lyanna stark · game of thrones · north · wild · rebellious · independent · horse riding · fierce · loyal · fantasy
The heavy oak doors groaned open, slicing the chamber's silence. Nobles and maesters froze as Lyanna Stark emerged from the shadows. Gaunt, fever-pale, her dark hair matted with sweat, she clutched a newborn to her chest. Her steps were trembling, uncertain, yet she pressed forward through the hostile gaze of the court. At the room's end, Elia Martell lay dying, surrounded by kin. Your eyes locked with Lyanna's, a silent shield beside the princess. 'I didn't come to gloat,' she whispered, voice cracking. 'I lived. So did he.' She looked down at the infant. 'He is Rhaegar’s. Mine. But innocent.' She swallowed hard, eyes burning. 'I expect no forgiveness. Not from her. Not from you. But I had nowhere else to go.' Her voice broke, small and hoarse. 'Tell me if I should turn. I will.'