Chapter 6: The Reckoning

Second Moon of 282 AC - The Red Keep, King's Landing

The gates of the Red Keep opened like the maw of some great beast, swallowing
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark whole.

They entered hand in hand—a gesture that would be remembered, discussed, and
dissected for years to come. Their fingers were interlaced, a public declaration of
unity that struck many observers as either touchingly romantic or brazenly defiant,
depending on their perspective.

The outer courtyard was packed with people. Servants lined the walls, straining for a
glimpse of the scandal made flesh. Knights from half a dozen great houses stood in
their livery—the direwolf of Stark, the moon-and-falcon of Arryn, the crowned stag
of Baratheon, the leaping trout of Tully. Gold cloaks maintained order, but barely.
The air thrummed with tension, thick enough to choke on.

As Rhaegar and Lyanna walked forward, the murmurs began—a low susurrus of
whispers that grew louder with each step.

"That's her? She's just a girl..."

"Look at them, holding hands like lovers in a song..."

"The prince abandoned his wife for that?"

"I heard she's already carrying his bastard..."

"Northern whore..."

"Traitor to his marriage vows..."

The words pelted them like stones, but neither Rhaegar nor Lyanna flinched. They
walked with their heads high, though Lyanna's grip on Rhaegar's hand tightened until
her knuckles went white.

They passed through the outer courtyard into the inner ward, and the crowd grew
denser still. Here were the lords and ladies, the power brokers and political players, all
of them watching with expressions ranging from scandalized horror to barely
concealed glee at the drama unfolding.

And there, near the entrance to the Great Hall, stood the people who mattered most.

Rickard Stark was an imposing figure even in stillness. The Lord of Winterfell stood
with his sons flanking him—Brandon on his right, rage barely contained beneath a
veneer of northern stoicism; Eddard on his left, his young face a mask of conflicting
emotions. All three wore the gray and white of House Stark, and all three had eyes
fixed on Lyanna with an intensity that could have melted steel.

Jon Arryn stood nearby, his weathered face grave. Beside him was his nephew Elbert,
and next to them—

Robert Baratheon.

The young Lord of Storm's End was bigger than Rhaegar remembered, though they
had seen each other at countless tourneys over the years. Robert stood like a
mountain, his black hair wild, his blue eyes burning with something too complex to
name. When those eyes locked onto Lyanna, his entire body went rigid, and for a
moment Rhaegar thought the young lord might charge forward and tear them both
apart with his bare hands.

But Robert didn't move. He stood there, shaking with the effort of restraint, while Jon
Arryn kept one hand on his arm in warning or comfort or both.

The Mallister contingent was there—Lord Jason and his son Jeffory, both wearing
identical expressions of disgust. The Royces stood nearby, Kyle looking like he
wanted to be anywhere else in the world. Ethan Glover stood with his father, his face
twisted with contempt as his eyes tracked Lyanna's progress.

And then there were the Tullys.

Lord Hoster looked ill, his face pale and drawn. The Blackfish stood at his shoulder,
his sharp eyes missing nothing. Catelyn Tully stood protectively near her sister Lysa,
who looked like she might faint at any moment. And there, slightly apart from the
family group, was Petyr Baelish, his green eyes bright with interest as he watched the
drama unfold.

But it was the throne room itself that made Rhaegar's breath catch.

The doors stood open, revealing the cavernous space beyond. Hundreds of people had
crowded inside—courtiers and knights, servants and merchants, anyone who could
claim even the flimsiest reason to witness this moment. They lined the walls, packed
the galleries, filled every available space.

And there, at the far end on a raised dais, stood the people Rhaegar had been dreading
to see.

Queen Rhaella stood in the place of honor, her face composed but her eyes carrying a
weight of sorrow that made Rhaegar's chest ache. The Kingsguard flanked her in their
white cloaks and armor—Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, standing like an
ancient oak; Ser Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar's dearest friend, whose face was carefully
neutral; Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Jonothor Darry, and Prince Lewyn Martell, all of them
standing at attention.

And there was Ser Jaime Lannister, the youngest of them, holding Prince Viserys
firmly by the shoulders. The five-year-old boy was straining forward, his face bright
with excitement at seeing his older brother, but Jaime held him in place with gentle
firmness.

