Morning at Harrenhal yet again dawned bright and loud, tearing Rhaegar form his dreams in which Lyanna Stark featured heavily.

Elia rolled over in their bed to face him, her hair mussed and eyes bleary. Rhaegar planted an unfeeling kiss on her forehead, lips barely moving. The woman that was his wife felt like an alien; someone who he could not relate to, someone he could not feel for.

Rhaegar was sickened with himself, that his duty had been so overshadowed by another.

When his squire came to fetch him moments later, Rhaegar rolled out of bed with fierce determination. All of his focus would lay in the joust he had today, and he would not allow himself to be distracted by the woman who frequented his mind.

An hour later, Rhaegar found himself on the lists, tightening his riding gloves around his wrists. For the joust, Rhaegar bound back his shoulder length hair with a leather strap to keep it from his eyes.

Mounting his horse, Rhaegar's squire handed up his helm. Rhaegar settled it over his eyes, looking through the slits as he scanned the crowd. Most of them were watching him; Rhaegar made a fine sight in his red tinted armor, matching black dragon helm, and metallic silver cape.

The other half of the crowd, however, was watching his opponent.

Brandon Stark had just rode into the lists, adorned in the steely grey armor and white helm of Winterfell. A black cloak embroidered with the hounds of Winterfell was draped around Brandon's shoulders.

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes through the slits in his helm and continued to scan the crowd. He half didn't expect her to be there, for the melee was taking place this morning too, and her Robert would be in it.

A bigger par t of Rhaegar knew she would be there watching him, for she was a curious one, and would want to sort out the strange feelings he knew she had felt by the lake.

And sure enough, as he scanned the people above Brandon on the Stark side, he saw her. His winter rose. She covered her face in pale blue gauze fabric, trying to keep the sun off of her Stark-pale face.

Rhaegar's heart leapt and his fingers itched for his harp, for they still remembered the song that was her. He found himself smiling widely underneath his helm, and was glad for its protection from wandering eyes. At least Elia was feeling to ill to attend.

The herald blew his horn, and the din of people fell to a soft whisper. Rhaegar sat up straighter.

"Welcome, to the third day of the Tournament at Harrenhal ever graciously provided for by Lord Whent of Harrenhal. This marks the second day of the joust, the thirteenth tilt, and the final qualifying round." The herald's voice rang above the crowd of people.

"To the jousters!" he continued. "On the northern side, we have Ser Brandon of House Stark, Heir to the seat of Winterfell."

Brandon rode out into the middle of the lists and removed his helm so that the crowd could see his face. As a northern favorite, Brandon received a hearty cheer from his fans. Lyanna rose to her feet and clapped, yelling his name. Ned sat next to her, always the stoic, and clapped slowly.

"On the southern side," the herald continued. "We have Ser Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of the Dragonstone, and Heir to the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne."

Rhaegar trotted out onto the pitch and met Brandon in the middle. Taking off him helm, Rhaegar's ears were assaulted with the cheering of his loyal subjects. Women waved at him and leaned over the rail to be closer. Children in the crowd had dragons painted on their cheeks in homage. Lyanna was still standing, clapping, and looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

He could practically read the thoughts that were going through her head.

Brandon will not let you win, said her smirk.

The opponents nodded at each other, shook hands, and moved to the respective ends.

As Rhaegar waited at the south end of the list, he realized an irony. They were not just at the north and south ends of the pitch, but they were a northerner and a southerner themselves. The north versus the south, Rhaegar scoffed.

Equipped with his lance, a straight, black, heavy object with a dragon tail grip, Rhaegar faced Brandon. He realized that the horse Brandon sat on was the horse Lyanna had ridden the day before. The thought made him smile at her daring.

The joker with the flag ran to the middle of the lists, dropped it, ad then scurried away.

Rhaegar spurred his stallion into a gallop, directly at the oncoming Brandon. He leveled his lance, lining the point up with Brandon Stark's left shoulder.

The rider got closer, and Brandon leveled his own lance. Rhaegar braced himself for the hit, gathering his center of gravity low in his belly.

The lances smashed off their respective armor, both splintering, and wood fragments flew in all directions.

The crowd roared, both sides encouraging their contestants. Rhaegar reached the other end of the pitch and shook out his shoulder. Both men had tried the same target, trying to force the other into an early dismount.

The jousting saddles had high backs to keep the riders in place. Rhaegar had found that there were three ways to win a joust: hit high, to try and unbalance the opponent into falling, hit low, to try to pop the opponent out of the saddle like prying the meat from a Dornish oyster, or hit hard, and simply overpower your opponent.

The judges deliberated, and eventually one flag was erected on both Rhaegar and Brandon's sides.

His squire handed him another lance, and then the flag was dropped for the second pass.

This time, Rhaegar did not make his horse gallop full out, trying to let Brandon's speed work against him. Rhaegar leveled his lance and aimed low at Brandon's belly.

