veteranMortal
New member
- Pronouns
- she/her
There is a woodland hugging the edge of the Gods Eye, not far from the tourneyfield the Whents had marked out. Within it, there is a small shrine to the Green Men on the Isle of Faces, in a clearing, created over three centuries before, when the Hoares, who followed the Drowned God or the Seven, dependent upon who asked them, but were no friends to the Old Faith, ruled the land, and the Weirwoods of the Riverlands were destroyed, their wood used to build Harren’s Folly. When the Hoares fell, and people could worship openly again, such secret shrines fell out of use, and were soon forgotten.
Into this clearing, which had gone all but undisturbed these past centuries, rode a knight. Upon the shield of this knight was a Weirwood, it’s face twisted into an unsettling rictus. In his right hand, he bears a jousting lance, long, slender and pale.
He lets his shield drop, and pulls his helmet off. Lyanna Stark’s hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and she dismounted, clattering heavily to the floor.
Ser Boros Blount had been a tougher prospect that Ser Lesyn Haigh, and Lyanna hissed in pain as she unbuckled her breastplate, letting it clatter to the floor - she would have to have Ben replaced it anyway, Ser Boros had caught her clean on the last tilt, and she’d been lucky to keep her seat through the pain. It had caved from the blow, and she’d been almost unable to breathe. She struggled out of the rest of her armour, wishing for nothing more than to wade into the Gods Eye and let the water soak away her aches.
“Lady Lyanna?” There was a voice from the edge of the clearing, high and feminine, somewhat surprised.
There was a girl standing there, where Lyanna had entered the clearing. Her dress was crimson, with intricate patterning on the bodice, in the southern style, and her hair was spun gold, framing a pretty, pale face, but most of all, Lyanna caught on her eyes, green and almost glowing in the late afternoon sun.
Lyanna yelped in surprise, and then cursed herself. She was meant to be a knight, and what sort of a knight cries out just because he saw a lady?
“How did you find me?” She asked, her eyes darting along the treeline, alarmed. Howland had said no one would find her here, that the old gods obscured it from prying eyes.
“I- I thought perhaps you were my brother? He was sent back to King’s Landing, but everyone said he must have come back…” The girl trailed off, biting her lip, a little embarrassed. She looked down, kicking the ground. Lyanna let out a breath. This wasn’t the result of some great hunt, then. She ran her hand through her hair, relieved - before she had seen the King, this had felt quite unreal, like the tales bards sing, of heroic mystery knights, who rescue maidens and defeat false knights, but the King had scared her, and she worried he would send someone after her.
“Oh, you’re Cersei Lannister? The Hand’s Daughter?” Lyanna had seen her before, she realised - the girl had been sat only a few places away, with an older man she took to be her father (his hair was blonde, though it lacked the golden sheen of his daughter’s). The girl must have followed her as she rode away, despite Lyanna’s best attempts to hide.
“Yes, the Hand’s daughter. You’re Lord Stark’s daughter, aren’t you? I saw you at the feast last night, with your brothers?” Cersei replied, smiling a little at being recognised.
Lyanna nodded, her throat suddenly dry. Cersei had stepped more fully into the clearing,
“I used to joust, when I was younger. I would dress as my brother and take his lessons.” Cersei’s tone told Lyanna that she was imparting a great secret. “You’ve not been taught how to joust, though. You hold the lance wrong.”
That seemed a little harsh, and Lyanna opened her mouth to defend herself, but Cersei wasn’t finished.
“You’re doing well, though! You ride better than I did, and that covers for your inadequacy with the lance.” Cersei had gotten closer at some point, and picked up the lance. “I could try to help you get your positioning right, if you’d like?”
Lyanna swallowed, “If you think it would help?”
Cersei didn’t answer immediately, pushing the lance gently into Lyanna’s hands, and stepping behind her.
“Show me how you hold the lance, please.” Cersei’s voice was soft, and as Lyanna complied, she felt gentle hands on her back and arm, as Cersei huffed. “Up a little. In a bit. Not that much!”
In truth, Cersei wasn’t the best teacher - too quick to condemn a mistake, and with a tendency to micromanage, but Lyanna was a poor student, prone to lapses in concentration just as Cersei was adjusting her grip on the lance.
“I suppose this will have to do - Ser Hosteen Frey is hardly the Dragonknight, and I’m sure my uncle is beginning to grow concerned about my absence.” Cersei said at last, stepping away from Lyanna, who felt a sudden pang of disappointment that the lesson was so quickly over.
As she looked around, however, she found it had grown quite dark, and she realised more time must have passed than she had realised.
She turned, and found Cersei was closer behind her than she had realised.
“It would be traditional,” Cersei began, her voice low, “For a lady to give her knight a favour, now.”
Cersei was so close, Lyanna could smell her perfume, feel her breath on her skin.
“Oh?” She managed, her voice strangled.
