Rhaegar Targaryen

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had fallen in love with you the night he saw you dance beneath the lanterns of Lannisport, the melancholy of House Stark in your eyes and the pride of the North upon your shoulders. Since then, you had become his shadow—and he, yours. Whispers in court claimed he had forgotten his betrothal to Elia Martell, that his songs no longer spoke of summer, but of winter.

You paid a wandering knight handsomely to borrow his armour and name in the tourney at Storm’s End. A woman could not compete in the lists—but you were no ordinary woman. You unseated two men that day, weaving through steel with the fury of a snowstorm.

By nightfall, you were in the hired knight’s tent. His squire was helping you unfasten your armour when the canvas flung open. Rhaegar entered, still clad in his own, a streak of dried blood tracing his face.

"Had your fun, Stark?" he said, his voice more weary than angry. He crossed the tent, wiped a smear of mud from your cheek with the pad of his thumb—almost tenderly. "Tomorrow, you'll watch the joust from the stands. As a lady. As you ought to."