melee. As I rode alongside the stands after my victory, my eyes were drawn to you and the northern party. It was not a premeditated decision when I decided then to recognize your skills in the melee, even if it might have been in a unthoughtful manner.

As I speak so, my thoughts go to you, Lady Stark. As we saw each other in the Godswood at Harrenhal, you were dressed in men's mail and armor, with a shield and sword raised at me. Yet still you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen before in my life. I still remember the way the gray of your eyes seemed to mimic the gray of the heart tree you were standing before and the curls in your hair framed your face so splendidly. You stood tall and proud and did not seem afraid of me or anyone. It was, in a word, a most enlightening conversation.

Lady Stark, in my life I have not gone about many endeavors that were my own. My life has always been predetermined by my parentage. I am expected to be the Crown Prince, to be the man who will one day rule the Seven Kingdoms. I am expected to marry whom my father wishes and carry on our family legacy. I am expected to be a Warrior, a Scholar and a Prince all together and not once in my life have I had the opportunity to do what I wished I could do.

In my address to you, Lady Stark, I wish to finally go on an endeavor mine own. Though our acquaintance was short lived, my soul seems to have spotted a like minded in yours. It has been months since my eyes have set sight on you, but still your figure haunts my dreams at night and day. Not even the birth of my long awaited son seems to curb my longing for you, Lady Stark. It is a longing without reason and logic, but it is a longing I feel deep within me. A longing for companionship with a woman whose soul feels intertwined with mine own.

I have laid my feeling bare for you, my lady. There is nothing I wish to hide from you, as my heart yearns for you, my Queen of Love and Beauty. I prayed before the mother that you feel the same width of emotion for me as I do for you and I do most ardently believe that you do.

So with bated breath I wait for the response of my Queen of Love and Beauty,

Rhaegar Targaryen

Lyanna set the letter down and willed her heart to stop racing. She felt queasy and her palms prickled with sweat. Her mind felt blank. There was not a response she could think of, but utter nausea and confusion. What had she done to make the Prince feel as strongly as he did? What made him – What did he want from her?

“Lya?”

Lyanna looked up with a jerk. Grandmother Arya was standing in the door to her chambers with a small smile on her face.

“I have been calling your name for ages, child. What has you so emerged then?” Lyanna's Grandmother asks. She steps closer and takes a seat beside Lyanna, who tucks away the letter in the length of her sleeves.

“Oh nothing much.” Lyanna lies, heart beating in her chest. “Why have you been calling my names for ages?”

“Oh nothing much.” her grandmother repeated, a slight mocking tone to her voice. “Well any girl is allowed to have secrets, I suppose.”

“Are we?” Lyanna asked quietly. “Allowed to have secrets, I mean? We cannot choose our own husbands or make our own decisions. Why would we be able to have secrets ...”

Grandmother Arya sighs and runs a hand over Lyanna's hair. “You will be happy someday, Lyanna. Even if it isn't with your husband, then it will be with your children, your grandchildren. Believe me, darling. When I married your grandfather, I did not think he would get me pregnant twice and then bugger off to see the world and leave me with two babies.”

“Did you love him when you married?” Lyanna asked.

Grandmother Arya looked at her and smiled. “Yes. Yes I did, I really did. Sometimes being in love with someone doesn't mean you work well together, darling. Love fades if you don't tend to it, just as love will bloom out of nothing. I was disappointed in your Grandfather for so long, but I still love him with all my heart. I just wonder if we should have married.”

“But why would you not marry if you love him?”

“Ah darling. You are still so young.” Grandmother Arya ran a hand alongside Lyanna's face and smiled. “Love and marriage can go together, but they do not need to. Especially for Lords and Ladies. Your father was married for politics, you and Brandon will be married for politics and so many Princesses and Ladies and Kings and Queens and Princes and Lords were married for politics before us.”

“That is stupid.” Lyanna exclaimed.

It was stupid. Why did all the songs sing about love and Queen Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight or Florian and Jonquil. The songs told such pretty stories about staggering and amazing love. Why did she have to marry Robert Baratheon and never experience any kind of love like that?

“Yes it is.” Grandmother Arya agrees. “It is stupid, but that does not mean you don't have to love. Your mother loved a boy from the Last Hearth before she married Rickard. I was so sure the two of them would be married, but then your grandfather Edwyle died and your mother married Rickard. And believe me, darling, your mother was happy too. She still loved the boy from Last Hearth, but she grew to love your father as well.”

“Who was he?” Lyanna asked quietly. She knew so little about her mother. They so rarely seemed to talk about her, the great Lyarra Stark. She knew her mother had been 6 years older than her father and that she had brown curls and gray eyes just like Lyanna's. She knew that her mother had loved riding and it was a fall from horseback that resulted in a wound that festered and killed her.

“Oh no one really.” Grandmother Arya said softly. “Only a minor cousin of the Umbers. No one special, but special enough that your mother grew to love him when he stayed at Winter's Town one winter.”

“Does father know?”

“Oh yes.” Grandmother Arya laughs loudly. “Everyone at Winterfell knew Lyarra would do anything for that boy. It was not a secret and it did not matter anyways. Winter passed, he went back to Last Hearth and Rodrik and I were in the middle of brokering out a marriage deal with the Umbers when Edwyle died and Lyarra married Rickard. Who knows what might have happened if the boy had asked for Lyarra's hand when it was still winter.”

“I would not be born.” Lyanna said quietly.

Grandmother Arya stilled and smiled fondly at her. “Yes. And neither would your brothers have been. And so I am eternally grateful that you were. The Gods know what they do when they meddle with our lives. They must have a plan for your marriage. Otherwise they would not have set the wheels into motion as they did.”

“Mayhaps.” Lyanna said slowly. “Mayhaps they did.”

*

Lyanna reread the letter Prince Rhaegar had sent her often the days afterwards, before deciding to respond in a short letter she gave Maester Walys claiming it was a letter for Lady Catelyn Tully.

He responded in less than a week and Lyanna read the letter with a feeling of mixed excitement and trepidation. While she was still not entirely sure why she had responded, and what the Prince did want from her, there was something thrilling about disobeying her father and every norm her father had ever taught her.

The Prince wrote about his life, about his children, even about his wife so much until Lyanna felt as though she knew more about him than any other person in her life except maybe Benjen. He talked about his childhood, the king and the queen, his brother and the siblings that all died. He talked about his life at the Red keep, at staying at Summerhall when he was young, of moving to Dragonstone after marrying his wife.

Lyanna kept her letters scarse. She responded to his questions, asked questions about his life, but none of her letters were as longwinded as those of the Prince.

By the moons turn they had exchanged half a dozen letters and Lyanna wondered when the penny would drop finally and the Prince would reveal why exactly he had chosen to write her.

The letter came about six weeks into their correspondance, just a few days after his last letter.

Lyanna opened it frowning, still under the watchful eyes of Maester Walys.

“Another letter from Lady Catelyn?” He asked, slight disbelief colouring his voice.

Lyanna smiled at him and nodded. “Yes. She is very interested in how Winterfell is like.”

“Kind of you, Lady Lyanna.” Maester Walys said, a smile tugging at the sides of his mouth. “To welcome your good-sister so.”

“Yes, I would think so.” Lyanna said, lifting her nose and rushing out of the Maester's rookery. She hurried back to her room and read as she went.

