Author's Note: Thank you all for the feedback on the 'Note Chapter'. I really appreciate it. Now, this chapter may be revised or updated later today or tomorrow, but feel free to review and share your thoughts!
.
. .
. . .
The Wall - One Moon and a Quarter After The End Of The Harrenhall Grand Tourney - 281 AC / With Maekar Targaryen (Dawn / Late Evening):
The wind howled like a wild beast as it swept down from the frozen north, cutting through the forested hills and biting into every exposed inch of skin it could find. The sky was a dull, sullen grey, with heavy clouds that hung low and thick, promising more snow. The land itself seemed to stretch endlessly, barren and stark, the trees bare and skeletal, their branches shivering with the weight of frost.
The three horses trudged onward, their breath steaming in the frigid air.
Maekar Targaryen rode at the front, his silver hair peeking out from beneath the hood of his heavy fur-lined cloak. He wore layers of thick wool and leather, purchased when the group passed through Moat Cailin,— a far cry from the silks and velvets of court of the south, but far more suited to the unforgiving cold of the North.
His violet eyes, sharp and alert, scanned the horizon, the Wall looming faintly in the distance already. They were close now,— to Castle Black,— a day's ride, perhaps less.
Oberyn Martell rode beside him, wrapped in warm furs as well, though his darker skin stood out against the pale landscape more than Maekar's. His eyes glittered with the same fiery spark that had earned him his infamous reputation across Westeros as the 'Red Viper'.
The cold did not seem to bother him, funnily enough, though his lips curled into a wry smile every so often as if the chill of the air itself amused him. "So this is the greatky vast and harsh North..." He'd remarked when they had first entered these cold lands almost a moon before. "Darker and far more desolate than I'd imagined, but I guess they do favours to the songs." Were some of the first impression that the dornish seemed to gather to mostly himself, when the first snow, and the first howling chill winds made their first appearance.
Tailing behind both 'Princes', Ser Gerold Hightower rode with his usual stoic grace, his white cloak, which had been muted with frost and dirt, usually billowing slightly behind him, now removed. He had also shed his polished armor for a simpler garb,— thick woolen breeches, a fur cloak draped over his broad shoulders, and his trusted longsword at his side.
Though the man had been the commander of the Kingsguard for many years, out here on the Kingsroad, he seemed far more relaxed, his face no longer a mask of stone.
With no court intrigue to guard against, no prying eyes to watch him, Ser Gerold allowed himself a rare ease, though his sharp gaze still flickered over the land around them, ever watchful.
The three men had ridden together for nearly a moon and a half now, the journey north providing ample time for each of them to learn something about the others. Maekar, ever the daring one, had come to appreciate Oberyn's biting wit and unrelenting drive, traits not so unlike his own. The two had bonded over their shared ambition and their disdain for the constraints of noble expectations. Ser Gerold, in turn, though a man of fewer words, had also softened to Oberyn's company, allowing himself to engage in conversation more freely than he ever had while under the weight of duty at King's Landing.
And as the day began to wane and the air grew colder still, Maekar raised a hand, signaling for them to stop. "Let's make camp near, we need to rest before resuming our journey."
And so they pulled off the Kingsroad and found a small clearing just beyond the treeline. The horses were tied up and fed, their saddles draped with blankets to ward off the worst of the cold. A fire was soon built, crackling and spitting as it fought against the bitter wind.
They sat around the flames, their faces lit by the orange glow, each of them wrapped in furs, hands outstretched toward the fire. The heat was a welcome reprieve from the relentless cold, and the food they bought along the way was now welcomed in their empty and freezing stomachs.
"Tell me, Maekar." Oberyn began after a long silence, his tone light but curious, "Do you ever wonder how your life would have currently been different, had you stayed in the South with our dear Ashara?" He smirked, his dark eyes glinting mischievously in the firelight. "Far warmer than this frozen wasteland,— I'd wager, no?"
Maekar chuckled, a low, throaty sound that echoed through the cold night. His violet eyes flickered over to Oberyn, though his expression remained unreadable for a moment. "I don't think warmth would have changed much of my predicment." he replied, his voice carrying a note of bitterness that was hard to miss. "I would still be chasing after something... more. Ashara or not, the shadow of my brother follows me everywhere I go."
