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1
“All that moon tea, and yet here we are,” Lyanna muttered, shaking her head in amused disbelief. “I drank enough to make a Maester weep, and still it was for naught.”
It still felt unreal. That she was with child. That there was, at this very moment, a babe who was half her and half Rhaegar, and that this babe was growing within her. She found herself touching her belly more often since she had found out from the passing healer that they had come across on their travels. Her belly had not even begun to swell, and yet she could not control herself, as though she could coax some sign of life from within to reassure her it was real.
This babe was real.
Rhaegar tilted his head at her, his expression grave enough to fool most, but not her. She had learned the nuances of his moods well enough to see the mischief behind the mask. “Well,” he began, drawing the word out as though weighing it carefully, “you are the most stubborn woman I have ever met.”
The smile that followed was disarming – boyish in a way that had the power to make her heart trip over itself. “It seems only fitting that the Gods would see fit to test us with a child as stubborn and determined as my beloved Lady Lyanna.”
She scoffed and shoved him in the chest, the gesture more for show than else. “And yet you conveniently forget that you are just as stubborn!”
He caught her hand before she could pull it away, pressing a lingering kiss to her fingers. Then, without breaking away from her eyes, he guided her hand down until her knuckles rested lightly against her stomach. “I would not dare compare myself in any form to the brave She-Wolf,” he said solemnly, though there was a gleam of mischief in his indigo eyes, “lest she eat me alive.”
Lyanna raised a brow, sensing the direction his teasing was taking.
“They tell such stories about you now,” he continued, his tone light with amusement. “At Harrenhal, I heard jests enough to fill a song – tales of how the She-Wolf bites and snarls, how her suitors fear her teeth as much as her sword.” His mouth twitched, fighting a smile. “I begin to wonder now if I should sleep in armour, since she has a wolf pup on the way.”
Her lips quirked despite herself. He was baiting her, she knew, twisting the sharp edges of the jests made at her expense into something playful. “Careful, Your Grace,” she warned, though her voice lacked any true menace. “You might yet find the rumours to be true.”
Rhaegar’s teasing softened into something warmer, steadier. “If they are,” he said quietly, “then I am all the more blessed for it.”
Lyanna gave him a fond side-eye, the corner of her mouth twitching upward despite herself. “Be careful with what you wish for, Silver Prince,” she murmured. “She-wolves are known to be talented hunters… and they do not spare their prey once they have caught it.”
Rhaegar’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “I shan’t fear,” he replied, voice low with mock gallantry, “for I have the Brave Knight of the Laughing Tree here to protect me and my honour!”
She let out an incredulous huff and smacked him harder this time, the sound of her palm meeting his chest sharper than before. He laughed – really laughed – his eyes crinkling at the corners, his whole face softening in a way that made something inside her ache. Rhaegar always laughed like a man who was not entirely sure how, or one who had not done it often enough to fall into the habit. She made it a point, whenever she could, to draw it out of him.
His laughter was too precious a thing to leave locked away.
When it faded, the teasing melted into something steadier. “I had thought,” he said, his gaze dipping to where her hand still rested over her firm belly, “that we would have children after the war was settled. Once my father’s… reign was no longer a shadow over us all, and once we are done with the mess Robert has begun.” His fingers brushed over hers, warm and certain. “A year or two, perhaps. But if this child has come to us now, then it is no accident. It is a sign, and a blessing from the Gods.”
She studied him, catching the glint of something almost boyish beneath her lover’s composure – hope, unguarded and unfeigned.
“It will be a stubborn babe,” she said at last, her voice joyful but certain. “How could it not be, with you for a father?”
His lips curved faintly. “With you for a mother, you mean. I have seen wolves sink their teeth into a hunt and never let go. I can only imagine what such blood will make of our child.”
She smirked faintly, though her fingers tightened over his. “Then we are doomed,” she murmured. The words should have carried dread, but instead they came light, threaded with something softer, something dangerously close to eagerness.
Rhaegar let out a quiet laugh, leaning in until his forehead rested against hers. “Doomed,” he echoed, his breath warm against her skin. His lips brushed her temple in a fleeting kiss, unsure as ever. As though he still did not understand how to enact such affection. “And yet, I find I do not mind at all.”
She exhaled slowly and leaned into him, the weight of his body solid and warm against hers. For a moment, the world beyond them faded into nothing.
There was only him, and her, and the stubborn little life between them that neither moon tea nor misfortune could keep away.
2
The air at Starfall was warm and sweet, scented faintly with the blossoms that clung to the cliffside gardens. The heat was not as sticky as it had felt in the previous days, though it was only she with her Northern upbringing who was bothered by the weather – which was apparently quite pleasant, or so she had been told, for it was still winter.
