ironfeather (ironfeather) wrote in usurper, @ 2011-12-27 00:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! house stark, ! house targaryen, lyanna stark, rhaegar targaryen |
rhaegar & lyanna
who: rhaegar targaryen, lyanna stark
where: the kingswood
when: skipping a bit ahead of current times!
what: a totally unexpected meeting & a farewell
The journey to Dragonstone -- for Aerys required of Rhaegar an inspection of the Stormlands and the taxes paid to the Iron Throne from the petty lords -- had been one filled with little interest. In the company of Selmy and Connington, he made his way up the road and for such a light retinue, encountered no trouble and little in the way of folk, though the false spring made the way pleasant and the air almost balmy with warmth. Humidity threatened to coat the expanse of rocky plain; a heat that Rhaegar could not help but compare to the moistureless climate of Dorne, for there were none with him. Arthur, who had been ordered to stay behind with Elia, as well as his wife herself, too delicate to travel --
All the better for he had little reason to expect the journey of her other than his own solitude. But Connington kept up a lively banter that even Selmy broke in upon from time to time. That is, until they filed around him to see a cloud of dust kick up on the horizon. Two hooded figures; cloaked and riding at a clipped pace, came upon them quick and left with the same haste. When they passed, Rhaegar rode ahead of his fellows and motioned toward the standard bearer who flew the three headed dragon behind them.
“It was the dragon that scared them.” And then, as he pulled to a stop. “I am in need of a brief rest.”
Frog men need sharp eyes. That was how Benjen had put it, and Howland Reed had silently nodded agreement. Now he had proven the youngest Stark right, the sharpness of his gaze drawn to the fluttering scarlet and black of House Targaryen before Lyanna even realized her companion’s demeanour was changed entirely, loose readiness slung into taut attention, as though the small youth she’d broken noses for were less frog, more bloodhound.
“Dragons,” he simply said, the word -- in combination with the proximity of King’s Landing as they wound their way down the realm and into the Stormlands -- causing Lyanna to tuck her slim volume detailing the array of southron birds a keen eye could spot (her brothers, one and all, would likely berate her for reading on the road) into a saddle pack before pulling the hood of her (blessedly) thin cloak up to obscure her head.
But for all of the thinness of her cloak and the breeze that touched her cheeks as they sped past the party, a cold sweat touched her, and she pulled one hand from the reins even as they cantered a safe distance down the road to draw the edge of the Arbor wine-red scarf -- wrapped, in the style of the iron born, around her head to keep the sun from her scalp -- across her damp brow. Please let them not have seen, not have wondered, not have cared. Please let them not be him.
Finally, as they came to halt -- “I think we should sleep in the woods tonight, Howland.”
… sometime later, as evening began to set upon their camp, Rhaegar plied both Connington and Selmy with enough wine to insist upon reaching Dragonstone upon the next day. As his companions chatted and he alternated between a few thoughtful notes on the harp and a half-finished raven to Elia, he stood and dropped his hand upon Connington’s shoulder. Back soon, he seemed to say, filtering into the woods with his arms loose and his head clearing as the scent of meat and wine and smoke left him behind.
The deep woods; fir trees whose streamers of moss from the salt tinged air gave the sky a sense of strange foreboding. This is my land. The Targaryens, before taking King’s Landing, had their base on Dragonstone. And as the wood was so terribly similar to Summerhall -- to the place he returned to time and again -- he understood why. This forest seemed alive; able to sense him in a way that even the malevolent presence of the weirwood tree would not. Because, in its living, it wanted to love him.
Insisting that Howland take the second shift of the night, Lyanna settled in once they’d had their supper of cured meat and the dark bread that filled the belly with a satisfying ache. The boy was too quick for his own good, but even a Reed needed rest, and the soft sighs of ever deepening sleep kept her warm with amusement. The hours lengthened -- she assumed the stars were out, gleaming pure and white in this southron sky, but with the forest’s dense cover, she could not be sure -- and her eyes would have grown heavy if not for the disquiet that remained knotted in her chest.
She was too awake when the placid mare that Howland rode made a sound as though frightened by something. Wild dogs or wild forest men. Taking her torch, she stepped away from the fireside and made her careful way to where their horses had been hobbled for the night.
-- a sound that also put Rhaegar ill at-ease. With a hand tight around the hilt of his sword, he peered from behind the protective arms of a fir and beheld the sight spread out before him. One figure nearest to him tried to quiet the animals while another, sleeping at the fire, seemed simply adverse to knowing the world at all. A shallow breath (This is my land.) -- “Who goes there?”
