The clatter of gold dragons rattled on the worn beech of the bartop as Lord Robert Baratheon slammed them down. "A toast for everyone!" he boomed, his flushed face curled up in a roaring grin. "In the name of my good brother-to-be!"
"YEEEEERRRRRR!" whooped the entire tavern, mugs hoisted in the air for whatever the seven hells the man was yelling about. In the back of the rather large establishment, a pair of fiddlers picked up a jaunty tune, patrons beginning to rise spontaneously in dance—free refills were always something to celebrate.
"I'M GETTING MARRIED!" The Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands belied his statements by grabbing a barmaid, kissing her cheek, and tickling her skin with his bushy moustache and prickly chin beard.
Shaking his head, Eddard Stark chuckled as he went into his own mug. Letting the bitter liquid slosh down his gullet. "Gods, it's good to taste some decent country ale."
Seated across from him, Lord Jon Arryn of the Eyrie blinked at him. "The best Arbor Golds or Dornish Reds in my cellars weren't to your liking?" He clutched his heart atop the plate armor of the Vale knight he had been in his youth. "Dear Ned, you've wounded me."
Ned sputtered into his drink, froth showering the table as he laughed. The straightlaced and quiet Lord Paramount of the Vale was thought to be a humorless scold, but the young man considered Arryn's de facto son knew that it wasn't true at all. "You can take the Northman out of the North, but never the North out of the Northman."
"Don't I know it, lad." Lord Arryn's precise speaking was out of place in the roadside tavern, but the honorable man that the tavern owner insisted on providing room and board to nevertheless was an honored guest. "You should stay with us, Ned. I'd rather you not go to the Twins."
Just as he placed his empty mug down, a barmaid—the one Robert was flirting with earlier—replaced it with a full one. Sashaying her hips as she left, hoping to tempt the young Northman. Ned didn't take the bait. "As much as I love you and your company, my Lord, I am too eager to see my family."
"I know. Just be careful… both there and at the tourney." Arryn gave him a somber frown. "Most southern keeps are filled with snakes. Men meet their ends in the worst ways, gods know honorable men. I'll try to keep you out of trouble and teach you to identify duplicity when we meet again at Harrenhal, but keep your father away from the King's court. Starks don't fare well south of the Neck, I'm afraid." Ned only nodded, heeding Jon Arryn's warning before his friend sauntered over.
Whooping yet again, eyes wide and speech slurred, Robert threw an arm around Ned's shoulder. His over-the-top, gregarious amiability was only enhanced by the ale and wine coursing through his system. "Ned, my man. You are like a brother to me, and soon we're literally going to be brothers!"
While he would never truly be comfortable with the way men would descend into… chaos after enough drink—he had seen it happen to Brandon, and it always irked his more straitlaced personality—Ned just laughed. Robert's… zest for life did rub off on him. He enjoyed allowing himself to let loose, one of the reasons he was drawn to the Stormlands lord in the first place. "I can't think of anything I'd want more, Robert."
"Your sister sounds perfect, Ned. She'll be the perfect wife for me, Lady of Storm's End." The young lord could picture it in his head. A future he had grown enamored of since first being told of his friend's younger sister. Since first proposing the betrothal. "A woman fit for a Baratheon, givin' me plenty of stag sons with wolfsblood running through their veins!"
Robert Baratheon wasn't a person known for his wit or intelligence, but he possessed a sort of crafty instinct that kept even his impulsive nature under wraps when such was most needed. But when he drank and when he boasted—especially when considered due for the man that wanted for nothing growing up—such craft tended to vanish. It charmed many a lady and many a knight or bannerman. It wasn't something that Ned particularly enjoyed, and he knew Lyanna wouldn't.
Sensing this, Jon Arryn reached out and placed a hand on Robert's shoulder. "Now, now, dear boy. If she is to be your lady wife, you'll have to give her the respect you would give yourself. Any man could sire heirs, but only a good one can get their wife's affection." Ned smiled at his foster father's words. Such had been one of the first lessons of honor he had learned in the Eyrie, and it served him well to this day.
