Chapter Text
When Robert felt her lips against his, time seemed to suspend itself. His eyes widened as her hands found his shoulders, her mouth soft and hesitant against his. Then something inside him snapped—rational thought fled, and he was kissing her back with a hunger that surprised them both.
She felt right against him, like she'd always belonged there, despite what she'd said about maybe not liking him that way. Liar, he thought fiercely as he let her take the lead, encouraging her to lose herself in the kiss as completely as he had.
His hands moved across her body of their own accord. Fragments of memory tried to surface—Lyanna Stark, Ned's fierce little sister, fourteen and all sharp edges when they'd first met. Then two weeks ago at the party, bold as brass, drinking his expensive bourbon and dragging him out for burgers and gate-crashing celebrations on his own birthday. His fingers tangled in her hair, a gentle tug that drew a soft sigh from her lips, the sound vibrating against his chest.
He fought to push those scattered memories aside. Nothing mattered except her—her lips, her warmth, the way she molded against him when he pulled her onto his lap. But as the kiss deepened, he tasted something wrong.
Salt. Tears.
The realization hit him like ice water. He pulled back carefully, taking in her flushed face—passion and anguish warring in her expression. His stomach dropped.
Gods, she was crying. What kind of monster was he?
"Hey, Lya." He cupped her face gently. "What's... did I...?" The words tangled on his tongue. He'd promised himself he wouldn't touch her. Wouldn't complicate things further.
He shifted her to sit beside him on the couch, acutely aware of his arousal and feeling like a complete bastard for it. Running hands through his hair, he struggled to focus on anything but his own embarrassment.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough. "I fucked this up. Just... please don't cry."
Lyanna pressed her hands to her face, shoulders shaking. "It's not your fault."
"What? Of course it is—you're crying—"
"I'm sorry." The words were muffled against her palms.
"For what?"
She looked up then, eyes red-rimmed and bright with unshed tears. When she spoke, the words came out in a rush, like a dam bursting.
"For Rhaegar Targaryen. For turning our lives into hell. For showing up at your party and making you remember things you'd rather forget. I never meant for any of this to happen. I should go."
She started to rise, but Robert caught her wrist—firm but careful.
"You can't just drop that and walk away, Lya."
She turned back to him, and something cracked open in his chest at the sight of her—tears tracked down flushed cheeks, eyes bright with old pain. Whatever ghosts were stirring between them didn't matter as much as the fact that she was hurting now, in his living room, because of something he couldn't even remember.
"Please," he said, his voice gentler now. "Sit with me. Help me understand."
Lyanna hesitated, her wrist still caught in his loose grip. "You don't remember what I did. What you said to me when I came back."
"Then tell me." The words came out rougher than he intended. "Because right now, all I know is that you kissed me like you meant it, then started crying like I'd shattered something. And I have no idea what the hell Rhaegar Targaryen has to do with any of it."
She studied his face for a long moment. "You really don't remember."
"Pieces," he admitted. "Your name makes my chest ache in ways I can't explain. And when you said his name..." Robert's hand flexed involuntarily. "I wanted to put my fist through something. But I don't know why."
Slowly, she sank back onto the couch. He released her wrist, and she immediately pulled her knees to her chest, making herself small.
"I disappeared," she said quietly. "When I was fourteen. You were seventeen then—Ned's arrogant best friend who barely noticed me except to make fun of the annoying little sister."
Something flickered in Robert's memory—not clear, but familiar. Like an echo of old irritation mixed with... fondness?
"I met Rhaegar at some city party. Older, sophisticated, married with kids. He made me feel special, adult. Important." Her voice turned bitter. "I thought I was so clever, catching his attention. Thought it proved I was better than some small-town girl who'd be impressed by Robert Baratheon."
Robert's jaw clenched, but he stayed quiet.
"So when he asked me to run away with him—promised me this grand romantic adventure—I said yes. Eight months I was gone." She shrugged, the gesture sharp and brittle. "Turns out married men who seduce teenagers aren't the heroes they pretend to be."
The pieces were clicking together now, forming a picture Robert didn't want to see. "He hurt you."
"Not physically, not at first. But pregnant at fifteen, completely dependent on someone who was..." She shuddered. "By the time I realized I needed to come home, I was six months along with nowhere else to go."
Robert felt something dangerous coiling in his chest—fury at Rhaegar, at circumstances he couldn't piece together, at whatever he'd apparently done to put that look on her face.
"What happened when you came back?"
Her smile was razor-thin. "That's where you made your grand entrance."
He waited, tension gathering in his shoulders.
"I came home pregnant, broke, completely humiliated." Her voice grew quieter with each word. "And you took one look at me and told me exactly what I needed to hear."
"Which was?"
"That I was a whore who'd gotten what she deserved. That I'd made my bed with a married man and now I could lie in it." She finally met his eyes. "That no decent man would ever want damaged goods."
The words landed like physical blows. Robert's mouth went dry. "I said that?"
"Word for word. Along with a few other choice observations." Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, but her voice stayed steady. "And you know what the terrible thing was? You weren't wrong."