Oberyn leaned back, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. "Rhaegar..." he said, almost tasting the name on his lips after everything that happened. "Always him. It must be a bitter thing, to live in the shadow of the 'Silver Prince'."
A brief silence fell over them,— the bite in Oberyn's words not lost on any of them, though both the kingsguard and the prince cared little for it. Rhaegar was not the most liked men in the tiny group of three men,— unsurprisingly.
The only sound now present was the crackling of the fire and the distant howl of the wind through the trees. Maekar's eyes grew darker, a shadow crossing his face as memories of the tourney flooded his mind.
Rhaegar's cheap trick in the final tilt, his apology spoken with the kind of detachment that had made Maekar want to drive a lance through his chest. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms beneath the leather of his gloves.
"He believes in his prophecies more than his own blood..." Maekar muttered, his voice thick with contempt. "He crowned Lyanna Stark, while my father looked on like a madman... No,— Oberyn, the warmth of the south wouldn't have changed a thing for me."
Oberyn studied Maekar carefully, the fire reflecting in his eyes. "And yet I am correct to assume that you still care for her, right?" he said softly, his words cutting through the darkness like a blade. "Ashara, I mean."
Maekar didn't respond immediately. He stared into the fire, his mind turning over memories of Ashara,— her violet eyes, her laughter, the way she had looked at him after the joust, her quiet strength,— the night they had shared together. His jaw tightened, but he allowed a brief smile to touch his lips.
"Aye, I do, more than I would like to admit." he told Oberyn, his voice low. "She's different. She sees me, not just as the prince. But,—"
"But you're here now, not with her." Ser Gerold interjected, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet. His expression was unreadable, but there was something like understanding in his eyes. "Duty always finds a way to knock on our door."
Maekar turned to the Kingsguard commander, nodding. "Aye, duty..." he agreed. "Darksister. The sword is out there, and if I can bring it back, I'll have something my brother can't claim himself. Something that proves I'm not just destined to be the second son of the King." His eyes burned with a cold fire now, the ambition clear in every word.
Oberyn, watching him closely, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And what will you do, Maekar, once you have the sword that belonged to the likes of the 'Rogue Prince'? Return south and rule beside your mad father? Or will you cut your way to the Iron Throne itself?" His voice was low, but there was an edge to it, a challenge in the question.
Maekar met Oberyn's gaze, his violet eyes gleaming in the firelight. "I'll have to decide once I have it." Maekar answered, his tone dark and resolute,— but he knew deep down that it was a lie, Maekar already knew what he would do regarding his family, once he came back south. "But I'll tell you this, Oberyn,— I won't be a shadow anymore. Not for Rhaegar, not for anyone else."
Ser Gerold, who had been silent for some time, spoke up, his voice calm but carrying the weight of his years. "Beware the price of ambition, my prince. You may find that what you seek will cost you more than what you may be willing to pay. Or at least that's what I was once taught,— when I was a but a child."
Maekar's gaze shifted to the old knight then, and for a moment, he saw not just the commander of the Kingsguard but a man who had seen too many wars, too much death. But he was not Gerold Hightower. He was Maekar Targaryen, the Daring Dragon.
And he would not live in another's shadow.
"Let it cost me, then." Maekar said quietly, his voice filled with a cold determination that chilled the air more than the northern winds themselves. "I'll pay whatever it takes."
Oberyn chuckled softly, though there was no warmth in the sound. "Spoken like a true dragon." he murmured, lifting a wineskin to his lips. "Let's just hope it doesn't burn you alive before you reach your so seeked prize, dear Maekar."
The three men sat in silence for a time after that, each lost in their own thoughts, the fire crackling between them, casting flickering shadows across their faces.
The Wall loomed ever closer, and with it, the promise of whatever lay beyond. The night stretched on, cold and unforgiving, much like the path that lay ahead of them.
.
.
.
The next day, as the sun began its slow ascent on the horizon:
Maekar and his companions neared the Wall, the cold biting deeper with every passing moment, as if the air itself resented their approach. The great Wall of ice and stone loomed over them, impossibly tall and ancient, its surface gleaming like polished sapphire beneath the faint light of dawn.
