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CHAPTER ONE:
"LOVE FORBIDDEN"
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|WINTERFELL, mid 279 AC|

ALYSSA HANDLED IT WELL. She stood in the distance, wearing the long white dress gifted to her by Rickard Stark. Beside her were Lyanna and Lyarra, gathered in the courtyard to watch the men dismount from their horses, ready to greet them.

She noticed Robert — whom she had met a few times before at King's Landing — riding straight toward the Stark sisters. His gaze lingered on Lyanna for far longer than courtesy required. Alyssa, however, held back, waiting for Eddard to approach her.

Instead, it was Tion who strode up, took her hand, and kissed it, leaving her cheeks warm and flushed. She caught Eddard watching from across the yard, though his expression was unreadable.

"It seems Tion made an impression on you," came a familiar voice. Alyssa looked up to find Brandon beside her, his lips curved in that knowing half-smile of his.

Tion moved on to greet Lyanna and Lyarra, leaving Alyssa to exhale quietly.
"I had hoped Eddard would greet me first," she admitted.

"You don't know my brother like I do," Brandon smirked.

Alyssa didn't reply. Instead, she watched Robert's easy charm as he spoke to Lyanna, clearly taken with her. Alyssa tried to catch Eddard's attention again, but he turned and walked away, refusing even a nod of acknowledgment.

"Cheer up, Seahorse," Brandon teased, offering his arm. She rolled her eyes but took it, letting him lead her toward Robert and Lyanna. It didn't seem fair — she had waited so long to meet her future husband, only to find him unwilling to even greet her.

Through thick and thin, she had hoped he might like her. But it wasn't working.

Lyarra, meanwhile, spent her evening enjoying her little brother's company, away from the quiet tensions in the courtyard.

The hall smelled of woodsmoke and roasted venison, the warmth almost oppressive after the chill of the courtyard. Robert Baratheon — broad-shouldered, with brown hair curling slightly at the nape — strode in beside Lord Rickard, his laughter already echoing above the other voices.

His eyes, dark and bright with energy, swept the room until they found Lyanna Stark. She stood near the hearth, the firelight catching the grey of her gown and the sharper gleam of her eyes. Robert's mouth curved into that roguish smile of his — yes, she was as striking as he remembered.

But before he could cross the hall to greet her, another voice caught his ear.

"Lord Baratheon," said a lighter, softer tone.

He turned, and there she was — Lyarra Stark. Younger, gentler in bearing than Lyanna, but with something in her face that spoke of the same steel beneath the calm. She was dressed in pale blue, her hair pinned simply, a silver clasp at her shoulder. She smiled, not shy exactly, but careful, as if measuring him.

"My lady," Robert said, bowing slightly, though the gesture was more playful than courtly. "And you must be Lyarra. I see the Stark beauty runs deep in the blood."

She laughed — a quiet sound, but warm — and shook her head. "You've been here less than a moment, and already you've flattered two of us."

"Only two?" he teased, glancing toward Lyanna. "I must be slowing in my old age."

She raised an eyebrow at the jest. "Old age? You can't be more than twenty."

"Nineteen," he said with mock solemnity. "But battles and journeys age a man faster than the years will admit."

Something in her expression softened, a small glimmer of understanding. She didn't press him with more questions — and for a reason he couldn't name, Robert found he liked that. She listened without crowding, her gaze steady and unhurried.

They spoke of the weather on the Kingsroad, the state of the kennels, and a story about one of Winterfell's hounds stealing bread from a kitchen boy. Nothing remarkable on its face — and yet, Robert found himself watching the curve of her smile, the spark of wit when she gently countered one of his boasts.

Still, when Lyanna finally turned toward him, it was as if the rest of the room dimmed. His attention shifted almost instinctively, the pull toward her undeniable. But even then, in some quiet place in the back of his mind, he remembered the way Lyarra's eyes had met his — steady, curious, and perhaps a little more knowing than her years should allow.

It wasn't love, and it wasn't the thunderbolt he felt for Lyanna. But it was something. And Robert Baratheon was not a man who forgot a spark once it had caught.

The feast was in full swing now. Music tumbled from the far end of the hall, a cheerful chaos of pipes and drums, while the smell of roasted boar and honeyed bread thickened the air.

Lyanna had been swept into a dance by Benjen — a rare sight that had half the hall grinning — and Robert found himself momentarily without company. His goblet was half-empty, and the seat beside him, left vacant when Brandon wandered off, was quickly taken by Lyarra.

