Chapter Text
Lyanna knew she ought to weep. She knew it was what was expected of her, what others would want to see from her, so they may all tell her friends of how heartbroken and shattered the poor Lady of Storm’s End was. And Lyanna tried to do it, just for them. She tried to force herself to weep, to sob, to shed one single tear, but none came. For in truth, though her husband was dead, she was ever glad for it.
She was no mummer, after all. She never had been. The greatest piece of acting she had ever performed was almost four years ago at Harrenhal, when she dressed in mismatched armor and pretended to be a man. But even that performance had been uncovered, by a prince no less, and Lyanna had little practice at pretending since.
She could not even pretend to be happy on her wedding day. Not when Robert had kissed her with such passion after being wedded by the septon, not when her brothers danced with her at the feast, not when strangers showered her with praise, and certainly not when she retired to bed with her husband. The horrid memory still lingered in her mind though she tried so hard to will it away: the stink of beer on his breath filling her nostrils, the roughness of his hands as they pinched and groped her small breasts, the heavy weight of him pressing upon her, and the feeling of painful violation when he pushed into her without warning or affection—
The memory of all that blood and seed on her thighs still made her gag.
No more. There shall be no more of that.
That much was certain, for the evidence was right before her dry eyes. They closed the casket on him, and now lowered him in his designated place in the crypts. Not even Robert’s massive strength could give him power enough to force himself out, should the gods decide to revive him by some cruel jape. He was entombed in stone. He was gone, forever.
No more. No more of his whores in her bed, no more of his body pumping carelessly into hers, no more of their ear-splitting arguments, no more of his indifference, his frustration, his you’re not the girl I married because she was never that girl.
Whoever Lyanna Stark was to Robert Baratheon, she never existed. Robert’s Lyanna was the product of his imagination and wet dreams; the real Lyanna was a loud, and crushing disappointment.
She retires to her rooms immediately after the burial. She hopes that would be enough for some, the images of Robert’s solemn widow unable the bear the scene any longer, rushing for privacy so she may weep alone.
When did find herself alone, tucked into the oyster of her own room, the first thing Lyanna did was laugh. It was a laugh that bubbled from the edges of her lips, a chuckle almost, before it erupted from her belly into a force that shook her shoulders and sent her doubling over.
He’s gone! He’s gone! Oh thank the gods, he’s gone!
Her joy was almost overwhelming, almost left her with a frightful sense of guilt, but neither of those forces won out. In moments, she was composed again, lying on her bed with a wistful smile on her face.
It could not have been better if she had planned it; and she did not plan it, for as much as she despised the man, she knew she did not have the strength to bear the burden of his death on her shoulders. Robert had done himself away by his own folly, as he surely would have done sooner or later. Off on one of his hunts, he rode his horse hard and fast; Robert was never gentle with the horses he rode, and was rather cruel with the riding crop. The stallion, a new mount reacting much like Lyanna might have, threw him off with great force. When his companions caught up to him, they found him on the ground with his head bent at an impossible angle.
His neck was found snapped clean through. The stallion suffered for its madness with his own neck, just a quick slice of a blade to its throat.
A pity that the poor creature had to be sacrificed for a man like Robert, but it was a small price to pay. Lyanna had her freedom now, the freedom a silver prince offered her once and one she was too scared to accept. Lyanna thought it noble of her then to grit her teeth and do her duty by her father, to let herself be married off, but she learned rather quickly that there was nothing noble in senseless suffering.
She spends the rest of the day mulling over what she would do with her new position. She was still Lady of Storm’s End, and she supposed she had her duties, tasks that Stannis carried out on the pretense that he simply did not trust her to make decisions. Is that to be her fate, then? To do as she pleased and let Stannis act as if he were the Lord of the Stormlands? A lucky thing that he had wed the Florent girl recently, else he would have surely asked for her hand in marriage. Stannis wanted Storm’s End. That much was very clear.
Strange that she even considered such a prospect. Her positon was something she hardly thought about. On the contrary, she did much to forget about it, to forget who she was wed to and who she ruled beside. Instead, she remembered Rhaegar Targaryen’s promises of freedom and adventure, of showing her the world and then some. Letters filled with descriptions of the wonders of Pentos and Bravoos and Yunka’i. Come away with me, and we’ll see it all, he swore.
Lyanna had refused, out of her own fears and Ned’s reassurances that she would be enormously happy with Robert. Ned had been wrong, and Lyanna did not spend a day without wondering, what if?
She turns on her side, her cheek pressed to the cool pillow. Robert’s scent still lingered on it. It made her crinkle her nose and roll over to her own pillow.
She leaves thought of ruling for another time. It does not cross her mind for weeks afterward, and no one forced it on her. Everyone in the castle left her alone, as if she were so volatile that she might burst into tears over her grief. Even guards leave her alone, allowing her to ride by her lonesome for the first time in ages. Renly, however, does not leave her alone, but she forgives him this as he is but a child of six. The little boy was like her in that he did not seem overly grieved by his brother’s death, likely because there was no loss of relationship to grieve over. Little Renly loved Lyanna best out of every person he knew, and he showed that love by clinging to her skirts ever since she had first arrived over a year ago. He’d even called her mother, once, but Robert had swiftly corrected him on that point, reminding him rather heartlessly that his mother was dead.
For a while, she is content. Though on the outside she dressed in black and pretended to be somber and forlorn, Lyanna was experiencing life as she had before she wed. She had no hulking beast of a man to enter her bed and ravage her, no man to tell her what to do or how to act, none to look at her during the day with scathing disappointment and then at night with lust and drunken proclamations of love. No more, no more, no more. Lyanna would sleep soundly, with her hand tucked between her thighs to give herself the pleasure Robert so often denied her.