The private pools shimmered under the afternoon light, their waters fed by a hidden spring that murmured softly in the background, at least that is what Arthur had told her was the sound. She was still not sure if the man was attempting to make grandiose his home after she had told him tales of the hot springs underneath Winterfell.
Ashara had taken great joy in dressing her today – red and black silks that caught the light of the sun with every turn, rubies set in her hair and at her throat, their deep fire bright against her skin. Lyanna had enjoyed it more than she cared to admit, spinning once before the looking glass with a smile.
Was Queen Visenya not comfortable in silk and armour both? Why ever do I have to choose?
She walked alongside the water’s edge, the silk whispering around her ankles, Rhaegar’s hand caught firmly in hers. She held it before her as though she were leading him into battle, though she was walking backwards and could not see where her steps landed. Not that it mattered – his eyes were fixed on the path, and her eyes were fixed on Rhaegar.
He was seeing enough for both of them.
A faint flutter stirred low in her belly, like the soft beat of a bird’s wings. She stilled, savouring it, a thrill sparking through her despite knowing the movement was slight – too slight to warrant such excitement. Still, she could not help herself. “I cannot wait to meet my son,” she announced, her voice low but brimming with excitement and love for this child.
Rhaegar’s brows lifted in mild surprise. “Son?” His tone was amused. “Now where did this come from, Lai-Lai? I am certain we are to have a daughter.”
“A daughter?” Lyanna laughed, shaking her head. Strange enough, for all her childhood wishes of a daughter, she had never for a moment thought this child of hers would be a daughter. “Is this not your own favour for your firstborn seeping through?”
He smiled – soft and wistful – and did not deny it. His love for his firstborn was plain in every glance, every word that touched upon her. There was a different light in his eyes when he spoke of her, an adoration that seemed to wrap her in its own warmth even when the girl was far away.
Sometimes it was as though Rhaegar himself forgot that he had a son – always only mentioning Rhaenys or their babe growing within her.
With the hand that connected them, Rhaegar gave a gentle tug, pulling her toward him until she found herself tucked neatly beneath his chin. The familiar scent of him – clean wool, old parchment, and the salt-warm air of the Dornish coast – wrapped around her. Without thinking, she stepped onto the tops of his boots, closing the small space between them, and looped her arms loosely around his neck. His own hands settled at her waist, fingers splayed as though anchoring her in place.
“I want a daughter who looks just like her mother,” he said, his voice a low murmur that carried a teasing lilt. “Dark curls tumbling down her back, eyes bright and silver as the light of the moon, sharp enough to catch every secret and see through every lie.” His gaze softened as he spoke, the weight of his words lingering longer than the jest they carried.
Lyanna tilted her head back to look up at him, arching a brow. “Silver eyes?” she repeated with mock suspicion. “Then what do you intend to leave of yourself in this child of yours, Silver Prince?”
He gave a faint, knowing smile but offered no answer.
She gave him a pointed look.
“Well,” she continued, tone light but edged with love and fondness, “I want a son just like his father. Tall, strong, and good.” She paused deliberately before adding, “Perhaps with silver hair… though I’d like it if he had his father’s dark eyes.”
Rhaegar’s brow furrowed faintly. “My eyes?”
The eyes I fell in love with.
She did not say the words out loud, but there was no one better at reading her mind, and so she delighted herself in watching him pretend not to be affected, though the faint flush at the tips of his ears and the redness that grew in his face betrayed him.
They went back and forth for a while then, as was their way – trading visions of imagined sons and daughters, arguing over the colouring of their hair and eyes, over whether they would be the more stubborn, the more clever, more skilled with sword or harp.
“I am telling you,” Lyanna said with mock severity, “our son will have the strongest seat in the saddle in all the Seven Kingdoms!”
Rhaegar arched a brow. “Stronger than his mother’s?”
“Stronger than his father’s,” she corrected, smirking. “And he will be clever – clever enough to know when to listen to his mother instead of running around here and there getting into trouble, as is his father’s way.”
Rhaegar chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief at her words. For both of them knew just who of them held more propensity for mischief and trouble.
“Ah,” He murmured, “then clearly you mean our daughter, for only a daughter would be so wise.”
Lyanna gave him a look. “You simply want someone to play your harp with you.”
“And a son would not?” he countered lightly. “But still, I see her now – dark hair gleaming, eyes sharp as the moonlight, her voice as fine as the strings beneath her fingers.”
“Dark hair, perhaps,” Lyanna allowed, “but I am to have my son with curls dark as the Wolfswood in winter then his eyes should be like–” She stopped short, biting back the truth.
“–like what?” he prompted, leaning in with a teasing glint.
“Like his father’s,” she finished simply. “Dark eyes. My son will have those.”
