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He finds her in the godswood. It isn’t much of one, really; the heart tree isn’t even a real heart tree. But it’s the closest she’ll get, here in King’s Landing.
He clears his throat, keeping a respectful distance until she turns to look at him.
“Is it time?”
He nods. “It is, my lady.”
She gathers her skirts and rises. In the Northern tradition, she wears a gown of white silk, a silver cloak embroidered with a direwolf over her shoulders. In a short time, that cloak will be replaced with one of black and gold, the direwolf supplanted by a stag.
Robert Baratheon had won a war to get back the woman he loved. He’d fought and killed the last of the Targaryens, and when he’d been named king, his dearest friend had gone south to retrieve the woman for whom this rebellion had been fought. Neither Ned nor Lyanna Stark would speak of the horrors she had endured in Rhaegar’s keeping, but the haunted look on her face was plain to see.
She looks better now. Still pale and gaunt, but better. Less a prisoner and more a queen.
Lyanna walks beside him in silence, but as they reach the edge of the godswood, she pauses, turning to look at him.
“Why did you kill the king?”
He doesn’t expect it of her, such a blunt question. His father had asked, of course, as had a few others, but most assumed he was carrying out his filial duty, killing his father’s enemy, killing the enemy of the new king. Jaime hadn’t bothered to correct them. But Lyanna looking at him now, wide-eyed and curious, not narrow-eyed and accusing…
“He wanted to destroy the city,” he finds himself saying. “He had caches of wildfire hidden underneath the city. He kept saying, ‘Burn them. Burn them all.’”
Lyanna doesn’t look surprised. “Rhaegar said he was mad.”
That makes Jaime start. Lyanna hasn’t spoken of Rhaegar once since she was brought back from Dorne. There had been rumors, of course, but Robert hadn’t wanted to hear about the late prince, so no one had said anything about him. This is the first time Jaime’s heard Rhaegar’s name uttered louder than a whisper.
“He killed my father and my brother,” she says softly. “He sent for my other brother to have him killed. Rhaegar thinks he would have killed me, too.”
Jaime doesn’t know what to say to that.
“Perhaps I would be better off dead,” she whispers. And then she strides away, towards the flock of attendants waiting to escort her to the sept. Jaime can only gape after her.
.
The whole realm celebrates the marriage between Robert Baratheon and Lyanna Stark. A woman for whom he had fought and killed is his at last, a love story like those found only in the songs.
That’s what everyone thinks, anyway.
The king and queen have only been married a few weeks when Robert decides to go out for the night. Jaime does not question where they are going, not until Robert draws up in front of a brothel.
“Your Grace…” Jaime tries to say, but Robert waves a meaty hand.
“None of that here, Lannister. And not a word to the queen.”
Robert would be far from the first married man to patronize a brothel, and he wouldn’t be the last. He wouldn’t be the first king to do it, either.
Nevertheless, a sick feeling settles in Jaime’s belly. The whole time he stands outside Robert’s door, listening to the king fuck three women at once, all he can think of is how sad Lyanna had looked in the godswood that day.
Perhaps I would be better off dead.
.
It takes hardly any time at all for Lyanna’s belly to quicken with child. The pregnancy is hard on her, and Maester Pycelle recommends frequent bedrest. It is for this reason that she does not attend the wedding between Stannis Baratheon and Cersei Lannister.
Jaime has hardly talked to his sweet sister since the rebellion ended. She’d remained safely ensconced in Casterly Rock during the fighting, and has only come to court once since then.
He waits until the black of night to steal into her room, where their passion for each other is tempered only by the need to be quiet lest anyone should hear.
After, when they lie on her bed, naked and slick with sweat, he asks, “Do you like Stannis?”
“Does anyone?” she quips. “He’s a bitter little man.”
“You’d think he’d be less bitter as Lord of Dragonstone and husband to Cersei Lannister.”
“I don’t believe he wants to be a husband to any woman.”
“You think he prefers the company of men?”
“I don’t think he likes the company of anyone ,” she corrects. “Lannister or not. Besides, you know it wasn’t him who chose this marriage. Father insisted on it. Should Robert and his precious Lyanna not have a male heir, my husband will become king.”
“Is that what you want?”
She looks at him as if it should be obvious. “Of course. Who doesn’t want to be the wife of the king?”
Perhaps I would be better off dead.
.
