Chapter Text
The yard behind the eastern tower was never meant to hold secrets.
It had once housed falcons, long before the master of hunt preferred rooms closer to the king’s chambers. Now, it stood neglected and half reclaimed by creeping ivy, its packed earth broken by stubborn roots that refused to remain buried. The stone walls leaned inward slightly, as though conspiring to keep whatever occurred within them hidden from the rest of the Red Keep.
Lyanna Stark preferred it that way.
Dawn had not yet fully claimed the sky. A pale wash of light stretched across the horizon, thinning the darkness but not dispelling it entirely. The castle stirred in distant pockets, servants rising, guards changing posts, but this corner remained untouched by movement.
She had chosen her hour carefully.
She wore no silks. No embroidery. No southern softness. Only fitted leathers beneath a grey wool cloak, her braid coiled tight at the base of her skull. The practice blade rested familiarly in her palm, its balance imperfect but serviceable.
She stepped into the centre of the yard and exhaled slowly.
Then she began.
The first cuts were deliberate. Testing. Measuring the ground beneath her boots. The second sequence came sharper and faster, the blade slicing clean arcs through the cool morning air. She pivoted and lunged, shifting her weight carefully to avoid the roots that threatened to betray her footing.
Her breath grew heavier. The air burned faintly in her lungs. Sweat gathered along her collarbone despite the early chill.
Here, there were no watching ladies.
No knights pretending courtesy.
No court whispers.
Only movement.
Only steel.
She struck harder.
Not from anger alone, though anger had followed her south like a shadow. Not from rebellion alone, though rebellion thrummed in her bones.
She struck because she would not be remade.
The court would not sand her edges smooth.
The North had not raised her to bend.
Her blade met nothing but air, yet she imagined resistance. An opponent pressing too close. A misstep punished. A challenge met head-on.
The yard filled with the sound of steel cutting wind.
And then the wind changed.
It did not howl. It did not roar.
It pressed.
A weight settled into the air, subtle but unmistakable, as though something vast had entered the sky above her.
Lyanna froze mid-turn.
She did not look up immediately. She had learned something in the North about predators. Prey looked up too quickly.
She felt it first.
The displacement.
The shift in current.
The faint warmth threading through cool air.
When she lifted her gaze at last, Vaelarys circled high above the tower, his wings carving slow, deliberate paths through morning light. His scales caught the pale sun in deep red flashes, darker along his spine, brighter along the curve of his throat.
He did not cry out. He did not dive.
He watched.
Lyanna’s jaw tightened.
She had chosen this yard precisely because it was unseen.
The dragon’s shadow passed across the earth at her feet.
“I did not invite you,” she muttered under her breath.
Vaelarys descended a fraction lower, not enough to alarm the castle, but enough to make himself known.
The wind from his wings stirred the ivy along the wall and tugged loose strands from her braid. The scent of smoke drifted faintly downward, not sharp flame but banked embers.
She refused to step back.
If this was meant to frighten her from the yard, it would fail.
She raised her blade again.
Her next strike was harder. Sharper. As if daring the creature above to object.
Steel sang.
Boots scuffed dust.
Her movements grew faster, less measured now, driven by the awareness of being observed.
She hated that awareness.
Hated that something in the sky made her pulse quicken not with fear but with challenge.
A soft sound of shifting gravel came from the archway behind her.
Lyanna did not turn.
She knew.
She felt him before she heard him.
“Does he always follow you?" she asked, eyes still fixed on the dragon.
Rhaegar’s voice answered from the shade of the stone arch.
“He does not follow.”
She turned then.
He stood just beyond the edge of morning light, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He wore black riding leathers, unadorned save for subtle silver threading at the cuffs. His hair was tied low, though the sea breeze had already loosened strands around his face.
“He chooses,” he finished.
Lyanna lowered her blade slightly but did not sheathe it.
“And today he chooses to hover over my head.”
Rhaegar stepped into the yard.
His gaze moved first to her stance. To the tension in her shoulders. To the faint scrape along her knuckles where she had struck too hard against air.
He did not look at the dragon.
He did not need to.
“He senses agitation,” Rhaegar said quietly.
She huffed.
“Then he will have a busy life here.”
A faint shift touched his expression. Not amusement. Something more restrained.
“You train early,” he observed.
“You rise early,” she countered.
He did not deny it.
Silence stretched between them, thin but not fragile.
Above, Vaelarys circled once more, wings beating steady and slow.