“I could give you one of the ribbons in my hair, and it would flap prettily in the wind as you rode, and everyone who saw it would know that some lady had taken the heart of the knight of the laughing tree,” Cersei said, “Or perhaps a brooch, and you could wear it on your dress, and every man who saw you would wonder where you got such a fine golden lioness…”
Her voice was teasing, and she was playing a little with Lyanna’s hair as she spoke.
“But I shouldn’t. Any favour I could give you would only get the two of us in trouble, you understand?” Cersei looked up at her through her lashes, and Lyanna’s heart sank to her stomach. Of course.
“So I shall have to get you something that none can see, shan’t I?” Cersei said, and her eyes danced with amusement. She darted forward, and gave Lyanna her favour.
Whatever else happened to her, Lyanna was quite sure she would remember that moment forever. Whenever she closed her eyes, she would be kissing Cersei Lannister at the edge of the Gods Eye, her hands coming up to cradle the other girl automatically, lost in the moment.
Cersei was gone in a flurry of crimson - she seemed to have surprised even herself with her boldness - and by the time Lyanna had collected herself and returned to Harrenhal, there was no sign of the Lannister girl, not at the tourney ground, nor in the great hall that night.
Cersei didn’t see the Stark girl again at Harrenhal - she had planned to, to visit her after she defeated the oaf of a Frey in a single pass (Cersei felt certain that without her tutelage and favour, Lyanna would not have been so confident), but the king had ordered a grand search, and uncle Kevan wouldn’t let her out of his sight, not after she had vanished for so long the day before.
She didn’t care though. It was better - when Prince Rhaegar had crowned her, Cersei had realised what should have been obvious. Lyanna had done all that, jousted in the tourney and tricked Cersei’s feelings because she was trying to get the Prince to fall in love with her, for when his wife inevitably finally died. Cersei was just practice, a convenient dupe who had wandered into her presence and been a useful mark, to see how effective it was. It was almost clever enough that she admired her for it.
So she returned to Casterly Rock, and it was almost two months later that Lyanna Stark returned to her life.
The Golden Tooth was a drab castle, but being so far from Casterly Rock gave her an influence independent of her father’s, and she appreciated that. She was there for the marriage of Ser Leo Lefford and Lady Alysanne Piper, and perhaps it should have been less of a surprise - she had known that Lyanna had stayed in the Riverlands, so it was not so bizarre that she would come to a wedding involving a Riverlord, though Lady Alysanne was hardly worthy of her attention - daughter of a cousin of Lord Piper, with bushy hair and unpleasantly bowlegged. She was insipid to boot, all simpers and fawning.
Regardless, it was quite a shock, when Lyanna rode into the castle’s courtyard in the afternoon of Cersei’s first day, her hair coming loose from its braid, plastered to her skin by the rain, a careless smile on her face.
“Gods but it’s raining hard out on the plain!” Lyanna said, dropping easily from the back of her horse. “Nice to get out, of course, but I’ll be glad to get into the castle.”
There was a man with her, stocky and dim. He carried himself like a northman, all martial swagger. He dismounted somewhat less gracefully, scowling at Lyanna’s retreating back.
She hadn’t seen Cersei yet - she was sewing in one of the gardens, for whatever rains there were in the riverlands, they did not trouble the Golden Tooth - and Cersei took the opportunity to study her.
To her monumental irritation, she found the other girl was still as beguiling as she had been at Harrenhal. She had a certain wild beauty that seemed to promise freedom from the world, that she could take Cersei up in her arms and everything would be well, and her every action seemed in defiance of the natural order of the world.
It was all a lie, though. She knew no one could resist an illusion like that - the idea that you could escape the world, escape obligation and duty, and she had cultivated it, quite cynically.
Lyanna turned, as though she could feel the weight of Cersei’s gaze. Time had let Cersei forget her eyes a little. They seemed so very open that for a moment, she forgot that Lyanna Stark had used her, and thought only of the way her breath had hitched when Lyanna’s hand had run through her hair, when they’d kissed. To her horror, she felt heat rising in her cheeks, and saw Lyanna Stark’s face light up.
“Lady Cersei! I didn’t know you were going to be at Alys’ Wedding!” Lyanna crossed the distance between them in only a few short steps, then caught herself, uncertain how to greet her.
Cersei held out a hand. “Lady Stark. I didn’t know you were here. Had I known, I would have perhaps found a different use of my time.”
She had tried to be as cold as she could, and Lyanna recoiled as though slapped. A thrill of satisfaction ran up her spine.
“Cersei…” Lyanna said, something like genuine hurt bleeding into her voice. Cersei sniffed disdainfully, and turned back to her sewing.
Lyanna left after a time, and Cersei shifted uncomfortably. There was a cold weight in her stomach, and she blinked her eyes till her embroidery stopped blurring, steadfastly ignoring the droplets soaking the fabric.
Cersei cut through the Godswood almost unconsciously the next morning, just happy for a chance to avoid the various lords in the castle who seemed to have all finally woken up and realised she was the heir to Casterly Rock at once.