When the inevitable hit came, Rhaegar leaned into it, taking a harder hit himself, but allowing his lance to gain leverage against Brandon.

Brandon's lanced glanced off Rhaegar's abdomen, but Rhaegar's shattered against the Stark and sent him reeling as he recovered from the hit.

When they reached the opposite ends, another flag was erected under Rhaegar's shield.

The winner was the first to five flags, or points, or the first to unhorse the other.

Rhaegar found Lyanna in the crowd, clapping lightly. Ned was straight-faced next to her, looking off into the distance, seeming not to care about his brother's joust before him.

The two heirs took a pass at each other again, and yet again, both hit the same target. However, this time, Brandon's lance shattered hard against Rhaegar's breastplate, sending shrapnel everywhere. Rhaegar's lance deflected off when Bradon turned in the saddle in contact.

A flag was erected underneath the Stark direwolf.

The third pass went to Brandon again, when he caught Rhaegar carrying his weight high in his chest. The lances both shattered, but Rhaegar was saved from flying only by his saddle, and so Brandon won the flag.

As they set up for the fourth pass, Rhaegar saw Lyanna in the stands, a smug look on her face. She had the personality that wanted to be right always, and she saw what she wanted in reach.

The men charged at each other. Rhaegar crouched down, being sure to not repeat his mistake. Once again he hit low, trying to pry Brandon away from his mount. Once again, the men had the same idea.

Rhaegar took Brandon's hit to the gut, and then closed his eyes as to avoid the splinters of wood. From his lance or Brandon's, he could not tell. They had both shattered.

Both of the sigils were awarded a flag for the fourth pass, leaving the score four to three. Brandon's lead was too close for Rhaegar's liking.

The fifth pass was dead quiet as the crowd watched. Unbeknownst to Rhaegar, Lyanna sat on the edge of her chair, gripping the handles with white-knuckles.

They faced each other, and watched the flag drop. Rhaegar spurred his stallion into an automatic gallop, trying to hit as hard as he could. The men neared each other, and Rhaegar knew then that his horse was traveling faster than Brandon's.

As he drew nearer and leveled his lance, Rhaegar saw his opportunity. Brandon leaned too far forward in his saddle, eagerly leveling his lance. Rhaegar sat back in his saddle, keeping his gravity low, then struck high.

On contact, Rhaegar leaned forward, driving all of his weight into Brandon as the latter frantically tried to compensate.

One instant, a smashed lance, and a crunching thud later, it was over.

Rhaegar turned his horse around to the cheers of the crowd, and dropped his lance into the dirt. Yards away, Brandon was struggling to him feet as his horse ran circles around the lists.

The herald blew his horn, and Rhaegar was declared the winner of the thirteenth joust, eliminating Brandon Stark.

Rhaegar missed most of this though, for his eyes were glued to a certain young woman in the crowd.

Lyanna's brows were raised in recognition, and she nodded her head at him in respect, frowning surprisedly.

Well met, Prince, she mouthed at him.

Rhaegar grinned widely and yanked off his helm to face the crowd. He stayed in the lists until Brandon was back on his feet, and then rode off to the stables to groom his tired horse.

*break*

Later that night, the moonlight pouring through the bay window of Rhaegar and Elia's suite bored into Rhaegar's eyes. He tossed and turned for a few moments, trying to adjust himself.

Elia was curled next to him, slender arms wrapped around her swollen abdomen. The light hit her features just so that her skin looked translucent and pale. The child was taking the light and life out of his golden Dornish princess, leaving her tired and drawn.

The light once again invaded Rhaegar's purple eyes and he threw his pillow over his head, cursing. The down-feathered thing helped block most of the bright light, but now Rhaegar was fully awake.

He remembered an old legend that a crone at Summerhall had told him once, how there had once been two moons, each shining as brightly as the other. One night, however, a moon had drawn too close to the sun, and the heat had cracked it open, releasing the first dragons onto the earth.

Rhaegar pulled on a robe over his nightclothes and left the bedchamber. He made his way through the castle, nodding at the curious gazes of the servants that caught his eye. Rhaegar knew that they thought that he was peculiar, but he didn't care.

As he reached the stables, he thought of the second part of his memory. When he had returned from Summerhall with the old crone's tale fresh on his lips, Rhaegar had rushed to his father's chambers and told him.

As a boy of twelve, Rhaegar had been surprised when Aerys struck him brutally across the face with nails that neared four inches long. The king had yelled himself hoarse at Rhaegar, telling him how he was wrong, how dragons had really come from the volcanoes of old Valayria.

Rhaegar had run from his father's chambers crying into the arms of his mother, who fetched a septa to heal him scar-free for a high price. It was the first of many times that his mother would pay out of pocket to cover the blows that Aerys would inflict on his eldest son.