“You should not be alone,” Rhaegar said at last.
Her spine stiffened instantly.
“I am not alone,” she replied sharply, gesturing upward with her blade. “Apparently.”
His gaze sharpened slightly at the edge in her tone.
“That is not what I meant.”
“Then say what you mean plainly.”
He stepped closer, though not near enough to crowd her.
“This court is not Winterfell.”
“I am aware.”
“There are men here who mistake silence for softness.”
“And you think I am soft.”
“No.”
The word came without hesitation.
Lyanna blinked once, surprised by the certainty.
“I think,” he continued more quietly, “that you do not yet see all the dangers.”
Her temper flared.
“I do not need guarding.”
The faintest tightening touched his jaw.
“This is not guarding.”
“What would you call it?"
“Ensuring.”
“Ensuring what?"
“That you are not cornered where no one can see.”
The words hung heavier than she expected.
She studied him carefully. “You assume I cannot defend myself.”
“I have watched you defend yourself,” he replied. “That is not what concerns me.”
Her grip tightened on the hilt. “Then what does?”
He held her gaze steadily. “You fight from anger.”
The statement was quiet. Clinical.
She bristled.
“I fight because I choose to.”
“You fight as if something must be broken.”
“And what is wrong with breaking things?"
His eyes darkened slightly. “Some things do not break cleanly.”
A beat passed.
She stepped closer without realising it, closing the distance between them.
“And you believe you know which things those are.”
“I believe,” he said, voice lowering almost imperceptibly, “that I have lived in this court longer than you.”
Above them, Vaelarys descended another measure. The shadow of his wings brushed across the yard.
Lyanna glanced upward briefly, then back to Rhaegar.
“He reflects you,” she said.
Rhaegar’s expression did not change.
“Yes.”
“He watches as you do.”
“Yes.”
“And if I anger you?”
The faintest tension coiled through him.
“You do,” he admitted.
Her breath caught.
“Then perhaps you should not watch.”
“I would rather watch than be surprised.”
The honesty unsettled her more than denial would have.
“You study me,” she said slowly.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer came after a pause.
“Because I need to understand how far you will push before you fracture.”
The words struck harder than she expected.
“I do not fracture.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “You do not.”
Something shifted in his gaze then. Not a correction. Not control.
Assessment.
“You are not fragile,” he continued. “But you are visible.”
She frowned.
“I train in a hidden yard.”
“You burn too brightly to be hidden.”
The remark was not romantic.
It was observational.
It unsettled her all the same.
“You mistake my temper for danger,” she said.
“I mistake nothing.”
Above them, Vaelarys’ wings beat heavier. The wind stirred her braid loose, strands brushing against her cheek.
Lyanna lifted her chin.
“I will not stop training.”
“I would not ask you to.”
“I will not become docile.”
“I would despise you if you did.”
The reply came too quickly.
They both felt it.
That earned him a brief, startled laugh.
It faded quickly.
“I will temper my temper,” she added after a moment. “Not for them. For myself.”
His gaze softened fractionally.
“That is wisdom.”
“And you,” she said, meeting his eyes directly, “will not hover like a storm cloud over my head.”
A faint curve touched his mouth. “I cannot promise that.”
“Then teach your dragon restraint.”
Vaelarys released a low rumble that vibrated faintly through the air, not a threat but an awareness.
Rhaegar finally glanced upward.
“Lykirī,” he murmured softly in Valyrian.
The dragon’s wings shifted. His circling widened. He rose gradually, climbing back into higher currents until his shadow thinned and sunlight returned fully to the yard.
Lyanna exhaled slowly.
Rhaegar looked back at her.
“I do not study you to confine you,” he said quietly. “I study you so that when you rage, I know whether to stand beside you or before you.”
Her pulse steadied.
“And which will you choose?"
His answer came without hesitation.
“Whichever keeps you alive.”
The wind shifted again, lighter now, carrying only the distant salt of the sea.
Lyanna retrieved her cloak from where it lay near the wall.
“You may watch,” she said at last. “But you will not interfere.”
“I will not.”
“And if I fall?”
His gaze darkened.
“You will not.”
She held his eyes a moment longer.
Then she resumed her stance.
This time when she struck, it was not fury alone that guided her.
It was something steadier.
Above, black wings cut silently through the morning sky.
And in the narrow, hidden yard of the Red Keep, fire learned the shape of a wolf.