She took a deep breath, alone and unwatched for the first time in what felt like an age, and began to walk through the wood. She hadn’t been in a Godswood since Harrenhal, but this was nothing like that. The scent of early spring flowers filled the air, with the faintest hint of pine. At Harrenhal, there had been only the scent of damp earth, with decay clinging to the back of her throat, but some small part of her wished she was there. Things had been simpler, in that woodland by the Gods Eye.
She wiped angrily at her eyes, cursing Lyanna. The girl had torn open the wound she had left at Harrenhal, the wound that had only just begun to scar.
“Cersei? Are you well?” A hand touched her shoulder, and she span on the spot.
Lyanna Stark smiled at her, concern clear in her eyes and a slightly tremulous smile on her face. She wasn’t armoured like a knight, as she had been at Harrenhal, wearing a rather plain dress of grey velvet, and Cersei found herself unaccountably disappointed.
“What’s it to you?” She snapped, trying to collect herself.
Cersei’s gut twisted a little as Lyanna’s face did the same pained spasm it had done the day before, but Lyanna forged ahead regardless.
“I thought we were…” Lyanna trailed off, “something, at least?”
“Well so did I. Imagine my surprise when the prince crowns you his queen of love and beauty, and I realised I was just practice for you.” Cersei said bitterly, her voice sharp and low. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Lyanna’s eyes widened, and her grip on Cersei’s shoulder tightened unconsciously “What? Prince Rhaegar caught me, whilst I was waiting for you. He- I don’t like him, he was… unused to hearing someone tell him no. Please believe me, Cersei”
Cersei looked at her. Really looked at her, the desperate intensity in her eyes, the nervous half smile threatening to disappear, and she believed her. Prince Rhaegar was passing queer, everyone knew that, and surrounded by sycophants, father had always said so, and Lyanna Stark wasn’t a good enough liar to have deceived her like this, she was quite sure. It was ridiculous to have even thought so, to tell the truth.
“Well, I suppose that makes sense. You already have the gold, what use would you have with silver?” Cersei replied, smirking a little. Lyanna laughed with relief, taking the opportunity to play with Cersei’s hair.
“I’m glad you believe me,” Lyanna said, a frown marring her features “No one else would. I told my father and he just-”
She broke off, forcing a smile. “No matter. I am sorry, I should have sought you out sooner, to explain or something.”
Cersei felt suddenly exposed, looking around for prying eyes. Now that she knew that Lyanna hadn’t tricked her - it was a ridiculous premise, now that she thought about it. Lyanna wore her heart on her sleeve, any idiot could see that - she felt oddly exposed; she had revealed a vulnerability that she would have preferred to have kept concealed; her thoughts passed unbidden to Melara Hetherspoon, and she shivered, despite herself.
Melara had been a foolish girl, and Lyanna was nothing like her. She hadn’t run when Cersei kissed her. Hadn’t fallen. Hadn’t screamed for help as Cersei listened, rooted to the spot.
She was shaken from her reverie by Lyanna’s fingers, gently pushing her chin up until she could meet her eyes. “Are you well?”
Cersei shifted suddenly to kiss the other girl, forestalling any questions. The Godswood was large, and the trees would serve well to hide them from any onlookers in the keep.
Lyanna responded eagerly and immediately, as she had known she would. After a time, Cersei figured the other girl was likely distracted enough that she would not pry, not find Cersei’s old scars, and she reluctantly broke off.
“We have to,” Lyanna looked slightly punchdrunk, and Cersei allowed herself a flash of triumph. “We have to find a better way to meet up. I shouldn’t like to wait two months again.”
Lyanna leant close to her mare, urging it faster. She had left Ser Ethan far behind her, but she paid that no mind. She had received dreadful news from Brandon and was minded to seek Cersei’s company. Cersei would know what to do, or if she didn’t, she would provide what solace she could.
They had an arrangement to meet in a crofter’s cottage, a few leagues from Casterly Rock; the crofter lived alone with his young daughter, and for a gold dragon, he would take his daughter with him to tend his herd, leaving the house empty for the day.
Truthfully, it had been easier to arrange things than Lyanna would have thought; she would send a letter to Cersei, and Cersei would be waiting for her at the cottage - the contents of the letter were immaterial, the act of sending it was the signal. It had been Cersei’s idea, of course - Lyanna had entertained more fanciful ideas of going on the run together, perhaps to Essos, or beyond the wall, but Cersei had flatly refused.
The early morning sun was anemic through the clouds, and the cottage was wreathed in mist, but Lyanna could see Cersei’s palfrey tied to a tree outside it, and she spurred her mare forwards once more.
The cottage had only one room, and Cersei was sat at the table, engrossed with her embroidery, though she set it aside as Lyanna entered. She had been working on it for a while - a direwolf and a lioness combatant. A sigil for them, or as close to one as they could have. Lyanna swallowed her rising panic as she thought about what Brandon had told her.