She spends a few weeks in this girlish reverie, feeling as if her lifesblood was being poured back into her, her nerves coming alive with the feelings of freedom and joy that had been torn from her when she got married. Even her chest felt widened, as if her lungs were filling with air sorely missed after being pressed upon for so long. This was an unholy amount of delight to feel after the death of a husband, Lyanna knew, but she could not help it. She would not suppress it any longer than she already had.
The fantasy was brought to a shuddering halt when Stannis called her into his solar. She had almost wanted to snipe at the messenger that Lord Stannis had no right to force the Lady of Storm’s End into his stuffy solar, but she knew it was not fair to the lad. In a rather sour mood, she escorts herself to her goodbrother's solar with her hands on her hips.
“My lord,” she tells him rather grandly. “May I remind you that I am no servant you may force from one room to another, but rather your goodsister and lady to boot—“
“Enough of that,” Stannis returned in his characteristically cold attitude. Lyanna wondered how Selyse could bear such an iceberg of a man. She could only assume it was easier than a beast. “You should know that you are no more my goodsister and lady as any other woman in the realm.”
Lyanna lifts a brow at the challenge. “Truly?” She asked sardonically. “Remind me again who married your older brother?”
Stannis scowls. “Remind me again of how many heirs you gave him?”
My womb does not take to seed I do not desire, she almost says aloud. Indeed, she had not fallen pregnant once despite Robert’s tireless attempts. She liked to think it was her own resolve that kept her from such a fate.
“None,” she returns, crossing her arms over her chest. “What difference does it make? Am I not still your ruling lady?”
Stannis’s lips seem to almost curl into a smirk. “No, my lady, you are not,” he returns. “You might have been, if I were not already married and Renly not a child, but since you gave my brother no heirs, and there is no other Baratheon for you to wed, you, my lady, are a Baratheon only in name, with no title other than ‘Robert’s widow’.”
Lyanna stares at him in a mixture of silence and shock. Was that truly how inheritance worked? Lyanna could swear she knew of ladies who ruled in their own right, husbandless and childless. Slowly, the pieces fell into place. She was not a Baratheon by blood; she had no sway here without Robert. She is unsure if she should feel offended or overjoyed by this.
Lyanna lifts her narrowed eyes to Stannis’s hard gaze. “So you are the Lord of Storm’s End? And Selyse your lady?”
Stannis nods. “Aye,” he tells her, before shifting into a harsher tone. “Do not pretend as if you care for the loss of your title, Lady Lyanna, for it is an insult to my intelligence. You care for this position as much as you cared for the man who gave it to you.” His sharp blue eyes are alarmingly accusatory. “Every soul in this damned keep knows how poorly you two carried on. Unsurprising, considering that both of you were such abhorrently loud—“
“Are you quite done, my lord?” Lyanna shoots back, not one to stand and let herself be insulted.
“Not quite,” Stannis returns, grinding his teeth. He folds his hands in front of him. “There have been rumors, whispers of foul play at hand in Robert’s death, and you have been mentioned in more than a few of them.”
Taken aback at the implication, Lyanna feels her face growing hot. “There are those who think I killed Robert? Me?” She laughs bitterly. “Robert fell off a horse! Tell me, my lord Stannis, what sorcery did I practice to make that happen?” Stannis seems prepared to shoot back some scathing commentary, but Lyanna stops him. “I fear I am not so brave nor spiteful, my lord, and if you believe these rumors you are as much a fool as they are.”
He continues to glower. “I did not say I believe them. I am only acknowledging their existence.” He is visibly irked by her words; Lyanna takes a little pride in this. “Nevertheless, the circumstances are suspicious to some. I am only giving you this warning so that you’d have some explanation of why other lords may refuse your hand.”
Lyanna laughs her short, bitter laugh again. “Refuse my hand?” She asks incredulously. “I do not recall offering it to anyone, nor do I intend to do so. Let them all believe a girl of seven-and-ten killed the great and lusty Robert Baratheon. If it keeps suitors out of my hair, then I shall be more than glad for such a wretched accusation.”
“Very well,” Stannis returns, still grinding his teeth. “If that is how you feel, I hope your family does not mind that you shall never leave their home. You are no longer my concern, after all. You are to return to Winterfell.”
Lyanna almost wants to warn him against ordering her around, but this was one command she is almost glad to follow through on. Winterfell! She enthuses internally. Home! I get to go home again! The thought made her so giddy that her heart began to thump in her chest. As lovely as the sea and green of Storm’s End was, it paled in comparison to her ancestral home. Oh Gods, she missed snow and warm walls and a true godswood and her brothers, and home, home, home…
Lyanna attempts to remain the stoic widow and offers a stiff nod as if her heart wasn’t near bursting with joy. “How soon, my lord?” she asks.
“Within the fortnight,” Stannis returns. “I see no reason for you to linger here any longer.”
Lyanna nods. “Very well, then. I shall have my ladies begin to pack my things.” Still feigning being slighted, Lyanna curtsies, before turning sharply on her heel and leaving Stannis’s solar.
When she reaches her chambers, she almost broke down in tears of mirth. Instead she opens her palms up to the gods and prays.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, she tells them fervently. Thank you. Thank you.
The nightmare was ending, home was on the horizon, and her chains had finally rusted to pieces. She would be a girl again, that slight, wild girl who ran barefoot and wove flowers into her hair. The girl who never thought about a man's rough touch or feared a quickening in her womb. A girl named Lya, who once thought that the prince's interest in her was something strange and magical. A kind girl, a thoughtless one. What a blessing that would be, to be thoughtless again. She smiles broadly and closes her eyes, already washing away the memories that killed the girl inside her.