He made a face of mock injury. “And here I thought we had agreed on him to have your eyes–”
“We did,” she cut in, “but only for our daughter, when she comes after.”
He grinned at the mention of another child after.
They traded their visions as though they were placing wagers, each refusing to give way to the other. “Tall as the Wall,” Lyanna insisted.
“Graceful as a dragon,” Rhaegar shot back.
“A wolf’s temper,” she countered.
“A bard’s soul,” he returned without missing a beat.
They were smiling now, both leaning closer, their words turning into laughter.
At last, they struck their compromise – solemn in delivery though neither could keep a straight face for long.
“A son,” Rhaegar declared, nodding gravely in Lyanna’s favour, “with your dark curls…”
“…and my grey eyes, though as dark as your own,” Lyanna finished, magnanimous in her concession.
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, as though they’d just settled a treaty between two warring Houses, and then the facade crumbled. Laughter burst from both of them – full and unrestrained, the sound carrying over the murmuring spring.
It was silly.
As though the Gods would grant their wishes of a son just as how they had dreamed him to be.
3
The fire in their chambers at the Tower of Joy had burned low, its amber light painting the stone walls in shifting patterns. Outside, the night wind sighed through the mountains, carrying with it the faint scent of dry earth and wild herbs. But here, wrapped in furs and one another’s company, the world seemed far away – narrowed down to the bed where they sat shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing beneath the covers.
“Rodrik,” Lyanna said suddenly, without the slightest preamble, her voice as steady and unapologetic as the North itself.
Rhaegar turned his head toward her, one brow arching in mild surprise. “Rodrik?”
“It’s a good Northern name,” she said, her tone daring him to disagree. “Strong. Stalwart.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Mm. And yet,” he said slowly, “I had thought of Jaehaerys.”
Lyanna snorted, the sound utterly unladylike. “Jaehaerys? What babe can toddle about with a name like that?”
“Jaehaerys the Wise toddled once,” Rhaegar replied with mock solemnity, the faintest spark of humour lighting his eyes.
Lyanna ignored him and ploughed on. “Jon,” she declared.
“Daeron,” he returned without missing a beat.
“Alaric.”
“Maekar.”
They locked eyes, each refusing to yield, until the tension broke into shared laughter – quiet at first, then warmer, bubbling up in a way that belonged only to two people who had long since lost track of who was winning.
Leaning back on her palms, Lyanna tilted her head toward him. “Cregan,” she offered, her voice almost casual. A compromise. “After Lord Cregan Stark – the one who fought for Queen Rhaenyra.”
That drew a pause. His amusement faded into thoughtfulness, the name lingering between them. “Cregan…” Rhaegar said, tasting it aloud. But then his gaze shifted, and a different light entered his eyes, something both earnest and a little shy. This was something he held close to his heart. “I was thinking of Aemon.”
Lyanna blinked. “Aemon?” she echoed, cautious and curious all at once.
He nodded. “For the Dragonknight,” he said first, as though that alone should be enough, but then his voice softened. “And for Maester Aemon.”
Her brows rose, but before she could speak, he continued, the words spilling with quiet conviction. “I named my Rhaenys for all the women who bore the name before her – women who were deeply loved, and strong besides. And for our son, I would like to do the same. There have been three Aemons in my family’s history, and all were great men, well adored and respected. That is what I would wish for him. For our babe.”
She thought of them. The first Aemon, son of the Conciliator, who had died young fighting for his people. The second, the famed Dragonknight, chivalrous and beloved, yet twice as miserable for the very honour that made him so, unable to protect a beloved sister. And the third, Rhaegar’s great-granduncle – Maester Aemon – who had spent a lifetime at the Wall, far from kin and kingdom, unable to return when his family needed him most.
The name carried greatness, yes, but it seemed also to carry loneliness, loss, and sacrifice. She did not wish for such for the babe growing within her, who was already dearer than life itself.
A flicker of doubt tugged at her, but then she looked at Rhaegar – really looked at him. At the eager glint in his eyes, at the sweet, almost boyish smile curving his mouth. He had conceded a daughter to her. She could concede this to him. And besides, to have a son named after the Dragonknight would be no small delight. She had loved calling herself Prince Aemon while sparring with Benjen when she was younger, and now her own son would be Aemon.
“Aemon it is, then,” she said finally, letting a grin spread across her face.
Rhaegar’s smile deepened into something unguarded and bright, rare as snow in Dorne. In one smooth motion, he leaned forward and caught her at the waist, gently pressing her back onto the bed. She let out a startled laugh as his weight settled over her, warm and steady, the furs bunching underneath them.