Lady Lyanna,

what I have long feared has unfortunately come to pass. Grand Maester Pycelle has confirmed that my wife will no longer be able to bear children for me. Elia, of course, is heartbroken, however for me this makes my situation very difficult.

You see during our correspondance I have not been truly honest with you.

When I was a boy at Summerhall, my hands fell upon a book containing ancient prophecies. There within I found the true words of the Prince that was Promised. As I do not know if you know of this Prophecy, allow me to summarize. Herein it is stated there will come a Prince that will save Mankind from the darkness. Signs that the Prince has come include a Red Sky, born upon salt and smoke and the return of dragons.

Much of my childhood and adolescants I had believed that it was myself the Prophecy speaks of. I was born during the Tragedy of Summerhall. This fits the salt and smoke part of the Prophecy. Only because of my belief that I was the Prince that was Promised I started to study weaponry and fighting, as I knew, even as a boy, that I could not defeat the darkness only with books.

Now however, at least with the birth of my son, Aegon, I am sure that I erred as a boy. I know now that my boy Aegon is actually the Prince that was promised. I know this, as he was born under a red comet. It was only when I had seen the Red Comet at his birth that I decided to name my boy Aegon, as it is necessary for the Dragon to have three heads and my daughter was already named Rhaenys.

Because my son is the Prince that is Promised and the Dragon needs three heads, Elia not being able to have another child poses a strong problem for me. I need another child. My son needs another sister. For long, even since the birth of Rhaenys, I have searched for a suitable candidate for my child's mother, when at the Tourney at Harrenhal yet another part of the Prophecy came to mind.

It says that the Prince that was Promised – Aegon – will have a song. The song of Ice and Fire.

And you, my Lady Lyanna, are of Winterfell, are of Stark blood and are of Ice. And I am of Dragonstone, of Old Valyrian Dragon blood and am of Fire. Together we could be Ice and Fire and so I believe that together we can give my son the third head of the Dragon he needs.

I apologize if this comes at a slight surprise, but I am sure that the darkness will come soon and thus I would need my third head of the Dragon as soon as possible.

Together with my trusted knights I have thought of a plan how to get together, Lady Lyanna. I know that you and your family are about to travel south toward Riverrun for your brother's marriage to Lady Tully. When there, I would meet you at the Isles of Faces. We can marry infront of the Heart Tree – a marriage valid before the eyes of your Old Gods and making our child a true Targaryen and a true Stark. A union between us both would not only save the world. A union between us both would also save you for marriage with that Baratheon Brute.

Please respond as soon as possible,

with all my affection,

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

Lyanna sat and reread the letter again and again. Was he serious? Was the Prince truly blinded to reality? How could he believe in all this? Did he really believe that Lyanna would believe it as well?

Mayhaps the Prince was just as mad as his father – just in a different way.

Making a decision, Lyanna left her room at a sprint, the door slamming into the hinges loudly. She made her way up the stairs to her fathers solar automatically, brushing past servants and Brandon alike without paying them any mind.

Lyanna should have never responded to the Prince – mayhaps she should have listened to Maester Walys' advice.

Why did he think she would run away with him? Was he truly so deluded that he thought she would help him cheat on his wife when she had expressly told the Prince how vile she found Robert Baratheon's indiscretions.

“Father!” Lyanna exclaimed as she burst into her lord father's room, without knocking. She moved towards his desk and thrust the letter into his face.

She registered her father looking up startled and his face drew closed in anger as he took sight of her. “What manners did I teach you, Lyanna?” Father said, his voice raised. “It is not custom to knock.”

“Please father.” Lyanna said, standing up straight. “I have something to tell you.”

Father put the quill away and sighed, looking up at Lyanna expectantly. “Well?”

“I have … A moons turn ago I received a letter and I am truly sorry, my lord, I should have brought it to you immediately.” Lyanna stammered. “I believe that Prince Rhaegar might be as mad as his father.”

Father did not look away from her as he took the letter. He watched her for a moment until dropping his eyes towards the letter. The more he read the graver his face turned until he finally looked up, face thunderous. “What did you write him to ever give him the impression that you would run away with him.” Father asked, overpronouncing each word with care.

“Nothing much father, I swear.” Lyanna said, voice trembling despite herself. “I only- I said that I was angry at Robert Baratheon for already having two bastards. Why would he think I would marry him to help him betray his wife? I don't understand what he want from me.”

“Apparently, a child.” Father said, disbelief colouring his voice. “Hasn't he shamed us enough already at Harrenhal. He makes too many assumptions.”

“I am sorry, father. I never meant for him to … I don't understand how he ever thought I would run away with him. I would rather run North of the Wall than be Queen of the South.”

“I know, darling Lya.” Father said softly. “I believe you, I truly do. But I forbid you to ever write him again. You must obey me.”

“I will, father. I promise it.” Lyanna said earnestly.

The letter of the Prince frightened her too much. She could not believe he would actually believe she would run away with him.

There was nothing logical or true about running away with a Prince. If she didn't want to be a Lady of the South in Storm's End, why did he think she would want to be a Queen of the South. If he could even promise her that. In all the songs, the girls were always shamed for running away with men. There would be no romance – nothing like in the songs, like Jonquil and Florian, or Queen Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight.

“I will write Lord Robert at once. Mayhaps once you have married the Prince will forget this folly.” Father said.

“Father … I swear I never wanted to … it was never my intention. I don't …. I am sorry father.”

“I know Lyanna. Take this as a lesson. Southerners are different than we are. We are pragmatic, we know hardship, we know winter. We know that there are more important things to life than politics and courtseys and idle conversation. And you best remember that when you go to the south. Teach those lessons to your children, your husband and your husband's people.”

Chapter Text

The Wedding of Robert Baratheon and Lyanna Stark was celebrated in the middle of the year 282 at Winterfell. There is no record of the reason for the celebration at Winterfell, proving a source of bafflement for historians and maesters since. Even their contemporaries did not know of the true reason, as a letter of Clarina Estermont, daughter of Lord Estermont, to Celina Tarth, wife of Selwyn Tarth.

“The dress I had made for my cousin's wedding arrived last week. Mayhaps I can wear it when Stannis marries, should that ever happen. Truly, it is glorious, Celina. I wish you could see it. Ah, it is such a shame we shall not be seeing each other after all. I was so looking forward to it. assures me that we shall have a large feast upon Lord Robert's return, so you shall have to beg Lord Tarth to let you come.” (Celina Tarth's letter collection, pg 30.)

What followed in the last paragraphs remaining in the letter describes the gown Clarina Estermont presumably wore at the Tourney in honor of Lady Baratheon in 283.

Despite not knowing exactly why the Wedding was hosted in Winterfell and not at the groom's home, we do know surprisingly many details about the wedding and the days that followed.

It is known for example that the Ceremony itself was held in the Godswood of Winterfell, where half of the North was in attendance. This information is taken from a Ledger found in the Winterfell Library, along with a 'shopping list' for the Wedding's feast.

Maester Walys lists items such as:

• 55 stuffed goose
• 30 piglets
• 50 pounds of potatoes
• 20 pounds of lemons & 30 pounds of blood-oranges (imported from Dorne)
• 300 bags of flour (wheat and barley in equal amounts)

The list goes on, listing more foods, some grown in the North and some imported from as far away as Essos.

Extrapolated from the list and an account of a minor Nordish Lord, we can assume the feast following the Wedding Ceremony lasted for several hours during which the guests enjoyed several courses.

