sang his songs of darkness and disgrace
Pairings: Rhaegar/Lyanna, Rhaegar/Elia
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1408
Summary: She is always watching him from over cups or through crowds, distant and unreadable.
Note: Written for![[info]]()
devymel12 for the ![[info]]()
got_exchange . Title from "Lady Stardust" by David Bowie.
She is always watching him from over cups or through crowds, distant and unreadable. He thinks her eyes are black at first. It's not until the first time he kisses her that he learns they're gray, opening his eyes to find her already watching him. They're a different gray than her brother's but no easier to decipher.
Rhaegar is not his father's son, metaphorically speaking. They share features only: pale eyes, blue or violet in the light, long pale hair, pale skin. Rhaegar is taller than his father, but quieter too, favors books over swords.
That wouldn't do for a prince, however, so he learns.
He learns how to wield a sword with skill, how to handle a horse, he weds who and when he is supposed to wed, he prepares himself to take on the mantle of king when his father passes – and he does it all to gain the respect of a madman.
Much later, hands on the swell of her belly, his mother will say uncertainly, "He wasn't always so."
The Stark girl comes to court with her brother and her betrothed. Her dark eyes travel over everything with a certain preciseness, as though she sees down into the soul of everything. She looks and looks and looks, then bends her head towards her brother, lifts a hand to her mouth and murmurs something that makes him press his lips together in stifled laughter.
Rhaegar talks to her briefly, briefly. "Is this your first time at court?"
She barely spares him a glance. "Why, is it yours?"
He can just see the edge of her smile as she turns away, a puzzled echo of it on his own face.
She is gone before Rhaegar has a chance to speak with her again, gone back to her Northern home.
Rhaegar thinks of her sparingly in the months that follow – he has other things on his mind. There is the child, a little girl he loves almost more than he resents her, and Elia, and his brother and mother to care for; his father whose eyes no longer belong to the man Rhaegar knew as a child. They were sharp once but now they lose focus, looking without seeing. He was always the kind of man prone to emotional fits but he had his reason to keep him in check. Rhaegar was never afraid for him or of him, before.
Rhaegar finds peace amongst ruins, fingers catching against the strings of his harp as he sings, and that is when he thinks of the Stark girl.
He is more familiar with the man to whom Lyanna Stark (Rhaegar repeats her name in his head over the music of his harp, the melody of her given name brought to an abrupt end by her last) is promised than he is with Lyanna Stark herself.
Rhaegar couldn't say he is particularly fond of Robert Baratheon.
He's loud and brash, surely a warrior in a way Rhaegar could never be. It's in Robert's eyes and his hands and his blood, the skill of destruction, and it brings him a kind of respect. Rhaegar does not know enough of Lyanna to determine if they are suited to one another, though he's heard tales of her brashness.
It's no matter.
Rhaegar sees her again at a tourney, laughing with her serious-faced brother atop a horse. Her whole face comes alive with laughing, her smile bright and surprisingly pretty, not the sly smile Rhaegar expects. To see her laugh is to see a flower bloom.
She turns her horse away from Eddard's and Rhaegar notices she doesn't ride like a woman, skirts swept to the side, but like a man – and it's with ease and expertise that she gallops away, leaving her brother behind.
"I saw you earlier."
Rhaegar turns to find Lyanna Stark's dark eyes on him, looking even darker in the dim torchlight of the hall. The sounds of the feast around them nearly drowns her out.
"When I was riding with my brother," she clarifies. "You must forgive my impropriety, I didn't realize I had a prince's eyes on me until I caught you leaving."
"Don't," he says, meaning there's no need to apologize. The words get caught in his throat, however, and he only stares at her, suddenly uncomfortable.
"Don't what?" Lyanna asks, tilting her head.
"Ask for forgiveness," he says haltingly. "There's no need."
She smiles, nods, and curtsies away, probably finding him very strange indeed.
Gifting Lyanna the woven crown of winter roses is a temporary madness Rhaegar blames on the sunlight catching in her dark hair, her small secretive smile, his own songs. He means to give it to Elia, as he ought, but he finds his horse stopped in front of the Stark girl instead.
He feels guilt but not regret.
Elia is clearly wounded by the action. He always forgets her fragility until moments like this. It's easy to forget when she's happy. Her cheeks flush and she smiles and she seems perfectly fine; when she is distraught, however, it's as though all her illnesses catch up to her. She pales, looks even smaller and more delicate, all bones and thin skin. She's a little bird, his Elia, and somewhere in his heart Rhaegar always knew he would crush her.