Riding towards the jousting lists, Rhaegar could hear all of the blows that Aerys had inflicted on him echoing in his mind.

Slap… Whack…Thud… Slap…

He could vividly remember the burning ache of the blows that lasted long after a healing.

Slap… Thud…Thud…

"SLAP… Thud... Thud… Chink!" The blows had become real, and Rhaegar could see a figure in the middle of the lists, ravaging a quintain with a practice sword.

In the intense moonlight, Rhaegar could see bright gleams reflecting off gentle waves of mahogany hair. He could see that the figure was slender and slight. He could tell that the sword was heavier than the person was used to, making the blows slower and clumsier than they would have been.

And when the figure groaned in frustration, hurled the sword at the dummy's feet, and turned around, Rhaegar saw to be true what he already k knew.

"Lyanna?"

She whirled around, eyes blazing furiously. As he drew closer, he could tell that something was off about her face.

As soon as he was close enough that she could see the curiosity on his countenance, she turned away from him and gathered the dull practice blade from the ground.

"Lyanna," he spoke again.

She ignored him, and began whacking at the dummy with renewed energy.

"Lyanna?" he inquired more softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Luckily, Rhaegar knew what she would do before she did it. Her body gave her away, the way it tensed under his hand right before she swung around the sword with all her might.

He caught her wrist before she could strike him, and trapped her close to his body. He squeezed her wrist until she let go with a dismayed grunt, dropping the blade to the ground.

He could feel his brow furrow in concern. Lyanna would not look at him, holding her face down towards the ground. In the silence of the night, the only sound that could be heard was her labored breathing.

Rhaegar slowly brought the tips of his fingers underneath her chin and drug it up, trying to look into the flashing grey eyes that would not meet his.

When he saw her face, all of Rhaegar's breath left him in a huff.

Lyanna would not look at him head-on, but it was enough. Jaw set stubbornly, she looked away from him, eyes dark. The moonlight revealed what she was trying to hide from him in full view.

The pale skin of her face was marred by a huge purplish bruise on one cheekbone that ran from under her eye and managed to touch both her nose and ear. Rhaegar could see the vague outlines of fingerprints that feathered across the bruise.

A fire awakened in Rhaegar, something that he felt deep in his stomach that slowly spread through his whole being.

"Who?" he asked darkly.

Lyanna would not answer him, but he noticed her jaw begin to tremble under his fingers. He let go, and stepped back slightly, though he still held her wrists.

"Will you not tell me?" he asked, trying to keep the emotion he felt out of his voice.

Lyanna looked at him for the first time, eyes wide and vulnerable like a passage deep into her soul.

"You must already know." She mumbled softly. "How could you not?"

"Robert." Rhaegar said, unassuming.

She nodded gently, and Rhaegar reached out to touch her, to comfort her. Lyanna however, withdrew violently, her gaze accusing.

"And it's your fault!" she hurled at him across the small space that separated them.

Her words rendered Rhaegar speechless, and he drew back, astonished, only to have her come flying at him with her fists thrashing.

"It is your fault!" she screamed again, hitting his chest repeatedly. "All your fault! You didn't have to win that joust!"

She hit him over and over again, and the Prince of Dragonstone stood there and let her pound blows into his chest. Unlike Robert, he would never hit a lady.

"Lyanna, if I have wronged you…" he managed to get out, trying to absorb her fury.

She groaned in frustration, and sank sobbing against him. It was all he could do to wrap his arms and hold her against him before she managed to sink all the way to the ground.

Lyanna clutched him, sobbing into his neck painfully. Rhaegar again stood there and let her work herself through it, rubbing calm circles into her back. As they stood there for moments more, he pressed his lips into her dark hair and made soothing noises into her ear gently.

It didn't take long for Lyanna to cry herself out, and when she did, she stood in his embrace peacefully.

Rhaegar reveled in the moment, savoring the feel of holding her in his arms. The moonlight that shone around them took on a beautiful tinge that made him sleepy.

When Lyanna pressed her face tenderly into his throat they both sighed gently. However, Rhaegar could not contain his concern for long.

"Lyanna," he murmured against her hair. "Darling, will you tell me what happened to you?"

She stopped breathing and drew back so that they could look into each other's faces. Any other time Rhaegar would have found it difficult to look away from the bruise that spanned her cheek, but her tears had matted her dark eyelashes together in an entrancing way.

"After you won the joust today," she began slowly. "Robert lost two-thousand dragons on Brandon. I didn't see him afterwards, but Ned told me that Robert had headed to a winesink in the castle."

"Apparently a great loss of money sends even great men to taverns and whores." Lyanna said softly, with so much vehemence that Rhaegar's skin prickled.

"So I went back to our tent and to bed. I thought nothing of it: I had heard that Robert liked his wine and ale, and I had seen him drunk many times before. However, I forgot to factor in that he had never been truly drunk around me prior to tonight."