A large wedding ceremony was not a rare thing during the late 3^rd century, with many other 'shopping lists' recovered listing similar amounts of food. From a similarly sized 'shopping list' recovered in the Highgarden Library, we can infer that about 500 guests attended the Stark-Baratheon wedding.

While we know the logistics of the wedding party, archeologists recovered a collection of Maester Walys in the library of Winterfell after the War of the Dawn, which contains the sketch of Lady Lyanna on her wedding day. The sketch, signed by Bethany Bolton, shows a slender girl dressed in a long-sleeved gown from her midriff up. On the back it reads: Lyanna Stark, now Lady Baratheon, on her wedding day.

While other sketches have been found in Maester Wayls' collection, this one in particular stands out among historians and has caused many debates in the centuries between Lady Lyanna's life and the present. Lady Bolton, a friend and contemporary of Lady Lyanna, sketched her friend with a tall crown atop of her head.

For most of the 4^th century historians took the crown as a sign that the Stark Family were ambitiously vying for the throne as early as the early 280s, a view that was sustained heavily by Maester Flordian's book “King Rhaegar, the Othersbane”.

“Even for those who do not believe Lyanna Stark seduced Rhaegar Targaryen at the Tourney of Harrenhal, despite there being no other suggestion as to why the Prince would crown the young Stark girl, a drawing of the Lady Lyanna on her wedding day dissolves any doubts the Stark Family clawed after the throne of Westeros even decades before Sansa Stark was crowned Queen of Westeros alongside her husband. There is no other explanation as to why Lady Lyanna Stark would wear a crown at her wedding to Robert Baratheon, whose Targaryen blood made him a prime candidate to marry, as Lord Baratheon was fourth in line to the throne by the time Lady Lyanna Stark married him.” (Maester Flordian. King Rhaegar, the Othersbane. Published in 341.)

Since the sixth century most historians have reviewed and amended this belief, as new evidence had come to light and enough time had passed to have an objective view on the events. As Maester Tinjol points out in “The Prince that was Promised” there is only a single mention of the crown in contemporary sources.

While the crown is an as popular motive in paintings about Lady Lyanna as the armor she wore when arriving at the gates of King's Landing, all of those painting were fabricated after Lady Lyanna died and in the centuries since and thus Lady Bolton's drawing is the only contemporary artwork of it.

It is now most commonly accepted that perhaps this crown never existed, but was rather a detail Lady Bolton added on a whim.

(Janal, Rick. War for the New Dawn, pg 6)

*

*

*

Two moons later Robert's party was reported being spotted by Torrhen's Square.

“I don't want to marry him.” Lyanna had raged at Brandon after Father had announced Robert and Ned's upcoming arrival that morning at breakfast and Lyanna had stormed out of the Great Hall. Brandon had found her sitting on the highest easily accessible point, staring out to the south, trying to spot Robert and Ned's company. He had taken her, saddled their horses and together they rode off into the hills surrounding Winterfell.

They sat on the frozen snow, warmed their cold bodies at a small fire they built, and looked over both the Castle and Winter Town below.

“My Lya.” Brandon had said. They had been both bundled so tightly in furs she could only see the tip of his nose and his eyes, but one hand appearing from under his pile of furs and caressed the side of Lyanna's face. “Mayhaps we should both break our betrothals and let Ben and Ned be pawn in father's game.”

Lyanna had laughed then. Father would have both their hides, mayhaps send them to the Boltons to be flayed, she knew, but it was still a fanciful idea. “Ned can marry Robert for all I care. Then Robert can have the Stark he so desires and Father has his alliance.”

They both giggled at the image of their soft-spoken, sweet brother in a dress before the godswood.

“That would work.” Brandon jested, a smile crinkling the skin around his eyes. “Ned is halfway in love with Robert anyways.”

Oh how Lyanna wished she could have that moment back now, just as Robert rode into Winterfell's courtyard with Ned at his heels.

Her betrothed was smiling widely, looking around with curiosity. He was dressed in more furs than Lyanna had seen on a person in a long time, nearly doubling his girth. Still he nimbly jumped off his horse and walked towards Father quickly.

“Lord Stark.” Robert said, bowing at his waist.

“Lord Baratheon.” Father returned the greeting with a smile. “It is good to see you in Winterfell, Lord Robert.”

“It is good to be here, Lord Stark.” Robert said.

Robert and her lord father both turned towards Lyanna and she marveled about the smile that spread on Robert's face. He rushed towards her and lifted Lyanna into a hug.

She must have looked like a rag doll, Lyanna thought as Robert swung her around. He was third her width and nearly twice her size and he squeezed her tight.

At her father's loud cough, Robert set her back down on the ground. “Hello Lya. It's great to see you again.” Robert said softly.

She forced a smile at him and tried to desperately ignore the grip around her heart that seemed to tighten at his words.

Now that Robert had arrived they would most probably continue with the marriage soon. Robert had after all consented to a marriage before the heart-tree and he had even brought his own Septon along north to validate the marriage in the eyes of the Seven Gods.

In less than a fortnight, Lyanna would be a married woman and the Lady of Storm's End. Without ever having been to the lands of her husband, without ever having seen the lands she was meant to manage for the rest of her life.

The rest of the week after Robert's arrival was spent in muffled and muted quiet. Lyanna's father and betrothed spent much time locked behind doors, sometimes with Brandon but most of the time without. Even Ned, with whom Robert spent the remainder of his free time, did not know what Father and Robert seemed to discuss at all times.

Lyanna did not care, since in the week leading up to her wedding she only saw Robert at dinner, or one memorable time at breakfast when Grandmother Marna had invited him to join her, Grandmother Arya and Lyanna. That morning had been the most fun Lyanna had ever had around her betrothed, with both of her Grandmothers finally finding a common cause on Robert's person.

Despite the reprieve of the week leading up to the wedding, Lyanna woke up on the morning of her wedding day feeling queasy.

“Get up, Lya.” Grandmother Arya pulled the furs off her and Lyanna shivered in the cold mornings air. She watched as her Grandmother reached into the farthest reaches of Lyanna's closet and pulling out her finest smallclothes, made of pale yellow summer silks.

They were highly impractical for the middle of winter, Lyanna thought, as her fingers moved over the fine silk. She had told Father as much when he had commissioned them from the tailor several moons ago, but Lyanna reckoned they were for Robert's benefit and not hers. She would probably freeze in the Godswood, if her grandmother and great-grandmother had not found a way to make her wedding gown warming in any way.

Lyanna stood and moved to the window of her chambers. The Gods had favored the day of her wedding with beautiful weather. Gone were the snow storms of the past few days, instead a red dawn greeted the day.

The cold made the hairs on her arm stand up, but Lyanna breathed in sharply, relishing the cold. It made her queasiness fade somewhat and calmed her.

“She is supposed to bathed already, Arya.” Grandmother Marna said suddenly. Lyanna spun around not having noticed her Grandmother's arrival. Lady Marna Stark was already passed 60, but she still made a splendid figure as she stood tall in the room, watching both Lyanna and Arya with a fond exasperation. It was a look Lyanna's grandmother seemed to wear often in her company. “And Lya darling, your groom will meet you at the heart tree at midday.”

Midday as Lyanna knew was no more than two hour away. The days were short during the winter, especially as far north as Winterfell. It was, Old Nan said once a few years ago, a way to tell the passing of Winter, as there were only a few short hours during the midst of winter, while the days grew longer again when Spring came again.