On the morning of Cersei’s wedding, she steals into Jaime’s bed and fucks him for what he thinks may be the last time. In a few hours, she’ll belong to Stannis Baratheon, a man who seldom comes to court; even if he does, it won’t be easy for Jaime and Cersei to continue seeing each other.
“I don’t want you to marry him,” he finds himself saying.
Cersei laughs, tossing her golden head. “And what are you going to do about it?”
“Kill him. Run away with you.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Cersei climbs out of bed, shrugging into a silk robe. “What would we do? Where would we go?”
“Anything. Anywhere. Does it matter, as long as we’re together?”
The look she gives him is almost pitying. “Oh, Jaime. You’ve killed men, but you’re still a child, aren’t you?”
It angers him, which he thinks may have been her intent anyway. He leaves her to prepare for her wedding to a man she doesn’t love and who will never love her as he does.
.
The wedding is perfect. Jaime expected nothing less; his sister, being who she is, has planned out every immaculate detail.
The only thing on which she hadn’t planned was Robert.
The king takes Delena Florent up to the bridal chamber and lies with her during the wedding feast. Jaime doesn’t know who is more furious--Cersei or Stannis. Both take it as a grave insult, and were he not the king, Jaime thinks Cersei might actually kill Robert.
Jaime finds it amusing, as do most of the attendees. They’re all still laughing about it when they return to King’s Landing, none of them jesting and japing about it more than Robert himself.
The smiles die when they reach the Red Keep’s yard and find the queen waiting outside, a tired smile on her face.
“You should be resting,” Robert can be heard to say when he swings off his horse.
“I wanted to welcome you home. How was the wedding?”
“Fine,” Robert says gruffly, steering her inside.
.
It only takes a few days for Lyanna to learn what Robert got up to at Stannis’s wedding. The shouts can be heard out in the hall, where Jaime is standing guard. He hears them both shouting at each other, hears things being thrown and broken, but he isn’t sure if he should step in or not.
Aren’t we supposed to protect the queen?
Yes, but not from him.
Lyanna storms out of the room, and at a nod from Ser Barristan, Jaime follows her, politely pretending he can’t hear her angry, labored breathing. She goes out to the godswood, pacing up and down in a fury.
“Your Grace,” Jaime says softly. “Perhaps...this anger is not good for the child…”
“The child is fine,” she snaps, but she does stop her pacing, forcing harsh breaths in and out.
He keeps his eyes lowered. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
“Sorry. What have you to be sorry about?” She closes her eyes, and in a softer tone, says, “I’m sorry. I know you have a...duty.” She sits on a bench, rubbing her swollen belly. She looks tired. Defeated. “I’ve known who my husband is for a long time. Ned told me about his bastard in the Vale. They say he was in a brothel when Jon Connington attacked Stoney Sept. He fought for love of me, but he couldn’t keep his cock to himself.”
Jaime winces. She has the truth of it, but should he say that?
Lyanna bursts suddenly into tears. This terrifies him, as he isn’t sure how to comfort her, or if he should at all.
Yes, but not from him.
Against his better judgment, he does ease onto the bench beside her, patting her awkwardly on the back. To his surprise and horror, she buries her face in his shoulder, her tears dampening his white cloak.
“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“I can think of a few reasons,” he says wryly.
Lyanna lets out a wet laugh, pulling back to wipe her tears. “I’m sorry, Ser Jaime. I’m not normally...like this.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he assures her.
She looks up at him with liquid eyes. “I feel...so lonely here. Robert is my husband, and yet I do not love him...and I do not think he loves me. Not really. He thinks he does, but...how could he, really?”
Jaime doesn’t know what to say to that.
Lyanna gives him a sad smile. “Help me up, Ser Jaime.”
He does, lifting her easily to her feet.
“Please don’t tell my husband about this.”
Jaime bows his head. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Lyanna smiles.
.
On a sweltering summer day, Lyanna goes into labor. Robert goes hunting in the kingswood, unable to bear her screams of agony.
Jaime, stationed outside, can hardly stand them either. He grits his teeth, imploring the gods to deliver her and the child safely from this tribulation.
It surprises him, then, when the maester pokes his head out of the room, his face red and shining with sweat.
“Ser Jaime,” he pants. “We have need of you.”
Jaime stares at him. “You have need of me ?”
“The queen needs a strong pair of arms. The child is stubborn, and I fear for its life and hers.”
Jaime can hardly refuse, so he follows the maester inside.
Lyanna is in a nightgown that must have once been white; now, it’s soaked through with sweat and blood. Her black hair sticks to her face as she grips the birthing stool, screaming in exhaustion. The maester and her ladies guide her to her feet.