His mouth found hers – eager, unreserved, and almost boyishly giddy in a way she seldom saw from him. She kissed him back, one hand sliding up into his hair, the other curling against his shoulder. When he drew back for breath, she could still feel the shape of his smile against her lips, and she realised he was still laughing quietly, unable to contain the sheer joy of the moment.
She let herself soak it in, Beloved Rhaegar’s happiness.
4
The night had come on gently tonight, Ashara having brought some well needed comfort. The hearth in their chambers had dwindled into glowing embers, and the wind outside the Tower whispered against the stone walls now, like some soft old lullaby. Lyanna lay nestled against Rhaegar’s side, her head pillowed on his chest, taking solace in the slow yet steady rhythm of his heart. He had fallen half into sleep, his fair hair falling loose across his beautiful face, one arm draped around her waist, burning and sure.
She stared up at the dark canopy above their bed, the weight of the furs cocooning her in a rare kind of peace. Her hand rested lightly on her swollen belly, where their babe lay curled and hidden beneath her skin. She often caught herself tracing idle circles there, thinking about the babe, for the quickening in her womb had left her sleepless on many a night. She’d caress the swell and wonder if the dreams that haunted her were of this child – were they the silver-haired amethyst-eyed girl that she saw riding a dragon or were they the dark-haired dark-eyed boy that she saw striding atop the Wall. Were they their Aemon or their Daenerys, or neither?
Tonight, however her touch stilled as something – something subtle and delightfully wondrous – fluttered against her palm.
Her breath caught.
For a heartbeat, she thought she had imagined it, that surely this must be a figment of her imagination. But then there it was again: the faintest flutter, like the brushing of wings inside her flesh.
“Rhae,” she whispered at first, so soft it barely stirred the air. Then louder, more urgent now, the thrill spilling into her voice as she yearned to show him this. “Rhaegar. Wake up.”
He stirred at once, blinking the haze of sleep from his indigo eyes. “Lya?” His voice was thick with drowsiness, but when he noticed the look on her face – no doubt wide-eyed, luminous – he was fully awake in a breath. “What is it? Are you we–”
“Here.” She caught his hand before the sentence could finish, pressing it against the small swell of her stomach. “Feel.”
He froze, confused sleepy eyes flicking from her face to where his palm lay. For a few heartbeats there was only silence between them, the hush of the night and the crackle of dying embers. Then it happened – a faint, insistent flutter beneath his hand, stubborn as the mother who bore them.
Rhaegar’s breath hitched.
“Gods,” he whispered. A prayer.
His fingers trembled slightly as he splayed them wider, as though afraid the moment would slip through if he did not hold fast enough. Their precious babe kicked again, firmer now, a ripple of the life they had created announcing itself. Lyanna watched the transformation in his face – first shock, then wonder, then something so raw and pure that her own throat tightened.
Tears gathered in his eyes before he could stop them. They fell, unheeded, as he bent his head over her belly, pressing his forehead there as though offering a silent vow to the small life stirring beneath his touch.
“Hello, little one,” he breathed, voice cracking around the edges. “My brave, stubborn child.”
Lyanna’s heart ached and swelled all at once. She reached out, brushing his hair back from his face, her thumb catching one of the tears that trailed down his cheek.
“You’re crying,” she murmured, though there was no mockery in it, only a soft wonder.
Rhaegar gave a quiet, breathless laugh – half-sob, half-joy. “I have sung of miracles,” he whispered, “but I never thought to hold one in my hands.”
Lyanna’s chest felt too full. She laughed too, moist and low and trembling, the sound brushing the quiet of the chamber like a secret shared between just them three. “They kick like a true Stark,” she teased softly.
He raised his head to look at her then, eyes shining with tears and firelight, the kind of look that seemed to see her down to her very bones. “No,” he said. “they furnish their wings like a dragon.”
Her breath caught, laughter melting into something quieter, more fragile.
Rhaegar leaned forward and kissed her – soft at first, filled with his awe, then bending down once more to press his lips to where their babe had just moved. “We will love you,” he whispered against her skin, a promise breathed into the dark. “More than anything. More than the world itself. You will know naught of sorrow, pain and such burdens. You will languish in love and love alone, as long as there is life in me, I will make it so.”
She laid there, her hand tangled in his hair, her tears wet against her cheek, his tears wet against her stomach and thought she could live in this moment forever. The war, the world beyond, the weight of their names and the pain of their duties – all of it fell away, leaving only the three of them in the quiet glow of the dying fire.
5
Dawn was a pale, unkind thing that morning, creeping into their chambers through the wide windows and spilling weak, cold light across the stone. It was the morning she had dreaded since Ser Gerold had arrived two nights past with... his summons in hand.
The Tower felt different today. Colder, though the fire still burned low in the hearths. Quieter, though she could hear the servants moving about their duties somewhere beyond their door. It was as though the stones themselves already mourned.