"You seem at a loss, my lord," she said, settling gracefully.

He smirked. "I wouldn't call it a loss. More of a... temporary reprieve from the competition."

"Competition?"

"Every man in this hall wants a word with your sister," Robert said frankly. "Including me."

"And yet," Lyarra noted, "you're sitting here with me."

Her voice wasn't accusing — just curious, her tone light. He leaned back in his chair, studying her in the flicker of torchlight.

"I'm beginning to think that's no misfortune," he said, lowering his voice a touch.

She smiled faintly and sipped from her cup. "Careful, Lord Baratheon. Words like that could be mistaken for courtship."

"Would that be so terrible?" he asked, half-teasing, half-genuine.

Lyarra tilted her head, measuring him. "I think you're a man who likes the chase. And I think... I'm not the one you've been chasing since you walked through Winterfell's gates."

Robert chuckled, not denying it. "You're sharp."

"I pay attention," she replied simply.

There was a pause then — not awkward, but charged in a way that surprised him. Across the hall, Lyanna's laughter rang clear over the music. Robert glanced toward her, then back to Lyarra.

"You and your sister," he said, shaking his head, "both have a way of making a man feel seen. It's... unsettling."

Lyarra's lips curved. "Maybe that's because most men don't expect to be seen for who they are. They'd rather be admired for who they pretend to be."

He laughed at that, deep and genuine, and for a fleeting moment, the thought of Lyanna dimmed just enough for him to notice the quiet pull between himself and the younger Stark.

When Benjen returned Lyanna to the table, Robert rose quickly to claim her attention again — yet as he did, he found himself glancing back once, catching Lyarra's calm, steady gaze.

And in that glance, he knew this: if the world were different, and Lyanna not in it, Lyarra Stark might have been a woman worth chasing.

Later that night, the halls of Winterfell glowed with firelight and echoed with the hum of voices. The feast was in full swing — the long tables laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and steaming bowls of stew. Minstrels played softly by the hearth, their tunes half-drowned by laughter and the clinking of cups.

Alyssa sat between Brandon and Lyarra, her goblet untouched. Across the table, Eddard spoke quietly with Benjen, his gaze never drifting her way. She tried not to watch him, but her eyes betrayed her every time she looked up.

Brandon leaned close. "If you keep staring at him like that, he'll either fall in love or run to the Wall early."

She shot him a sharp look. "You're not helping."

"I'm not trying to," he replied with a grin, before tearing into a piece of bread.

Her fingers curled around the goblet. Tion, seated a few places down, caught her eye and gave her a subtle smile. It was polite, harmless... yet she could feel the weight of Eddard's absence more than anyone else's attention.

When the hall quieted for Lord Rickard to speak, Alyssa's mind was elsewhere — on the coldness in Eddard's eyes, and the question that kept gnawing at her: Why had he turned away?

The feast dragged on in waves of noise and light, but Alyssa felt as if she were sitting in the shadows. Every time she laughed at something Brandon said, she caught herself wondering if Eddard even noticed.

When the minstrels began a slower tune, couples drifted to the open space before the hearth. Robert swept Lyanna into a dance without so much as asking, his booming laugh echoing through the hall. Lyarra was coaxed up by Benjen, both of them moving with awkward steps and bright smiles.

Brandon glanced at her. "You're not going to dance?"

"With who?" she asked, a touch sharper than intended.

"With me," he grinned, "but I suspect you'll say no, because—"

"Because you'll step on my feet," she interrupted.

He laughed, excused himself to refill his cup, and left her alone at the table. That was when she saw him — Eddard — rising from his seat and moving toward the side doors.

Before her courage could falter, she followed.

The cold night air hit her as she stepped into the courtyard. He was there, his breath curling white in the chill, hands clasped behind his back as he looked up at the snow-dusted towers.

"You didn't greet me," she said, the words spilling out more bluntly than she'd meant.

Eddard turned, startled. "My lady—"

"My name is Alyssa," she cut in, moving closer. "We are to be wed, yet you've barely looked at me since you arrived."

His brow furrowed. "It is not my way to make a spectacle in front of guests."

"It's not a spectacle to acknowledge your betrothed," she replied, her voice steady though her heart pounded.

For a moment, he was silent, studying her with that same unreadable gaze she'd seen earlier. "I am not like Brandon," he said finally. "I do not charm with easy words. And I will not offer you false warmth before I know you."