“Put your arms about her, under the chest,” the maester instructs. Jaime does, his heart pounding. What if he holds her too tightly? What if she dies in his arms?
Lyanna grips his arms with deceptive strength, bracing her feet on the ground.
“Push, my queen!” the maester urges from the floor.
She does, her voice hoarse as she screams again and again. She’s a slight woman, but Jaime finds himself struggling to remain upright. Her fingers are like vices digging into his arm, but he dares not make a sound.
“I can’t do it,” she sobs. “I can’t…”
“You can,” Jaime says fiercely. “You are Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. You can do this.”
“Push!”
She screams so loudly that Jaime is sure she can be heard at the Wall, but it works; a babe’s cries fill the air.
“A son!” the maester declares, and Lyanna collapses against Jaime. He sinks to the floor with her, propping her up against his chest. The maester cuts the cord between mother and child and takes the squalling babe to the basin of water. The rest of her ladies flock around the queen, dabbing her face with cool wet cloths and congratulating her on her healthy son. She makes no sound, but Jaime can feel her heart thundering, can feel her breathing hard. He can feel, too, when the maester places her babe in her arms and her breath catches.
“No one will take you away from me,” she murmurs to the little one. “No one.”
.
When Robert returns from his hunting trip, he presents Lyanna with a pair of wolf pelts, clearly thinking the reference to her house sigil will please her.
It doesn’t. Though she’ll never say it, Jaime knows she’s upset Robert left her to labor on her own.
Not on her own, Jaime thinks. I was with her. I held her when she pushed the baby out of her belly. I held her the first time he was put in her arms.
They name the child Steffon, after Robert’s father. He is every inch a Baratheon, with black hair and blue eyes.
“A perfect little stag,” Robert declares proudly. He celebrates the birth of his son by drinking until he’s pissed and then bedding three serving maids.
“Better them than me,” Lyanna says serenely, smiling at her son. “He’s perfect, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Jaime is forced to agree.
“Would you like to hold him?”
His mouth dries. “Oh...I don’t know, Your Grace…”
“You were such a help to me in my time of need,” she says earnestly. “And you’ll have to protect Steffon now...surely you want to…?”
Jaime doesn’t know what to say, but it doesn’t seem to matter; Lyanna deposits the infant in his arms.
“Support his head,” she instructs.
He does, heart pounding. He’s never held a babe before, not one this small. Even when Tyrion had been a babe, the wetnurse had sat Jaime on her lap and held his arms with hers. Steffon is so tiny . Fragile. Is this really the same squalling creature that had nearly rent his mother in two? Is this the same ruddy-faced child who’d been covered in blood only a few days before?
Emotion wells in Jaime. It embarrasses him, and he eases the child back into Lyanna’s arms. “He’s quite perfect, Your Grace.”
Lyanna smiles down at the babe. “He is, isn’t he? A perfect little wolf.”
A wolf, aye, Jaime thinks. There won’t be much stag to him if Lyanna has anything to say about it.
.
Delena Florent gives birth to a strapping young son. She names him Edric, and because she is a highborn lady, Robert is forced to acknowledge the boy. He is sent to Storm’s End to be raised with Renly, who is little more than a child himself. Delena becomes betrothed to Ser Hosman Norcross, one of her father’s knights and the best she can hope for, having delivered a bastard.
Lyanna’s belly swells with child again, and again she is delivered of a son. They name him Orys, and once again, the bells ring from sunup to sundown.
The birth leaves Lyanna drained. She rests for days, and though she had protested the use of a wet-nurse with Steffon, she feebly submits to the maesters when they insist she use one now.
“She is much weakened,” Jaime can hear them telling Robert. “With all due respect to Your Grace, it would be best to wait some months before sharing the queen’s bed again.”
Robert doesn’t need to be told twice; while Lyanna recovers, he invites a new whore to his bed every night, sometimes two or three at a time.
If Lyanna knows, she doesn’t show it. If anything, Jaime thinks she might be relieved at the excuse to not lie with her husband. All her attention goes towards her sons, and it is the happiest Jaime thinks he’s ever seen her.
“I hope Ned will visit with his sons,” she admits one afternoon when she’s burping Orys. “They should meet their cousins.”
That gives Jaime pause, because all the realm knows that only one of Ned Stark’s two sons is trueborn. “Both his sons?”
A look he can’t quite place crosses Lyanna’s face. “Aye. Both.”
.