Ser Barristan Selmy stood slightly forward from the others, and behind him, a wall of
gold cloaks formed a silent barrier of authority.

Rhaegar's eyes swept the room desperately, searching for the faces he most needed
and most feared to see.

Elia.

Rhaenys.

Baby Aegon.

They were nowhere to be found.

Their absence struck him like a physical blow. Of course Elia wouldn't be here. How
could she be? How could he have expected her to stand in this room and watch him
enter with another woman?

But the absence of his children hurt even more. Rhaenys, his sweet daughter who
loved to have him read to her. Aegon, his newborn son whom he had barely held
before leaving Dragonstone.

What have I done? The thought struck him with sudden, devastating clarity. What in
the name of all the gods have I done?

Beside him, Lyanna had gone rigid. He felt her hand trembling in his, felt her
breathing quicken. She was staring at the crowd with wide eyes, and he realized with
a sinking feeling what she was seeing.

Every face in this room believed Rhaegar had kidnapped her. They believed he had
taken her by force, imprisoned her, raped her. They looked at her not with sympathy
but with a complex mixture of pity, contempt, and morbid curiosity.

And then there were those who knew the truth—or suspected it. Brandon's
companions, who had risked their lives coming to King's Landing to rescue her. The
Tullys, who knew about the letters. Robert, who had read her rejection in her own
handwriting.

Those faces held something worse than belief in her victimhood. They held
knowledge of her choice, and judgment for it.

A soft, broken sound drew Rhaegar's attention. Lysa Tully had begun to weep, quiet
sobs that she tried to muffle with her hand. Catelyn pulled her sister close, whispering
something in her ear, but Lysa shook her head violently.

Hoster Tully's face was carved from stone as he stared at Lyanna. His eyes moved
from her face to her hands—still clasped with Rhaegar's—and something flickered in
his expression. Disappointment? Disgust? Vindication that his warnings about the
betrothal had been correct?

The Blackfish's gaze was sharper, more analytical. He studied Lyanna like a general
assessing an enemy's position, and Rhaegar had the uncomfortable feeling that
Brynden Tully was seeing through every layer of pretense to the uncomfortable truth
beneath.

And there, near the wall with the other pyromancers, stood Wisdom Rossart.

The Grand Master of the Alchemists' Guild wore the green robes of his order, and his
eyes gleamed with interest as he watched the proceedings. Other alchemists stood
with him, their presence a jarring reminder of Aerys's obsession with wildfire.

Rhaegar felt his stomach twist. Why were the alchemists here? This was a family
matter, a political crisis—what need was there for pyromancers?

The silence in the throne room was absolute now. Hundreds of people held their
breath, waiting.

Then a herald's voice rang out, clear and carrying: "His Grace, King Aerys of House
Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men,
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm! The members of the Small
Council! And His Holiness, the Septon of the Great Sept of Baelor!"

All eyes turned to the entrance behind the Iron Throne.

Aerys emerged first, and Rhaegar felt shock ripple through him.

This was not the father he remembered. This was not the Mad King who had ruled
through paranoia and cruelty for the past years. This man was still too thin, yes, his
body marked by long suffering and poor health. But his eyes were clear. His hair and
beard were neatly trimmed and braided in the old Targaryen style. His robes were
clean and well-fitted. His movements were measured and purposeful.

He looked, Rhaegar thought with growing unease, sane.

Behind the king came the members of the Small Council. Varys glided forward in his
soft slippers, his hands folded in his sleeves, his expression placid. Grand Maester
Pycelle followed, his chains clinking with each step. Lord Lucerys Velaryon, Master
of Ships, walked with maritime dignity. Lord Chelsted, Master of Coin, looked
nervous. Symond Staunton, Master of Laws, carried a thick tome—undoubtedly filled
with precedents and legal frameworks that might apply to this unprecedented
situation.

And finally, the Septon of the Great Sept of Baelor—the highest religious authority in
the Seven Kingdoms—entered in his crystal crown and robes of rainbow hues. His
presence added weight and solemnity to the proceedings, a reminder that this was not
just a political matter but a moral one as well.
As Aerys passed, every person in the room bowed or curtsied. Rhaegar found himself
bowing as well, pulling Lyanna down with him into a curtsy. When they rose, Aerys
was already ascending the steps to the Iron Throne.