Shouts of men, high above, echoed down like the caws of ravens, distant and disembodied, swallowed by the vastness of the structure. Maekar paused then, breath catching in his chest as his eyes trailed upward, taking in the sheer scale of the thing.
Even Oberyn, whose usual disdain for the North was thinly veiled in his typical swagger, was momentarily struck silent. His dark eyes, so quick to mock, held a glint of genuine awe.
"The Wall." Oberyn muttered with a chuckle, more to himself than to anyone else. "They said it was tall... but this? This is approaching madness."
Beside them, Gerold Hightower sat stiff in the saddle, his fur cloak wrapped tight against the cold. He said nothing, but the faintest flicker of recognition passed over his weathered face,— a man who had seen the world, yet still found some things worth admiring.
They moved at a steady pace, their horses' hooves crunching over the frost-covered ground. Soon enough, the gates of Castle Black came into view, tall and weathered, imposing in their simplicity. Wooden, splintering with age, yet solid. The kind of place built not for comfort, but for survival.
As they rode into the courtyard, the full weight of the place pressed down on them. Castle Black was a grim, rough-hewn place,— built by hands that expected no thanks and served no glory. The men of the Night's Watch were much the same. They gathered near the entrance, a black mass of criminals and outcasts, their faces worn by wind and hard labor. Their eyes,— hard, hungry,— watched the newcomers with suspicion, curiosity, and something darker: resentment.
Maekar was the first to dismount, his silver hair gleaming in the scarse early morning light, his purple eyes scanning the courtyard with a cold, assessing gaze. He was no stranger to hostile eyes. The weight of their stares,— full of envy, hatred, and the bitterness of men long forgotten by the rest of the realm,— rested on him like a heavy cloak. But he dismissed it with a flick of his gaze, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword as if daring any of them to make the mistake of underestimating him.
Gerold and Oberyn dismounted as well, their movements fluid but tense. Gerold's hand instinctively shifted closer to the hilt of his greatsword, while Oberyn's fingers hovered near his spear.
A stillness settled over the courtyard, as if the very walls of Castle Black were holding their breath.
Suddenly, from the mass of black-clad men, one of them stepped forward. His face was gaunt, his eyes wild and bloodshot, lips cracked from the cold. He was older, broken down by years of exile, his mind clearly teetering on the edge of madness. He staggered toward Maekar, his gaze fixed on the prince with a hatred so palpable it made the air colder.
"You..." the man croaked, his voice hoarse and venomous. "You're a prince, aren't you? A Targaryen bastard."
The courtyard seemed to contract, every black brother leaning in slightly, waiting for what would come next.
"You don't know..." the man spat, his voice rising, "You don't know what it's like here. What they did to me. What I've seen, what I've suffered. And all while you've been feasting and fucking in your silk sheets in the south." His voice shook, hysteria creeping in as his hand reached out, trembling, to grasp Maekar's arm.
"I don't care about what you went through as a criminal that was exiled." Maekar said flatly, his voice as cold as the Wall itself. His eyes met the man's, unblinking. There was no pity, no compassion,— just a cold detachment. "Whatever your story is, it does not concern me."
The man's grip tightened, filthy fingers digging into Maekar's sleeve, staining the fine cloth. "You have no idea... no idea of what I've endured!" he hissed. "I should take your life right now, here and now, end you like the bastard you royals are!"
The man's hand moved toward his belt, fumbling for the hilt of a dagger, his face twisted with rage and madness. But before the dagger could even be drawn, before Ser Gerold Hightower could take a step forward, the sound of steel slicing through air cut through the tense silence.
In one swift motion, Maekar had drawn his sword and struck. The blade gleaming in the cold light, and in an instant, the older man staggered back, blood gushing from a deep wound in his chest. He stumbled, gasping, before crumpling to the ground, his body lifeless.
The courtyard fell into a stunned silence, the black brothers staring, wide-eyed, at the body that lay in a pool of crimson on the frozen dirt. Maekar stood over him, his sword dripping blood, his expression unyielding,— apathetic. The light in his eyes had shifted, something dark and dangerous now simmering just beneath the surface.