Lyanna stood barefoot, her hair loose and tangled from sleep she had hardly gotten. Her hands shook as she fastened the buckles of Rhaegar’s armour one by one.
The black and red of the plate caught the pale light, gleaming like something sacred and doomed all at once. She hated it. She hated the way it swallowed him whole, hiding the warmth of his skin, the curve of his smile, the softness of the man she had known in these rooms. It made him look like a warrior again.
Not the bard she so adored.
“Lyanna,” he said softly. His hands came up to still hers where they fumbled at a strap near his chest.
She did not look up. She could not. “I know it is duty, but I hate it still,” she muttered, the words thick, tears burning at the corner of her eyes.
“I know.” His voice was gentle and loving as ever. This was the voice her dreams sought to take away from her.
She had always been brave – wolf-blooded, her father used to say – but this fear was different. Not the kind that could be quelled with steel in her hand or fury in her chest. This was an inevitable kind. All consuming.
“You’ll come back,” she whispered, but it was less a question than a prayer.
Rhaegar tilted her chin up with two fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. Gods, he was beautiful. How dare the world try to take him away from her. “I will end this war,” he told her softly. “And then I will come back. I swear it.”
Lyanna laughed, sharp and wet, the sound breaking in the middle. “Swear it on me,” she said, voice cracking like ice. “Swear it on me, Rhaegar. Not to anyone else. Me.”
He leaned down until their foreheads touched, his hands cupping her jaw. “I swear on you, Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. I will return to you. To our child. I will make this right. Your kin will have its justice. And when all of it is done and the fighting is over – no one will ever take anything from us again.”
Her breath shuddered out of her.
Her heart ached. She had dreamed of this night after night for weeks now. The black of his armour. The black and red of the banners. The red of his blood. The way he would ride out from this tower, bathed in the sun’s pale light, and never return to her waiting arms.
He caught her wrist gently, steadying her. She pressed it closed with a little too much force, as though strength could will him safe.
She hated Aerys. Hated him for what he had done to her father and Brandon, for the way their bodies had burned and swung while the realm watched. Hated him for taking Rhaegar from her now. Her hatred lived hand in hand with the bitter ache of loving those who were already gone.
Her father. Her brother.
They were the blood that had made her, even if they had hurt her too. And Aerys had stolen them from her, just as he now sought to steal the man she loved.
She stepped forward then, wrapping her arms around him, her cheek pressing against the cold metal of his breastplate.
“You swore. Remember, if you do not return, I will die, and our child will be orphaned.”, she threatened into the curve of his shoulder, her voice almost breaking, “I do not care about anything else. I only wish for my love to return to me.”
Rhaegar’s hands found hers at his waist, covering them, squeezing gently as if to anchor her. “Of course,” he murmured, his voice low and certain. “I will return. I intend to be by your side when our babe comes into this world. I would not abandon you so.”
The tears she had been holding back broke loose then, slipping down her cheeks like winter melt. She did not make a sound. She just held him tighter, as though she could keep him here by sheer will alone.
It was why she was ready to lash out at him for daring to pull away when she felt his hands shift against hers, loosening grip just enough for him to draw back slightly. Lyanna blinked through her tears, confused, wondering why he was leaving already when all she wanted was to hold him tighter, to keep him here.
But then, before she could say anything, his arms slipped beneath her legs and back in one smooth, unhurried motion. He lifted her as though she weighed no more than she had before the child began to swell within her, armour and all.
“Rhaegar–” She started, startled, but the word dissolved on her tongue.
He was smiling. That soft, quiet smile. The one that made the rest of the world fall away. His armour creaked faintly as he moved, carrying her across the chamber as if she were something precious, something meant to be cherished.
The bed let out a soft sound as he sat down upon its edge, Lyanna cradled in his arms. It gave her the room to seat herself in his lap, turning around so she could hide her tears away in the crook of his neck. The cold bite of the metal pressed against her skin, unyielding and uncomfortable, but she didn’t care. She breathed him in, his presence as hypnotising the day he had won that final joust, that day that felt like eternities ago. She raised her hand to his breastplate, beneath which the beat of his heart continued on, steady.
“Do you feel it?” he asked softly against her hair. “It still beats for you.”
She closed her eyes. “Then it had better keep beating,” she whispered fiercely. “Until you are back here with me once more.”
His hand came up to cup her face, ever softly wiping at the tears that streaked it. Lyanna felt his other arm slip more securely around her back, drawing her closer until there was no space left between them. His other hand still cupped her face, calloused thumb grazing the wetness along her cheek. She covered it with her own trembling fingers, clutching at him as though to hold both of them to this moment.
