Chapter 88 – Look What I've Done for Love
"Huh…?"
Robert Baratheon froze mid-laugh.
He'd just finished boasting to Lyanna about his heroic rescue when his eyes fell on the man sprawled unconscious on the ground.
White armor gleamed under the moonlight.
Silver hair spilled loose across the stones.
Something felt wrong.
---
"I'm killing him!"
Before Robert could speak, Lyanna already lunged forward. Dagger in hand, she stormed toward the fallen knight — the man she thought was her brother's murderer.
Her blood pounded in her ears. Every nerve burned with vengeance. She didn't even notice her hands shaking — or the faint tremor of excitement that ran through her whole body.
"Wait—WAIT!"
Robert dashed after her and grabbed her wrist just as the blade was about to strike down.
"Don't stop me!"
"I'm not—! Just—listen!"
He winced. The small wolf glared up at him, furious and wild, the edge of her dagger trembling inches from his arm.
He softened his tone.
"I just think… maybe this isn't Lance Lot."
"Don't try to trick me, Robert Baratheon!"
Lyanna shot back, her gray eyes blazing.
"I saw his face that day — I'd know it anywhere!"
Her grip tightened on the dagger. Robert sighed inwardly.
Seven help him, this family was hopeless.
Brandon had been the same — reckless and proud to the bone — and Lyanna was no better.
The Starks, he realized, all shared one defining trait: they'd rather die than doubt themselves.
"Lyanna, for the love of the gods, think!"
Robert finally snapped. He seized her by the shoulders and nearly shouted,
"You've studied heraldry, haven't you? Tell me — what color is a Targaryen's hair?"
He jabbed a finger toward the fallen knight.
"It's… uh…"
Lyanna hesitated. Her brow furrowed. She wanted to answer, truly — but books had never been her strong suit.
While other girls learned their sigils and genealogies, she'd been out riding through the Wolfswood, chasing deer and wind instead of words.
Robert's eye twitched.
Gods save me, the daughter of the Lord of Winterfell doesn't even know basic heraldry!
He let go of her shoulders with a heavy sigh and knelt beside the body.
"It's silver. Silver and gold, Lyanna."
His voice softened, almost dreading the truth he already knew.
"But Lance Lot… he's black-haired. I've seen him myself."
He reached down with a trembling hand and rolled the armored man over.
And when he saw the face beneath the moonlight —
"Oh, gods…"
Robert's eyes shut tight as if to unsee it.
"Of course it's him. Of course it bloody is."
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen lay unconscious at their feet, his silver hair gleaming, his handsome face half-shadowed by blood and moonlight.
"What in the seven hells is he doing here?!"
Robert's voice rose in a half-mad whisper.
"Wearing Kingsguard armor of all things — are Targaryens just born this stupid?"
He cursed under his breath and yanked Lyanna's arm, desperate to leave before things got worse.
"Come on, we have to go—now!"
Every instinct screamed at him to run.
If Rhaegar had seen their faces…
A cold dread crawled down his spine.
He'd met the prince before — back when he was still Storm's End's heir, attending feasts and councils at court with his father.
Rhaegar had looked him in the eye once across a table.
If he remembered him now…
If he woke and spoke a single word…
They'd be accused of assassinating the crown prince.
"Wait…" Lyanna stammered, struggling against his pull. "You said—he's a Targaryen? Prince Rhaegar?"
Her shock was genuine. "Why is he wearing a Kingsguard's armor?"
"How the hell should I know?!"
Robert's patience cracked.
He threw his free hand up, voice dripping with frustration.
"He's a prince — he can do whatever insane thing he wants! Sneak around in the middle of the night pretending to be someone else? Fine! But why here? Why now? Why when I'm here?"
He groaned, running a hand through his hair.
"Seven save me, he could've just gone to the Silk Street like a normal man—at least that'd make sense!"
"Robert—"
Lyanna's tone had changed. Softer now. Afraid.
Her grip on his arm tightened.
"He saw my face," she whispered. "I know he did."
Robert wanted to tell her no — that Rhaegar hadn't seen, hadn't noticed, hadn't understood.
But when he looked at her — at that fierce, defiant Stark face so like her brother's — the words stuck in his throat.
Because he remembered the look in Rhaegar's eyes before the blow landed.
Those deep indigo eyes had caught both of them — wide, startled… and full of recognition.
Robert stopped pulling.
He looked back at the prince lying motionless in the moonlight, then down at Lyanna — pale, trembling, beautiful, and terrified.