The words stung more than she expected, yet there was something... honest in them.

"So I'm to earn your regard?" she asked.

"Not earn," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Just... let me come to it in my own time."

Alyssa searched his face, wanting to argue — but something in his tone told her that pushing would only make him retreat further. Instead, she gave a small nod.

"Then I'll wait," she said softly.

He inclined his head, almost a bow, before turning his gaze back to the towers. Alyssa lingered for a moment, then left him to the cold night, her mind a swirl of frustration and curiosity.

The corridor outside the guest chambers was dim, lit only by a pair of sputtering torches. Robert pushed open the door to Tion's room without knocking — a habit born of years spent with men who rarely minded.

He stopped short.

Tion lay sprawled across his bed, shirt half-open, a dark-haired maid curled against his side beneath the furs. She squeaked, yanking the blanket up to her chin. Tion, unbothered, only grinned lazily.

"Seven hells, Tion," Robert said, half-laughing, half-disgusted. "I come looking for you, and this is what I find?"

"You should've knocked," Tion replied, entirely unapologetic.

Robert shook his head, stepping inside. "The feast's still going. You could've found your pleasures after we were done drinking."

"I prefer to get ahead of the night," Tion said with a smirk, patting the maid's hip before she slipped from the bed and disappeared behind a screen.

Robert crossed to the table, poured himself a cup from Tion's wine, and sat. "I wanted to talk to you about Lyanna Stark."

Tion raised a brow, stretching. "Ah. The wolf girl. You've had your eye on her all night."

"She's beautiful," Robert said plainly. "Sharp as a blade, too. I'm thinking—"

"That she's the one you want?" Tion cut in, reaching for his own cup.

Robert's smirk deepened. "She's more than just 'want,' Tion. She's... well, she's worth chasing."

Tion studied him for a long moment, the smugness in his expression fading just enough for curiosity to slip in. "Is she, though? Or do you just like the idea of her?"

Robert frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You talk about her beauty, her spirit," Tion said, swirling his wine. "But when I saw you tonight... you were laughing with the younger one. Lyarra. You looked at her like you actually saw her — not just her face."

Robert opened his mouth to retort, but no words came. He thought of Lyarra at the feast, her quiet wit, the way she'd held his gaze without flinching. It had been... different.

"I like Lyanna," he said finally, though it sounded weaker than before.

Tion smirked, satisfied. "Maybe you do. But maybe the wolf you're really circling isn't the one you think."

The maid reappeared, gathering her skirts. Tion dismissed her with a glance, then raised his cup to Robert. "Either way, my friend, be sure of which hunt you're on before you let the hounds loose."

Robert drank, saying nothing — but Lyarra's calm blue eyes lingered stubbornly in the back of his mind.

|CASTERLY ROCK,mid 279 AC|

The ballroom shimmered with golden candlelight, casting warm halos over polished marble floors. Music swelled from the corner, viols and flutes weaving a lively melody that set the hall alive with swirling gowns and polished boots.

Jason Lannister stood beneath the banners of his house, goblet in hand, scanning the crowd. He wasn't here for the dance — he was here because appearances demanded it. His father liked to parade him like a prized stallion at these things, even when the heir's mind was elsewhere.

He caught sight of her near the far end of the hall — a girl in deep green silk, her hair tumbling in loose curls down her back. She wasn't familiar to him, which made her all the more interesting. She stood apart from the dancers, her attention on the music, her lips curved in a faint, knowing smile.

Jason approached like a hunter closing on prey.

"My lady," he said, offering a bow that was more roguish than courtly.

She glanced at him, her eyes bright with curiosity. "You're not dancing?"

"I prefer a different kind of sport," he said with a smirk.

Her laugh was soft, warm. "And what kind is that?"

"Conversation," he replied, leaning in, "and... discovery."

It didn't take long for words to give way to something else. The press of the crowd, the hum of the music, the heat of too much wine — it all blurred into a heady rush. She let him lead her toward one of the shadowed balconies, the night air cool against their flushed faces.

Her hand was small in his, but her grip was certain. He liked that.

They stood close enough that her perfume wrapped around him. His fingers brushed her cheek, and when she didn't pull away, he kissed her.

She kissed him back without hesitation, her lips warm and insistent. What began as a stolen moment deepened quickly — his hands tracing the curve of her back, her fingers curling in his collar. The music and voices from the hall were distant now, as if the whole world had shrunk to the space between them.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, she smiled — and something in the turn of her head caught his eye. The light from the hall touched her face just enough for him to see it clearly.