Blinking, Robert looked at Ned with shock. "Well, what am me saying, Ned? Of course I'll treat 'er with respect!" He punched Ned in the arm, laughing sheepishly. "She'll 'ant fer nothin'. Dresses, jewels, flowers, whatever 'dat stuff women put on 'imselves to smell nice… whatever she 'ants I'll give it to 'er!" For a naturally boastful man, this came completely sincere.
Lord Arryn thought so, smiling softly as he drank his own mug of ale.
"Thank you, Robert." Ned cuffed him on the back, the two knocking back their round. "I look forward to our families uniting.
The fact that Lyanna likely wanted something other than fancy clothes and perfumed rooms danced in the back of his mind.
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"... the information turned out to be faulty." Clad in his chainmail armor and cloak—clearly for the commanding effect for his visit to the den of snakes—Master of War Mallor Rykker glanced at Varys before shifting back to the head of the table. "Rumors of a secret male Blackfyre pretender in Volantis turned out to be a mere extortion scheme."
Expression placid and unthreatening, Lord Varys only let out a sigh. "The songs weren't as loud or melodious, but it would be an abrogation of my responsibilities if I didn't pass what my birds sang to me to this council."
At the head of the table, in the seat reserved for the monarch, Rhaegar Targaryen pinched the bridge of his nose. Nursing yet another headache. "Well, thank the Gods that it turned out to be nothing." Much of the upswing in the fortunes of Westeros had been due to the fact that House Blackfyre and its ilk had been wiped out to the last man. His father had fought bravely in that war early in his reign, earning the sword that now rested on Rhaegar's hip. "One additional problem that we don't have to deal with."
The men seated around the table nodded at their prince, each guarded but with the clearly recognizable relief that it was Rhaegar and not Aerys that sat at the head—Aerys never visited the small council anymore, but his specter served to stifle dissent and free dialogue. Yet another headache for Rhaegar.
"Taxes from the Westerlands are late again," said Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, Master of Coin. The bright, vibrant green and gold of his doublet and breeches made him look like a stuffed peacock. The man wasn't the brightest fire in the hearth but was competent enough to manage the full treasury. "I've sent two ravens to Lord Tywin but have gotten no response. "Fuck. Why do the gods do this to me?
A fist crashed against the table. "He's still smarming that his Grace saw fit to kick him out on his ass." Hand of the King Jon Connington was a man of dueling emotions. It oscillated over which ruled over him, his love for the crown or his hate of its enemies—which today was firmly centered on House Lannister of Casterly Rock. "Tywin is plotting against the crown."
Of course he would agree with Father. Did a realm at peace ever seem so chaotic? Rhaegar reasoned it hadn't been this jumbled and tinged with fear since the last days of Viserys I's rule, at the height of anxiety over the succession—which ended with the Dance of Dragons. "I will not allow accusations of plotting without evidence over delays in tax revenue." It irked him that he even had to spell this out. "I'll write to Lord Tywin myself. He can't ignore the summons of someone that outranks him in status." Mace was his equal in status and his clear inferior in cunning. Seeing Connington's mouth begin to open, Rhaegar held up his hand. "That's enough, Jon."
Mouth closing, Connington seethed at the verbal scolding. "Of course, your Grace." The two had before been as thick as thieves, but the stress of managing Aerys' increasingly deluded commands—as well as something Rhaegar couldn't figure out but that had happened upon his marriage to Elia—was beginning to fray the once strong friendship. I don't have time to deal with this. As the tourney at Harrenhal approached, the Crown Prince's patience was wearing thin.
"One last issue to deal with. I would like to speak with Lord Mooton about the backlog in criminal trials once he is out of his sickbed." Instituting criminal tribunals for accused felons in King's Landing had been one of his father's ideas from early in his reign. It had been successful, but the sickness of Master of Laws Edmyn Mooton over a month before was threatening to unravel it.
No one answered for quite a while. Silence hanging over the council chamber. "My Prince…" It was finally Varys who spoke. "Lord Mooton went with the gods several days ago."