Without a word, she dragged his hand down – past the curve of her jaw, over the hollow of her throat, down to where the thin linen of her shift stretched over the gentle swell of her womb. Their child moved beneath her skin with a restless energy she could almost taste in her mouth, as though it were not a babe, but dragon hatchlings trapped in her belly.
Rhaegar’s breath caught. She felt the way his palm curved over the small rise. In the silence of their chamber, the babe’s insistent kicks seemed louder than the crackle of the hearth.
“She is moving,” he whispered. And then, because he was him, because he was trying so damnably to keep her from crumbling entirely, he added with that soft, infuriating lilt, “Moving in a fury, no less. The She-Wolf’s blood runs true.”
Lyanna glared at him through her tears, though her mouth betrayed her with the smallest twitch of a smile. “He always moves in a fury when he hears your voice,” she muttered, her tone sharp but unsteady, heavy with everything she was trying not to let break loose. “You have done nothing but rile him up since the moment he was found.”
He leaned down and pressed his lips to her temple, then to her brow. “Then the Gods have blessed me,” he said, half in jest, half in the quiet awe that always overtook him when he spoke of their child. “A son who already knows the sound of his father’s voice. It does a child good to recognise his father early. A sign of love. A sign of devotion.”
She almost laughed at that.
She opened her mouth, ready to make some biting remark about the fathers they had both known: her cold, stern lord father who sold her off and his mad, pyromaniac king of a sire. But the words stuck in her throat, a bitter thing she couldn’t quite force out.
Rhaegar’s mouth curved then, just the faintest hint of mischief, as it did when he found something that he wished to bother a bit more. A spark of something familiar and warm that made the ache in her chest twist into something almost sweet. “But before you entrance me into letting this go,” he murmured, thumb absently tracing over the swell of her stomach as if to soothe the restless being beneath. “You still think it is a son who stirs so fiercely in you, not a daughter?”
Lyanna snorted softly, surprised a bit but rolling her eyes heavenward nonetheless, though she did not pull away from him. “Gods, this again?” she muttered, the sound caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation. “We had settled this argument, had we not?”
Rhaegar only hummed in response, low in his throat. “We had,” he agreed easily, tilting his head down so that their foreheads brushed together, the tip of his nose grazing hers. “But something about this morning…” His voice softened. “…it makes me feel it is our daughter growing within you.”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but the warmth of his breath against her cheek stole some of the sharpness from her. “And why,” she asked, voice quieter now, “would today make you feel such a thing?”
Her beloved’s smile deepened, the faintest edge of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He did not answer, letting the silence linger long enough to make her scowl at him through the tears that still clung stubbornly to her lashes. Then, softly, almost like a boy whispering a secret, he added, “Or perhaps…”
“Perhaps?” she pressed, arching an eyebrow despite herself.
“Perhaps,” he said, dragging the word out deliberately, “it is a son and a daughter.” His smirk widened, utterly unrepentant now, the kind of expression that once had her wanting to both kiss him and throttle him in the same breath. “The gods have seen fit to bless us doubly for all the sorrow the world has dealt us. Twins, fierce as wolf and dragon both.”
Her jaw dropped. She let out a scoff so sharp it could have cut through steel. “This is the greed the gods warn against,” she chided, swatting at his shoulder with the flat of her hand. His armour clanged softly at the impact, and she winced, shaking out her fingers. “By the old gods and the new, you are impossible.”
Rhaegar laughed quietly, breathless, the sound like wind over the strings of his harp. It vibrated against her skin where she still leaned into him, warm despite the cold metal that separated them.
He caught her wrist gently before she could pull away, kissing the tips of her mildly hurting fingers. “Greed?” he teased softly, eyes glinting like starlight caught in shadow. “No. Hope.”
Lyanna scoffed again, but her heart stuttered traitorously in her chest at the word.
Hope.
She wanted to bite it down, to bury it somewhere the world couldn’t touch, Rhaegar had always known how to dig past her defenses with the ease of a blade sliding through silk.
She stared at him: this foolish, beautiful man, and hated that part of her wanted to believe him. That part of her wanted to imagine a daughter with his silver hair and his gentleness, a son with his dark eyes and his quiet, maddening calm.
She wanted to imagine him here. Alive.
“Fool,” she whispered, voice rough.
He pressed his forehead more firmly to hers. “For you? Gladly.”
Her lips trembled, but this time when she let out a breath, it came with a soft, wet laugh that caught in her throat. “Twins,” she said, shaking her head. “Gods help me if that’s true. One dragon is trouble enough.”
Rhaegar grinned, truly grinned this time, a rare, radiant thing that belonged not to a prince or a warrior, but to the bard who had once sung beneath the moonlight and made her believe in impossible things.
The knock at the door broke through the fragile cocoon they had built around themselves. Three soft raps. Lyanna tensed before the servant’s voice came muffled through the wood.