Still, he soothes her worries with sweet words and, when those are not enough, with kissing. She wraps her thin arms around his neck, pulling him close, and he thinks of the surprise on Lyanna Stark's face when the roses were laid in her lap.
He kisses Lyanna Stark for the first time the night his son is born. His son, his promised prince – Rhaegar knows joy like he did not think he could feel, and reassurance too. Everything seems perfect after the birth of his son, secure, for surely no harm could come now that their promised prince is here.
"Congratulations, Your Grace," Lyanna says, an honest smile parting her lips, and, conscious only of his own happiness, Rhaegar presses his mouth to hers. He feels her start but then she grasps his arms, his clothing, her hands coming to rest on his cheeks. Her fingertips are rougher than he would expect on a girl of her station and her lips are chapped from sun and wind, but there is a fierce warmth to her too. He opens his eyes to see hers in such proximity, such a clear gray that he doesn't know how he mistook them.
They part but the kiss feels unended, hovering in the air.
"I'm sorry," she says, but her tone does little to translate her true feelings, and she sounds breathy from the kiss besides.
"There's no need," he says, "I'm the one who should –"
"Don't," Lyanna says, meeting his eyes straightforwardly. "I confess it's not the first time I thought of that."
"Nor I." They stand a moment longer, almost expecting the footfalls of another person to break the silence. No one comes. "I must –"
"Of course."
She nods and he nods and they continue, apart.
The courts are full of gossip and intrigue, so Rhaegar and Lyanna find private ways to converse. There are notes passed from trustworthy hand to trustworthy hand, a necessary secret language of music and roses devised.
There is such calm to the air that Rhaegar should know it isn't to last. His father is in one of his quiet moods, which could span anywhere from a moment to a month; Elia is busy with the children, recovering from her hard labor, and happy, mostly. Meanwhile Rhaegar learns Lyanna's private thoughts, her desires, the life she longs for and the one she's bound to have. He learns of her family, her brothers, Robert; he learns the breadth of her wrist as he catches it briefly amidst crowds; he learns the shape of her eyes and her nose and her mouth well enough to calls them up in his memory so well it's almost as if she were there with him.
He always reads her letters twice and then burns them. It is always her eyes he sings of.
The moments they have together are hurried and full of everything except talking; there is just her mouth under his, the expanse of her skin. She is strength and sharpness, her cool demeanor faded away to something rough and wild.
It's all worth it, he thinks, for that.
Pairings: Rhaegar/Lyanna, Rhaegar/Elia
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1408
Summary: She is always watching him from over cups or through crowds, distant and unreadable.
Note: Written for
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=87.2)
devymel12 for the ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=87.2)
got_exchange . Title from "Lady Stardust" by David Bowie.She is always watching him from over cups or through crowds, distant and unreadable. He thinks her eyes are black at first. It's not until the first time he kisses her that he learns they're gray, opening his eyes to find her already watching him. They're a different gray than her brother's but no easier to decipher.
Rhaegar is not his father's son, metaphorically speaking. They share features only: pale eyes, blue or violet in the light, long pale hair, pale skin. Rhaegar is taller than his father, but quieter too, favors books over swords.
That wouldn't do for a prince, however, so he learns.
He learns how to wield a sword with skill, how to handle a horse, he weds who and when he is supposed to wed, he prepares himself to take on the mantle of king when his father passes – and he does it all to gain the respect of a madman.
Much later, hands on the swell of her belly, his mother will say uncertainly, "He wasn't always so."
The Stark girl comes to court with her brother and her betrothed. Her dark eyes travel over everything with a certain preciseness, as though she sees down into the soul of everything. She looks and looks and looks, then bends her head towards her brother, lifts a hand to her mouth and murmurs something that makes him press his lips together in stifled laughter.
Rhaegar talks to her briefly, briefly. "Is this your first time at court?"
She barely spares him a glance. "Why, is it yours?"
He can just see the edge of her smile as she turns away, a puzzled echo of it on his own face.
She is gone before Rhaegar has a chance to speak with her again, gone back to her Northern home.
Rhaegar thinks of her sparingly in the months that follow – he has other things on his mind. There is the child, a little girl he loves almost more than he resents her, and Elia, and his brother and mother to care for; his father whose eyes no longer belong to the man Rhaegar knew as a child. They were sharp once but now they lose focus, looking without seeing. He was always the kind of man prone to emotional fits but he had his reason to keep him in check. Rhaegar was never afraid for him or of him, before.
Rhaegar finds peace amongst ruins, fingers catching against the strings of his harp as he sings, and that is when he thinks of the Stark girl.
He is more familiar with the man to whom Lyanna Stark (Rhaegar repeats her name in his head over the music of his harp, the melody of her given name brought to an abrupt end by her last) is promised than he is with Lyanna Stark herself.