Rhaegar stared, eyes wide and jaw like a gaping fish. "What?!" Rage began to build up. "Why didn't anyone tell me?!" No one responded, and Rhaegar knew the answer to his own question. Head pounding from rage, he waved his hand. "Dismissed. Everyone out… wait, Lord Varys. A moment."
Hands clasped together under his flowing Lysene robes, Varys' piercing eyes twinkled at him with an enigma of thoughts. "Yes, my Prince?"
Voice low—even though the rest of the council was gone, the walls still had ears—Rhaegar asked the question that had been plaguing his mind since the meeting first started. "Have your birds heard anything of my intended?"
Varys nodded. Expecting it and with information ready. "The north and the vale are filled with birdsong about the Lady Lyanna. Apparently your father's nephew, the young Lord of Storm's End, is seeking a marriage alliance. Lord Rickard is inclined to accept, though he is putting it off until after the tourney."
Normally Rhaegar concealed his emotions from the Master of Whisperers, but this subject hit too close to home. Ashen, he just slumped in his chair. "Thank you, Lord Varys. You may go."
"Glad to be of service, my Prince."
Soon it was just him and Ser Arthur. "If you brood any harder," the Sword of the Morning said after a long silence, "they'll hear it on Dragonstone."
Rhaegar actually chuckled at that, but his humor didn't reach his eyes. "Just perfect, Arthur. Not only is my father practically commanding me to earn the ire of the North by stealing their daughter, Dorne for dishonoring their daughter, and the Westerlands for essentially branding them an enemy to surround, now I'll be punching my cousin and the Stormlands in the face by stealing his betrothed."
"They aren't betrothed yet."
A snort left the Crown Prince. "You know what they say about Steffon Baratheon's sons? Their father was a temperamental, dour, crafty cunt. Robert got the first trait, Stannis got the second, and apparently Renly got the third. My cousin will not take this slight lightly—yet another fire mountain for me to deal with." He sighed. "First Lord Mooton and now this." Rhaegar covered his face, willing the shit to go away.
"You know they were afraid of speaking out until they knew you would be hearing their concerns, right?" The specter of Aerys and his… unpredictable behavior had a chilling effect on King's Landing.
"Yes, Arthur, I know." At least his Kingsguard would always be honest with him. "Gods. I miss Dragonstone. I still had responsibilities and authority there, but at least it was quieter."
Grinning softly at his friend's frustration. Arthur patted him on the shoulder. "You're a dragon, my prince. Be a dragon." While Rhaegar was fond of brooding, cowering, and bitching about everything like a weak cunt, he wasn't the great man he had the pleasure of serving. "And you should start by telling the Lady Elia of the reason for the tourney—the true reason for the tourney."
On this, Rhaegar was looking forward more to dealing with his temperamental Baratheon cousin. "You really are a cunt, Arthur."
"When you're brooding, someone has to be," Arthur laughed.
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Leaning back in her rocking chair, the soft Dornish lullabies wafted from Princess Elia's lips. Her hand stroking the chubby back and head of her son as he fed from her breast. The wife of the Crown Prince concentrated on the song, trying to ignore how her beloved Aegon would occasionally bite down on her nipple. A natural occurrence as he teethed, though her son was far less… vicious than his older sister, a hellraiser even as an infant.
Rhaegar's ministrations in that region were far more pleasing, though those were mutually few and far between.
"It shocks me that you do this yourself," said her lady-in-waiting. Ellaria Sand may have been the bastard daughter of the Lord of Hellholt and thus not as august as the trueborn Elia, but she had the arrogance and love of luxury that would make a Martell blush. "You're the wife of the future king. Wet nurses wouldn't be hard to find."
"I like doing it myself," Elia shot back. Ellaria was a good lady-in-waiting, and fun enough to tolerate her eccentricities—flushed stableboys and trips to Chataya's brothel on the Street of Silk were tacitly ignored by the smirking princess—but in this she went too far. "I love all of my children. No other pair of breasts will my son touch." Aegon began to fuss, so Elia pulled him off her breast, cooing and patting his back.
The 'Sand Snake,' as many in the Sunspear court had called her, only smirked. "Until he grows up. With the blood of the dragon and the viper… I doubt he won't have a trail of bastards through the Seven Kingdoms."