Cersei frowned, studying Lyanna’s face. “What’s the matter? You look almost sick,”
Lyanna opened her mouth to say it, to acknowledge the awful truth, but faltered; it would surely shatter this fragile, beautiful thing between them. She felt helpless, and almost began to cry.
Cersei sighed as though badly put upon, but quickly brought Lyanna into an embrace all the same.
Lyanna leant on the other woman, trying to borrow her strength; she could joust like a knight and face the King’s wrath unbowed, but there was a steel running through Cersei that she couldn’t match.
“I’m betrothed. I am to marry Robert Baratheon,” Lyanna said, “I wanted to delay it, so we could have more time, but Brandon was in Riverrun, and he told me it will be happening within the year.”
Cersei cupped Lyanna’s face with her hands. “Then I suppose we will have to find a way to solve that, won’t we?”
Lyanna nodded, blinking back tears. “Oh, but I don’t know what I could do, Cersei.”
Cersei looked as though she wanted to slap her for a second, but she reined in her emotions admirably. She could not quite keep her exasperation out of her tone, however. “Where is the girl who dressed in borrowed armour to defend the honour of her bannerman? Surely she hasn’t gone to pieces over something so comparatively manageable as a marriage.”
Lyanna breathed, forcing the air all the way into her lungs; her breath had felt shallow for so long, but the knot in her chest was loosening. Cersei was right, this was nothing compared to what she had done before.
“What are we to do, then? If I break this betrothal, I will still be expected to marry someone, and I am unsure I could bear to leave you,” Lyanna said, colouring a little at the last.
Cersei hummed noncommittally. “We need to break this betrothal first, we can plan for the aftermath once we achieve that. Could you convince Baratheon to drop his interest in you, do you think?”
“I… perhaps. He is close with my brother, and I’m quite sure that Ned would not wish for me to marry anyone if I did not wish it.” Lyanna looked thoughtful, “In fact, I’m convinced if I spoke to Ned, he could end the betrothal with a word. Robert and Ned are close as brothers. Closer, even; Ned does not care half so much for Brandon as he does for Robert Baratheon.”
Cersei nodded, frowning a little in thought. “After that, I suppose you shall need a new betrothal. If we can find you one that keeps us close, then you would have no need to fear it.”
Lyanna swallowed. “Mayhaps. Who, though?”
“Well,” Cersei began, having clearly already decided, “I suppose there’s the Imp.”
“The Imp?” Lyanna echoed.
“My brother, Tyrion. He’s the heir to Casterly Rock, so should be as appealing a prospect as Baratheon is - presuming you don’t mind that he’s a dwarf who killed his own mother, that is - and that would let us be together, especially if I marry someone close enough to Casterly Rock.”
“You’ve thought about this quite a lot, haven’t you?” Lyanna said.
“Of course I have. It was obvious we would have to get married at some point,” Cersei said.
Lyanna felt quite certain Cersei was being superior again, and shut her up with a kiss; it had always worked before, when Cersei began to get too smug. Cersei responded instantly, as Lyanna knew she would, and their plans, tentative as they were, were no more discussed.
Some time later, they were disturbed by a gentle knock at the door.
“Lady Lyanna? Lady Cersei? Is all well?” Ethan Glover sounded almost apologetic through the door. “Only, if we want to get back to the inn by nightfall, we had best set off soon”
Ethan Glover was a dear friend, and Lyanna had sworn him to secrecy. In theory he was Brandon’s squire, though in practice he mostly found himself occupied riding after Lyanna, and feigning ignorance of why she might want to pass her days in a croft with Cersei Lannister. He must have reached the cottage whilst Lyanna and Cersei were otherwise engaged.
“Stay, Lya. We can spend the night, and you can travel back on the morrow? I’ve missed you terribly.” Cersei said, tugging ineffectually at Lyanna’s waist, trying to pull her back into her embrace.
Lyanna pressed her forehead to Cersei’s, looking deep into her eyes. “I’ll ride to the Eyrie then, have Ned break this betrothal to Robert, and send a raven to my father. We’ll be together again within the month, I swear it. Surely you can hold that long, my love?”
Cersei kissed her, short, with an uncharacteristic sweetness, and released her. “Go then, and hurry back to me.”
Lyanna dressed as quickly as she could, pulling on her riding leathers and boots, discarded earlier. Her cloak wrapped around her shoulders, she looked back at Cersei, still abed, her blonde hair delightfully mussed. She smiled.
“Love you. I’ll return when I can”
Cersei smiled. “You take my heart with you, so have a care with it.”
As the croft’s door swung shut behind her, Lyanna was quite unaware of what awaited her. Had she known she would never see Cersei Lannister again, she would not have ridden off. Would not have been met by Prince Rhaegar near Harrenhal. Would not have been taken to the Tower of Joy. Would not have died. Would have taken Cersei’s heart back to her, as she asked.
A great deal of tragedy could have been prevented, had Lyanna Stark known what she did, in leaving her lady.
Ned felt sick. "I remember Robert as he was the day he took the throne, every inch a king," he said quietly. "A thousand other women might have loved him with all their hearts. What did he do to make you hate him so?"