The calm, daring prince was no more, his veneer shattered in that brief, dangerous moment. A small flicker of peril had unearthed something deeper within him,— something darker, more primal. The man that remained in the wake of that transformation was a creature of cold purpose, the flickering embers of restraint snuffed out by a cruel and unforgiving resolve. Few had ever seen this side of Maekar, and fewer still would live to tell the tale.
The 'Daring Prince,' with all his titles and laurels, was known to many across the Seven Kingdoms, but beneath that mask lay a figure only whispered about in shadowed halls. Some had spoken of Maekar in quiet, uneasy tones, drawing comparisons to a figure from history,— the Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen. And now, with blood on his blade and ice in his gaze, those whispers felt more like prophecy fulfilled.
"Let it be known!" Maekar's voice rang out, sharp as the edge of his blade, "Any of you outlaws who dare stand in my way will meet the same fate as this fool. I will not hesitate to end your sentences short, of that you lot may be certain."
The black brothers exchanged uneasy glances, some nodding in silent agreement, others simply staring, too shocked to respond. Slowly, the tension in the air began to ease, but only slightly, when Maekar's gaze turning toward the far side of the courtyard where the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch approached.
Gerold Hightower stepped forward, his hand still resting on his sword's hilt, though he didn't draw it. His presence alone was enough of a warning. Oberyn, who had been watching the scene unfold with a mixture of amusement and surprise, now stood a few paces back, a slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He had seen the shift in Maekar, and for the first time, he saw in the Targaryen prince a kindred spirit,— a man who, like Oberyn, wasn't afraid to act when others hesitated.
The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, a broad-shouldered man with a face weathered by years of service, stepped forward, his boots crunching over the frost.
The black brothers fell back at his approach, their murmurs dying away into the cold air.
His eyes, sharp and calculating, met Maekar's with a mix of respect and wariness.
"The man was no better than a wildling." the Lord Commander said, his voice rough, like gravel. "But the Night's Watch has its rules, Prince Maekar. We do not spill blood here, not without reason. While you had cause to defend yourself, it would be wise to remember where you stand, for the rest of your stay. The Wall doesn't care for kings or princes. Here, we all serve the same porpuse."
Maekar wiped the blood from his sword with a cold, deliberate motion, his face unreadable. "Then keep your men in line, Lord Commander." he said, his voice low, mocking and laced with authority. "Or the next one who tries something foolish won't be as lucky as the dead man at my feet."
The Lord Commander's eyes narrowed, but he gave a curt nod. "As you say, my prince." he replied, though the tension between them lingered, a palpable weight in the frigid air.
Maekar turned away, his eyes cold and focused, and with a final glance at the lifeless body in the snow, he strode across the courtyard, Oberyn and Gerold following in his wake. Behind them, the whispers of the black brothers filled the air, carried away by the biting wind.
As they approached the keep, Oberyn's smirk deepened. "You're still someone that I cannot,— for the love of god,— decipher what to expected from, Maekar." he said, his voice low, amusement tinged with something darker. "But I think I like this darker side of you."
Maekar didn't respond, his eyes fixed ahead, but the faintest flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips,— a smile that promised nothing but trouble for the future.
.
.
.
Riverlands - 281 AC / Lyanna Stark (Several days before Prince Maekar arrived at Castle Black):
The Riverlands, on the road to Riverrun, were cloaked in the muted hues of the ending autumn, the world drenched in gold and amber. The setting sun bathed the sprawling landscape in a dying light, casting long shadows that stretched across the road. The crisp, sharp air carried with it the scent of damp leaves, woodsmoke, and the distant promise of rain.
Lyanna Stark felt the weight of it all,— the ancient land, the gathering gloom,— as she guided her horse beside her brother, Brandon. Her breath caught as she inhaled the wild smell of the woods, and for a fleeting moment, she closed her eyes, wishing that the sharp chill in the air could cut through the thoughts that had plagued her since Harrenhal.
Brandon was speaking, his voice a low rumble beneath the clinking of armor and the soft rustle of leather. Lyanna barely heard him, his words like distant thunder,— familiar, constant, but too far away to hold meaning. He had talked endlessly about the Tullys and his upcoming marriage to Lady Catelyn, and while her brother was consumed with honor and duty, Lyanna's thoughts wandered elsewhere,— far from Riverrun, far from duty.
