My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red (…)
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare(…).

-Shakespeare, Sonnet 130

She is no goddess.

Rhaegar glimpsed her standing by her castle's gates, a fragile thing with her small stature and heavy, long dress. The hem of her skirts even dragged into the dust. Her dark hair had been swept out of her face with a few pins, had she looked young, so young that one would have seemed slightly wrong in calling her a woman. Even her eyes were those of a child, with delight and awe widening them. Her tiny hands were clasped together in front of her, and she kept looking left and right, looking rather skittish, ready to run at any moment.

Oh, she is human enough for his eyes.

He wouldn't call her fair, not in the way of his mother or even as Elia had been. No, Lyanna Stark was brilliant in her own way, a dull light to be sure, but one he could cherish all the more. The more he looked at her the more endearing she became. And the Dragon Prince wondered at her charm, for she shouldn't have stirred his heart. Gentle fingers pinched the cords to a muted tune, and within him, Rhaegar felt the tide rise. Higher and higher and higher still, till nothing was left for his eyes but hers, looking at him as she might to a stranger seen in a dream.

Bones wrapped in flesh as real as his, Lyanna smiles and she's tangible.

Falling in love, liking a woman had never been an active choice of any man. However one hand to grant that holding a lady's hand and calling her one's own was a consequence of choice, for Rhaegar knew that should he lay his world down at her feet, it would be on him. And perhaps fate, if he did believe in such a thing. Yet when he called upon this destiny, he felt himself go cold. Lyanna looked at him through innocent eyes, a flush to her cheeks from his attention. And now it was his turn to smile. "My lady," he said, and that was all.

Far sweeter is the taste of her lips when he knows her his.

Were she a figment of his imagination, Rhaegar thought he would go mad. Not in the way of old warriors on the battlefield, thirsty for blood and out of their mind. No, rather he would search for her equal in this world and find none. It was a sort of tragedy, for a cold love, even one as perfect as the light of dawn, could sustain none. But Lyanna's hands were growing warm in his, proving her a being of the same clay as he. Surely though her veins ran blood as did through his, and she breathed air, pulling it deep within her, clinging to this life with clenched fingers.

A shadow she remains against the light.

Lyanna stood still when his fingers brushed against her palm, the intimacy not lost on her. She didn't shy away, just gave a small sigh, as if she'd been expecting thins, or maybe something else."I bid you welcome, Your Grace." Indeed the harmony was no match for the strings of his harp. She has a voice made for hushed conversations made before the fire; a voice that would rather whisper, and he found that pleasant. Rhaegar gave her a bow to match her curtsy. "Winterfell is yours." And so it might be, just as she would were she to consent. Rhaegar nodded once to show he was content.

Death may take her and strip her of all delight, but till then she stands alive.