She does invite her brother and his sons to visit the capital, but Lord Stark sends back an apology; his lady wife is with child, and he doesn’t want to miss the birth.
How unlike his friend he is; Robert can’t even stand to be in the same city when his wife is giving birth.
The same thought must have occurred to Lyanna, because she says with feigned indifference, “My brother is a good man. A good husband.”
Jaime can’t resist. “Wasn’t his bastard sired after he married Catelyn Tully?”
Something like hurt crosses Lyanna’s face. “There is much you do not know, Ser Jaime. I am fond of you, but there is not a man braver or nobler than my brother. Take care when you speak ill of him.”
That leaves a bitter taste in Jaime’s mouth. He will never forget the way Ned Stark looked at him when he found him on the Iron Throne on that day, the look of contempt that filled his face. He’d thought Jaime little more than a common murderer and had never once tried to understand why a boy of seven and ten had put his sword through his king’s back.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he says now through a stiff jaw, bowing to his queen.
“My brother’s bastard,” she says, stopping him as he turns around. She looks sad, her fingers worrying at the velvet of her skirt. “My brother’s bastard...the circumstances of his birth...they are complicated. I have been sworn to silence, but...please believe me when I say that my brother is a good man.”
Jaime finds that curious indeed. “Was it Ashara Dayne?”
“What?” Lyanna looks up at him, surprised.
“The boy’s mother. Was it Ashara Dayne?”
Lyanna looks at him a long moment, her face unreadable. At last, she looks away. “I can’t say.”
Then yes.
Honorable Ned Stark, bedding the sister of the knight he killed. Had it been before or after he’d killed Ser Arthur? Had he comforted her after giving her her brother’s sword? Or had he bedded her long before that and then taken their child away when he returned the sword? Had she killed herself because the man she’d loved had taken everyone from her?
My brother is a good man.
What, he wonders, does Lyanna know?
.
Catelyn Stark is delivered of a girl. The maester at Winterfell writes to Lyanna to share with her the news. They have named the girl Sansa, and pray there will be other children to follow.
“Poor little Sansa,” Lyanna sighs when she reads the raven’s scroll.
“Why poor little Sansa?” Jaime asks.
“It’s no easy thing, to be a highborn lady. It will only be a few years before her parents start looking for suitors for her, and only a few years after that that she’ll be wed, and then the child will have children of her own.” She looks infinitely sad as she says it. “I hope I don’t have any daughters. I don’t think I could bear to watch them suffer through it all.” She heaves a great sigh. “The maesters have said I’m healthy enough to bear children again.” The rest goes unsaid, but Jaime understands. It means that Robert will be visiting her bed again, and in no time at all, she’ll be with child again and suffer another birth.
“I pray you will bear sons,” Jaime says carefully.
Lyanna gives him a sad smile. “As do I, Ser Jaime.”
.
Just as he predicted, it takes no time at all for Lyanna’s belly to quicken with child. This pregnancy is her hardest yet, and Jaime can tell from the dark looks the maesters exchange that it will take its toll.
When she finally does go into labor, her agonized screams are unbearable. Robert disappears off to the Kingswood again, and Jaime is left standing outside her door, eyes screwed shut as his lips form soundless prayers to the gods. He’s never really believed in them--his father hadn’t, and that had been good enough for Jaime. But now...now he wonders if he ought to believe, if praying to the Mother will keep Lyanna alive.
Please don’t let her die, please let her live, please, please, please, he begs.
The Mother answers his prayers. Lyanna lives, but the child does not. A girl, she was strangled by her own umbilical cord.
A mercy, he thinks, remembering Lyanna’s reluctance to have a daughter.
.
Though Lyanna survives, she spends weeks recovering, and this time the maesters are firm: another birth will absolutely end her life.
“If you must lie with the king, take moon tea,” they urge Lyanna.
“There’s no risk of that,” she assures them. And it’s true; Robert cares not for the company of his wife, not so long as he has whores to fuck.
Indeed, Robert’s love for Lyanna seems to have faded. No longer is the gallant warrior who waged war to bring home the woman he loved, no more is the love story that had the realm swooning. They are simply two people who happen to be married. It would be sad if they didn’t seem so relieved. Robert has her tacit permission to do whatever he wants with whomever he wants, and Lyanna doesn’t have to suffer him between her legs any longer.
When she is well enough, she decides to go north to visit her brother and his family. She hasn’t been back at Winterfell since before Rhaegar abducted her, and now that she’s produced two healthy heirs to the throne, she’s free to do as she likes. She takes the boys with her, as well as half the Kingsguard. Jaime, of course, is among their number.