Harrenhal.
The name alone sent a thrill through her, and her hand instinctively clenched tighter around the reins.
Rhaegar.
It had been days since she had seen him, and yet his face remained clear in her mind's eye,— those intense, violet eyes that had pierced through the crowd, the delicate crown of blue roses resting in his hands as he placed them in her lap.
A simple act. A public act.
But it had shaken her to the core. She had felt something wild stir inside her then, something untamed and dangerous, something she had never felt before. And now, days later, that feeling still lingered, gnawing at her like a half-forgotten dream.
"Lyanna!" Brandon's voice broke through her reverie, sharp and impatient.
Lyanna blinked, her attention snapping back to the road before her. Her brother's eyes were on her, narrowed in concern. "Did you hear me?" he asked, his tone laced with irritation. "I said we're making good time. We'll reach Riverrun by nightfall tomorrow, if we press on."
"I heard you." she lied, her voice distant, distracted.
Brandon studied her for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw tightening, but he said nothing more. He turned his gaze back to the road, riding ahead with his retainers, Ser Rodrik Cassel and the handful of Northmen sworn to House Stark. The steady clop of hooves, the muted murmur of conversation among the guards,— all seemed to fade into the background, drowned out by the relentless thoughts swirling inside her head.
When she was certain her brother's attention had moved elsewhere, Lyanna slowed her horse, letting the others ride ahead. She needed space,— needed time to think, to breathe. The trees grew denser as they moved farther into the heart of the Riverlands, the undergrowth thick and wild, the road narrowing as it twisted through the woods.
Her mind was a tangle of emotions, conflicted between duty and desire.
The thought of returning to Winterfell weighed on her like a leaden chain. Robert Baratheon, her betrothed, and her father... were all waiting for her.
Robert was a man full of fire and fury, whose love was loud and boisterous, whose affection felt like possession.
But he does not know her.
Not truly.
Robert saw her onlu as something to be won, a prize to be cherished for her beauty and wildness, but he did not understand the heart that beat beneath the surface. He would cage her, make her his in every way, and Lyanna feared she would suffocate beneath the weight of his 'love'.
She dismounted near a small stream, the sound of trickling water soothing her frayed nerves. Kneeling by the bank, she dipped her hands into the cool water, letting it slip through her fingers, as if the current could wash away the doubts and fears swirling in her heart. The trees overhead rustled softly in the breeze, their branches swaying gently like the fingers of ancient giants.
But as the minutes passed, a strange unease settled over her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, her senses sharpening. She was no longer alone.
A twig snapped behind her, a sound so slight it might have gone unnoticed, but not to her. Her breath caught in her throat, and she rose swiftly, her hand flying to the dagger at her belt. Her heart pounded, and her pulse quickened as she scanned the shadows among the trees.
"Who's there?" she called, her voice firm despite the tremor that ran through her.
For a moment, there was nothing,— just the whisper of the wind and the quiet murmur of the stream. And then, from the gloom of the woods, a figure emerged.
Silver hair gleaming like moonlight.
Rhaegar Targaryen.
He sat astride a midnight-black stallion, his face impassive, though his violet eyes seemed to hold an ocean's worth of secrets and sorrows. Behind him rode two others,— Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and Ser Oswell Whent. Both knights regarding her with a quiet vigilance, though it was Rhaegar's presence that held her transfixed.
Her breath caught in her throat. This was a dream. It had to be.
But the cold wind biting at her skin told her otherwise. It was real. Rhaegar was here, in the flesh, before her.
And yet, seeing him in the dim light of the fading sun, his face etched with an unreadable expression, it felt like a trap.
"Lyanna." Rhaegar's voice broke the silence, soft and gentle, yet carrying the weight of command. "I have finally found you."
Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger. "My prince..." she replied, her tone cold, guarded. "Why are you here?"
Rhaegar dismounted, his movements as fluid as water. Though he wore no armor, there was a heaviness about him, as if the very air around him was denser. "I came to see you, of course." he said simply.
Lyanna's heart thudded in her chest. She took a step back, her mind racing. "You shouldn't have." she said sharply, her voice rising. "My brother,—"
"Your brother does not know I am here yet." Rhaegar interrupted, his gaze steady, unblinking. "Nor will he, unless you wish him to."