Elia gave her another glare. "Bite your tongue. One whoremonger in my brother Oberyn is enough for House Martell." Even at Rhaegar's age, the Second Prince was notorious for dozens of heartbroken women and men in his wake—Elia was sure he had two bastard daughters already.
"I tell you again, I must meet this brother of yours. He sounds like quite a good time." The toothy grin Ellaria sent her only made Elia shake her head, laughing.
Luckily Elia—now rocking her son softly to sleep—had covered her breast, for Ser Gerold walked into the solar. "His Grace the Crown Prince," announced the Kingsguard. Behind walked Rhaegar, Ser Arthur trailing behind him. At once Ellaria curtseyed—Elia did so as well, though her movements were slow and not as supplicant.
It wasn't lost on either of them that they lacked the spark of love enough to make such formalities unnecessary.
"My Lady," Rhaegar bowed in return, nothing if not respectful. The perfect prince and husband. "Gerold, Arthur, wait outside."
Elia understood his tone. "Ellaria, you're dismissed. Go enjoy yourself." Licking her lips, Ellaria curtseyed graciously, swiping a money purse off an end table as she left ahead of the Kingsguards. Chataya's tonight. Ellaria didn't waste money if she wished to seduce the male servants. As the door closed, they were alone. "How was the Small Council meeting?" A sigh left her husband. "That bad?" Rhaegar promised that when he was king, she would sit in on the meetings whenever possible—till then, they always discussed the matters of state afterwards.
"Worse. Lord Mooton's been dead for days. They were too scared to tell my father, and they dared not propose a successor without him signing off."
"This can't continue indefinitely, husband."
"No, it cannot." Rhaegar's eyes drifted to little Aegon, sleeping peacefully. "May I hold him?"
Smiling softly, Elia outstretched her arms. "I can't deny the Crown Prince the gift of holding his newborn son." Gently taking the baby in his hold, Rhaegar bounced with him, speaking in High Valyrian as he stroked Aegon's cheek. Here was the mighty Rhaegar Targaryen, said to be the greatest Targaryen warrior since Daemon Blackfyre, reduced to a sentimental maiden by his children. It was the same with Rhaenys, and it warmed Elia's heart.
Not that it was enough.
The Dornish beauty had spent years trying to figure out where they had gone wrong—why there was no spark, no matter the two beautiful children they had. No matter how many times they shared a bed. No matter how close friends and confidants they had become. Sure, every young highborn maiden in Westeros had heard of the dashing Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Even in her sickbed in the Water Gardens, afflicted by everything from the yellow pox to childhood wheezing, Elia held the fantasies of a dashing dragon prince sweeping her off her feet. So when her brother Doran announced she was to marry Rhaegar, she had been quite enamored of the idea.
But neither Doran nor the king treated it as a wedding, more like a business arrangement. Elia had been barred from even seeing her groom, instead subjected to bizarre sessions with Aerys and the Grand Maester, where the latter inspected her for childbearing potential heirs while the rather micromanaging king watched. Complaints to Doran went nowhere; her previously loving brother instead browbeat her about the need to both produce and heir immediately while smuggling information about court back to Sunspear. By the time the wedding happened—an equally subdued Rhaegar clearly subjected to some of the same treatment—all the magic had been lost.
Elia married a stranger, with no chance to even get to know him and develop a connection. Their wedding night had been resultantly cold; her tears at losing her maidenhead were only dampened by how considerate he was. It wasn't his fault. They had tried; oh, how they tried. Romantic dinners, walks, flowery talking—Rhaegar was the perfect husband and had repeatedly told her she was the perfect wife, but the spark wasn't there.
Smothered by the King himself. Always the japes, the constant insults and put-downs—making the poor girls of ten and six feel like some abomination and breeding machine. No matter how many times Rhaegar, Rhaella, or even Elia herself told her that it was a lie, the King's cruelty had infected her. By the time the king returned from captivity in Duskendale, he was less gregarious and quieter. Crueler but more prone to brood, it was too late. Our marriage is a duty. Nothing more. Their times together were that of friends. Their children make them light up, but not as a happy couple among their family. The lack of a spark in their bedroom, pleasurable but never making love. Always a duty, bland and unexciting.