Her eyes burned, green fire in the dusk, like the lioness that was her sigil. "The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister's name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna."
Ned Stark thought of pale blue roses, and for a moment he wanted to weep. "I do not know which of you I pity most."
Into this clearing, which had gone all but undisturbed these past centuries, rode a knight. Upon the shield of this knight was a Weirwood, it’s face twisted into an unsettling rictus. In his right hand, he bears a jousting lance, long, slender and pale.
He lets his shield drop, and pulls his helmet off. Lyanna Stark’s hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and she dismounted, clattering heavily to the floor.
Ser Boros Blount had been a tougher prospect that Ser Lesyn Haigh, and Lyanna hissed in pain as she unbuckled her breastplate, letting it clatter to the floor - she would have to have Ben replaced it anyway, Ser Boros had caught her clean on the last tilt, and she’d been lucky to keep her seat through the pain. It had caved from the blow, and she’d been almost unable to breathe. She struggled out of the rest of her armour, wishing for nothing more than to wade into the Gods Eye and let the water soak away her aches.
“Lady Lyanna?” There was a voice from the edge of the clearing, high and feminine, somewhat surprised.
There was a girl standing there, where Lyanna had entered the clearing. Her dress was crimson, with intricate patterning on the bodice, in the southern style, and her hair was spun gold, framing a pretty, pale face, but most of all, Lyanna caught on her eyes, green and almost glowing in the late afternoon sun.
Lyanna yelped in surprise, and then cursed herself. She was meant to be a knight, and what sort of a knight cries out just because he saw a lady?
“How did you find me?” She asked, her eyes darting along the treeline, alarmed. Howland had said no one would find her here, that the old gods obscured it from prying eyes.
“I- I thought perhaps you were my brother? He was sent back to King’s Landing, but everyone said he must have come back…” The girl trailed off, biting her lip, a little embarrassed. She looked down, kicking the ground. Lyanna let out a breath. This wasn’t the result of some great hunt, then. She ran her hand through her hair, relieved - before she had seen the King, this had felt quite unreal, like the tales bards sing, of heroic mystery knights, who rescue maidens and defeat false knights, but the King had scared her, and she worried he would send someone after her.
“Oh, you’re Cersei Lannister? The Hand’s Daughter?” Lyanna had seen her before, she realised - the girl had been sat only a few places away, with an older man she took to be her father (his hair was blonde, though it lacked the golden sheen of his daughter’s). The girl must have followed her as she rode away, despite Lyanna’s best attempts to hide.
“Yes, the Hand’s daughter. You’re Lord Stark’s daughter, aren’t you? I saw you at the feast last night, with your brothers?” Cersei replied, smiling a little at being recognised.
Lyanna nodded, her throat suddenly dry. Cersei had stepped more fully into the clearing,
“I used to joust, when I was younger. I would dress as my brother and take his lessons.” Cersei’s tone told Lyanna that she was imparting a great secret. “You’ve not been taught how to joust, though. You hold the lance wrong.”
That seemed a little harsh, and Lyanna opened her mouth to defend herself, but Cersei wasn’t finished.
“You’re doing well, though! You ride better than I did, and that covers for your inadequacy with the lance.” Cersei had gotten closer at some point, and picked up the lance. “I could try to help you get your positioning right, if you’d like?”
Lyanna swallowed, “If you think it would help?”
Cersei didn’t answer immediately, pushing the lance gently into Lyanna’s hands, and stepping behind her.
“Show me how you hold the lance, please.” Cersei’s voice was soft, and as Lyanna complied, she felt gentle hands on her back and arm, as Cersei huffed. “Up a little. In a bit. Not that much!”
In truth, Cersei wasn’t the best teacher - too quick to condemn a mistake, and with a tendency to micromanage, but Lyanna was a poor student, prone to lapses in concentration just as Cersei was adjusting her grip on the lance.
“I suppose this will have to do - Ser Hosteen Frey is hardly the Dragonknight, and I’m sure my uncle is beginning to grow concerned about my absence.” Cersei said at last, stepping away from Lyanna, who felt a sudden pang of disappointment that the lesson was so quickly over.
As she looked around, however, she found it had grown quite dark, and she realised more time must have passed than she had realised.
She turned, and found Cersei was closer behind her than she had realised.
“It would be traditional,” Cersei began, her voice low, “For a lady to give her knight a favour, now.”
Cersei was so close, Lyanna could smell her perfume, feel her breath on her skin.
“Oh?” She managed, her voice strangled.
“I could give you one of the ribbons in my hair, and it would flap prettily in the wind as you rode, and everyone who saw it would know that some lady had taken the heart of the knight of the laughing tree,” Cersei said, “Or perhaps a brooch, and you could wear it on your dress, and every man who saw you would wonder where you got such a fine golden lioness…”
Her voice was teasing, and she was playing a little with Lyanna’s hair as she spoke.