A chill ran down her spine, not from the cold, but from the certainty in his voice. This was no chance meeting. He had followed her,— hunted her, even.
"Why?" she demanded, her anger barely contained. "Why would you follow me?"
Rhaegar's face softened, his eyes filled with a sadness that struck her like a blow.
"Because I cannot stop thinking of you..." he said, his voice quiet but insistent,— althought he knew it to be a lie. "Since Harrenhal… I have not been able to push you from my mind. I believe you feel it too."
Lyanna's breath caught in her throat. She had felt it,— the pull, the unspoken bond that had tied them together since the tourney. But to hear him say it aloud, to give voice to the thing that had been gnawing at her,— it was too much. She wanted to scream, to run, to deny it all. But her feet remained planted, her heart warring with her mind.
"This is madness..." she hissed, her voice trembling. "You have no right to follow me, to speak of such things. I am betrothed to Robert Baratheon."
"And do you love him?" Rhaegar asked softly, stepping closer. His presence was intoxicating, overwhelming.
Lyanna opened her mouth to answer, but the words would not come.
"Do you love him?" Rhaegar asked again, his voice so gentle, so patient.
"I… I don't know!" she admitted, her voice breaking. "But I am promised to him. I cannot…"
"You are not meant for him." Rhaegar said, stepping closer still. "You are meant for something greater. There is a prophecy,— "
"A prophecy?" Lyanna scoffed, her anger flaring. "Is that what this is about? You and your damned prophecies? You think you can take me because some ancient words said so?"
"It is more than words, Lyanna." Rhaegar said, his gaze piercing. "You and I are part of something greater, something that transcends this world. You are the key."
"The key to what?" she spat, though her heart was pounding in her chest.
Rhaegar's voice lowered, as if he were sharing a secret meant only for her. "The song of ice and fire."
Lyanna blinked at Rhaegar's words, the 'song of ice and fire' echoing through her mind like the refrain of a long-forgotten tune.
The phrase hung between them, weighty and heavy with meaning she could not yet grasp.
"Songs..." Lyanna muttered, her voice dripping with disbelief. "You think you can twist my life into one of your prophecies? Some… song or whatever that means?" Her heart raced, her voice cold and edged with the sharp steel of defiance. "I am not a piece of your prophecy, Rhaegar. I will not be sung of in your verses, remembered in tales like some damsel locked in a tower."
Her words hung in the air, defiant and fiery, but Rhaegar did not retreat. His eyes, those same violet eyes that had pierced her soul at Harrenhal, held fast to hers. "This is no tale, Lyanna." he said softly. "This is real. You are real. The prophecies are not songs to entertain courtiers or scribes. They are warnings... guides to navigate the storm that is coming."
The cold wind howled through the trees, as if to punctuate his words. Lyanna's heart thudded in her chest, her blood a strange mix of anger and something else,— something wild, something dangerous.
"What storm?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Rhaegar's gaze darkened, his face shadowed by the creeping dusk. "There is a darkness rising, something far greater than the wars of men or the ambitions of kings. It stirs beyond the Wall, in the land of endless night." His voice grew lower, more urgent. "I've seen it in my dreams. The Long Night… it will return, and the world will fall to shadow if we do nothing."
The weight of his words sent a shiver down Lyanna's spine, though whether it was from the cold or from the terror in his voice, she could not say. She had heard tales of the Long Night, of the ancient winter when the dead walked and the living fell. But those were old stories, half-remembered legends meant to frighten children. This, though,— this felt like something else.
"And what does this have to do with me?" she demanded, her voice trembling with both fear and frustration. "What can I do against something like that?"
"You can help me stop it." Rhaegar said, stepping closer, his breath visible in the cool air. "You are the key to the prophecy,— the song of ice and fire. Together, we can change the fate of the world. But I cannot do it alone. I need you, Lyanna."
Lyanna shook her head, her mind reeling. It was too much,— this prophecy, this destiny he was laying at her feet. She had never asked for this, never wanted to be caught up in the webs of kings and princes, in the machinations of fate. And yet, here he stood before her, offering her something she had always yearned for, even if she had never truly named it,— freedom.