Rhaegar was considerate, of course, never making her do anything that she wasn't comfortable with, but she wasn't cruel. Elia could see in his deep violet eyes the longing for a real marriage and the true passion and pleasure in the act of real lovemaking. Find his "other half."
And the parent in her—the mother of a princess and the crown prince—such worries scared her deeply. Threatening to put a wedge into their marriage, as weak as it was.
Breaking through her thoughts, Rhaegar pressed a kiss to Aegon's forehead—underneath the wisps of silver hair. "I love you, my son." Gently, he handed her back to Elia. "He'll grow up to be a strong prince."
"That he will." Still able to read her husband well, Elia noticed him being rather nervous. "Is there something else you've been meaning to tell me, Rhaegar?"
Rubbing the back of his neck and sighing deeply, Rhaegar took a seat in the plush chair beside her. Reaching out to put a hand on her knee. "You have heard of the tourney in Harrenhal my father has scheduled for my nameday, correct?"
She blinked, confused. "Yes, I have. My servants have just begun packing…"
"Please stay here, Elia." His eyes were pleading. Begging even. "Please."
This was starting to worry her. "Why would your wife not accompany you to your own nameday tourney?" Most wives would have chalked it up to their husband having a mistress, but Rhaegar would never.
He looked as if it was bringing him physical pain to talk. "My father has grown delusional and paranoid. He thinks Lord Tywin is plotting the Doom of Valyria upon us."
Elia furrowed her brows. "While I don't care for Lord Tywin, I doubt he's capable of that," she japed, but the serious frown on his face didn't go away. "What does that have to do with me?"
"He prepared a rather cunning plot to surround Lord Tywin by binding the North, Riverlands, and Vale to House Targaryen through a marriage alliance." Not a coward by any measure, it looked as if he was forcing himself to look into her eyes. "He repealed the laws of Jaehaerys the Conciliator governing multiple marriage and ordered me betrothed to the daughter of Lord Rickard Stark."
There was silence. Nothing but the wafting of the wind blowing from Blackwater Bay and the soft squirms of Aegon in Elia's arms. No sound left the princess' mouth, while Rhaegar waited just as quietly for an answer. Most would answer by questioning what the other person said, but both knew that Elia heard and understood.
What had to be several minutes passed before Elia finally responded. "And the tourney is supposed to be for…"
"To make the announcement to the Realms." Rhaegar was just as uncomfortable about it as she expected him to be. "I think he's enjoying this."
A biting laugh left Elia's lips. "Well, of course he does." She shook her head, an angry grin on her face. "God forbid there's some happiness in Westeros—he's always there to squash it as he did with us!"
Rhaegar's eyes opened, frantic. "Please, my dear. Don't speak so loudly."
"Why the fuck shouldn't I?!" Elia was beyond angry. She was furious and would no longer let anyone try to placate her. "Every damn day I had to put up with his abuse, making my life miserable—and now he's bringing another woman into it! Dishonoring me and my children! I don't believe you, Rhaegar. You probably said nothing to him and went along with it as you always do!"
"Do you think I have a choice?!" Rhaegar hissed, trying to keep calm for his son's sake. "My father is probably looking for an excuse to toss me aside and make Viserys his heir. The poor boy is still young enough to be poisoned by his toxicity."
"So to preserve your claim, you condemn Rhaenys and Aegon to lose their birthright to the children you sire from this… northerner!" The last word sounded like the vilest epithet.
The Crown Prince knew what was bothering her the most. "Aegon will still be my heir. I would never condemn Rhaenys or him to the life of a bastard… even thinking they could be lesser than any other children I have." Her rage seemed to dim—replaced with a more… simmering irritation. As if Elia was trying to process a way she could live with the newest slight Aerys delivered her. "Elia…"
"Leave me, Rhaegar." She sighed, trying to calm down. "I know you wouldn't have done this on your own, and I am grateful you don't intend to cast me aside or disinherit our children, but I need time to process this."