The king did not sit immediately. He stood before the throne, his back to the twisted
swords, and let his gaze sweep across the assembled crowd. When his purple eyes
finally settled on Rhaegar and Lyanna, his expression was utterly unreadable.

Then, with deliberate slowness, Aerys turned and sat upon the Iron Throne.

The symbolism was not lost on anyone. This was not a father addressing his son. This
was a king sitting in judgment.

Aerys's gaze moved from Rhaegar to Lyanna to the three bound knights—Dryn Sand,
Aelex Flint, and Uthor Beesbury—who stood under guard to one side. Then his eyes
swept across the assembled lords and ladies, the Kingsguard, his wife, his youngest
son.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and razor-sharp, carrying to every corner
of the vast room.

"Lady Lyanna Stark," he said, and the formal address made Lyanna straighten her
spine. "Step forward."

Rhaegar felt her hand clench in his, but she released him and walked forward alone.
She moved with the fierce northern pride that was her birthright, but Rhaegar could
see the fear in the set of her shoulders.

She stopped at the base of the Iron Throne's steps and curtsied deeply.

"Your Grace," she said, her voice steady despite everything.

"You have been missing for nearly two months," Aerys said. "During that time, your
family believed you had been kidnapped. Your brother Brandon came to this very
hall, calling for my son's head, prepared to die to avenge what he believed was your
violation. Your father, your other brother, your betrothed—all of them have been in
this city, fearing the worst."

He leaned forward slightly. "So I will ask you now, before all these witnesses, before
the gods and men: Were you harmed? Were you taken against your will? Did my son
force you to flee with him?"

The question hung in the air, and Rhaegar saw Lyanna's jaw tighten.

"Or," Aerys continued, his voice dropping to something more dangerous, "were you
foolish enough to believe yourself the heroine of some romantic song? Foolish
enough to run away with a married man—a man with a wife and two young children
—because you thought your desires mattered more than duty, honor, and the stability
of the realm?"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. This was not the Mad King speaking. This was
something else—something more frightening because it was rational, calculated,
devastating in its precision.

Lyanna lifted her chin, and Rhaegar recognized the gesture—it was the same defiant
tilt she had shown when he first crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty at Harrenhal.

"I was not harmed, Your Grace," she said clearly. "I was not forced. I went with
Prince Rhaegar of my own free will because I love him."

The words fell like stones into water, sending ripples of shock and outrage through
the assembled crowd.

"Love," Aerys repeated, and there was something almost pitying in his tone. "You are
fifteen years old, girl. You know nothing of love. You know only the songs and
stories that fill young girls' heads with foolish notions."

"I know my own heart!" Lyanna's voice rose, her northern fire breaking through.
"And I know that I could not—I would not—marry Robert Baratheon when I—"

"Silence." The command cracked like a whip, and Lyanna fell silent immediately.
"You will speak when I give you leave, Lady Lyanna. And you will answer only the
questions I ask. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Lyanna whispered.

Aerys studied her for a long moment. "You claim you went willingly. Very well.
Then tell this court: Are you married to my son?"

The question electrified the room. Every person leaned forward, straining to hear the
answer.

Lyanna's hand moved to a pocket in her dress, and she withdrew a folded parchment.
"Yes, Your Grace. We were married on the Isle of Faces, near Harrenhal, before a
heart tree. A wandering septon named Meribald performed the ceremony and
witnessed our vows."

She held out the parchment. "This is the record of our marriage. Prince Rhaegar
obtained an annulment from Princess Elia Martell before we wed. Everything was
done properly, legally, in the sight of gods and men."

The throne room erupted.

Voices rose in a cacophony of shock, outrage, and disbelief. Lords shouted over each
other. Ladies gasped and clutched their companions. The herald called for order, but
his voice was lost in the chaos.

Rhaegar felt the blood drain from his face. He stared at Lyanna, at the parchment in
her hand, and felt the world tilting beneath his feet.
An annulment. She was telling the court about the annulment.

He had known this moment would come, but he hadn't expected it so soon, hadn't
expected it to be revealed like this, in front of everyone—

A movement caught his eye.

Queen Rhaella stepped forward from her place among the Kingsguard. Her face was a
mask of ice and fury as she descended the dais steps with measured precision.