"Bullshit."
"I was fifteen, Robert. I ran off with a married father of two because I thought I was clever enough to handle an adult relationship. What else do you call that?"
"A kid being manipulated by a predator," Robert said without hesitation.
Lyanna laughed, sharp and bitter. "See? This is exactly what I mean. You're being kind to me now, and I don't know how to..." She pressed her hands to her face. "I haven't been with anyone since him. Eight years. Because every time I even consider it, your voice is right there, reminding me what I'm worth."
Robert felt the air leave his lungs. Eight years. Eight years of his cruel words echoing in her head, poisoning every chance at connection or intimacy.
"Lyanna—"
"So when you kiss me like I matter, like I'm worth something..." Her voice cracked. "I want it so desperately, but I'm terrified. Because eventually you'll remember everything clearly. You'll remember why you said those things, and you'll realize you were right about me all along."
She was crying in earnest now, shoulders shaking with the force of it. Robert couldn't bear it anymore. He pulled her against him, ignoring her weak attempt to resist.
"I'm sorry." The words came out rough against her hair. "God, Lyanna, I'm so sorry."
He didn't try to argue away her pain or explain the man he'd apparently been. He just held her while eight years of accumulated hurt poured out against his shoulder, whispering apologies like they might somehow undo the damage his younger self had inflicted.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, meaning it down to his bones. "I'm so fucking sorry."
Maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe nothing could be. But for now, it was all he had.
Robert woke to the sensation of silky hair tickling his nose and the unfamiliar weight of another person against his chest.
Lyanna was curled into him, breathing deep and even, one hand fisted in his t-shirt. They'd fallen asleep on the couch sometime after her tears had run dry, tangled together in a way that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't.
Well, it was uncomfortable now. His neck had a crick in it, his left arm was completely numb, and they were both half-dressed—he in boxers and a t-shirt, she in panties and one of his old shirts that had somehow migrated from his bedroom.
Fragments of memory drifted back as consciousness fully returned. The things they'd talked about. The way she'd cried. The careful way they'd stripped down to sleep, both trying to be respectful while desperate for the comfort of skin against skin.
And now, in the gray morning light, shame settled in his chest like stones. What the hell was he doing? She'd told him about the damage he'd caused, the cruel words that had echoed in her head for eight years, and his response had been to... what? Hold her? Kiss her? Act like he could somehow make it better?
He felt her breathing change, the subtle shift that meant she was waking up. Her body went tense against his as awareness returned.
"You're thinking too loud," she murmured without lifting her head.
"Sorry." His voice came out rough with sleep and something else. "I feel like shit."
"Why?" The word was barely audible.
"I told myself I wouldn't push anything with you, wouldn't make this complicated. And then..." He struggled to find the words. "I feel like I took advantage."
She was quiet for a long moment. "I kissed you, Robert."
"But I didn't stop you. I should have—"
"Since when did you become the noble type?" There was the faintest hint of amusement in her voice.
He huffed out a laugh despite himself. "Probably around the time someone beat the arrogance out of me."
That made her shift, turning in his arms until they were face to face on the narrow couch. Her hair was a mess, her eyes puffy from crying, and she was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"So what now?" she asked quietly.
The question hung between them, heavy with eight years of history and the fragile possibility of something new.
Robert studied her face—the way morning light caught the gray of her eyes, the vulnerable set of her mouth. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs as he tried to sort through the tangle of wants and shoulds in his head.
He could suggest friendship. Safe, uncomplicated friendship. But the word felt like a consolation prize, something you offered when you wanted to let someone down easy. And that wasn't what he wanted at all.
But what right did he have to want more? After what she'd told him about the things he'd said, the damage he'd caused? Even if he couldn't remember being that cruel, the evidence was written all over her face, in the way she'd flinched from his touch last night before melting into it.
Still, she had kissed him. That had to mean something, right? That maybe, despite everything, she felt this pull too?
There was something else nagging at him, though—a piece of the puzzle that didn't fit. "Can I ask you something?"
She nodded, wary.
"If I was such a bastard to you when you came back, if I really believed all those things I said..." He paused, trying to work through the logic. "Then why did I go after Rhaegar? Why did I end up in that fight at all?"
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. Her body went tense against his. "You don't remember that part either?"
"Fragments. I remember being angry, remember wanting to hurt him. But if I thought you were just some..." He couldn't bring himself to repeat the words. "If I thought you deserved what happened, why would I care enough to track him down?"
Lyanna was quiet for a long moment, her fingers going still on his chest. When she spoke, her voice was carefully controlled. "Maybe the Robert who said those things and the Robert who went after Rhaegar weren't entirely the same person."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean maybe you were eighteen and stupid and hurt that your best friend's little sister had run off and gotten herself in trouble. Maybe you said awful things because you were scared and angry and didn't know how else to handle it." Her voice got softer, but there was something guarded in her eyes now. "And maybe, after you'd had time to think about it, you realized that what he did to me wasn't okay."
