Title: The She-Wolf and the Dragon Prince
Disclaimer: A Song of Ice and Fire does not belong to me. That honor goes to the genius George R.R. Martin.
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Summary: The Starks would be enraged. They'd blame him. They'd say he made a mistake, he brought back the wrong person, their dear sister couldn't be the mystery knight. But his father would burn her anyway.
Author's Note: I started out with the intent on making a pretty R+L graphic to post to tumblr that had a few lines of a drabble out beside it, but I ended up with a half-ass picture and a full drabble's worth of story. Oh well.
The girl whirled, nearly dropping her shield in surprise. "Prince Rhaegar," she greeted stiffly and after a long moment, bending her knees only just in what had to be the weakest attempt at a curtsy he'd ever seen. Her head went unbent, her eyes fixed on his bow.
"You're the Knight of the Laughing Tree?"
She looked down at the shield in her hand, the emblazoned heart tree smiling back at her, then gave him a wolfish grin. "I suppose I could say no."
"You could." He replied, lowering the bow slightly. He didn't want to shoot her- he truly, truly didn't- but she had a sword hanging from her hips and, judging by the shape of the tiny bulge inside her boot, a dagger strapped to her calf. Given the show she'd put on at the tourney, Rhaegar wagered she knew how to use them, and well. "My father's looking for you. He sent me to find you so that you can be unmasked."
"And killed?" She finished, calmer than she should be. If she knew of his father's preferred method of execution, as most everyone in the kingdoms did, she didn't let her fear show. Rhaegar didn't even consider the possibility that she had no fear.
He nodded. "And killed." He tried to picture her burning inside of that mismatched heap of armor lying beisde her feet, her long black hair singeing off, her gray eyes melting inside her skull, and the smell-
Rhaegar swallowed back bile.
The Starks would be enraged. They'd blame him. They'd say he made a mistake, he brought back the wrong person, their dear sister couldn't be the mystery knight. Then when his father burned her anyway, they'd turn on him, turn on the throne. The North would rebel, and the Stormlands would join with them. That giant of a Storm Lord wouldn't forgive the king for boiling his betrothed alive. If it came to rebellion, the Stormlands and House Baratheon were far too close to King's Landing and House Targaryen for any of his family to be safe, Rhaegar knew. And it would surely come to rebellion if Lyanna Stark died.
Rhaegar lowered his bow and reached over his shoulder to place his arrow back in the quiver. He stepped closer to the Lady Lyanna, close enough to smell her sweat and the faded floral scent of whatever fragrance her maids had placed on her the last time she bathed. He took the shield from her hand and gave it a long look over, examining every scratch and dent and mark she'd obtained. As he slung it over the shoulder opposite to his quiver, he felt himself smile at her. "Lucky for him then that I only found his shield."