“Well.” Grandmother Arya said exuberantly, clapping her hands together loudly. “Let's get Lady soon-to-be-Baratheon ready for her wedding then. Lady Marna, shall we unveil our greatest accomplishment?”

“Mayhaps it is your greatest accomplishment, Lady Arya. But it surely is not mine.” Grandmother Marna said, rolling her eyes. “I worked for three years on my wedding dress. This one was positively rushed and most of that time I spent unraveling your mistakes, dearest Arya.”

Lyanna grinned as she left both her grandmothers to their squabbling, going into the adjacent room where a servant had already readied a bath for her. The water smelled strongly of sage and lavender and steam rose from the surface of the water.

Lyanna undressed and stepped into the water slowly, acclimatising to the heat. Scrubbing until her skin turned red and stung, Lyanna felt as though her last moments of freedom were spent wasted. There was no way to escape anyhow. Both her grandmothers would pounce on her and not let her leave the chambers.

She sunk as far into the bath water as she could, submerging her head and holding her breath as long as she could, until coming up again for air. The cold winter air chilled her immediately and Lyanna took several deep breathes.

“Lya, dearest, are you drowning in there?” Grandmother Arya called from outside the door.

Lyanna heard Grandmother Marna's indigent squawk and climbed out of the bath before her Grandmothers could annoy the other to death. “I'm out.” Lyanna called out and the door immediately opened to both women.

“Good.” Grandmother Marna said approvingly. “Let's get you dressed and pretty, my dear.”

She quickly ushered Lyanna to sit before the looking glass, still naked and hair dripping onto the cold stone floor. Lyanna tucked her feet underneath her as she sat on the chair and looked at herself in the mirror.

She looked scared. Her skin was paler than usual and her eyes were wide as she stared at herself in the mirror. Her dark hair clung to the side of her cheekbones and droplets of water ran down her forehead and off her nose.

Grandmother Marna made quick work of taming her hair, combing out the curls with sharp, fast jerks that pulled at Lyanna's scalp. They both knew that as soon as her dried they would be back in nearly unmanageable tangles and knots, but at least for now they stayed pliable enough for her grandmother to pull Lyanna's hair back into a tight six-strand braid.

It did not take long for a few curls to escape the braid and Lyanna played with them until Grandmother Marna slapped her hand away. “You'll make it worse.”

Grandmother Arya, who had until then stood nearby not saying a word, snorted. Lyanna had inherited her wild hair from Grandmother Arya, so the older woman knew what having messy hair meant.

“Yes Arya, she will.” Grandmother Marna answered to Grandmother Arya's unworded protest. “Just because you do not know how to comb doesn't mean our granddaughter does not need to.”

“I do know how to comb, Locke.” Grandmother Arya responded, rolling her eyes.

Lyanna laughed at her grandmothers. While she was sure they both did love each other in some way, or at least tolerated each other, Lyanna's grandmothers fought to no end. They were both from the North, but that was the sole thing they seemed to have in common.

“Can you just show me the dress?” Lyanna interrupted before Grandmother Marna could respond and start a whole new fight.

“Ah yes.” Grandmother Arya picked up the pure white dress that lay on the bed and raised it high.

Lyanna stared. It was, for all it was going to be the dress she would wear on the last day of freedom of her life, absolutely beautiful. The fabric was heavy white velvet, trimmed with pale gray satin and decorated with hundreds of pale freshwater pearls. Alongside all of the trims ran small running direwolves, the size of Lyanna's fingernails, all connected. It was no wonder, Lyanna thought in wonder, that Grandmother Arya claimed the dress to be her biggest accomplishment. The small direwolves at least must have taken her Grandmothers months to make. They were fine and delicate and looked pristine.

With the help of her grandmothers Lyanna dressed. The sleeves were long and nearly touched the floor when Lyanna relaxed her arms. The hem of her dress tailed on the floor and a long trail would follow her.

“It is beautiful.” Lyanna said sincerely. “Thank you.”

Both her grandmothers looked at her fondly and smiled. “You're welcome.” They said together.

Grandmother Arya caressed the side of Lyanna's face. “You are beautiful, child.” She said quietly. “Just like your mother was.”

Lyanna paused, looked down at the floor and back up at her Grandmother, whose eyes were filled with tears. They so rarely talked about her mother. When they did, Lyanna always felt as though someone had hit her. It was always did. No matter if it was her Grandmother, her father or even Brandon, who still remembered their mother. They all made her feel the same.

Grandmother Marna smiled at her as Lyanna looked over, but the smile seemed sad. “Well then Lyanna. Is there anything else you need from us?”

Lyanna shrugged as she looked at herself in the mirror. She was still pale, though against the pure white of the dress it seemed less harsh than before. Her cheeks had gained some color and at least for now, she could fake a smile at her own reflection.

They stayed in silence for a few moments before there was a sharp knock at her chamber door. Grandmother Marna opened it to Brandon, who held a simple wooden chest in his hands. He came in without a word and smiled as he saw Lyanna.

“You look beautiful, sister.” Brandon said. He sat down on her bed and opened the chest. “Father sent me. These are for you.”

Lyanna came closer to have a look and her throat closed as she looked down on the eleven slates of granite held within the chest. “Oh.” She said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I can't wear these. I am no Lady of Winterfell.”

The slates were a remnant of the Old Queens of Winter. Old Nan said that the Slates had been chipped off the walls of Winterfell when Bran the Builder had married his bride. A symbol for the Queen of the North in the centuries past, which was now a symbol for Lady of Winterfell. Lyanna's mother had wore them on her wedding day, Grandmother Marna had worn them on hers and so had all the other ladies of Winterfell that had come in the centuries before.

“Oh Lyanna.” Grandmother Arya said softly. “Of course you are. You are the daughter of the Lord of Winterfell and no marriage will change that. The same as me still being a Flint and Marna being a Locke. Brandon's betrothed will stay a Tully after she is married, just as you will stay a Stark after you have married.”

Lyanna traced the slates with reverence. They were so beautiful and still so strong despite being thousands of years old.

“Shall we then?” Grandmother Marna asked. She pushed Lyanna back down into the seat before the mirror and handled the slates with care. She split Lyanna's hair and slid in each of the slates with care and precision.

Eventually they all lined up to frame the back of her head from one edge of her forehead to another, the curved edges of the slates forming an off sort of crown. The pale gray of the granite contrasted well with Lyanna's dark brown curls and set off the gray of her eyes.

“And Robert shall not know what hit him when he sees you in the Godswood.” Brandon remarked with a grin when Grandmother Marna stepped back and Lyanna turned around to face him. “You look regal, sister darling.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes at her brother. “I do not.” She said and tugged at the slates that were digging into her head.

Brandon was not completely wrong. For the centuries since the Starks ruled the North, the Queens wore the slates as opposed to a forged crown. Old Nan said that by wearing the slates, the Queen swore to protect Winterfell and its people in the days before the Conquering.

The last queen to have worn them had been Queen Val, wife of King Torrhen Who Knelt. The annals, written by Maester Coutino who had treated with King Aegon the Conqueror, said Queen Val wore them nearly constantly and for the last time when King Torrhen bent his knee. Since then the Ladies of Winterfell only wore them for their wedding and then once again for the funeral of their lord.

The slates were so symbolic and held so much history, Lyanna felt as though she could scarsely breath under their weight.