Robert felt something shift in his chest—not quite memory, but understanding. "So I went after him."
"So you went after him." She paused, and he could see her choosing her words carefully. "Six months later. Just when things were starting to settle down, after..." She gestured vaguely at herself. "After everything."
"Good," Robert said, surprising himself with the vehemence in his voice. "So it was worth it."
Her smile was sharp, brittle. "Robert, you left him on a comma. And gave yourself brain damage in the process."
"Well, he kind of deserved it, didn’t he?”
"I am not sure. At first I believed he did. Then I realized that it wasn’t good or fine and that it would never repay the damage he’d cause.” She was watching his face carefully now. "The doctors said you both went down hard. Hit your heads on the pavement. You got lucky—just some memory loss. He..." She shrugged. "Well. Less lucky."
Robert stared at her, trying to process this.
"I still can’t believe you did it. I was giving birth when you decided to go and defend my honor," she said, and there was something bitter in her tone. "Very chivalrous of you. But I didn’t learned about it until much later, and your words had..."
The criticism stung, but he couldn't argue with it. "Lya—"
"Do you know what the worst part was?" she continued, her voice gaining heat. "I'd finally started to move on. I was seeing a therapist. I was actually starting to believe that maybe I could have a normal life someday. And then you decided to play knight in shining armor, and suddenly I was front page news again. 'Local man fights for honor of fallen woman.' Do you have any idea what that was like for me?"
He felt sick. "I made it worse."
"You made it impossible. Every time people started to forget, there I was in the papers again. The girl whose virtue was worth fighting for, but only after the fact. The victim who needed a man to avenge her because she was too weak to do it herself." Tears were building in her eyes, but her voice stayed steady. "So forgive me if I'm not entirely grateful for your noble gesture."
They lay there in terrible silence, the morning light suddenly feeling harsh instead of gentle. Robert wanted to apologize, wanted to take it all back, but what was the point? The damage was done, had been done eight years ago by a version of himself he couldn't even remember being.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, the words feeling inadequate. "I'm so fucking sorry, Lya."
She closed her eyes, some of the fight going out of her. "I know you are. That's part of the problem."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you're being sweet and apologetic and acting like you care about me, and it's exactly what I wanted eight years ago. But now?" She opened her eyes, looking at him with something that might have been exhaustion. "Now it just feels like another way for you to ease your own conscience."
The accusation hit home because there was truth in it. Part of him did want to make this right, to somehow atone for the damage his past self had caused. But it was more than that, wasn't it?
"That's not why I'm here," he said.
"Isn't it?"
"No." He reached for her hand, half expecting her to pull away. She didn't. "I'm here because when I look at you, I see someone I want to know. Someone I want to be around. Someone who makes me laugh and challenges me and..." He paused, searching for the words. "Someone I'm falling for, completely separate from whatever guilt I might feel about the past."
Lyanna studied his face for a long moment. "You really don't remember, do you? Any of it."
"No. And maybe that's a blessing, because it means I can see you for who you are now, not through the lens of all that history." He squeezed her hand gently. "The question is: can you do the same for me?"
"I don't know what this is," he continued. "I want to be your friend, but I also want more than that. I like you, Lya. Really like you. And I know I don't have any right to, given what I apparently put you through, but..." He reached up to touch her face. "Sometimes I think maybe what happened before doesn't have to define what happens now."
She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch for just a moment before pulling back. "Maybe it's better if we just... cut this clean. Before it gets complicated."
"No."
The word came out sharper than he'd intended. She looked at him, eyebrows raised.
"You don't even know what you want," she said.
"Do you?"
That stopped her. He could see the war playing out across her face—want fighting with self-preservation, hope battling years of learned caution.
"I know I don't want things to get messy and complicated," she said finally. "I've spent eight years trying to put my life back together, Robert. I'm finally getting somewhere, and I can't..." She looked at him, something almost desperate in her eyes. "I can't have you throw a wrench into all that work."
Despite everything, he found himself smiling. "I promise not to throw any wrenches. Or anvils. Or any other heavy objects."
That earned him a reluctant laugh.
"Look," he said, his thumb tracing along her arm, "what if we take this slow? Figure out what we're doing as we go. No pressure, no expectations. Just..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Just see where this goes. And maybe you can stop pretending you don't feel this too."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not pretending anything."
"Right. So that kiss last night was just... what? A moment of temporary insanity?"
"Maybe."
"And the way you're looking at me right now?"
"Annoyance."
"Uh-huh." His grin widened. "And the fact that you haven't moved away from me, even though this couch is definitely big enough for you to put some distance between us?"
She opened her mouth to respond, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she buried her face against his shoulder. "You're impossible."
"I'm persistent. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Absolutely. Impossible implies I can't be reasoned with. Persistent just means I'm very, very stubborn when I want something."
She lifted her head to look at him. "And what is it you want, exactly?"
The question was loaded, and they both knew it. Robert felt his heart speed up as he met her gaze.
"You," he said simply. "However much of you you're willing to give me. However long it takes to earn it."