Jason froze.

It was her.

The youngest Velaryon. The girl his father had just secured for him.

The girl he'd sworn — only weeks ago — he would hurt, make pay for her father's sins.

Her smile faltered. "What is it?"

He stepped back, the air between them suddenly taut. "Do you... know who I am?"

Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her features. "Jason Lannister."

"And you," he said slowly, the taste of her still on his lips, "are my bride."

Her eyes widened, color draining from her cheeks.

Somewhere inside, Jason felt the sharp twist of irony — the one girl he had promised himself he would treat as nothing more than a political burden had just left him breathless under the stars.

The music swelled again inside, bright and careless, a mockery of the sudden heaviness between them.

Jason straightened, jaw tightening. The youngest Velaryon — the girl he had condemned in his mind so many times — stood before him, still catching her breath. Her gaze flicked to the open balcony doors as if she might bolt, but she didn't move.

"You knew?" he asked, his voice low.

She shook her head quickly. "I swear I didn't."

For a moment, he searched her face for any hint of deception. But the wide-eyed shock looked real enough. Still, that didn't soothe the bite of his pride — or the burn of the memory of her lips.

From the hall, a herald's voice rose above the music, announcing a new round of dances. Somewhere in the crowd, he heard his father's booming laugh.

"We have to go back in," he said flatly.

Her hands twisted in her skirts. "And pretend none of this happened?"

His mouth curved into a humorless smile. "Exactly."

Jason offered his arm — not out of gallantry, but because walking in together would draw less attention than sneaking in apart. She hesitated, then took it. Her hand was warm, her grip light, but the contact made the memory of the balcony all the sharper.

As they stepped into the ballroom, heads turned. Conversations paused. Jason could almost hear the whispers beginning — the Lannister heir and the Velaryon girl, arm in arm.

His father's gaze found them first, and there was a flicker of satisfaction there. Good. Let the old lion think this was all part of the plan.

"Smile," Jason murmured under his breath.

She glanced up at him, her expression cool, her mouth curving into a polite mask. Only he could feel the tension in her arm, the way her body was held just shy of leaning into him.

They walked the length of the room like that — perfectly poised for the court's eyes, but inside the space between them crackled. She knew now that he had entered this engagement with no kindness in his heart. And he knew that, no matter what he'd promised himself before, one kiss had complicated everything.

When they reached the edge of the dance floor, Jason bowed slightly, releasing her hand. "My lady," he said with courtly precision, his voice just loud enough for those nearby to hear.

She curtsied. "My lord."

They parted — she to her chaperone, he to the wine table — but neither could resist one last glance over the crowd.

And in that stolen look, they both realized something dangerous: whatever game they had been playing before, it had just changed.

The moment he stepped away from the girl, Jason made for the far side of the hall. He spotted his father near the high table, surrounded by bannermen and minor lords. The old lion caught his eye immediately, as if he'd been waiting.

Lord Lannister said nothing at first, only gave a thin, knowing smile before leaning close enough for Jason to hear over the music.

"They're here," he murmured.

Jason didn't need to ask who.

"The Velaryon family has arrived for their ball. You'll meet them tonight at dinner."

Jason's jaw tightened. His father's voice was calm, but the weight of command was there — no argument, no escape.

Before Jason could respond, a familiar voice rang out behind him.

"There you are, brother."

He turned to see his sister, her golden hair gleaming in the candlelight, eyes alight with mischief. "You looked rather cozy with a certain green-clad beauty on the balcony," she teased.

Jason shot her a look that could have curdled wine. "Watch your tongue."

"Oh, don't pout," she laughed, linking her arm with his. "Father will be pleased. You're finally making an effort with your bride-to-be."

Her words made his stomach twist. His bride-to-be.

It was supposed to be her sister. The eldest Velaryon. Alyssa. The one he had wanted, had pictured at his side, had been ready to fight for. She was gone to the North now, wed to another. He had told himself he would never forgive Voloras for that — and never care for the youngest girl, the replacement offered to soothe Lannister pride.

And yet...

He could still feel the press of her lips against his, taste the faint sweetness of her breath, remember the way she'd gripped his collar as if she had wanted him just as much. It made no sense. He had sought her out because she was beautiful and unknown, nothing more — but when he had kissed her, something sharper had taken hold.