As they get further and further north, a change comes over Lyanna. Her cheeks fill with color, her eyes sparkle; it’s as if new life has been breathed into her. Once, she even challenges Jaime to a race, and she wins not because he lets her, but because a wildness seems to take over, a youthful exuberance he’s never seen in her before. He had always thought her comely, of course, but seeing her like this, he understands now why Rhaegar seized her, why Robert was so determined to get her back. This Lyanna, this she-wolf of the North, is a true beauty.
.
When they reach Winterfell, it is all the Kingsguard can do to keep up with the queen, so eagerly does she race towards the gate. Cheers go up from the smallfolk, who chase after the queen with cries of, “Lyanna! Queen Lyanna!”
When she reaches the yard, she hands her horse to a groom without looking twice, striding towards her brother. Ned Stark catches her up in his arms, and for a moment, Jaime finds the man almost likable. He truly does love his sister, caring little for decorum as they ruffle each other’s hair and laugh. She greets his lady wife with a little more courtesy, cooing over the babe at Lady Catelyn’s hip. Her sons and little Robb Stark take an instant liking to each other, and as the group moves inside, the boys run off to play. There is another boy with them, a black-haired, grey-eyed child of an age with Robb Stark, and Lyanna watches him with an almost breathless interest. So, this must be Ned Stark’s bastard.
Lady Catelyn follows Lyanna’s gaze with pursed lips, and when Ned Stark puts his hand on her back, she stiffens.
Please believe me when I say my brother is a good man.
.
Jaime rests after the long journey, sleeping through the afternoon and evening in preparation of the night ahead, where he’ll be the sole guard of Queen Lyanna and the princes. Ser Mandon Moore wakes him that night, switching off guard duty. Jaime splashes cold water on his face, shrugging into his armor and white cloak before finding the queen.
She’s in the nursery, where her boys have had beds set up with Robb, Sansa, and Jon Snow. The other children are all asleep, but Jon sits on Lyanna’s lap, looking up at her with wide, attentive eyes as she sings to him.
Jaime’s foot scuffs the floor, and the pair look up at him, identical grey eyes blinking at the intrusion.
Identical…
The recognition must show on his face, because Lyanna smiles and nods, still singing. She turns her attention back to Jon, smoothing his hair and stroking his cheek. His eyes ( her eyes ) droop, and by the time her song has finished, she’s tucked him into bed, pulling the furs up around his shoulders. She presses a kiss to midnight black hair and rises, leaving the nursery and shutting the door behind her.
She and Jaime are quiet as they walk back to her room. She offers a wordless invitation, and he accepts, still absorbing all that he just realized. It isn’t until Lyanna closes the door that he speaks.
“He’s not Ned Stark’s son...he’s yours.”
“Robert would have killed him if he’d found out,” she says calmly. “I had to protect him. It was no easy thing, what I asked of my brother, but Ned is a good man, and he loves me.”
Jaime is still reeling. “He lied about his honor to protect yours.”
“It wasn’t about my honor--it was about my son’s life. The whole realm knows about Rhaegar, but they would never rest if they knew about Jon.”
Jaime can’t help wondering if he’s still asleep and this is all an elaborate dream.
Lyanna steps closer to him. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
He shakes his head, knowing that even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. “No.”
She smiles at him. “You’re a good man, Jaime Lannister.”
“You might be the only person in the world who believes that.”
“I know it to be true.” She takes his hand. “Will you do something else for me?”
“Anything,” he finds himself promising.
“Will you touch me at last?”
His mouth goes dry, his palms sweating. “Your Grace…”
“Lyanna,” she corrects, soft but firm. “I have so often wanted to hear you say my name.”
To say it would damn him, because once he says her name, there’s no going back.
He licks his lips. “Lyanna.”
She sighs, smiling. “Say it again.”
“Lyanna,” he obeys. She brushes her lips against his, and in a breath that comes rushing out of him, he murmurs, “ Lyanna .”
“Jaime.” She strokes his cheek. “When I first came to King’s Landing, I wanted to die. I’d lost Rhaegar and my son, and I was being married to the very brute I’d tried to escape. I thought about it every day. But you...you made me feel alive . Little pieces of me woke up, and now I feel almost whole again.” She steps back, giving him a small tug towards the bed. “Finish it, Jaime. Make me feel complete.”
And who is he to deny his queen?