Lyanna set her jaw and looked into Rhaegar's eyes hard.

"And let me tell you, prince. Being awoken by the crushing weight of the dashing Robert Baratheon on top of you, as naked as his name day and drunk as a dog is not the fairytale that singers and young girls would have you believe."

"His breath was sickening, and I felt like I would get drunk just from breathing in his fumes. I felt like I would be squashed to death by his weight."

Rhaegar realized he was clenching his teeth together so tight that they could have cracked.

Lyanna continued. "And so he was on me, pawing at me, trying to rip off my nightdress and force me onto him, Rhaegar. He tried to take me for his own then, somehow thinking that if he slurred '"Lyanna, hush, hush. Everything is fine,"' enough times into my ears I would believe him."

Lyanna shivered, and Rhaegar drew her in closer, so close that their noses nearly touched. So close that when she spoke again, Rhaegar could taste the rose perfume she wore.

"I hit him. I clawed at him, I kicked at him, and I screamed at him. I bit him so hard that his ear bled through and he roared at me like the boar he is." She shook her head, and the motion made a tangle of their hair that lay between them.

"He hit me, that's when I got the bruise. So I ran, faster than I thought I could, but he was faster. The only way that I got away was that he stumbled over something and lost me in that dark."

Rhaegar took one hand and gently stroked her cheek, leaving the other wrapped tightly around her waist.

"So it isn't truly my fault, then?" Rhaegar asked quietly.

She laughed a sad, ironic laugh. "No, prince. It isn't."

Rhaegar was relieved that she had acknowledged it, for he hadn't liked being the object if her hatred.

She sighed. "I blamed you just now irrationally. What woman wants to admit that she will be forced to marry a brute who drunkenly tries to mount her in the dark?"

Rhaegar smirked, even though the serious moment did not require it. "And so you blamed the innocent in your blinding tears? Do not fret; conquerors have been doing the same for years."

Lyanna shook her head and smiled at him. "I was right about you, prince. You do always speak in lyrics."

Rhaegar returned her grin slowly. "Only when I have inspiration, Lyanna."

"Do you have any now, Rhaegar?"

And as she gazed up at him, Rhaegar felt inspired. He loved the way that her name rolled off his tongue, and when she said his own name, she made him love it. Coming from her lips, his name was the most precious thing in the world. He felt like he could write an entire ballad just about her eyes that stared into his. He craved the way that she fit snugly into his arms like she did now.

She was a perfect fit for his arms, and as the realization dawned on him, his heart. Whether or not she had intended to, whether or not he had wanted it, Lyanna had wriggled her way into his heart, his soul.

And that feeling was beautiful, glorious, wondrous, and consuming.

The air between them changed, and Rhaegar could feel a nearly tangible current run through the air. There lay wrenching electricity between them, enough to make a man fall to his knees and plead for her.

She blinked slowly, and he knew she could feel it too.

"Rhaegar," she groaned softly.

They gravitated towards each other, attracting like magnets.

"Yes?" His heart was racing, arms tightening around her waist.

They were inhaling the same air, breath mingling warmly.

"Inspire me." She whispered against his lips.

Rhaegar could take it no longer, and he let his desire through. Their mouths met, lips pressing flush against one another, seeking passionately.

Lyanna drew back slightly and smiled against his mouth wickedly. They crashed together again, his hands exploring her back and tightening in her long hair. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she pulled herself closer.

Rhaegar was extremely aware of every curve of her body that he crushed against him, from her hips that changed to slender waist that gave way to soft, full breasts.

He tugged her lower lip with his teeth, making her moan against him. She tilted her head back and he moved to kiss her neck, eliciting soft noises from her throat that made his heart stop in response.

He backed her against the dummy that she had been hacking so viscously. The quintain held her to him, leaving Rhaegar's hands to explore Lyanna. He traced his hands over her eyebrows and the bruise on her face. He ran his lips along her jawline. She held his face to her chest as he kissed her collarbone tenderly. Rhaegar ran his hands over her breasts and then buried them in her hair.

How long they stood there, Rhaegar couldn't have said. It could have been mere moments or a whole lifetime.

The next thing he knew, the sun was shining in their eyes as it crested the horizon. They broke off their kisses, and Rhaegar squinted against the bright orange light of the sunrise.

To Rhaegar, the sun was a perfect adaptation of what he felt in his heart. Never before had he loved anyone like he did Lyanna. Kissing Elia was not half of what he had just felt, and he doubted it ever would be.

The darker thought sobered him somewhat, and he felt an urge to get back to his chambers before the castle woke.

He felt Lyanna Stark smile against his neck. "Perphaps you should tell Robert that that is how one should be woken in the morning."

And with the sun pouring into his soul, Rhaegar Targaryen agreed.

*break*