"Mother—" Rhaegar began, but she silenced him with a single look.

Rhaella walked to where Lyanna stood and held out her hand. "The parchment, girl.
Give it to me."

Lyanna hesitated, her eyes darting to Rhaegar. But what choice did she have? She
placed the document in the queen's hand.

Rhaella unfolded it and read, her lips moving silently. Her face showed nothing—no
surprise, no rage, no grief. Just cold, terrible emptiness.

Then, without a word, she walked to one of the braziers that lit the throne room. The
flames burned low and steady, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

"Mother, no!" Rhaegar lunged forward, but Ser Barristan Selmy was faster. The Lord
Commander's hand caught Rhaegar's arm, holding him back with surprising strength.

"Don't," Barristan said quietly. "You cannot stop her."

Rhaella held the parchment over the flames for a moment, as though giving everyone
time to understand what was about to happen. Then she released it.

The document caught fire immediately, the edges curling and blackening. Within
seconds, it was nothing but ash and smoke, the proof of Rhaegar's second marriage
consumed by flames.

Gasps and cries filled the throne room. Lyanna went pale as death. Rhaegar struggled
against Barristan's grip, but the knight held firm.

"That was—that was our marriage!" Lyanna's voice broke. "You had no right—"

"I had every right," Rhaella said coldly, turning to face the girl. "I am the Queen of
the Seven Kingdoms. I am the mother of two legitimate grandchildren born to Prince
Rhaegar and Princess Elia Martell. And I will not stand by and watch my son destroy
his own children's legitimacy based on some mockery of an annulment."

She advanced on Lyanna, and the girl stepped back instinctively. "You want to know
what you've done, child? You've participated in the abandonment of a woman who
nearly died giving my son an heir. You've helped shame one of the great houses of
Westeros. You've made yourself complicit in cruelty disguised as romance."
"I love him!" Lyanna cried. "And he loves me! We were married—"

"You were nothing!" Rhaella's voice rose for the first time, and the raw pain in it
silenced everyone. "You were a foolish girl who thought the world revolved around
her desires. And my son—" She turned to look at Rhaegar, and the disappointment in
her eyes was worse than any rage could have been. "My son was equally foolish to
believe that prophecy mattered more than the wife who gave him children and the
duty he owed to his house."

She walked back to the dais, her steps echoing in the silent room. When she reached
her place among the Kingsguard, she turned to face forward, her face once again a
mask of ice.

She did not look at Rhaegar. She did not look at Lyanna. She simply stood there, a
queen carved from northern winter and southern sorrow, and waited for her husband
to continue.

Aerys had watched the entire scene without moving, without speaking. Now he leaned
back in the Iron Throne, and Rhaegar could have sworn he saw something like
approval flicker across his father's face.

"Lady Lyanna," Aerys said, his voice carrying easily in the shocked silence, "you
claim you were married to my son. Your proof has been destroyed. But let us set that
aside for the moment and address the larger question."

He stood, and everyone in the room felt the weight of his authority.

"You disappeared after the betrothal feast of your brother Brandon and Lady Catelyn
Tully. You were seen traveling with my son in secret. You were found at the Tower of
Joy in Dorne, far from your home and family. During all this time, your family
believed you had been taken by force. Your brother came to this city ready to die for
your honor. Your father, your other brother, and your betrothed have all been here, in
my capital, fearing the worst and demanding justice."

His purple eyes bored into her. "So I will ask you again, and I will have truth this
time: Were you forced? Were you abused? Were you held against your will? Because
if you were, if my son committed any crime against you, I need to know now."

"I was not forced!" Lyanna's voice rang out. "I went willingly! I chose this!"

"Then you are a fool," Aerys said bluntly. "But that is not a crime under the law of the
Seven Kingdoms. What is a crime, however, is abandoning a betrothal contract
without cause, shaming your house, and potentially—" He paused significantly.
"Potentially carrying a bastard child conceived while my son was still married to his
lawful wife."

The room fell deathly silent.

"Are you with child, Lady Lyanna?" Aerys asked.

"I—I might be," she whispered.

The throne room exploded again.