“My prince,” the man said. “Ser Arthur wishes to speak with you.”
The sound of Arthur's name settled over the room like the first shadow of a storm. Rhaegar didn’t move at once. He only sighed, long and quiet, forehead pressing against hers for the briefest moment more, as though he were trying to steal a few extra breaths with her before reality swallowed them whole.
The dreams that haunted her felt like a premonition now more than ever.
+1
The world smelled of blood.
Hers.
It was everywhere.
Hot and wet and slick beneath her, soaking through the linen, sticky against her thighs. Her breaths came ragged, each one scraping against her throat as though the air itself had turned to knives. The ceiling above her blurred, swimming in and out of focus with every shudder of pain that tore through her.
Her hands clutched at the bed sheets, at the blood-soaked linen, at anything that might tether her to the world. It didn’t work. Her body shook with the force of it – a feverish tremor that burned as though a thousand flames were licking at her insides.
Is it the pain in her body? Or in her heart?
She could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
Rhaegar.
His name was a wound she pressed on just to feel alive.
This pain that grips her is all consuming. Was it her heart breaking for all that she had lost – her hopes, her dreams, the quiet impossible life they had spun together in whispered words beneath the moonlight? Was it Robert’s hammer she felt, even now, shattering her ribs, crushing her chest – the same way it had crushed the man who had called her his heart? Or was it her own heart struggling to continue its rhythm with her lifesblood seeping out of her?
My heart, he had whispered against her skin. You are my heart, Lyanna Stark.
Her heart. Gone.
She had known. She had known she would not survive this the moment she’d heard the words. Rhaegar is dead. She had felt something inside her go cold and still then, like the last leaf in a killing frost. But she had forced herself to breathe. To live. To keep going for the babe growing within her.
But when the news from King’s Landing came she had felt the strength drain from her bones. Rhaegar’s children. All of them gone.
The next breath tore through her like a sob.
The clash of swords outside reached her then, distant, muted through stone walls, but clear enough to split through the fog of her agony. Arthur. Her darling white knight. Her brave Arthur. Sweet Oswell. Gentle Ser Gerold. Fighting. Fighting for her and her babe.
“Arthur,” she gasped, the name breaking like glass on her tongue.
Her vision swam, darkness licking at the edges, but the sounds below remained. Steel upon steel. The ringing song of war. Who had come? Robert? Or the Lannisters? Had they come to finish what they had started? to kill the last of the dragon’s line. To kill her babe.
Or Eddard.
Her chest seized. Eddard.
Ned.
Would he do it? Would he kill her babe to please Robert? To make the Usurper happy once more, as he always had?
He had done it before – chosen Robert over her, over her pleas and her tears, over the life she begged to live. He had forced her into that betrothal, knowing Robert’s nature. She could still hear the way her voice had broken when she had begged him to listen. Please, Ned. And he had turned away.
If it truly was him below… would he take her son’s life too? For Robert?
A sob wrenched itself out of her, raw and shaking. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks, mingling with the blood that soaked her.
‘Please,’ she prayed to gods who had never listened. ‘Please… let Arthur live. If no one else, let Arthur live.’
She saw him then, not with her eyes but with the desperate, fevered clarity of a dying woman. Arthur, kneeling beside her as she laboured through the long endless night and day. Arthur’s white cloak stained red with birth and blood. Arthur weeping more than she did as he held her hand, whispering soft reassurances like prayers. Arthur, who had swaddled her son in that same cloak, dark hair haloed by the light of early dawn, violet eyes soft as he kissed her temple, his stubble scratching her skin.
I will protect you, Lyanna. You and your babe. Always.
Her white knight.
She had never trusted anyone the way she trusted him now.
Another wave of pain slammed through her then, hot and unbearable, stealing her breath. Her child’s cries joined the clang of steel from below, a thin and desperate wail that cut straight through her failing heart.
“My sweet boy,” she rasped, choking on the words. “My precious babe.”
She turned her head weakly, every movement like fire burning through her bones. He lay in the cradle Rhaegar had carved for him, wrapped in that poorly embroidered swaddle, his small fists flailing at a world already far too cruel. His skin was flushed, his hair dark and damp. Rhaegar’s eyes. Her nose. His cries tore through her like nothing else could.
“Shh,” she tried to whisper, though her throat was raw and it felt as though blood stained her teeth. “Shh, little love.”
Outside, the fight grew louder. A sharp cry. A grunt. The unmistakable sound of someone falling. Her heart lurched against her ribs. Arthur. Arthur, please–
With trembling arms, she dragged herself from their bed, now covered in her lifesblood, her body protesting in sharp, merciless agony. She almost collapsed before she reached him, but sheer will carried her forward. She would not die without looking upon him one last time. She would not die without holding him. She would not die without consoling him.