Freedom from Robert, freedom from Winterfell, freedom from the life I have been shackled to.
The realization settled like a stone in her chest.
She took a step back, her hand trembling slightly as it hovered over the hilt of her dagger, her last defense against the storm brewing before her. "You speak of prophecy and destiny as if they are set in stone." she said, her voice firm despite the chaos in her mind. "But I have my own life, my own choices. I won't let you or your dreams take that away from me."
Rhaegar's expression softened, but the intensity in his eyes never wavered. "I am not here to take anything from you, Lyanna." he said quietly. "I am here to offer you a choice,— a chance to be free from the path others have laid before you. You are not meant to be Robert Baratheon's wife, nor are you meant to spend your life trapped in Storm's End's shadow. You are meant for something more, something greater."
His words struck deep, like the pull of a current she could no longer fight. But with them came the memory of another,— a shadow that loomed larger than even the prophecy.
"Maekar." She mentioned without wishing for it to happen, her throat tightened at the thought of him.
She had heard the stories, the whispers of his ruthlessness, his ambition, the darkness in his heart that made him both feared and revered. He was not like Rhaegar, with his songs and prophecies. Maekar was a man of action, a man who carved his place in the world with fire and blood, and if he found out what was happening here,— if he found out she had been taken, or worse, had gone willingly,—
"He'll come for me." she whispered, her voice trembling as her fear took hold. "He'll come for both of us."
Rhaegar's jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm, steady. "Maekar should be far beyond the Wall by now." he said, as though that could ease her fears. "He is chasing legends, looking for Darksister. He will not know what has happened until it is too late."
"But when he does find out?" Lyanna pressed, her heart pounding in her chest. "When he learns what you've done, what I've done… you know him better than me. He won't stop until he,—"
"Maekar is my brother." Rhaegar interrupted, his tone growing sharper, more forceful. "And he is a Targaryen. He will understand, in time. But even if he does not, I will not let him harm you. You have my word."
Lyanna shook her head, her thoughts spinning out of control. It was too much,— Robert, Maekar, her family, her duty, this prophecy. She wanted to scream, to run, to make it all go away. But as she stood there, trapped between the life she had known and the one Rhaegar was offering, she realized that there was no escaping it. Not truly.
Rhaegar remained silent for a moment, his violet eyes unreadable, before finally speaking again, his voice soft but firm. "I know that you are afraid..." he said. "But I also know that you do not want the life that has been forced upon you. You are meant for more, Lyanna. You are meant to change the world."
Lyanna's hand tightened around her dagger, her knuckles white. She could feel the weight of his words, the temptation of his offer. It would be so easy to say yes, to leave it all behind and follow him into the unknown. But at what cost?
Her thoughts swirled, her heart torn between duty and desire, fear and hope. She thought of Robert, of the life waiting for her in Storm's End, of the cage that had been built around her before she had even been born. But then she thought of Maekar,— of his dark purple eyes, his dangerous smile, and the whispers of what he had done to those who had crossed him. If he ever found out…
"I can't..." she whispered, the words slipping from her lips before she could stop them. "I can't do this."
Rhaegar's face fell, but he did not reach for her. He simply stood there, watching her with a sorrow that made her chest ache. "Very well." he said softly, though the pain in his voice was clear. "I will not force you."
For a moment, the two stood in silence, the only sound the rustling of the wind through the trees. Lyanna's hand slowly loosened its grip on her dagger, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the weight of her decision settled on her shoulders. She had chosen.
She would continue to Riverrun with her brother, just so she could later be given onto the hands of a man she did love, a life she had always known she dreaded.
But as she turned to mount her horse, something stopped her.
A voice,— soft, almost imperceptible, deep within her mind. A voice that whispered of freedom, of escape, of a life unburdened by duty or expectation. It called to her, pulling her back toward Rhaegar, toward the unknown.
Her heart raced as she mounted her horse, her hands trembling on the reins. She glanced back at Rhaegar, his figure silhouetted against the darkening sky, and for a moment, she saw not a prince, but a man,— lost, searching, just like her.
Without another word, she spurred her horse forward, away from Brandon, away from Riverrun, and toward the choice she had made.