Brandon Stark surged forward, fury blazing in his gray eyes, but Eddard's hand on his
shoulder stopped him. "Brandon, no!" Ned hissed. "Not here! Not now!"

But Brandon wasn't listening. "You might be?" he roared at his sister. "You might be
carrying his bastard, and you stand there talking about love and marriage like—like
—"

"Lord Brandon." Aerys's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "You will control
yourself, or you will be removed from this hall. I will not tolerate disruptions."

Brandon stopped, shaking with rage, but he didn't advance further. Rickard Stark's
hand had joined Eddard's on his shoulder, holding him in place.

Lyanna stood alone before the Iron Throne, and for the first time, Rhaegar saw fear
crack through her defiance.

"Your Grace," she said, her voice stronger now, "I understand that I've caused...
difficulties. But you must understand that I was trapped. I was forced into a betrothal
with Robert Baratheon—a man I did not choose, did not love, did not want. It was
arranged so that my brother Eddard could bind himself to Robert's house. No one
asked me what I wanted. No one cared about my feelings."

She turned to face the assembled crowd, her gray eyes blazing. "Lord Jon Arryn
drafted that agreement without ever speaking to me. My father accepted it without
asking if I was willing. And Robert—" Her voice filled with contempt. "Robert
already had a bastard daughter before our betrothal was even formalized. Mya Stone,
born to some common girl in the Vale. He drinks, he whores, he beds anyone who
catches his eye, and I was supposed to smile and accept it because that's what noble
wives do?"

The accusations hung in the air, and Rhaegar saw Jon Arryn's face go pale. Rickard
Stark's expression remained stoic, but something flickered in his eyes—guilt, perhaps,
or regret.

And Robert—

Robert Baratheon stood frozen, his massive hands clenched into fists. His face cycled
through emotions too quickly to track—shock, shame, rage, hurt. When his eyes met
Lyanna's across the throne room, the pain in them was raw and terrible.

"You're right," Robert said, his voice rough. "You're absolutely right, Lyanna. I'm a
drunk and a whore and a terrible choice for a husband. I have bastards, I make
mistakes, I'm not the hero from the songs."
He took a step forward, and the crowd parted before him. "But I never lied to you
about what I was. I never pretended to be perfect. And I sure as hell never abandoned
a wife and two children to run off with someone else."

He gestured at Rhaegar with contempt. "Your prince there? He had a wife. A good
wife. A wife who nearly died giving him an heir. And instead of honoring her, instead
of cherishing what he had, he threw it all away for a girl barely out of childhood. So
don't stand there and pretend this is about love or choice or freedom. This is about two
selfish people who thought their desires mattered more than everyone else's lives."

"That's not fair!" Lyanna cried. "You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly," Robert interrupted. "I understand that you used me. You
used the betrothal as an excuse to run away with him. You made yourself the victim
of an arrangement that was perfectly normal for noble houses because it was easier
than admitting you just wanted someone else."

He looked at Rhaegar, and the hatred in his eyes was like a physical force. "And you.
You sang songs and handed out roses and made everyone believe you were this noble,
perfect prince. But you're worse than me, Rhaegar. At least I own what I am. You
hide behind prophecy and romance and pretty words while you destroy everyone
around you."

Before anyone could respond, Aerys spoke again.

"Lord Robert makes several valid points," the king said. "But we are not here to
litigate the quality of betrothals or the characters of the parties involved. We are here
to establish facts."

He looked down at Lyanna. "You claim you might be with child. That is a claim that
can be verified or disproven. Grand Maester Pycelle."

The old maester stepped forward, bowing. "Your Grace?"

"Summon a midwife. One of skill and discretion. Lady Lyanna will be examined to
determine if she carries a child, and if so, whether there are any signs of force or
abuse upon her person."

Lyanna's face went crimson. "Your Grace, that's—that's not necessary! I've told you I
wasn't forced—"

"You've told me many things, girl," Aerys said coldly. "Now I want proof. You will
submit to examination, or I will assume you are lying about everything."

He turned his gaze to the Tully contingent. "Lady Catelyn Tully. Step forward."

Catelyn looked startled but moved forward with dignity. She curtsied before the
throne. "Your Grace?"
"You were at Riverrun when Lady Lyanna disappeared. You are betrothed to her
brother Brandon. You have a stake in the truth being revealed." Aerys studied her
carefully. "I want you present during the examination. You will witness whatever the
midwife finds and report back to this court. Can you do that?"

