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The wolf and the moon

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Elia martell was not the sun. Lyanna came to that conclusion three years after fleeing her home. Setting House symbols aside, one could see how Rhaegar had been the sun. He had been warm, true, but also harsh. Rhaegar had made her feel exposed, made her feel small at times, he shined too bright and not nearly soft enough. Lyanna was of the north, she knew how the sun could be cold, just like she knew snow could be warm. Elia Martell was not the sun.


Elia was the moon.


It started with hands. Just holding them, like when Elia held her hands when Lyanna was bleeding, dying for a time. When Lyanna heard of the usurpers marriage, Eila’s hand found its way into hers, softer and more comforting than Rhaegar had ever managed to be. Hugs followed, when the tight walls of the ship reminded Lyanna of the tower, when the sailors said something that sounded like Brandon and all lyanna could smell was flesh. When it was Elia who was lost and cried for a killed babe and a nearly slaughtered daughter, Elia hugged lyanna like a drowning man clung to wood.


Their first kiss was in moon light.


The children were asleep. Little dany and her jon, viserys and rhaenys. All piled into one big bed, tangled like her wolf pack had once tangled in their parents bed. Lyanna did not feel like a wolf at times, she had led her pack to the flame, her sir to the slaughter. At least her brothers still lived, she and Elia had that in common now, two brothers and a husband who left them for words.


It was a much needed bath. The hot water relaxing and soothing, the moonlight looked silver on Lyanna’s pale skin. Elia was beside her, and together they looked at the sky, at the stars they had once recited as children. It was a slow thing, their kiss, so different from her husband. He had rushed things, like a wave pushing against her, whereas elia pulled her in for more. Elia tasted like moonlight too, the stars as their witness as they wrapped around each other like earth around a vein of silver.


The world called the dornish mad. Lyanna called them free. She felt freer here than she ever felt in winterfell, in bravos with its lemons and red doors. Lyanna even loved the mornings, where the cold would remind her of a childhood lost. There was so much pleasure here, as Elia taught her the wonders of flesh, as they learned to love and live again. Lyanna wished her father had betrothed her to one of the dornish princes. Then she could have had it all. Her Elia and her brothers and her children. But Eila was enough, more than Rhaegar was. Eila was her light, and who was a wolf not to love the moon in all her slender.


Elia reminded Lyanna of Ned sometimes. She was constant, unlike Rhaegar who was prone to his moods and deep thoughts, Elia simply was. It was Elia’s family that found them first. Her brother Oberyn simply showed up in their house, in their garden, showing a snake off to his niece. Lyanna’s heart leapt in her throat, she had not seen Elia in his face, she had only seen his body. Lyanna trusted few men now, she knew what they did to daughters, she knew how they hurt their mothers. And it was in that moment that Elia reminded Lyanna of Ned, his expression on her face as she found lyanna with a knife to her brothers throat. (Lyanna and Elia had long ago decided to never to be at the mercy of men).


Oberyn told them of westeros. How the world thought her dead and Elia slain. He spoke of the world they left behind. He asked of the kingsguard. The morning star was in the markets, looking for supplies. The old bull was at the banks, using his old name to make trade. The black bat was on patrol, and easily avoided by the red viper. The kingslayer, queen saver, elia called him, was with the maester and the children. Ser jaime was their favorite, as older sisters he fit into their world just fine, and her white line had saved her moon. How could Lyanna not love him for that. How could she not love any of them for bringing her to this paradise, even if she payed such a price for it.


Lyanna was happy. Too happy, something she knew couldnt last, not when arthur and gerold whispered among themselves at jon. Not when she saw the shadows creeping ever closer. Not when they both dreamt of dragons. Lyanna would awake at night, cold and in fear, blue eyes haunting her dreams. Elia would sing to her, soft lullabies only a mother knows, and sometimes if the dreams were too much Lyanna would ask for much more than a song. Elia was always happy to oblige.


Elia would wax and wane like the moon. There were times when she seemed invincible and times when she seemed invisible. It had been seven years when Lyanna saw her brother benjen again. He was a man now, wearing their father’s face. Elia went went pale when she saw him, her eyes in that dark place reserved for lannister bannermen and targaryen kings, and in lyanna’s dreams she killed them for Elia every night. Oberyn had told them of westeros, but it was Benjen who had told them of home.


He told her of a changing north. Of roads cleared and mountains mined, of a sleeping wolf readying for war. He spoke of a brother who still loved her despite all that had happened and a loving family waiting for her should she need it. He told her of her nieces and nephews, of how he was lord of moat cailin, how the north was growing and the south refused to see the signs. He spoke of her howland, and a song of ice and fire, but Lyanna no longer thought of rhaegar when she heard those words. She thought of a dornish queen and her northern lover.


War did come. It was Viserys who paid the price for their victory. Solemn and thoughtful, who held all of his mother and none of his father or brother. It was he who took that arrow to the heart for her and he who told her to burn him and wake the dragons from stone. With three eggs around his head like a crown they burned him, and for the first time in a long time Lyanna thought of her husband. She wondered what happened to his body. She wondered what it would be like to burn.


It was Elia who held her back when Dany walked into the fire. Lyanna screamed her throat raw, held back by Elia’s soft but gentle hands as her daughter walked into the flames. Then Jon followed, his eyes too similar to her father's, too similar to Neds. Elia did not doubt, she did not weep or cry even as her own daughter walked into the flames, her brown eyes shining molten in the light of the flames.


“Fire cannot kill a dragon and for all that we are their mothers we are not dragons.”


No, Lyanna thought desperately as the fire burned through the night, she was not a dragon. But why did her children have to be? Why did they have to burn like her husband, why did the flames always call to those she loved, why did the gods refuse to let her be happy?


It was dawn when fires died. Sitting as bare as they had come into the world were their children, untouched and unmarred by the flames, dragons sitting in their laps.


Elia and Lyanna beckoned them to stand. For winter knows not how to bow, winter does not bend, and it can not be broken. With fire and blood Rhaegar’s wives did what he could not.


The moon and her wolf watched as their children brought magic back into the world.