“Let's go then.” Grandmother Arya said. “Your father is surely waiting already.”

Lyanna held her breath as she was led to the entrance of the Great Keep.

Father stood there, dressed in a pale Grey satin doublet and rich fox furs. In his hands he held the symbolic maiden's cloak. He smiled as she approached and as Lyanna came closer she saw tears in his eyes. “You look beautiful, darling.” He said.

Together with both her grandmothers Father fastened the heavy maiden's cloak around Lyanna's shoulders and Lyanna felt as though a hand was gripping her heart tightly.

Father smiled down at her and patted her cheek gently. “Come on then, Lyanna.” He held out his arm for her and together they turned towards the entrance of the Godswood.

Lyanna clenched her jaw and started walking.

The Godswood had been transformed. People from all over the North stood at the side of the pool. She spotted Maege Mormont and her brother Joer, Bethany Bolton and Roose Bolton. Nearly everyone was in attendance and Lyanna tried to smile back at the many smiles that were given her.

At the end of the pathway stood Robert, dressed in fine back and golden silks. He was smiling widely at her as she approached. “Who comes who comes before the Gods?” He asked, the words slightly stilted. Lyanna knew that he had rehearsed them time and time again with Ned in the last week or two.

“Lyanna of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” Father replied easily.

“Me, Robert of House Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. I claim her. Who gives her?”

“I, Rickard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and Father to the Bride, give her.” Father said. He turned to her. “Lady Lyanna of House Stark, will you take this man?”

“I take this man.” Lyanna said, softly. She turned to Robert and took his outstretched hands. They clasped their hands together and together sunk down to their knees.

Lyanna bowed her head and prayed, asking the Gods for strength. They must have a plan for her, for her to marry Robert. She just prayed the Gods would give a sign as to what she was to do.

And she prayed they would forgive her. She prayed they would forgive her for lying while standing before the Heart Tree and agreeing to take Robert willingly.

Robert stood as she still prayed and quickly unfastened the maiden's cloak. The weight was lifted from her shoulders and Robert quickly swung the Baratheon cloak around her shoulders.

Lyanna held her breath as Robert helped her up and together they turned to the assembled crowd.

Father, who stood just off the side of the two of them, smiled at Lyanna as she looked at him. All of her brothers smiled as well. While Benjen and Brandon grinned at her, Ned, sweet stoic Ned, seemed close to tears.

*

*

*

The feast continued on for ages. By the time the sixth course came around, Lyanna was bored of talking to Robert, and even her new husband seemed to have run out of topics to discuss. They sat in a strange, almost anxious silence, as Robert waved a servant closer to pour himself more wine. He had drunken at least thrice more than Lyanna and seemed well into his cups.

“Look at that wench.” Robert laughed loudly at Ned, who sat to his other side.

Lyanna's brother, bless his sweet heart, looked over at Lyanna carefully. She schooled her face into a calm mask. She knew, she knew and had always known that Robert would not – ever – change.

Ned however still seemed to think the absolute best of his best friend. Still he seemed so happy, she marveled, that his sister was marrying the boy Ned had adopted as his true brother.

It was not too difficult to imagine that Ned would come south with them, live in Storm's End with them. If Father allowed it, perhaps Ned would stay. Even if Ned had lived in the Eyrie more than in Winterfell, Lyanna would like for him to be around her.

Ned shushed Robert as her new husband continued to – loudly – compliment the serving girl, who blushed bright red at his words. He was, objectively, right, Lyanna thought. The girl was very beautiful, with large breasts and strong hips, everything Lyanna lacked herself.

For a moment Lyanna felt jealous of the girl, and some of it must have shown on her face as the girl looked nervous as she approached with some more wine for Lyanna.

“Thank you.” Lyanna told the girl, painting a smile, as genuine as she could, onto her face. “Could you bring a pitcher of lemon water, please?”

The girl nodded and left quickly and when the pitcher arrived a few minutes later Lyanna was not surprised to see a different serving girl, much older and much less beautiful, came along.

Robert seemed to have noticed as well as he leaned over to Ned and whispered as quietly as drunkens do: “Not as pretty as that other girl.”

The feast continued on for 2 more hours, before the last course – a sweet cream of vanilla with fruits Lyanna could not identify – was served and done.

Lyanna tensed as Father stood up with a loud cough. He raised his goblet of ale and immediately the entire Great Hall fell silent, everyone quieting down.

“Guests!” Father's voice boomed. “Family! Northerners! Southerners! Let us all toast to the happy couple and my newest son, Robert Baratheon and the new Lady of Storm's End Lyanna Stark.”

With him everyone raised their glasses and yelled: “Ay!”

Ale and Wine sloshed out of glasses all over the Hall and laughter filled the air. Lyanna too avoided being drenched by Robert's wine.

“Now, let us see the wedded couple off to their bedding!” Father announced and Lyanna's chest tightened and hurt.

Father had, in wise foresight, selected only a few to perform the shedding ceremony. How might it have been, Lyanna thought wryly as Lords Bolton, Ulmer, Mormont, Manderly, Hornwood and Karstark tugged and unfastened her dress with obvious care, if the nearly 500 men sitting in the Hall at present had been allowed to tug at her and her dress.

Brandon, who stood by her back and glared at anyone who came to close with too much energy, gently herded her through the hall towards the exit.

It was mortifying, Lyanna thought, as her dress was stripped away enough it fell to the floor and she nearly tripped over it, leaving her nearly bare only in her summer silks.

“Enough.” Brandon snapped sharply as Lord Manderly moved to remove them too and he put a protective arm around her shoulders, nearly shielding her from view completely. He quickly moved her forward and into the hallway that led up to her wedding chambers. Loud cheers and jeers followed them out and Lyanna's heart felt as though it should be beating out of her chest.

Just before the chamber, Brandon turned her around and smiled down at her kindly. “You'll be fine, Lya.” He said, gently. “Don't be scared.”

“I'm not.” Lyanna lied and from the look on Brandon's face it was not a convincing one at that. She took a deep breath and entered the bedding chamber.

Robert was not there yet and she quickly made her way to the table that held the carafe of fine Arbor Wine. Throwing back a glass of wine, Lyanna tried to settle her nerves.

The door opened again and Robert stumbled in, laughing. He was undressed to the smallclothes, with his chest bare. Loud giggles followed him in and Lyanna spotted a couple of girl looking in with bright red faces until the door closed behind Robert.

The silence was truly uncomfortable, Lyanna thought as she and Robert stared at each other. She forced a smile on her face and that seemed to wake Robert up. He grinned at her and he moved closer and pulled her into a hug.

“I l-love you, Lyaaaa.” Robert slurred. “I wanna see you withou' you' clothes.”

Lyanna's heart beat loudly in her ears and she wondered if Robert could hear it. He was standing so close and his hands moved up and down her bare upper arms. He pressed closer and pressed a wet kiss on her lips. He smelled and tasted of stale wine, Lyanna realized in disgust.

Later, as Lyanna lay in bed, a snoring Robert laying beside her, one arm flung over her belly possessively, Lyanna wondered if perhaps she should have drunken more at dinner, or at least before the bedding started.

It could have only helped.

Her entire body ached as she carefully escaped Robert's grip and she walked over the window and looked out over the lands of her father.

From the window she could see the top of the Godswood, of the bright red leaves of the Heart Tree and beyond that the rolling hills, covered in a light layer of snow. As she opened the window she could hear the loud laughs and incessant chatter of the remaining wedding guests and they continued to celebrate the wedding she never wanted.