Jason exhaled slowly, forcing the memory aside as they moved toward the dais. "I'll meet them at dinner," he said, voice even.

His sister grinned. "Try not to glare across the table. You wouldn't want to scare the poor girl before the wedding night."

He ignored her, though his fingers tightened around his goblet. The music played on, the hall swirled with laughter, but Jason Lannister stood in the midst of it all, caught between the ghost of the woman he'd loved... and the living, breathing complication he was about to face again in only a few hours.

The great dining hall glowed with a hundred candles, their light glinting off gold plates and polished silverware. Jason sat to his father's right, the long table stretching between the two families like a gilded battlefield.

At the far end sat Lord Voloras Velaryon, his face all salt-weathered dignity and watchful eyes. His wife seated across from him. Beside him, the youngest Velaryon — his betrothed — sat with perfect posture, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She had not looked at him since taking her seat, though he could feel her presence like a warm thread tugging at his attention.

Lord Lannister raised his goblet in greeting. "Lord Voloras, it's good to have your family under my roof at last. I trust your journey was without trouble?"

"A fair wind and smooth waters," Voloras replied. "And I am glad to be here, my lord, though..." His eyes flickered, his tone softening. "I regret that our original plan for union could not be realized. Alyssa was well-suited for your son."

The words struck like a slap. Jason's grip tightened around his wine cup, and his father's expression cooled instantly.

"That matter," Lord Lannister said, his voice low and dangerous, "is in the past."

Jason's mother, ever the diplomat, leaned forward slightly, her smile soft. "We are all fortunate, however, that your youngest daughter is here with us now. She is a credit to your house, Lord Voloras."

The girl glanced at Jason then, just for an instant — a brief, steady look that seemed to weigh him before flicking away.

Voloras inclined his head, but the tension still rippled under the polite words.

Then Shera Lannister, his mother sister, decided to speak. She toyed with the stem of her glass, her eyes bright with that dangerous mix of honesty and provocation. "I'll be plain," he whispered

A servant moved silently along the table, refilling cups with pale champagne. The crystal caught the candlelight as everyone lifted their glasses in the forced cheer of a toast.

"To the union of our houses," Lord Lannister said.

"To the union," Voloras echoed.

Jason drank, the crisp sweetness of the champagne doing little to ease the hard knot in his chest. Across the table, the youngest Velaryon sipped from her glass, then set it down with quiet grace. Her eyes lifted again — this time holding his.

There was no smile, no challenge in her gaze. Just silence. A quiet, unreadable watchfulness that unsettled him far more than open defiance would have.

He looked away first.

The meal ended with polite applause for the musicians and the soft scrape of chairs on stone. Servants began clearing plates as the lords and ladies drifted into smaller knots of conversation.

Jason excused himself before anyone could try to trap him in small talk. He slipped into one of the side corridors, where the noise of the hall dulled to a faint hum. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of beeswax and old stone.

Footsteps followed. Light, measured.

He turned just as she emerged from the shadows — the youngest Velaryon, her green silk gown catching the dim light, her expression unreadable.

"My lady," he said evenly, though his pulse gave him away.

She stopped a few paces from him, tilting her head slightly. "Lord Jason."

They regarded each other in silence for a beat, the weight of the balcony kiss hanging between them.

"You've been quiet tonight," he said finally.

"I had little to add," she replied. Her voice was calm, but there was a trace of steel under it. "It seemed wiser to listen."

His mouth quirked. "And what did you hear?"

"That your family speaks of me as if I were an inconvenience," she said, not flinching. "And that my father speaks of the match you wanted, rather than the one you're getting."

Jason stepped closer, his shadow brushing hers. "You have sharp ears."

"And you," she said, holding his gaze, "have a short memory. You seemed to want me well enough on the balcony."

The words landed hard. He searched her face, looking for mockery, but there was none. Just that same quiet watchfulness from the dinner table — but now it was edged with something warmer, something far more dangerous.

He could have denied it. He could have told her it was nothing, a moment's folly. But instead, he said, "That was... before I knew."

"Before you knew my name?" she asked.

He nodded once.

She gave the faintest hint of a smile. "Then perhaps it's better you know now. It will keep you from making the same mistake twice."

She stepped past him, the whisper of her skirts brushing his hand.

Jason didn't turn to watch her go — but he could still feel her presence long after she'd vanished around the corner, and it made the knot in his chest tighten all over again.

A/N: cannot wait guys hehe!