Instantly: a hiss of air as Lyanna turned, brandishing her torch as she would a sword. “My question exactly to the one trespassing on my camp.” The light of the torch was enough, just enough, to push the darkness back by a foot, and she could see that this trespasser was tall, a tall, wild forest man, and as she raised it higher, she could see the treacherous lack of color in his hair.
“ -- you.” Lyanna’s presence was met by a quick step back from her torch (back into the protectively anonymous shadows of the encircling firs) as he pulled the hood from his head to let moonlight pick him out in silver and black leather. A brief bow and, with great formality, he spoke at last.
“My pardon, Lady Stark. My camp is also in these woods; we make for Dragonstone. Good evening.”
It was interesting, came the detached thought, that the one name she wished to keep for the rest of her days made heat crawl across her skin when it was uttered by him. “Highness,” she managed to voice, a bob of her head and a tip of the torch the only bow (girls in riding breeches did not curtsy) she was capable of. “-- these are your woods. I suppose you’re entitled to camp where you please.”
There was no ability to compartmentalize this meeting. Her presence was the kick to his gut that he both loathed and longed for; she represented vitality, independence. And a short-coming alliance between Houses Baratheon and Stark. His eyes grew wide and cold, attempting to place some impartial distance between them.
He ignored her statement about his woods. An arch of his brow. I know where you go. “You shall reach Storm’s End by mid-morning.”
There was little point in feigning ignorance -- or feigning anything -- for there was no other reason for her to be so far south. “If my horse does not cast a shoe,” was confirmation of his assessment. “Which I hope he doesn’t, for it has been a long ride and I am eager to be welcomed by the Baratheons.” Whether she deliberately named the lords of Storm’s End with an audibly pointed note, she did not know -- Lyanna knew only that that unease in her chest was now in the mounting pace of her heart.
After a breath -- “At any rate, I’ll reach it before you get to Dragonstone.”
Was that a threat in the tenor of her voice? The thin veil of impassivity was breached by a flattened brow as his arms folded over his chest. “Yes, my lady. I suppose you shall. And may I offer my congratulations to you upon your feat of daring? You ride light and swift with but one companion. I have more than twice your number.”
Too often, Lyanna spoke without considering the value of her words. This, she would come to realize, was one of those times. “You ride with two,” she said, echoing Rhaegar’s tone, staunch in her decision not to let him, or his words, leave her cowed.
This was not the man who sought to know the Knight of the Laughing Tree; to give name to such nobility and understand the motivations from which they derived. No. I am the husband who nearly lost his wife. “Fully armoured and weaponed to the teeth with,” his smile was brief if not cutting, “a squire acting as standard bearer. Perhaps you did not see him in your flight.”
That smile was illuminated and made garish by the flickering of the torch’s flame as it cast its warm light on the prince’s face. Lyanna did not look away; her fingers tightened on the wood. “Squires. I’m sure all squires are very frightening when they brandish the big sticks they bear.” After a breath: “Either way. Safe travels.”
“Just as frightening as mystery knights who think it unwise to reveal their true identities at tourney’s end, I suppose,” was the sharp response that was thrown over his shoulder as he turned upon his heel to stalk back into the forest. Stopping was a mistake. Perhaps if Selmy and Connington were roused, they would ride on to Dragonstone with him and reach the fortress by first light.
The words stung; her pride smarted at his response. “To avoid trial by fire, what would you have done,” was half a mutter thrown at the breadth of his back. “Revealing myself to you and giving you my shield was unwise.”
“I would have taken the fire, my Lady.” He turned back to her, his steps still taking him deeper within the forest, away from the muted light of her torch. “It was very unwise,” was his agreement. The greatest mistake which nearly cost me the only thing in this world I love.
The darkness was impenetrable in this forest, and she was forced a step forward just to keep him in the spill of her light. “Unlike some, I have no great love of fire. But if you regret your decision, Prince Rhaegar, you may try to haul me back to face the King’s justice.”
“Is that really what you think of me?” came out before he had a chance to trap it behind a clenched jaw. Perhaps, he supposed, she did. And perhaps she had every right to expect the worst of a Targaryen. The whole realm did. “I risked war with Dorne -- I risked losing my own wife -- to honour you without having to name you, Lyanna Stark. Don’t presume to know of my regrets.”
“You didn’t have to do anything but keep silent,” she replied, voice low and urgent, barely a beat between his words and hers. “You honoured me well enough that night you found me out, that night in the field when you were perf--” A clench of her own jaw as she fell silent.
The missing syllable fell upon him like the stroke of a hammer upon his chest. And logic warred with the desire to know this creature as he stepped forward until the glow from her torch was a warmth upon his face. He drew an inward breath. “But I am not. Neither are you.”