.
.
.
At the Same Moment, with Brandon Stark:
Brandon Stark felt the unease gnawing at his gut as he rode through the forest, the wind whipping at his face, his mind racing with worry. Too long, he thought. She's been gone too long.
He had noticed Lyanna's absence after some time, but had dismissed it at first. His sister was wild, untamed, always wandering off when it suited her. But now, as the minutes stretched into an hour, his unease grew. He had to find her.
"She'll be fine, my lord." Ser Rodrik Cassel said beside him, his tone steady though his expression gave away his own unease. "Lady Lyanna is a strong woman. She's a Stark of Winterfell, after all."
Brandon grunted in response, though the reassurance did little to settle the knot tightening in his gut. "Stubborn, more like." he muttered under his breath, urging his horse faster along the narrow forest path.
His eyes scanned the treeline, searching for any sign of his sister. The shadows between the trees seemed to stretch longer with each passing moment, and the pale light of the setting sun barely penetrated the thick canopy above.
"Too long..." he thought again, the words hammering in his head like the hooves of his horse pounding the earth. "I should never have let her out of my sight."
The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and damp pine, but there was something else in the air,— something felt wrong. He could feel it in his bones, that strange tension that had clung to the back of his mind ever since they had left Harrenhal.
He pulled his horse to a sudden stop, his eyes narrowing as he strained to listen to the forest around him. The other riders followed suit, Ser Rodrik moving up beside him, his brow furrowed in concern.
"My lord?" Rodrik asked, his voice low.
Brandon held up a hand, silencing him. He heard it then,— the distant echo of hooves, faint but growing louder with each second. His heart clenched.
"That can't be…" he whispered, his breath catching in his throat.
And then he saw them.
Far ahead, emerging from the trees, were two riders. One of them,— Lyanna.
Relief surged through Brandon's chest, his pulse quickening. But that relief was short-lived, for riding beside her, his silver hair gleaming even in the fading light, was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
Brandon's blood turned to ice.
He knew, even before his mind could fully comprehend the sight, that something terrible had happened. His sister, his wild, untamable sister, was riding beside the very man who had crowned her with blue roses at Harrenhal, the man who had dared to challenge everything with that single gesture.
Rage boiled up from within him, fierce and uncontainable. His hands clenched the reins so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and his horse sensed his fury, pawing at the ground beneath it.
"Lyanna!" he roared, spurring his horse forward, his voice a thunderous crack in the stillness of the forest.
The wind whipped at his face as he charged toward them, his heart pounding in his ears.
The world narrowed to that one moment, that one terrible realization,— Rhaegar had taken her. The crown prince, with all his power and prophecy, had dared to steal his sister, as if she were his to claim.
"Lyanna!" Brandon called again, his voice raw with desperation and fury.
But Lyanna did not turn. She did not stop.
Instead, she rode on, her dark hair streaming behind her, and as Brandon's gaze locked with Rhaegar's, he felt the rage inside him surge to unbearable heights. The prince's face was calm, unreadable, but there was something in his violet eyes,— something that enraged Brandon even further. It was as though Rhaegar knew what was coming, had expected this, and accepted it.
Rhaegar's gaze didn't waver, meeting Brandon's with a cool intensity, and in that moment, Brandon saw the truth.
He had taken her.
Rhaegar Targaryen had taken his sister.
And the world would burn for it, surely.
Brandon kicked his horse into a furious gallop, his mind consumed by the blinding need to reach her, to tear her away from the crown prince. His heart thundered in his chest, his fists trembling as his rage spiraled into something dark, something he could barely control.
"Not her..." he thought, the words like a mantra in his mind. "Not my sister. Not Lyanna."
The distance between them closed with every breath, and Brandon's blood burned hotter with each pounding hoofbeat.
Rhaegar would pay,— he would make sure of it.
But as he drew closer, Lyanna's figure began to blur, fading into the forest shadows, and for the briefest of moments, Brandon felt something crack within him,— a deep, shattering sense of loss, of helplessness.
He was too late.
She was gone.
. . .
. .
.
Thoughts on this chapter? I am feeling somewhat strange about this whole last scene, I don't know why though.
Anyways, I crave interactions people, so please comment on the chapter!