Rhaegar couldn't say he is particularly fond of Robert Baratheon.
He's loud and brash, surely a warrior in a way Rhaegar could never be. It's in Robert's eyes and his hands and his blood, the skill of destruction, and it brings him a kind of respect. Rhaegar does not know enough of Lyanna to determine if they are suited to one another, though he's heard tales of her brashness.
It's no matter.
Rhaegar sees her again at a tourney, laughing with her serious-faced brother atop a horse. Her whole face comes alive with laughing, her smile bright and surprisingly pretty, not the sly smile Rhaegar expects. To see her laugh is to see a flower bloom.
She turns her horse away from Eddard's and Rhaegar notices she doesn't ride like a woman, skirts swept to the side, but like a man – and it's with ease and expertise that she gallops away, leaving her brother behind.
"I saw you earlier."
Rhaegar turns to find Lyanna Stark's dark eyes on him, looking even darker in the dim torchlight of the hall. The sounds of the feast around them nearly drowns her out.
"When I was riding with my brother," she clarifies. "You must forgive my impropriety, I didn't realize I had a prince's eyes on me until I caught you leaving."
"Don't," he says, meaning there's no need to apologize. The words get caught in his throat, however, and he only stares at her, suddenly uncomfortable.
"Don't what?" Lyanna asks, tilting her head.
"Ask for forgiveness," he says haltingly. "There's no need."
She smiles, nods, and curtsies away, probably finding him very strange indeed.
Gifting Lyanna the woven crown of winter roses is a temporary madness Rhaegar blames on the sunlight catching in her dark hair, her small secretive smile, his own songs. He means to give it to Elia, as he ought, but he finds his horse stopped in front of the Stark girl instead.
He feels guilt but not regret.
Elia is clearly wounded by the action. He always forgets her fragility until moments like this. It's easy to forget when she's happy. Her cheeks flush and she smiles and she seems perfectly fine; when she is distraught, however, it's as though all her illnesses catch up to her. She pales, looks even smaller and more delicate, all bones and thin skin. She's a little bird, his Elia, and somewhere in his heart Rhaegar always knew he would crush her.
Still, he soothes her worries with sweet words and, when those are not enough, with kissing. She wraps her thin arms around his neck, pulling him close, and he thinks of the surprise on Lyanna Stark's face when the roses were laid in her lap.
He kisses Lyanna Stark for the first time the night his son is born. His son, his promised prince – Rhaegar knows joy like he did not think he could feel, and reassurance too. Everything seems perfect after the birth of his son, secure, for surely no harm could come now that their promised prince is here.
"Congratulations, Your Grace," Lyanna says, an honest smile parting her lips, and, conscious only of his own happiness, Rhaegar presses his mouth to hers. He feels her start but then she grasps his arms, his clothing, her hands coming to rest on his cheeks. Her fingertips are rougher than he would expect on a girl of her station and her lips are chapped from sun and wind, but there is a fierce warmth to her too. He opens his eyes to see hers in such proximity, such a clear gray that he doesn't know how he mistook them.
They part but the kiss feels unended, hovering in the air.
"I'm sorry," she says, but her tone does little to translate her true feelings, and she sounds breathy from the kiss besides.
"There's no need," he says, "I'm the one who should –"
"Don't," Lyanna says, meeting his eyes straightforwardly. "I confess it's not the first time I thought of that."
"Nor I." They stand a moment longer, almost expecting the footfalls of another person to break the silence. No one comes. "I must –"
"Of course."
She nods and he nods and they continue, apart.
The courts are full of gossip and intrigue, so Rhaegar and Lyanna find private ways to converse. There are notes passed from trustworthy hand to trustworthy hand, a necessary secret language of music and roses devised.
There is such calm to the air that Rhaegar should know it isn't to last. His father is in one of his quiet moods, which could span anywhere from a moment to a month; Elia is busy with the children, recovering from her hard labor, and happy, mostly. Meanwhile Rhaegar learns Lyanna's private thoughts, her desires, the life she longs for and the one she's bound to have. He learns of her family, her brothers, Robert; he learns the breadth of her wrist as he catches it briefly amidst crowds; he learns the shape of her eyes and her nose and her mouth well enough to calls them up in his memory so well it's almost as if she were there with him.
He always reads her letters twice and then burns them. It is always her eyes he sings of.
The moments they have together are hurried and full of everything except talking; there is just her mouth under his, the expanse of her skin. She is strength and sharpness, her cool demeanor faded away to something rough and wild.
It's all worth it, he thinks, for that.