"Elia…"
Her eyes glared at him. "Rhaegar, take Aegon and leave!" She sucked in a deep breath. "Please." Nodding, standing up, sad eyes cast down to her before her husband picked up their son and disappeared towards the nursery.
Just sitting there for what seemed like hours, Elia finally stood. Walking across the solar in a haze. Barely seeing herself in the mirror as she took the red wine from her homeland out of the flagon to pour it in the glass. Bringing it to her lips, draining the entire goblet. Moving to fill the glass again, only to stare at the flagon with hooded eyes.
Eyes that soon grew red.
With a snarl that she didn't know she could make, the goblet flew across the room. Smashing against the far wall into a million pieces.
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Walder Frey was a pig. And, as Lyanna found out within four seconds after being introduced to the man, a lecherous pig.
The great hall of the Twins was packed, with over a hundred onlookers dancing and feasting on the fat of the northern riverlands—quite fertile even as summer morphed slowly into autumn. Lord Frey had rolled out the welcome wagon for what had to be his most important visitor in years, having greeted her father with full pomp and circumstance. Each of his children, sworn swords, and his—third… fourth wife? Lyanna couldn't be bothered to remember—were trotted out. Walder at the arriving line personally. His gracious kiss of Lyanna's hand made her skin crawl, as did the obvious lust in his eyes as he looked over her body.
Fleeing the high table was a necessity. Abandoning it for the safety of the main floor, where the lesser Northern lords and her father's bannermen enjoyed their meals and drinks. Lyanna knew these uncouth, honest brawlers and was comfortable with them. What she couldn't stand was the slimy Lord of the Twins offering to marry off both of his youngest daughters to her father and youngest brother along with each girl's weight in silver.
All blessings to him, Rickard politely declined. Lyanna would have declined as well, only with more choice words. Perhaps that's why I'm not the Lady of Winterfell. Finesse wasn't exactly her style.
It appeared from a cursory scan of the hall that the rest of her family and retinue didn't share such reservations about being among the Freys as Lyanna did. Rickard was chatting with Lord Walder about this and that—if he was perturbed by the rejected offer, he didn't show it. Brandon was impressing a group of giggling girls with a tale of fighting the wildlings with Willam Dustin and Martyn Cassel, the maidens oohing and ahing at his boasts and wild waving of his arms—utterly eating it up.
Off to the right, Dacey was shamelessly flirting with one of Walder's sons. The boy was obviously desperate to get under her skirts. Lyanna smirked to herself. He'd have to wait for the snows in Dorne. Dacey might have been a flirt, but the Freys obviously didn't know what the rest of the North did—Mormont women spread their legs for no one unless they proved themselves. Lyanna envied her lady-in-waiting for being able to enjoy life anywhere. Much as she wanted to, the she-wolf just felt… suffocated in the south. Without the wide open spaces and looser minds of the north.
Further laughter brought her back to Brandon, leading a giggling Moyra Frey out of the hall. Her father seemed not to notice, but the beady eyes of Walder Frey noticed all. Lyanna rolled her eyes. Her older brother and his antics—he'd better watch out for himself.
"Seems Lord Walder made his offer to the wrong Stark."
Lyanna's head whipped around to find the smiling face of her middle brother staring back at her. "NED!" With a rather girlish squeal—she'd deny it later—Lyanna leapt out of her seat and embraced her long-lost brother, burying her face in the crook of his neck. "When did you get here? Why are you here?!" The questions tumbled from her lips rapidly, so excited she was to see Ned. Pulling back, her grin was infectious. Only finally seeing Ned could end the morose sadness that had engulfed her since before leaving Winterfell. "I thought you were travelling with the Arryn column to Harrenhal?"
Ned grinned, just as happy to be here as Lyanna. "Well, I was, but I couldn't bear the chance at having to wait any more weeks to see my beloved sister." Squeeing, Lyanna embraced her brother yet again. Only wishing that Benjen were there so that the family could reunite. "Lord Arryn is heading there with Robert, and I'll see them again at the tourney."
