When war claims the realm, Lyanna does not find it surprising that they call upon Rhaegar. He is as skilled a warrior as he is a politician. But even he may not be able to save them now. The path they thread is one that cannot be abandoned. All his wit and cunning are poured into this attempt, but Lyanna can see this tree bears no fruits.

"I leave with the rising sun," he tells her after Jaehaerys is taken to bed. Lyanna covers their son, nodding to her husband's whisper. She watches Rhaegar kiss the boy's forehead. A semblance of normality.

"Rest awhile," she tells him in an equally quiet voice. The boy sleeps well through the night, and is unlikely to wake before the sun's up in the sky. The hours are scarce. They exit together, Lyanna's hand falling around his arm by habit. She takes whatever comfort she can in the heat of his skin underneath her palm, until the familiarity of their bedroom surrounds them.

"I do not crave sleep." The words hang between them. A soft breeze flows by through an open window. Rhaegar's head lowers until their mouths are almost touching. Instinctively Lyanna rises up to meet him. The hands that grab her shoulders hold her back. "I seek blessings. Your blessings."

It hits her that he might not come back. Even atop that beast of his, which ails; who is to say an arrow won't hit its mark. Desperate hands tug at him. It scares her, this uncertainty that has taken root within her bosom. "Come back to me." Or else she'll refuse to give him her blessings.

"Under my shield or on it." His promise further stirs the storm brewing. Rhaegar pulls apart the girdle tied around her middle. For a few hours the world is reduced to the four walls and the crisp linens that are slowly getting drenched.

The messenger comes in the middle of the night. Rhaegar does not sleep. He has expected this. But the news the fresh-faced youth discloses shakes him to the core. Gently, he shakes Lyanna awake. Their chance of winning is slim to none. "They are at the gates." In truth the gates are splinters by now.

A rasp leaves her lips. She asks what can be done. "If we leave now," she tries to convince him, fingers threading into the material of his clothing.

He considers it for a moment. Shame swells in his chest. Rhaegar shakes his head. "They are too many, and we have too few soldiers left." The dragons have been sickening for too long a time to be of real use. Lyanna knows it; all the same he is glad she does not speak the words.

"Then there is nothing else for it, my love." Lyanna leans on her side, searching for something. She holds up a knife of dark steel. "It would be better if I wait for him there. Our son will not understand if we send him first."

Placing the weapon in his hand, Lyanna allows the sheet to slip from around her, leaving her chest exposed. He can see her struggling to breathe. The boy outside waits for Rhaegar to say his farewells. His hand trembles. He'll die out there. And he refuses to leave Lyanna or his son to those barbarians. Still his fingers grip the handle too tightly. There is no need to cause her pain.

Blade meets flesh as he takes her mouth with his. It is quick, but bloody. Red smears on the sheets and on his garments. Rhaegar crushed her body to his, crying out with her as if the knife pierces him also. She struggles in his hold, reflexively trying to escape the pain. Something wet slides against his cheek when her heart stops beating. It has been minutes, but it feels like a lifetime to him. For the last time he places a kiss on her forehead.

Sliding her cooling body under the sheets, Rhaegar steals to his son's rooms. The messenger impatiently taps on the door, calling him. Plunging the knife is not made easier by the child's unawareness. Somehow Rhaegar thinks it should have been easier. He takes the boy to Lyanna and sets him in his mother's arms.

The doors open with a bang. "We must leave now!" the young man says, but stops upon the sight before him. His face pales. "We must leave," he repeats without the earlier fire.

"I know," Rhaegar says.

He mounts his dragon, petting the scales. The beast is grieving. For itself? For its master? For the world? It can barely fly now. Rhaegar asks the gods for strength when he reaches what is left of the army. He looks at the pitiful wretches. "You can run," he tells them, voice clear and strong despite the broken heart hidden away inside the cage of his ribs. "You can hide. You'll live a day longer. Maybe two. Let's say a week." The men look confused. "But they will hunt you, and they will find you; and you will die, tonight, tomorrow, it makes no difference in the when. The how matters more. Do you choose to die as cowards? Or do you choose to die free men?" He draws his sword. "Let them taste our steel and learn what freedom is."

A cheer of approval goes up in the sky. It is not a cry of victory. But men who are already dead have nothing left to fear.

The fight goes as all fights do. There is blood aplenty, and death touches all the men of the field. Some it takes, some it doesn't. Rhaegar only makes sure he goes. For what else could his wish be when he fights like a madman?

Skilled swords cross on that field. Men of might fall under enemy blows. The city wails under flame and violence, and it crumbles under its own vanity.

Rhaegar feels a sharp pain. He looks down. Two arrows have pierced through his hastily tied armour. He brings his sword down, cutting off a head. A third arrow strikes, and another enemy falls. But he is not made of steel. When his knee is injured, Rhaegar can be naught but kneel. And loss of blood makes him dizzy.

The sun is rising. He looks up. Lyanna stands before him, her hand outstretched. She looks happy. Rhaegar reaches out for her.

A head flies off.