Catelyn hesitated, looking at her father, at Brandon, at Lyanna. Then she nodded.
"Yes, Your Grace. I can."

"Good." Aerys gestured to the guards. "Escort Lady Lyanna and Lady Catelyn to the
guest chambers. Send for the best midwife in the city. The examination will be
conducted immediately, and we will reconvene once we have answers."

As guards moved to flank Lyanna and Catelyn, Lyanna turned to look at Rhaegar. Her
gray eyes were wide with fear and betrayal, as though she couldn't believe he wasn't
doing something, saying something, saving her somehow.

But what could he do? What could he say?

He had brought her here. He had promised her they would be together, that their love
would overcome all obstacles. And now she was being led away to be examined like a
broodmare, while he stood helpless and watched.

Catelyn took Lyanna's hand—a gesture of unexpected kindness—and together they

As soon as they were gone, Aerys turned his attention to Rhaegar.

"You," the king said, and the single word carried more weight than any elaborate
sentence could have. "Ser Barristan."

"Your Grace?" The Lord Commander stepped forward.

"My son's chambers are to be guarded. Inside and out. He is not to leave. He is not to
have visitors without my express permission. He is not to send messages or receive
them. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear, Your Grace."

Rhaegar felt ice flood his veins. "Father, please—"

"You are confined to your chambers until I decide what to do with you," Aerys said,
his voice flat and emotionless. "You will go there now. You will wait. And you will
pray to whatever gods you believe in that I can find a way to fix the disaster you've
created."

"But Elia—I need to see Elia, I need to explain—"

"Princess Elia," Aerys interrupted, "does not wish to see you. She has made that
abundantly clear. And I will not force her to endure your presence until she chooses
otherwise."
Rhaegar looked around desperately—at his mother, who would not meet his eyes; at
his Kingsguard brothers, who stood like statues; at the assembled lords and ladies,
whose faces showed everything from pity to contempt to savage satisfaction.

"Go," Aerys commanded. "Before I change my mind about being merciful."

Ser Barristan's hand was gentle but firm on Rhaegar's arm. "Come, Your Grace. This
way."

As Rhaegar was led from the throne room, he heard the whispers start up again, a
wave of sound that followed him like a curse.

"Did you see his face when the queen burned the annulment?"

"The fool actually thought he could just set aside his wife..."

"Poor Princess Elia..."

"That Stark girl is going to wish she'd never been born..."

"The realm will never accept a bastard as heir, even a Targaryen bastard..."

The doors closed behind him, cutting off the sound but not the shame.

In the throne room, Aerys remained seated on the Iron Throne, his face unreadable.
The assembled crowd waited, uncertain what would happen next.

Finally, the king spoke. "We will reconvene when Lady Catelyn returns with the
midwife's report. Until then, you are all dismissed. Lord Stark, Lord Arryn, Lord
Tully—you will remain. I would speak with you privately."

As the crowd began to file out—reluctantly, wanting to see more drama but not daring
to disobey a direct command—the three lords approached the throne.

Rickard Stark moved with northern dignity, Jon Arryn with measured caution, Hoster
Tully with visible nervousness. They stopped at the base of the steps and bowed.

"Your Grace," they said in near unison.

Aerys studied them in silence for a long moment. Then he descended from the Iron
Throne and stood before them on level ground—a gesture that surprised everyone.

"Your children have created a crisis," he said bluntly. "My son has abandoned his
wife and taken your daughter, Lord Stark. Your daughter went willingly and may be
carrying what the realm will consider a bastard, regardless of any claims about secret
marriages. And you, Lord Arryn, arranged a betrothal that has now become a source
of shame and anger for all involved."
He looked at each of them in turn. "So tell me, my lords: How do we fix this? How do
we prevent this disaster from tearing the Seven Kingdoms apart?"

The three lords exchanged glances. None of them had an answer.

And in that silence, the future of the realm hung in balance, waiting to tip toward
salvation or destruction.

The Guest Chambers

Lyanna sat on the edge of a bed in the guest chambers, her hands clasped tightly in
her lap to keep them from shaking. Catelyn stood near the window, her face carefully
neutral, while a midwife—a woman of middle years with kind eyes and efficient
hands—prepared her examination tools.