With the mention of "Robert," Lyanna's newfound happiness burned into ashes. The light in her eyes darkened, her smile shifting into a scowl that caused Ned to recoil. "Brother…" she said as icily as the coldest northern winter. "May we speak outside the hall?"
Blinking, unable to know what turned their joyous reunion to hell in a split second, Ned could only nod. The face held the expression of a deer caught right before an arrow pierced its hide. "Sure, Lya. Follow me." Quietly, melting into the cacophony of the crowd, he led her out to the hallways. Winding through lines of servants till they reached a secluded alcove. "Alright Lya, what's this abou… ow!" Lyanna smacked him in the shoulder. Hard. "What the… ow!" Another into his chest.
"You asshole!" Lyanna was seeing red. Remembering Ned's role in her planned slave auction to a bastard-siring oaf. "How dare you." She kept smacking and hitting him, secure in the knowledge that Ned would never hit her back. "How dare you!"
Hands up, Ned struggled to shield himself. "Lya… Lya…" Finally, he grabbed at her hands, stilling her. "Lya, stop." Lips pursed tightly, anger still in her stormy grey eyes, Lyanna nevertheless relented. Merely crossing her arms. "What in seven hells was that about?!"
Eyes narrowing, Lya couldn't believe Ned could be this dense. Was he always this clueless? "Robert Baratheon?" she hissed out. His eyes widened in understanding. "Why do you hate me so, Ned? I thought I was your sister, not some broodmare to be sold."
"What? Why in seven hells would you think that, Lya? You're my sister, and I love you." It hurt him deeply that she would say that. "Robert and I were practically raised as brothers by Lord Arryn. I've known him for half my life, and he'd make a fine husband for you." And Lya would be perfect for cleaning up Robert's act. It just seemed perfect.
The she-wolf of Winterfell didn't see it that way. "Are you sure about that, Brother?" Her voice was colder than the wall. "Did you know about Mya Stone when you suggested him to Father?"
A sigh left Ned's lips. Of course Brandon would tell her. He only wished it had been himself—or better yet, Robert—that told her about that little secret. "I'm sorry, Lya. I was planning to tell you when we saw each other again."
"How could you even suggest such a man, Ned? A loose man! A whoremonger!"
"Robert is not a whoremonger. He may be gregarious and a flirt, but he is a good man." He was his friend. Ned knew him like a brother. "Jon Arryn raised him for gods' sake."
Lyanna didn't buy it. "You suggested my hand to a man who already disgraced himself and his house with a bastard? Please, explain that to me, dear brother."
A deep sigh—Ned knew Lyanna had every right to feel betrayed about this. It wasn't a good look for any man, let alone a high lord. While most southern lords wouldn't care a bit about what their daughters thought, Ned knew their father would take Lyanna's wishes into consideration. As he should. Robert would have to pass muster. "I grant that was wrong on his part, but he's still young. At the time Robert was still the heir to Storm's End. Now that his parents have died and he's a lord and ready to marry, he'll change."
"Are you sure about this?" Lyanna stared intently at him. "Don't lie to me because he's your friend." Ned's character was the best of the entire Stark family—Lyanna knew he wouldn't be friends with an oaf, so his opinion mattered greatly to her.
"If you truly don't wish to marry him, I'll support you in that, Father, but don't decide anything till after you meet him."
Lyanna ran her hand through her silky brown locks, a nervous tick that all of the Stark pack shared. "Alright, Ned," she sighed. "Since you think so highly of him, I'll make my choice once I meet him."
Ned smiled. "That's all I'm asking."
Returning his smile, she brought him in for an embrace. "I truly did miss you, big brother."
"I missed you too." Pulling back, he laughed. "Dacey Mormont as your lady-in-waiting? I'm sure Nan took that in good humor."
The laughter was infectious. "Oh, you don't know the half of it. Come on," she pulled on his arm. "Perhaps I'll be your matchmaker this time."
Ned blushed. "I don't think I'm tough enough to handle a she-bear of House Mormont." Lyanna smacked him in the shoulder, brother and sister wearing matching grins.