“But I shouldn’t. Any favour I could give you would only get the two of us in trouble, you understand?” Cersei looked up at her through her lashes, and Lyanna’s heart sank to her stomach. Of course.
“So I shall have to get you something that none can see, shan’t I?” Cersei said, and her eyes danced with amusement. She darted forward, and gave Lyanna her favour.
Whatever else happened to her, Lyanna was quite sure she would remember that moment forever. Whenever she closed her eyes, she would be kissing Cersei Lannister at the edge of the Gods Eye, her hands coming up to cradle the other girl automatically, lost in the moment.
Cersei was gone in a flurry of crimson - she seemed to have surprised even herself with her boldness - and by the time Lyanna had collected herself and returned to Harrenhal, there was no sign of the Lannister girl, not at the tourney ground, nor in the great hall that night.
Cersei didn’t see the Stark girl again at Harrenhal - she had planned to, to visit her after she defeated the oaf of a Frey in a single pass (Cersei felt certain that without her tutelage and favour, Lyanna would not have been so confident), but the king had ordered a grand search, and uncle Kevan wouldn’t let her out of his sight, not after she had vanished for so long the day before.
She didn’t care though. It was better - when Prince Rhaegar had crowned her, Cersei had realised what should have been obvious. Lyanna had done all that, jousted in the tourney and tricked Cersei’s feelings because she was trying to get the Prince to fall in love with her, for when his wife inevitably finally died. Cersei was just practice, a convenient dupe who had wandered into her presence and been a useful mark, to see how effective it was. It was almost clever enough that she admired her for it.
So she returned to Casterly Rock, and it was almost two months later that Lyanna Stark returned to her life.
The Golden Tooth was a drab castle, but being so far from Casterly Rock gave her an influence independent of her father’s, and she appreciated that. She was there for the marriage of Ser Leo Lefford and Lady Alysanne Piper, and perhaps it should have been less of a surprise - she had known that Lyanna had stayed in the Riverlands, so it was not so bizarre that she would come to a wedding involving a Riverlord, though Lady Alysanne was hardly worthy of her attention - daughter of a cousin of Lord Piper, with bushy hair and unpleasantly bowlegged. She was insipid to boot, all simpers and fawning.
Regardless, it was quite a shock, when Lyanna rode into the castle’s courtyard in the afternoon of Cersei’s first day, her hair coming loose from its braid, plastered to her skin by the rain, a careless smile on her face.
“Gods but it’s raining hard out on the plain!” Lyanna said, dropping easily from the back of her horse. “Nice to get out, of course, but I’ll be glad to get into the castle.”
There was a man with her, stocky and dim. He carried himself like a northman, all martial swagger. He dismounted somewhat less gracefully, scowling at Lyanna’s retreating back.
She hadn’t seen Cersei yet - she was sewing in one of the gardens, for whatever rains there were in the riverlands, they did not trouble the Golden Tooth - and Cersei took the opportunity to study her.
To her monumental irritation, she found the other girl was still as beguiling as she had been at Harrenhal. She had a certain wild beauty that seemed to promise freedom from the world, that she could take Cersei up in her arms and everything would be well, and her every action seemed in defiance of the natural order of the world.
It was all a lie, though. She knew no one could resist an illusion like that - the idea that you could escape the world, escape obligation and duty, and she had cultivated it, quite cynically.
Lyanna turned, as though she could feel the weight of Cersei’s gaze. Time had let Cersei forget her eyes a little. They seemed so very open that for a moment, she forgot that Lyanna Stark had used her, and thought only of the way her breath had hitched when Lyanna’s hand had run through her hair, when they’d kissed. To her horror, she felt heat rising in her cheeks, and saw Lyanna Stark’s face light up.
“Lady Cersei! I didn’t know you were going to be at Alys’ Wedding!” Lyanna crossed the distance between them in only a few short steps, then caught herself, uncertain how to greet her.
Cersei held out a hand. “Lady Stark. I didn’t know you were here. Had I known, I would have perhaps found a different use of my time.”
She had tried to be as cold as she could, and Lyanna recoiled as though slapped. A thrill of satisfaction ran up her spine.
“Cersei…” Lyanna said, something like genuine hurt bleeding into her voice. Cersei sniffed disdainfully, and turned back to her sewing.
Lyanna left after a time, and Cersei shifted uncomfortably. There was a cold weight in her stomach, and she blinked her eyes till her embroidery stopped blurring, steadfastly ignoring the droplets soaking the fabric.
Cersei cut through the Godswood almost unconsciously the next morning, just happy for a chance to avoid the various lords in the castle who seemed to have all finally woken up and realised she was the heir to Casterly Rock at once.
She took a deep breath, alone and unwatched for the first time in what felt like an age, and began to walk through the wood. She hadn’t been in a Godswood since Harrenhal, but this was nothing like that. The scent of early spring flowers filled the air, with the faintest hint of pine. At Harrenhal, there had been only the scent of damp earth, with decay clinging to the back of her throat, but some small part of her wished she was there. Things had been simpler, in that woodland by the Gods Eye.