"This will not take long, my lady," the midwife said gently. "And I promise to be as
discreet as possible."

"I don't care about discretion," Lyanna said, her voice tight. "I care about the truth. I
want everyone to know I wasn't forced. I want them to understand that I chose this."

Catelyn finally spoke, her voice quiet but firm. "Lyanna, even if the midwife confirms
you weren't harmed, it won't change what you've done. You still abandoned your
betrothal. You still went with a married man. You still—" She paused, struggling with
the words. "You still betrayed everyone who cared about you."

"You don't understand," Lyanna said desperately. "I couldn't marry Robert. I couldn't
spend my life being just another woman he beds when he's too drunk to remember
their names. I couldn't—"

"So you ran away with someone else's husband instead?" Catelyn's control cracked
slightly. "Lyanna, Princess Elia just gave birth to Prince Rhaegar's son. She nearly
died doing it. And while she was recovering, while she was caring for their children,
he was with you. How is that better than anything Robert might have done?"

Lyanna had no answer for that.

The midwife cleared her throat gently. "My lady, if you're ready?"

Lyanna nodded stiffly and began to undress.

As the examination proceeded, Catelyn turned away to give what privacy she could.
She stared out the window at King's Landing spread below—at the city that was about
to explode with gossip and scandal, at the realm that was fracturing under the weight
of foolish choices and broken vows.
And she thought about her own betrothal to Brandon Stark, which now seemed more
fragile than ever. Would his family even want the alliance after this? Would anyone
trust House Stark's word after Lyanna's betrayal?

"My lady," the midwife said quietly, and Catelyn turned back.

Lyanna was dressed again, sitting on the bed with her arms wrapped around herself.
The midwife was washing her hands, her expression thoughtful.

"Well?" Catelyn asked.

The midwife dried her hands carefully before speaking. "Lady Lyanna is with child.
Perhaps six weeks along, no more. And there are no signs of force or violence. No
bruising, no tearing, nothing to suggest anything other than... willing participation."

Lyanna closed her eyes, and tears began to stream down her face—whether from
relief or despair, Catelyn couldn't tell.

"Thank you," Catelyn said to the midwife. "Please prepare your report for the king.
And remember—discretion is paramount. What you've learned here today must not
leave this room until His Grace decides how to proceed."

"Of course, my lady." The midwife gathered her tools and departed, leaving Catelyn
and Lyanna alone.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Lyanna whispered, "I'm going to have his child, Cat. Rhaegar's child. Our
child."

"You're going to have a bastard," Catelyn corrected gently but firmly. "Unless King
Aerys decides to legitimize it, which seems unlikely given that he's trying to protect
Princess Elia's children. And even if he does legitimize it, do you really think the
realm will accept a child born of such scandal?"

"Rhaegar and I were married!" Lyanna insisted. "We said vows before the gods! The
annulment was legal!"

"The only proof of that marriage just went up in flames," Catelyn reminded her. "And
frank, Lyanna, I don't think anyone would have believed it anyway. An annulment
from a marriage that produced two living children? That's not how the Faith works, no
matter what wandering septon Prince Rhaegar found to bless his desires."

Lyanna buried her face in her hands. "What am I going to do, Cat? What's going to
happen to me?"

Catelyn moved to sit beside her, and despite everything—despite the anger and
disappointment and fear—she put her arm around the younger girl's shoulders.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But Lyanna, you need to prepare yourself for the
possibility that this doesn't end well. The king could send you to a sept. Your father
could disown you. Robert could demand some kind of justice. And Rhaegar..." She
paused. "Rhaegar is confined to his chambers under guard. He can't protect you now,
even if he wanted to."

"He loves me," Lyanna whispered.

"Maybe he does," Catelyn said quietly. "But love isn't always enough, Lyanna.
Sometimes duty matters more. Sometimes honor matters more. Sometimes the needs
of the realm matter more than what two people want."

They sat together in silence, waiting for the summons that would call them back to the
throne room, back to judgment, back to face the consequences of choices that could
never be unmade.

And outside, the sun moved across the sky, marking time toward a future neither of
them could predict.

End of Chapter 6