She would not die while helplessly listening to his cries.
Aemon. My son. My sweet boy.
Her fingers barely had the strength to curl around the wooden edge of the cradle, slipping once, twice, slick with her own blood. The cradle wobbled as she leaned against it, breath hitching. Her body screamed in protest, but she forced herself upward with a broken, shuddering breath. Her arms slid beneath the swaddle, beneath the weight of him – so light, so impossibly small – and she lifted him to her chest. Her boy. Her darling boy.
The world narrowed to the warmth of his tiny body against hers.
She pressed a shaking kiss to his downy head, and a sob ripped through her, harsh and wet. But his cries quietened at her touch, softening into little whimpers, then into silence.
He knew her. Even so small, he knew her. Even so early her son was so perceptive.
Just like his father.
Aemon nuzzled against her chest, his cool, soft skin a cruel yet relieving contrast to the fever that burned beneath hers. She pressed another kiss to his soft head, breathing him in, committing him to memory: milk and warmth and new life. The scent carved itself into her bones, into her soul, along with the feel of his tiny fingers curling against her chest. She would carry it into whatever darkness awaited her.
He was so small. So perfect. So vulnerable.
And she was abandoning him.
“Your name is Aemon Targaryen,” she whispered against his soft skin, her voice raw, desperate. “Aemon. Remember it, my sweet precious boy. You must remember it always.”
She clung to him, her hands trembling, her strength leaking away with every heartbeat, running from her body as surely as the blood soaking her skirts. The darkness pressed in, thick and cold, whispering for her to let go. But she could not. She could not die. Not while he was here. Not while he needed her.
Unless he is safe, she could not give up on her hold on life.
“Your mother’s name…” she forced the words out through a raw throat, “…is Lyanna… Stark.” Her breath caught. It was getting harder now. “…Your f-father… his name is… Rhaegar... Rhaegar Targaryen.”
The name tore from her like a final wound.
A sob wrenched itself free from her chest, deep and broken. She had thought that there was no strength left in her to shed more tears. She was wrong. They poured from her now, unrelenting. His name felt like an open grave. “He… should have... been here,” she choked out. “He should... have held you. He loved you… more than anything.”
Her vision blurred, salt and blood clouding her sight. She blinked desperately, trying to clear it. She wished these tears would leave her be. She wanted to see her son's face – truly see him. His face. His tiny fists curled against her shift. To look into his eyes one last time.
Her son.
Their son.
But her strength was fading fast.
At least let me gaze at my babe, she wanted to beg. But to whom should she? Who was left to hear her? Her Gods? They were so far away from her now. They had not heard her begging for Rhaegar’s life. So why ever would they hear her now?
The battle outside had faded into nothing but a distant dull thrum at the edges of her world. All that remained was the warmth of Aemon against her chest. His heartbeat, fluttering against her skin, small and steady. The only thing anchoring her to life.
“Your father... was a great man,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his forehead, her tears spilling onto his soft skin. “And he named– you for love. All he... wanted was for you to be happy… and safe.”
He named Rhaenys for love too.
Her grip was weakening. Her arms ached. Her body swayed, vision swimming as her head spun. The cradle behind her was the only thing that kept her steady. She held him tighter, though her strength was failing her.
Aemon sighed – a soft, sleepy sound that made the world stand still. His tiny breaths rose and fell against her chest. His tiny body so warm, so fragile, so alive.
With every inch of stubbornness she had left, she clung onto life.
She could not leave.
Not yet.
She could not die without ensuring her son’s safety.
Arthur had promised.
Where was he? Where was her Arthur, her sworn shield, her white knight, the one who had promised that he would die before he let a single scratch hurt her babe? The man who had vowed to ensure Aemon’s safety above all else.
She would wait.
She had to wait.
She would not surrender to death until Arthur came, until she could place Aemon in his arms and know he would be safe.
She had to hold on.
She had to.
With the last remnants of her strength, she began to hum, her voice no more than a whisper against the silence. The song that Rhaegar had so eagerly written, the lullaby he had played upon his harp when he first felt their son move within her womb.
“With every beat of your heart, it seems as though you hold my lifeline~”
Her voice cracked, her body trembling with the weight of it all, but she sang on, her love's lullaby carrying through the dim chamber, cloaking her son in the warmth of a love that she prayed would outlive her. That even if they were not there in truth, he would always know that his mother and father were so full of love for him, that they had eagerly waited for his birth every moment since they had learned that he was growing within her.
Her eyes fluttered closed, forcing her arms to tighten ever so slightly around Aemon as she willed herself to last, just a little longer. Just until Arthur returned.
Just until she knew her sweet boy would live.