She wiped angrily at her eyes, cursing Lyanna. The girl had torn open the wound she had left at Harrenhal, the wound that had only just begun to scar.
“Cersei? Are you well?” A hand touched her shoulder, and she span on the spot.
Lyanna Stark smiled at her, concern clear in her eyes and a slightly tremulous smile on her face. She wasn’t armoured like a knight, as she had been at Harrenhal, wearing a rather plain dress of grey velvet, and Cersei found herself unaccountably disappointed.
“What’s it to you?” She snapped, trying to collect herself.
Cersei’s gut twisted a little as Lyanna’s face did the same pained spasm it had done the day before, but Lyanna forged ahead regardless.
“I thought we were…” Lyanna trailed off, “something, at least?”
“Well so did I. Imagine my surprise when the prince crowns you his queen of love and beauty, and I realised I was just practice for you.” Cersei said bitterly, her voice sharp and low. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Lyanna’s eyes widened, and her grip on Cersei’s shoulder tightened unconsciously “What? Prince Rhaegar caught me, whilst I was waiting for you. He- I don’t like him, he was… unused to hearing someone tell him no. Please believe me, Cersei”
Cersei looked at her. Really looked at her, the desperate intensity in her eyes, the nervous half smile threatening to disappear, and she believed her. Prince Rhaegar was passing queer, everyone knew that, and surrounded by sycophants, father had always said so, and Lyanna Stark wasn’t a good enough liar to have deceived her like this, she was quite sure. It was ridiculous to have even thought so, to tell the truth.
“Well, I suppose that makes sense. You already have the gold, what use would you have with silver?” Cersei replied, smirking a little. Lyanna laughed with relief, taking the opportunity to play with Cersei’s hair.
“I’m glad you believe me,” Lyanna said, a frown marring her features “No one else would. I told my father and he just-”
She broke off, forcing a smile. “No matter. I am sorry, I should have sought you out sooner, to explain or something.”
Cersei felt suddenly exposed, looking around for prying eyes. Now that she knew that Lyanna hadn’t tricked her - it was a ridiculous premise, now that she thought about it. Lyanna wore her heart on her sleeve, any idiot could see that - she felt oddly exposed; she had revealed a vulnerability that she would have preferred to have kept concealed; her thoughts passed unbidden to Melara Hetherspoon, and she shivered, despite herself.
Melara had been a foolish girl, and Lyanna was nothing like her. She hadn’t run when Cersei kissed her. Hadn’t fallen. Hadn’t screamed for help as Cersei listened, rooted to the spot.
She was shaken from her reverie by Lyanna’s fingers, gently pushing her chin up until she could meet her eyes. “Are you well?”
Cersei shifted suddenly to kiss the other girl, forestalling any questions. The Godswood was large, and the trees would serve well to hide them from any onlookers in the keep.
Lyanna responded eagerly and immediately, as she had known she would. After a time, Cersei figured the other girl was likely distracted enough that she would not pry, not find Cersei’s old scars, and she reluctantly broke off.
“We have to,” Lyanna looked slightly punchdrunk, and Cersei allowed herself a flash of triumph. “We have to find a better way to meet up. I shouldn’t like to wait two months again.”
Lyanna leant close to her mare, urging it faster. She had left Ser Ethan far behind her, but she paid that no mind. She had received dreadful news from Brandon and was minded to seek Cersei’s company. Cersei would know what to do, or if she didn’t, she would provide what solace she could.
They had an arrangement to meet in a crofter’s cottage, a few leagues from Casterly Rock; the crofter lived alone with his young daughter, and for a gold dragon, he would take his daughter with him to tend his herd, leaving the house empty for the day.
Truthfully, it had been easier to arrange things than Lyanna would have thought; she would send a letter to Cersei, and Cersei would be waiting for her at the cottage - the contents of the letter were immaterial, the act of sending it was the signal. It had been Cersei’s idea, of course - Lyanna had entertained more fanciful ideas of going on the run together, perhaps to Essos, or beyond the wall, but Cersei had flatly refused.
The early morning sun was anemic through the clouds, and the cottage was wreathed in mist, but Lyanna could see Cersei’s palfrey tied to a tree outside it, and she spurred her mare forwards once more.
The cottage had only one room, and Cersei was sat at the table, engrossed with her embroidery, though she set it aside as Lyanna entered. She had been working on it for a while - a direwolf and a lioness combatant. A sigil for them, or as close to one as they could have. Lyanna swallowed her rising panic as she thought about what Brandon had told her.
Cersei frowned, studying Lyanna’s face. “What’s the matter? You look almost sick,”
Lyanna opened her mouth to say it, to acknowledge the awful truth, but faltered; it would surely shatter this fragile, beautiful thing between them. She felt helpless, and almost began to cry.
Cersei sighed as though badly put upon, but quickly brought Lyanna into an embrace all the same.