“So I’ve learned.” The bitterest lesson. It took effort not to shrink away, not to tangle her hand amidst the needles of the fir for some semblance of anchorage. “A hard lesson.”
“ -- indeed you are right,” was low, almost beneath the shushing music of their feet upon the pine needles as his head shook slowly from side to side. Now, if he reached out, he could circle her slender waist with the breadth of his arm. No. “We could have been great friends, Lyanna.”
She nodded, the knot of her scarf drawing softly against the skin of her nape. “Even solemn princes must have a lighter side. I could have been friends with the man who found me out and thought it all amusing. It was a good hour, was it not?”
“He was the same who thought to honour you with roses --” and here, the beat of his fingertip against the fringe of her headscarf (a strangely gentle crooked smile), bobbed once in the air before settling again at his side. “It was.” Then, quietly -- “He is here.”
The single, brief point of contact made Lyanna glad of the cover of darkness. She took in a breath, exhaling slowly, and lowered the torch by an incremental degree. With a faint smile -- “Friend. Well met. Did you know that blue was always my favourite colour?”
Her smile grew strong before it faltered and she, with a toss of her hair, squared her shoulders. “You’ll be missed and so will I, soon.”
“The blue frost of a grassy field in the morning --” But Rhaegar grinned, for he only spoke of what he believed to be true. Never a snowfall, never a frost. A beat to place his hand upon her shoulder, to let his fingertips take a firm hold. Her latter comment held no weight with him. Selmy and Connington would sleep on. “I wish I knew but I did not.”
The weight of his hand was unexpected, made her jump as though she were a skittish and gangly young horse. Her resolve to hate him had long since been dashed -- if it had ever been there at all -- but her determination not to experience the thrills of delight his attention gave her stood on legs as unsteady as hers now suddenly were. It was easy, frighteningly easy, to let her commitments and his slide from her mind; easier by far to let his grin coax hers back across her lips.
"A poet. I forgot."
“How easily we forget,” he replied, all of the effusive warmth in his voice spreading to draw his smile out crookedly before he let an awkward note of silence pass between them.
The draw to this girl -- the natural grace of an active life and everything he should have been -- was also the chasm he saw her standing upon. A marriage to House Baratheon was to her freedom as the life of the mind was to his princedom. Soon, Lyanna would become Lady Baratheon. Lyanna would become a non-entity except for those precious few moments in which Robert would see her guileless and without the eyes of their household upon her.
As the silence held for an extended moment, Lyanna became overly, overtly conscious of the degree of their proximity. The shoulder held in his grip was given a single, cautious lift, her hand sitting lightly upon his as though to push it away. “Not easily enough,” she said, and her words were not in reference to his poetry.
Sensitive enough to the unspoken request, Rhaegar’s head bowed as he removed his hand from her shoulder and took a step back, hooking a thumb through the belt that affixed his sword to his waist. “I should see you back to your campsite.” A pause, then, as he threw his gaze through veiled lashes to smile again. “Are you sure you’re going to Storm’s End, Lyanna? Or is it by way of Pyke?”
Freedom from his grip did not come accompanied by a step backwards of her own, merely another shrug, fuller this time, given as he spoke. Mention of Pyke brought a quizzical furrow of her brow before she realized what he meant; her fingers ghosted across the edge of her scarf. “I’d have to develop sturdier sea legs first, highness. Perhaps they’ll give me a rowboat at Storm’s End so that I may practice reaving along the coast.” After a beat -- “I can go back myself. Howland is a light sleeper; he’ll hear you.”
“I hope they’ll give you everything you want.” And that, seemingly all he could give her, was meted out by a mechanical bow. For all their talk of friendship, he understood all too well that this was an ending and, when it was over, so too would be their fledgling understanding of one another. “It isn’t too far, I think. I will wait until I can no longer see your torch.”
Impulse, then, quickening beneath her skin as she too realized that this was both the summit and conclusion of their friendship. “Thank you,” was in response to his latter words, barely past her lips as she stepped forward, drawing herself up on her toes to place a softly glancing kiss on his cheek. “Farewell.”
“ -- be well,” was said softly, his hands coming up to briefly hold her shoulders in place so that he could pin her with his gaze. As his cheek tingled with the memory of such an intimate gesture, he knew he had to give one in kind. Be well. And so his lips brushed light and chaste against hers before he dropped his grip altogether.
“Good night.”
There was a finality to his kiss, and as she, once released from his hold, took a step back, something approximating regret flicked across her face. This was an ending, one drawn on sweeter terms than she could have hoped for, but -- Good night, prince, and may the rest of your life be kind to you and yours.
After a slowly drawn half-bow, she turned back to the campsite where Howland slept, her feet soft on the ground as they took her away from Rhaegar, her torch guttering out too quickly.