And for the first time, the laughter and bravado faded from his face.
He realized what he'd done.
What they'd both done.
And the storm inside his chest began to rise.
-l
"Seven bloody hells…"
Robert threw his head back and groaned to the heavens.
Then, with a resigned sigh, he knelt beside the unconscious silver-haired prince and started dragging him toward the shadows.
He shot Lyanna a look—half defiant, half tragic—and spread his arms dramatically.
"Look at me, Lyanna Stark," he said with mock grandeur.
"Look what I've done for love."
---
The Hand's Tower
Seat of the King's Hand, the tower was vast—larger even than Maegor's Holdfast in its height and chambers.
The great hall on the lower floor could seat two hundred for a feast, and its vaulted ceilings stretched twenty meters high. It was large enough to house the entire household of Lord Tywin Lannister, his guards from the Westerlands, and both of his golden-haired children.
But it was too large.
At night, when Tywin retired to his private study, the silence was absolute. He could no longer hear his children's laughter echoing through the stone corridors.
---
"Stop! Jaime, stop—I can't breathe!"
Cersei's laughter filled the bedchamber. She lay sprawled across her sheets, giggling uncontrollably as her twin brother tickled her sides.
Years apart had done nothing to dull their bond. In that moment, they were once again two children at Casterly Rock, laughing where no one could see them.
Jaime paused, his smile faltering. For the first time, he noticed how much she'd changed—how beautiful she had become.
The laughter between them thinned, replaced by something heavier.
He leaned closer, his breath unsteady.
"Don't, Jaime…"
Her voice trembled—but not with disgust.
Part of her didn't want to stop him. They had shared a womb; they were one flesh, one soul. Why should that be shameful?
And yet…
In that heartbeat before his lips touched hers, another image flashed before her mind:
a tall, shining figure in white armor—his face shadowed, but noble, unyielding.
And the memory of the old septon, Bonifer Hasty, whispering to her once in prayer:
You will be a true queen, child—not merely by blood, but by virtue.
Cersei's breath hitched. She pushed Jaime away with sudden strength, his shocked eyes following her as she scrambled off the bed and fled.
The door slammed behind her.
---
"Hhh… hah…"
Her chest heaved as she pressed her back against the door, gasping for breath.
The candlelight flickered across her flushed face, the beginnings of womanhood catching the edge of the flame.
And then—
A deep, measured voice broke the silence.
"Rhaegar Targaryen has been abducted."
Cersei froze.
Her father sat in the chair beside her desk, his green eyes cold, his face carved from stone.
"Father!"
She flinched, stepping back so fast she hit the door. But Tywin did not rise. He merely studied her, expression unreadable, the pause stretching into something suffocating.
Then he spoke again, slow and heavy.
"Tell your pious friend," he said, "that if they mean to act, now is the time."
The words made Cersei's heart lurch.
He knows.
She'd never told him about her confidences with the sept, or her late-night visits to Bonifer's chapel.
But of course, her father always knew. Tywin Lannister missed nothing.
He rose, voice level and cold.
"Jaime is nearly fourteen," he said. "It's time he began serving the family's interests."
"What… what are you saying?"
Cersei's tone was wary, her instincts tightening like a drawn bowstring.
Tywin's gaze didn't waver.
"Tomorrow, I'll send him to Riverrun with a letter for Lord Tully. He will remain there for a time."
He paused.
"Until he is betrothed to one of the Tully daughters."
The words hit like a slap. Cersei's lips parted, but no sound came out.
There was no arguing with that voice—the one that ruled Castlery Rock, the Westerlands, and half the realm.
But Tywin wasn't finished.
"Tell your friend," he said again, turning toward the door, "if they intend to strike, do it soon. And do it cleanly."
He stopped before her, towering, his voice lowering to something almost intimate—almost deadly.
"If the wolf and the stag both die in King's Landing, this war will be inevitable."
The meaning slid past her like a dagger's edge—half-understood, wholly terrifying.
And then he was gone, the door clicking softly behind him.
---
Cersei stood alone in the dim candlelight.
The flame trembled in its sconce, throwing shadows that danced across her face.
Her green eyes flickered, uncertain—then hardened into resolve.
After a long moment, she crossed to her wardrobe, pulled down a dark cloak with a hood, and drew it over her golden hair.
Without another glance back, she slipped from the Hand's Tower into the moonlit corridors of the Red Keep.
This time,
she went alone.