Briefly, just for a moment, Lyanna wondered how her wedding might have been if she would have agreed to the Crown Prince's terms and married him. If the Lords and Ladies of the South would have celebrated her marriage just as joyously as the Northern Lords and Ladies were celebrating, and if she would still have felt as unhappy as she felt then.

Chapter Text

Lyanna looked out the window, watching the calm sea roll against the castle walls below. Upon her arrival at Storm's End she had been given one of the better chambers in Storm's End, in the highest most part of the Tower and where she overlooked the sea to the East and the chalk cliff to the North. It was nice, at times, to just sit on the ledge of her window and relax to the sound of waves and water and not think of her life, her marriage and her pitiful excuse for a husband.

She looked at Robert, who lay in her bed, snoring. He only snored, she had realized in the months of their marriage, when he had drunken too much the evening before.

Lyanna sighed and changed into one of her most comfortable dresses, not bothering to keep quiet, because she knew not even the loudest thunder storm could wake Robert once he was truly asleep. She slipped out of the room and made her way down the familiar path to Renly's room.

She could not sleep when Robert lay beside her and so, twice a week, Lyanna would escape her rooms to sleep on the sofa by Renly's rooms. It was a well established routine by the six months anniversary of her marriage.

Much of her time during the first few months as Lady of Storm's End was spent with Maester Cressan, learning about the duties that befell to her. What time she did not spend with the Maester, she spent with Robert's little brother Renly, who turned out to be a delight and reminded Lyanna fondly of the littl'uns on Flint's mountain.

Renly delighted in showing Lyanna around the castle, showing her his own favorite hiding spots and more often than not Lyanna accompanied the boy to his lessons and joined him for dinner.

Stannis had been much less welcoming than his little brother, turning his nose up at much of what Lyanna did. She felt as though he thought her too wild, too brash and too strange to be around, and Stannis would leave the room with a scowl when she entered with Renly. Only when Maester Cressan asked Lyanna and Stannis to work together – for the good of the Stormlands – did he seem to agree to her presence.

Lyanna learned quickly that Robert was only the Lord of Storm's End in name, while Stannis did all the work that befell to being a Lord. Robert rather spent his time drinking in the Inn's and going off to the Whore Houses that lay beyond the castle.

Robert's enthusiasm for her had waned as quickly as she had thought and his biweekly visits at night turned out being the only time they ever interacted. He found his joys elsewhere – fucking whores and gambling away their money in games.

If Lyanna had ever had any hope for her marriage, she might have been disappointed, but so, Lyanna was only happy she only had to see him twice a week.

Lyanna settled on the couch by Renly's room and tucked her legs in, sighing out loudly. Sleeping in her dresses, even those most comfortable, was never a joy, but since Maester Cressan had looked at her as though she was an unruly, uncivilized orphan when he had found her sleeping in her nights clothes two months beforehand, Lyanna endured it.

It took a while before she finally fell asleep, but it took her eventually and Lyanna woke up to the loud, incessant babbling of Renly.

“-in there. You'll wake Lya.” He said just as she woke up enough to register his words. “Stanny, no!”

“Don't call me that.” Stannis said in gruff tones just as he entered the room she was in. Sitting up on the couch, Lyanna blinked several times to clear her vision. Stannis was looking down at her with an unreadable expression. “Do you sleep her often?”

Renly came up behind Stannis and looked at her with a wide smile. “Twice a week! We play together when I wake up.” Renly said before Lyanna could answer Stannis and she sighs. “Can we go play now?”

“Not now, Renly. Lady Baratheon needs to attend to her duties.” He turns to her. “We received a Raven from Amberly. Lady Rogers wishes to correspond to you. She says she was once a Lady Stark and would like to see her niece.”

Oh.

Lyanna had forgotten about Branda, the sister of her own mother, who had married Lord Rogers of Amberly. Grandmother Arya had told Lyanna many stories about her eldest, wildest daughter, but Lyanna had forgotten that the woman lived so close.

“I'll go change.” Lyanna said softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

Robert had, mercifully, left her rooms by the time Lyanna returned. Ellis, her handmaiden, waited by the door as she entered.

“Does mi'Lady wish for a bath?” Ellis asked in her thick Stormlanders accent. Ellis had been a gift by the Baratheons, a gift Lyanna neither wanted then nor cared for now. She had never had a handmaiden in Winterfell – she hadn't needed one then and she didn't need one now.

“No. Bring me something to dress, please.” Lyanna asked her, and started to strip out of her old dress. She sat in front of the vanity and looked at her own reflection. She quickly tugged her curls, lopsided from sleeping, in a simple braid and wiped over her face with a warm lavender cloth.

Ellis approached her with the pretty spring dress Robert had presented her with 2 months ago and together they changed into it. The dress was completely opposite of what Lyanna was used to wearing, made of lace and pale green silks rather than the wools and muted colors she was used to.

Lyanna tucked an errand curl back into the braid and slipped on her shoes. “You may go. I will not be needing any more of your assistance today.”

“Yes, m'Lady.” Ellis said, curtsying deeply.

Lyanna left her rooms and quickly walked down the stairs, passing servants and workers alike. They curtsied for her and she passed them with a small nod.

She knocked at Maester Cressan's office and waited for his quiet assent.

“Lady Baratheon.” He stood up as she entered and tucked his hands into his long sleeves. Lyanna liked the Maester. He was a kind man and he truly seemed to care deeply for the Baratheons and their people. “Lord Stannis has sent you, yes?”

“Yes.” Lyanna said. “May I see the letter?”

“Oh, of course, mi'lady, of course.”

Lyanna took the folded parchment and sighed.

Lady Baratheon,

I pray to the Old Gods and the New this letter finds you and your family in good health and in good fortune. As I am not sure how much my mother, the Lady Arya Flint, told you about me, I wish to introduce myself. My name is Branda Rogers of Amberly, once Branda Stark of Winterfell. I was your mother's elder sister by two years and I have been married to Lord Harrold Rogers for over 20 years.

As you are the only daughter of my most beloved sister, and we do live so close to each other now, I would ask for us to enter into a correspondence. I would very much love to hear stories of my beloved Winterfell and of my cousin, Lord Rickard, as well as you and your brothers. I do so very much miss my home and I am sure you do as well. Together we might reminisce about our home.

With all the love of an Aunt,

Lady Branda Rogers

Lyanna reread the letter. Again, and again. Grandmother Arya had not often talked about Branda, but Lyanna knew that her aunt had gone south as a companion for the then-Princess Rhaella Targaryen. She had left Winterfell and had never come back North, having found love in Lord Rogers of Amberly.

That however, was also the extent of what Lyanna knew of her aunt. She didn't even know if she had cousins.

“Tell me, Maester, about the Rogers Family.”

Maester Cressan nodded and took a seat behind his desk, leaving the good chair for Lyanna. He straightened the papers on his desk and sighed. “Lord Rogers is a minor Lord, whose holdings are small and right at the edge of the border to Dorne. Lord Rogers' ancestors immigrated from Dorne when he came into a bit of money and bought the lands his family now holds.”

“It was Lord Rogers' grandfather who found a deposit of Amber beneath the soil of his lands. They are handsomely rich now and a good vassal of Lord Roberts.” Maester Cressan explained. “Lord Rogers and your Aunt Lady Rogers have four children – a son, Steffon, and three daughters. The youngest might be around your own age, my Lady.”

