Lyanna was determined not to like Robert Baratheon. From the day Father told her of the betrothal, she had decided firmly, she would not love him. She didn’t even know him, not really, nothing beyond what Ned wrote in his letters, and he did not paint the most flattering picture, despite his own obvious infatuation with him. Despite her concerns about him, his drinking, his bastard, Ned swore that Robert loved her already, besotted, that he would be nothing but a devoted husband. How can that possibly be, though? They were betrothed and he still couldn’t be faithful. Why would he respect their marriage vows any more than the bonds of their engagement?
No, she would not love him, even if she couldn’t prevent the marriage from occuring. She still had command over her own heart.
Or so she thought. Lyanna had no idea just how naive she was, to think that love could be set by her own stubborness. She had underestimated Robert Baratheon’s charm. From the moment he arrived in Winterfell for the wedding, it was as if a blinding light had been concentrated on her, like the sun shone for her and no one else, so intense were his attentions. He came bearing gifts; a fine, fast horse, jewelry befitting a queen, gowns cut in a Southron fashion, perfumes and rouges. It was almost obscene how he spoiled her.
The gifts hardly compared to his words. Not a poet by any means, he could be rather graceless in his words, but that only added to their perceived sincerity. When first he laid eyes on her, his smile was so wide, it was nearly blinding. He took both her hands in his, pressed them to his lips, and swore that she was the fairest creature that’s ever lived. Lyanna knew this was not true, she knew her face. Plain and horsey. And yet… And yet, she knew he believed it entirely. The shine in his eyes whenever he looked at her, the way he’d almost blush whenever he spoke her name, when first he called her ‘Lya’.
She fought it hard. She really, truly did. Tried to focus on his faults, of which there were plenty to choose from. He drank to excess, frequently in his cups. And when he was, he’d tell the bawdiest tales, all sense of propriety or shame gone. He’d tell anyone within earshot about their nightly acitvities, how frequently they shared a marriage bed, how enthusiastic his little wife was. It was mortifying that he should speak of her in front of their household, their bannermen.
And when he would leave for days on end. To settle disputes with some unruly lords, a lengthy hunting trip. It hardly mattered the excuse, because the nagging fear was always there. That it’s all some fabrication, some excuse so that he can spent the night in the arms of another woman.
He stole the covers in bed.
He belched shamelessly at dinner.
He’d walk through the halls shirtless like some kind of vagrant.
Every time she felt a tug at her heartstrings when he smiled, when he kissed her, she would rattle off in her mind all the reason not to love him. Then one day, he’d asked her to go hunting with him, to explore the Rainwood. He’d even given her a bow, and praised her marksmenship. He laughed when she’d hit a hare at fifty paces, and kissed the side of her head. “I’ve married a huntress.”
She tried to list her reasons, everything he did that annoyed her, shamed her, but in that moment, nothing came to mind. And she was forced to admit the truth; she loved him.
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