Lyanna leant on the other woman, trying to borrow her strength; she could joust like a knight and face the King’s wrath unbowed, but there was a steel running through Cersei that she couldn’t match.
“I’m betrothed. I am to marry Robert Baratheon,” Lyanna said, “I wanted to delay it, so we could have more time, but Brandon was in Riverrun, and he told me it will be happening within the year.”
Cersei cupped Lyanna’s face with her hands. “Then I suppose we will have to find a way to solve that, won’t we?”
Lyanna nodded, blinking back tears. “Oh, but I don’t know what I could do, Cersei.”
Cersei looked as though she wanted to slap her for a second, but she reined in her emotions admirably. She could not quite keep her exasperation out of her tone, however. “Where is the girl who dressed in borrowed armour to defend the honour of her bannerman? Surely she hasn’t gone to pieces over something so comparatively manageable as a marriage.”
Lyanna breathed, forcing the air all the way into her lungs; her breath had felt shallow for so long, but the knot in her chest was loosening. Cersei was right, this was nothing compared to what she had done before.
“What are we to do, then? If I break this betrothal, I will still be expected to marry someone, and I am unsure I could bear to leave you,” Lyanna said, colouring a little at the last.
Cersei hummed noncommittally. “We need to break this betrothal first, we can plan for the aftermath once we achieve that. Could you convince Baratheon to drop his interest in you, do you think?”
“I… perhaps. He is close with my brother, and I’m quite sure that Ned would not wish for me to marry anyone if I did not wish it.” Lyanna looked thoughtful, “In fact, I’m convinced if I spoke to Ned, he could end the betrothal with a word. Robert and Ned are close as brothers. Closer, even; Ned does not care half so much for Brandon as he does for Robert Baratheon.”
Cersei nodded, frowning a little in thought. “After that, I suppose you shall need a new betrothal. If we can find you one that keeps us close, then you would have no need to fear it.”
Lyanna swallowed. “Mayhaps. Who, though?”
“Well,” Cersei began, having clearly already decided, “I suppose there’s the Imp.”
“The Imp?” Lyanna echoed.
“My brother, Tyrion. He’s the heir to Casterly Rock, so should be as appealing a prospect as Baratheon is - presuming you don’t mind that he’s a dwarf who killed his own mother, that is - and that would let us be together, especially if I marry someone close enough to Casterly Rock.”
“You’ve thought about this quite a lot, haven’t you?” Lyanna said.
“Of course I have. It was obvious we would have to get married at some point,” Cersei said.
Lyanna felt quite certain Cersei was being superior again, and shut her up with a kiss; it had always worked before, when Cersei began to get too smug. Cersei responded instantly, as Lyanna knew she would, and their plans, tentative as they were, were no more discussed.
Some time later, they were disturbed by a gentle knock at the door.
“Lady Lyanna? Lady Cersei? Is all well?” Ethan Glover sounded almost apologetic through the door. “Only, if we want to get back to the inn by nightfall, we had best set off soon”
Ethan Glover was a dear friend, and Lyanna had sworn him to secrecy. In theory he was Brandon’s squire, though in practice he mostly found himself occupied riding after Lyanna, and feigning ignorance of why she might want to pass her days in a croft with Cersei Lannister. He must have reached the cottage whilst Lyanna and Cersei were otherwise engaged.
“Stay, Lya. We can spend the night, and you can travel back on the morrow? I’ve missed you terribly.” Cersei said, tugging ineffectually at Lyanna’s waist, trying to pull her back into her embrace.
Lyanna pressed her forehead to Cersei’s, looking deep into her eyes. “I’ll ride to the Eyrie then, have Ned break this betrothal to Robert, and send a raven to my father. We’ll be together again within the month, I swear it. Surely you can hold that long, my love?”
Cersei kissed her, short, with an uncharacteristic sweetness, and released her. “Go then, and hurry back to me.”
Lyanna dressed as quickly as she could, pulling on her riding leathers and boots, discarded earlier. Her cloak wrapped around her shoulders, she looked back at Cersei, still abed, her blonde hair delightfully mussed. She smiled.
“Love you. I’ll return when I can”
Cersei smiled. “You take my heart with you, so have a care with it.”
As the croft’s door swung shut behind her, Lyanna was quite unaware of what awaited her. Had she known she would never see Cersei Lannister again, she would not have ridden off. Would not have been met by Prince Rhaegar near Harrenhal. Would not have been taken to the Tower of Joy. Would not have died. Would have taken Cersei’s heart back to her, as she asked.
A great deal of tragedy could have been prevented, had Lyanna Stark known what she did, in leaving her lady.
Ned felt sick. "I remember Robert as he was the day he took the throne, every inch a king," he said quietly. "A thousand other women might have loved him with all their hearts. What did he do to make you hate him so?"
Her eyes burned, green fire in the dusk, like the lioness that was her sigil. "The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister's name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna."
Ned Stark thought of pale blue roses, and for a moment he wanted to weep. "I do not know which of you I pity most."