Lyanna nodded. “Would you say they are good people, Maester?”

“Yes, I would say so.” Maester Cressan said, after a moment. “At least I have not heard anything of the contrary. And their neighbors, Lord Dondarrion, do seem to like them.”

“I would like to invite them to Storm's End, Maester.” Lyanna said, speaking slowly. “If that would be possible.”

“Of course it would be possible, my Lady.” Maester Cressan said, raising an eyebrow. “But perhaps you should consult with your husband first.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“But I am fairly certain that Lord Baratheon will not object to his lady getting visited by family, which is after all important for both the Stark and Baratheon family.” Maester Cressan smiled at her.

*

*

*

Thankfully it took no convincing for Robert to agree to the Rogers visit. Lyanna merely asked him at one of the rare dinners they shared together.

Three weeks later Lord and Lady Rogers were set to arrive, accompanied by their three daughters, that evening. They had left Amberly, a small holding on the edge of the Stormlands border to Dorne, a week before and Lyanna was eagerly awaiting their arrival.

She longed to speak with someone who understood her longing for the North.

When the scouts finally arrived, Lyanna had collected Renly and moved to greet her relatives.

Lord Rogers was the first to arrive. He jumped from his horse with a surprising agility for a man ten years her own father's senior. As he looked at her, Lyanna stifled a surprised gasp.

The man had deep black skin, a fact no one had mentioned to her before. He stood three heads taller than her and bowed deeply before her and Renly. “Lady Baratheon.” He said in a deep voice. “I thank you for your invitation to Storm's End.”

“Of course, Lord Rogers.” Lyanna smiled, giving Lord Rogers a small smile. She craned her head to look past him to see her Aunt step out of the carriage.

Lady Branda Stark Rogers was a big woman, tall and buxom alike. She swept forward and pushed past her husband in such a brash manner, Lyanna couldn't stop herself from checking Lord Rogers' reaction. “Oh Lyanna, my sweet niece. You look so much like your mother.” She reached out and pulled Lyanna into a long hug.

It was such a strange thing, Lyanna thought, how she had never met Lady Branda before in her life, but still Lyanna's eyes filled with tears. “You don't look much like her.” Lyanna found the strength to say.

Aunt Branda laughed loudly and pulled away from Lyanna. “That is true.” She said grinning. “My little sister was always the pretty one. She was our fathers daughter.”

Lyanna laughed and blinked away the tears in her eyes. She missed her family so much. She missed Grandfather Rodrik and Grandmother Arya and Aunt Branda, even if Lyanna had just met her, reminded her so much of both.

“These are my children, Lady Baratheon. Steffon, Emelie and Alys.” Lord Rogers interrupted them and Lyanna broke away from her Aunt's embrace to look at her cousins. “My eldest daughter Lynara is at Estermont with her husband and two boys. She could not make it.”

“I am so happy to meet you all.” Lyanna said softly. For the dozenth time that day her eyes filled with tears. Steffon looked incredibly like Brandon, though his skin was so dark, he held himself like Lyanna's brother and the resemblance was overwhelming. “Lord Steffon, you look so much like my brother. I thank you all for coming.”

“Of course, Lady Baratheon.” Lord Steffon said, bowing at the hip.

Lyanna cringed at the formal address. Even for most of the servants back home she had been Lyanna or Lady Lya. Since she had married Robert, she only heard her name in the mouth of Robert and Renly. She missed being Lya, without the attachment of being Lady Baratheon and being the Lady of Storm's End. “Please.” She said. “Call me Lyanna. We are family.”

“Of course, Lady Lyanna.” Steffon bowed again and Lyanna barely refrained from rolling her eyes.

“You must be tired from your journey.” Maester Cressan interrupted and glared at Lyanna as she turned to look at him. “Might I show you to your chambers?”

Lyanna cringed. For all the etiquette Maester Cressan had tried to teach her, she often forgot what duties she had to fulfill as Lady of Storm's End.

Of course Grandmother Marna had taught her much back home, but in the North there was no wait. There was no need for resting after a half day travel if there was something to discuss. Southerners were so proper, Lyanna had realized in her 6 months in the south, and they were so fragile.

“Of course, Maester. That would be kind.” Lord Rogers said and Lyanna motioned for servants to pick up the Rogers' luggage.

*

*

*

The Rogers changed much at Storm's End. Lyanna spent much of her time with her Aunt, reminiscing about home. Aunt Branda was a great woman, Lyanna learned quickly. She disliked the formal Southerners as much as Lyanna did and she joined Lyanna for prayers in the Godswood nearly every day.

Lyanna had not stepped foot in the Godswood once before her Aunt's arrival, but she had not found the heart to disappoint her aunt by telling her that secret. Also, Lyanna learned there was something comforting about daily prayers and Aunt Branda seemed to relish the chance to pray as there was no Godswood in Amberly.

She also got to know her cousins.

Steffon was a kind, sweet man who always blushed in the company of women. He was a very capable jouster and Renly hung off his every word.

Emelie was a lady in every sense of the word. She was kind, accomplished and seemed to know everything about anyone. She seemed to receive a raven from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms every hour and was Lyanna's only source for gossip.

Alys, the youngest, was only a year younger than Lyanna and sharp as a tack. Aly, as she preferred to be called, adored horse riding nearly as much as Lyanna did and for the first time since coming South, Lyanna enjoyed riding out as Lord Rogers had convinced Robert it was foolish to send a guard out with them.

“I cannot leave the castle without a guard.” Lyanna told Aly in frustration as they raced ahead of Lord Rogers and Steffon, who tried to keep up with them. “Whenever I rode out before, I always had to wait for my guard and could not go further than the start of the woods.”

“There are many dangers in the Woods.” Aly said softly and Lyanna scoffed, shaking her head.

Robert was not trying to protect her. Robert was trying to stop her from running away.

Aly raced her to the edges of the cliffs and together they sat atop their horses overlooking the sea. “Beautiful, is it not?”

“It is.” Lyanna agrees, because for all she missed the North she could not argue that her new lands were also beautiful in a very different way.

Where the North was cold and the land was always covered in snow or ice, the Stormlands were filled with beautiful meadows of flowers and grasses that stood higher than Lyanna. Along the entire coast there were cliffs of pure white chalk and pure white beaches below. The Common Folk did not only live in larger towns as in the north, but all along the country side. It was impossible to ride more than an hour without meeting a person, where as in the North Lyanna had sometimes traveled for days without seeing souls outside their party.

“Do not worry, my Lady. One day you will like my lands as well.” Aly said with a soft smile. She reached over and gently grasped Lyanna's shoulder.

“Mayhaps.” Lyanna said softly. “And mayhaps one day you will get to see my lands...”

“You miss it very much, don't you?” Aly asked.

Lyanna only nodded.

“Would you tell me about the North?”

“If you'd like.”

Lyanna told Alys everything she adored about the North whenever they spend time together. It, abstractly, helped. She told Alys about her brothers, her father, her grandmothers and friends. About the summer Lyanna spent on top of the Mountain with the Flint Folk and of the winter half of the town froze just outside their halls.

Alys giggled when Lyanna told her of the young stable boy Brandon had caught her kissing in the stairwell and the kitchen maid she had caught Brandon kissing behind the portrait of Old King Nik.

