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The girl’s chest rose and fell with exertion. Grey eyes stared out accusingly beneath the damp strands of hair that had fallen across her brow.
"Have you come to sniff around my skirts and offer me advice I don’t need?" she asked, lips gathering into a scowl. “Believe me, stranger, you wouldn’t be the first to try."
Rhaegar looked down the length of the sword pointed at his chest. A tourney blade, he noticed, seeing its rounded tip and blunted edges. Still, he had seen enough of the girl's morning practice to know that she was quite capable of using it.
He took a step backward out of reach. “I would not presume to do either of those things, my lady," he said, lifting his hands in surrender. “Only, allow me to ask why so skilled a swordsman doesn’t use a real blade."
She lowered the sword to her side, though she continued to watch him warily. “My father says a lady shouldn’t play with swords," she said. Her scowl deepened. Rhaegar thought it made her look even prettier. “Even my little brother gets to use live steel, and he isn’t half as good as I am."
"Who is your father?" he asked. Some northern lord, by her accent.
"Lord Stark, of Winterfell," the girl sighed. “I want to be a knight, but he wants me to marry a southern lord and do nothing but keep a castle and have babies." She looked so dismayed by the idea that Rhaegar had to chuckle. She glared at him a moment, then stifled a giggle herself. If her scowl had been lovely, her smile was even lovelier.
"It’s not my place to tell Lord Stark how to raise his daughter," Rhaegar said, unbuckling the sword from his side, “so it’s best not to tell him who gave you this." He studied her face as he held the sword out to her.
Her eyes widened in surprise. She shoved the tourney blade into her own belt and took the sword with both hands. "Dragons," she breathed, running her fingers over the engravings in the leather scabbard. The blade caught the sunlight as she drew it out and held it up.
"It’s not Valyrian steel," Rhaegar told her, “but it’ll make any southern lord think twice about crossing you."
"Thank you, ser," the girl said, wonderingly, testing the sword’s balance. Its fierce edges sang in the air.
She paused to smirk at him. “I suppose it’ll be an easy secret to keep from my father, since you haven’t told me your name."
He bowed, suddenly embarassed. “I'm Rhaegar, of House Targaryen, my lady."
The girl stared up at him in sudden realization, then clamped a hand over her mouth. “Seven hells," she gasped. “I’m sorry, ser - I mean, I’m sorry, my prince." She curtsied awkwardly, still holding the sword.
He felt his face grow warm. “Please, just call me Rhaegar, Lady Stark," he said, taking her free hand and lifting her to her feet.
She met his eyes steadily. “Only if you call me Lyanna."