Alys in turn told her of the squire of her brothers she liked to flirt with to the despair of her brother and the peach blossoms outside Amberly Hall. Alys spun wonderful stories of the lands outside her father's hall and her childhood near the Amber Mines.

Best of all, Robert's visits to her bedchamber had decreased steadily and Lyanna suspected it was because Alys slept with her in her bed more often than not. Outside of the dinners they shared, she rarely saw her husband anymore.

Still the lack of Robert’s visits did not matter, as Lyanna realized about a month in the Rogers’ visit. They had sat together, Aunt Branda, Alys and Emelie and Lyanna, chatting and practicing their needlework when Lyanna's Aunt had reached over and touched the side of her breasts.

“You are with child.” Aunt Branda announced, before any of them could ask when she was doing.

Lyanna froze, looking down at her belly. “How do you know?”

“Your breasts are tender, are they not? I know the look of a pregnant woman, and the smell of the fish yesterday nearly sent you running from the room. Three signs are always enough.” Branda said and she smiled warmly at her. “Do not worry, Lyanna. Having a child is a wonderful thing.”

Emelie jumped up from her seat and embraced Lyanna happily. “I am so happy for you, Lyanna.”

“Thank you.” Lyanna said softly. She was not sure how to feel. Even if she had truly known that lying with Robert would eventually result in a child, she did not feel ready. She still felt like a child herself, and there was nothing … how could she care for a babe if she was still a child herself?

Later that day, Lyanna went to the Maester and when he confirmed her Aunt's suspicion, she went to inform Robert.

Her husband was ecstatic. She had not seen him as excited since their wedding. He placed a hand on her belly and smiled warmly. “My son will be strong and kind and shall have your fierce beauty.”

Later at dinner, he stood in front of the hall and announced a Tourney was to be hosted in her honor and their child's honor. Lyanna looked on horrified as her husband made plans for several hundred guests to be hosted at Storm’s End – a figure that would surely make them spend a lot more gold than Lyanna would like. She caught Stannis’ eyes and he nodded, as if reading her mind.

In the following months, the planning of the tourney advanced quickly and by the time Lyanna’s belly was swollen large and being on her feet for more than a few minutes tired Lyanna, guests from all over Westeros had assembled at Storm’s End.

Alys helped her get ready on the morning of the first day of the Tournament. While the rest of the Rogers' had gone back to Amberly three moons before, Alys had stayed with Lyanna and her cousin felt like god sent at times when the loneliness of Storm’s End seemed to overpower Lyanna.

Being pregnant with the heir to Storm’s End meant that people treated her with more reverence than ever, denying her of any real possibility to have a normal conversation with anyone, and the Maester had forbid Lyanna to play with Renly, citing too much exhaustion. Without meaning too, the Maester had ensured that Lyanna was isolated from everyone but Alys Rogers.

The gown Alys dressed her in was made of pure golden silk, showing off her extremely pregnant belly and growing breasts. Lyanna hated the dress. It had been made just a week previously and the babe in her belly seemed to grow at a rate that the dress felt tight and uncomfortable around her waist. Besides Lyanna felt very exposed in the dress that had a modest, but revealing bosom and left her arms bare. The golden silk clung to every angle of Lyanna’s body and if she looked into the mirror long enough Lyanna thought she could see the silk cling to every rib and bone. She could not help but compare herself to the buxom barmaids Robert seemed to favor. Whatever glow pregnant women were supposed to have, Lyanna clearly did not.

Alys watched her carefully before starting to tug Lyanna’s hair into a large braid she then tucked around her head. “You look beautiful, darling.” Alys said with a soft smile. Her cousin was dressed in a gown that inverted the color scheme of Lyanna’s and Lyanna couldn’t help but think that the golden gown would look much better on her darker cousin. The golden color made Lyanna’s own cheeks look even paler than they already were.

“Are you ready to come downstairs?” Alys asked, very softly.

Nodding, Lyanna grabbed Alys’s arm, pulling herself upright. A small stabbing pain shoots through Lyanna’s back, but she gave it no mind, used to the pains of pregnancy by that point.

Together Alys and Lyanna slowly make their way downstairs until they reach the hall where Robert awaited. He looked her over once, but doesn’t say a word, only taking her arm and leading her towards the entrance. Though Robert walked slower than usual, it cost Lyanna to keep up with him and by the time they reach their seats her smile was strained and Lyanna felt dizzy and faint.

“I thank you all for coming to the joyous celebration!” Robert shouted into the masses, that quieted quickly at his words. “I have planned this tourney as a celebration for my wedding and the approaching birth of my son. So in honor of Lyanna Baratheon I declare this tourney’s winner shall receive a hundred golden dragons and will forever be remembered in Storm’s End.”

Lyanna forced a smile to stay on her face, ignoring the sharp stab of pain in her belly. The crowd cheered loudly and Lyanna kept her eyes firmly on the herald, who called out the first two jousters. While they ready themselves, Alys turned back to Lyanna, a worried look on her face.

“You look pale, darling. Do you need something to drink?”

Not sure if she was able to speak, Lyanna shook her head. Her left hand clenched around the edge of her chair as she attempted to keep the discomfort of her face.

It pained her to keep still as she watched the jousting. While jousting was usually a sport she enjoyed watching, today it seemed no part of her could seem to concentrate. Even Robert noticed as Lyanna couldn’t join in the clapping or the celebration when the first rider won his first joust. He turned to her in concern and when Lyanna didn’t respond called over the Maester.

Maester Cressan worked quickly as the crowd around them grew quiet quickly. The moments meld together in Lyanna’s mind and her mind failed to concentrate as the Maester’s hands passed over her belly. As another sharp pain shot through her, Lyanna failed to stop the whimper and she can hear the flurry of activity around her.

“Get her to her chambers!” She heard distantly as her eyes lost focus on anything particular. “NOW!”

*

*

*

While little is known about the majority of Lady Lyanna’s first pregnancy, the last hours of it is well documented.

The maester rushed Lady Baratheon back into the castle just an hour after the tourney started. I saw her just briefly when she and Lord Baratheon passed me in the castle earlier that morning, but even then Lady Baratheon looked pale and ill. We have to pray to the Mother that she and her babe survive the ordeal. I have seen many pregnant women, but I have never seen one looking as ill as Lady Baratheon did today. (Letter from Lady Jessia Rowan to her sister-in-law Bethany Rowan)

It was Lady Baratheon’s lady in waiting – one of the Rogers girls – who called out for the maester. Lady Baratheon fainted and the Maester rushed her to the castle. We are still awaiting word. The mood is very somber at the moment, even in the bars. We haven’t seen anyone since they took Lady Baratheon away. (Letter from Ser Jasan Reeds to his father Ser Rodrik Reeds)

Lya fainted when the Tourney started and Cressan says the babe is killing her. (Letter from Alys Rogers to her brother Steffon Rogers)

While the information about the true nature of Lady Baratheon’s condition remained very vague, medistorians have deduced that Lady Baratheon most likely suffered from birthing fever before the birth and nearly bled out during the birth.

While Lady Lyanna is still gravely ill and has not yet awaken from her sleep, Maester Cressan believes that your daughter will survive. The babe has been born as a boy and Robert refuses to name him before Lyanna wakes up again. The boy is very healthy and looks very much like Lyanna. His eyes are the same shade of gray as hers and his hair is dark and curly as well. I will write again as soon as Lyanna’s condition changes. (Letter from Lady Alys Rogers to Lord Rickard Stark)